-V  ^  ^ 


CONTRIBUTIONS 


TO  THE 


EDINBURGH   REYIEW. 


BY 


FKANCIS  JEFFREY, 

*IUW   ONE  OF  THE  JUDGES  OF  THE  COURT  OF  SESSION  IN  SCOTLAND 

fouTyolTmes. 

COMPLETE     IN     ONE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED   BY   CAREY   AND   HART. 

1849. 


TO 


THE  REVEREND  SYDNEY  SMITH, 


THE  ORIGINAL  PROJECTOR  OF  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW, 


LONG    ITS    BRIGHTEST    ORNAMENT, 


AND    ALWAYS    MY    TRUE   AND    INDULGENT    FRIEND, 


3  nov)  JDcbicatc  tl)is  Hepnblication; 


FROM  LOVE  OF  OLD  RECOLLECTIONS, 


AND  IN  TOKEN 


OF    UNCHANGED    AFFECTION    AND    ESTEEM. 


F.  JEFFREY. 


FROM  THE  ^lEW  YORK  EVENING  MIRROR. 

"  The  true  Jeffrey  whom  we  meet  with  in  these  volumes,  presentg  a  character  somewhat  of  this  sort  :— 
"  He  was  formed  undoubtedly  to  be  the  first  criiic  of  the  age  :  and  of  poetry,  he  was  probably  the  best  judge 
that  ever  lived.  An  intellect  of  the  highest  capacity  and  of  a  very  rare  order  of  completeness,— educated  by  a 
perfect  acquaintance  with  the  best  systems  of  metaphysical  philosophy,— is,  in  him,  pervaded  and  informed  by 
those  moral  perceptions  which  indeed  form  so  invariable  an  adjunct  of  the  highest  kind  of  great  understandings, 
that  they  ought  perhaps  to.^e  treated  as  merely  the  loftiest  sort  of  mental  qualities.  His  perception  of  truth  is 
almost  an  instinct,  and  his  love  of  it  truly  conscientious.  His  objects,  in  taking  up  any  work  or  subject,  are  to 
appreciate  and  to  judge;  his  searching  and  sensitive  intelligence  makes  him  sure  of  the  former,  and  the  sound- 
ness of  his  views  fits  him  for  the  other.  His  temper  is  admirable.  He  seems  to  have  no  prepossessions— to  be 
free  from  all  vanity  and  jealousy— to  possess  a  tone  of  impartiality  and  generous  candour,  almost  cavalier  in  its 
loftiness.  He  has  not  a  particle  of  cant,  none  of  the  formality  or  pretension  of  professional  style;  but  on  the  con- 
trary, writes  thoroughly  like  a  gentleman,  and  with  the  air  of  perfect  breeding.  He  inspires  you  with  entire  con- 
fidence and  a  cordial  liking.  All  his  own  displays  are  in  the  truest  good  taste — simple,  easy,  natural,  without 
ambition  or  effort.  He  has  the  powers,  the  morals,  and  the  manners  of  the  best  style  of  writing.  There  are, 
however,  hut  two  persons  who  stand  so  prommently  before  the  world,  that  they  deserve  to  be  set  for  comparison 
with  Jeffrey  :  they,  of  course  are  Carl  vie  and  Macauley.  We  should  distinguish  them  by  saying  that  Macauley 
is  a  good  reviewer,  but  a  sorry  critic;  Carlyle  an  admirable  critic,  but  a  miserable  reviewer  ;  while  we  look  on 
Jeffrey  as  being  at  once  the  best  critic  and  the  best  reviewer  of  the  age. 

"We  must  content  ourselves  with  this  brief  note  tending  to  propitiate  the  regard  of  the  reader,  in  advance, 
for  the  Lord  Jeffrey ;  for  our  limits  forbid  extracts.  Else,  we  could  show  a  specimen  of  the  most  exquisite  beauty 
ID  composition,  and  of  the  noblest  eloquence,  that  the  literature  of  any  age  can  furnish.  But  the  strength  of  Jef- 
frey does  not  lie  in  a  paragraph,  and  sentences  ;  but  in  the  vigour,  soundness  and  candour  of  the  whole  criticism." 


PREFACE 


No  reasonable  man,  I  suppose,  could  contemplate  without  alarm;  a  project  for  reprint- 
ing, with  his  name,  a  long  series  of  miscellaneous  papers— written  hastily,  in  the  intervals 
of  graver  occupations,  and  published  anonj-mously,  during  the  long  course  of  Forty  preced- 
ing years ! — especially  if,  before  such  a  suggestion  was  made,  he  had  come  to  be  placed  in 
a  Situation  which  made  any  recurrence  to  past  indiscretions,  or  rash  judgments,  peculiarly 
unbecoming.  I  expect  therefore  to  be  very  readily  believed,  when  I  say  that  the  project  of 
this  publication  did  not  originate,  and  never  would  have  originated  with  me  :  And  that  I  have 
been  induced  to  consent  to  it,  only  after  great  hesitation ;  and  not  without  misgivings — 
which  have  not  yet  been  entirely  got  over.     The  true  account  of  the  matter  is  this. 

The  papers  in  question  are  the  lawful  property,  and  substantially  at  the  disposal,  of  the 
publishers  of  the  Edinburgh  Review :  And  they,  "having  conceived  an  opinion  that  such  a 
publication  would  be  for  their  advantage,  expressed  a  strong  desire  that  I  should  allow  it  to 
go  out  with  the  sanction  of  my  name,  and  the  benefit  of  such  suggestions  as  I  might  be  dis- 
posed to  offer  for  its  improvement :  and  having,  in  the  end,  most  liberally  agreed  that  I 
should  have  the  sole  power  both  of  determining  to  what  extent  it  should  be  carried,  and  also 
of  selecting  the  materials  of  which  it  should  be  composed,  I  was  at  last  persuaded  to  agree 
to  the  proposition :  and  this  the  more  readily,  in  consequence  of  intimation  having  been  re- 
ceived of  a  similar  publication  being  in  contemplation  in  the  United  States  of  America;* — 
over  which,  of  course,  I  could  not,  under  any  arrangements,  expect  to  e.xercise  the  same 
efficient  control. 

With  all  this,  however.  I  still  feel  that  I  am  exposed  to  the  imputation,  not  only  of  great 
presumption,  in  supposing  that  any  of  these  old  things  could  be  worth  reprinting,  but  of  a 
more  serious  Impropriety,  in  thus  openly  acknowledging,  and  giving  a  voluntary  sanction  to 
the  republication  (of  some  at  least)  of  the  following  pieces :  And  I  am  far  from  being  sure 
that  there  may  not  be  just  grounds  for  such  an  imputation.  In  palliation  of  the  offence, 
however — if  such  offence  shall  be  taken — I  would  beg  leave  humbly  to  state,  First,  that 
what  I  now  venture  to  reprint,  is  but  a  small  part — less  1  believe  than  a  third, — of  what  I 
actually  contributed  to  the  Review  ;  and.  Secondly,  that  I  have  honestly  endeavoured  to  select 
from  that  great  mass — not  those  articles  which  I  might  think  most  likely  still  to  attract  notice, 
by  boldness  of  view,  severity  of  remark,  or  vivacity  of  expression — but  those,  much  rather, 
which,  by  enforcing  what  appeared  to  me  just  principles  and  useful  opinions,  I  really  thought 
had  a  tendency  to  make  men  happier  and  better. 

I  am  quite  aware  of  the  arrogance  which  ma}'-  be  ascribed  to  this  statement — and  even 
of  the  ridicule  which  may  attach  to  it.  Nevertheless,  it  is  the  only  apology  which  I  now 
wish  to  make — or  could  seriously  think  of  making,  for  the  present  publication  :  And  if  it 
should  be  thought  utterly  to  fail  me.  I  shall  certainly  feel  that  I  have  been  betrayed  into  an 
act;  not  of  imprudence  merely,  but  of  great  impropriety.  I  trust,  however,  that  I  shall  not 
be  driven  back  on  so  painful  a  conviction. 

The  Edinburgh  Review,  it  is  well  known,  aimed  high  from  the  beginning : — And,  refus- 
ing to  confine  itself  to  the  humble  task  of  pronouncing  on  the  mere  literary  merits  of  the 
works  that  came  before  it,  professed  to  go  deeply  into  the  Principles  on  which  its  judgments 
were  to  be  rested ;  as  well  as  to  take  large  and  Original  views  of  all  the  important  questions 
to  which  those  works  might  relate.  And,  on  the  whole,  I  think  it  is  now  pretty  generally 
admitted  that  it  attained  the  end  it  aimed  at.  Many  errors  there  were,  of  course — and  some 
considerable  blunders: — abundance  of  indiscretions,  especially  in  the  earlier  numbers;  and 
far  too  many  e.xcesses,  both  of  party  zeal,  overweening  confidence,  and  intemperate  blame. 
But  with  all  these  drawbacks,  I  think  it  must  be  allowed  to  have  substantially  succeeded— 
in  familiarising  the  public  mind  (that  is.  the  minds  of  very  many  individuals)  with  highei 

*  Carey  &  Halt.  Pliiladclpliia,  aiinoiino^»'l  tliat  a  selection  would  be  trade  from  ilie  Edin- 
burgh Review,  at  tiie  time  tliey  first  publislied  a  selection  of  Mr.  Macanley-s  "Ciitical  Miscel- 
lanies," and  wrote  to  a  friend  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  ."olicitins  a  list  of  that  writer's  articles.  Tlie  pnb- 
lishers  of  the  Review  afterwards  concluded  to  |)riiir  tliese  "  Contributions,"  and  at  ihc  anther's 
request,  forwarded  a  copy  of  the  work  to  C.  &  H.,  from  which  tlie  present  edition  is  printed,  ver- 
batim, without  abridgment.  — (Jlmeiican  Publmhrts.) 

A  2  V 


vi  PREFACE. 

speculations,  and  sounder  and  larger  views  of  the  great  objects  of  human  pursuit,  than  had 
ever  before  been  brought  as  effectually  home  to  their  apprehensions ;  and  also,  in  perma- 
jienily  raising  the  standard,  and  increasing  the  influence  of  all  such  Occasional  writings  ;  not 
only  in  this  country,  but  over  the  greater  part  of  Europe,  and  the  free  States  of  America : 
While  it  proportionally  enlarged  the  capacity,  and  improved  the  relish  of  the  growing  multi- 
tudes to  whom  such  writings  were  addressed,  for  '■  the  stronger  meats"  which  were  then 
first  provided  for  their  digestion. 

With  these  convictions  and  impressions,  it  will  not  I  think  be  expected,  or  required  of 
me,  that  I  shouUl  look  back — from  any  station — upon  the  part  I  took  in  originating  and  con- 
dnctmg  such  a  work,  without  some  mixture  of  agreeable  feelings:  And,  while  I  seek  not  to 
decline  my  full  share  of  the  faui'ts  and  follies  to  which  I  have  alluded,  I  trust  I  may  be  al- 
lowed to  take  credit,  at  the  same  time,  for  some  participation  in  the  Merits  by  whicn  these 
were,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least,  redeemed  or  atoned  for. 

If  I  might  be  permitted  farther  to  state,  in  what  particular  department,  and  generally. 
^on  account  of  what.  I  should  most  wish  to  claim  a  share  of  those  merits,  I  should  certainly 
say,  that  it  was  by  naving  constantly  endeavoured  to  combine  Ethical  precepts  with  Literary 
Criticism,  and  earnestly  sought  to  impress  my  readers  with  a  sense,  both  of  the  close  con- 
nection between  sound  Intellectual  attainments  and  the  higher  elements  of  Duty  and  Enjoy- 
ment: and  of  the  just  and  ultimate  subordination  of  the  former  to  the  latter.  The  praise  in 
short  to  which  I  aspire,  and  to  merit  which  I  am  conscious  that  my  efforts  were  most  con- 
stantly directed,  is,  that  I  have,  more  uniformly  and  earnestly  than  any  preceding  critic,  made 
the  Moral  tendencies  of  the  works  under  consideration  a  leading  subject  of  discussion  :  and 
I  neglected  no  opportunity,  in  reviews  of  Poems  and  Novels  as  well  as  of  graver  productions, 
V  of  elucidating  the  true  constituents  of  human  happiness  and  virtue  :  and  combathig  those 
besetting  prejudices  and  errors  of  opinion  which  appear  so  often  to  withhold  men  from  the 
path  of  their  duty — or  to  array  them  in  foolish  and  fatal  hostility  to  each  other.  I  cannot,  of 
course,  do  more,  in  this  place,  than  intimate  this  proud  claim  :  But  for  the  proof — or  at  least 
the  explanation  of  it, — I  think  I  may  venture  to  refer  to  the  greater  part  of  the  papers  that 
follow. 

I  wrote  the  first  article  in  the  first  Number  of  the  Review,  in  October  1802: — and  sent 
my  last  contribution  to  it,  in  October  1840!  It  is  a  long  period,  to  have  persevered  in  well 
— or  in  ill  doing!  But  I  was  by  no  means  eciually  alert  in  the  service  during  all  the  inter- 
mediate time.  I  was  sole  Editor,  from  1803  till  late  in  1829-  and  during  that  period  was  no 
doubt  a  large  and  regular  contributor.  In  that  last  year,  however,  I  received  the  great  honour 
of  being  elected,  by  my  brethren  of  the  Bar,  to  the  office  of  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advo- 
cates:— When  it  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  it  was  not  quite  fitting  that  the  official 
head  of  a  great  Law  Corporation  should  continue  to  be  the  conductor  of  what  might  be  fairly 
enough  represented  as,  in  many  respects,  a  Party  .Journal :  and  I  consequently  withdrew  at 
once  and  altogether  from  the  management  :* — which  has  ever  since  been  in  such  hands,  as 
can  have  left  those  who  take  an  interest  in  its  success,  no  cause  to  regret  my  retirement. 
But  I  should  not  have  acted  up  to  the  spirit  of  this  resignation,  nor  felt  that  I  had  redeemed 
the  pledge  of  neutrality  I  meant  to  give  by  it.  if  I  had  not  at  the  same  time  substantially 
ceased  to  contribute  to,  or  to  concern  myself,  in  any  way,  with  the  conduct  or  future  fortunes 
of  the  Review.  I  wrote  nothing  for  it.  accordingly,  for  a  considerable  time  subsequent  to 
1829:  and  during  the  whole  fourteen  years  that  have  since  elapsed,  have  sent  in  all  but 
Four  papers  to  that  work — none  of  them  on  political  subjects.  I  ceased,  in  reality  to  be  a 
contributor,  in  1829. 

In  a  professed  Reprint  of  former  publications  I  did  not  of  course  think  myself  entitled  to 
make  (and  accordingly  I  have  not  made)  any  change  in  the  substance  of  what  was  originally 
published — nor  even  in  the  expression,  except  where  a  slight  verbal  correction  seemed  neces- 
.sary,  to  clear  the  meaninir.  or  to  remedy  some  mere  slip  of  the  pen.  I  have  not  however 
held  myself  etjually  precluded  from  making  occasional  rctrcnchvients  from  the  papers  as  they 
first  appeared  :  though  these  are  mostly  confined  to  t)ic  citations  that  had  been  given  from  the 
books  reviewed — at  least  in  the  three  first  of  these  volumes:  But  notice,  I  believe,  is  given 
of  all  the  considerable  omissions — (with  some  intimation  of  the  reasons) — in  the  places  where 
they  occur. 

It  will  be  observed  that,  in  the  Arrangement  of  the  pieces  composing  this  collection,  I 
have  not  followed,  in  any  degree,  the  Chronological  order  of  the  oriijinal  publications :  though 
the  actual  date  of  its  first  appearance  is  prefixed  to  each  paper.     The  great  extent  and  very 


*  For  my  own  sake  in  part,  but  principally  for  t)ie  honour  of  my  Conservative  Bietliren  who 
ultimately  conctirrpd  in  my  appointment,  1  think  it  right  to  state,  that  this  resignation  was  in  no 
ilcgree  a  matter  of  compromise  or  arrangement,  with  a  view  to  that  appointment: — the  fact  be- 
ing, on  tlie  contrary,  tliat  I  nave  no  liint  of  my  purpose,  in  any  quarter,  till  after  the  election  was 
over — or  at  all  events  till  afti'r  the  withdrawal  of  the  learned  and  distinguished  Person  who  had 
lippn  put  in  nomination  against  me,  had  made  it  certain  that  my  return  would  be  unanimous. 
His  perseverance.  I  doubt  not.  miaht  have  endangered  that  result  :  For.  though  considerably  my 
junior,  his  eminence  in  the  profession  was,  even  then  I  believe,  qui'e  equal  to  mine.  But  he' 
generously  deferred  lo  my  Seniority. 


PREFACE.  vii 

mipcellaneous  nature  of  the  subjects  discussed,  seemed  to  make  such  a  course  ineligible  ;  and 
rather  to  suggest  the  propriety  of  a  distribution  with  reference  to  these  subjects.  I  have  now 
attempted  therefore  to  class  them  under  a  few  general  Heads  or  titles,  with  a  view  to  such  a 
connection :  And,  though  not  very  artificially  digested,  or  strictly  adhered  to,  I  think  the 
convenience  of  most  readers  will  be  found  to  have  been  consulted  by  this  arrangement.  The 
particular  papers  in  each  grouper  division,  have  also  been  placed  in  the  order,  rather  of  their 
natural  ilependence,  or  analogy  to  each  other,  than  of  the  times  when  they  were  respectively 
written.  I  am  now  sensible  that,  by  adopting  this  plan,  I  have  brought  more  strikingly  into 
view,  the  repetitions,  as  well  as  the  discrepancies  and  small  inconsistencies,  which  I  take  to 
be  incident  to  this  kind  of  writing.  But  this  is  a  reproach,  or  disadvantage,  to  which  I  must 
be  content  to  submit:  and  from  which  I  do  not  apprehend  that  I  shall  have  much  to  suffer, 
in  the  judgment  of  good-natured  readers.  There  are  many  more  important  matters  as  to 
which  I  am  conscious  that  I  shall  need  all  their  indulgence :  But  to  which  I  do  not  think  it 
necessary,  as  I  am  sure  it  would  not  be  prudent,  now  to  direct  their  attention. 

Before  closing  this  notice,  there  is  a  little  matter  as  to  which  several  of  my  friends  have 
suggested  that  I  ought  to  take  this  opportunity  of  giving  an  explanation.  My  own  first 
impression  was,  that  this  was  unnecessary;  and,  but  for  the  illustrious  name  which  is  con- 
nected with  the  subject,  I  should  still  be  of  that  opinion.  As  it  is.  I  cannot  now  refuse  to 
say  a  few  words  on  it. 

In  the  second  volume  of  Mr.  Lockhart's  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  there  are  (at  page  219) 
several  extracts  from  a  letter  of  Sir  Walter  to  Mr.  George  Ellis,  dated  in  December  1808, 
and  referring  among  other  things  to  the  projected  establishment  of  the  Quarterly  Review :  in 
comiection  with  which  topic,  the  following  passage  occurs — "Jeffrey  has  offered  terms  of 
pacification — engaging  that  no  party  politics  should  again  appear  in  his  Review.  I  told  him  I 
thought  it  was  now  too  late;  and  reminded  him  that  I  had  often  pointed  out  to  him  the  con- 
sequences of  letting  his  work  become  a  party  tool.  He  said,  he  did  not  care  for  the  conse- 
quences; They  \rere  but  four  men  he  feared  as  opponents,  &c.  All  this  was  in  great  good 
humour.     He  has  no  suspicion  of  our  Review  whatever." 

Now  though  I  have  no  particular  recollection  of  the  conversation  here  alluded  to,  and 
should  never  dream,  at  any  rate,  of  setting  up  any  recollection  of  so  distant  an  occurrence  in 
opposition  to  a  contemporary  record  of  it  by  such  a  man  as  Sir  Walter  Scott — I  feel  myself 
fully  warranted  in  saying  that  the  words  I  have  put  in  italics  are  calculated  to  convey  an 
inaccurate  impression  of  any  thing  I  could  possibly  have  said  on  that  occasion ; — and  that  I 
am  morally  certain  that  I  never  offered  to  come  under  any  such  engagement  as  these  words, 
in  their  broad  and  unqualified  sense,  would  seem  to  imply.  Of  course,  I  impute  no  intentional 
misrepresentation  to  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Of  that  he  was  as  incapable,  as  I  trust  I  am  of  the 
baseness  of  making  the  im.putation.  Neither  can  I  think  it  possible  that  he  should  have 
misunderstood  me  at  the  time.  But  in  hastily  writing  a  familiar  letter  I  am  satisfied  that  he 
has  expressed  himself  inaccurately — or  at  least  imperfectly — and  used  words  which  convey 
a  far  larger  and  more  peremptory  meaning  than  truly  belonged  to  any  thing  I  could  have 
uttered.  My  reasons  for  this  conviction  I  diink  maybe  stated,  to  the  satisfaction  even  of 
those  to  whom  the  circumstances  of  the  parties  may  yet  be  unknown. 

My  first  reason  is,  that  I  most  certainly  had  no  power  to  come  under  any  such  engagement, 
without  the  consent  of  the  original  and  leading  Contributors, — from  whom  no  such  consent 
could  then  have  been  expected.  I  was  not  the  Proprietor  of  the  work — nor  the  representative, 
in  any  sense,  of  the  proprietors — but  merely  the  chosen  (and  renioveable)  manager  for  the 
leading  contributors;  the  greater  part  of  whom  certainly  then  looked  upon  the  Political 
influence  of  the  Review,  as  that  which  gave  it  its  chief  value  and  imi^ortance.  This  con- 
dition of  things  was  matter  of  notoriety  at  Edinburgh  at  the  time.  But  at  all  events  nobody 
was  more  thoroughly  aware  of  it  than  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  has  him.self  mentioned,  in  the 
passage  already  quoted,  that  he  had  frequently  before  remonstrated  with  me  on  what  he 
thought  the  intemperate  tone  of  some  our  political  articles:  and  though  I  generally  made 
the  best  defence  I  could  for  them,  I  distinctly  remember  more  than  one  occasion  on  which^ 
after  admitting  that  the  youthful  ardour  of  some  of  our  associates  had  carried  them  farther 
than  I  could  approve  of,  I  begged  him  to  consider  that  it  was  quite  impossible  for  me  always 
to  repress  this — and  to  remember  that  I  was  but  a  Feuded  monarch,  who  had  but  a  slender 
control  over  his  greater  Barons — and  really  could  not  prevent  them  from  occasionally  waging 
a  little  private  war,  upon  griefs  or  resentments  of  their  own.  I  am  as  certain  of  having 
repeatedly  expressed  this  sentiment,  and  used  this  illustration  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  I  am 
of  my  own  existence. 

But  in  the  next  place  it  requires  no  precise  recollection  of  words  or  occasions,  to  enable 
me  now  to  say,  that,  neither  in  1808,  nor  for  long  periods  before  and  after,  did  my  party 
principles  (or  prejudices  or  predilections)  sit  so  loosely  upon  me,  as  that  I  should  ever  have 
agreed  to  lay  them  aside,  or  to  desist  from  their  assertion,  merely  to  secure  the  assistance 
of  a  contributor  (however  distinguished),  to  what  would  then  have  been  a  mere  literary 
undertaking.  For  the  value  I  then  set  on  those  principles  I  may  still  venture  to  refer  to 
tv,'enty-five  years  spent  as  their  uncompromising  advocate — at  the  hazard  at  least,  if  not  to 
the  injury,  of  my  personal  and  professional  interests.  I  have  no  wish  at  this  moment  io 
recall  the  particulars  of  that  advocacy :  But  I  think  I  may  safely  say  that  if,  in  December 


^iii  PREFACE. 

1808. 1  could  have  bargained  to  desist  from  it.  and  to  silence  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  an  organ 
of  party.  I  miixht  have  stipulated  for  somewhat  higher  advantages  than  the  occasional  co- 
oi>?ratioii  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  (for  he  never  was  a  rcffu/ar  contributor  even  to  the  Quarterly)  in 
a  work  in  which  I  had  little  interest  beyond  that  of  conunanding  a  ready  vehicle  for  the  dis- 
semiriation  of  mv  own  favoured  opinions. 

All  this  rests,  it  will  be  observed,  not  upon  the  terms  of  any  particular  conversation,  which 
might  of  course  be  imperfectly  remembered — but  upon  my  own  certain  knowledge  of  the 
principles  by  which  I  was  actuated  for  a  long  course  of  years;  and  which  I  cannot  but  think 
were  then  indicated  by  a  sufficient  number  of  overt  acts,  to  make  it  easy  to  establish  the 
mastery  they  e.vercised  over  me,  by  extrinsic  evidence,  if  necessary.  If  the  prevalence  of 
these  principles,  however,  is  plainly  inconsistent  whh  the  literal  accuracy  of  the  passage  in 
question,  or  the  fact  of  my  having  actually  made  such  an  offer  as  is  there  mentioned,  I  think 
myself  entitled  to  conclude  that  the  statement  in  that  passage  is  inaccurate;  and  that  a  care- 
less expression  has  led  to  an  incorrect  representation  of  the  fact. 

And  here  also  I  hope  I  may  be  permitted  to  refer  to  a  very  distinct  recollection  of  the 
tenor,  not  of  one  but  of  many  conversations  with  Sir  Walter,  in  which  he  was  directly  apprised 
of  the  impossibility  (even  if  I  could  have  desired  it)  of  excluding  politics  (which  of  cour.^e 
could  mean  nothing  but  party  pohtics)  from  the  Review.  The  undue  preponderance  of  such 
articles  in  that  journal  was  a  frequent  subject  of  remon.strance  with  him :  and  I  perfectly 
remember  that,  when  urging  upon  me  the  expediency  of  making  Literature  our  great  staple, 
and  only  indulging  occasionally  in  those  more  exciting  discussion.s,  I  have  repeatedly  told 
him  that,  with  the  political  influence  we  had  already  acquired,  this  was  not  to  be  expecteil— 
and  that  by  such  a  course  the  popularity  and  authority  of  the  Review  would  be  fatally  im- 
paired, even  for  its  literary  judgments:— and  upon  one  of  these  occasions,  I  am  quite  certaui 
that  I  made  use  of  this  expression  to  him — '-The  Review,  in  short,  has  but  two  legs  to  stand 
on.  Literature  no  doubt  is  one  of  them:  But  its  Right  leg  is  Politics."  Of  this  I  have  the 
clearest  recollection. 

I  have  dwelt  too  long,  I  fear,  on  this  slight  but  somewhat  painful  incident  of  my  early 
days.  But  I  cannot  finally  take  leave  of  it  without  stating  my  own  strong  conviction  of  what 
must  have  actually  passed  on  the  occasion  so  often  referred  to;  and  of  the  way  in  which  1 
conceive  my  illustrious  friend  to  have  been  led  to  the  inaccuracy  I  have  alreatly  noticed,  in 
his  report  of  it.  I  have  already  said,  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  any  recollection  of  this 
particular  conversation:  But  combining  the  details  which  are  given  in  Sir  Walter's  letter, 
with  my  certain  knowledge  of  the  tenor  of  many  previous  conversations  on  the  same  subject, 
I  have  now  little  doubt  that,  after  deprecating  his  threatened  secession  from  our  ranks,  1 
acknowledged  my  regret  at  the  needless  asperity  of  some  of  our  recent  diatribes  on  politics — 
expressed  my  own  disapprobation  of  violence  and  personality  in  such  discussions — and 
engaged  to  do  what  I  could  to  repress  or  avoid  such  excesses  for  the  future.  It  is  easy,  I 
think,  to  see  how  this  engagement, — to  discourage,  so  far  as  my  influence  went,  all  vioUnt 
and  unfair  party  politics, — might  be  represented,  in  Sir  Walter's  brief  and  summary  report, 
as  an  engagement  to  avoid  party  politics  altogether: — the  inaccuracy  amounting  only  to  the 
omission  of  a  qualification. — to  which  he  probably  ascribed  less  importance  than  truly 
belonired  to  it. 

Other  imputations,  lam  aware,  have  been  publicly  made  against  me,  far  heavier  than  this 
which  has  tempted  me  into  so  long  an  explanation.  But  with  these  I  do  not  now  concern 
myself:  And,  as  they  never  gave  me  a  moment's  anxiety  at  the  time,  so  I  am  now  conteuteil 
to  refer,  for  their  refutation,  to  the  tenor  of  all  I  have  ever  written,  and  the  testimony  of  all 
to  whom  I  have  been  personally  known.  With  any  thing  bearing  the  name  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  however,  the  case  is  different:  And  when,  from  any  statement  of  his,  I  feel  that  I  may 
be  accused,  even  of  the  venial  offences  of  a.ssuming  a  power  which  did  not  truly  belong  to 
me — or  of  being  too  ready  to  compromise  my  political  opinions,  from  general  love  to  litera- 
ture or  deference  to  individual  genius,  I  think  myself  called  upon  to  ofTer  all  the  explanations 
in  my  power: — While  I  do  not  stoop  to  meet,  even  with  a  formal  denial,  the  absurd  and 
degrading  charges  with  which  I  have  been  occasionally  assailed,  by  persons  of  a  diffprent 
description. 

F.  JEFFREY. 

Craizcrook,  lOth  November,  1843. 


CONTENTS 


I     Preface. ▼ 

\  GENERAL  LITERATURE  AND  LITERARY  BIOGRAPHY. 

'    Essays  on  the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste.     By  Archibald  Alison,  LL.  B.,  F.  R.  S., 

Prebendary  of  Sarum 13 

De  la  Litterature  consideree  dans  ses  Rapports  avec  les  Institutions  Sociales,    Par  Mad. 

de  Stael-Holstein.     Avec  un  Precis  de  la  Vie  et  les  Ecrits  de  I'Auteur 40 

The  Complete  Works,  in  Philosophy,  Politics,  and  Morals,  of  the  late  Dr.  Benjamin 
Franklin.     Now  first  collected  and  arranged.     With  Memoirs  of  his  Early  Life, 

written  by  Himself 60 

-  The  Works  of  Jonathan  Swift,  D.  D.,  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  Dublin.  Containing  Additional 
Letters,  Tracts,  and  Poems,  not  hitherto  published.     With  Notes,  and  a  Life  of  the 

Author,  by  Walter  Scott,  Esq 68 

Correspondance  inedite  de  Madame  du  Deffand,  avec  D'Alembert,  Montesquieu,  le  Pre- 
sident Renault,  La  Duchesse  du  Maine,  Mesdames  de  Choiseul,  De  Staal,  &.c.  &c. .     93 
Lettres  de  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  ecrites  depuis  PAnnee  1773  jusqu'  a  PAnnee 

1776,  &c ib. 

'■*  Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship:  a  Novel.     From  the  German  of  Goethe 104 

The  Correspondence  of  Samuel  Richardson,  Author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa,  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  •  selected  from  the  original  Manuscripts  bequeathed  to  his  Family.  To 
which  are  prefLved,  a  Biographical  Account  of  that  Author,  and  Observations  on  his 

Writings.     By  Anna  Letitia  Barbauld 121 

5  Correspondance,  Liiteraire,  Philosophique  et  Critique.     Adressee  a  un  Souverain  d'Alle- 

magne,  depuis  1770  jusqu'a  1782.     Par  le  Baron  de  Grimm,  et  par  Diderot 129 

^  Memoirs  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Victor  Alfieri.     Written  by  Himself 143 

The  Life  and  Posthumous  Writings  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.     With  an  Introductory 

Letter  to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Cowper.     By  William  Hayley,  Esq 154,   163 

HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Colonel  Hutchinson.  Governor  of  Nottingham  Castle  and  Town, 
Representative  of  the  County  of  Nottingham  in  the  Long  Parliament,  and  of  the 
Town  of  Nottingham  in  the  I^'irst  Parliament  of  Charles  11.  &c.;  with  Original  Anec- 
dotes of  many  of  the  most  distinguished  of  his  Contemporaries,  and  a  summary 
Review  of  Public  Affairs :  Written  by  his  Widow,  Lucy,  daughter  of  Sir  Allen  Apsley, 
Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  &c.  Now  first  published  from  the  Original  Manuscript, 
by  the  Rev.  Julius  Hutchinson,  &c.  &c.  To  which  is  prefixed  the  Life  of  Mrs. 
Hutchinson,  written  by  Herself,  a  Fragment   168 

Memoirs  of  Lady  Fanshawe,  Wife  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe, 
Baronet,  Ambassador  from  Charles  the  Second  to  the  Court  of  Madrid  in  1665. 
Written  by  Herself.     To  which  are  added,  Extracts  from  the  Correspondence  of  Sir 

Richard  Fanshawe 179 

*"  Memoirs  of  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.  F.  R.  S.,  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty  in  the  Reigns  of 
Charles  II.  and  James  II.,  comprising  his  Diary  from  1659  to  1669,  deciphered  by 
the  Rev.  John  Smith,  A .  B.,  of  St.  John's  College.  Cambridge,  from  the  original  Short- 
hand MS.  in  the  Pepysian  Library,  and  a  Selection  from  his  Private  Correspondence. 
Edited  by  Richard  Lord  Braybrooke 183 

A  History  of  the  early  Part  of  the  Reign  of  James  the  Second ;  with  an  Introductory 
Chapter.     By  the  Right  Honourable  Charles  James  Fox.     To  which  is  added  an 

Appendix 197 

2  ix 


z 


CONTENTS. 


PAoe, 
Memoires  d'un  Temoin  de  la  Revolution;  ou  Journal  des  fait9  qui  se  sent  passe  sous  ses 
yeux.  et  qui  out  prejiare  et  fixe  la  Constitution  Frangaise.     Ouvrage  Posthume  de 
Jean  Svi.vain  Bailly,  Premier  President  de  lAsseniblee  Nationale  Constituant, 

Premier  RIaire  de  Paris,  et  Membre  des  Trois  Academies 210 

Considerations  sur  les  Priiicipaux  Evenemens  de  la  Revolution  Frangaise.     Ouvrage 
Posthume  de  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Stael.     Public  par  M.  le  Due  De  Brogue  et 

M.  le  Baron  A.  De  Stael 216 

Memoires  de  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Larochejaqcelein  :  avec  deux  Cartes  du  Theatre 

de  la  Guerre  de  La  Vendee 234 

Memoires  de  Frederique  Sophie  Wilhelmine  de  Prusse,  Margrave  de  Bareilh,  SoBur  de 

Frederic  le  Grand.     Eorits  de  sa  Main 249 

History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columbus.  By  Washington  Irving.  .  .  .  259 
Memoirs  of  Zehir-ed-din  IMuhammed  Baber.  Emperor  of  Hindustan,  written  by  Himself, 
in  the  Jairhatai  Turki,  and  translated  partly  by  the  late  John  Leyden.  Esq.  M.  D., 
partly  by  William  Erskine,  Esq.  With  Notes  and  a  Geographical  and  Historical 
Introduction :  together  with  a  Map  of  the  Countries  between  the  Oxus  and  Jaxartes, 
and  a  Memoir  regarding  its  Construction,  by  Charles  Waddington,  Esq..  of  the 
East  India  Company's  Engineers ..." 272 

POETRY. 

Specimens  of  the  British  Poels:  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices,  and  an  Essay  on 

English  Poetry.     By  Thomas  Campbell ' 286 

The  Dramatic  Works  of  John  Ford;  with  an  Introduction  and  Explanatory  Notes.     By 

Henry  Weber,  Esq 299 

Characters  of  Shakespeares  Plays.     By  William  Hazlitt 309 

Sardanapalus,  a  Tragedy.     The  Two  Foscari,  a  Tragedy.     Cain,  a  Mystery,     By  Lord 

Byron '. 7 316 

Manfred  ;  a  Dramatic  Poem.     By  Lord  Byron 330 

Reliques  of  Robert  Burns,  consisting  chiefly  of  Original  Letters,  Poems,  and  Critical 

Observations  on  Scottish  Songs.     Collected  and  published  by  R.  H.  Cromek 335 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  a  Pennsylvania  tale;  and  other  Poems.     By  Tho.mas  Campbell, 

author  of  '-The  Piea,«;ures  of  Hope,"  &c 347 

Theodric.  a  Domestic  Tale:  with  other  Poems.     By  Thomas  Campbell 354 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel :  a  Poem.     By  Walter  Scott 359 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  :  a  Poem.     By  Walter  Scott 367 

Poems.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe 380 

The  Borough:  a  Poem,  in  Twenty-four  Letters.     By  the  Rev.  George  Ckabbe,  LL.B..  387 

Tales.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe 396 

Tales  of  the  Hall.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe 405 

Endymion  :  a  Poetic  Romance.     By  John  Keats 413 

Lamia.  Isabella.  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  other  Poems.     By  John  Keats,  author  of 

''  Endymion" ib. 

Human  Life  :  a  Poem.     By  S.\muel  Rogers 4J9 

Roderick  :  The  Last  of  the  Goths.    By  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  Poet-Laureate,  and  Mem- 
ber of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy 424 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Canto  the  Third.     By  Lord  Byron 434  ^ 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and  other  Poems.     By  Lord  Byron ib.  i 

Lalla  Rookh  ;  an  Oriental  Romance.     By  Thomas  Moore 446  | 

The  Excursion  :  beinir  a  Portion  of  the  Recluse,  a  Poem.     By  William  Wordsworth..  457  i 
The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone  ;  or  the  Fate  of  the  Nortons:  a  Poem.   By  Willia.m  Words-  j 

WORTH .  .  .  ■ 469  I 

Records  of  Women  :  with  other  Poems.     By  Felicia  Hemans 473  j 

The  Forest  Sanctuary  :  with  other  Poems.     By  Felicia  Hemans ib.  ! 

PHILCSOPHY  or  TIIK  MIND,  METAPHYSICS,  AND  JURISPRUDENCE.  ! 

Traites  de  Legislation  Civile  et  Penale ;  precedes  de  Principes  Generau.x  de  Legislation,  j| 

pt  d'une  Vue  d'un  Corps  complet  de  Droit;  termines  par  un  Essai  sur  I'influence  !; 

des  Terns  et  des  Licux  relativement  aux  Lois.    Par  M.  Jerkmie  Bentham,  Juriscon-  ij 

suite  An;rlois.     Publics  en  Francois  par  M.  Du.mont  de  Geneve,  d-apres  les  JVlanu-  '. 

Bcnls  conlies  par  I'Auteur 479  I 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE. 

\ccount  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Thomas  Reid,  D.D.,  F.R.S.  Edinburgh,  late  Professor 

of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow.     By  Dugald  Stewart,  F.R.S. .   486 

Memoirs  of  Dr.  .Toseph  Priestley,  to  the  Year  1795,  written  by  himself:  With  a  Continua- 
tion to  the  Time  of  his  Decease,  by  his  Sou  Joseph  Priestley ;  and  Observations  on 
his  Writings.  By  Thomas  Cooper,  President  Judge  of  the  Fourth  District  of  Penn- 
sylvania, and  the  Reverend  Willia.m  Christie.  . .  T 492 

Academical  Questions.     By  the  Right  Honourable  William  Drummond,  K.C,  F.R.S., 

F.R.S.E.     Author  of  a  Translation  of  Persius .'496 

An  Account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  James  Beatlie,  LL.D.,  late  Professor  of  Moral 
Philosophy  and  Logic  in  the  Marischal  College  and  University  of  Aberdeen  :  includ- 
ing many  of  his  original  Letters.  By  Sir  W.  Forbes  of  Pitsligo,  Baronet,  one  of  the 
Executors  of  Dr.  Beattie 501 

Philo.sophical  Essays.  By  Dugald  Stewart,  Esq.,  F.R.S.- Edinburgh,  Emeritus  Pro- 
fessor of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgli,  &c.  &c 504 

I 

'  NOVELS,  TALES,  AND  PRO.'^E  WORKS  OF  FICTION. 

Tales  of  Fashionable  Life.     By  Miss  Edgeworth,  Author  of  "Practical  Education,"' 

"Belinda,"  "'Castle  Rackrent,"  &c 512.  517 

Waverley,  or  'Tis  Sixty  Years  Since 523 

Tales  of  My  Landlord,  collected  and  arranged  by  Jedediah  Cleishbothani.  Schoolmaster 

and  Parish  Clerk  of  the  Parish  of  Gaudercleugh 528 

Rob  Roy.     By  the  Author  of  "Waverley,"  "Guy  Mannering,"  and  '-'The  Antiquary"  535 

Ivanhoe.     A  Romance.     By  the  Author  of  "  Waverley,"  &c 537 

The  Novels  and  Tales  of  the  Author  of  "Waverley;"  comprising  "Waverley,"  "Guy 

Mannering,"  "Antiquary,"  "Rob  Roy,"  "Tales  of  My  Landlord,  First,  Second.,  and 

Third  Series  ;"  New  Edition,  with  a  copious  Glossary ib. 

The  Fortunes  of  Nigel.     By  the  Author  of  "  Waverley,"  "  Kenilworth,"  &c 543 

Annals  of  the  Parish,  or  the  Chronicles  of  Dalmailing,  during  the  Ministry  of  the  Rev. 

Micah  Balwhidder.     Written  by  Himself 548 

The  Ayrshire  Legatees,  or  the  Pringle  Family.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the 

Parish."  &c ib. 

The  Provost.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  "'Ayrshire  Legatees,"  &c.  .  .  .      ib. 

Sir  Andrew  Wyllie  of  that  Ilk.     By  the  Author  of  "'Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c ib. 

The  Steam  Boat.     By  the  Author  of  "  Annals  of  the  Parish,"  &c ib. 

The  Entail,  or  the  Lairds  of  Grippy.     By  the  Author  of  "'Annals  of  the  Parish."  "Sir 

Andrew  Wyllie,"  &c ' ib. 

Ringan  Gilhaize,  or  the  Covenanters.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"'  &c. .  .     ib. 

Valerius,  a  Roman  Story ib. 

Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life ib. 

Some  Passages  in  the  Life  of  Mr.  Adam  Blair,  Minister  of  the  Gospel  at  Cross-Meikle . .  ib. 
The  Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay.     By  the  Author  of  "Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish 

Life" ib. 

Reginald  Dalton.     By  the  Author  of  "  "Valerius,"  and  "  Adam  Blair" ib. 

GENERAL  POLITICS. 

Essay  on  the  Practice  of  the  British  Government,  distinguished  from  the  abstract  The- 
ory on  which  it  is  supposed  to  be  founded.     By  Gould  Francis  Leckie 564 

A  Song  of  Triumph.     By  W.  Sotheby,  Esq 577 

L'Acte  Constitutionnel,  en  la  Seance  du  9  Avril,  1814 ib. 

Of  Bonaparte,  the  Bourbons,  and  the  Necessity  of  rallying  round  our  legitimate  Princes 

for  the  Happiness  of  France  and  of  Europe.     By  F.  Chate.ivubriand ib. 

Speech  of  the  Rieht  Hon.  William  Windham,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  May  26,  1809, 
on  Mr.  Curwen's  Bill,  "for  better  securing  the  Independence  and  Purity  of  Par- 
liament, by  Preventing  the  procuring  or  obtaining  of  Seats  by  corrupt  Practices"  . .    594 

Short  Remarks  on  the  State  of  Parties  at  the  Close  of  the  Year  1809 604 

The  History  of  Ireland.     By  John  O'Driscol 610 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  By  Thomas 
MooRE 616 


14 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


able,   is  the  want  of  agreement  as  to  the  I  time  possess  so  much  unity  as  to  pas^^^^^^^^^ 


presence  and  existence  of  beauty  in  particular 
objects,  amonjj  men  whose  organization   is 
perfect,  and  who  are  plainly  possesfsed  of  the 
faculty,  whatever  it  may  be,  by  which  beauty 
is  discerned.     Now,  no  such  thing  happens, 
we  imagine,  or  can  be  conceived  to  happen, 
in  the  case  of  any  other  simple  sensation,  or 
the   exercise   of  any  other  distinct   faculty. 
Where  one  man  sees  light,  all  men  who  have 
eyes  see  light  also.     All  men  allow  grass  to 
be  o-reen.  and  sugar  to  be  sweet,  and  ice  to  be 
col3:  and  the  unavoidable  inference  from  any 
apparent  disagreement  in  such  matters  neces- 
sarily is,  that  the  party  is  insane,  or  entirely 
destitute  of  the  sense  or  organ  concerned  in 
the  perception.    With  regard  to  beauty,  how- 
ever, it  is  obvious,  at  first  sight,  that  the  case 
is  entirely  different.     One  man  sees  it  per- 
petually, where  lo  another  it  is  quite  invisible, 
or  even  where  its  reverse  seems  to  be  con- 
spicuous.    Nor  is  this  owing  to  the  insen.si- 
bility  of  either  of  the  parties ;  for  the  same 
contrariety  exists  where  both  are  keenly  alive 
to  the  influences  of  the  beauty  they  respect- 
ively discern.     A  Chinese  or  African  lover 
would  probably  see  nothing  at  all  attractive 
in  a  belle  of  London  or  Paris ;  and,  undoubt- 
edly, an  eh";ansformannn  spectator  from  eitlier 
of  those  cities  would  discover  nothing  but  de- 
formity in  the  Venus  of  the  Hottentots.     A 
little   distance   in   time   often   produces   the 
same  effects  as  distance  in  place ;— the  gar- 
dens, the  furniture,  the  dress,  which  appeared 
beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  our  grandfathers,  are 
odious  and  ridiculous  in  ours.     Nay,  the  dif- 
ference of  rank,  education,  or  employments, 
gives  rise  to  the  same  diversity  of  sensation. 
The  little  shop-keeper  sees  a  beauty  in  his 
roadside  box,  and   in  the   staring  tile    roof, 
wooden  lions,  and  clipped  boxwood,  which 
strike  horror  into  the  soul  of  the  student  of 
the  picturesque;  while  he  is  transported  in 
surveying  the  fragments  of  ancient  sculpture, 
which  are  nothing  but  ugly  masses  of  mould- 
ering stone,  in  the  judgment  of  the  admirer 
of  neatiii'ss.    It  is  needless,  however,  to  mul- 
tiply instances,  since  the  fact   admits  of  no 
contradiction.  '  But  how  can  we  believe  that 
beauty  is  the  object  of  a  peculiar  sense  or 
faculty,  when  persons  undoubtedly  possessed 
of  the  faculty,  and  even  in  an  eminent  degree, 
can  discover  nothing  of  it  in  objects  where  it 
is  distinctly  felt  a\u\  perceived  by  others  with 
the  same  use  of  the  faculty'? 

This  one  consideration,  we  confess,  appears 
to  us  conclu.sive  a.g-.iinst  the  supposition  of 
beauty  being  a  real  property  of  objects,  aii- 
dressing  itself  to  the  power  of  taste  as  a  sepa- 
rate 8en.se  or  faculty  ;  and  it  seems  to  point 
irresistibly  to  the  conclusion,  that  our  sense 
of  it  is  the  result  of  other  more  elementary 
feelings,  into  which  it  may  be  analysed  or 
resolved.  A  second  objection,  however,  if 
possible  of  still  greater  force,  is  susuested,  by 
considering  the  prodigious  and  almost  infinite 
variety  of  things  to  which  this  property  of 
beauty  is  ascribed;  and  the  impo.ssibility  of 
imagining  any  one  inherent  ([uality  which 
can  belong  to'them  all,  and  yet  at  the  same 


sally  by  the  same  name,  and  be  recognised 
as  the  peculiar  object  of  a  separate  sense  or 
faculty.  All  simple  qualhies  that  are  perceived 
in  any  one  object,  are  immediately  recognised 
to  be  the  same,  when  they  are  again  perceived 
in  another  :  and  the  objects  in  which  they  are 
thus  perceived  are  at  once  felt  so  far  to  re- 
semble each  other,  and  to  partake  of  the  same 
nature.     Thus  snow  is  seen  to  be  white,  and 
chalk  is   seen  to  be  white;  but  tliis  is  no 
sooner  seen,  than  the  two  substances,  how- 
ever unlike  in  other  respects,  are  felt  at  once 
to  have  this  quality  in  common,  and  to  re- 
semble each  other  completely  in  all  that  re- 
lates to  the  qualitv  of  colour,  and  the  sense 
of  seeing.    But  is  this  felt,  or  could  it  even  be 
intelligibly  asserted,  with  regard  to  the  quality 
of  beautyf  Take  even  a  limited  and  specific  sort 
of  beauty— for  instance,  the  beauty  of  fonn. 
The  form  of  a  fine  tree  is  beautiful,  and  the 
form  of  a  fine  woman,  and  the  form  of  a  column, 
and  a  vase,  and  a  chandelier.    Yet  how  can  it 
be  said  that  the  form  of  a  woman  has  anV 
thing  in  common  with  that  of  a  tree  or  a  temi- 
pie  for  to  which  of  the  senses  by  which  iormk 
are  distinguished  can  it  be  supposed  to  appeaj- 
that  they  have  any  resemblance  or  affinity'? 

The  matter,  however,  becomes  still  more 
inextricable  when  we  recollect  that  beauty 
does  not  belong  merely  to  forms  or  colours, 
but  to  sounds,  and  perhaps  to  the  objects  of 
other  senses;  nay,  that  in  all  languages  and 
in  all  nations,  it  is  not  supposed  to  reside  ex 


clusively  in  material  objects,  but  to  belong 
also  to  sentiments  and  ideas,  and  intellectual; 
and  moral  existences.  Not  only  is  a  treeH 
beautiful,  as  well  as  a  palace  or  a  waterfall ; 
but  a  poem  is  beautiful,  and  a  theorem  in; 
mathematics,  and  a  contrivance  in  mechanics  i 
But  if  thinas  intellectual  and  totally  segre- 
gated from  matter  may  thus  possess  beauty 
how  can  it  possibly  be  a  (juality  of  materia 
objects'?  or  what  sense  or  faculty  can  that  be 
whose  proper  office  it  is  to  intimate  to  us  th( 
existence  of  some  property  w  hich  is  commoi 
to  a  flower  and  a  demonstration,  a  valley  am 
an  eloquent  discourse'? 

The  only  answer  which  occurs  to  this 
plainly  enouah  a  had  one ;  but  the  statemen 
of  it.  and  of  its  insufficiency,  will  serve  bettei 
perhaps,  than  any  thing  else,  to  develope  Ul  m 
actual  difficulties  of  the  subject,  and  the  tru  *"« 
state  of  the  (]ue8tioii  with  regard  to  them.  1 
may  be  said,  then,  in  answer  to  the  question  M 
we"  have  suggested  above,  that  all  these  ol  «« 
jects.  however  various  and  dissimilar,  agrel 
at  least  in  being  agreeable,  and  that  th' 
agrreeablencss,  which  is  the  only  quality  the; 
possess  in  common,  may  probably  be  th 
beauty  which  is  ascribed  to  them  all.  Nov^ 
to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  such  discu^ 
sions.  it  would  be  quite  enough  to  reply,  th:, 
though  the  agreeableness  of  such  objects  d<\ 
pend  plainly  enough  upon  their  beauty,  it  I] 
no  means  follows,  but  quite  the  contrary,  lh;l 
their  beauty  depends  upon  their  agreeabl) 
ness;  the  latterbeingthe  more  comprehensiii 
or  generic  term,  under  which  beauty  mu' 
rank  as  one  of  the  sp*«ies.    Its  nature,  ther[_ 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


15 


fore,  is  no  more  explained,  nor  is  less  ab- 
surdity substantially  committed,  by  saying 
that  things  are  beautiful  because  they  are 
agreeable,  than  if  we  were  to  give  the  same 
explanation  of  the  sweetness  of  sugar;  for  no 
one,  we  suppose,  will  dispute,  that  though  it 
be  very  true  that  sugar  is  agreeable  because 
it  is  sweet,  it  would  be  manifestly  prepos- 
terous to  say  that  it  was  sweet  because  it  was 
agreeable.  For  the  benefit,  however,  of  those 
who  wish  or  require  to  be  more  regularly 
initiated  in  these  mysteries,  we  beg  leave  to 
add  a  few  observations. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  seems  evident, 
that  agreeableness,  in  general,  cannot  be  the 
same  with  beauty,  because  there  are  very 
many  things  in  the  highest  degree  agreeable, 
that  can  in  no  sense  be  called  beautiful. 
Moderate  heat,  and  savoury  food,  and  rest, 
and  exercise,  are  agreeable  to  the  body;  but 
none  of  these  can  be  called  beautiful;  and 
among  objects  of  a  higher  class,  the  love  and 
esteem  of  others,  and  fame,  and  a  good  con- 
science, and  health,  and  riches,  and  wisdom, 
are  all  eminently  agreeable;  but  none  at  all 
beautiful,  according  to  any  intelligible  use  of 
the  word.  It  is  plainly  quite  absurd,  therefore, 
to  say  that  beauty  consists  in  agreeableness, 
without  specifying  in  consequence  of  what  it 
is  agreeable — or  to  hold  that  any  thing  what- 
ever is  taught  as  to  its  nature,  by  merely 
classing  it  among  our  pleasurable  emotions. 

In  the  second  place,  however,  we  may  re- 
mark, that  among  all  the  objects  that  are 
•  i  agreeable,  whether  they  are  also  beautiful  or 
li  not,  scarcely  any  two  are  agreeable  on  account 
Jj  of  the  same  qualities,  or  even  suggest  their 
el  agreeableness  to  the  same  faculty  or  organ. 
|;i  Most  certainly  there  is  no  resemblance  or 
m;  affijiity  whatever  between  the  qualities  which 
;,j  make  a  peach  agreeable  to  the  palate,  and  a 
e.|  beautiful  statue  to  the  eye;  which  soothe  us 
^j  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  or  delight  us  in  a 
lajl  philosophical  discovery.  The  truth  is,  that 
If  1  agreeableness  is  not  properly  a  quality  of  any 
jijl  object  whatsoever,  but  the  effect  or  result  of 
iDjj  certain  qualities,  the  nature  of  which,  in  every 
loi  particular  instance,  we  can  generally  define 
pretty  exactly,  or  of  which  we  know  at  least 
J  iij  with  certainty  that  they  manifest  themselves 
|J  respectively  to  some  one  particular  sense  or 
.J  faculty,  and  to  no  other  ;•  and  consequently  it 
\u  would  be  just  as  obviously  ridiculous  to  sup- 
jj  pose  a  faculty  or  organ,  whose  office  it  was  to 
|,  perceive  agreeableness  in  general,  as  to  sup- 
,l  J  pose  that  ag-reeableness  was  a  distinct  quality 
^A  that  could  thus  be  perceived. 
'  1  The  class  of  agreeable  objects,  thanks  to 
'  J  the  bounty  of  Providence,  is  exceedingly  large. 
u|  Certain  things  are  agreeable  to  the  palate,  and 
^  .a  others  to  the  smell  and  to  the  touch.  Some 
,„  again  are  agreeable  to  our  faculty  of  imagina- 
■  tion,  or  to  our  understanding,  or  to  our  moral 
'  ,i  feelings:  and  none  of  all  these  we  call  beau- 
'j|]  tiful.  But  there  are  others  which  we  do  call 
■j  beautiful;  and  those  we  say  are  agreeable  to 
■',  I  our  faculty  of  taste; — but  when  we  come  to 
^u  I  ask  what  is  the  faculty  of  taste,  and  what  are 
''^'a  the  qualities  which  recommend  the  subjects 
'^°  n  to  that  faculty  1 — we  have  no  such  answer  to 


give ;  and  find  ourselves  just  where  we  were 
at  the  beginning  of  the  discussion,  and  em- 
barrassed with  all  the  difficulties  arising  from 
the  prodigious  diversity  of  objects  which  seem 
to  possess  these  qualities. 

We  know  pretty  well  what  is  the  faculty 
of  seeing  or  hearing;  or,  at  least,  we  know 
that  what  is  agreeable  to  one  of  those  facul- 
ties, has  no  effect  whatever  on  the  other.  We 
know  that  bright  colours  afford  no  delight  to 
the  ear,  nor  sweet  tones  to  the  eye;  and  are 
therefore  perfectly  assured  that  the  qualities 
which  make  the  visible  objects  agreeable, 
cannot  be  the  same  with  those  which  give 
pleasure  to  the  ear.  But  it  is  by  the  eye  and 
by  the  ear  that  all  material  beauty  is  per- 
ceived ;  and  yet  the  beauty  which  discloses 
itself  to  these  two  separate  senses,  and  conse- 
quently must  depend  upon  qualities  which 
nave  no  sort  of  atlinity,  is  supposed  to  be  one 
distinct  quality,  and  to  be  perceived  by  a  pe- 
culiar sense  or  faculty !  The  perplexity  be- 
comes still  greater  when  we  think  of  the 
beauty  of  poems  or  theorems,  and  endeavour 
to  imagine  what  qualities  they  can  possess  ir. 
common  with  the  agreeable  modifications  ol 
light  or  of  sound. 

It  is  in  these  considerations  undoubtedly 
that  the  difficulty  of  the  subject  consists.  The 
faculty  of  taste,  plainly,  is  not  a  faculty  like 
any  of  the  external  senses,  the  range  of  whose 
objects  is  limited  and  precise,  as  well  as  the 
qualities  by  which  they  are  gratified  or  of- 
fended ;  and  beauty,  accordingly,  is  discovered 
in  an  mfinite  variety  of  objects,  among  which 
it  seeams,  at  first  sight,  impossible  to  discover 
any  other  bond  of  connexion.  Yet  boundless 
as  their  diversity  may  appear,  it  is  plain  that 
they  must  resemble  each  other  in  something, 
and  in  something  more  definite  and  definable 
than  merely  in  being  agreeable ;  since  they 
are  all  classed  together,  in  every  tongue  and 
nation,  under  the  common  appellation  of  beau- 
tiful, and  are  felt  indeed  to  produce  emotions 
in  the  mind  that  have  some  sort  of  kindred  or 
affinity.  The  words  beauty  and  beautiful,  in 
short,  do  and  must  mean  something;  and  are 
universally  felt  to  mean  something  much 
more  defuiite  than  agreeableness  or  gratifica- 
tion hi  general :  and  while  it  is  confessedly 
by  no  means  easy  to  describe  or  define  what 
that  something  is,  the  force  and  clearness  of 
our  perception  of  it  is  demonstrated  by  the 
readiness  with  which  we  determine,  m  any 
particular  instance,  whether  the  object  of  a 
given  pleasurable  emotion  is  or  is  not  prop- 
erly described  as  beauty. 

What  we  have  already  said,  we  confess, 
j  appears  to  us  conclusive  against  the  idea  of 
;  this  beauty  being  any  fixed  or  udierent  prop- 
erty of  the  objects  to  which  it  is  ascribed,  or 
I  itself  the  object  of  any  separate  and  inde- 
pendent faculty ;  and  we  will  no  longer  con- 
ceal from  the  reader  what  we  take  to  be  the 
true  solution  of  the  difficulty.  In  our  opinion, 
then,  our  sense  of  beauty  depends  entirely  on  , 
our  previous  experience  of  simpler  pleasures 
or  emotions,  and  consists  in  the  suggestion  of  j 
agreeable  or  interesting  sensations  with  which 
we  had  formerly  been  made  famihar  by  the 


m 


1« 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


direct  and  intelligible  agency  of  our  common 
sensibilities ;  and  that  vast  variety  of  objects, 
to  which  we  give  the  common  name  of  beau- 
tiful, become  entitled  to  that  appellation, 
merely  because  they  all  possess  the  power  oi 
recallincr  or  reflecting  those  sensations  of 
which  they  have  been  the  accompaniments, 
or  with  which  they  have  been  associated  in 
our  imagmation  by  any  other  more  casual 
bond  of  connection.  According  to  this  view 
of  the  matter,  therefore,  beauty  is  not  an  in- 
herent property  or  quality  of  objects  at  all, 
Xnit  the  result  of  the  accidental  relations  in 
which  they  may  stand  to  our  experience  of 
pleasures  or  emotions  ;  and  does  not  depend 
upon  any  particular  configuration  of  parts, 
proportions,  or  colours,  in  external  things,  nor 
upon  the  unity,  coherence,  or  simplicity  of 
intellectual  creations — but  merely  upon  the 
associations  which,  in  the  case  of  every  indi- 
vidual, may  enable  these  inherent,  and  other- 
wise indifferent  qualities,  to  suggest  or  recall 
to  the  mind  emotions  of  a  pleasurable  or  in- 
teresting description.  It  follows,  therefore, 
that  no  object  is  beautiful  in  itself,  or  could 
appear  so  antecedent  to  our  experience  of  di- 
rect pleasures  or  emotions;  and  that,  as  an 
infinite  variety  of  objects  may  thus  reflect  in- 
teresting ideas,  so  all  of  them  may  acquire 
the  title  of  beautitul,  although  utterly  diverse 
and  disparate  in  their  nature,  and  possessing 
nothing  in  common  but  this  accidental  power 
of  reminding  us  of  other  emotions. 

This  theory,  which,  we  believe,  is  now  very 
generally  adopted,  though  under  many  need- 
less qualifications,  shall  be  farther  developed 
and  illustrated  in  the  sequel.  But  at  present 
we  shall  only  remark,  that  it  serves,  at  least, 
to  solve  the  great  problem  involved  in  the 
discussion,  by  rendering  it  easily  conceivable 
how  objects  which  have  no  inherent  resem- 
blance, nor,  indeed,  any  one  quality  in  com- 
mon, should  3-et  be  united  in  one  common 
relation,  and  consequently  acquire  one  com- 
mon name :  just  as  all  the  things  that  belonged 
to  a  beloved  individual  may  serve  to  remind 
us  of  him,  and  thus  to  awake  a  kindred  class 
of  emotions,  though  just  as  unlike  each  other 
as  any  of  the  objects  that  are  classed  under 
the  general  name  of  beautiful.  His  poetry, 
for  instance,  or  his  slippers — his  acts  of  bounty 
or  his  saddle-horse — may  lead  to  the  same 
chain  of  interesting  remembrances,  and  thus 
agree  in  possessing  a  power  of  excitement, 
for  the  sources  of  which  we  should  look  in 
vain  through  all  the  variety  of  their  physical 
or  .metaphysical  qualities. 

By  the  help  of  the  same  consideration,  we 
get  rid  of  all  the  mystery  of  a  peculiar  sense' 
or  faculty,  imagined  for  the  express  purpose 
of  perceiving  beauty;  and  discover  that  the 
power  of  taste  is  nothing  more  than  the  habit 
of  tracing  those  associations,  by  which  almost 
all  objects  may  be  connected  with  interestin>j 
emotions.  It  is  easy  to  uiuler.stand,  that  the 
recollection  of  any  scene  of  delight  or  emotion 
must  produce  a  certain  agreeable  sensation, 
and  that  the  objects  which  introduce  these 
recollections  should  not  appear  altogether  in- 
different to  us :  nor  is  it,  pernapSj  very  difficult 


I  to  imagine,  that  recollections  thus  strikmgly 
suggested  by  some  real  and  present  existence, 
\  should  present  themselves  under  a  diff'erent 
aspect,  and  move  the  mind  somewhat  difier- 
j  ently  from  those  which  arise  spontaneously  in 
'  the  ordinary  course  of  our  reflections,  and  do 
\  not  thus  grow  out  of  a  direct,  present,  and 
peculiar  impression. 

The  whole  of  this  doctrine,  however,  we 
shall  endeavour  by  and  bye  to  establish  upon 
jmore  direct  evidence.  But  having  now  ex- 
plained, in  a  general  way.  both  the  difficulties 
j  of  the  subject,  and  our  suggestion  as  to  their 
true  solution,  it  is  proper  that  we  should  take  a 
short  review  of  the  more  considerable  theories 
that  have  been  proposed  for  the  elucidation 
of  this  curious  question ;  which  is  one  of  the 
most  delicate  as  well  as  the  most  jwpular  in 
the  science  of  metaphysics — was  one  of  the 
:  earliest  which  exercised  the  speculative  inge- 
nuity of  philosophers — and  nas  at  last,  we 
think,  been  more  successfully  treated  than 
any  other  of  a  similar  description. 
I  In  most  of  these  speculations  we  shall  find 
rather  imperfect  trath  than  fundamental  error; 
or,  at  all  events,  such  errors  only  as  arise  natu- 
rally from  that  peculiar  difficulty  which  we 
have  already  endeavoured  to  explain,  as  con- 
sisting in  the  prodigious  multitude  and  di- 
versity of  the  objects  in  which  the  common 
quality  of  beauty  was  to  be  accounted  for. 
i  Those  who  have  not  been  sufficiently  aware 
lof  the  difficulty  have  generally  dogmatised 
I  from  a  small  number  of  instances,  and  have 
i  rather  given  examples  of  the  occurrence  of 
[beauty  in  some  few  classes  of  objects,  than 
I  afforded  any  light  as  to  that  upon  which  it 
essentially  depended  in  all ;  while  those  who 
felt  its  full  force  have  very  often  found  no 
'Other  resource,  than  to  represent  beauty  as 
[consisting  in  properties  so  extremely  vague 
jand  general,  (such,  for  example,  as  the  power 
jof  exciting  ideas  of  relation,)  as  almost  to 
elude  our  comprehension,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  of  so  abstract  and  metaphysical  a  de- 
scription, as  not  to  be  very  intelligibly  stated, 
as  the  elements  of  a  strong,  familiar,  and 
pleasurable  emotion. 

j  This  last  observation  leads  us  to  make  one 
'  other  remark  upon  the  general  character  of 
these  theories ;  and  this  is,  that  some  of  them, 
though  not  openly  j5rofessing  that  doctrine,  I 
seem  necessardy  to  imply  the  existence  of  a'i 
peculiar  sense  or  faculty  for  the  perception  / 
of  beauty ;  as  they  resolve  it  into  properties/ 
that  are  not  in  any  way  interesting  or  agree- 
able to  any  of  our  known  faculties.  Such 
,  are  all  those  \Vhich  make  it  consist  in  propor- 
tion— or  in  variety,  combined  with  rigular- 
ity — or  in  waving  lines — or  in  unity — or  in 
the  perception  of  relations — without  explain- 
ing, or  attempting  to  explain,  how  any  of  these 
things  should,  in  any  circumstances,  affect  us 
with  deliirht  or  emotion.  Others,  again,  do 
not  require  the  supposition  of  any  such  sepa- 
rate faculty;  because  in  them  the  sense  of 
beauty  is  considered  as  arising  from  other 
more  simple  and  familiar  emotions,  which 
are  in  themselves  and  beyond  all  dispute 
,  agreeable.     Such  are  those  which  teach  that 


I 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


J7 


beauty  depends  on  the  perception  of  utility, 
or  of  design,  or  fitness,  or  in  tracing  associa- 
tions between  its  objects  and  the  common 
joys  or  emotions  of  our  nature.  Which  of 
these  two  classes  of  speculation,  to  one  or 
other  of  which,  we  believe,  all  theories  of 
beauty  may  be  reduced,  is  the  most  philo- 
sophical in  itself,  we  imagine  can  admit  of 
no  question;  and  we  hope  in  the  secjuel  to 
leave  it  as  little  doubtful,  which  is  to  be  con- 
sidered as  most  consistent  with  the  fact.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  must  give  a  short  account 
of  some  of  the  theories  themselves. 

The  most  ancient  of  which  it  seems  neces- 
sary to  take  any  notice,  is  that  which  may  be 
traced  in  the  Dialogues  of  Plato — though  we 
are  very  far  from  pretending  that  it  is  possible 
to  give  any  intelligible  or  consistent  account 
of  its  tenor.  It  should  never  be  forgotten, 
however,  that  it  is  to  this  subtle  and  inge- 
nious spirit  that  we  owe  the  suggestion,  that 
it  is  mind  alone  that  is  beautiful ;  and  that, 
iu  perceiving  beauty,  it  only  contemplates 
the  shadow  of  its  own  affections: — a  doctrine 
which;  however  mystically  unfolded  in  his 
writings,  or  however  combined  with  extrava- 
gant or  absurd  speculations,  unquestionably 
carries  in  it  the  the  germ  of  all  the  truth  that 
has  since  been  revealed  on  the  subject.  By 
far  the  largest  dissertation,  however,  that  this 
great  philosopher  has  left  upon  the  nature  of 
beauty,  is  to  be  found  in  the  dialogue  entitled 
Tke  Greater  Hippias,  which  is  entirely  de- 
voted to  that  inquiry.  We  do  not  learn  a 
great  deal  of  the  author's  own  opinion,  in- 
deed, from  this  performance;  for  it  is  one  of 
the  dialogues  which  have  been  termed  Ana- 
trepttc.  or  confuting — in  which  nothing  is 
concluded  in  the  affirmative,  but  a  series  of 
soph'stical  suggestions  or  hypotheses  are  suc- 
cessively exposed.  The  plan  of  it  is  to  lead 
on  Hippias,  a  shallow  and  confident  sophist, 
to  make  a  variety  of  dogmatical  assertions  as 
to  the  nature  of  beauty,  and  then  to  make 
him  retract  and  abandon  them,  upon  the 
statement  of  some  obvious  objections.  So- 
crates and  he  agree  at  first  in  the  notable 
proposition,  -'that  beauty  is  that  by  which 
all  beautiful  things  are  beautiful :"  and  then, 
after  a  great  number  of  suggestions,  by  far 
too  chilclish  and  absurd  to  be  worthy  of  any 
notice — such  as,  that  the  beautiful  may  per- 
adventure  be  gold,  or  a  fine  woman,  or  a 
handsome  mare — they  at  last  get  to  some 
suppositions,  which  show  that  almost  all  the 
theories  that  have  since  been  propounded  on 
this  interesting  subject  had  occurred  thus 
early  to  the  active  and  original  mind  of  this 
keen  and  curious  inquirer.  Thus,  Socrates 
first  suggests  that  beauty  may  consist  in  the 
fitness  or  suitableness  of  any  object  to  the 
place  it  occupies :  and  afterwards,  more  sen- 
erally  and  directly,  that  it  may  consist  in 
utility — a  notion  which  is  ultimately  reject- 
ed, however,  upon  the  subtle  consideration 
that  the  useful  is  that  which  produces  good. 
and  that  the  producer  and  the  product  being 
necessarily  different,  it  would  follow,  upon 
that  supposition,  that  beauty  could  not  be 
good,  nor  good  beautiful.     Finally,  he  sug- 


gests that  beauty  may  be  the  mere  organic 
delight  of  the  eye  or  the  ear;  to  which,  aftei 
stating   very  slightly  the   objection,   that   it 
would   be   impossible  to  account  ujjou   this 
ground  for  the  beauty  of  poetry  or  elotjuence, 
he  proceeds  to  rear  up  a  more  refined  and 
elaborate  refutation,   upon   such  grounds  as 
these : — If  beauty  be  the  proper  name  of  that 
which  is  naturally  agreeable  to  the  sight  and 
hearing;  it  is  plain,  that  the  objects  to  which 
it  is  ascribed  must  possess  some  common  and 
distinguishable  property,  besides  that  of  being 
agreeable,  in  consequence  of  which  they  are 
separated  and  set  apart  from  objects  that  are 
agreeable  to  our  other  senses  and  faculties, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  classed  together  under 
the  common  appellation  of  beautiful.     Now, 
we  are  not  only  quite  unable  to  discover  what 
this  property  is.  but  it  is  manifest,  that  objects 
which  make  themselves  known  to  the  ear, 
can  have  no  property  as  such,   in  common 
with  objects  that  make  themselves  known  to 
the  eye ;  it  being  impossible  that  an  object 
which  is  beautiful  by  its  colour,  can  be  beau- 
tiful, from  the  same  quality,  with  another 
which  is  beautiful  by  its  sound.     From  all 
which  it  is  inferred,  that  as  beauty  is  admitted 
to  be  something  real,  it  cannot  be  merely  what 
is  agreeable  to  the  organs  of  sight  or  hearing. 
There  is  no  practical  wisdom,  we  admit,  in 
those  fine-drawn  speculations;  nor  any  of  that 
spirit  of  patient  observation  by  which  alone 
any  sound  view  of  such   objects   can    ever 
be   attained.     There   are   also   many  marks 
of    that    singular    incapacity   to   distinguish 
between    what    is    absolutely    puerile    and 
foolish,  and  -what  is  plausible,  at  least,  and 
ingenious,  which  may  be  reckoned  among 
the   characteristics  of   "the  divine   philoso- 
pher." and  in  some  degree  of  all  the  philoso- 
phers of  antiquity:   but  they  show  clearly 
enough  the  sulatle  and  abstract  character  of 
Greek  speculation,  and  prove  at  how  early 
a  period,   and  to  how  great  an  extent,   the 
j  inherent  difficulties  of  the  subject  were  felt, 
and  produced  their  appropriate  effects. 
1      There  are  some  hints  on  these  subjects  in 
'  the  works  of  Xenophon  ;  and  some  scattered 
'  observations  in  those  of  Cicero  ;  who  was  the 
I  first,  we  believe,  to  observe,  that  the  sense 
j  of  beauty  is  peculiar  to  man ;   but  nothing 
else,  we  believe,  in  classical  antiquity,  which 
I  requires  to  be  analysed  or  explained.     It  ap- 
\  pears  that  St.  Augustin  composed   a  large 
;  treatise  on  beauty ;  and  it  is  to  be  lamented, 
!  that  the  speculations  of  that  acute  and  ardent 
'  genius  on  such  a  subject  have  been  lost.    We 
'  discover,  from  incidental  notices  in  other  parts 
1  of  his  writings,  that  he  conceived  the  beauty 
of  all  objects  to  depend  on  their  unity,  or  on 
the  perception  of  that   principle   or  design 
which  fixed   the   relations  of  their  various 
parts,  and  presented  tliem  to  the  intellect  or 
imagination   as   one   harmonious  whole.     It 
would  not  be  fair  to  deal  very  strictly  with 
a  theory  with  which  we  are  so  imperfectly 
'  acquainted  :    but  it  may  be  observed,  that, 
while  the  author  is  so  far  in  the  right  as  to 
:  make  beauty  consist  in  a  relation  to  mind, 
I  and  not  in  any  physical  quality,  he  has  taken 
b2 


i% 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


far  too  narrow  and  circumscribed  a  view  of 
the  matter,  and  one  which  seems  almost  ex- 
clusively applicable  to  works  of  human  art : 
it  beinij  plain  enough,  we  think,  that  a  beau- 
tiful lanilscape.  or  a  beautiful  lior«e,  has  no 
more  unity,  and  no  more  IrMces  of  design, 
than  one  which  is  not  beautiful. 

We  do  not  pretend  to  know  what  the 
schoolmen  taught  ujwn  this  .subject  during  the 
dark  ages;  but  the  discussion  does  not  seem 
lo  have  been  resumed  for  long  after  the  re- 
rival  of  letters.  Tlie  followers  of  Leibnitz 
were  pleased  to  maintain  that  beauty  con- 
sisted in  perfection ;  but  what  constituted 
perfection  (in  this  respe^ct)  they  did  not  at- 
tempt to  define.  IM.  Crouz.is  wrote  a  long 
essay,  to  show  that  beauty  depended  on  these 
five  eii'menls.  variety,  unity,  regularity,  order, 
and  proportion;  and  the  Pere  Andre,  a  still 
longer  one  to  prove,  that,  admitting  these  to 
be  the  true  foundations  of  beauty,  it  was  still 
most  important  to  consider,  that  the  beauty 
which  results  from  them  is  either  es.sential, 
or  natural,  or  artificial — and  that  it  may  be 
greater  or  less,  according  as  the  character- 
istics of  each  of  the.se  classes  are  combined 
or  set  in  opposition. 

Among  ourselves,  we  are  not  aware  of  any 
•  considerable  publication  on  the  subject  till 
the  appearance  of  Lord  Shaftesbury's  Charac- 
teristics; in  which  a  sort  of  rapturous  Platonic 
doctrine  is  delivered  as  to  the  existence  of  a 
primitive  and  Supreme  Good  and  Beauty,  and 
of  a  certain  internal  sense,  by  which  both 
beauty  and  moral  merit  are  "distinguished. 
Addison  published  several  ingenious  papers 
in  The  Spectator,  on  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination,  and  was  the  first,  Ave  believe. 
who  referred  them  to  the  specific  sources  of 
beauty,  sublimity,  and  novelty.  He  did  not 
enter  much,  however,  into  the  metaphysical 
discus.sion  of  the  nature  of  beauty  itself;  and 
the  first  philosophical  treati.se  of  note  that  ap- 
peared on  the  subject,  may  be  said  to  have 
been  the  Inquiry  of  Dr.  Hucheson,  first  pub- 
lished, we  believe,  in  1735. 

In  this  work,  the  notion  of  a  peculiar  in- 
ternal sense,  by  which  we  are  madi;  sensible 
of  the  existence  of  beauty,  is  very  boldly  pro- 
mulgated, and  maintained  by  many  ingenious 
arguments:  Yet  nothing,  we  conceive,  can  be 
more  extravagant  than  such  a  proposition  ; 
and  nothing  but  the  nuiical  faults  of  the  other 
parts  of  his  theory  could  possibly  have  driven 
the  learned  author  to  its  adoi)tion.  Even 
after  the  exi.stenco  of  the  sixth  sense  \\as  as- 
sumed, he  felt  that  it  was  still  necessary  that 
lie  should  explain  what  were  the  qualities  by 
Avhich  it  was  gratified  ;  and  these,  ho  was 
j)leased  to  allege,  were  nothing  but  the  com- 
binations of  variety  with  uniformity;  all  ob- 
jects, as  he  has  himself  expressed  it,  which 
are  e(|ually  unifonn,  being  beautiful  in  pro- 
portion to  their  variety — and  all  objects  , 
equally  various  being  beautiful  in  proportion 
to  th«^ir  uniformity.  Now,  not  to  insist  upon 
the  obvious  and  radical  objection  that  this  is 
not  true  in  fact,  as  to  flowers,  landsrajies.  or 
indeed  of  any  thing  but  architecture,  it  it  be 
true  of  tliat — it  could  uot  fail  to  strike  the  1 


1  ingenious  author  that  these  qualities  of  uni- 
formity and  variety  were  not  of  themsclvea 
agreeable  to  any  of  our  known  senses  or  facul- 
ties, except  when  .considered  as  symbols  of 
utility  or  design,  and  thereiore  could  not  in- 
telligibly account  for  the  very  lively  emotions 
which  we  often  experience  from  the  percep- 
tion of  beauty,  where  the  notion  of  design  or 
utility  is  not  at  all  suggested.  He  was  con- 
straineil.  therefore,  either  to  abandon  this  view 
of  the  nature  of  beauty  altogether,  or  to  ima- 
gine a  new  sense  or  faculty,  whose  only  func- 
tion it  should  be  to  receive  delight  from  the 
combinations  of  uniformity  and  variety,  with- 
out any  considemtion  of  their  being  significant 
of  things  agreeable  to  our  other  faculties:  and 
this  being  accomplished  by  the  mere  force 
of  the  definition,  there  was  no  room  for  farther 
dispute  or  difficulty  in  the  matter. 

Some  of  Hucheson's  followers,  such  as  Ge- 
rard and  others,  who  were  a  little  startled  at 
the  notion  of  a  separate  faculty,  and  yet 
I  wished  to  retain  the  doctrine  of  beauty  de- 
pending on  variety  and  unifoiTnity,  endea- 
voured, accorilingly,  to  show  that  these  quali- 
1  ties  were  naturally  airreeable  to  the  mind,  and 
I  were  recommended  by  considerations  arising 
from  its  most  familiar  properties.  Uniformity 
or  simplicity,  they  observed,  renders  our  con- 
I  ception  of  objects  easy,  and  saves  the  mind 
from  all  fatigue  and  distraction  in  the  con- 
]  sideration  of  them  ;  whilst  variety,  if  circum- 
;  scribed  and  limited  by  an  ultimate  uniformity, 
gives  it  a  pleasnig  exercise  and  excitement, 
'and  keeps  its  energies  in  a  state  of  pleasur- 
able activity.  Now,  this  appears  to  us  to  be 
mere  trifling.  The  varied  and  lively  emotions 
which  we  receive  from  the  perception  of 
,  beauty,  obviously  have  no  sort  of  resemblance 
to  the  pleasure  of  moderate  intellectual  exer- 
:  tion :  nor  can  any  thing  be  conceived  more 
utterly  dissimilar"  than  the  gratification  we 
^  have  in  gazing  on  the  form  of  a  lovely  woman, 
iand  the  satisfaction  we  receive  from  working 
an  easy  problem  in  arithmetic  or  geometry. 
If  a  triangle  is  more  beautiful  than  a  regular 
'  polygon,  as  those  authors  maintain,  merely  be- 
cause its  figure  is  more  easily  comprehended, 
the  number  four  should  be  more  beautiful 
than  the  number  327,  and  the  form  of  a  gibbet 
far  more  agreeable  than  that  of  a  branchinii 
oak.  The  radical  error,  in  short,  consi^-t.^  in 
fixing  upon  properties  that  are  not  inleirstim; 
in  themselves,  and  can  never  be  conccivi'd. 
therefore,  to  excite  any  emotion,  as  the  foun- 
tain-spring of  all  our  emotions  of  beauty  :  and 
it  is  an  absurdity  that  must  infallibly  lead  to 
others — whether  these  take  the  shape  of  a 
violent  attempt  to  disguise  the  truly  ditlerent 
nature  of  the  properties  so  selected,  or  of  the 
bolder  expedient  of  creating  a  peculiar  faculty, 
who.se  office  it  is  to  find  them  interesting. 

The  next  remarkable  theory  was  that  pro- 
posed by  Edmund  Hiirke.  in  his  Treatise  of 
the  Sublime  and  Bcantifvl.  But  of  this,  in 
spite  of  the  great  name  of  the  author,  we  can- 
not persuade  ourselves  that  it  is  necessary  to 
say  much.  His  explanation  is  founded  upon 
a  species  of  materialism — not  much  to  have 
been  expected  from  the  general  character  of 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


his  genius,  or  the  strain  of  his  other  specula- 1 
tions — for  it  all  resolves  into  tliis — that  all 
objects  appear  beautiful,  Avhich  have  the 
power  of  producing  a  peculiar  relaxation  of 
our  nerves  and  libres,  and  thus  inducing  a 
certain  decree  oi'  bodily  languor  and  sinking. 
Of  all  the  suppositions  that  have  been  at  any 
time  hazarded  to  explain  the  phenomena  of 
beauty,  this,  we  think,  is  the  most  unfortu- 
nately imagined,  and  the  most  weakly  sup- 
ported. There  is  no  philosophy  in  the  iloctrine 
— and  the  fundamental  assumption  is  hi  every 
way  contradicted  by  the  most  familiar  expe- 
rience. There  is  no  relaxation  of  the  libres 
in  the  perception  of  beauty — and  there  is  no 
pleasure  in  the  relaxation  of  the  fibres.  If 
there  were,  it  would  follow,  that  a  warm  bath 
would  be  by  far  the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
the  world — and  that  the  brilliant  lights,  and 
bracing  airs  of  a  line  autumn  morning,  would 
be  the  very  reverse  of  beautiful.  Accordingly, 
though  the  treatise  alluded  to  will  always  be 
valuable  on  account  of  the  many  line  and  just 
remarks  it  contains,  we  are  not  aware  that 
there  is  any  accurate  inquirer  into  the  subject 
(wath  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Mr.  Price,  in 
whose  hands,  however,  the  doctrine  assumes 
a  new  character)  by  whom  the  fundamental 
principle  of  the  theory  has  not  been  expli- 
citly abandoned. 

A  yet  more  extravagant  doctrine  was  soon 
afterwards  inculcated,  and  in  a  tone  of  great 
authority,  in  a  long  article  from  the  brilliant 
pen  of  Diderot,  in  the  French  Encyclopedie ; 
and  one  which  exemplifies,  in  a  very  striking 
manner,  the  nature  of  the  difficulties  with 
which  the  discussion  is  embarrassed.  This 
ingenious  person,  perceiving  at  once,  that  the 
beauty  which  we  ascribe  to  a  particular  class 
of  objects,  could  not  be  referred  to  any  pecu- 
liar and  inherent  quality  in  the  objects  them- 
selves, but  depended  upon  their  power  of 
exciting  certain  sentiments  in  our  minds :  and 
being,  at  the  same  time,  at  a  loss  to  discover 
what  common  power  could  belong  to  so  vast 
a  variety  of  objects  as  pass  under  the  general 
appellation  of  beautiful,  or  by  what  tie  all  the 
various  emotions  which  are  excited  by  the 
perception  of  beauty  could  be  united,  was  at 
last  driven,  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  his 
deiuiition  suiHciently  wide  and  comprehen- 
sive, to  hazard  the  strange  assertion,  that  all 
objects  were  beautiful  which  excite  in  us  the 
,  idea  of  relation ;  that  our  sense  of  beauty  con- 
sisted in  tracing  out  the  relations  which  the 
object  possessing  it  might  have  to  other  ob- 
jects;  and  that  its  actual  beauty  was  in  pro- 
portion to  the  number  and  clearness  of  the 
relations  thus  suggested  and  perceived.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary,  we  presume,  to  expose  by 
any  arguments  the  manifest  fallacy,  or  rather 
the  palpable  absurdity,  of  such  a  theory  as 
this.  In  the  first  place,  we  conceive  it  to  be 
obvious,  that  all  objects  whatever  have  an 
infinite^  and  consequently,  an  equal  number 
of  relations,  and  are  equally  likely  to  suggest 
them  to  those  to  whom  they  are  presented ; — 
or,  at  all  events,  it  is  certain,  that  ugly  and 
disagreeable  objects  have  just  as  many  rela- 
.  tions  as  those  that  are  agreeable,  and  ought. 


therefore,  to  be  just  as  beautiful,  if  the  sense 
of  beauty  consisted  in  the  perception  of  rela- 
tions. In  the  next  place,  it  seems  to  be  suffi- 
ciently certain,  from  the  experience  and  com- 
mon feelings  of  all  men.  that  the  perception  of 
relations  among  objects  is  not  hi  itself  accom- 
panied by  any  pleasure  w  hatever :  and  in  par- 
ticular has  no  conceivable  resemblance  to  the 
emotion  we  receive  from  the  perception  of 
beauty.  When  we  perceive  one  ugly  old 
woman  sitting  exactly  opposite  to  two  other 
ugly  old  women,  and  observe,  at  the  same 
moment,  that  the  tirst  is  as  big  as  the  other  two 
taken  together,  we  humbly  conceive,  that  this 
clear  perception  of  the  relations  in  which  these 
three  Graces  stand  to  each  other,  cannot  well 
be  mistaken  for  a  sense  of  beauly.  and  that  it 
does  not  in  the  least  abate  or  interfere  with  our 
sense  of  their  ugliness.  Finally,  we  may  ob- 
serve, that  the  sense  of  beauty  results  instanta- 
neously from  the  perception  of  the  object; 
whereas  the  discovery  of  its  relations  to  other 
objects  must  necessarily  be  a  work  of  time  and 
reflection,  in  the  course  of  which  the  beauty  of 
the  object,  so  far  from  being  created  or  brought 
into  notice,  must,  in  fact,  be  lost  sight  of  and 
forgotten. 

Another  more  plausible  and  ingenious  theory 
was  suggested  by  the  Pere  Buffier,  and  after- 
wards adopted  and  illustrated  with  great  talent 
in  the  Discourses  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  Ac- 
cording to  this  doctrine,  beauty  consists,  as  / 
Aristotle  held  virtue  to  do,  in  mediocrit)-,  or' 
conformity  to  that  which  is  most  usual.  Thus 
a  beautiful  nose,  to  make  use  of  Dr.  Smith's 
very  apt,  though  homely,  illustration  of  this 
doctrine,  is  one  that  is  neither  very  long  nor 
very  short — very  straight  nor  very  much 
bent — but  of  an  ordinary  fonn  and  proportion, 
compared  with  all  the  extremes.  It  is  the 
form,  in  short,  which  nature  seems  to  have 
aimed  at  in  all  cases,  though  she  has  more 
frequently  deviated  from  it  than  hit  itj  but 
deviating  from  it  in  all  directions,  all  her  de- 
viations come  nearer  to  it  than  they  ever  do 
to  each  other.  Thus  the  most  beautiful  in 
every  species  of  creatures  bears  the  greatest 
resemblance  to  the  whole  species,  while  mon- 
sters are  so  denominated  because  they  bear 
the  least ;  and  thus  the  beautiful,  though  in 
one  sense  the  rarest,  as  the  exact  medium  is 
but  seldom  hit,  is  invariably  the  most  common, 
because  it  is  the  central  point  from  which  all 
the  deviations  are  the  least  remote.  This 
view  of  the  matter  is  adopted  by  Sir  Joshua  in 
its  full  extent,  and  is  even  carried  so  far  by 
this  great  artist,  that  he  does  not  scruple  to 
conchide,  "  That  if  we  w-ere  more  used  to  de- 
formity than  beauty,  deformity  would  then 
lose  the  idea  that  is  now  annexed  to  it,  and 
take  that  of  beauty; — just  as  we  approve  and 
admire  fashions  in  dress,  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  we  are  used  to  them." 

Now,  not  to  dwell  upon  the  very  startling 
conclusion  to  which  these  principles  must 
lead,  viz.  that  things  are  beautiful  in  propor- 
tion as  they  are  ordinary,  and  that  it  is 
merely  their  familiarity  which  constitutes 
I  their  beauty,  we  would  observe,  in  the  first 
1  place,  that  the  whole  theory  seems  to  have 


2D 


LITERATUKE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


_^  /  been  suggested  by  a  consicltration  of  animal 
—  J  foims,  or  perhaps  of  the  human  rigure  exclu- 
sively. In  these  forms,  it  is  quite  true  that 
great  and  monstrous  deviations  from  the  usual 
proportions  are  extremely  disairreeable.  But 
this,  we  have  no  doubt,  arises  entirt-ly  from 
some  idea  of  pain  or  disaster  attached  to  their 
existence  ;  or  from  their  obviuu>  unlitncss  for 
the  functions  they  have  to  perform.  In  vege- 
table forms,  accoidmgly,  tht.-<e  irregularities 
excite  no  such  disaus^i ;  it  being,  in  fact, 
the  great  object  of  culture,  in  almost  all  the 
more  beautiful  kinds,  to  produce  what  may 
be  called  monstrosities.  And,  in  mineral  sub- 
stances, where  the  idea  of  suHering  is  stdl 
more  comi)ietely  excluded,  it  is  notorious  that, 
so  far  from  the  more  ordinary  configurations 
being  thou^'ht  the  most  beautiful,  this  epithet 
is  scarcely  ever  employed  but  lo  ilenote  some 
rare  and  unusual  combination  of  veins,  colours, 
or  dimensions.  As  to  landscapes,  again,  and 
almost  all  the  w-orksof  art,  without  exception, 
the  theory  is  plainly  altogether  incapable  of 
application.  In  what  sen.se.  for  example,  can 
it  be  said  that  the  beauty  of  natural  scenery 
consists  in  mediocrity ;  or  thai  those  landscapes 
are  the  most  beautiiul  that  are  llie  most  com- 
mon 1  or  what  meaning  can  we  attach  to  the 
proposition,  that  llie  most  beautiful  building, 
or  picture,  or  poem,  is  that  which  bears  the 
nearest  resemblance  to  all  the  individuals  of 
its  class,  and  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  most 
ordinary  and  common  ? 

To  a  doctrine  which  is  liable  to  these  obvi- 
ous and  radical  objections,  it  is  not  perhaps 
necessary  to  make  any  other;  but  we  must 
remark  farther,  first,  that  it  necessarily  sup- 
poses that  our  sense  of  beauty  is,  in  all  ca.ses, 
preceded  by  such  a  kige  comparison  between 
various  individuals  of  the  same  species,  as 
may  enable  us  to  ascertain  that  average  or 
mean  form  in  which  beauty  is  supposed  to 
consist ;  and,  con.sequently.  tliat  we  could 
never  discover  any  object  to  be  beautiful  an- 
tecedent to  such  a  cornparji^on  :  and,  secondly, 
that,  even  if  we  were  to  allow  that  this  theory 
afforded  some  explanation  of  the  superior 
beauty  of  any  one  object,  compared  with 
others  of  the  same  class,  it  plainly  furnishes 
j  no  explanation  whatever  of  the  superior 
"Zi  beauty  of  one  class  of  objects  compared  wifli 
"  '  another.  AVe  may  believe,  if  we  please,  that 
one  peacock  is  handsomer  than  another,  be- 
cause it  approaches  more  marly  to  the  ave- 
rage or  mean  form  of  peacocks  in  general  : 
but  this  rea.^on  will  avail  us  iiOlhinii- whatever 
in  explaining  why  any  peacock  is  liandsomer 
than  any  pelican  or  penguin.  We  may  »a\, 
without  manifest  absurdity,  that  the  most 
beautiful  pi"  is  that  which  has  least  of  the 
extreme  (jualities  that  sometimes  occur  in  the 
tribe ;  but  it  would  be  palpably  absurd  to  give 
this  reason,  or  any  thing  like  it.  for  the  superior 
beauty  of  the  tribe  of  antelopes  or  spaniels. 

The  notion,  in  short,  seems  to  have  been 
hastily  adopted  by  the  ingenious  per.sons  who 
have  malnlained  it,  partly  upon  th(?  narrow- 
ground  of  the  disgust  produced  by  monsters 
in  the  animal  creation,  which  has  been  already 
sufficiently  explained — and  partly  in  conse- 


1  quence  of  the  fallacy  which  lurks  in  the  vague 
{  and  general  proposition  of  those  things  being 
beautiful  w  Inch  are  neither  too  big  nor  too  lit- 
I  tie,  too  massive  nor  too  slender,  &:c. :  frcm 
I  which  it  was  concluded,  that  beauty  must  con- 
i  sist  ui  mediocrity  : — not  considering  that  the 
]  particle   too  merely   denotes   those    d(  grees 
I  which  are  exclusive  of  b(  auty,  without  m  any 
I  way  fixing  what  those  dt  grees  are.     For  the 
j  plain  meaning  of  these  phrases  is.  that  (he  le- 
j  jecte-d  objects  are  too  niasbive  or  too  slender 
lo  he  beautiful ;  and.  therefore,  to  say  lliat  an 
object  is  beautiful  which  is  neither  too  b.gnor 
too  little,  &c.  is  really  saying  nothii  g  more 
than  that  beautiful  objects  are  such  as  aie  not 
in  any  degree  ugly  or  ilisagreeahle.     The  il- 
lustiation  as  to  the  effects  of  use  or  custcm  in 
the  article  of  dress  is  sijigularly  inaccurate 
and  delusive  ;  the  fact  being,  that  we  never 
admire  the  dress  which  we  are  mos-t  accus- 
tomed to  see  — which  is  that  of  the  ccnimon 
people — but  the  dress  of  the  few  w  ho  aie  dis- 
tinjiuished  by  rank  or  opulence;  and  that  we 
rc(juire  no  more  custom  or  habit  to  nif:ke  us 
admire  this  dress,  w  hatever  it  may  be,  than  is 
necessary  to  associate  it  in  our  thou;ihts  with 
the  wealth,  and  dignity,  and  graceful  manners 
of  those  who  wear  it. 

We  need  say  nothing  in  this  place  of  the 
opinioi^.s  expressed  on  the  subject  of  bt  auty  by 
Dr.  Gerard,  Dr.  Blair,  and  a  w  hole  herd  of  rhe- 
toricians; because  none  of  them  pit  tend  to 
have  any  new  or  original  notions  with  regtird 
to  it,  and,  in  general,  liave  beem  at  no  pahis  to 
reconcile  or  render  consistent  the  various  ac- 
counts of  the  matter.  Avhich  they  have  con- 
tented themselves  with  assembling  and  laying 
before  their  readers  all  together,  as  aflording 
among  them  the  best  explanation  that  could 
be  offered  of  the  question.  Thus  they  do  not 
scruple  to  say,  that  the  sense  of  beauty  is 
sometimes  produced  by  the  mere  organic  af- 
fection of  the  senses  of  s!j>ht  or  hearing;  at 
other  times,  by  a  perception  of  a  kind  of  re- 
gular variety  :  and  in  other  instances  by  the 
association  of  interesting  conceptions  ; — thua 
abandouir.g  altogether  any  attempt  to  answer 
the  radical  question — how  the  feeling  of 
beauty  shouhl  be  exciteil  by  such  opposite 
causes— and  confonndingtogether,  without  any 
attempt  at  discrimination,  those  theories  whiei'. 
im})ly  the  existence  of  a  separate  sense — or 
faculty,  and  those  which  resolve  our  se.ise 
of  beauty  into  other  more  simple  or  familiar 
emotions. 

Of  late  years,  however,  we  have  had  t^r(>p 
publications  on  the  subject  of  a  far  )i:gher 
character — we  mean.  INlr.  Alison's  Ea^aijs  on 
the  Nature  and  Principles  of  Taste — Mr.  Payne 
Knight's  Avahjtical  h\quiry  into  the  ssirue  sub- 
jects— and  Mr.  Dugal  Stewart's  Dissertniiohs 
on  the  Beautiful  and  on  Taste,  in  hit  volume 
o{  Philosophical  Kssoys.  All  these  works  po.s- 
sess  an  infinite  deal  of  merit,  and  have  among 
them  disclosed  almost  all  the  tiuth  that  is  to  be 
known  on  the  subject  ;  thoujih,  as  it  seems  to 
us,  with  some  little  admixture  of  error,  from 
which  it  will  not,  however,  be  difficult  to  sepa- 
rate it. 

Mr.  Alison  maintains,  that  all  beauty,  or  at 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


21 


least  that  all  the  beauty  of  material  objects, 
depends  on  the  associations  that  may  have 
connected  them  with  the  ordinary  allections 
or  emotions  of  our  nature;  and  in  this,  which 
is  the  fundamental  point  of  his  theory,  we 
conceive  him  to  be  no  less  clearly  right,  than 
he  is  convincinji  and  judicious  in  the  copious 
and  beautiful  illustrations  by  which  he  has 
sought  to  establish  its  truth.     When  he  pro- 
ceeds, however,  to  assert,  that  our  sense  of 
beauty  consists  not  merely  in  the  suggestion 
of  ideas  of  emotion,  but  in  the  contemplation 
of  a  connected  series  or  train  of  such  ideas,  and 
indicates  a  state  of  mind  in  which  the  facul- 
ties, half  active  ami  half  passive,  are  given  up 
to  a  sort  of  reverie  or  musing,  in  which  they 
may  wander,  though  among  kindred  impres- 
sions, far  enough  from  the  immediate  object 
of  perception,  we  will  confess  that  he  not  only 
seems  to  us  to  advance  a  very  questionable 
proposition,  but  very  essentially  to  endanger 
the  evidence,  as  well  as  the  consistency,  of 
his  general  doctrine.     We  are  far  from  deny- 
ing, that,  in  minds  of  sensibility  and  of  reflect- 
ing habits,  the  contemplation  of  beautiful  ob- 
jects will  be  apt,  especially  in  moments  of 
leisure,  and  \yhen  the  mind  is  vacant,  to  give 
rise  to  such  trains  of  thought,  and  to  such  pro- 
tracted meditations  ;  but  we  cannot  possibly 
admit  that  their  existence  is  necessary  to  the 
perception  of  beauty,  or  that  it  is  in  this  state 
of  mind  exclusively  that  the  sense  of  beauty 
exists.    The  perception  of  beauty,  on  the  con- 
trary, we  hold  to  be,  in  most  cases,  quite  in- 
stantaneous, and  altogether  as  immediate  as 
I    the  perception  of  the  external  qualities  of  the 
1    object  to  which  it  is  ascribed.  Indeed,  it  seems 
only  necessary  to  recollect,  that  it  is  to  a  pre- 
sent material  object  that  we  actually  ascribe 
and  refer  this  beauty,  and  that  the  oiily  tiling 
to  be  explained  is,  how  this  object  comes  to  | 
appear  beautiful.     In  the  long  train  of  inter- 
esting meditations,   however,   to  which   Mr. 
■  i   Alison    refers — in  the  deligiitful  reveries  in 
^     which  he  would  make  the  sense  of  beauty 
*  I   consist — it  is  obvious  that  we  must  soon  lose 
!  i   sight  of  the  external  object  which  gave  the 
''  ;   first  impulse  to  our  thoughts ;  and  though  we 
"  !  may  afterwards  reflect  upon  it,  with  increased 
'' '   interest   and  gratitude,  as  the  parent  of  so 
'"    many  charming  images,  it  is  impossible,  we 
^" :  conceive,  that  the  perception  of  its  beauty  can 
■■  I  ever  depend  upon  a  long  series  of  various  and 
■i*'  i  shifting  emotions. 

i      It  likewise  occurs  to  us  to  observe,  that  if 
'«8|  every  thing  was  beautiful,  which  was  the  oc- 
to  I  casion  of  a  train  of  ideas  of  emotion,  it  is  not 
""j.easy  to  see  why  objects  that  are  called  ugly 
fli8j  should  not  be  entitled  to  that  appellation.    If 
'111)'   they  are  suflicientfy  ugly  not  to  be  viewed 
i!iM  with  indifference,  they  too  will  give  rise  to 
cms !  ideas  of  emotion,  and  those  ideas  are  just  as 
fos-  ^  likely  to  run  into  trains  and  series,  as  those  of 
ion?,  a  more  agreeable  description.     Nay,  as  con- 
let*  [  trast  itself  is  one  of  the  principles  of  associa-  1 
nsioj  tion,  it  ig  not  at  all  unlikely,  that,  in  the  train 
iicl lot"  impressive  ideas  which"  the  sight  of  ugly  I 
;ff»' i  objects  may  excite,  a  transition  may  be  ulti-  I 
mately  made  to  such  as  are  connected  with  I 
01 8l  I  pleasure  j  and,  therefore,  if  the  perception  of  I 


the  beauty  of  the  object  which  first  suggest- 
ed them  depended  on  its  having  produced  a 
series  of  ideas  of  emotion,  or  even  of  agreea- 
ble emotions,  there  seems  to  be  no  good  rea- 
son for  doubting,  that  ugly  objects  may  thus 
be  as  beautiful  as  any  other,  and  that  beauty 
and  ugliness  may  be  one  and  the  same  thing. 
Such  is  the  danger,  as  it  appears  to  us,  of  de- 
serting the  object  itself,  or  going  beyond  its 
immediate  effect  and  impression,  in  order  to 
discover  the  sources  of  its  beauty.  Our  view 
of  the  matter  is  safer,  we  think,  and  far  more 
simple.  We  conceive  the  objt'ct  to  be  asso- 
ciated either  in  our  past  experience,  or  by 
some  universal  analogy,  with  pleasures,  or 
emotions  that  upon  the  whole  are  pleasant ; 
and  that  these  associated  pleasures  are  instan- 
taneously suggested,  as  soon  as  the  object  is 
presented,  and  by  the  first  glimpse  of  its  phy- 
sical properties,  with  which,  indeed,  they  are 
consubstantiated  and  confounded  m  our  sen* 
sations. 

The  work  of  Mr.  Knight  is  more  lively,  va- 
rious, and  discursive,  than  Mr.  Alison's — but 
not  so  systematic  or  conclusive.  It  is  the 
cleverer  book  of  the  two — but  not  the  most 
philosophical  discus.sion  of  the  subject.  He 
agrees  with  Mr.  Alison  in  holding  the  most 
important,  and,  indeed,  the  only  considerable 
part  of  beauty,  to  depend  upon  association; 
and  has  illustrated  this  opinion  with  a  great 
variety  of  just  and  original  observations.  But 
he  maintains,  and  maintains  stoutly,  that  there 
is  a  beauty  independent  of  association — prior 
to  it,  and  more  original  and  fundamental — the 
primitive  and  natural  beauty  of  colours  and 
sounds.  Now,  this  we  look  upon  to  be  a 
heresy ;  and  a  heresy  inconsistent  with  the 
very  first  principles  of  Catholic  philosophy. 
We  shall  not  stop  at  present  to  give  our  rea- 
sons for  this  opinion,  which  we  shall  illustrate 
at  large  before  we  bring  this  article  to  a  close ; 
— but  we  beg  leave  merely  to  suggest  at  pre- 
sent, that  if  our  sense  of  beauty  be  confess- 
edly, in  most  cases,  the  mere  image  or  reflec- 
tion of  pleasures  or  emotions  that  have  been 
associated  with  objects  in  themselves  indiffer- 
ent, it  cannot  fail  to  appear  strange  that  it 
should  also  on  some  few  occasions  be  a  mere 
organic  or  sensual  gratification  of  these  par- 
ticular organs.  Language,  it  is  believed, 
affords  no  other  example  of  so  whimsical  a 
combination  of  dift'erent  objects  under  one  ap- 
pellation; or  of  the  confounding  of  a  direct 
physical  sensation  \nth  the  suggestion  of  a 
social  or  s\-mpathetic  moral  feeling.  We 
would  observe  also,  that  while  Mr.  Knight 
stickles  so  violently  for  this  alloy  of  the  senses 
in  the  constitution  of  beauty,  he  admits,  un- 
equivocally, that  sublimity  is,  in  every  in- 
stance, and  in  all  cases,  the  effect  of  associa- 
tion alone.  Yet  sublimity  and  beauty,  in  any 
just  or  large  sense,  and  with  a  view  to  the 
philosophy  of  either,  are  manifestly  one  and 
the  same ;  nor  is  it  conceivable  to  us,  that,  if 
sublimity  be  always  the  result  of  an  associa- 
tion with  -ideas  of  power  or  danger,  beauty 
can  possibly  be,  in  any  case,  the  result  of  a 
mere  pleasurable  impulse  on  the  nerves  of  the 
eye  or  the  ear.    We  shall  return,  however,  to 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


this  discussion  hereafter.  Of  Mr.  Knight  we  ,  just  as  much  as  a  fine  composition  of  mnsic. 
have  only  further  to  observe,  tliat  we  think  These  things,  however,  are  never  called  beau- 
he  is  not  less  heretical  in  maintaining,  that  tiful.  and  are  felt,  indeed,  to  afibrd  a  gi-atiiica- 
we  have  no  pleasure  in  s}-mpathising  with  tion  of  quite  a  dillerent  nature.  It  is  noHoubt 
distress  or  suifering.  but  ouly  with  mental  true,  as  Mr.  Stewart  has  observed,  that  beauty 
energy  ]  and  that,  in  coutfmpiating  the  sub-  is  not  one  thing,  but  many — and  does  not 
lime,  we  are  moved  oidy  with  a  sense  of  produce  one  uniform  emotion,  but  an  infinite 
power  and  grandeur,  and  never  with  any  feel-  variety  of  emotions.  But  this,  we  conceive, 
mg  of  terror  or  awe. — These  errors,  however,  is  not  merely  because  many  pleasant  things 
are  less  intimately  coiniected  with  the  subject  maybe  intimated  to  us  by  "the  same  sense, 
of  our  pre.sent  discussion.  but  because  the  things  that  are  called  beauti- 

With  Mr.  Stewart  we  have  less  occasion  for  ,  ful  may  be  associated  with  an  infinite  variety 
quarrel:  chiefly,  perhaps,  because  he  has  of  agreeable  emotions  of  the  specitic  character 
made  fewer  positive  assertions,  and  entered  i  of  which  their  beauty  will  con.sequently  par- 
less  into  the  matter  of  controversy.  His  jEs.vai/  take.  Nor  does  it  follow,  from  the  fact  of  this 
on  the  Beautiful  is  rather  philological  thiin  great  variety,  that  there  can  be  no  olherprin- 
met^physical.  The  object  of  it  is  to  show  by  ciple  of  union  among  these  agreeable  emo- 
what  gradual  and  successive  extensions  of  tions,  but  that  of  a  name,  extended  to  them  all 
leaning  the  word,  though  at  first  appropri-  ,  -upon  the  very  slight  ground  of  their  coming 
ated  to  denote  the  pleasing  effect  of  colours  through  the  same  organ  ;  since,  upon  our  the- 
alone,  might  naturally  come  to  signify  all  the  ,  ory,  and  indeed  upon  JMr.  Sti-warts.  in  a  vast 
other  pleasing  things  to  which  it  is  nOAv  ap-  majority  of  instances,  there  is  the  remarkable 
plied.  In  tliis  investigation  he  makes  many  ',  circumstance  of  their  being  all  suii2cstcd  by 
admirable  remarks,  and  touches,  with  the  ,  association  with  some  prc^sent  sensiition.  and 
hand  of  a  master,  upon  many  of  the  disputa-  all  modified  and  confounded,  to  our  feelings, 
ble  parts  of  the  question  :  but  he  evades  the  ,  by  an  actual  and  direct  perception, 
particular  point  at  issue  between  us  and  Mr.  It  is  unnecessary,  however,  to  pursue  these 
Knight,  by  stating,  that  it  is  quite  immaterial  criticism.s,  or.  indeed,  this  hast\-  review  of  the 
to  his  purpose,  whether  the  beauty  of  colours  speculation  of  other  writers,  any  farther.  The 
be  supposed  to  depend  on  their  orfranic  eff'ect  i  few  observations  we  have  already  made,  will 
on  the  eye,  or  on  some  association  between  enable  the  intelligent  reader,  both  to  under- 
them  and  other  agreeable  emotions — it  beins  ,  stand  in  a  general  way  wl\at  has  been  already 
enough  for  his  purpose  that  this  was  probably  ',  done  on  the  subject.  an<l  in  some  degree  pre- 
the  first  sort  of  beauty  that  was  observed,  and  i  pare  him  to  appreciate  the  merits  of  that 
that  to  which  the  name  was  at  first  exclusively  ,  theory,  substantially  the  same  w  ith  Mr.  Ali- 
applied.  It  is  evident  to  us,  however,  that  he  {  sons,  which  we  shall  now  proceed  to  illus- 
leans  to  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Knight,  as  to  thisi  \/aJ.e  somewhat  more  in  detail. 
beauty  beiiig  truly  sensual  or  organic.  In  ob-]/  The  basis  of  it  is,  that  the  beauty  which 
serving,  too,  that  beauty  is  not  now  the  name  we  impute  to  outward  object.?,  is' nothing 
of  any  one  thing  or  quality,  but  of  very  many  \  more  than  the  refiection  of  our  own  inward 
different  qualities — and  that  it  is  applied  to  i  emotions,  and  is  made  up  eninely  of  certain 
them  all,  merely  because  they  are  often  united  little  portions  of  love,  pity,  or  other  allections, 
in  the  same  object.*,  or  perceived  at  the  same  I  which  have  been  connected  with  these  ob- 
time  and  bij  the  same  organs — it  appears  to  us  '  jects.  and  still  adhere  as  it  were  to  them,  and 
that  he  carries  h.s  philoloirv- a  little  too  far.  j  move  us  anew  whenever  they  are  presented  to 
and  disregards  other  principles  of  reasoning  of  |  our  observation.  Before  proceeding  to  bring 
far  higher  authority.  To  give  the  name  of  i  any  proof  of  the  truth  of  this  proposition, 
beauty,  for  example,  to  every  thing  that  in- 1  there  are  two  things  that  it  may  be  pioper  to 
terests  or  pleases  us  throuirh  the  channel  of  j  e.xplain  a  little  more  distinctly.'  Fiist,  What 
sight,  including  in  this  category  the  mere  im-  ;  are  the  primary  affectior.s,  by  the  suggestion 
pulse  of  light  that  is  pleasant  to  the  organ,  j  of  which  we  think  the  sense  of  beauty  is 
and  the  presentment  of  objects  whose  whole  produced  ?  And,  secoiidly,  What  is  ihe'ha- 
charm  cou-sists  in  awakening  the  memory  of  j  ture  of  the  connection  bv'which  we  sup]  ■  - 
social  emotions,  s-^ems  to  us  to  be  confoiand-  !  that  the  objects  we  call  beautiful  are  cnalh  ! 


ing  things  together  that  must  alwavs  be  sepa 
rate  in  our  feelings,  and  giving  a  far  greater 
importance  to  the  mere  identity  of  the  organ 
by  which  they  are  perceived,  than  is  warrant- 
ed either  by  the  ordinary  language  or  ordinary 
e.\perience  of  men.  UfX)n  the  Kime  jirinciple 
we  should  give  this  name  of  beautiful,  and  no 
other,  to  all  acts  of  kindne.ss  or  mafrnanimity. 


to  suggest  these  affections  .' 

With  regard  to  the  fir.st  of  these  points,  it  for- 
tunately is  not  necesj^iry  either  to  enter  inloaiij' 
tedious  details,  or  to  have  recourse  to  any  nice 
distinctions.  All  sensations  that  are  not  ab- 
solutely indifferent,  and  are.  at  the  same  time, 
I  either  agreeable,  when  experienced  by  our- 

Ives,  or  attractive  when    contemplated    in' 


and.  indeed,  to  every  interesting  occurrence  i  others,  mav  form  the  foundation  of  the  emo-; 
which  teok  place  in  our  siirht,  of  came  to  our  j  tions  of  sublimity  or  beauty.  The  love  of. 
knowledge  by  means  of  the  eye  : — na.y.  a.ii  the.  \  sensation  seems  fo  be  the  riding  appetite  of 
ear  is  al.si  allowed  to  be  a  channel  for  imprcs-f  human  nature-;  and  main  sensations,  in  w  hich 
sions  of  beauty,  the  same  name  should  be  j  the  painful  may  be  thought  to  predomii::tte. 
given  to  any  interestina:  or])Ieasai!t  thing  that  |  are  (^nsequenllV  sought  for  with  avidity,  and 
we  hear— and  good  news  reail  to  ns  from  the  recollected  with  interest,  even  in  uv.r  own 
gazette    bhould   be    denominated  beautiful, ,  persons.     In  the  persons  of  others,  emotions 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


23 


still  more  painful  are  contemplated  with  ea- 
gerness and  delight :  and  therefore  we  must 
not  be  surprised  to  lind,  that  many  of  the 
pleasing  sensations  of  beauty  or  subhmity  re- 
BOlve  themselves  ultimately  into  recollections 
of  feelings  that  may  appear  to  have  a  very 
opposite  character.  The  sum  of  the  whole 
is,  that  every  feeling  which  it  is  agreeable  to 
experience,  to  recal,  or  to  witness,  may  be- 
come the  source  of  beauty  in  external  objects, 
when  it  is  so  connected  with  them  as  that 
their  appearance  reminds  us  of  that  feeling. 
Now.  in  real  life,  and  from  daily  experience 
and  observation,  we  know  that  it  is  agreeable, 
in  the  first  place,  to  recollect  our  own  pleasur- 
able sensations,  or  to  be  enabled  to  form  a 
lively  conception  of  the  pleasures  of  other 
men,  or  even  of  sentient  beings  of  any  de- 
scription. We  know  likewise,  from  the  same 
«ure  authority,  that  there  is  a  certain  delight 
in  the  remembrance  of  our  past,  or  the  con- 
ception of  our  future  emotions,  even  though 
attended  with  great  pain,  provided  the  pain 
be  not  forced  too  rudely  on  the  mind,  and  be 
softened  by  the  accompaniment  of  any  milder 
feeling.  And  finally,  we  know,  in  the  same 
maimer,  that  the  spectacle  or  conception  of 
the  emotions  of  others,  even  when  in  a  high 
degree  painful,  is  extremely  interesting  and 
attractive,  and  draws  us  away,  not  only  from 
the  consideration  of  indifferent  objects,  but 
even  from  the  pursuit  of  light  or  frivolous 
enjoyments.  All  these  are  plain  and  familiar 
facts;  of  the  existence  of  which,  however 
they  may  be  explained,  no  one  can  entertain 
the  slightest  doubt — and  into  which,  there- 
fore, we  shall  have  made  no  inconsiderable 
progress,  if  we  can  resolve  the  more  myste- 
rious fact,  of  the  emotions  w^e  receive  from 
the  contemplation  of  sublimity  or  beauty. 

Our  proposition  then  is,  that  these  emotions 
are  not  original  emotions,  nor  produced  di- 
rectly by  any  material  qualities  in  the  objects 
which  excite  them;  but  are  reflections,  or 
images,  of  the  more  radical  and  familiar 
emotions  to  which  we  have  already  alluded; 
and  are  occasioned,  not  by  any  inherent  virtue 
in  the  objects  before  us,  but  by  the  accidents, 
if  we  may  so  express  our.selves,  by  which 
these  may  have  been  enabled  to  suggest  or 
recal  to  us  our  o\\ar  past  sensations  or  sympa- 
thies. We  might  almost  venture,  indeed,  to 
laj-  it  down  as  an  axiom,  that,  except  in  the 
plain  and  palpable  case  of  iDodily  pain  or 
pleasure,  we  can  never  be  interested  in  any 
thing  but  the  fortunes  of  sentient  beings; — 
and  that  every  thing  partaking  of  the  nature  of 
mental  emotion,  must  have  for  its  object  tlie 
/eeZujgs.pasl.present.  or  possible,  of  something 
capable  of  sensation.  Independent,  therefore, 
of  all  evidence,  and  without  the  help  of  any 
explanation,  we  should  have  been  apt  to  con- 
clude, that  the  emotions  of  beauty  and  sub- 
limity must  have  for  their  objects  the  suffer- 
ings or  enjoyments  of  sentient  beings; — and 
to  reject,  as  intrinsically  absurd  and  incredi- 
ble, the  supposition,  that  material  objects, 
.'which  obviously  do  neither  hurt  nor  delight 
ihe  body,  should  yet  excite,  by  their  m.ere 
physical  qualities,  the  very  powerful  emotions 


I  which  are  sometimes  excited  by  the  spectacle 
1  of  beauty. 

I     Of  the  feelings,  by  their  connection  with 
I  which  external  objects  become  beautiful,  we 
do  not  think  it  necessary  to  speak  more  mi- 
.  nutely ; — and,  therefore,  it  only  remains,  under 
I  this  preliminary  view  of  the  subject,  to  ex- 
plain the  nature  of  that  connection  by  which 
we  conceive  this  eli'ect  to  be  produced.    Here, 
!  also,  there  is  but  little  need  for  minuteness, 
or  fuhiess  of  enumeration.    Almost  every  tie, 
by  \\hich  two  objects  can  be  bound  together 
'  ill  the  imagination,  in  such  a  manner  as  that 
j  the   presentment  of  the  one  shall  recal  the 
memory  of  the  other ; — or,  in  other  words, 
almost    every   possible    relation   which    can 
I  subsist  between  such  objects,  may  serve  to 
connect  the  things  we  call  sublime  and  beau- 
!  tiful,  with  feelings  that  are  interesting  or  de- 
lightful.    It  may  be  useful,  however,  to  class 
;  these  bonds  of  association  between  mind  and 
;  matter  in  a  rude  and  general  way. 
1      It   appears   to   us,   then,   that   objects   are 
i  sublime  or  beautiful, /rs?,  when  they  are  the 
I  natural  signs,  and  perpetual  concomitants  of 
j  pleasurable  sensations,  or,  at  any  rate,  of  some 
I  lively  feeling  or  emotion  in  ourselves  or  in 
j  some  other  sentient  beings;  or,  secondly,  when 
j  they  are  the  arbitrary  or  accidental  concomi- 
i  tants  of  such  feelings;  or,  thirdly,  when  they 
'  bear  some  analogy  or  fanciful  resemblance  to 
I  things  with  M'hich  these  emotions  are  neces- 
sarily connected.     In  endeavouring  to  illus- 
trate the  nature  of  these  several  relations,  we 
shall  be  led  to  lay  befoie  our  readers  some 
proofs  that  appear  to  us  satisfactory  of  the 
truth  of  the  general  theory. 
I      The  most  "obvious,  and  the  strongest  asso- 
ciation that  can  be  established  between  in- 
ward feelings  and  external  objects  is,  where 
!  the  object  is  necessarily  and  universally  con- 
j  nected  with  the  feeling  by  the  law  of  nature, 
I  so  that  it  is  always  presented  to  the  senses 
'  when  the  feeling  is  impressed  upon  the  mind 
— as  the  sight  or  the  sound  of  laughter,  with 
'  the  feeling  of  gaiety — of  weeping,  with  dis- 
{ tress — of  "the  sound  of  thunder,  with  ideas 
i  of  danger   and   power.     Let  us  dwell  for  a 
I  moment  on  the  last  instance. — Nothing,  per- 
haps, in  the  whole  range  of  nature,  is  more 
I  strikingly  and  universally  sublime  than  the 
!  sound  we  have  just  mentioned ;  yet  it  seems 
j  obvious,  that  the  sense  of  sublimity  is  pro- 
!  duced,  not  by  any  quality  that  is  perceived 
I  by  the  ear,  but  altogether  by  the  impression 
of  power  and  of  danger  that  is  necessarily 
made  upon  the  mind,  whenever  that  sound  is 
;  heard.     That  it  is  not  produced  by  any  pecu- 
I  liarity  in  the  sound  itself,  is  certain,  from  the 
!  mistakes  that  are  frequently  made  with  re- 
;  gard  to  it.     The  noise  of  a  cart  rattling  over 
;  the  stones,  is  often  mistaken  for  thunder;  and 
'  as  long  as'the  mistake  lasts,  this  very  vulgar 
;  and  insignificant  noise  is  actually  felt  to  be 
prodigiously  sublime.     It  is  so  felt,  however, 
it  is  perfectly  plain,  merely  because  it  is  then 
:  associated  with  ideas  of  prodigious  power  and 
undefined  danger; — and  the  sublimity  is  ac- 
cordingly destroyed,   the  moment   the   asso- 
I  elation  is  dissolved,  though  the  sound  itself, 


24 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPIH'. 


and  its  effect  on  the  organ,  continue  exactly 
the  same.  This,  thf^refore,  is  an  instance  in 
which  sublimity  is  distinctly  proved  to  con- 
sist, not  in  any  physical  quality  of  the  object 
to  vvhuh  it  is  ascribed,  but  in  its  necessary 
connection  with  that  vast  and  uncontrolled 
Power  which  is  the  natural  object  of  awe  and 
veneration,  i 

We  may  how  take  an  example  a  little  less 
plain  and  elementary.  ^  The  inost  beautiful 
object  in  nature,  perhaps,  is  the  countenance 
of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman ; — and  we 
are  apt  at  first  to  imagine,  tkit.  independent 
of  all  associations,  the  ibrm  and  colours  which 
it  displays  are,  in  themselves,  lovely  and  en- 
gaging; and  would  appear  charmhig  to  all 
beholders,  with  whutcver  other  (jualities  or 
impressions  they  miglit  happen  to  be  con- 
nected. A  very  little  reileclion,  however, 
will  probably  be  sulHcient  to  convince  us  of 
the  fallacy  of  this  impression  ;  and  to  satisfy 
us,  that  what  we  admire  is  not  a  combination 
of  forms  and  colours,  (which  could  never  ex- 
cite any  mental  emotion,)  but  a  collection  of 
signs  and  tokens  of  certain  mental  feelings 
and  affections,  which  are  universally  recog- 
nised as  the  proper  objects  of  love  and  sym- 
pathy. Laying  asiile  the  emotions  arising 
irom  difference  of  sex.  and  supposing  female 
beauty  to  be  contemplated  by  the  pure  and 
unenvying  eye  of  a  femaloj  it  seems  quite 
obvious,  that,  among  its  ingredients,  we  should 
trace  the  signs  of  two  different  sets  of  quali- 
ties, that  are  neither  of  them  the  object  of 
sight,  but  of  a  far  higher  faculty; — in  the  first 
place,  of  youth  and  health;  and  in  the  second 

{)lace,  of  innocence,  gaiety,  sensibility,  intel- 
igence,  delicacy  or  vivacity.     Now,  without 
enlarging   upon   the  natural  effect  of  these 
suggestions,  we  shall   just  suppose  that  the 
appearances,    which    must    be    ailmitted   at  j 
all  events  to  be  actually  signiticant  of  the 
qualities  we  have  enumerated,  had  be.'en  by 
the  law  of  nature  attached  to  the  very  oppo- 
site qualities; — that  the  smooth  forehead,  the 
firm  cheek,  and  the  full  lip,  which  are  now 
so  distinctly  expressive  to  us  of  the  g-.iy  and  j 
vigorous  periods  of  youth — and  the  clear  and 
blooming  complexion,  which  indicates  health 
and  activity,  had  been  in  fact  the  forms  and 
colours  by  which  old  age  and  sickness  were 
characterised  ;  and  that,  instead  of  being  found  \ 
united  to  those  sources  and  seasons  of  enjoy-  | 
ment,  they  had  been  the  badges  by  which  i 
nature  pointed  out  that  stale  of'suffe'ring  and 
decay  which  is  now  signilied  to  us  by  the 
livid  and  emaciated  face  of  sickness,  or  the 
wrinkled  front,  the  quiverini;-  lij),  anil  hollow 
cheek  of  ;ige ; — If  th's  were  the  familiar  law  ; 
of  our  nature,  can  it  be  iloubtcd  that  we  should 
look  upon  these  appt-arance.s,  not  with  rapture, 
but   with  aversion — and  consider  it  as  abso-  j 
Intely  ludicrous  or  disgusting,  to  speak  of  the 
beauty  of  what  was  interpreted  by  everv  one 
as  the  lamiMited  sign  of  pain  and  tlecrepiuule  > 
Mr.  Knight  himself,  ihouiih  a  firm  belii'v.T  in 
the  intrinsic  bi-auty  of  folour.s.  is  so  much  of  '• 
this  opinion,  that  he  thinks  it  entirely  owing  ' 
to  those  associations  that  we  prefer  the  tame  \ 
Bmoothness,  and  comparatively  poor  colours  i 


of  a  youthful  face,  to  the  richly  fretted  and 
variegated  countenance  of  a  pimpled  drunk- 
ard !  " 

Such,  we  conceive,  would  be  the  inevita- 
ble efTect  of  dissolving  the  subsistingconnect- 
ion  between  the  animating  iileas  of  hope  and 
enjoyment,  and  those  visible  appearai'.cea 
which  are  now  significant  of  those  emotions, 
and  derive  their  whole  beauty  from  that 
signification.  But  the  effect  would  be  still 
stronger,  if  we  could  suppose  the  mci-al  ex- 
pression of  those  appearances  to  be  reversed 
in  the  same  manner.  If  the  smile,  wliich 
now  enchants  us,  as  the  expression  of  inno- 
cence and  affection,  were  the  sign  attached 
by  nature  to  guilt  and  malignity — if  the  blush 
which  expresses  delicacy,  and  the  glance  that 
speaks  intelligence,  vivacity,  and  .softness,  had 
always  been  found  united  with  brutal  passion 
or  iiiiot  moodiness;  is  it  not  certain,  that  the 
whole  of  their  beauty  would  be  e.vtingnished, 
and  that  our  emotions  from  the  sight  of  them 
would  be  exactly  the  reverse  of  what  they 
now  are? 

That  the  beauty  of  a  living  and  sentient 
creature  should  depend,  in  a  great  degree, 
upon  qualities  peculiar  to  such  a  creature, 
rather  than  upon  the  mere  physical  attributta 
wliich  it  may  possess  in  common  with  the 
inert  matter  around  it,  cannot  indeed  api)ear 
a  very  improbable  supposition  to  any  one. 
But  it  maybe  more  difficult  for  some  persons 
to  understand  how  the  beauty  of  mere  (lead 
matter  should  be  deriveil  from  the  feelniga 
and  sympathies  of  sentient  beings.  It  is  ab- 
solutely necessary,  therefore,  that  we  should 
give  an  instance  or  two  of  this  deiivaliou 
also. 

~  It  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  the 
sight  of  a  picture  or  statue  should  atiect  us 
nearly  in  the  same  way  as  the  sight  of  the 
original :  nor  is  it  much  more  difficult  to  con- 
ceive, how  the  sight  of  a  cottage  should  giVe 
us  .something  of  the  same  feelingas  the  sigfit 
of  a  peasant's  family ;  and  the  aspect  of  a  town 
raise  many  of  the  same  ideas  as  the  appear- 
ance of  a  multitude  of  persons.  We  may 
begiu;  therefore,  with  an  example  a  little' 
more  complicated.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
■«ase  of  a  common  English  landscape — green 
meadows  with  grazinir  and  ruminating  cattle 
— canals  or  navigable  rivers — well  IVnced, 
well  cultivated  fields — neat,  cli-an,  scatterecl 
cottages  —  humble  antique  cliurcht  s,  with 
church-yard  elms,  and  crossing  hedgerows — 
all  .seen  under  bright  skies,  and  in  good  wea- 
ther:— There  is  much  beaxity,  as  everyone 
will  acknowledge,  in  such  a  scene.  But  in 
what  does  the  beauty  consist  ?  Not  certaiidy 
in  the  mere  mixture  of  colours  and  forms  :  for 
colours  more  pleasing,  and  lines  more  gr;:ce- 
ful,  (according  to  any  theory  of  grace  that 
may  be  preferred,)  might  be  spread  upon  a 
board,  or  a  painter's  pallet,  vvithout  e!igagir:g 
the  eye  to  a  .second  glance,  or  raising  the 
least  emotion  in  the  mind  ;  but  in  the  picture 
of  human  happiness  that  is  presented  to  our 
imaginations  and  affections — in  the  visible 
and  unequivocal  signs  of  comfort,  and  cheer- 
ful and  peaceful  enjoyment — and  of  that  se- 


ALISON  OX  TASTE. 


25 


cure  and  successful  industry  that  ensures  its 
continuance — and  of  the  piety  by  which  it  is 
exalted— and  of  the  simplicity  by  which  it  is 
contrasted  with  the  guilt  and  the  fever  of  a 
city  life  : — in  the  images  of  health  and  tem- 
perance and  plenty  which  it  exhibits  to  every 
e\e — and  in  the  glimpses  which  it  affords  to 
warmer  imaginations,  of  those  primitive  or 
fabulous  times,  when  man  was  uncorrupted 
by  luxury  and  ambition,  and  of  those  humble 
retreats  in  which  we  still  delight  to  imagine 
that  love  and  philosophy  may  tind  an  unpol- 
luted asylum.  At  all  events,  however,  it  is 
human  feeling  that  excites  our  sympathy,  and 
forms  the  true  object  of  our  emotions.  It  isN 
man,  and  man  alone,  that  we  see  in  the  beau- 
ties of  the  earth  which  he  inhabits  ] — or,  if  a 
more  sensitive  and  extended  spnpathy  con- 
nect us  with  the  lower  families  of  animated 
nature,  and  make  us  rejoice  with  the  lambs 
that  bleat  on  the  uplands,  or  the  cattle  that 
repose  in  the  valley,  or  even  with  the  living 
plants  that  drink  the  bright  sun  and  the 
balmy  air  beside  them,  it  is  still  the  idea  of 
enjoj-ment — of  feelings  that  animate  the  ex- 
istence of  sentient  beings — that  calls  forth  all 
our  emotions,  and  is  the  parent  of  all  the 
beauty  with  which  we  proceed  to  invest  the 
inanimate  creation  around  us. 

Instead  of  tliis  quiet  and  tame  English 
landscape,  let  us  now  take  a  Welch  or  a 
Highland  scene ;  and  see  whether  its  beau- 
ties will  admit  of  being  explained  on  the 
same  principle.  Here,  we  shall  have  lofty 
mountains,  and  rocky  and  lonely  recesses — 
tufted  woods  hung  over  precipices — lakes 
intersected  with  castled  promontories — am- 
ple solitudes  of  unploughed  and  untrodden 
valleys — nameless  and  gigantic  ruins — and 
mountain  echoes  repeating  the  scream  of  the 
eagle  and  the  roar  of  the  cataract.  This, 
too,  is  beautiful; — and,  to  those  who  can 
interpret  the  language  it  speaks,  far  more 
beautiful  than  the  prosperous  scene  with 
which  we  have  contrasted  it.  Yet,  lonely  as 
it  is,  it  is  to  the  recollection  of  man  and  the 
suggestion  of  human  feelings  that  its  beauty 
also  is  owing.  The  mere  forms  and  colours 
that  compose  its  visible  appearance,  are  no 
more  capable  of  exciting  any  emotion  in  the 
mind,  than  the  forms  and  colours  of  a  Turkey 
carpet.  It  is  sympathy  with  the  present  or 
the  past,  or  the  imaginary  inhabitants  of  such 
a  region,  that  alone  gives  it  either  interest  or 
beauty  ;  and  the  delight  of  those  who  behold 
it,  will  always  be  found  to  be  in  exact  pro- 
portion to  the  force  of  their  imaginations,  and 
the  warmth  of  their  social  aifections.  The 
leading  impressions,  here,  are  those  of  ro- 
mantic seclusion,  and  primeval  simplicity ; 
lovers  sequestered  in  these  blissful  solitudes, 
"from  towns  and  toils  remote," — and  rustic 


with  the  monuments  of  ancient  magnificence 
and  extinguished  hostility — the  feuds,  and 
the  combats,  and  the  triumphs  of  its  wild  and 
primitive  inl>abitants,  contrasted  with  the 
stillness  and  desolation  of  the  scenes  where 
they  lie  interred  ; — and  the  romantic  ideas 
attached  to  their  ancient  traditions,  and  the 
peculiarities  of  the  actual  life  of  their  des- 
cendants— their  wild  and  enthusiastic  poetry 
— their  gloomy  supei-stitions — their  attach- 
ment to  their  chiefs — the  dangers,  and  the 
hardships  and  enjoyments  of  their  lonely 
huntings  and  fishings — their  pastoral  shielings 
bn  the  mountains  in  summer — and  the  tales 
and  the  sports  that  amuse  the  little  groups 
that  are  frozen  into  their  vast  and  trackless 
valleys  in  the  winter.  Add  to  all  this,  the 
traces  of  vast  and  obscure  antiquity  that  are 
impressed  on  the  language  and  the  habits  of 
the  people,  and  on  the  cliffs,  and  caves,  and 
gulfy  torrents  of  the  land ;  and  the  solemn 
a,nd  touching  reflection,  perpetually  recurring, 
of  the  weakness  and  insignificance  of  perish- 
able man,  whose  generations  thus  pass  away 
into  oblivion,  with  all  their  toils  and  ambi- 
tion; while  nature  holds  on  her  unvarying 
course,  and  pours  out  her  streams,  and  re- 
news her  forests,  with  undecaying  activity, 
regardless  of  the  fate  of  her  proud  and  perish- 
able sovereign. 

We  have  said  enough,  we  believe,  to  let 
our  readers  understand  what  we  mean  by 
external  objects  being  the  natural  signs  or 
concomitants  of  human  sympathies  or  emo- 
tions.    Yet  we   cannot  refrain  from  adding 
one  other  illustration,  and  asking   on  what 
other  principle  we  can  account  for  the  beauty 
of  Spring  1     Winter  has  shades  as  deep,  and 
colours  as  brilliant;  and  the  great  forms  of 
nature  are  substantially  the  same  through  all 
the  revolutions  of  the  year.     We  shall  seek 
in  vain,  therefore,  in  the  accidents  of  mere 
organic  matter,  for  the  sources  of  that  "  ver- 
nal deligljt  and  joy,"  which  subject  all  finer 
spirits  to"  an  annual  hitoxication,  and  strike 
home  the  sense  of  beauty  even  to  hearts  that- 
seem  proof  against  it  under  all  other  aspects. 
And  it  is  not  among  the  Dead  but  among  the 
Living,  that  this  beauty  originates.     It  is  the 
renovation  of  life  and  of  joy  to  all  animated 
beings,  that  constitutes  this  great  jubilee  of 
nature; — the  young  of  animals  bursting  into 
existence — the  simple  and  universal  pleasures 
which  are  diffused  by  the  mere  temperature 
of  the  air,  and  the  profusion  of  sustenance — 
the  pairing  of  birds — the  cheerful  resumption 
of  rustic  toils — the  great  alleviation  of  all  the 
miseries  of  poverty  and  sickness — our  sym- 
pathy with  the  young  life,  and  the  promise 
and  the  hazards  of  the  vegetable  creation — 
the  solemn,  yet  cheering,  impression  of  the 
constancy  of  nature  to  her  great  periods  of 
poets  and  philosophers  communing  w^ithna-  I  renovation — and  the  hopes  that  dart  sponta- 
i     ture,  and  at  a  distance  from  the  low  pursuits  i  neously  forward  into  the  new  circle  of  exer- 
and  selfish  malignity  of  ordinary  mortals  ; —  |  tions  and  enjoyments  that  is  opened  up  by  her 
I     then  there  is  the  sublime  impression  of  the  |  hand  and  her  example.     Such  are  some  of 
i     Mighty  Power  which  piled  the  massive  cliffs  j  the  conceptions  thai  are  forced  upon  us  by 
upon   each   other,   and   rent   the   mountains  j  the  appearances  of  returning  spring;  and  that 
asunder,  and  scattered  their  giant  fragments  ;  seem  to  account  for  the  emotions  of  delight 
at  their  base  : — and  all  the  images  conuected  1  with  which  these  appearances  are  hailed,  by 
4  C 


26 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


every  mind  endowed  with  any  degree  of  sen- 
sibility, scnnewhat  better  than  the  brightness 
of  the  colours,  or  the  agreeablencss  of  the 
smells  that  are  then  presented  to  our  senses. 

They  are  kindred  conceptions  that  consti- 
tute all  the  beauty  of  childhood.  The  forms 
and  colours  that  are  peculiar  to  that  age,  are 
not  necessarily  or  absolutely  beautiful  in 
themselves  ;  for,  in  a  grown  person,  the  same 
forms  and  colours  would  be  either  ludicrous 
or  disirusting.  It  is  their  indestructible  con- 
nection with  the  engaging  ideas  of  innocence 
— of  earekss  gaiety — of  unsuspecting  confi- 
dence ; — made  still  more  tender  and  attract- 
ive by  the  recollection  of  helplessness,  and 
blameless  and  happy  iirnorance — of  the  anx- 
ious affection  that  watches  over  all  their  ways 
— and  of  the  hopes  and  fears  that  seek  to 
pierce  futurity,  for  those  who  have  neither 
fears  nor  cares  nor  anxieties  for  themselves. 

These  few  illustrations  will  probably  be 
sufficient  to  give  our  readers  a  general  con- 
ception of  the  character  and  the  grounds  of 
that  theory  of  beauty  which  we  think  affords 
the  only  true  or  consistent  account  of  its  na- 
ture. They  are  all  example.s,  it  will  be  ob- 
served, of  the  First  and  must  important  con- 
nection which  we  think  may  be  shown  to 
exist  between  external  obji'Cts  and  the  senti- 
ments or  emotions  of  the  mind ;  or  cases,  in 
which  the  visible  phenomena  are  the  natural 
and  universal  accompaniments  of  the  emo- 
tion, and  are  consecjuently  Ctapable  of  reviving 
that  emotion,  in  some  degree,  in  the  breast 
of  every  beholder.  If  the  tenor  of  those 
illustrations  has  been  such  as  to  make  any 
imjiression  in  favour  of  the  general  theory, 
we  conceive  that  it  must  be  very  greatly  con- 
firmed by  the  slightest  consideration  of  the 
Second  class  of  cases,  or  those  in  which  the 
external  object  is  not  the  natural  and  neces- 
sary, but  only  the  occasional  or  accidental 
concomitant  of  the  emotion  which  it  recals. 
In  the  former  instances,  some  conception  of 
beauty  seems  to  be  inseparable  fr^m  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  objects ;  and  being  impressed, 
in  some  degree,  upon  all  persons  to  whom 
thpy  are  presented,  there  is  evidently  room 
for  insinuating  that  it  is  an  independent  and 
intrinsic  quality  of  their  nature,  and  does  not 
arise  from  association  with  any  thing  else. 
/  In  the  instances,  however,  to  which  we  are 
now  to  allude,  this  perception  of  beauty  is 
not  universal,  but  entirely  dependent  upon 
the  opportunities  which  each  individual  has 
had  to  associate  ideas  of  emotion  with  the 
object  to  which  it  is  ascribed : — the  same 
thing  appeariiiir  beautiful  to  those  who  have 
been  exiwsed  to  the  inllnence  of  such  as.so- 
ciation.s.  and  indifferent  to  those  who  have 
not.  Such  instances,  therefore,  really  afford 
an  exprrimcntnm  cruci.i  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
thi'ory  in  question  :  nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive 
any  more  complete  evidence,  both  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  absolute  or  intrinsic  beauty, 
and  that  it  depends  altoofether  on  those  asso- 
ciations with  which  it  is  thus  found  to  come 
and  to  disappear. 

The  accidental  or  arbitrary  relations  that 
may  thus  be   established   between    natural 


■  sympathies  or  emotions,  and  external  objects, 
may  be  either  such  as  occur  to  whole  classes 
of  men,  or  are  confined  to  particular  indi- 
viduals. Among  the  former,  those  that  ap- 
ply to  different  nations  or  races  of  men,  are 
the  most  imjwrtant  and  remarkable :  and  con- 
stitute the  basis  of  those  pecuharities  by 
which  ludional  tastes  are  distinguished. — 
Take  again,  for  example,  the  iiir^Uuice  of  fe- 
male beauty — and  think  what  dilierent  and 
inconsistent  standards  would  be  fixed  for  it 
in  the  different  regions  of  the  world- — in 
Africa,  in  Asia,  and  in  Europe; — in  Tartary 
and  in  Greece ;  in  Lapland.  Patagonia,  and 
Circassia.  If  there  was  any  thing  absolutely 
or  intrinsically  beautiful,  in  any  of  the  forms 
thus  distinguished;  it  is  inconceivable  that 
men  should  differ  so  outrageously  in  their 
conceptions  of  it :  if  beauty  were  a  real  and 
independent  quality,  it  seems  impossible  that 
it  should  be  distinctly  and  clearly  felt  by  one 
set  of  persons,  where  another  set,  altogether 
as  sensitive,  could  see  notliing  but  its  oppo- 
site; and  if  it  were  actually  and  insej^arably 
attached  to  certain  forms,  colours,  or  propor- 
tions, it  must  appear  utterly  inexplicable  that 
it  should  be  felt  and  perceived  in  the  most 
opposite  forms  and  proportion,  in  objects  of 
the  same  description.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
all  beauty  consist  in  reminding  us  of  certain 
natural  sympathies  and  objects  of  emotion, 
with  which  they  have  been  habitually  con- 
nected, it  is  easy  to  perceive  how  the  most 

I  different  forms  should  be  felt  to  be  equally 
'beautiful.  If  female  beauty,  for  instance, 
I  consist  in  the  visible  signs  and  expressions 
j  of  youth  and  health,  and  of  gentleness,  vi- 
vacity, and  kindness;  then  it  will  neces>arily 
happen,  that  the  forms,  and  colours  and  pi  o- 
portions  which  nature  may  have  conn<  rted 
with  those  qualities,  in  the  different  climates 

■  or  regions  of  the  world,  will  all  appear  equally 
beautiful  to  those  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  recognise  them  as  the  signs  of  such  quali- 

'ties;  while  they  will  be  respectively  indif- 
!  ferent  to  those  who  have  not  learned  to  inter- 
'pretthem  in  this  sense,  and  di.s])leasing  to 
,  those  whom  experience  has  led  to  consider 
j  them  as  the  signs  of  oppo.site  qualities. 

The  case  is  the  same,  though,  perhaps  to  a 
smaller  degree,  as  to  the  peculiarity  of  national 
taste  in  other  particulars.  The  si}  le  of  dress 
'  and  architecture  in  every  nation,  if  not  adopted 
ifrom  mere  want  of  skill,  or  penury  of  mate- 
rials, always  appears  beautiful  to  the  natives, 
and  somewhat  monstrous  and  absurd  to 
foreigners: — and  the  general  character  and 
aspect  of  their  landscape,  hi  like  manner,  if 
not  associated  with  substantial  evils  and  in- 
conveniences, always  appears  more  beautiful 
and  enchanting  than  the  scenery  of  any  othei 
'region.  The  fact  is  still  more  .striking,  per-' 
haps,  in  the  case  of  music  ; — in  the  effects  of, 
those  rational  airs,  with  which  evt  n  the  most 
uncultivated  imaginations  have  connected  sc 
many  interestinir  recollections;  and  in  the  de- 
liirht  with  which  all  persons  of  sensibility 
catch  the  strains  of  their  native  melodies  ir 
'  strange  or  in  distant  lands.  It  is  owing  chiefly 
to  the  same  sort  of  arbitrary  and  national  as- 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


27 


soclation,  that  white  is  thought  a  gay  colour  i 
ill  Europe,  where  it  is  used  at  weddings —  I 
ami  a  dismal  colour  in  China,  where  it  is  used  | 
for  mouniing; — that  we  think,  yew-trees 
gloomy,  because  they  are  planted  in  clmrch- 
yards— anil  large  masses  of  powdered  horse- 1 
hair  majestic,  because  we  see  them  on  the 
heads  of  judges  and  bishops. 

Next  to  those  curious  histances  of  arbitrary  ! 
or  limited  associations  that  are  exemplified  in  ] 
the  diversities  of  national  taste,  are  those  that 
are  produced  by  the  difierences  of  instruction 
or  education.  If  external  objects  were  sublime 
anil  beautiful  in  themselves,  it  is  plain,  that 
they  would  appear  equally  so  to  those  who 
were  acquainted  with  their  origin,  and  to  those 
to  whom  it  was  unknown.  Yet  it  is  not  easy, 
perhaps,  to  calculate  the  degree  to  which  our 
nt)tions  of  beauty  and  sublimity  are  now  influ- 
enced, over  all  Europe,  by  the  study  of  clas- 
sical literature  ;  or  the  number  of  impressions 
of  this  sort  which  the  well-educated  conse- 
quently receive,  from  objects  that  are  utterly 
indifferent  to  uninstructed  persons  of  the  same 
natural  sensibility.  We  gladly  avail  ourselves, 
upon  this  subject,  of  the  beautiful  expressions 
of  Mr.  Alison. 

'■  The  delight  which  most  men  of  education 
receive  from  the  consideration  of  antiquity, 
and  the  beauty  that  they  discover  in  every 
object  which  is  connected  with  ancient  times, 
is.  in  a  great  measure,  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
same  cause.  The  antiquarian,  in  his  cabinet, 
surrounded  by  the  relics  of  former  ages,  seems 
to  himself  to  be  removed  to  periods  that  are 
long  since  past,  and  indulges  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  living  in  a  world,  which,  by  a  very 
natural  kind  of  prejudice,  we  are  always  wil- 
ling to  believe  was  both  wiser  and  better  than 
the  present.  All  that  is  venerable  or  laudable 
in  the  history  of  these  times,  present  them- 
selves to  his  memory.  The  g-allantry,  the 
heroism,  the  patriotism  of  antiquity,  rise  again 
before  his  view,  softened  by  the  obscurity  in 
which  they  are  involved,  and  rendered  more 
seducing  to  the  imagination  by  that  obscurity 
itself,  which,  while  it  mingles  a  sentiment  of 
regret  amid  his  pursuits,  serves  at  the  same 
time  to  stimulate  his  fancy  to  fill  up,  by  its 
own  creation,  those  long  intervals  of  time  of 
which  history  has  preserved  no  record. 

'•And  what  is  it  that  constitutes  lliat  cmolioii 
of  sublime  delight,  which  every  uiini  of  cnm- 
mon  sensibility  feels  upon  the  lirst  pios^'ccl  ot' 
Kome  1  It  is  not  the  scene  of  destruction  which 
is  before  him.  It  is  not  the  Tiber,  diminished 
in  liis  imagination  to  a  paltry  stream,  flowing 
amid  the  ruins  of  that  magnificence  which  it 
once  adorned.  It  is  not  the  ti-iumph  of  super- 
stition over  the  wreck  oi  human  greatness, 
and  its  monuments  erected  u])on  the  very 
spot  where  the  first  honours  of  humanity  have 
been  gained.  It  is  ancient  Rome  which  fills 
his  imagination.  It  is  the  country  of  Ca?sar, 
and  Cicero,  and  Virgil,  which  is  before  him. 
It  is  the  Mistress  of  the  world  which  he  sees, 
and  who  seems  to  him  to  rise  again  from  her 
tomb;  to  give  laws  to  the  universe.  All  that 
the  labours  of  his  youth,  or  the  studies  of  his 
maturer  age  have  acquired,  with  regard  to  the 


history  of  this  great  people,  open  at  once  be- 
fore his  imagination,  and  present  him  with  a 
field  of  high  and  solemn  imagery,  which  can 
never  be  exhausted.  Take  from  him  these 
associations — conceal  from  him  that  it  is 
Home  that  he  sees,  and  how  different  would 
be  his  emotion!" 

The  influences  of  the  same  studies  may  be 
traced,  indeed,  through  alnio.'^t  all  our  impres- 
sions of  beauty — and  especially  in  the  feelings 
which  we  receive  from  the  contemplation  of 
ruial  scenery;  where  the  images  and  recol- 
lections which  have  been  associated  with  such 
objects,  in  the  enchanting  strains  of  the  poets, 
are  perpetually  recalled  by  their  appearance, 
and  give  an  interest  and  a  beauty  to  the  pros- 
pect, of  which  the  uninstnictcd  ciuinot  have 
the  slightest  perception.  Upon  this  subject, 
also,  Mr.  Alison  has  expiessed  himself  with 
his  usual  warmth  and  elegance.  After  ob- 
serving, that,  in  childhood,  the  beauties  of 
nature  have  scarcely  any  existence  for  those 
who  have  as  yet  but  little  general  sympathy 
with  mankind,"  he  proceeds  to  state,  that  they 
are  usually  first  recommended  to  notice  by 
the  poets,  to  whom  we  are  introduced  in  the 
course  of  education ;  and  who,  in  a  manner, 
create  them  for  us,  by  the  associations  which 
they  enable  us  to  form  with  their  visible  ap- 
pearance. 

'•How  different,  from  this  period,  become 
the  sentiments  with  which  the  scenery  of 
nature  is  contemplated,  by  those  Avho  have 
any  imagination  !  The  beautiful  forms  of  an- 
cient mythology,  with  Avhich  the  fancy  of 
poets  peopled  'every  element,  are  now  ready 
to  appear  to  their  minds,  upon  the  prospect 
of  every  scene.  The  descriptions  of  ancient 
authors,  so  long  admired,  and  so  deserving  of 
admiration,  occur  to  them  at  every  rnoment, 
and  with  them,  all  those  enthusiastic  ideas  of 
ancient  genius  and  glory,  which  the  study  of 
so  many  years  of  youth  .so  naturally  leads 
them  to  form.  Or,  if  the  study  of  modern 
poetry  has  succeeded  to  that  of  the  ancient,  a 
thousand  other  beautiful  associations  are  ac- 
quired, which;  instead  of  destroying,  serve 
easily  to  unite  with  the  former,  and  to  afford 
a  new  source  of  delight.  The  awful  forms 
of  Gothic  superstition,  the  wild  and  romantic 
imagery,  which  the  turbulence  of  the  middle 
;igrs.  the  Crusades,  and  the  institution  of 
rh  v;ih y  have  spread  over  every  country  of 
liurope,  arise  to  the  imagination  in  every 
scene ;  accompanied  Viith  all  thu.se  pleasing 
recollections  of  prowess,  and  adventure,  and 
courteous  manners,  w  hich  disting-uished  those 
memorable  times.  With  such  images  in  their 
minds,  it  is  not  common  nature  that  appears 
to  .surround  them.  It  is  nature  embellished 
and  made  sacred  by  the  memory  of  Theocritus 
and  Virgil,  and  M'ilton  and  Tiisso:  their  ge- 
nius seems  still  to  linger  among  the  scenes 
which  inspired  it,  and  to  iiradiale  every  (dijeot 
where  it  dwells;  and  the  creation  of  their 
fancy  seem  the  fit  inhabitants  of  that  nature, 
which  their  descriptions  have  clothed  with 
beauty." 

It  is  needless,  for  the  pui-pose  of  mere  illus- 
tration, to  pursue  this  subject  of  arbitrary  or 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPIH'. 


accidental  association  through  all  the  divisions 
of  which  it  is  susceptible ;  and,  indeed,  the 
task  would  be  endle«s ;  since  there  is  scarcely 
any  class  in  society  which  may  not  be  shown 
to  have  peculiar  assoi'iatioiis  of  interest  and 
emotion  with  objects  which  are  not  so  con- 
nected in  the  mbids  of  any  other  class.  The 
young  and  the  old — the  rich  and  the  poor — 
the  artist  and  the  man  of  science — the  in- 
habitant of  the  city  and  the  inhabitant  of  the 
country — the  man  of  business  and  the  man 
of  pleasure — the  domestic  and  the  dissipated, 
— nay,  even  the  followers  of  almost  every  i 
different  study  or  profession,  have  perceptions 
of  beauty,  because  they  have  associations , 
with  external  objects,  which  are  peculiar  to 
themselves,  and  have  no  existence  for  any 
other  persons.  But,  though  the  detail  of  such 
instances  could  not  fail  to  show,  in  the  clear- 
est and  most  convincing  manner,  how  directly 
the  notion  of  beauty  is  derived  from  some 
more  radical  and  familiar  emotion,  and  how 
many  and  various  are  the  chainiels  by  which 
such  emotions  are  transmitted,  enough,  per- 
haps, has  been  already  said,  to  put  our  readers 
in  possession  of  the  principles  and  general 
bearings  of  an  argument  which  we  must  not 
think  of  exhausting. 

Before  entirely  leaving  this  branch  of  the 
subject,  however,  let  us  pause  for  a  moment 
on  the  familiar  but  very  striking  and  decisive 
instance  of  our  varying  and  contradictory 
iudirments.  as  to  the  beauty  of  the  successive 
fashions  of  dress  that  have  existed  within  our 
own  remembrance.  All  persons  who  still 
continue  to  find  amusement  in  society,  and 
are  not  old  enough  to  enjoy  only  the  recollec- 
tions of  their  youth,  think  the  prevailing 
fashions  becoming  and  graceful,  and  the 
fashions  of  twenty  or  twenty-live  yi  ars  old 
intolerably  ugly  and  ridiculous.  The  younger 
they  are,  and  the  more  they  mix  in  socifty, 
this  impression  is  the  stronger;  and  the  fact 
is  worth  noticing;  because  there  is  really  no 
one  thing  as  to  which  persons  judging  merely 
from  their  feelings,  and  therefore  less  likely 
to  be  misled  by  any  systems  or  theories,  are 
BO  very  positive  and  decided,  as  that  estab- 
lished fashions  are  beautiful  in  themselves; 
and  that  exploded  fashions  are  intrinsically 
and  beyond  all  question  preposterous  anil 
ugly.  We  have  never  yet  met  a  \onng  lady 
or  gentleman,  who  spoke  from  their  hearts 
and  without  reserve,  who  had  the  lea.st  doubt 
on  the  subject ;  or  co\ild  conceive  how  any 
person  could  be  so  stupid  as  not  to  see  the 
intrinsic  elegance  of  the  reigning  mode,  or 
not  to  be  .struck  with  the  ludicrous  awkward- 
ness of  the  habits  in  which  their  mothers 
were  disguised.  Yel  ihere  can  Ix"  no  doubt, 
that  if  these  ingenuous  critics  had  been  born, 
with  the  same  natural  sensibility  to  beauty, 
but  twenty  years  earlier,  they  would  have 
joined  in  admiring  what  they  nnw  lausjh  at ; 
as  certa  nly  as  those  w  ho  succeed  them  twenty 
years  hereafter  will  lauijh  at  lliciv.  It  is  plain, 
then,  and  we  think  scarcely  disputed,  out  of 
the  circles  to  which  we  have  alluded,  that 
there  is,  in  the  general  case,  no  intrinsic 
beauty  or  deformity  in  any  of  those  fashions ; 


and  thftt  the  fomis.  and  colours,  and  materials, 
that  are.  we  may  say.  universally  and  very 
strongly  felt  to  be  beautiful  while  they  are 
in  fashion,  are  sure  to  lose  all  their  beauty  as 
soon  as  the  fashion  has  i3assed  away.  Now 
the  forms,  and  colours,  and  combinations  re- 
maui  exactly  as  they  were ;  and,  therefore, 
it  seems  indisputable,  that  the  source  of  their 
successive  beauty  and  ugliness  must  be  sought 
in  something  extrinsic,  and  can  only  be  found 
in  the  associations  which  once  exalted,  and 
ultimately  degraded  them  in  our  estimation. 
While  they  were  in  fa.shion,  they  were  the 
forms  and  colours  which  distinguished  the 
rich  and  the  noble — the  eminent,  the  envied, 
the  observed  in  society.  They  were  the  forms 
and  the  colours  in  which  all  that  was  beauti- 
ful, and  admired,  and  exalted,  were  habitually 
arrayed.  They  were  associated,  therefore, 
with  ideas  of  opulence,  and  elegance,  and 
gaiety,  and  all  that  is  captivating  and  bewitch- 
ing, in  manners,  fortune,  and  situation — and 
derived  the  whole  of  their  beauty  from  those 
associations.  By  and  bye,  however,  they  were 
deserted  by  the  beautiful,  the  rich,  and  the 
elegant;  and  descended  to  the  -snilgar  and  de- 
pendent, or  were  only  seen  in  combination 
with  the  antiquated  airs  of  faded  beauties  or 
obsolete  beaux.  They  thus  came  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  ideas  of  yiilgarity  and  derision, 
and  with  the  images  of  old  and  decayed  per- 
sons, whom  it  is  difficult  for  their  juniors  to 
believe  ever  to  have  been  young  or  attractive ; 
— and  the  associations  being  thus  reversed,  in 
which  all  their  beauty  consisted,  the  beauty 
itself  naturally  disappeared. 

The  operation  of  the  same  causes  is  dis- 
tinctly visible  in  all  the  other  apparent  irrei:- 
ularities  of  our  judgments  as  to  this  descri] - 
tion  of  beauty.  Old  people  have  in  frr^i-i;;] 
but  little  toleration  for  the  obsolete  i:  -h  -  •  ^ 
of  their  later  or  middle  years  :  but  v,  _ 
rally  stickle  for  the  intrinsic  elegance  ci  'ii.  -.> 
which  were  prevalent  in  the  bright  days  t  f 
their  early  youth — ;!S  being  still  associati  d 
in  their  recollections,  with  the  beauty  ^^ilh 
'which  they  were  first  enchanted,  and  tfie  g:iy 
spirits  with  Avhich  they  Mere  then  inspinii. 
In  the  same  way,  while  we  laugh  at  the  fash- 
ions of  vhich  tine  ladies  and  gentlemen  wrif 
proud  in  the  da\sof  our  childhood,  because 
ihey  are  now  as.-socialed  only  with  images  of 
decrepitude  aid  decay,  we  look  with  some 
feelings  of  veneration  on  the  habits  of  more 
remote  irenerations,  the  individuals  of  whicli 
are  only  known  to  us  as  historical  penson- ; 
and  with  nr  mingled  respect  and  admiratu -i 
on  those  still  more  ancient  habiliments  wlncli 
remind  us  either  of  the  heroism  of  the  feu(i;il 
chivalry,  or  the  viifue  and  nobleness  of  clas- 
sical anti(juity.  The  iron  mail  of  the  Gothic 
knight,  or  the  clumsy  shield  and  naked  ain;^ 
of  the  Koman  warrior,  strike  us  as  majestic 
and  graceful,  merely  becnuse  they  are  asso-  1 " 
ciated  with  nothing  but  tales  of  romantic  ('ar 
ing  or  patriotic  prowess — while  the  full-1  oi 
tomcd  periwigs  that  were  added  to  the  sel- 
dier's  e(]uipnient  in  the  days  of  Lewis  XIV. 
and  King  William — and  no  doubt  had  a  no- 
ble effect  in  the  eyes  of  that  generation— 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


29 


now  appear  to  us  equally  ridiculous  and  un- 
becoming ;  merely  because  such  appendages 
are  no  longer  lo  be  seen,  but  upon  the  heads 
of  sober  and  sedentary  lawyers,  or  in  the  pic- 
tuies  of  antiquated  esquires. 

We  cannot  atFord,  however,  to  enlarge  any 
farther  upon  these  considerations,  and  are  in- 
clined indeed  to  think,  that  what  has  been 
already  said  on  the  subject  of  associations, 
which,  though  not  universal,  are  common  to 
whole  classes  of  persons,  will  make  it  unne- 
cessary to  enlarge  on  those  that  are  peculiar 
to  each  individual.  It  is  almost  enough,  in- 
deed, to  transcribe  the  following  short  pas- 
sage from  Mr.  Alison. 

'■There  is  no  man,  who  has  not  spme  inter- 
esting associations  with  particular  scenes,  or 
airs,  or  books;  and  who  does  not  feel  their 
beauty  or  sublimity  enhanced  to  him  by  such 
connections.  The  view  of  the  house  where 
one  was  born,  of  the  school  where  one  was 
educated,  and  where  the  gay  years  of  infancy 
were  passed,  is  indiilerent  to  no  man.  There 
are  songs  also,  which  we  have  heard  in  our 
infancy,  which,  when  brought  to  cur  remem- 
brance in  after  years,  raise  emotions  for  which 
we  cannot  well  account ;  and  which,  though 
perhaps  very  indifferent  in  themselves,  still 
continue  from  this  association,  and  from  the 
variety  of  conceptions  which  they  kindle  in 
our  minds,  to  be  our  favourites  through  life. 
The  scenes  which  have  been  distinguished 
by  the  residence  of  any  person,  whose  mem- 
ory we  admire,  produce  a  similar  effect. 
Movemur  cnim,  ncscio  quo  pacto,  locis  ipsis,  in 
quibus  corurrij  quos  diligi7nus,  aid  admiramur 
adsunt  vestigia.  The  scenes  themselves  may 
be  little  beautiful ;  but  the  delight  with  which 
we  recollect  the  traces  of  their  lives,  blends 
itself  insensibly  with  the  emotions  which  the 
scenery  excites;  and  the  admiration  which 
these  recollections  afford,  seems  to  give  a  kind 
of  sanctity  to  the  place  where  they  dwelt,  and 
converts  every  thing  into  beauty  which  ap- 
pears to  have  been  connected  with  them.'' 

There  are  similar  impressions — as  to  the 
sort  of  scenery  to  which  we  have  been  long 
accustomed — as  to  the  style  of  personal  beau- 
ty by  which  we  were  first  enchanted — and 
even  as  lo  the  dialect,  or  the  fonn  of  versifi- 
cation which  we  first  began  to  admire,  that 
bestow  a  secret  and  adventitious  charm  upon 
all  these  objects,  and  enable  us  to  discover 
in  them  a  beauty  which  is  invisible,  because 
it  is  non-existent  to  every  other  eye. 

In  all  the  cases  we  have  hitherto  consid- 
ered, the  external  object  is  supposed  to  have 
acquired  its  beauty  by  being  actually  connec- 
ted with  the  causes  of  our  natural  emotions, 
either  as  a  constant  sign  of  their  existence, 
or  as  being  casually  present  on  the  ordinary 
occasions  of  their  excitement.  There  is  a  re- 
lation, however,  of  another  kind,  to  which 
also  it  is  necessary  to  attend,  both  to  eluci- 
date the  general  grounds  of  the  theory,  and 
lo  explain  several  appearances  that  might 
otherwise  expose  it  to  objections.  This  is  the 
lelation  which  external  objects  may  bear  to 
our  internal  feelings,  and  the  power  they  may 
consequently  acquire  of  suggesting  themj  in 


consequence  of  a  sort  of  resemblance  or  an- 
alogy which  they  seem  to  have  to  their  natu- 
ral and  appropriate  objects.  The  language 
of  Poetry  is  founded,  in  a  great  degree,  upon 
this  analogy;  and  all  language,  indeed,  is  full 
of  it;  and  "attests,  by  its  .structure.,  both  the 
extent  to  which  it  is  sjwutaneously  pursued, 
and  the  effects  that  are  proiluced  by  its  sug- 
gestion. We  take  a  familiar  instance  from 
the  elegant  writer  to  whom  we  have  already 
referred . 

"  What,  for  instance,  is  the  leading  impres- 
sion we  receive  from  the  scenery  of  spring? 
The  soft  and  gentle  green  with  which  the 
earth  is  spread,  the  feeble  texture  of  the 
plants  and  flowers,  and  the  remains  of  winter 
yet  lingering  among  the  woods  and  hills — 
all  conspire  to  infuse  into  our  minds  some- 
what of  that  fearful  tenderness  with  which 
infancy  is  usually  beheld.  With  such  a  sen- 
timent, how  innumerable  are  the  ideas  which 
present  themselves  to  our  imagination  !  ideas, 
it  is  apparent,  by  no  means  confined  to  the 
scene  before  our  eyes,  or  to  the  possible  deso- 
lation which  may  yet  await  its  infant  beauty, 
but  which  almost  involuntarily  extend  them- 
selves to  analogies  with  the  life  of  man !  and 
bring  before  us  all  those  images  of  hope  or 
fear,  which,  according  to  our  peculiar  situa- 
tions, have  the  dominion  of  our  hearts!  The 
beauty  of  autumn  is  accompanied  with,  a 
similar  exercise  of  thought :  the  leaves  begin 
then  to  drop  from  the  trees;  the  flowers  and 
shrubs,  with  which  the  fields  were  adorned 
in  the  summer  months,  decay;  the  woods 
and  groves  are  silent ;  the  sun  himself  seems 
gradually  to  withdraw  his  light,  or  to  become 
enfeebled  in  his  power.  Who  is  there,  who, 
at  this  season,  does  not  feel  his  mind  impres- 
sed with  a  sentiment  of  melancholy?  or  who 
is  able  to  resist  that  current  of  thought, 
which,  from  such  appearances  of  decay,  so 
naturally  leads  him  to  the  solemn  imagina- 
tion of  that  inevitable  fate,  which  is  to  bring 
on  alike  the  decay  of  life,  of  empire,  and  of  na- 
ture it  self  V 

A  thousand  such  analogies,  indeed,  are  sug- 
gested to  us  by  the  most  familiar  aspects  of 
nature.  The  morning  and  the  evening  pre- 
sent the  same  ready  picture  of  youth  and  of 
closing  life,  as  the  various  vicissitudes  of  the 
year.  The  withering  of  fiowers  images  out 
to  us  the  langour  of  beauty,  or  the  sickness  of 
childhood.  The  loud  roar  of  troubled  waters 
seems  to  bear  some  resemblance  to  the  voice 
of  lamentation  or  violence ;  and  the  softer 
murmur  of  brighter  streams,  to  be  expressive 
of  cheerfulness  and  innocence.  The  purity 
anil  transparency  of  v/ater  or  of  air.  indeed, 
is  universally  itself  felt  to  be  expressive  of 
mental  purity  and  gaiety;  and  their  darkness 
or  turbulence,  of  mental  irloom  and  dejection. 
The  genial  warmth  of  autumn  suggests  to  us 
the  feeling  of  mild  benevolence: — the  sunny 
gleams  and  fitful  ?howcis  of  early  spring,  re- 
mind us  of  the  waywardness  of  infancy;— 
flowers  waving  on  their  slender  stem.'',  im- 
press us  with  the  notion  of  flexibility  and 
lightness  of  temper.  All  i\w,  and  delicate 
forms  are  typical  of  delicacy  and  gentleness 
c  2 


30 


LITERATlTxE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


of  character-  and  almost  all  forms,  bounded  the  poet  has  connected  with  human  emotions, 
by  waving  or  flowing  lines,  puggest  ideas  of  i  a  variet)-  of  objects,  to  which  common  minda 
easy  movement,  social  pliability,  and  ele- ;  could  not  discover  such  a  relation.  What  the 
gance.  Rapid  and  inii)etuous  motion  seems  '  poet  does  for  his  readers,  however,  by  his 
to  be  emblematical  of  violence  and  passion;  !  original  similes  and  metaphors,  in  these  high- 
— slow  and  steady  motion,  of  deliberation,  ;  er  cases,  even  the  dullest  of  those  readers  ilo, 
dignity,  and  resolution; — fluttering  motion,  of  :  in  some  degree,  every  day,  for  themselves; 
iiicoustuncy  or  terror; — and  waving  motion,  '  and  the  beauty  which  is  perceived,  when 
acx'ordiiig  as  it  is  slow  or  swift,  of  sadness  or  natural  objects  are  unexpectedly  vivified  by 
playfulness.  A  lofty  lower,  or  a  massive  '  the  glowing  fancy  of  the  former,  is  precisely' 
buildiiiif,  gives  us  at"  once  the  idea  of  firm-  |  of  the  same  kind  that  is  felt  when  the  close- 
ness and  elevation  of  character ; — a  rock  bat-  j  ness  of  the  analogy  enables  them  to  force  hu- 
tered  by  the  waves,  of  fortitude  in  adversity,    man  feelings  upon  the  recollection  of  all  rnan- 


Slillnes.s  and  calmness,  in  the  water  or  the  air, 
seem  to  shadow  out  tenderness,  indolence, 
and  placidity: — mooidight  we  call  pensive 
and  gentle: — and  the  unclouded  sun  gives  us 
an  impression  of  exulting  vigour,  and  domi- 
neering anibilion  and  iriory. 

It  is  not  (litiicult;  willi  the  assistance  which 
langiKu^e  aiiords  us,  to  trace  the  origin  of  all 
these,,  and  a  thousand  other  associations.  In 
many  insUance-s.  the  qualities  which  thus  sug- 
gest mental  emotions,  do  actually  resemble 
their  constant  concomitants  in  human  nature: 
as  is  obviously  the  case  with  the  forms  and 
motions  which  are  sublime  and  beautiful : 
and,  in  some,  their  effects  and  relations  bear 
so  obvious  an  analogy  to  those  of  human  con- 
duct or  feeling,  as  to  force  itself  upon  the  no- 
tice of  the  most  careless  beholder.  But.  what- 
ever may  have  been  their  original,  the  very 
structure  of  language  attests  the  vast  extent 
to  which  they  have  been  carried,  and  the  na- 
ture of  the  sucfgestions  to  which  they  are  in- 
debted for  their  interest  or  beauty.  Since  we 
all  speak  familiarly  of  the  sparkling  of  wit — 
and  the  darkness  of  melancholy — can  it  be 
any  way  dilncnlt  to  conceive  that  bright  light 
may  be  agreeable,  because  it  reminds  us  of 
gaiety — ant!  darkness  oppressive,  because  it 
is  felt  to  be  emblematical  of  .sorrow  1  It  is 
very  remarkable,  indeed,  that,  while  almost 
all  the  words  by  which  the  afTections  of  the 
mind  are  expressed,  seem  lo  have  been  bor- 
rowed originally  from  the  qualities  of  matter, 
the  epithets  by  which  we  learn  afterwards  to 
distinguish  such  material  objects  as  are  felt 
to  be  sublime  or  beautiful,  are  all  of  them 
epithets  that  liad  been  previou.sly  appropri- 
ated to  express  some  (juality  or  emotion  of 
raind.  Colours  are  thus  familiarly  said  to  be 
g;xy  or  grave — motions  to  be  lively,  or  delib- 
erate, or  capricious — forms  to  be  delicate  or 
modest — sounds  to  be  animated  or  mournful 
— prospects  to  be  cheerful  or  melancholy — 
rocks  to  be  bold — waters  to  be  tranquil — and 
a  tlionsaiiil  other  jjlirasesof  the  same  import : 
all  indicating,  most  unequivocally,  the  sources 
from  which  our  interest  in  matter  is  derived, 
and  proving,  that  it  is  necessary,  in  all  case.<5. 
to  confer  mind  and  feeling  upon  it,  before  it 
can  be  conceived  as  either  sublime  or  beauti- 
ful. The  great  charm,  indeed,  and  the  great 
secret  of  poetical  diction,  consists  in  thus 
lending  life  antl  emotion  lo  all  the  objt>cts  it 
embraces;  and  the  enchanting  beauty  which 
we  som-'times  recognise  in  descriptions  of 
Ver)'  ordinary  phenomena,  will  be  found  to 
arise  from  the  force  of  imagination,  by  which  , 


kind.  As  the  poet  .sees  more  of  beauty  in 
nature  than  ordinary  mortals,  just  because 
he  perceives  more  of  these  analogies  and 
relations  to  social  emotion,  in  which  all 
beauty  coi;sisls;  so  other  men  see  more  or 
less  of  this  beauty,  e.xactly  as  they  hap- 
pen to  possess  that  fancy,  or  those  hiibits, 
which  enable  them  readily  to  trace  out  these 
rt-lations. 
<  /  From  all  these  sources  of  evidence,  then, 
we  think  it  is  pretty  well  made  out,  that  the 
beauty  or  sublimity  of  external  objects  is  no- 
thing but  the  reflection  of  emotions  excited 
by  the  feelings  or  condition  of  sentient  be- 
ings: and  is  produced  altogether  by  certain 
little  portions,  as  it  were,  of  love.  joy.  pity, 
veneration,  or  terror,  that  adhere  to  the  ob- 
jects that  were  present  on  the  occasions  of 
such  emotions. — Nor,  after  what  we  have  al- 
ready said,  does  it  seem  necessary  to  reply 
to  more  than  one  of  the  objections  to  whicn 
we  are  aware  that  this  theory  is  liable. — [f 
beauty  be  nothing  more  than  a  reflection  of 
love.  pity,  or  veneration,  how  comes  it,  it  may 
be  asked,  to  be  distinguished  from  these  sen- 
timents"?  They  are  never  confounded  with 
each  other,  either  in  our  feelings  or  our  lan- 
guage:— Why,  then,  should  they  all  be  con- 
founded under  the  common  name  of  beauty  1 
and  why  should  beauty,  in  all  cases,  afl'ect  us 
in  a  way  so  difl^erent  irom  the  love  or  com- 
passion of  which  it  is  said  to  be  merely  the 
reflection'? 

Now,  to  these  questions,  we  are  somewhat 
tempted  to  answer,  after  the  manner  of  our 
couutiy,  by  asking,  in  our  turn,  whether  it  be 
really  true,  that  beauty  always  affects  us  in 
one  and  the  same  manner,  and  always  in  a 
diflerent  manner  from  the  simple  and  ele- 
mentary affections  which  it  is  its  office  to 
recal  to  us"?  In  very  many  ca=:e.s,  it  appeal 
to  us,  that  the  sens;itions  which  we  receive 
from  objects  that  are  felt  lo  be  beautiful,  and 
that  in  the  highest  degiec,  do  not  differ  at  all 
from  the  direct  movements  of  tenderness  or 
pity  towards  sentient  beings.  If  the  epithet 
of  beauty  be  correctly  (as  it  is  universally)  np- 
plied  to  many  of  the  most  admired  and  vn- 
chanting  passages  in  poetry,  which  consist 
entirely  in  the  expression  of  affecting  senti- 
ments, the  question  would  be  speedily  de- 
cided :  and  it  is  a  fact,  at  all  events,  too 
remarkable  to  be  omitted,  that  some  of  the 
most  powerful  and  delightful  emotions  that 
are  uniformly  classed  under  this  name,  arise 
altogether  from  the  direct  influence  of  such  i^Stfji! 
pathetic  emotions,  without  the  intervention 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


of  any  material  imagery.  We  do  not  wish, 
however,  to  dwell  upon  an  argument,  which 
certainly  is  not  applicable  to  al!  parts  of  the 
question;  and,  admitting  that,  on  many  oc- 
casions, the  feelings  ^\•hich  we  experience 
from  beauty,  are  sensibly  difTerent  from  the 
primary  emotions  hi  which  we  think  they 
originate,  we  shall  endeavour  in  a  very  few 
words,  to  give  an  explanation  of  this  difler- 
ence,  which  seems  to  be  perfectly  consist- 
ent with  the  theory  we  have  undertaken  to 
illustrate.  -     ; 

In  the  first  place,  it  should  make  some  dif- 
ference on  the  primary  afTections  to  which 
we  have  alluded,  that,  in  the  cases  alluded  to, 
they  are  rejitctcd  from  material  objects,  and 
not  directly  excited  by  their  natural  causes. 
[  The  light  of  the  moon   has  a  very  different 
I  complexion  from  that  of  the  sun; — though  it 
1  is  in  substance  the  sun's  light :  and  glimpses 
of  interesting,  or  even   of  familiar   objects, 
caught  unexpectedly  from  a  mirror  placed  at 
a  distance  from  these  objects,  will  affect  us, 
like  sudden  allusions  in  poetry,  very  differ- 
ently from  the  natural  perception  of  those  ob- 
jects in  their  ordinary  relations.     In  the  ne.xt 
place,  the  emotion,  when  suggested  in  the 
shape  of  beauty,  comes  upon  us,  for  the  most 
part,  disencumbered  of  all  those  accompani- 
ments which  frequently  give  it  a  peculiar  and 
less  satisfactory  character,  when  it  arises  from 
direct  intercouise  with  its  living  objects.  The 
compassion,  for  example,  that  is  suggested  by 
beauty  of  a  gentle  and  winning  description,  is 
not  attended  with  any  of  that  disgust  and  un- 
easiness  which    frequently   accompany   the 
sp H'tacle  of  real  distress;  nor  with  that  im- 
p^iiiiinate  suggestion  of  the  duty  of  relieving 
It.  !iom  which  it  is  almost  inseparable.     Nor 
d'ii'-  the  temporary  delight  which  we  receive 
fro;!!  beauty  of  a  gay  and  animating  charac- 
ter, call  upon  us  for  any  such  expenditure  of 
=   '  \'^.  or  active  demonstrations  of  sympathy, 
■  sometimes  demanded   by  the  turbu- 
'   of  real  joy.     In  the  third  place,    the 
ion  of  beauty,  being  partly  founded  upon 
■i;i,  IS  far  more  transitory  in  its  own  na- 
.  and  is  both  more  apt  to  fluctuate  and 
ill  its  character,  and  more  capable  of 
_  dismissed  at  pleasure,  than  any  of  the 
ry  affections,  whose  shadow  and  repre- 
rive  it  is.     In  the  fourth  place,  the  per- 
lu  of  beauty  implies  a  certain  exercise 
■  imairination  that  is  not  required  in  the 
of  direct  emotion,  and  is  sufficient,  of  it- 
i'Oth  to  give  a  new  character  to  every 
ii)n  that  is  susfgested  by  the  intervention 
'h  an  exercise,  and  to  account  for  our 
ig  all  the  various  emotions  that  are  .so 
__  ^;ted  under  the  same  denomination  of 
ty.     When  we  are  injured,  we  feel  in- 
_    at  ion — when  we  are  wounded,  we  feel 
— when  we  see  suffering,  we  feel  com- 
-iori — and  when  we  witness  any  splendid 
i"  heroism  or  generosity,  we  feel  admira- 
— without  any  effort  of  the  imagination, 
;•"  intervention  of  any  picture  or  vision  in 
.-•  mind.     But  wht-n  we  feel  indignation  or 
iiy.  or  admiration,  in  consequence  of  seeing 
>iue  piece  of  inanimate  matter  that  merely 


I  suggests  or  recals  to  us  the  ordinary  causes 
]  or  proper  objects  of  these  emotions,  it  is  evi- 
1  dent  that  our  fancy  is  kindled  by  a  sudden 
I  Hash  of  recollection ;  and  that  the  eftect  is 
produced  by  means  of  a  certain  poetical  crea- 
tion that  is  instantly  conjured  up  in  the  mind. 
:  It  is  this  active  and"  heated  state  of  the  ima- 
i  gination,  and  this  divided  and  bu.sy  occupa- 
tion of  the  mind,  that  constitute   the   great 
peculiarity  of  the   emotions  we   experience 
from  the  perception  of  beauty.  . 

I  Finally,  and  this  is  perhaps  the  most  im-  A 
portant  consideration  of  the  whole,  it  should 
1  be  recollected,  that,  along  with  the  shadow  or 
suggestion  of  associated  emotions,  there  is 
ahvays  present  a  real  and  direct  perception, 
which  not  only  gives  a  force  and  liveliness  to 
all  the  images  which  it  suggests,  but  seems 
to  impart  to  them  some  share  of  its  own 
reality.  That  there  is  an  illusion  of  this  kind 
in  the  case,  is  sufficiently  demonstrated  by 
the  fact,  that  we  invariably  ascribe  the  inter- 
est, which  we  think  has  been  proved  to  arise 
wholly  from  these  associatiotis,  to  the  object 
itself,  as  one  of  its  actual  and  inherent  quali- 
ties; and  consider  its  beauty  as  no  less  a  prop- 
erty belonging  to  it,  than  any  of  its  physical 
attributes.  The  associated  interest,  there- 
fore, is  beyond  all  doubt  confounded  with  the 
present  perception  of  the  object  itself;  and  a 
livelier  and  more  instant  impression  is  accord- 
ingly made  upon  the  mind,  than  if  the  inter- 
esting conceptions  had  been  merely  excited 
in  the  memory  by  the  u.sual  operation  of  re- 
flection or  voluntary  meditation.  Something 
analogous  to  this  is  familiarly  known  to  occur 
in  other  cases.  When  we  merely  think  of  an 
absent  friend,  our  emotions  are  incomparably 
less  lively  than  when  the  recollection  of  him 
is  suddenly  suggested  by  the  unexpected 
sight  of  his  picture,  of  the  house  where  he 
dwelt,  or  the  spot  on  which  we  last  parted 
from  him— ^d  all  these  objects  seem  for  the 
moment  t^^^ear  the  colours  of  our  own  asso- 
ciated affections.  When  Captain  Cook's  com- 
panions found,  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the 
habitable  globe,  a  broken  spoon  with  the  word 
London  stamped  upon  it — and  burst  into  tears 
at  the  sight ! — they  proved  how  differently  we 
may  be  moved  by  emotions  thus  connected 
with  the  real  presence  of  an  actual  percep- 
tion, than  by  the  mere  recollection  of  the  ob- 
jects on  which  those  emotions  depend.  Every 
one  of  them  had  probably  thought  of  London 
every  day  since  he  left  it ;  and  many  of  them 
might  have  been  talking  of  it  with  tranquilli- 
ty, but  a  moment  before  this  more  effectual 
appeal  was  made  to  their  sensibility. 

If  we  add  to  all  this,  that  there  is  necessa- 
rily something  of  vagueness  and  variableness 
in  the  emotions  most  generally  excited  by  the 
perception  of  beauty,  and  that  the  mind  wan- 
ders with  the  eye,  over  the  different  objects 
which  may  supply  these  emotions,  with  a 
depree  of  unsteadiness,  and  half  voluntary 
half  involuntary  fluctuation,  we  may  come  to 
understand  how  the  effect  not  only  should  be 
essentially  different  from  thnt  of  the  simple 
presentment  of  any  one  interesthig  concep- 
tion, but  should  acquire  a  peculiarity  which 


32 


LITEPxATURE  AND  BIOGRAPm', 


entitle;?  it  to  a  difTerent  denomination.  Most 
of  the  associations  of  which  we  have  been  last 
speaking,  as  being  founded  on  the  analogies 
or  fanciful  resemblances  that  are  felt  to  exist 
between  physical  objects  and  qualities,  and 
the  interesting  affections  of  mind,  are  intrin- 
sically of  thi.s  vague  and  wavering  descrip- 
tion— and  when  we  loOk  at  a  tine  landscape, 
or  any  other  scene  of  complicated  beauty,  a 
great  variety  of  such  images  are  suddenly 
presented  to  the  fancy,  ami  as  suddenly  suc- 
ceeded by  others,  as  the  eye  ranges  over  the 
different  features  of  which  it  is  comjwsed.  and 
feeds  upon  the  charms  which  it  discloses. 
Now.  the  direct  perception,  in  all  such  cases, 
not  only  perpetually  acc^mjanies  the  asso- 
ciated emotion.",  but  is  inextricably  con- 
founded with  them  in  our  feelings,  and  is 
even  recognised  uj^n  reflection  as  the  cau.se, 
not  merely  of  then-  unusual  strength,  but  of 
the  several  peculiarities  by  which  we  have 
shown  that  they  are  distinguished.  It  is  not 
wonderful,  therefore,  either  that  emotions  go 
circumstanced  should  not  be  classed  along 
with  similar  affections,  e.vcited  under  different 
circumstances,  or  that  the  perception  of  pre- 
sent e.vistence,  thus  mi.ved  up,  and  indis.solu- 
bly  confounded  with  interesting  conceptions, 
should  between  them  produce  a  sensation  of 
so  distinct  a  nature  as  natural!}-  to  be  di.stin- 
guished  by  a  peculiar  name — or  that  the 
beauty  which  results  from  this  combination 
should,  in  ordinary  language,  be  ascribed  to 
the  objects  them.selves — the  presence  and 
perception  of  which  is  a  neces.Siiry  condition 
of  its  existence. 

What  we  have  now  said  is  enough,  we  be- 
lieve, to  give  an  attentive  reader  that  general 
conception  of  the  theory  before  us.  which  is 
all  that  we  can  hope  to  give  in  the  narrow 
limits  to  which  we  are  confined.  It  may  be 
observed,  however,  that  we  have  spoken  onl}- 
of  thcie  .>iorts  of  beauty  which  we  think  capa- 
ble of  being  resolved  into  some  passion,  or 
emotion,  or  pretty  lively  sentiment  of  our  na- 
ture; and  tliough  these  are  undoubtedly  the 
highest  and  most  decided  kinds  of  beauty,  it 
is  certain  that  there  are  many  thinirs  called 
beautiful  which  cannot  claim  so  lofty  a  con- 
nection. It  is  necessary,  therefore,  to  observe, 
that,  thouirh  every  thing  that  excites  any  feel- 
ing worthy  to  be  calJeil  an  emotion,  by  its 
beauty  or  sublimity,  will  be  found  to  be  re- 
lated to  the  natural  objects  of  human  passions 
or  affections,  there  are  many  things  which  are 

Eleasina  or  agreeable  enouirh  to  be  called 
eautiful,  in  consequence  of  their  relation 
merely  to  human  convenience  and  comfort ; — 
many  others  that  please  by  suirgestiiis  ideas 
of  human  skill  and  ingenuity: — and  many  I 
that  obtain  the  name  of  beautiful,  by  being 
a.ssociate<l  with  human  fortune,  vanity,  or  , 
splendour.  After  what  has  been  alreadysaid,  ! 
it  will  not  be  necessary  either  to  exemplify  or  . 
explain  these  subordinate  jihenomena.  It  is  ) 
enouirii  merely  to  suggest,  that  they  all  please  | 
upon  the  siune  great  princi])le  o( sympathy  icith 
hvman  fcelins:^:  and  are  explained  by  the' 
simple  and  indispntable  fact,  that  we  are  , 
pleased   with   the  direct    contemplation    of  I 


human  comfort,  ingenuity,  and  fortune.  All 
these,  indeed,  obviously  resolve  themselves 
into  the  great  object  of  sympathy — human 
enjoyment.  Convenience  and  comfort  is  but 
another  name  for  a  lower,  but  very  indispen- 
sable ingredient  of  that  emotion.  Skill  and 
ingenuity  readily  present  themselves  as  means 
by  which  enjoyment  may  be  promoted  ;  and 
high  fortune,  and  opulence,  and  splendour, 
pass,  at  least  at  a  distance,  for  its  certain 
cau.ses  and  attendants.  The  beauty  of  fitness 
and  adaptation  of  parts,  even  in  the  works  of 
nature,  is  derived  from  the  same  feuntain — 
partly  by  means  of  its  obvious  analogy  to 
works  of  human  skill,  and  partly  by  sugges- 
tions of  that  Creative  power  and  wistlom,  to 
which  all  human  destiny  is  subjected.  The 
feelings,  therefore,  associated  with  all  those 
qualities,  though  scarcely  rising  to  the  height 
of  emotion,  are  obviously  in  a  certain  degree 
pleasing  or  interesting;  and  when  several  of 
them  happen  to  be  united  in  one  object,  may 
accumulate  to  a  very  great  degiee  of  beauty. 
It  is  needle.=s.  we  think,  to  pursue  these  gene- 
ral propositions  through  all  the  details  to 
which  they  so  obviou.^ly  lead.  We  shall  con- 
fine ourselves,  therefore,  to  a  very  few  remarks 
upon  the  beauty  of  architectuie — and  chiefly 
as  an  illustration  of  our  general  position. 

There  are  few  things,  about  which  men  of 
virtii  are  more  apt  to  rave,  than  the  merits  of 
the  Grecian  architecture;  and  most  of  those 
who  affect  an  uncommon  purity  ami  delicacy 
of  taste,  talk  of  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  its  pro- 
portions as  a  thing  not  to  be  disputed,  except 
by  barbarian  ignorance  and  stupidity.  Mr. 
Alison,  we  think,  was  the  fir.st  who  gave  a 
full  and  convincing  refutation  of  this  myste- 
rious dogma:  and,  while  he  admits,  in  !lie 
most  ample  terms,  the  actual  beauty  of  the 
objects  in  question,  has  shown,  we  think,  in 
the  clearest  manT'Cr.  that  it  arises  entirely 
from  the  combination  of  the  following  asso- 
ciations:— 1st,  The  association  of  utility,  cn- 
venience.  or  fitness  for  the  purposes  o;  the  j 
building:  2d;  Of  security  and  .«tal>ility;  wiili  a 
view  to  the  nature  of  the  materials:  3d.  Of 
the  skill  and  power  re(|uisile  to  mould  such 
materials  into  ibrms  so  commodious:  -llh.  Qf 
magnificence,  and  .t^plendour.  and  exptMise: 
5lh.  Of  antiquity;  and.  6lhly,  Of  Roman  and 
Grecian  greatness.  Hisob.servations  are  sum- 
med up  in  the  following  short  sentence. 

•The  proportions,"'  he  observes,  'of  these 
orders,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  are  distinct 
subjects  of  beauty,  from  {ho  ornaments  with 
which  they  are  embellished,  from  the  magni- 
ficence  with  which  they  are  executed,  from, 
the  purposes  of  elegance  they  are  intended  to 
sei-ve,  or  the  scenes  of  grandeur  they  are  deed 
tined  to  atlorn.  It  is  in  such  scenes,  however, 
and  with  such  additions,  that  we  are  accus* 
tomed  to  observe  them;  aud.  vhile  we  feeS 
the  effect  of  all  iht  se  accitU  r.tal  a^scciation 
we  are  seldom  willing  to  examine  \\  hat  are 
the  causes  of  the  complex  f motion  we  feel 
and  readily  attribute  to  the  nature  of  the  ar 
chitecture  itself,  the  whole  pleasure  which  vrt 
enjoy.  But,  besides  these,  there  are  olhe 
associations  we  have  with  these  ibnns,  tha 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


33 


Ptill  more  powerfully  serve  to  command  our 
ftdmiration:  for  they  are  the  Grecian  orders; 
they  derive  their  origin  from  those  times,  aiul 
were  the  ornament  of  those  countries  which 
are  most  hallowed  in  our  imaginations;  and  it 
is  dithcult  for  us  to  see  them,  even  in  their 
modern  copieS;  without  feeling  them  operate 
upon  our  minds  as  relics  of  those  polislied 
nations  wheje  they  first  arose,  and  of  that 
greater  people  by  whom  they  were  afterwart* 
borroweiL"' 

This  analysis  is  to  us  perfectly  satisfactory. 
But,  indeed,  we  cannot  conceive  any  more 
complete  refutation  of  the  notion  of  an  in- 
trinsic and  inherent  beauty  in  the  proportions 
of  the  Grecian  architecture,  than  the  fact  of 
the  admitted  beauty  of  such  very  opposite 
proportions  in  the  Gothic.  Opposite  as  they 
are,  however,  the  great  elements  of  beauty 
are  the  same  in  this  style  as  in  the  other — 
the  impressions  of  religious  awe  and  of  chi- 
valrous recollections,  coming  here  in  place  of 
the  classical  associations  which  constitute  so 
great  a  share  of  the  interest  of  the  former.  It 
is  well  observed  too  by  Mr.  Alison,  that  the 

eat  duiability  and  costliness  of  the  produc- 


art.  have  had  the  effect,  in  almost 


great  duiabi 

rtions  of  this  ; 
all  regions  of  the  world,  of  rendering  their 
Fashion  permanent,  after  it  had  once  attained 
such  a  degree  of  perfection  as  to  fulfil  its 
substantial  purposes. 

"Buildings."  he  observes,  "may  last,  and 
are  intended  to  last  for  centuries.  The  life 
of  man  is  very  inadequate  to  the  duration  of 
suoh  productions ;  and  the  present  period  of 
the  world,  though  old  with  respect  to  those 
arts  which  are  employed  upon  perishable  sub- 
jects, is  yet  young  in  relation  to  an  art,  which 
IS  employed  upon  so  durable  materials  as 
those  of  architecture.  Instead  of  a  few  years, 
therefore,  centuries  must  pi-obably  pass  before 
such  productions  demand  to  be  renewed; 
and,  long  before  that  period  is  elapsed,  the 
sacredness  of  antiquity  is  acquired  by  the 
subject  itself,  and  a  new  motive  given  for  the 
preservation  of  similar  forms.  lu  every  coun- 
try, accordingly,  the  same  effect  has  taken 
place :  and  the  same  causes  which  have  thus 
siMved  to  produce  among  us,  for  so  many 
yi-ars,  an  uniformity  of  taste  with  regurd  to 
tliH  style  of  Grecian  architecture,  have  pro- 
duced also  among  the  nations  of  the  East,  for 
a  much  longer  course  of  time,  a  similar  uni- 
formity of  taste  with  regard  to  their  orna- 
nienlai  style  of  architecture:  and  have  per- 
petuated among  them  the  same  forms  which 
were  in  use  among  their  forefathers,  before 
the  Grecian  orders  were  mvented." 

It  is  not  necessary,  we  think,  to  carry  these 
illustrations  any  farther :  as  the  theory  they 
are  intended  to  explain,  is  now,  we  believe, 
universally  adopted,  though  with  some  limita- 
tions, which  we  see  no  reason  to  retain.  Those 
suggested  by  Mr.  Alison,  we  have  already  en- 
deavoured to  dispose  of  in  the  few  remarks 
we  have  made  upon  his  publication;  and  it 

i  only  remains  to  say  a  word  or  two  more  upon 
Mr.  Knight's  doctrine  as  to  the  primitive  and 
independent  beauty  of  colours,  upon  which 
ue  have  already  hazarded  some  remarks. 
5 


Agreeing  as  he  does  with  Mr.  Alison,  and 
all  modern  inquirers,  that  the  whole  beauty 
of  objects  consists,  in  the  far  greater  number 
of  instances,  in  the  associations  to  which  we 
have  alluded,  he  still  maintains,  that  some 
few  visible  objects  affect  us  with  a  sense  of 
beauty  in  consequence  of  the  pleasurable  im- 
pression they  make  upon  the  sense — and  that 
our  perception  of  beauty  is,  in  these  instances, 
a  mere  organic  sensation.  Now,  we  have 
ahead)-  stated,  that  it  would  be  sometliing 
quite  unexampled  in  the  history  either  of 
mind  or  of  language,  if  certain  physical  and 
bodily  sensations  should  thus  be  confounded 
with  moral  and  social  feelings  with  which 
the}-  had  no  coiniection,  and  pass  familiarly 
under  one  and  the  same  name.  Beauty  con- 
sists confessedly,  in  almost  all  cases,  in  the 
suggestion  of  moral  or  social  emotions,  mixed 
up  and  modified  by  a  present  sensation  or 
perception ;  and  it  is  this  suggestion,  and  this 
identification  with  a  present  object,  that  con- 
stitutes its  essence,  and  gives  a  common 
character  to  the  whole  class  of  feelings  it 
produces,  sufficient  to  justify  their  being  de- 
signated by  a  common  appellation.  If  the 
word  beauty,  in  short,  must  mean  something, 
and  if  this  be  very  clearly  what  it  means,  in 
all  the  remarkable  instances  of  its  occurrence, 
it  is  difficult  to  conceive,  that  it  should  occa- 
sionally mean  something  quite  different,  and 
denote  a  mere  sensual  or  physical  gratifica- 
tion, unaccompanied  by  the  suggestion  of  any 
moral  emotion  whatever.  According  to  Mr. 
Knight,  however,  and,  indeed,  to  many  other 
writers,  this  is  the  case  with  regard  to  the 
beauty  of  colours;  which  depends  altogether, 
they  say,  upon  the  delight  which  the  eye 
naturally  takes  in  their  contemplation — this 
delight  being  just  as  primitive  and  sensual  as 
that  which  the  palate  receives  from  the  con- 
tact of  agreeable  flavours. 

It  must  be  admitted,  we  think,  in  the  first 
place,  that  such  an  alleg-ation  is  in  itself  ex- 
tremely improbable,  and  contrary  to  all  anal- 
ogy, and  all  experience  of  the  structure  of 
lang-uage,  or  of  the  laws  of  thought.  It  is 
farther  to  be  .considered,  too.  that  if  the  plea- 
sures of  the  senses  are  ever  to  be  considered 
as  beautiful,  those  pleasures  which  are  the 
most  lively  and  important  would  be  the  most 
likely  to  usurp  this  denomination,  and  to  take 
rank  with  the  higher  gratifications  that  result 
fiom  the  perception  of  beauty.  Now,  it  ad- 
mits of  no  dispute,  that  the  mere  organic 
pleasures  of  the  eye  (if  indeed  they  have  any 
existence)  are  far  inferior  to  those  of  the 
palate,  the  touch,  and  indeed  almost  all  the 
other  senses — none  of  which,  however,  are  in 
any  case  confounded  with  the  sense  of  beauty. 
In  the  next  place,  it  should  follow,  that  if 
what  affords  organic  pleasure  to  the  eye  be 
properly  called  beautiful,  what  offends  or 
gives  pain  to  it,  should  be  called  ugly.  Now, 
excessive  or  dazzling  light  is  offensive  to  the 
eye — but,  considered  by  itself,  it  is  never 
called  ugly,  but  only  painful  or  disagreeable. 
The  moderate  excitement  of  light,  on  the 
other  hand,  or  the  soothing  of  certain  bright 
but  temperate  colours,  when  considered  in 


34 


LITERATl^RE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


this  primar)-  aspect,  are  not  called  beautiful, 
but  only  agreeable  or'  refreshing.  So  far  as 
the  direct  otience  or  comfort  of  the  organ,  in 
short,  is  referred  to,  the  language  which  we 
use  relates  strictly  to  physical  or  bodily  sensa- 
tion, and  is  not  confounded  with  that  which 
relates  to  mental  emotion  ;  and  we  really  see 
no  ground  for  supposing  that  there  is  any  ex- 
ception to  this  rule. 

It  iH  very  remarkable,  indeed,  that  the, 
sense  whose  organic  gratification  is  here  sup- 
posed to  constitute  the  primary  feeling  of 
beautv.  should  be  one.  in  the  first  place, 
whose  direct  organic  gratifications  are  of  very 
little  force  or  intensity: — and,  in  the  ne.\t 
place,  one  whose  oHice  it  is,  almost  e.xclu- 
eivelv.  to  make  us  acquainted  with  the  e.xist- 
enceand  properties  of  those  external  objects 
which  are  naturally  interesting  to  our  inward 
feelings  and  affections.  This  peculiarity 
makes  it  (at  the  very  least)  extremely  proba- 
ble, that  ideas  of  emotion  should  be  associnfcd 
with  the  perceptions  of  this  sense ;  but  ex- 
tremely improbable,  that  its  naked  and  unas- 
sociated  sensations  should  in  any  case  be 
classed  with  such  emotions.  If  the  name  of 
beauty  were  given  to  what  directly  gratifies 
any  sense,  such  as  that  of  tasting  or  smelling, 
which  does  i^ot  make  us  acquainted  with  the 
nature  or  relations  of  outward  objects,  there 
would  be  less  room  for  such  an  explanation. 
But  when  it  is  the  business  of  a  particular 
sense  or  organ  to  introduce  to  our  knowledge 
those  objects  which  are  naturally  connected 
■with  ideas  of  emotion,  it  is  easy  to  understand 
how  its  perceptions  should  be  associated  with 
these  emotions,  and  an  interest  and  impor- 
tance thus  e.xtended  to  them,  that  belong  to 
the  intimations  of  no  other  bodily  organ.  But, 
for  those  very  reasons,  we  should  be  prepared 
to  suspect,  that  all  tfie  interest  they  possess 
is  derived  from  this  association;  and  to  dis- 
trust the  accuracy  of  any  observations  that 
might  lead  us  to  conclude  that  its  mere  or- 
ganic impulses  ever  produced  any  thing  akin 
to  those  associated  emotions,  or  entitled  to 
pass  under  their  name.  This  caution  Avill  i 
appear  still  more  reasonable,  when  it  is  con- 
sidered, that  all  the  other  qualities  of  visible  I 
objects,  except  only  their  colours,  are  now  | 
admitted  to  be  perfectly  indifferent  in  them- 1 
pelves,  and  to  possess  no  other  beauty  than  i 
they  may  derive  from  their  associations  with 
our  ordinary  affections.  There  are  \io  forms, 
for  example,  even  in  Mr.  Knight's  opinion, 
that  have  any  intrinsic  beauty,  or  any  power 
of  pleasing  or  affecting  us,  except  through 
their  associations,  or  affinities  to  mental  affec- 
tions, either  as  e.xpressive  of  fitness  and  utility, 
or  as  types  and  symbols  of  certain  moral  or 
intellectual  qualities,  in  which  the  sources  of 
our  interest  are  obvious.  Yet  the  form  of  an 
object  is  as  conspicuous  an  ingredient  of  its 
beauty  as  its  colour;  and  a  property,  too, 
which  seems  at  first  view  to  be  as  intrinsic- 
ally and  independently  pleasing.  Why,  then, 
should  we  persist  in  liolding  that  colours,  or 
combinations  of  colours,  please  from  being 
naf'iralhi  aijrceable  to  the  organ  of  sight,  when 
it  is  admitted  that  other  visible  qualities; 


which  seem  to  possess  the  same  power  of 
pleasing,  are  fomid,  upon  examination,  to  owe 
it  entirely  to  the  principle  of  association'? 

The  only  reason  that  can  be  assigned,  or 
that  actually  exists  for  this  distinction,  is,  that 
it  has  been  supposed  more  difficult  to  account 
for  the  beauty  of  colours,  upon  the  principles 
which  have  accounted  for  other  beauties,  or 
tfi  specify  the  particular  associations  by  virtue 
OT  which  they  could  acquire  this  quality. 
Now,  it  appears  to  us  that  there  is  no  such 
difficully  :  and  that  there  is  no  reason  what- 
ever for  holding  that  one  colour,  or  combina- 
tion of  colours,  is  more  pleasing  than  another, 
except  upon  the  same  grounds  of  association 
which  recommend  particular  forms,  motions, 
or  proportions.  It  appears  to  us.  that  the  or- 
ganic pleasures  of  the  eye  are  extremely  few 
and  insignificant.  It  is  hurt,  no  donbt,  by  an 
excessive  glare  of  light;  and  it  is  in  some  de- 
gree gratified,  perhaps,  by  a  moderate  degree 
of  it.  But  it  is  only  by  the  quantity  or  in- 
tensity of  the  light,  we  think,  that  it  is  so 
affected.  The  colour  of  it.  we  take  it,  is.  iu 
all  cases,  absolutely  indifferent.  But  it  is  the 
colour  only  that  is  called  beautiful  or  other- 
wise ;  ancl  these  qualities  we  think  it  very' 
plainly  derives  from  the  common  fountain  of 
association. 

In  the  first  place,  we  would  ask,  whether 
there  is  any  colour  that  is  beautiful  in  all 
situations'?  and,  in  the  next  place,  whether 
there  is  any  colour  that  is  not  beautiful  in 
some  situation  ?  With  regard  to  the  first,  take 
the  colours  that  are  most  commonly  referred 
to  as  intrinsically  beautiful — bright  and  soft 
green — clear  blue — bright  pink,  or  vermilion. 
The  first  is  unquestionably  beautiful  in  vernal 
woods  and  summer  meadows: — and,  we 
humbly  conceive,  is  beautiful,  because  it  is 
the  natural  sign  and  concomitant  of  those 
scenes  and  seasons  of  enjoyment.  Blue,  again, 
is  beautiful  in  the  vernal  sky; — and,  as  we  be- 
lieve, for  the  sake  of  the  pleasures  of  which 
such  skies  are  prolific ;  and  pink  is  beautiful 
on  the  cheeks  of  a  young  woman  or  the  leaves 
of  a  rose,  for  reasons  too  obvious  to  be  stated. 
We  have  associations  enough,  therefore,  to 
recommend  all  those  colours,  in  the  situations 
in  which  they  are  beautiful :  But,  strong  as 
these  associations  are.  they  are  unable  to 
make  them  universally  beautiful — or  beauti- 
ful, indeed,  in  any  other  situations.  Green 
would  not  be  beautiful  in  the  sky — nor  blue 
on  the  cheek — nor  vermilion  on  the  grass.  It 
may  be  said,  indeed,  that,  though  they  are 
always  recognised  as  beautiful  in  themselves, 
their  obvious  unfitness  in  such  situations  coun- 
teracts the  effect  of  their  beauty,  and  make 
an  opposite  impression,  as  of  something  mon- 
strous and  unnatural ;  and  that,  accordingly, 
they  are  all  beautiful  in  indifferent  situations, 
where  there  is  no  such  antagonist  principle — 
in  furniture,  dre!?.>*,  and  ornaments.  Now  the 
fact,  in  the  first  place,  is  not  so  ; — these  bright 
colours  being  but  seldom  and  sparingly  ad- 
mitted in  ornaments  or  works  of  art;  and  no 
man,  for  example,  choosinir  to  have  a  blue 
house,  or  a  green  ceiling,  or  a  pink  coat.  But, 
in  the  second  place,  if  the  fiacts  were  admitted, 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


we  think  it  obvious,  thai  the  general  beauty  of 
those  colours  would  be  pufRciently  accounted 
for  by  the  very  interesting  and  jiowerful  asso- 
ciations under  Mhich  all  of  them  are  so  fre- 
quently presented  bj'  the  hand  of  Nature. 
The  interest  we  take  in  female  beauty, — in 
vernal  delights, — in  unclouded  skies, — is  far 
too  lively  and  too  constantly  recurring,  not  to 
stamp  a  kindred  interest  upon  the  colours 
that  are  naturally  associated  wnth  such  ob- 
jects ;  and  to  make  us  regard  with  some  afl'ec- 
tion  and  delight  those  hues  that  remind  us  of 
them,  although  we  should  only  meet  them 
upon  a  fan,  or  a  dressing-box,  the  lining  of  a 
curtain,  or  the  back  of  a  screen.  Finally,  we 
beg  leave  to  observe,  that  all  bright  and  clear 
colours  are  naturally  typical  of  cheerfulness 
and  purity  of  mind,  and  are  hailed  as  em- 
blems of  moral  qualities,  to  which  no  one  can 
be  indifferent. 

With  re.gard  to  ugly  colours  again,  we  reallj- 
are  not  aw^re  of  any  to  which  that  epithet 
can  be  safely  applied.  Dull  and  dingy  hues 
are  usually  mentioned  as  in  themselves  the 
least  pleasing.  Yet  these  are  the  prevailing 
tints  in  many  beautiful  landscapes,  and  many 
admired  pictures.  They  are  also  the  most 
common  colours  that  are  chosen  for  dress 
(male  dress  at  lea.'^t), — for  building, — for  fur- 
niture,— where  the  consideration  of  beauty  is 
the  only  motive  for  the  choice.  In  fact,  the 
shaded  parts  of  all  coloured  objects  pass  into 
tints  of  this  description  : — nor  can  we  at  pre- 
sent recollect  any  one  colour,  which  we  could 
specify  as  in  itself  disagreeable,  without  run- 
ning counter  to  the  feelings  and  the  practice  of 
the  great  mass  of  mankind.  If  the  fact,  how- 
ever, were  otherwise,  and  if  certain  muddy 
and  dull  colours  were  universally  allowed  to 
be  disagreeable,  we  should  think  there  could 
be  no  difficulty  m  referring  these,  too,  to  na- 
tural associations.  Darkness,  and  all  that  ap- 
proaches it,  is  naturally  associated  with  ideas 
of  melancholy. — of  helplessness,  and  danger; 
— and  the  gloomy  hues  that  remind  us  of  it. 
or  seem  to  draw  upon  it,  must  .share  in  the 
same  associations.  Lurid,  ^skies,  too,  it  should 
be  observed,  and  turbid  waters,  and  unfruitful 
swamps,  and  drear}'  morasses,  are  the  natural 
and  most  common  wearers  of  these  dismal 
liveries.  It  is  from  these  that  we  first  become 
acquainted  with  them;  and  it  is  needless, 
therefore,  to  say,  that  such  objects  are  neces- 
sarily associated  with  ideas  of  discomfort,  and 
sadness,  and  danger ;  and  that  the  colours  that 
remind  us  of  them,  can  scarcely  fail  to  recal 
some  of  the  same  disagreeable  sensations. 

Enough,  however,  and  more  than  enough, 
has  been  said  about  the  supposed  primitive 
I  and  independant  beauty  of  separate  colours. 
I  It  is  chiedy  upon  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  their 
I  mixture  or  combinations  that  Mr.  Knight  and 
!  his  adherents  have  insisted;  —  and  it  is  no 
'■  doubt  quite  true,  that,  among  painters  and 
connoisseurs,  we  hear  a  great  deal  about  the 
harmony  and  composition  of  tints,  and  the 
charms  and  difficulties  of  a  judicious  colour- 
ing.   In  all  this,  however,  we  cannot  help  sus- 
pecting that  there  is  no  little  pedantry,  and  no 
little  jargon;  and  that  these  phrases,  when 


used  without  referenc#lo  the  practical  diffi- 
culties of  the  art,  which  must  go  for  nothing 
in  the  present  question,  really  mean  little  mof e 
than  the  true  and  natural  appearance  of  co- 
loured objects,  seen  through  the  same  tinted 
or  partially  obscure  medium  that  commonly 
constitutes  the  atmo-^phere  :  and  for  the  actual 
optical  effects  of  which  but  few  artists  know 
how  to  make  the  projier  allowance.  In  na- 
ture, we  know  of  no  discordant  or  offensive 
colouring,  except  what  may  be  referred  to  ■ 
some  accident  or  disaster  that  spoils  the  moral  ,  / 
or  sentimental  expression  of  the  scene,  and 
disturbs  the  associations  upon  which  all  its 
beauty,  whether  of  forms  or  of  hues,  seems 
to  us  very  plainly  dependent.  We  are  per- 
fectly aware,  that  ingenious  persons  have  been 
disposed  to  dogm.atize  and  to  speculate  very 
confidently  upon  these  subjects ;  and  have 
had  the  benefit  of  seeing  various  learned  trea- 
tises upon  the  natural  gamut  of  colours,  and 
the  inherent  congruity  of  those  that  are  called 
complementary,  with  reference  to  the  pris- 
matic spectrum.  But  we  confess  v:e  have  no 
faith  in  any  of  those  fancies;  and  believe, 
that,  if  all  these  colours  were  fairly  arranged 
on  a  plain  board,  according  to  the  most  rigid 
rules  of  this  supposed  haimony,  nobody,  but 
the  author  of  the  theory,  would  perceive  the 
smallest  beauty  in  the  exhibition,  or  be  the 
least  ofiended  by  reversing  their  collocation. 

We  do  not  mean,  however,  to  dispute,  that 
the  laws  of  colouring,  insisted  on  by  learned 
artists,  will  produce  a  more  pleasing  effect 
tipon  trained  judges  of  the  art,  than  a  neglect 
of  these  laws;  because  we  have  little  doubt 
that  these  combinations  of  colour  are  recom- 
mended by  certain  associations,  which  render 
them  generally  pleasing  to  persons  so  trained 
and  educated; — all  that  we  maintain  is,  that 
there  are  no  combinations  that  are  originally 
and  universally  pleasing  or  displeasing  to  the 
eye,  independent  of  such  associations;  and  it 
seems  to  us  an  irresistible  proof  of  this,  that 
these  laws  of  harmonious  colouring  are  per- 
petually and  deliberately  violated  by  great 
multitudes  of  persons,  who  not  only  have  the 
perfect  use  of  their  sight,  but  are  actually  be- 
stowing great  pains  and  expense  in  providing 
for  its  gratification,  in  the  very  act  of  this  vio- 
lation. The  Dutch  trader,  who  paints  over  the 
outside  of  his  country-house  with  as  many 
bright  colours  as  are  to  be  found  in  his  tuhp'- 
bed,  and  garnishes  his  green  shutters  with 
blue  facings,  and  his  purple  roof  with  lilac 
ridges,  not  only  sejes  as  well  as  the  studied  co- 
lourist,  who  shudders  at  the  exhibition,  but 
actually  receives  as  much  pleasure,  and  as 
strong  an  impression  of  beauty,  from  the  fin- 
ished lustkaus,  as  the  artist  does  from  one  of 
his  best  pictures.  It  is  impossible,  then,  that 
these  combinations  of  colours  can  be  naturally 
or  intrinsicaliy  offensive  to  the  organ  of  sight ; 
and  their  beauty  or  ugliness  must  depend  upon 
the  associations  which  different  individuals 
may  have  happened  to  form  with  regard  to 
them.  We  contend,  however,  for  nothing 
more ;  and  are  quite  willing  to  allow  that  the 
associations  which  recommend  his  staring 
tawdriness  to  the  burgomaster,  are  such  as 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


could  not  easily  have  l|p?n  formed  in  the  mind 
of  a  diligent  and  extensive  observer  of  nature, 
and  that  they  would  probably  be  reversed  by 
habits  of  reflection  and  ttudy.  But  the  same 
I  thing,  it  is  obvious,  may  be  said  of  the  notions 
/  of  beauty  of  any  other  description  that  pre- 
vail among  the  rude,  the  inexperienced,  and 
uninstrueted  ; — though,  in  all  oiher  instances, 
we  take  it  for  granted,  that  the  beauty  which 
is  perceived  depends  altogctlier  upon  associa- 
tion, and  in  no  degree  on  its  power  of  giving 
a  pleasurable  impulse  to  the  organ  to  which 
it  addresses  itseli.  If  any  considerable  num- 
ber of  persons,  with  the  perfect  use  of  sight, 
actually  take  pleasure  in  certain  combinations 
of  colours — that  is  complete  proof  that  such 
combinations  are  not  naturally  offensive  to  the 
organ  of  sight,  and  that  the  pleasure  of  such 
persons,  t'xactly  like  tlmt  of  those  mIio  disa- 
gree \vith  them,  is  derived  not  from  the  sense, 
but  from  associations  with  its  perceptions. 

With  reg;ird,  again,  to  the  effect  of  broken 
masses  of  light  and  shadow,  it  is  proper,  in 
the  first  place,  to  remember,  that  by  the  eye 
we  see  colour  only:  and  that  lights  and  sha- 
dows, as  tar  as  the  mere  organ  is  concerned, 
mean  nothing  but  variations  of  tint.  It  is 
very  true,  no  doubtj  that  we  soon  learn  to  refer 
many  of  those  variations  to  light  and  shade, 
and  that  they  thus  become  .•.igns  to  us  of 
depth,  and  distance,  and  relief.  But,  is  not 
this,  of  itself,  sufficient  to  refute  the  idea  of 
their  affording  any  primitive  or  organic  plea- 
sure ■?  In  so  far  as  they  are  mere  variations 
of  tints,  they  may  be  imitated  by  unmeaning 
daubs  of  paint  on  a  pallet ; — in  so  far  as  they 
are  si^ns^  it  is  to  the  mind  that  they  address 
themselves,  and  not  to  the  oigan.  They  are 
signs,  too,  it  should  be  recollected,  and  the 
oidy  signs  we  have,  by  which  we  can  receive 
any  correct  knowledge  of  the  existence  and 
condition  of  all  external  objects  at  a  distance 
from  us,  whether  interesting  or  not  interest- 
ing. Without  the  assistance  of  variety  of  tint, 
and  of  lights  and  shadows,  we  could  never 
distinguish  one  object  from  another,  e.xccpt  by 
the  touch.  These  appearances,  therefore,  are 
the  perpetual  vehicles  of  almost  all  our  inter- 
esting perceptions ;  and  are  consequently  as- 
sociated witn  all  the  emotions  we  receive  from 
visible  objects.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  many 
things  in  one  prospect,  because  some  of  them 
are  probably  agreeable  ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
know  the  relations  of  those  things,  because 
the  ijualities  or  associatioiis,  by  means  of 
which  they  interest  us,  geue;-ally  depend  upon 
that  knowledge.  The  mixture  of  colours  and 
shades,  howi;ver,  is  necessary  to  this  enjoy- 
ment, and  consequently  is  a  sign  of  it,  and  a 
source  of  associated  interest  or  beauty. 

Mr.  Knight,  however,  goes  much  farther 
than  this;  and  maintains,  that  the  beauty 
which  is  so  distinctly  felt  in  many  pictures  of 
objects  in  themselves  disagreeable,  is  to  be 
ascribed  entirely  to  the  effect  of  the  brilliant 
and  harmonious  tints,  and  the  masses  of  light 
and  skidow  that  may  be  employed  in  the  re- 
presentation. The  filtliyand  tattered  rags  of 
a  beggar,  In."  observes,  and  the  putrifying  con- 
tents of  a  dunghill,  may  form  beautiful  objects 


in  a  picture;  because,  considered  as  mere 
objects  of  sight,  they  may  often  present  beau- 
tiful effects  of  colouring  and  shadow;  and 
these  are  preserved  or  heightened  iu  the  imi- 
tation, disjointed  from  all  their  offensive  ac- 
companiments. Now,  if  the  tints  and  shades 
were  tlie  exclusive  sources  of  our  gratilication, 
and  if  this  gratification  was  dhninished,  in- 
stead of  being  heightened,  by  the  suggestion 
which,  however  transiently,  vmst  still  iiitiude 
itself,  that  they  appeared  iu  an  imitation  of 
disgusting  objects,  it  must  certainly  follow, 
tliat  the  pleasure  and  the  beauty  A\<juld  be 
much  enhanced  if  there  was  no  imitation  of 
any  thing  whatever,  and  if  the  canvas  merely 
presented  the  tints  and  shades,  unaccompa- 
nied with  the  representation  of  any  farticular 
object.  It  is  perfectly  obvious,  however,  that 
it  would  be  absurd  to  call  such  a  collection  of 
coloured  spots  a  beautiful  picture  :  and  that  a 
man  would  be  laughed  at  who  should  hang 
up  such  a  piece  of  stained  canvas  among  the 
Avorks  of  tne  great  artists.  Again,  if  it  were 
really  possible  for  any  one,  but  a  student  of 
art,  to  confine  the  attention  to  the  mere  co- 
louring and  shadowing  of  any  picture,  there 
is  nothing  so  disgusting  but  what  might  form 
the  subject  of  a  beautiful  imitation.  A  piece 
of  putrid  veal,  or  a  cancerous  ulcer,  or  the 
nigs  that  are  taken  from  it,  may  display  the 
most  brilliant  tints,  and  the  finest  distribution 
of  light  and  shadow.  Does  Mr.  Knight,  how- 
ever, seriously  tliink,  that  either  of  these  ex- 
periments would  succeed  ?  Or  are  there,  in 
reality,  no  other  qualities  in  the  pictures  m 
question,  to  which  their  beauty  can  be  as- 
cribed, but  the  organic  eiiect  of  their  colours'? 
We  humbly  conceive  that  there  are  ;  and  that 
far  less  ingenuity  than  his  might  have  been 
able  to  dettct  them. 

There  is,  in  the  first  place,  the  pleasing  as- 
sociation of  the  skill  ami  power  of  the  artist 
— a  skill  and  poAver  which  we  know  vmy  be 
employed  to  produce  unminglcd  delight; 
whatever  may  be  the  character  of  the  parti- 
cular eflbrt  before  us :  and  with  the  pride  of 
whose  possessors  we  sympathise.  But,  in  the 
second  place,  we  do  humbly  conceive  that 
there  are  many  interesting  associations  con- 
nected with  the  subjects  which  have  been  re- 
presented as  purely  disgusting.  The  aspect 
of  human  wretchedness  and  decay  is  not,  at 
all  events,  an  indifferent  .spectacle ;  and,  if 
presented  to  us  without  actual  offence  to  our 
senses,  or  any  call  on  our  active  beneficence, 
may  excite  a  sympathetic  emotion,  Avhich  ia 
known  to  be  far  from  undelighlful.  INlanyan 
attractive  poem  has  been  written  on  the  mise 
ries  of  begg-ars;  and  Avhy  should  painting  be! 
supposed  more  fastidious?  Besides,  it  willl 
be  observed,  that  the  beggars  of  the  painter » 
are  generally  among  the  most  interesting  of  1 
that  interesting  order : — either  young  and'! 
lovely  children,  whose  health  and  gaiety,  and' 
sweet  expression,  form  an  afl'ecting  contrast 
with  their  stjualid  g-arnients,  and  the  Ile;^lect 
and  misery  to  which  they  seem  to  be  destin- 
ed— or  old  and  venerable  persons,  mingling 
something  of  the  dignity  ancl  reverence  of  agti^ 
with  the  broken  spirit  of  their  condition,  and' 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


37 


seeming  to  reproach  mankind  for  exposing 
heads  so  old  and  \yhite  to  the  pelting  of  the 
pitiless  storm.  While  such  pictures  suirgest 
images  so  pathetic,  it  looks  almost  like  a  wil- 
ful perversity,  to  ascribe  their  b(^iuty  entirely 
to  the  mi.xture  of  colours  which  they  display, 
and  to  the  forjretfulness  of  these  images. 
Even  for  the  dungliill.  we  think  it  is  possible 
to  say  something, — though,  we  confess,  we 
have  never  happened  to  see  any  picture,  of 
M-hich  that  useful  compound  formed  the  pe- 
culiar subject.  There  is  the  display  of  the 
painter's  art  and  power  here  also  ;  and  the 
duniihill  is  not  only  useful,  but  is  associated 
with  many  pleasing  images  of  rustic  toil  and 
occupation,  and  of  the  simplicity,  and  comfort, 
and  innocence  of  agricultural  life.  We  do  not 
know  that  a  dunghill  is  at  all  a  disagreeable 
object  to  look  at,  even  in  plain  reality — pro- 
vided it  be  so  far  off  as  not  to  aimoy  us  with 
its  odour,  or  to  soil  us  with  its  effusions.  In 
a  picture,  however,  we  are  safe  from  any  of 
these  disasters ;  and,  considering  that  it  is 
usually  combined,  in  such  delineations,  with 
other  more  pleasing  and  touching  remem- 
brancers of  humble  happiness  and  content- 
ment, we  really  do  not  see  that  it  was  at  all 
necessary  to  impute  any  mysterious  or  intrin- 
sic beauty  to  its  complexion,  in  order  to  ac- 
count for  the  satisfaction  with  which  we  can 
then  bear  to  behold  it. 

Having  said  so  much  with  a  view  to  reduce 
to  its  just  value,  as  an  ingredient  of  beauty, 
the  mere  organical  delight  which  the  eye 
is  supposed  to  derive  from  colours,  we  really 
have  not  patience  to  apply  the  same  consider- 
ations to  the  alleged  beauty  of  Soimds  that  are 
supposed  to  be  insisrnificant.  Beautiful  sounds, 
in  general,  we  think,  are  beautiful  from  as- 
sociation only. — from  their  resembling  the 
natural  tones  of  various  passions  and  atTec- 
tions, — or  from  their  being  originally  and  most 
frequently  presented  to  us  in  scenes  or  on 
occasions  of  natural  interest  or  emotion.  With 
regard,  again,  to  successive  or  coexistent 
sountls,  we  do  not.  of  course,  mean  to  dispute, 
that  there  are  such  things  as  melody  and  har- 
mony; and  that  most  men  are  ofi'ended  or 
gratified  by  the  violation  or  observance  of 
those  laws  upon  which  they  depend.  This, 
however,  it  should  b^"  observed,  is  a  faculty 
quite  unique,  and  unlike  anything  else  in  our 
constitution:  by  no  means  universal,  as  the 
sense  of  beauty  is.  even  in  cultivated  societies ; 
and  apparently  withheld  from  whole  commu- 
nities of  quick-eared  savages  and  barbarians. 
Whether  the  kind  of  gTai;ification,  which  re- 
sults from  the  mere  musical  arrangement  of 
sounds,  would  be  felt  to  be  beautiful,  or  would 
pass  under  that  name,  if  it  could  be  presented 
entirely  detached  from  any  associated  emo- 
tions, appears  to  us  to  be  exceedingly  doubtful. 
Even  with  the  benefit  of  such  combinations, 
we  do  not  find,  that  every  arrangement  which 
merely  preseives  inviolate  the  rules  of  com- 
position, is  considered  as  beautiful ;  atid  we 
do  not  think  that  it  would  be  consonant,  either 
with  the  common  feeling  or  common  language 
of  mankind,  to  bestow  this  epithet  upon  pieces 
that  had  no  other  merit.    At  all  events,  and 


I  whatever  may  be  thought  of  trie  proper  name 
j  of  this  singular  gratification,  of  a  musical  ear, 
it  seems  to  be  quite  certain,  that  all  that  rises 
j  to  the  dignity  of  an  emotion  in  the  pleasure  we 
!  receive  from  sounds,  is  as  clearly  the  gift  of 
I  association,  as  in  the  case  of  visible  beauty, — 
of  association  with  the  passionate  tones  and 
modulations  of  the  human  voice, — with  the 
scenes  to  which  the  interesting  sounds  are 
native, — with  the  poetry  to  which  they  have 
been  married. — or  even  with  the  skill  and 
genius  of  the  artist  by  whom  ihey  have  been 
an-anged. 

Hitherto  we  have  spoken  of  the  beauty  of 
external  objects  only.  But  the  whole  diffi- 
culty of  the  theory  consists  in  its  application 
to  them.  If  that  be  once  adjusted,  the  beauty 
of  immaterial  objects  can  occasion  no  per- 
plexity. Poems  and  other  compositions  in 
words,  are  beautiful  in  proportion  as  they  are 
conversant  with  beautiful  objects — or  as  they  / 
suggest  to  us,  in  a  more  direct  way,  the  moral  V 
and  social  emotions  on  which  the  beauty  of 
all  objects  depends.  Theorems  and  demon- 
strations again  are  beautiful,  according  as  they 
excite  in  us  emotions  of  admiration  for  the 
genius  and  intellectual  power  of  their  invent- 
ors, and  images  of  the  magnificent  and  bene- 
ficial ends  to  which  such  discoveries  may  be 
applied  ; — and  mechanical  contrivances  are 
beautiful  when  they  remind  us  of  similar 
talents  and  ingenuity,  and  at  the  same  time 
impress  us  with  a  more  direct  sense  of  their 
vast  utility  to  mankind,  and  of  the  great  ad- 
ditional conveniences  with  which  life  is  con- 
sequently adorned.  In  all  cases,  therefore, 
there  is  the  suggestion  of  some  interesting 
conception  or  emotion  associated  with  a  pre- 
sent perception,  in  which  it  is  apparently 
confounded  and  embodied — and  this,  accord- 
ing to  the  whole  of  the  preceding  deduction, 
is  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  beauty. 

Having  now  explained,  as  fully  as  we  think 
necessary,  the  grounds  of  that  opinion  as  to 
the  nature  of  beauty  which  appears  to  be  most 
conformable  to  the  truth — we  have  only  to 
add  a  word  or  two  as  to  the  necessary  conse- 
quences of  its  adoption  upon  several  other 
controversies  of  a  kindred  description. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  conceive  that  it 
establishes  the  substantial  identity  of  the 
Sublime,  the  Beautiful,  and  the  Picturesque; 
and.  consequently,  puts  an  end  to  all  contro- 
versy that  is  not  purely  verbal,  as  to  the  dif- 
ference of  those  several  qualities.  Every 
material  object  that  interests  us,  without  ac- 
tually hurting  or  gratifying  our  bodily  feelings, 
must  do  so,  according  to  this  theory,  in  one 
and  the  same  manner, — that  is,  by  suggesting 
or  recalling  some  emotion  or  affection  of  our- 
selves, or  some  other  sentient  being,  and  pre- 
senting, to  our  imagination  at  least,  some 
natural  object  of  love,  pity,  admiration,  or  awe. 
The  interest  of  material  objects,  therefore,  is 
alwayfe  the  same;  and  arises,  in  every  case, 
not  from  any  physical  qualities  they  may 
possess,  but  from  their  association  with  some 
idea  of  emotion.  But,  though  material  objects 
have  but  one  means  of  e.xciting  emotion,  the 
emotions  they  do  e.\cite  are  iiifiiiite.    They 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


are  mirrors  that  may  reflect  all  shades  and  all 
colours ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  do  seldom  reflect 
the  same  hues  twice.  No  two  interesting 
objects,  perhaps,  whether  known  by  the  name 
of  Beautiful,  SubUrae,  or  Picturestjue,  ever 
produced  exactly  the  same  emotion  in  the 
oeholder ;  and  no  one  object,  it  is  most  pro- 
bable, ever  moved  any  two  persons  to  the 
very  same  conceptions.  As  they  may  be  as- 
sociated with  all  the  feelings  and  alFections 
of  which  the  human  mind  is  susceptible,  so 
ihey  may  suggest  those  feelmgs  in  all  their 
variety,  and,  in  fact,  do  daily  excite  all  sorts 
of  emotions — running  through  every  gradation, 
from  extreme  gaiety  and  elevation,  to  the 
borders  of  horror  and  disgust. 

Now,  it  is  certainly  true,  that  all  the  variety 
of  emotions  raised  in  this  way,  on  the  single 
basis  of  association,  may  be  classed,  in  a  rude 
way,  under  the  denominations  of  sublime, 
beautiful,  and  picturesque,  according  as  they 
partake  of  awe,  tenderness,  or  admiration  : 
and  we  have  no  other  objection  to  this  nomen- 
clature, except  its  extreme  imperfection,  and 
the  delusions  to  which  we  know  that  it  has 
given  occasion.  If  objects  that  interest  by 
their  association  with  ideas  of  power,  and 
danger,  and  terror,  are  to  be  distinguished  by 
the  peculiar  name  of  sublime,  why  shoulil 
there  not  be  a  separate  name  also  for  objects 
that  hiterest  by  associations  of  mirth  and 
gaiety — another  for  those  that  please  by  sug- 
gestions of  softness  and  melancholy — another 
for  such  as  are  connected  with  impressions 
of  comfort  and  tranquillity — and  another  for 
those  that  are  related  to  pity,  and  admiration, 
and  love,  and  regret,  and  all  the  other  distinct 
emotions  and  affections  of  our  nature  1  These 
are  not  in  reality  less  distinguishable  from 
each  other,  than  from  the  emotions  of  awe 
and  veneration  that  confer  the  title  of  sublime 
on  their  representatives:  and  while  all  the 
former  are  confounded  under  the  comprehen- 
sive appellation  of  beauty,  this  partial  attempt 
at  distinction  is  only  apt  to  mislead  us  into  an 
erroneous  opinion  of  our  accuracy,  and  to 
make  us  believe,  both  that  there  is  a  greater 
conformity  among  the  things  that  pass  under 
the  same  name,  and  a  greater  difference  be- 
tween those  that  piss  under  different  names, 
than  is  really  the  case.  We  have  seen  already, 
that  the  radical  error  of  almost  all  preceding 
inquirers,  has  lain  in  supposing  that  every 
thing  that  passed  under  the  name'of  beautiful. 
must  have  some  real  and  inherent  quality  in 
common  witli  every  thing  else  that  obtained 
that  name:  And  it  is  scarcely  necess;iry  for 
us  to  observe,  that  it  has  been  almost  as  gene- 
ral an  opinion,  that  sublimity  was  not  only 
something  radically  dilierent  from  beauty, 
but  actually  opposite  to  it;  whereas  the  fact 
is,  that  it  IS  far  more  nearly  related  to  some 
ports  of  boauty,  than  many  sorts  of  beauty  ute 
to  each  other;  and  that  both  are  founded  e.\- 
actly  upjn  the  same  principle  of  suggesting 
some  past  or  possible  emotion  of  some  sentient 
being. 

Upon  this  important  point,  we  are  happy  to 
find  our  opinions  confirmed  by  the  authority 
of  JVlr.  Stewart,  who,  in  his  Essay  on   the 


I  Beautiful,  already  referred  to,  has  o  Dserred, 
I  not  only  that  there  appears  to  him  to  be  no 
inconsistency  or  impropriety  in  such  expres- 
sions as  the  sublime  beauties  of  nature,  or  of 
the  sacred  Scriptures; — but  has  added,  in  ex- 
'  press  terms,  that,  '-to  oppose  the  beautiful  to 
:  the  sublime,  or  to  the  pictures(}ue,  strikes  him 
i  as  something  analogous  to  a  contrast  between 
I  the  beautiful  and  the  comic — the  beautiful 
and  the  tnigic — the  beautiful  and  the  pathetic 
I  — or  the  beautiful  and  the  romantic."' 
]      The  only  other  advantage  n\  hich  we  shall 
specify  as  likely  to  result  from  the  general 
j  adoption  of  the  theory  we  have  been  endea- 
vouring to  illustrate  is,  that  it  seems  calcu- 
lated to  put  an  end  to  all  these  perplexing 
and  vexatious  questions  about  the  standard 
of  taste,   which  have  given  occasion  to   so 
much  impertinent  and  so  much  elaborate  dis- 
cussion.    If  things  are  not  beautiful  in  them- 
selves, but  only  as  they  serve  to  suggest  in- 
teresting conceptions  to  the  mind,  then  every 
thing  which  does  in  point  of  fact  suggest  such 
a  conception  to  any  individual,  is  hemdiful  to 
that  individual ;  and  it  is  not  only  quite  true 
that   there  is   no  room   for  disputing  about 
tastes,  but  that  all  tastes  are  equally  just  and 
correct,  in  so  far  as  each  individuaj,  speaks 
,only  of  his  own  emotions.     When  a  man  calls 
a  thing  beautiful,  however,  he  may  indeed 
mean  to  make  two  very  dilferent  assertions; 
— he  may  mean  that  it  gives  him  pleasure  by 
suggesting  to  him  some  interesting  emotion  ; 
and,  in  this  sense,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
if  he  merely  speak  truth,  the  thing  is  beauti- 
ful ;  and  that  it  pleases  him  precisely  in  the 
same  way  that  all  other  things  please  those 
to  whom  they  appear  beautiful.     But  if  he 
mean  farther  to  say  that  the  thing  possesses 
some  quality  which  should  make  it  appear 
beautiful  to  every  other  person,  and  that  it  is 
owing  to  some  prejudice  or  defect  in  them  if 
I  it  appear  otherwise,  then  he  is  as  unreasona- 
,  ble  and  absurd  as  he  would  think  those  v  ho 
should  attempt  to  convince  him  that  he  lelt 
no  emotion  of  beauty. 

All  tastes,  then,  are  equally  jnst  and  true, 
in  so  far  as  concerns  the  individual  whose 
taste  is  in  (juestion  :  and  what  a  man  feels 
distinctly  to  be  beautiful,  is  bcmttij'iil  to  him, 
whatever  other  people  may  think  of  it.  All 
this  follows  clearly  from  the  theory  now  in 
question  :  but  it  does  not  follow,  from  it,  that 
all  tastes  are  equally  good  or  desirable,  or 
that  there  is  any  difliculty  in  describing  iha- 
which  is  really  the  best,  and  the  most  to  le 
envied.  The  only  use  of  the  faculty  of  taste, 
is  to  afford  an  innocent  delight,  and  to  assi-t 
^n  the  cultivation  of  a  finer  morality ;  and  that 
pan  certainly  will  have  the  most  delight  fi(/m 
Ihis  faculty,  who  has  the  most  numerous  and 
Hhe  most  powerful  perceptions  of  beauty. 
•But,  if  beauty  consist  in  the  reflection  of  our 
affections  and  sympathies,  it  is  plain  that  lu 
will  always  see  the  most  beauty  whose  affec- 
tions are  the  warmest  and  most  exercised — 
whose  imagination  is  the  most  powerful,  and 
who  has  most  accustomed  himself  to  attend  to 
the  objects  by  which  he  is  surrounded.  In  so 
far  as  mere  feeling  and  enjoyment  are  con- 


ALISON  ON  TASTE. 


cerned,  therefore,  it  seems  evident,  that  the 
best  taste  must  be  that  which  belongs  to  the 
best  afTectioiis.  the  most  active  fancy,  and  the 
most  attentive  habits  of  observation.  It  will 
follow  pretty  exactly  too,  that  all  men"s  per- 
ceptions of  heanty  will  he  nearly  in  proportion 
to  the  degree  of  their  sensibility  and  social 
sympathies:  and  that  those  who  have  no  af- 
fections lowards  sentient  beings,  will  be  as 
certainly  insensible  to  beauty  in  external  ob- 

t'ects.  as  he.  who  cannot  hear  the  sound  of 
lis  friend's  voice,  most  be  deaf  to  its  echo. 

In  so  far  as  the  sen.se  of  beauty  is  regardeil 
as  a  mere  .source  of  enjoyment,  this  .-^eems  to 
be  the  only  distinction  that  de.serves  to  be 
attended  to:  and  the  only  cultivation  that 
taste  should  ever  receive,  with  a  view  to  the 
gratification  of  the  individual,  should  be 
through  the  indirect  chainiel  of  cultivating 
the  affections  antl  powers  of  ob.servalion.  If 
we  aspire,  however,  to  be  creators,  as  well  as 
observers  of  beauty,  and  place  any  part  of 
our  happiness  in  ministering  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  others — as  artist.-^,  or  poets,  or  authors 
of  any  sort — then,  indeetl,  a  new  ilistinclion 
of  tastes,  and  a  far  more  laborious  sy.stem  of 
cullivation,  will  be  necessary.  A  man  who 
pursues  only  his  own  tleliiiht.  will  be  as  much 
charmed  with  objects  that  suggest  powerful 
emotions  in  consecjuence  of  jiersonal  .aiul  ac- 
cidental associations,  as  with  lho.se  that  intro- 
duce similar  emotions  by  means  of  ^.s.'^ocia- 
tions  that  are  universal  and  indestructible. 
To  him,  all  objects  of  the  former  class  are 
really  as  beautiful  as  those  of  the  latter — and 
for  his  own  gratification,  the  creation  of  that 
sort  of  beauty  is  just  as  important  an  occupa- 
tion :  but  if  he  conceive  the  ambition  of  cre- 
ating beauties  for  the  admiration  of  others,  he 
must  be  cautious  to  employ  only  .such  objects 
as  are  the  natural  signs,  or  the  inseparable 
concomitants  of  emotion.s,  of  which  the  greater 
part  of  mankind  are  susceptible;  and  his 
taste  will  tlien  deserve  to  be  called  bad  and 
false,  if  he  ol)trude  upon  the  public,  as  beau- 
,  tiful,  objects  that  are  not  likely  to  be  associa- 
;  ted  in  common  minds  with  any  interesting 
;  impressions. 

i  For  a  man  himself,  then,  there  is  no  taste 
.that  is  either  bad  or  fal.se;  and  the  only  dif- 
ference worthy  of  being  attended  to,  is  that 
\  between  a  great  deal  and  a  very  little.  Some 
who  have  cold  afl'ections,  slug<rish  imagina- 
tions, and  no  habits  of  observation,  can  with 
'difficulty  iliscern  beauty  in  any  thing;  while 
others,  who  are  full  of  kindness  and  sensi- 
bility, and  who  have  been  accustomed  to  at- 
tend to  all  the  objects  around  them,  feel  it 
almost  in  every  thing.  It  is  no  matter  what 
other  people  may  think  of  the  objects  of  their 
'admiration :  nor  ought  it  to  be  any  concern 


of  theirs  that  the  public  would  be  astonished 
or  oflentled.  if  they  were  called  upon  to  join 
in  that  admiration.  So  long  as  no  such  call 
is  matle,  this  anticipated  discrepancy-of  feel- 
ing need  give  them  no  uneasiness;  and  the 
suspicion  of  it  should  produce  no  contempt  in 
any  other  persons.  It  is  a  strange  aberration 
indeed  of  vanity  that  makes  us  ilespise  per- 
sons for  being  hai)])y — for  having  sources  of 
erijoyment  in  wiiich  we  cannot  share : — and 
yet  this  is  the  true  source  of  the  ridicule, 
whicli  is  so  generally  poured  upon  indivitluals 
who  seek  oidy  to  enjoy  their  peculiar  tastes 
unmolested  : — for,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  the 
theory  we  have  been  expounding,  no  ta.ste  is 
bail  tor  any  other  reason  tlian  becau.se  it  is 
peculiar — as  the  objects  in  which  it  delights 
must  actually  serve  to  suggest  to  the  indi- 
vidual those  common  emotions  and  universal 
affections  upon  which  the  sen.se  of  beauty  is 
every  where  foumled.  The  misfortune  is, 
however,  that  we  are  a])t  to  consiiler  all  per- 
sons who  make  known  tlieir  pecuhar  relishes, 
and  especially  all  who  create  .any  objects  for 
their  gratificalion.  as  in  some  measure  dic- 
tating to  the  public,  anil  setting  up  an  idol  for 
geneial  adoration:  and  hence  this  intolerant 
ijiterfereuce  with  almost  all  peculiar  percep- 
tions of  beauty,  and  the  unsparing  derision 
that  pursues  all  deviations  from  acknowledged 
standards.  This  intolerance,  we  admit,  is  olten 
provoked  by  something  of  a  spirit  o{  prosclyt- 
ism  and  arrogance,  in  tho.se  who  mistake  their 
own  casual  associations  for  natural  or  univer- 
sal relations ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that 
mortified  vainty  ultimately  dries  up,  even  for 
them,  the  fountain  of  their  peculiar  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  disenchants,  by  a  new  as.sociation 
of  general  contempt  or  ridicule,  the  scenes 
that  had  been  consecrated  by  some  innocent 
but  accidental  emotion. 

As  all  men  must  have  some  peculiar  asso- 
ciations, all  men  must  have  some  peculiar 
notions  of  beauty,  and.  of  course,  to  a  certain 
extent,  a  taste  that  the  public  would  be  en- 
titled to  consider  as  false  or  vitiated.  For 
those  who  make  no  demands  on  public  admi- 
ration, however,  it  is  hard  to  be  obliged  to 
sacrilice  this  .source  of  enjoyment;  and,  even 
foi-  those  who  labour  for  applause,  the  wisest 
course,  perhaps,  if  it  were  only  practicable, 
would  be.  to  have  two  tastes — one  to  enjoy, 
and  one  to  work  by — one  foundeil  upon  uni- 
versal associations,  according  to  which  they 
finished  .those  performances  for  which  they 
challenged  universal  praise — andanotherguid- 
ed  by  all  casual  anil  individual  associations, 
through  which  they  might  still  look  fondly 
upon  nature,  and  upon  the  objects  of  their 
secret  admiration. 


40 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


(^"oDEmbev,   1812.) 


Dc  la  Littirature  consiJeree  dans  scs  Rapports  avec  les  Institutions  Socides.  Par  IVIad.  tE 
Stael-Holstein.  Avec  un  Precis  de  la  Vie  et  les  Ecrits  de  I'Auteur.  2  tomes.  12mo. 
pp.  600.     London:  1812.* 


When  we  say  that  Madame  de  Stael  is  de- 
cidedly the  most  eminent  literary  female  of 
Wr  aire,  we  do  not  mean  to  deny  that  there 
may  be  others  whose  writings  are  of  more  di- 
rect and  indisputable  utility — who  are  distin- 
guished by  greater  justness  and  sobriety  of 
thinking,  and  may  ))retend  to  have  conferred 
more  practical  benetits  on  the  e.xisting  genera- 
tion. But  it  is  impossible,  we  think,  to  deny, 
that  she  has  pursued  a  more  lofty  as  well  as 
a  more  dangerous  career ; — that  she  has  treat- 
ed of  subjects  of  far  greater  difKculty,  and  far 
more  extensive  interest;  and,  even  in  her 
failures,  has  frequently  given  hidication  of 
greater  powers,  than  have  sufficed  for  the 
success  of  her  more  prudent  contempoiaries. 

While  other  female  writers  have  contented 
themselves,  for  the  most  part,  with  embel- 
lishing or  explaining  the  truths  which  the 
more  robust  intellect  of  the  other  sex  had 
previously  established — in  making  knowledge 
more  familiar,  or  virtue  more  engaging — or, 
at  most,  in  multiplying  the  liner  distinctions 
which  may  be  tletected  about  the  boundaries 
of  taste  or  of  morality — and  in  illustrating  the 
importance  of  the  minor  virtues  to  the  general 
happiness  of  life — this  distinguished  person 
has  not  only  aimed  at  extending  the  bounda- 
ries of  knowledge,  and  rectifying  the  errors  of 
received  opinions  upon  subjects  of  the  greatest 
importance,  but  has  vigorously  applied  her- 
self to  trace  out  the  operation  of  general 
causes,  and,  by  combining  the  past  with  the 
present,  and  poinfinir  out  the  connection  and 
reciprocal  action  of  all  coexistent  phenomena, 
to  develope  the  hannonious  system  which  ac- 
tually prevails  in  the  apparent  chaos  of  human 
affairs ;  and  to  g-ain  something  like  an  assur- 
ance as  to  the  complexion  of  that  futurity  to- 
wards which  our  thoughts  are  so  anxiouslv 
driven,  by  the  scUi.-^h  as  well  as  the  generous 
j)rincii)]es  of  our  nature. 

We  are  not  accjuainted,  indeed,  with  any 
writer  who  has  made  such  bold  and  vigorous 
attempts  to  carry  llie  ireneraiizing  spirit  of 
true  philosophy  into  the  history  of  literature 


*  I  reprint  this  paper  na  contaifling  a  more  com- 
prehensive view  of  the  progress  of  Literature,  es- 
perially  in  tlic  ancuiit  world,  than  any  oihcr  from 
which  I  could  mnke  the  seleciion;  and  also,  in 
some  degree,  lor  the  sake  of  die  irencral  discussion 
on  Perfeciibiliiy,  wlii<li  I  siill  think  sa'isliicioniy 
conducted.  I  regret  ilini,  in  the  body  of  the  nriicli'. 
the  portions  that  are  taken  fiom  .Madame  de  Staiil 
are  not  belter  discriinitiaied  from  those  for  which  I 
only  am  responsible,  'i'he  reader,  however,  will 
not  go  far  wrong,  if  he  attribute  to  that  distitiguished 
person  the  greater  part  of  what  may  strike  him  as 
bold,  imaginative,  and  oriiiinal ;  and  leave  to  me 
the  hiimt)ler  province  of  the  sober,  corrective,  and 
distrustful. 


and  maruiers ;  or  who  has  thrown  so  strong  a 
light  upon  the  capricious  and  apparently  un- 
accountable diversities  of  national  taste,  ge- 
nius, and  morality — by  connecting  them  with 
the  political  structure  of  society,  the  accidents 
of  climate  and  external  relation,  and  the  va- 
riety of  creeds  and  superstitions.  In  her  lighter 
works,  this  spirit  is  indicated  chielly  by  the 
force  and  comprehensiveness  of  those  geneial 
observations  with  \a  hich  they  abound  ;  and 
which  strike  at  once,  by  their  justni >s  and 
novelty,  and  by  the  great  extent  of  their  ap- 
plication. They  prove  also  in  how  remark- 
able a  degree  she  possesses  the  rare  talent 
of  embodying  in  one  luminous  proposition 
those  sentiments  and  impressions  which  float 
unquestioned  and  undefined  over  many  an 
understanding,  and  give  a  colour  to  the  cha- 
racter, and  a  bias  to  the  conduct,  of  multitudes, 
who  are  not  so  much  as  aware  of  their  exist- 
ence. Besides  all  this,  her  novels  bear 
testimony  to  the  extraordinary  accuracy  ;ii,d 
minuteness  of  her  observation  of  human  cha- 
racter, and  to  her  thorough  knowledge  lif 
those  dark  and  secret  workings  of  the  htait, 
by  which  misery  is  so  often  elaborated  fji  in 
the  pure  element  of  the  affections,  ll.r 
knowledge,  however,  Ave  must  say,  seen;-  to 
be  more  of  evil  than  of  good:  For  the  j  i^- 
dominating  sentiment  in  her  fictions  is,  dt  -j  ;>  i 
of  human  happiness  and  human  virtue  :  ;r  I 
their  interest  is  founded  almost  entire!}  u 
the  inherent  and  almost  inevitable  hcarll'  —- 
ness  of  polished  man.  The  impression  v  l.r'a 
they  leave  upon  the  mind,  therefore,  llic  ilU 
powerfully  pathetic,  is  both  painful  and  iiii- 
miliatingj  at  the  same  time  that  it  procet  ds, 
we  are  inclined  to  believe,  upon  the  doiiMe 
error  of  supposing  that  the  bulk  of  intellJL;'  i.t 
people  are  as  selfish  as  those  splendid  viei,ii:s 
of  fashion  and  philo.sophy  from  whom  her  (  ;ia- 
racters  are  selected;  and  that  a  srn.s;bilii\  ;o 
unkindness  can  long  sunive  the  extiia  :n 
of  all  kindly  emotions.  The  work  b(  i  ;' 
us,  however,  exhibits  the  fairest  speein.  i 
which  we  have  yet  seen  of  the  systemat!/  _; 
spirit  of  the  author,  as  well  as  of  the  inn  il 
enthusiasm  by  which  she  seems  to  be  i  ^  s- 
sessed . 

The  professed  object  of  this  work  is  to  .-In  w 
that  all  the  peculiarities  in  the  literature  if 
different  ages  and  countries,  may  be  expiai:.  .1 
by  a  reference  to  the  condition  of  society.  imI 
the  political  and  religious  institutions  of  <  ai  h  : 
— and  at  the  same  time,  to  point  out  in  a\  hat 
way  the  jirogress  of  letters  has  in  its  turn 
modified  and  affected  the  government  and 
religion  of  those  nations  among  whom  tliijy 
have  flourished.  All  this,  however,  is  bot- 
tomed upon  the  more  fiuiJamentEil  and  la^; 


I\IADA.AIE  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


41 


v^ourite  proposition,  that  there  is  a  progress,  to 
aro  Juce  these  eiFects — that  letters  and  intelU- 
svnce  are  in  a  state  of  constant,  universiil,  and 
;  rf~;6tible  advancement — in  other  words,  that 
iiiuuan  nature  is  tending,  by  a  slow  and  inter- 
ninable  progression,  to  a  state  of  perfection. 
This  fascinating  idea  seems  to  have  been  kept 
;oii^t.ititly  in  view  by  INIadarae  de  Stael.  from 
lu'  lifgmning  to  the  end  of  the  work  before 
IS : — and  though  we  conceive  it  to  have  been 
aursued  with  far  too  sanguine  and  assured  a 
jpirit,  and  to  have  led  in  this  way  to  most  of 
rt'hat  is  rash  and  questionable  in  her  conclu- 
sions, it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  it  has  also 
aelped  her  to  many  explanations  that  are 
equally  solid  and  ingenious,  and  thrown  a 
light  upon  many  phenomena  that  would  other- 
wise  have  appeared  very  dark  and  unac- 
:»untable. 

In  the  range  which  she  here  takes,  mdeed, 
she  has  need  of  all  the  lights  and  all  the  aids 
diat  can  present  themselves ; — for  her  work 
contains  a  critique  and  a  theory  of  all  the 
literature  and  philosophy  in  the  world,  from 
the  days  of  Homer  to  the  tenth  year  of  the 
French  revolution.  She  begins  with  the  early 
learning  and  philosophy  of  Greece ;  and  after 
characterizing  the  national  taste  and  genius 
of  that  illustrious  people,  in  all  its  depart- 
ments, and  in  the  different  stages  of  their 
progress,  she  proceeds  to  a  similar  investi- 
gation of  the  literature  and  science  of  the 
Romans  ;  and  then,  after  a  hasty  sketch  of 
the  declme  of  arts  and  letters  in  the  later 
days  of  the  empire,  and  of  the  actual  progress 
of  the  human  mind  during  the  dark  ages, 
when  it  is  supposed  to  have  slumbered  in 
complete  inactivity,  she  enters  upon  a  more 
detaded  examination  of  the  peculiarities,  and 
the  causes  of  the  peculiarities,  of  all  the  dif- 
ferent aspects  of  national  taste  and  genius  that 
:  characterize  the  literature  of  Italy,  Spain, 
England,  Germany,  and  France — enteruig,  as 
I  to  each,  into  a  pretty  minute  exposition  of  its 
1  general  merits  and  defects — and  not  only  of 

•  the  circumstances  in  the  situation  of  the  coun- 
,  try  that  have  produced  those  characteristics, 
'  but  even  of  the  authors  and  productions,  in 
1  which  they  are  chiefly  exemplified.  To  go 
s  through  all  this  with  "tolerable  success,  and 

•  -without  committing  any  very  gross  or  ridicu- 
''lous  blunders,  evidently  required,  in  the  first 
1  place,  a  greater  allowance  of  learning  than 
'■  has  often  fallen  to  the  lot  of  persons  of  the 
I  learned  gender,  who  lay  a  pretty  bold  claim 
;  to  distinction  upon  the  ground  of  their  learn- 

•  ing  alojie ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  an  extent 
■  of  general  knowledge,  and  a  power  and  com- 
prehensiveness of  thinking,  that  has  still  more 

J  rarely  been  the  ornament  of  great  scholars. 
t  Madame  de  Stael  may  be  surpassed,  perhaps, 
i  in  scholar.^hip  (so  far  as  relates  to  accuracy  at 
>  least,  if  not  extent,)  by  some — and  ui  sound 
:  philosophy  by  others.  But  there  are  few  in- 
i'  deed  who  can  boast  of  having  so  much  of 
i  both;  and  no  one,  so  far  as  we  know,  who 
'  has  applied  the  one  to  the  elucidation  of  the 
1;  other  with  so  much  boldness  and  success. 
:  But  it  is  time  to  give  a  little  more  particular 
i'  account  of  her  lucubrations. 


There  is  a  very  eloquent  and  high-toned 
Introduction,  illustrating,  in  a  general  way, 
the  nifluence  of  literature  on  the  morals,  the 
glory,  the  freedom,  and  the  enjoyments  of  the 
people  among  whom  it  flourishes.  It  is  full 
of  brilliant  thoughts  and  profound  observa- 
tions; but  we  are  most  struck  with  those 
sentiments  of  mingled  triumph  and  mortifi- 
cation by  which  she  connects  these  magnifi- 
cent speculations  with  the  tumultuous  aspect 
of  the  times  in  which  they  were  nourished. 

"  Que  ne  puis-je  rappeler  tons  les  esprits  eclaircs 
a  la  jouissance  des  nieditaiions  philosopliiques  '.  Les  , 
coniemporains  d'une  Revohitioii  perdent  souvent 
tout  iiiieret  a  la  recherrlie  de  la  vi'rite.  Tant  d'eve- 
nemens  decides  par  la  force,  taut  de  crimes  absous 
pur  le  succes,  tant  de  venus  tletries  par  le  blame, 
tant  d'infortunes  insultees  par  le  puuvoir,  tant  de 
seniimeris  genereux  deveims  I'objet  de  la  moquerie, 
tant  de  vils  calculi  philosopliiquenicnt  conimentesj 
tout  lasse  de  resperance  les  honimes  les  plusfideles 
au  culte  de  la  raison.  Ncaiimoins  ils  doivent  se 
ranimer  en  observant,  dans  Tlusioire  de  I'esprit 
humain,  qu'il  n'a  existe  ni  une  pensee  utile,  ni  une 
verite  profonde  qui  n'ait  trouvc  son  siecle  et  sea 
admirateurs.  C'est  sans  doute  un  triste  effort  que 
de  transporter  son  interet,  de  reposer  son  attente,  a 
travers  I'avenir,  sur  nos  successeurs,  sur  les  etran- 
gers  bien  loin  de  nous,  sur  les  inconnus,  sur  tous 
les  hommes  enfin  dont  le  souvenir  et  I'image  ne 
peuvent  se  retracer  a  notre  esprit.  Mais,  helas  !  si 
Ton  en  excepte  quelques  amis  inalterables,  la  plu- 
part  de  ceux  qu'on  se  rappelle  apres  dix  annees  de 
revolution,  contristenf  votre  cceur,  etouffent  vos 
mouvemens,  en  imposeni  a  voire  talent  rneme,  non 
par  leur  superiorite,  mais'par  celte  malveillance  qui 
ne  cause  de  la  douleur  qu'aux  anies  douces,  et  ne 
fait  souffrir  que  ceux  qui  nela  meritent  pas." — Tom. 
i.  p.  27,  28. 

The  connection  between  good  morals  and 
that  improved  state  of  intelligence  which 
Madame  de  Stael  considers  as  synonymous 
with  the  cultivation  of  literature,  is  too  obvi- 
ous to  require  any  great  exertion  of  her  talents 
for  its  elucidation.  She  observes,  with  great 
truth,  that  much  of  the  guilt  and  the  misery 
which  are  vulgarly  imputed  to  great  talents, 
really  arise  from  not  having  talent  enough — 
and  that  the  only  certain  cure  for  the  errors 
which  are  produced  by  superficial  thinking, 
is  to  be  found  in  thinking  more  deeply: — At 
the  same  time  it  ought  not  to  be  forgotten, 
that  all  men  have  not  the  capacity  of  think- 
ing deeply — and  that  the  most  general  culti- 
vation of  literature  will  not  invest  every  one 
with  talents  of  the  first  order.  If  there  be  a 
degree  of  intelligence,  therefore,  that  is  more 
unfavourable  to  the  interests  of  morality  and 
just  opinion,  than  an  utter  want  of  intelli- 
gence, it  may  be  presumed,  that,  in  very  en- 
I  Ughtened  tmies,  this  will  be  the  portion  of 
,  the  greater  multitude — or  at  least  that  nations 
1  and  individuals  will  have  to  pass  through  this 
!  troubled  and  dangerous  sphere,  in  their  way 
to  the  loftier  and  purer  regions  of  perfect  un- 
derstanding. The  better  answer  therefore 
probably  is,  that  it  is  not  intelligence  that 
does  the  mischief  in  any  case  whatsoever, 
but  the  presumption  that  sometimes  accorn- 
panies  the  lower  degrees  of  it ;  and  which  is 
best  disjoined  from  them,  by  making  the 
higher  degrees  more  attainable.  It  is  quite 
true,  as  Madame  de  Stael  obseiTes,  that  the 
d2 


42 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


power  of  public  opinion,  which  is  the  only 
sure  and  ultiimUe  ji;uardian  either  of  freedom 
or  of  virtue,  is  greater  or  less  exactly  as  the 
public  is  more  or  less  enliirhtened ;  and  that 
this  public  can  never  be  trained  to  the  habit 
of  just  and  commanding  sentiments,  except 
under  the  iuHuence  of  a  sound  and  progressive 
literature.  The  abuse .  of  power,  and  the 
abuse  of  the  means  of  enjoyment,  are  the 
great  .sources  of  misery  and  d.'pravity  in  an 
advanced  stage  of  society.  Both  originate 
with  those  who  stand  on  the  highest  stages 
of  human  fortune ;  and  the  cure  is  to  be  found, 
in  both  cases,  only  in  the  enlightened  opinion 
of  those  who  stand  a  little  lower. 

Liberty,  it  will  not  be  disputed,  is  still 
more  clearly  dependent  on  intelligence  than 
morality  itself.  When  the  governors  are  ig- 
norant, they  are  naturally  tyrannical.  Force 
is  the  obvious  resource  of  iho^e  who  are  inca- 
pable of  convincing;  and  the  more  unworthy 
any  one  is  of  the  power  with  which  he  is  iii- 
vested.  the  more  rigorously  will  he  exercise 
that  power.  But  it  is  in  the  intelligence  of 
the  people  themselves  that  the  chief  bulwark 
of  their  freedom  will  be  found  to  consist,  anil 
all  the  principles  of  political  amelioration  to 
originate.  This  is  true,  however,  as  Madame 
de  Stael  observes,  only  of  what  she  terms 
'•  la  haute  litterature  :'"  or  the  general  cultiva- 
tion of  philosophy,  eloquence,  history,  and 
those  other  dejiartments  of  learning  which 
refer  chiefly  to  the  heAit  and  the  undersfand- 
ijig,  and  depend  upon  a  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  an  attentive  study  of  all  that 
contributes  to  its  actual  enjoyments.  What 
is  merely  for  delight,  again,  and  addresses 
itself  exclusively  to  the  imagination,  has 
neither  so  noble  a  genealogy,  nor  half  so 
illustrious  a  progeny.  Poetry  and  works  of 
gaiety  and  amusement,  together  with  music 
and  the  sister  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture, 
have  a  inuch  slighter  connection  either  with 
virtue  or  with  freedom.  Though  among  Men- 
most  graceful  ornaments,  th'^y  may  yet  flour- 
i,sh  uniler  tyrants,  and  be  relished  in  the  midst 
of  the  greatest  and  most  debasing  corruption 
of  manners.  It  is  a  fine  and  a  just  remark 
too,  of  Madame  de  Stael.  that  the  pursuits 
which  minister  to  mere  delight,  and  give  to 
life  its  charm  and  vohiptuousness.  generally 
produce  a  great  indifference  about  dying. 
They  supersede;  and  displace  all  the  stronger 
passions  and  affections,  by  which  alone  we 
are  bound  very  closely  to  existence;  and, 
while  th<'y  habituate  the  mind  to  transitory 
ajid  passive  impressions,  seem  naturally  con- 
nected with  those  images  of  indolence  and 
intoxication  and  slumber,  to  which  the  idea 
of  death  is  so  readily  assimilated,  in  charac- 
ters of  this  description.  When  life,  in  short, 
is  considered  as  nothing  more  than  an  amuse- 
m'^nt,  its  termination  is  contemplated  with 
far  less  emotion,  and  its  conrse,  upon  the 
whole,  is  overshadowed  with  deeper  clouds 
of  eimni,  than  when  it  is  presented  as  a  scene 
of  hii;h  duties  and  honourable  labours,  and 
holds  out  to  us  at  every  turn — not  the  perish- 
able |)astirnes  of  the  'passin«r  hour,  but  the 
fixed  and  distant  objects  of  those  serious  and 


lofty  aims  which  connect  us  with  a  long 
futurity. 

The  introduction  ends  with  an  eloquent 
profession  of  the  author's  unshaken  faith  in 
the  philosophical  creed  of  Perfectibility : — 
upon  which,  as  it  does  not  happen  to  be  our 
creed,  and  is  very  irecjuently  brought  into 
notice  in  the  course  of  the  work,  we  must 
here  be  indulged  with  a  few  preliminary 
observations. 

This  splendid  illusion,  which  s"ems  to  have 
succeeded  that  of  Optimism  in  the  favour  of 
philosophical  enthusiasts,  and  rests,  like  it, 
upon  the  notion  that  the  whole  scheme  of  a 
beneficent  Providence  is  to  be  developed  iji 
this  world,  is  supported  by  Madame  de  Stael 
upon  a  variety  of  grounds:  and  as.  like  most 
other  illusions,  it  has  a  considerable  admix- 
ture of  truth,  it  is  supported,  in  many  points, 
upon  grounds  that  are  both  solid  and  nigeni- 
ous.  She  relies  chiefly,  of  course,  u])on  the 
experience  of  the  past:  and,  in  particular. i 
njx)!!  the  marked  and  decided  superiority  of 
the  moderns  in  respect  of  thought  and  re"tiec-| 
tion — their  more  profound  kiiowledse  of  hu-j 
man  hn'lings.  and  more  comprehensive  viewsJ 
of  human  affairs.  She  ascribes  less  iin|ort-i 
ance  than  is  usually  done  to  our  attainments 
in  mere  science,  and  the  arts  that  relale  to 
matter;  and  augurs  less  confidently  as  to  the 
future  fortune  of  the  species,  from  the  exiiioits, 
of  Newton,  Watt,  and  Davy,  than  from  those 
of  Bacon,  Bossuet,  Locke,  Hume,  and  Voltaire, 
111  eloquence,  too,  and  in  taste  and  fancy,  she 
admits  that  there  has  been  a  less  conspicuous 
advancement;  because,  in  these  things,  there 
is  a  natural  limit  or  point  of  perfection,  which 
has  been  already  attained :  But  there  are  nc 
boundaries  to  the  increase  of  human  know-  i 
ledge,  or  to  the  discovery  of  the  means  of  hu- 
man happiness;  and  every  step  that  is  g-ainec 
in  those  hi-jfher  walks,  is  gained,  she  conceives 
for  po.sterity.  and  for  ever. 

The  great  objection  derived  fiom  the  signa 
check  which  the  arts  and  civility  of  life  re 
ceived  from  the  inroads  of  the  iiorlhern  bar 
barians  on  the  decline  of  the  Roman  power 
and  the  long  period  of  darkness  and  degiada 
tion  which  ensued,  she  endeavours  to  obviate 
by  a  very  bold  and  ingenious  s];ecn!ati(»n.  I 
is  her  object  here  to  show  that  tht>  invasioi 
of  the  northern  tribes  not  only  promoted  thei 
own  civilization  more  effeciually  than  anjluji 
thing  else  could  have  done,  but  actually  im 
parted  to  the  genius  of  the  vanquished,  ; 
character  of  energy,  solidity,  and  seriousness 
which  could  never  have  sprung  up  of  itsell 
in  the  volatile  regions  of  the  South.  Thi 
amalgamation  of  the  two  races,  she  think* 
has  produced  a  mighty  improvement  on  both 
and  the  vivacity,  the  elegance  and  versatility, 
of  the  warmer  latitudes,  been  mingled,  in| 
finitely  to  their  mutual  advantage,  with  tm 
majestic  melancholy,  the  profound  thoughtj 
and  the  sterner  morality  of  the  North.     Thi 


hi 


combination,  again,  she  conceives,  could  haV'|  i^ij, 
been  effected  in  no  way  so  happily  as  by  th  !  1 1[;. 
successful  invasion  of  the  ruder  people ;  aii' 
the   concilintin£r   infiuence   of  that   commo 
faith,  which  at  once  repressed  the  frivolous 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


43 


mJ  mollified  the  ferocions  tendencies  of  our 
lature.    The  temporary  disappearance  there- 
"ore  of  literature  and  politeness,  upon  the  first 
-hock  of  this  mighty  collision,  was  but  the 
mbsidence  of   the  sacred  flame   under   the 
leaps   of   fuel   which   were   thus    profusely 
Hoviiled  for  its  increase;   and  the  seeminji; 
vaste'  and  sterility  that  ensued,  was  but  the 
irsi  aspect  of  the  fertilizing  flood  and  accu- 
nulatetl  manure  under  which  vegetation  was 
juried  for  a  wliile,  that  it  might  break  out 
it  last  with  a  richer  and  more  indestructible 
UAiuiance.    The  human  intellect  was  neither 
lead  nor  inactive,  she  contends,  during  that 
onu'  slumber,  in  which  it  was  collecting  vig- 
lur    for   unprecedented    exertions;    and    the 
>ec'upations  to  which  it  was  devoted,  though 
lot  uf  the  most  brilliant  or  attractive  descrip- 
iuii.  were  perhaps  the  best  fitted  for  its  ul- 
iinate   and  substantial   improvement.     The 
ubtle  distinctions,  the  refined  casuistry,  and 
iigeuious  logic  of  the  school  divines,  were 
ill  favourable  to  habits  of  careful  and  accu- 
ate    thinking:   and  led   insensibly  to  a  far 
IP  ill'  thorough  and  profound  knowleda-e  of 
m;ii  111  nature — the  limits  of  its  faculties  and 
he   uiounds   of  its   duties — than   had   been 
.ttLiiii-'d  by  the  more  careless  inquirers  of 
iitiijuity.  When  men,  therefore,  beg-an  aguin 
0  reason  upon  human  affairs,  they  were  found 
o  iuivo  made  an  immense  progress  during  the 
leii  I'l  wlien  all  appeared  to  be  either  retro- 
:rddo  or  stationary;  and  Shakspeare,  Bacon, 
idachiavpl,  JMontaigne.  and  Galileo,  who  ap- 
peared almost  at  the  same  time,  in  the  most 
Ihstant  countries  of  Europe,  each  displayed  a 
ieach  of  thought  and  a  power  of  reasoning 
vhich  we  should  look  for  in  vain  in  the  elo- 
uent  dissertaions  of  the  classical  ages.     To 
hem  succeeded  such  men  as  Jeremy  Taylor, 
doHere,  Pascal,  Locke,  and  La  Bruyere — all 
f  thiMTx  observers  of  a  character,  to  which 
ill  i-  is  nothing  at  all  parallel  in  antiquity; 
ml  yet  only  preparing  the  way,  in  the  sue- 
^'^■  lino-  a^'o.  for  Montesquieu.  Hume.  Voltaire, 
milh,  Burke,  Bentham.  Malthus.and  so  many 
thcrs;  who  have  made  the  world  familiar 
itli  truths,  which,  however  important  and 
I'Strable   at   all   time.s,   certainly  never 
1  into  the  conception  of  the  earlier  in- 
iiits  of  the   world.     Those  truths,   and 
:li  :s  still  more  important,   of  which  they 
I'L-  destined  to  be  the  parent.s,  have  already, 
cinidiiip-  to  Madame  de  Slael.  produced  a 
i'u  r^rious  alteration,  and  an  incalculable  im- 
rovement  On  the  condition  of  human  nature. 
"hiodoh  their  influence,  assisted  no  doubt  by 
iiat  of  th'^  Gospel,  slavery  has  been  abolished, 
rade  and  industry  set  free  from  restriction. 
:  nd  war  di.sarrned  of  half  its  horrors;  while, 
i:  h  private  life,  women  have  been  restored  to 
:  iheir  just  rank  in  society;  sentiments  of  jus- 
;  Itce  and  humanity  have  been  univer.sally  cul- 
!  Ivated,  and  public  opinion  been  armed  with 
i  »  power  which  renders  every  other  both  safe 
!i  jud  salutary. 

';  *  Many  of  these  truths,  which  were  once  the 
1  loubtful  or  derided  discovpries  of  men  of 
j  iriginal  genius,  are  now  admitted  as  elemen- 
I.  iiy  principles  in  the  reasonings  of  ordinary 


people ;  and  are  every  day  extending  their 
empire,  and  multiplying  their  progeny.  Ma- 
dame (le  Stacl  sees  no  reason  to  doubt,  there- 
fore, that  they  will  one  day  inherit  the  whole 
earth;  and,  under  their  reign,  slie  takes  it  to 
be  clear,  that  war,  and  poverty,  and  all  the 
misery  that  arises  from  vice  and  ignorance, 
will  disappear  from  the  face  of  society  ;  and 
that  men,  universally  convinced  that  justice 
and  benevolence  are  the  true  sources  of  en- 
joyment, will  seek  their  own  happiness  in  a 
constant  endeavour  to  promote  that  of  their 
neighbours. 

It  would  be  very  agreeable  to  believe  all 
this — in  spite  of  the  grudging  which  would 
necessarily  arise,  from  the  reflection  that  we 
ourselves  were  born  so  much  too  soon  for  vir- 
tue  and  enjoyment  in  this  world.  But  it  is 
really  impossible  to  overlook  the  manifold 
imperfections  of  the  reasoning  on  which  this 
splendid  anticipation  is  founded  ; — though  it 
may  be  worth  while  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
in  what  degree  it  is  founded  in  truth. 

The  first  thing  that  occurs  to  a  sober-mind- 
ed listener  to  this  dream  of  perfectibility,  is 
the  e.xtreme  narrowness  of  the  induction  from 
which  these  sweeping  conclusions  are  so  con- 
fidently deduced.  A  progress  that  is  in  its 
own  nature  infinite  and  irresistible,  must 
necessarily  have  been  both  universal  and 
unremitting  ;  and  yet  the  evidence  of  its  ex- 
istence is  founded,  if  we  do  not  deceive  our- 
selves, upon  the  history  of  a  very  small  por- 
tion of  the  human  race,  for  a  very  small  num- 
ber of  generations.  The  proposition  is,  that 
the  human  species  is  advanciiig,  and  has  al- 
ways been  advancing,  to  a  state  of  perfection, 
by  a  law  of  their  nature",  of  the  existence  of 
which  their  past  history  and  present  state 
leave  no  room  to  doubt.  But  when  we  cast 
a  glance  upon  this  high  destined  species, 
we  find  this  necessary  and  eternal  progress 
scarcely  begiin,  even  now,  in  the  old  inhabi- 
ted continent  of  Africa — stationary,  as  far 
back  as  our  information  reaches,  in  China — 
and  retrograde,  for  a  period  of  at  least  twelve 
centuries,  and  up  to  this  duy,  in  Egypt,  India, 
Peisia,  and  Greece.  Even  in  our  own  Europe, 
which  contains  probably  less  than  one  tenth 
part  of  our  kind,  it  is  admitted,  that,  for  up- 
wards of  a  thousand  years,  this  gi'e<.r  work  of 
moral  nature  not  only  stood  still,  but  went 
visibly  backwards,  over  its  fairest  regions; 
and  though  there  has  been  a  prodigious  pro- 
gress in  England  and  France  and  Germanj' 
during  the  last  two  hundred  years,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  thing  of  this  sort  can 
be- said  of  Spain  or  Italy;  or  various  other 
portions,  even  of  this  favoured  quarter  of  the 
world.  It  maybe  very  natural  for  IMadame 
de  Stael,  or  for  us.  look.'ig  only  to  what  has 
happened  in  our  own  world,  and  in  our  own 
times,  to  indulge  in  those  dazzling  A'iews  of 
the  nnbouiided  and  universal  improv(?rnenl 
of  the  whole  human  race ;  but  such  specu- 
lations would  appear  rather  wild,  we  suspect, 
to  those  whose  lot  it  is  to  philosophize  among 
the  unchanging  nations  of  Asia;  and  would 
probably  carry  even  something  of  ridicule 
with  them,  if  propounded  upon  the  ruins  of 


44 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Thebes  or  Babylon,  or  even  among  the  pro- 
laned  relics  of  Athens  or  Rome. 

We  are  not  inclined,  however,  to  push  this 
very  tar.  The  world  is  certainly  something 
ihe  wiser  for  its  past  experience : — and  there  is 
an  accumulation  of  useful  knowledge,  which 
we  think  likely  to  increase.  The  mvention 
of  printing  and  fire-arms,  and  the  perfect 
communication  that  is  established  over  all 
Europe,  insures  us,  we  think,  against  any 
considerable  failing  back  in  respect  of  the 
sciences;  or  the  arts  and  attainments  that 
minister  to  the  conveniences  of  ordinary  life. 
We  have  no  idea  that  any  of  the  important 
discoveries  of  modern  times  will  ever  again 
be  lost  or  forgotten ;  or  that  any  future  gene- 
ration will  be  put  to  the  trouble  of  inventing, 
for  a  second  time,  the  art  of  making  gunpow- 
der or  telescopes — the  astronomy  of  Newton, 
or  the  mechanics  of  Watt.  All  knowledge 
which  admits  of  demonstration  will  advance, 
we  have  no  doubt,  and  extend  itself:  and  all 
processes  will  be  improved,  that  do  not  inter- 
fere with  the  pa.ssions  of  human  nature,  or 
the  apparent  interests  of  its  ruling  classes. 
But  with  regard  to  every  thing  depending  on 
probable  reasoning,  or  susceptible  of  debate, 
and  especially  with  regard  to  every  thins 
touching  morality  and  enjoj-ment,  we  really 
are  not  sanguine  enough  to  reckon  on  any 
considerable  improvement ;  and  suspect  that 
men  will  go  on  blundering  in  speculation, 
and  transgresshig  in  practice,  pretty  nearly  as 
they  do  at  present,  to  the  latest  period  of  their 
history. 

In  the  nature  of  things,  uideed,  there  can 
be  no  end  to  disputes  upon  probable,  or  what 
is  called  moral  evide'nce ;  nor  to  the  contra- 
dictory conduct  and  consequent  hostility  and 
oppression,  which  must  result  from  the  oj^po- 
site  views  that  are  taken  of  such  subjects ; — 
and  this,  partly,  because  the  elements  that 
enter  into  the  calculation  are  so  vast  and  nu-  i 
merous,  that  many  of  the  most  material  must  I 
always  be  overlooked  by  persons  of  ordinary  ' 
talent  and  information ;  and  partly  because 
there  not  only  is  no  standard  by  which  the  , 
value  of  those  elements  can  be  ascertained  : 
and  made  manifest,  but  that  they  actuallv  ! 
liave  a  different  ralue  for  almo.st  every  dif- 
ferent  indiviilual.     With  regard  to  all  "nice, 
and  indeed  all  debateable  questions  of  happi-  | 
ness  or  morals,  therefore,  there  never  can  be  ! 
any  agreement  among  men  ;  because,  in  re-  ! 
ality,   there  is  no  truth  in  which  they  can  ' 
agree.     All  questions  of  this  kind  turn  upon  [ 
a  comparison  of  the  opposite  advantages  and  | 
di.sadvantaires  of  any  particuliar  course  of  con-  ! 
duct  or  habit  of  mind  :  but  the.se  are  really  ] 
of  very  ditferent  magnitude  and  imjwrtance  to 
different  persons;  and  thrir  decision,  there- ' 
fore,  even  if  they  all  .•^aw   the  whole   con- 
se(]uence.i,  or  even  the  same  set  of  conse- 

Siences,  must  be  irreconcileably  diverse.  If  i 
e  matter  in  deliberation,  for  example,  be. 
whether  it  is  better  to  live  without  toil  or  ex- 
ertion, but,  at  the  same  time,  without  wealth 
or  glory,  or  to  venture  for  both  upon  a  scene 
of  labour  and  hazard — it  is  easy  to  see,  that  , 
the  duteniiinatiou  which  would  be  wise  and  , 


expedient  for  one  individual,  might  be  just 
the  reverse  for  another.  Ease  and  obscurity 
are  the  summum  boimin  of  one  description  of 
men  :  while  others  have  an  irresistible  voca- 
tion to  strenuous  enterprise,  and  a  positive 
delight  m  contention  and  danger.  Nor  is  the 
magnitude  of  our  virtues  and  vices  referable 
to  a  more  invariable  standard.  Intemperance 
is  less  a  vice  in  the  robust,  and  dishonesty 
less  foolish  in  those  who  care  but  little  for 
the  scorn  of  society.  Some  men  find  their 
chief  happiness  in  relieving  sorrow — some  in 
sj-mpathizing  with  mirth.  Some,  agaiji,  de- 
rive most  of  their  enjoyment  from  the  exer- 
cise of  their  reasoning  faculties — others  from 
that  of  their  imagination ; — while  a  third  sort 
attend  to  little  but  the  gratification  of  their 
senses,  and  a  fourth  to  that  of  their  vanity. 
One  delights  in  crowd.s,  and  another  in  .soli- 
tude ; — one  thinks  of  nothing  but  glory,  and 
another  of  comfort ; — and  so  on,  through  all 
the  infinite  variety,  and  infinite  combinations, 
of  human  tastes,  temperaments,  and  habits. 
Now,  it  is  plain,  that  each  of  those  persons 
not  only  will,  but  plainly  ought  to  pursue  a 
different  road  to  the  common  object  of  hap- 
piness; and  that  they  must  clash  and  conse- 
quently often  jostle  with  each  other,  even  if 
each  were  fully  aware  of  the  peculiarity  of 
his  own  notions,  and  of  the  consequences  of 
all  that  he  did  m  obedience  to  their  impulses. 
It  is  altogether  impossible,  therefore,  we 
humbly  conceive,  that  men  should  ever  set- 
tle the  point  as  to  what  is,  on  the  whole,  the 
wisest  course  of  conduct,  or  the  best  dispo- 
sition of  mind ;  or  consequently  take  even 
the  first  step  towards  that  perfection  of  moral 
science,  or  that  cordial  concert  and  co-opera- 
tion in  their  common  pnr.'iuit  of  happiness, 
which  is  the  only  alternative  to  their  fatal 
opposition. 

This  impossibility  will  become  more  appa- 
rent when  it  is  considered,  that  the  only  in- 
strument by  which  it  is  pretended  that  this 
moral  perfection  is  to  be  attained,  is  such  a 
general  illumination  of  the  intellect  as  to  make 
all  men  fully  aware  of  the  consequences  of 
their  actions :  while  the  fact  is,  that  it  is  not, 
in  general,  through  ignorance  of  their  conse- 
quences, that  actions  producing  misery  arei 
actually  perfomied.  When  the  misery  is  in- 
flicted upon  others,  the  actors  most  frequently 
disreirard  it.  upon  a  fair  enough  comparison 
of  its  amount  v.ith  the  pain  they  should  in- 
flict on  themselves  by  forbearance ;  and  even 
when  it  falls  on  their  own  heads,  they  will 
generally  be  found  rather  to  have  been  un- 
lucky in  the  <r;une,  than  to  have  been  truly 
unacquainted  with  its  hazards;  and  to  h;u-e 
ventured  with  as  full  a  knowledge  of  the 
risk.s,  as  the  fortunes  of  others  can  ever  im- 
press on  the  enterprizing.  There  are  many 
men,  it  should  always  be  recollected,  to  \\  hiiin 
the  hnppiness  of  others  gives  very  little  satis- 
faction, and  their  snfTerings  very  little  ]  ii, 
— and  who  woulil  rather  eat  a  luxurious  ni'-nl 
by  themselves,  than  scatter  plenty  and  gi;:ti- 
tude  over  twenty  famishing  cottages.  No 
enlightening  of  the  understanding  will  make, 
such  men  the  instruments  of  general  happi-j 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


45 


ness ;  and  wherever  there  is  a  competition — 
■wherever  the  question  is  stirred  as  to  whose 
claims  shall  be  renounced  or  asserted,  we  are 
all  such  men,  we  fear,  in  a  greater  or  a  less 
degree.  There  are  others,  again,  who  pre- 
sume upon  their  own  good  fortune,  with  a  de- 
cret'  of  confidence  that  no  exposition  of  the 
chances  of  failure  can  ever  repress ;  and  in 
all  cases  where  failure  is  possible,  there  must 
be  a  risk  of  suffering  from  its  occurrence, 
however  prudent  the  venture  might  have  ap- 
peared. These,  however,  are  the  chief  sources 
of  all  the  unhappiness  which  results  from  the 
conduct  of  man  ; — and  theyare  sources  which 
we  do  not  see  that  the  improved  intellect,  or 
added  experience  of  the  species,  is  likely  to 
close  or  dimuiish. 

Take  the  case,  for  example,  of  War  —  by 
far  the  most  prolific  and  extensive  pest  of  the 
human  race,  whether  we  consider  the  suffer- 
ings it  infhcts,  or  the  happiness  it  prevents — 
and  see.  whether  it  is  likely  to  be  arrested  by 
the  progress  of  intelligence  and  civihzation. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  manifest,  that  instead 
of  becoming  less  frequent  or  destructive,  in 
proportion  to  the   rapidity  of  that  progress, 
our  European  wars  have,  in  point  of  fact,  been 
incomparably  more  constant,  and  more  san- 
guinary, since  Europe  became  signally  en- 
lightened  and    humanized — and    that   they 
have  unifoi-mly  been  most  obstinate  and  most 
popular,  iu  its  most  pohshed  countries.     The 
b'.uiish  Laplanders,  and  bigoted  and   prolh- 
rate  Italians,  have  had  long  intervals  of  re- 
pose :  but  France  and  England  are  now  pretty 
legularly  at  war,  for  about  fourscore  years  out 
3f  every  century.     In  the  second  place,  the 
overs  and  conductors  of  war  are  by  no  means 
:he  most  ferocious  or  stupid  of  their  species 
—but  for  the  most  part  the  very  contrary ; — 
ind  their  delight  in  it,  notwithstanding  their 
compassion  for   human   suffering,  and   their 
complete  knowledge  of  its  tendency  to  pro- 
luce  suffering,  seems  to  us  sufhcient  almost 
3f  itself  to  discredit  the  confident  prediction 
jf  those  who  assure  us,  that  when  men  have 
ittaiued  to  a  certain  degree  of  intelligence, 
>var  must  necessarily  cease  among  all   the 
rations  of  the  earth.     There  can  be  no  better 
llustration  indeed,  than  thi.S;  of  the  utter  fu- 
ility  of  all  those  dreams   of  perfectibility: 
>vhich  are  founded  on  a  radical  ignorance  of 
:  what  it  is  that  constitutes  the  real  enjoyTnent 
)f  human  nature,  and  upon  the  play  of  how 
iraiiy  principles  and  opposite  stimuli  that  hap- 
piness depends,  which,  it  is  absurdly  ima- 
gined, would  be  found  in  the  mere  negation 
'  )f  suffering,  or  in  a  state  of  Quakerish  pla- 
:  "idity,  dulness,  and  uniformity.     Men  delight 
1  'n  war,  in  spite  of  the  pains  and  miseries 
;  i.vhich  they  know  it  entails  upon  them  and 
:  heir   fellows,  because   it   exercises   all   the 
I  '.alents,  and  calls  out  all  the  energies  of  their 
;  nature — because  it  holds  them  out  conspicu- 
:  busly  as  obiects  of  public  sentiment  and  gene- 
1  l-al  sympathy — because  it  gratifies  their  pride 
t  [)f  art,  and  gives  them  a  lofty  sentiment  of 
V  thsir  own  ])Ower,  worth  and   courage  —  but 
t  |)rincipally  because  it  sets  the  game  of  exist- 
3  "Jice  upon  a  higher  stake,  and  dispels,  by  its 


powerful  interest,  those  feelings  of  erniui 
which  steal  upon  every  condition  from  which 
hazard  and  anxiety  are  excluded,  and  drive 
us  inlo  danger  and  sidfering  as  a  relief.  While 
human  nature  continues  to  be  distinguished  by 
those  attributes,  we  do  not  see  any  chance  of 
war  being  superseded  by  fhe  increase  of  wis- 
dom and  morality. 

We  should  be  pretty  well  advanced  in  the 
career  of  perfectibility,  if  all  the  inhabitants 
of  Eurojie  were  as  intelligent,  and  upright, 
and  considerate,  as  Sir  John  JVIoore,  or  Lord 
Nelson,  or  Lord  Colliiigwood,  or  Lord  Wel- 
lington—  but  we  should  not  have  the  less 
war,  we  take  it,  with  all  its  attendant  mise- 
ries. The  more  wealth  and  intelligence,  and 
liberty,  there  is  in  a  country  indeed,  the 
greater  love  we  fear  there  will  always  be  for 
war; — for  a  gentleman  is  uniformly  a  more 
pugnacious  animal  than  a  plebeian,  and  a  free 
man  than  a  slave.  The  case  is  the  same, 
with  the  minor  contentions  that  agitate  civil 
life,  and  shed  abroad  the  bitter  waters  of  po- 
litical animosit}-,  and  grow  up  into  the  ran- 
cours and  atrocities  of  faction  and  cabal.  The 
leading  actors  in  those  scenes  are  not  the 
lowest  or  most  debased  characters  in  the 
country — but,  almost  without  exception,  of 
the  very  opposite  description.  It  woulcl  be 
too  romantic  to  suppose,  that  the  whole  popu- 
lation of  any  country  should  ever  be  raised  to 
the  level  of  our  Fox  and  Pitt,  Burke,  Wind- 
ham, or  Grattan ;  and  yet  if  that  miraculous 
improvement  were  to  take  place,  we  know 
that  they  would  be  at  least  as  far  from  agree- 
ing, as  they  are  at  present ;  and  may  fairly 
conclude,  that  they  would  contend  with  far 
greater  warmth  and  animosity. 

For  that  great  class  of  evils,  therefore, 
which  arise  from  contention,  emulation,  and 
diversity  of  opinion  upon  points  which  admit 
of  no  demonstrative  solution,  it  is  evident  that 
the  general  increase  of  intelligence  would 
afford  no  remedy;  and  there  even  seems  to 
be  reason  for  thinking  that  it  would  increase 
their  amount.  If  we  turn  to  the  other  great 
source  of  human  sufTering,  the  abuse  of  power 
and  wealth,  and  the  other  means  of  enjoy- 
I  ment,  we  suspect  we  shall  not  find  any  ground 
for  indulging  in  more  sanguine  expectations. 
Take  the  common  case  of  youthful  excess  and 
j  imprudence,  for  example,  in  which  the  evil 
commonly  rests  on  the  head  of  the  trans- 
j  gressor — the  injury  done  to  fortune,  by 
i  thoughtless  expense — to  health  and  character, 
by  sensual  indulgence,  and  to  the  whole  feli- 
city of  after  life,  by  rash  and  unsorted  mar- 
riages. The  whole  mischief  and  hazard  of 
i  .such  practices,  we  are  persuaded,  is  just  as 
I  thoroughly  known  and  understood  at  present, 
as  it  will  be  when  the  world  is  five  thousand 
j  years  older;  and  as  much  pains  are  now 
]  taken  to  impress  the  ardent  spirits  of  youth 
;  with  the  belief  of  those  hazards,  as  can  well 
I  be  taken  by  the  monitors  who  may  discharge 
I  that  office  in  the  most  remote  futurity.  But 
I  the  truth  is,  that  the  offenders  do  not  ofl"end 
'  so  much  in  ignorance,  as  in  presumj.tion. 
^  They  know  very  well,  that  men  are  oftener 
I  ruined  than  enriched  at  the  gaming  table ; 


46 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


and  that  love  marriages,  clapt  up  under  age, 
are  fretiuently  followed  by  divorces:  But 
they  know  too,  that  this  is  not  always  the 
case ;  and  they  flatter  themselves  that  their 
good  luck,  and  goorl  judgment,  will  class.them 
among  the  exi'cptioiis,  and  not  among  the 
ordniHiy  examples  8i'  the  rule.  Thi^y  are  told 
well  enough,  tor  the  most  part,  of  the  e.xcess- 
ive.  folly  ol  acting  upon  such  a  presumption, 
in  matters  of  such  importance : — But  it  is  the 
nature  of  vouth.  to  despise  much  of  the  wis- 
dom th;it  is  thus  pressed  upon  them;  and  to 
think  well  of  their  fortune  and  siigacity,  till 
thev  have  actually  had  experience  of  their 
slipperiness.  We  really  have  no  idea  that 
their  future  teachers  will  be  able  to  change 
this  nature :  or  to  destroy  the  eternal  distinc- 
tion between  the  character  of  early  and  mature 
life:  and  therefore  it  is.  that  we  despair  of 
the  cure  of  the  manifold  evils  that  spring  from 
th's  source;  and  remain  persuaded,  that  young 
men  will  be  nearly  as  foolish,  and  as  incapa- 
bk^  of  profiting  by  the  experience  of  their 
seniors,  ten  thousand  years  hence,  as  they  are 
at  th's  moment. 

With  regard  to  the  othet  glittering  curses 
of  life — fh:?  heartless  dissipations — the  cruel 
seductions — the  selfish  extravagance — the  re- 
jection of  all  interesting  occupation  or  serious 
affection,  which  blast  the  splendid  summit 
of  human  fortune  with  perpetual  barrenness 
and  discomfort — we  can  only  say,  that  as 
they  are  miseries  which  now  exist  almost 
exclusively  among  the  most  polished  and  in- 
telligent of  the  species,  we  do  not  think  it 
very  probable,  at  least,  that  they  will  be  eradi- 
cated bv  rendering  the  species  in  general 
more  polished  and  intelligent.  They  are  not 
occasioned,  we  think,  by  ignorance  or  im- 
proper education;  but  by  that  engerness  for 
strong  emotion  and  engrossing  occupation, 
which  still  proclaim  it  to  be  the  irreversible 
destiny  of  man  to  earn  his  bread  by  the  sweat 
of  his  brows.  It  is  a  fact  indeed  rather  per- 
plexing and  humiliating  to  the  advocates  of 
perfectibility,  that  as  soon  as  a  man  is  de- 
livred  from  the  necessity  of  subsisting  him- 
self, and  providing  for  his  family,  he  gene- 
rally falls  into  a  state  of  considerable  unhap- 
piness;  and  if  some  fortunate  anxiety,  or 
necessity  for  exertion,  does  not  come  to  his 
relief,  is  commonly  obliged  to  seek  for  a 
sliurht  and  precarious  distraction  in  vicious 
and  unsatisfactory  pursuits.  It  is  not  for 
want  of  knowing  that  they  are  unsatisfactory 
thiit  he  persists  in  them,  nor  for  want  of 
h<'\u'j:  told  of  their  folly  and  criminality; — for 
mor.'ilists  and  divines  have  been  occupied 
with  little  else  for  th<'  best  part  of  a  century  ; 
anrl  writers  of  all  descriptions,  indeed,  have 
charitably  expended  a  good  part  of  their  own 
ennui  in  copious  directions  for  the  innocent 
and  effectual  reduction  of  that  common  ene- 
my. In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  the  malady 
has  increa.sed  with  our  wealth  and  refini'- 
ment;  and  has  brouirht  alons  with  it  the 
increase  of  all  those  vices  and  follies  in  which 
its  victims  still  (ind  themselves  constrained 
to  seek  a  temporary  relief.  The  truth  is, 
that  military  and  senatorial  glory  is  neither 


within  the  reach,  nor  suited  to  the  taste,  of 
any  very  great  proportion  of  the  sufi'erers; 
and  that  the  cultivation  of  waste  lands,  and 
the  superintendence  of  tippling-houses  and 
charity  schools,  have  not  always  been  found 
such  effectual  and  delightful  remedies  as  the 
inditers  of  godly  romances  have  sometimes 
•  represented.  So  that  those  whom  fortune 
has  cruelly  exempted  from  the  necessity  of 
doing  any  thing,  have  been  led  very  generally 
I  to  do  evil  of  their  own  accord  :  and  have 
fancietl  that  they  rather  diminished  than 
j  added  to  the  sum  of  human  misery,  by  en- 
gaging in  intrigues  and  gaming-clubs,  arKl 
establishing  coteries  for  detraction  or  sen- 
suality. 

The  real  and  radical  difficulty  is  to  find 
some  laudable  pursuit  that  will  peiTnanently 
interest — some  worthy  object  that  will  con- 
tinue to  captivate  and  engross  the  faculties : 
I  and  this,  instead  of  becoming  easier  in  pro- 
portion as  our  intelligence  increases,  obvious- 
ly becom<\s  more  difficult.  It  is  knowledge 
that  destroys  enthusiasm,  and  dispels  all  those 
prejudices  of  admiration  which  people  sim- 
pler minds  with  so  many  idols  of  enchant- 
ment. It  is  knowledge  tKat  distracts  by  its 
variety,  and  satiates  by  its  abun.dance.  and 
generates,  b}'  its  communication,  that  dark 
and  cold  spirit  of  fastidiousness  and  derision 
which  revenges  on  those  whom  it  possesses, 
the  pangs  which  it  hiflicts  on  those  on  whom 
it  is  exerted.  Vet  it  is  to  the  increase  of 
knowledge  and  talents  alone,  that  the  prophets 
of  perfectibility  look  forward  for  the  cure  of 
all  our  vices  and  all  our  unhappiness! 

Even  as  to  intellect,  and  the  pleasures  that 
are  to  be  derived  from  the  exercise  of  a  vigor- 
ous understandinij,  we  doubt  greatly  whether 
we  ought  to  look  forward  to  posterity  with 
any  very  lively  feelings  of  envy  or  humil' 
tion.  More  knowledge  they  probably  will 
have — as  we  have  undoubtedly  more  know-, 
ledge  than  our  ancestors  had"  two  hundred  ^^ 
years  ago;  but  for  vigour  of  understanding, 
or  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  it,  we  must  beff 
leave  to  demur.  The  more  there  is  already 
known,  the  less  there  remains  to  be  discover- 
ed ;  and  the  more  time  a  man  is  obliged  to 
spend  in  ascertaininjr  what  his  predecessors 
have  already  established,  the  less  he  wi 
have  to  bestow  in  adding  to  its  amount. — 
Tlie  time,  however,  is  of  less  consequence; 
but  the  habits  of  mind  that  are  formed  by 
walkiiiir  patiently,  humbly,  and  passively  in 
the  paths  that  have  been  traced  by  others, 
are  the  very  habits  that  discpialify  us  for 
vigorous  nn.d  independent  excursions  of  our 
own.  Th(^re  is  a  certain  degre(>  of  knowledge 
to  be  sure,  that  is  but  wholesome  aliment  to| 
the  understanding — materials  for  it  to  work' 
upon — or  instruments  to  facilitate  its  labours:. 
— but  a  larger  quantity  is  apt  to  oppress  and^ 
encumber  it;  and  as  industry,  which  is  ex- 
cited by  the  importation  of  the  raw  mnterial. 
may  be  superseded  and  extinguished  by  th( 
introduction  of  the  fiinshed  manufacture,  s<^ 
the  minds  which  are  stimulated  to  activitj 
by  a  certain  measure  of  instraction  may 
unquestionably,  be  reduced  to  a  state  of  pas- 


4 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


47 


sive  and  languid  acquiescence,  by  a  more 
profuse  and  redundant  supply. 

JMadarne  de  Stael,  and  the  other  advocates 
of  her  system,  talk  a  great  deal  of  the  pro- 
digious advantage  of  having  the  results  of  the 
laborious  discoveries  of  one  generation  made 
matters  of  familiar   and   elementary  know- 
ledge in  another;  and  for  practical  utility,  it 
may  be  so ;  but  nothing,  we  conceive,  can 
be  so  completely  destructive  of  all  intellec- 
tual enterprise,  and  all  force  and  originality 
of  thinking,  as  this  very  process,  of  the  re- 
duction of  knowledge  to  its  results,  or  the 
multiplication  of  those  summary  and  accessi- 
ble jueces  of  infonnation  in  which  the  stu- 
dent IS  saved  the  whole  trouble  of  investig-a- 
tion,  and  put  in  possession  of  the  prize,  with- 
3Ut  either  the  toils  or  the  excitement  of  the 
x»utest.     This,  in  the  first  place,  necessarily 
nakes  the  prize  much  less  a  subject  of  ex- 
iltation  or  delight  to  him ;  for  the  chief  plea- 
sure is  in  the  chase  itself,  and  not  in  the  ob- 
ect  which  it  pursues ;  and  he  who  sits  at 
iprae,  and  has  the  dead  game  brought  to  the 
iide  of  his  chair,  will  be  very  apt,  we  be- 
ieve,  to  reg-ard  it  as  nothing  better  than  an 
mfragrant  vermin.     But,  in  the  next  place,  it 
loes  him  no  good ;  for  he  misses  altogether 
he  invigorating  exercise,  and  the  invaluable 
raining-  to  habits  of  emulation  and  sagucity 
.nd  courage,  for  the  sake  of  which  alone  the 
tursuit  is  deserving  of  applause.     And,   in 
he  last  place,. he  not  only  fails  in  this  way 
3  acquire  the  qualities  that  may  enable  him 
}  run  dovvn  knowledge  for  himself,  but  nec- 
ssarily  tinds  himself  without  taste  or  induce- 
lent  for  such  exertions.     He  thinks,  and  in 
ne  sense  he  thinks  justly,  that  if  the  proper 
bject  of  study  be  to  acquire  knowledge,  he 
m  employ  his  time  much  more  profitably 
1  implicitly  listening  to  the  discoveries  of 
ihers,  than  in  a  laborious  attempt  to  discover 
)methiug  for  himself.     It  is  infinitely  more 
Ltiguing  to  think,  than  to  remember:    and 
icomparably  shorter  to  be  led  to  an  object, 
ian  to  explore  our  own  way  to  it.     It  is  in- 
mceivable    what   an   obstruction   this    fur- 
'shes  to  the  original  exercise  of  the  under- 
auding  in  a  certain  state  of  information  ;  and 
)w  effectually  the  general  diffusion  of  easily 
!cessible  knowledge  operates  as  a  bounty 
Don    indolence   and    mental    imbecility. — 
Tiere  the  quantity  of  approved  and  collected 
lowledge  is  already  very  great  in  any  coun- 
y,  it  is  naturally  required  of  all  well  edu- 
.ted  persons  to  possess  a  considerable  share 
it ;  and  where  it  has  also  been  made  very 
icessible.  by  being  reduced  to  its  summary 
d  ultimate  results,  an  astonishing  variety 
those  abstracts  may  be  stowed  away  in 
!  memory,  with   scarcely  any  fatigue  or 
fircise  to  the.  other  faculties.     The  whole 
iss  of  attainable  intelligence,  however,  must 
U  be  beyond  the  reach  of  any  individual; 
d  he  may  go  on,  therefore,  to  the  end  of  a 
ig  and  industrious  life,  constantly  acquir- 
'"  J  knowledge  in  this  ch^ap  and  expeditious 
•"'Unner.     But  if,  in  the  course  of  these  pas- 
'<'e  and  humble  researches,  he  should  be 
'""inpted  to  iixcjuire  a  little  for  himself;  he 


cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  the  prodigious 
waste  of  time,  and  of  labour,  that  is  neces- 
sary for  the  attainment  of  a  very  inconsider- 
able portion  of  original  knowledge.  His  pro- 
gress is  as  slow  as  that  of  a  man  who  is 
making  a  road,  compared  with  that  of  those 
who  afterwards  travel  over  it ;  and  he  feels, 
that  in  order  to  make  a  very  small  advance 
in  one  dejiartment  of  study,  he  must  consent 
to  sacrifice  very  great  attahunents  in  others. 
He  is  disheartened,  too,  by  the  extreme  in- 
sigiuficance  of  any  thing  that  he  can  expect 
to  contribute,  when  compared  with  the  great 
store  that  is  already  in  possession  of  the  pub- 
lic ;  and  is  extremely  apt  to  conclude,  that  it 
is  not  only  safer,  but  more  profitable  to  fol- 
low, than  to  lead  ;  and  that  it  is  fortunate  for 
the  lovers  of  wisdom,  that  our  ancestors  have 
accumulated  enough  of  it  for  our  use,  as  well 
as  for  their  own. 

But  while  the  general  diffusion  of  know- 
ledge tends  thus  powerfully  to  repress  all 
original  and  independent  speculation  in  indi- 
viduals, it  operates  still  more  powerfully  in 
rendering  the  public  indifferent  and  unjust  to 
their  exertions.  The  treasures  they  have  in- 
herited from  their  predecessors  are  so  ample, 
as  not  only  to  take  away  all  disposition  to 
labour  for  their  farther  increase,  but  to  lead 
them  to  undei-value  and  overlook  any  little 
addition  that  may  be  made  to  them  by  the 
voluntary  offerings  of  individuals.  The  works 
of  the  be,st  models  are  perpetually  before  their 
eyes,  and  their  accumulated  glory  in  their  re- 
membrance ;  the  very  variety  of  the  sorts  of 
excellence  which  are  constantly  obtruded  on 
their  notice,  renders  excellence  itself  cheap 
and  vulg-ar  in  their  estimation.  As  the  mere 
possessors  or  judges  of  such  things,  they  are 
apt  to  ascribe  to  themselves  a  character  of 
superiority,  which  renders  any  moderate  per- 
fomiance  unworthy  of  their  reg-ard ;  and  their 
cold  and  languid  famiharity  with  what  is  best, 
ultimately  produces  no  other  effect  than  to 
render  them  insensible  to  its  beauties,  and  at 
the  same  time  intolerant  of  all  that  appears  to 
fall  short  of  it. 

In  such  a  condition  of  society,  it  is  ob-vious 
that  men  must  be  peculiarly  dismcluied  from 
indulging  in  those  bold  and  original  specula- 
tions, for  which  their  whole  training  had  pre- 
viously disqualified  them :  and  we  appeal  to 
our  readers,  whether  there  are  not,  at  thi.s  day, 
apparent  sjinptoms  of  such  a  condition  of  so- 
ciety. A  childish  love  of  novelty  may  indeed 
give  a  transient  popularity  to  works  of  mere 
amusement:  but  the  age  of  original  genius, 
and  of  comprehensive  and  independent  rea- 
soning, seems  to  be  over.  Instead  of  such 
works  as  those  of  Bacon,  and  Shakspeare,  and 
Taylor,  and  Hooker,  we  have  Encyclopaedias, 
and  geographical  compilations,  and  county 
histories,  and  new  editions  of  black  letter  au- 
thors— and  trashy  biographies  and  posthumous 
letters — and  disputations  upon  prosody — and 
ravings  about  orthodoxy  and  methodism.  Men 
of  general  information  and  curiosity  seldom 
thijik  of  adding  to  the  knowledge  that  is 
already  in  the  world  ;  and  tlit-  :i;!'enor  persons 
upon  -vi-hom  that  task  is  consequently  devolved, 


48 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


cany  it  on.  for  the  most  part,  bj-  means  of  that 
minute  subdivision  of  labour  which  is  the 
great  secret  of  the  mechanical  arts,  but  can 
never  be  introduced  into  literature  without 
depriving  its  higher  branches  of  all  force,  dig- 
nity, or  iin}x)rtance.  One  man  spends  his  life 
in  improving  a  method  of  dyeing  cotton  red  • 
— another  in  adding  a  few  insects  to  a  cata- 
logue which  nobody  reads  j — a  third  in  settling 
the  metres  of  a  few  Greek  Choruses ; — a 
fourth  in  decyphering  illegible  romances,  or 
old  grants  of  farms: — a  fifth  in  picking  rotten 
bones  out  of  the  earth; — a  si.xth  in  describing 
all  the  old  walls  and  hillocks  in  his  parish ; — 
and  five  hundred  others  hi  occupations  equal- 
ly liberal  and  important :  each  of  them  being, 
for  the  most  part,  profoundly  ignorant  of  eveiy 
thing  out  of  his  own  narrow  department,  and 
very  generally  and  deservedly  despised,  by 
his  competitors  for  the  favour  of  that  public — 
which  despises  and  supports  them  all. 

Such,  however,  it  appears  to  us,  is  the  state 
of  mind  that  is  naturally  produced  by  the 
great  accumulation  and  general  diffusion  of 
various  sorts  of  knowledge.  Men  learn,  in- 
stead of  reasoning.  Instead  of  meditating, 
they  remember:  and,  in  place  of  the  glow  of 
inventive  genius,  or  the  warmth  of  a  generous 
admiration,  nothing  is  to  be  met  with,  in  so- 
ciety, but  timidity  on  the  one  hand,  and  fas- 
tidiousness on  the  other — a  paltry  accuracy, 
and  a  more  paltry  derision — a  sensibility  to 
small  faults,  and  an  incapacity  of  great  merits 
— a  disposition  to  exaggerate  the  value  of 
knowledge  that  is  not  to  be  used,  and  to  un- 
derrate the  importance  of  powers  which  have 
ceased  to  exist.  If  these,  however,  are  the 
consequences  of  accumulated  and  diffused 
knowledge,  it  may  well  be  questioned  whether 
the  human  intellect  wnll  gain  in  point  of  dig- 
nity and  energy  by  the  only  certain  acquisi- 
tions to  which  we  are  entitled  to  look  forward. 
For  our  own  part,  we  will  confess  we  have  no 
such  expectations.  There  will  be  improve- 
ments, we  make  no  doubt,  in  all  the  mechani- 
cal and  domestic  arts; — better  methods  of 
working  metal,  and  preparing  cloth; — more 
commodious  vehicles,  and  more  efficient  im- 
plements of  war.  Geography  will  be  made 
more  complete,  and  astronomy  more  precise ; 
— natural  history  will  be  enlarged  and  di- 
gested;— and  perhaps  some  little  improve- 
ment suggested  in  tlie  forms  of  administering 
law.  But  as  to  any  general  enlargement  of 
the  luiderstanding,  or  more  prevailing  vigour 
of  judimient,  we  will  own,  that  the  tendency 
seems  to  be  all  the  other  way  ;  and  that  we 
think  strong  sense,  and  extended  views  of 
human  affairs,  are  more  likely  to  be  found, 
and  to  be  listened  to  at  this  moment,  than 
two  or  three  hundred  years  hereafter.  The 
truth  is,  we  suspect,  that  the  vast  and  endur- 
ing products  of  the  virgin  soil  can  no  longer 
be  reared  in  that  factitious  mould  to  which 
cultivation  has  since  given  existence  ;  nnd  that 
its  forced  and  deciduous  progeny  will  go  on 
degenerating,  till  some  new  deluge  shall  re- 
store the  vigour  of  the  glebe  by  a  temporary 
destruction  of  all  its  generations. 

Hitherto  we  have  spoken  only  of  the  higher 


and  more  instructed  classes  of  society, — to 
whom  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  per- 
fection of  wisdom  and  happiness  will  come 
first,  in  their  progress  through  the  whole  race 
of  men:  and  we  have  seen  what  reason  there 
is  to  doubt  of  their  near  approadi.  The 
lower  orders,  however,  we  tliink,  have  still 
less  good  fortune  to  reckon  on.  In  the  ^^  hole 
history  of  the  specie.'^,  there  has  been  nothing 
at  all  comparable  to  the  improvement  of  Eng- 
land within  the  last  century;  never  any\\here 
was  there  such  an  increase  of  wealth  and  lux- 
ury— so  many  admirable  inventions  in  the 
arts — so  many  works  of  learning  and  inge- 
nuity— such  a  progress  in  cultivation — such 
an  enlargement  of  commerce: — and  yet.  in 
that  century,  the  number  of  paupers  in  Eng-  ; 
land  has  increa.sed  fourfold,  and  is  now  rated 
at  one  tenth  of  her  whole  population  ;  and,  j 
notwithstanding  the  enormous  sums  that  are  | 
levied  and  given  privately  for  their  relief,  and  i 
the  m.ultitudes  that  are  drahied  oil  by  the  j 
waste  of  war,  the  peace  of  the  country  is  per- 
petually threatened  by  the  outrages  of  tarn- 
ishing multitudes.  This  fact  of  ilstjf  is  deci- 
sive, we  think,  as  to  the  effect  of  general 
refinement  and  intelligence  on  the  condition 
of  the  lower  orders;  but  it  is  not  difficult  to 
trace  the  steps  of  its  operation. 

Increasing  refinement  and  ingei  uity  lead 
naturally  to  the  establishment  of  n;annfac- 
tures;  and  not  only  enable  society  to  spare  a 
great  proportion  of  its  agricultuial  labourers 
for  this  pinpo.'se,  but  actually  encourage  the 
breeding  of  an  additional  population,   to  be 
maintained  out  of  the  profits  of  this  new  oc- 
cupation.   For  a  time,  too,  this  answers  :  anc 
the  artisan  shares  in  the  conveniences  to  w  hie? 
his  labours  have  contributed  to  give  1-iirh 
but  it  is  in  the  very  nature  of  the  mai.iifac 
turhig  system,  to  be  liable  to  great  fluetn;iti(in 
occasional  check,  and  possible  destnictjii 
and  at  all  events,  it  has  a  tendency  to  j  reiliici 
a  greater  population  than  it  can  pein.ami.il; 
support  in  comfort  or  pro.sperity.  The  ;ivi  in-ji 
rate  of  wages,  for  the  last  forty  \iin<.  Im 
been  insufficient  to  maintain  a  labuurei  wit] 
a  tolerably  large  family  : — and  yet  such  liav' 
been  the  occa.«ional  fluctuations,  and  such  ;h 
sanm-iine  calculations  of  persons  uicapaMe  o 
taknig  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  w  ho]£ 
that  the  manufacturing  population  hr.s  bee 
prodigiously  hicreased  in  the  same  period.    1 


is  the  interest  of  the  manufacturer  to  kee 


this  pojndation  in  excess,  as  the  only  sur 
means  of  keeping  wages  low;  and  A\herev( 
the  means  of  subsistence  are  uncertain,  an 
liable  to  variation,  it  seems  to  be  the  genen 
law  of  our  nature,  that  the  population  slieul 
be  adapted  to  the  highest,  and  not  to  th 
average  rate  of  supply.  In  India,  where  a  dr 
season  used  to  produce  a  failure  of  the  cro] 
once  in  eVery  ten  or  twelve  yea  is,  the  ]  opi 
lation  was  always  up  to  the  mias-ure  of  th 
greatest  abundance:  and  in  manufacturir 
countries,  the  miscalculation  is  still  more  sai 
guine  and  erroneous.  Such  countries,  then 
fore,  are  always  overpeopled;  and  it  seems  ' 
be  the  necessary  effect  of  hicreasing  talent  ar 
refinement,  to  convert  all  countries  ijato  [h 


i 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


denomination.  China,  the  oldest  manufacturing 
nation  in  the  world,  and  by  far  the  greatest  that 
ever  existed  with  the  use  of  little  machinery, 
has  always  suffered  from  a  reduntlant  popula- 
tion, and  has  always  kept  the  largest  part  of 
its  inhabitants  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  poverty. 
The  effect  then  which  is  produced  on  the 
lower  orders  of  society,  by  that  increase  of 
industry  and  refinement,  and  that  multiplica- 
tion of  conveniences  which   are   commonly 
looked  upon  as  the  surest  tests  of  increasing 
prosperity,  is   to   convert   the   peasants   into 
manufacturers,  and   the   manufacturers   into 
paupers;    while    the    chance   of    their   ever 
emerging  from  this  condition  becomes  con- 
stantly less,  the  more  complete  and  mature 
[he  system  is  which  had  originally  produced 
it.    When  manufactures  are  long  established, 
md  thoroughly  understood,  it  will  always  be 
found,  that  persons  possessed  of  a  large  capi- 
:al.  can  carry  them  on  upon  lower  profits  than 
Dersons   of  any  other  description ;   and    the 
latural  tendency  of  this  system,  therefore,  is 
0  throw  the  whole  business  into  the  hands 
)f  great  capitalists :  and  thus  not  only  to  render 
t  nt>\t  to  impossible  for  a  common  workman 
0  aitvance  himself  into  the  condition  of  a 
naster.  but  to  drive  from  the  competition  the 
:realer  part  of  those  moderate  dealers,   by 
vhixi'  prosperity  alone  the  general  happiness 
t"  the  nation  can  be  promoted.     The  state  of 
lie  operative  manufacturers,  therefore,  seems 
very  day  more  hopelessly  stationary:   and 
!i;it  great  body  of  the  people,  it  appears  to 
s,  is  likely  to  grow  into  a  fixed  and  degraded 
•fi!i\  out  of  which  no  person  can  hope  to  es- 
t[>^  who  has  once  been  enrolled  among  its 
lembers.     They  cannot  look  up  to  the  rank 
:f  master  manufacturers:  because,  without 
onsiderable  capital,  it  will  every  day  be  more 
npnssible  to  eng"age  in  that  occupation — and 
ick  they  cannot  go  to  the  labours  of  agricul- 
•jc.  because  there  is  no  demand  for  their 
■ivjcps.     The  improved  system  of  farming, 
iiiiishes   an   increased  produce  with  many 
■wcr  hands  than  were  formerly  employed  in 
"ocuringa  much  smaller  return  :  and  besides 
I  this,  the  lower  population  has  actually  in- 
eased  to  a  far  greater  amount  th^n  ever  was 
'iiiy  time  employed  in  the  cultivation  of  the 
•ouml. 

To  remedy  all  these  evils,  which  are  likel)-, 

•  wc  conceive,  to  be  aggravated,  rather  than 

liHved,  by  the  general  progress  of  refinement 

ul  intelligence,  we  have  little  to  look  to  but 

'•  I'iMieficial  effects  of  this  increasing  intelli- 

upon  the  lower  orders  themselves; — 

.:■  are  far  from  undervaluing  this  iiillu- 

By  the  universal  adoption  of  a  good 

-it-ni  of  education,  habits  of  foresight  and 

'i'-eontrol,  and  rigid  economy,  may  in  time 

lonbt  be  pretty  generally  introduced,  in- 

I  I    of    the   improvidence    and   profligacy 

1  lb  too  commonly  characterize  the  larger 

■  si'mblages  of  our  manufacturing  population  : 

:  d  if  these  lead;  as  they  are  likely  to  do,  to 

e  general  institution  of  Friendly  Societies 

i  d  banks  for  savings  among  the  workmen,  a 

ieat  palliative  will  have  been  provided  for 

1 3  disadvantages  of  a  situation,  which  must 

7 


always  be  considered  as  one  of  the  least  for- 
tunate which  Providence  has  assigned  to  any 
of  the  human  race. 

There  is  no  end,  however,  we  find,  to  these 
speculations;  and  we  must  here  close  our  re- 
marks on  perfectibility,  without  touching  upon 
the  PoUiicol  changes  which  are  likely  to  be 
produced  by  a  long  course  of  progressive  re- 
finements and  scientific  improvement — though 
we  are  afraid  that  an  enlightened  anticipation 
woultl  not  be  much  more  cheering  in  this 
view,  than  in  any  of  those  we  have  hitherto 
considered.  Luxury  and  refinement  have  a 
tendency,  we  fear,  to  make  men  sensual  and 
selfish;  and,  in  that  state,  increased  talent 
and  intelligence  is  apt  only  to  render  them 
more  mercenary  and  servile.  •  Among  the 
prejudices  which  this  kind  of  philosophy  roots 
out,  that  of  patriotism,  we  fear,  is  generally 
among  the  first  to  be  surmounted  ; — and  then, 
a  dangerous  opposition  to  power,  and  a  sacri- 
fice of  interest  to  afiection,  speedily  come  to 
be  considered  as  romantic.  Arts  are  discov- 
ered to  palliate  the  encroachments  of  arbitrary 
power:  and  a  luxurious,  patronizing,  and 
vicious  monarchy  is  firmly  established  amidst 
the  adulations  of  a  corrupt  nation.  But  we 
must  proceed  at  last  to  Madame  de  Stael's 
History  of  Literature. 

Not  knowing  any  thing  of  the  Egyptians 
and  Phoenicians,  she  takes  the  Greeks  for  the 
first  inventors  of  literature — and  explains 
many  of  their  peculiarities  by  that  supposition. 
The  first  development  of  talent,  she  says,  is 
in  Poetry;  and  the  first  poetry  consists  in  the 
rapturous  description  of  striking  objects  in  na- 
ture, or  of  the  actions  and  exploits  that  are 
then  thought  of  the  greatest  importance. 
There  is  little  reflection — nO  nice  development 
of  feeling  or  character — and  no  sustained 
strain,  of  tenderness  or  moral  emotion  in  this 
primitive  poetry  ;  which  charms  almost  en- 
tirely by  the  freshness  and  brilliancy  of  its 
colourhig — the  spirit  and  naturalness  of  its 
representations — and  the  air  of  freedom  and 
facility  with  which  every  thing  is  executed. 
This,  was  the  age  of  Homer.  After  that, 
though  at  a  long  interval,  came  the  age  of 
Pericles : — When  human  nature  was  a  little 
more  studied  and  regarded,  and  poetry  re- 
ceived accordingly  a  certain  cast  of  thought- 
fulness,  and  an  air  of  labour — eloquence  began 
to  be  artful,  and  the  rights  and  duties  of  men 
to  be  subjects  of  meditation  and  uiquiry. 
This,  therefore,  was  the  era  of  the  tragedians, 
the  orators,  and  the  first  ethical  philosophers. 
Last  came  the  age  of  Alexander,  when  science 
had  superseded  fancy,  and  all  the  talent  of 
the  country  was  turned  to  the  pursuits  of 
philosophy.  This,  Madame  de  Stael  thinks, 
is  the  natural  progress  of  literature  in  all 
countries  ;  and  that  of  the  Greeks  is  only  dis- 
tinguished by  their  having  been  the  first  that 
pursued  it,  and  by  the  peculiarities  of  their 
mythology,  and  their  political  relations.  It  is 
not  quite  clear  indeed  that  they  were  the  first ; 
but  Madame  de  Stael  is  very  eloquent  upon 
that  supposition. 

The  state  of  society,  however,  in  those  early 
times,  was  certainly  such  as  to  impress  very 


flO 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


strongly  on  the  mind  those  objects  and  occur- 
rences which  fonned  the  first  materials  of 
poetry.  The  uitercourse  with  distant  coun- 
tries being  difficult  and  dangerous,  the  legends 
of  the  traveller  were  naturally  invested  with 
more  than  the  modern  allowance  of  the  mar- 
vellous. The  smallness  of  the  civilized  states 
connected  every  individual  in  them  with,  its 
leaders,  and  made  him  personally  a  debtor  for 
the  protection  which  thi'ir  prowess  afforded 
from  the  robbers  and  wild  beasts  which  then 
infested  the  unsubdued  earth.  Gratitude  and 
terror,  thercsfore,  combined  to  excite  the  spirit 
of  enthusiasm  ;  and  the  same  ignorance  which 
imputed  to  the  direct  agency  of  the  gods,  the 
more  rare  and  dreadful  phenomena  of  nature, 
gave  a  charaofcer  of  supernatural  greatness  to 
the  reported  exploits  of  their  heroes.  Philoso- 
phy, which  has  led  to  the  exact  investigation 
of  causes,  has  robbed  the  world  of  much  of 
its  sublimity;  and  by  preventing  us  from  be- 
lieving much,  and  from  wondering  at  any 
thing,  has  taken  away  half  our  enthusiasm, 
and  more  than  half  our  admiration. 

The  purity  of  taste  which  characterizes  the 
very  earlie.st  poetry  of  the  Greeks,  seems  to  us 
more  difficult  to  be  accounted  for.  Madame 
de  Stael  ascribes  it  chiefly  to  the  influence 
of  their  copious  mythology ;  and  the  eternal 
presence  of  those  Gods — which,  though  al- 
ways about  men,  were  always  above  them, 
and  gave  a  tone  of  dignity  or  elegance  to  the 
whole  scheme  of  their  existence.  Their  tra- 
gedies were  acted  in  temples — in  the  sup- 
posed presence  of  the  Gods,  the  fate  of  whose 
descendants  they  commemorated,  and  as  a 
part  of  the  religious  solemnities  instituted  in 
their  honour.  Their  legends,  in  like  manner. 
related  to  the  progeny  of  the  immortals :  and 
their  feasts — their  dwellings — their  farming — 
their  battles — and  every  incident  and  occupa- 
tion of  their  daily  life  being  under  the  imme- 
diate sanction  of  some  presiding  deity,  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  speak  of  them  in  a  vulgar 
or  inelegant  manner;  and  the  nobleness  of 
their  style  therefore  appeared  to  result  natu- 
rally from  the  elegance  of  their  mythology. 

Now,  even  if  we  conld  pass  over  the  ob- 
vious objection,  that  this  mythology  was  itself 
a  creature  of  the  same  poetical  imagination 
which  it  is  here  supposed  to  have  modified, 
it  is  impossible  not  to  observe,  that  thougli 
the  circumstances  now  alluded  to  may  ac- 
count for  the  raised  and  lofty  tonf;  of  the  Gre- 
cian poetry,  and  for  the  exclusion  of  low  or 
familiar  life  from  their  dramatic  representa- 
tions, it  will  not  explain  the  far  more  substan- 
tial ijidications  of  pure  taste  afforded  by  the 
absence  of  all  that  gross  exaggeration,  violent 
incongruity,  and  tedious  ami  childish  extrava- 
gance which  are  found  to  deform  the  primi- 
tive poetry  of  most  other  nations.  The  Hin- 
doos, for  example,  have  a  mythology  at  least 
as  copious,  and  still  more  closely  interwoven 
with  every  action  of  their  Hves:  But  their  le- 
gends are  the  very  models  of  bad  taste;  and 
unite  all  the  detestable  attributes  of  obscurity, 
puerility,  insufferable  tediousness.  and  the 
most  revolting  anti  al)()minabl(;  absurdity. 
The  poetry  of  the  northern  bards  is  not  much 


more  commendable :  But  the  Greeks  are  won- 
derfully rational  and  moderate  in  all  their 
works  of  imagination ;  and  speak,  for  the  most 
}>art,  with  a  degree  of  justness  and  brevity, 
which  is  only  the  more  marvellous,  when  it  is 
considered  how  much  religion  had  to  do  in  the 
business.  A  better  explanation,  perhaps,  of 
their  superiority,  may  be  derived  from  recol- 
lecting that  the  sins  of  affectation,  and  inju- 
dicious effort,  really  cannot  be  committed 
where  there  are  no  models  to  be  at  once  co- 
pied and  avoided.  The  first  writers  naturally 
took  possession  of  what  was  most  striking, 
and  most  capable  of  producing  eflect,  in  na- 
ture and  in  incident.  Their  successors  con- 
sequently found  these  occupied  ;  and  were 
obliged,  for  the  credit  of  their  originality,  to 
produce  something  which  should  be  different, 
at  least,  if  not  better,  than  their  originals. 
They  had  not  only  to  adhere  to  nature,  there- 
fore, but  to  avoid  representing  her  exactly  as 
she  had  been  represented  by  their  predeces- 
sors; and  when  they  could  not  accomplish 
both  these  objects,  they  contrived,  at  least,  to 
make  sure  of  the  last.  The  early  Greeks  had 
but  one  task  to  perfoim:  they  were  in  na 
danger  of  comparisons,  or  imputations  of  pla- 
giarism ;  and  wrote  down  whatever  struck 
them  as  just  and  impressive,  without  fear  of 
finding  that  they  had  been  stealing  from  a 
predecessor.  The  wide  world,  in  short,  was 
before  them,  unappropriated  and  unmarked 
by  any  preceding  footstep;  and  they  took  their 
way.  without  hesitation,  by  the  most  airy 
heights  and  sunny  valleys ;  while  those  who 
came  after,  found  it  so  seamed  and  crossed 
with  tracks  in  which  they  were  forbidden  to 
tread,  that  they  were  frequently  driven  to 
make  the  most  fantastic  circuits  and  abrupt 
descents  to  avoid  them. 

The  cliaracteristic  defects  of  the  early 
Greek  poetry  are  all  to  be  traced  to  the  same 
general  causes, — the  peculiar  state  of  society, 
and  that  newness  to  which  they  were  indebt- 
ed for  its  principal  beauties.  They  describe 
every  thing,  because  nothing  had  been  ])re- 
viou.«ly  described;  and  incumber  their  whole 
diction  with  epithets  that  convey  no  inlbrma- 
tion.  There  is  no  reach  of  thought,  or  fine- 
ness of  sensibility,  because  reflection  had  not 
yet  awakened  the  deeper  sympathies  of  tlieir| 
nature ;  and  we  are  perpetually  shocked  with 
the  imperfections  of  their  morality,  and  tha 
indelicacy  of  their  affections,  because  society 
had  not  subsisted  long  enough  in  peace  ;uid 
security  to  develop  those  finer  vsuurces  of 
emotion.  These  defects  are  most  conspicuous, 
in  every  thing  that  relates  to  women.  They, 
had  absolutely  no  idea  of  that  mixture  of 
friendship,  veneration,  and  desire,  which 
indicated  by  the  word  Love,  in  the  modern 
languages  of  Europe.  The  love  of  the  Greek 
tragedians,  is  a  species  of  insanity  or  frenzy.— 
a  blind  and  ungovernable  impulse  inflicted  b} 
the  Gods  in  their  vengeance,  and  leading  iti| 
humiliated  victim  to  the  commission  of  al| 
sorts  of  enormities.  Racine,  in  his  Phadrtj 
I  has  ventured  to  exhibit  a  love  of  this  descripi 
I  tion  on  a  mo(lf>ru  stage  ;  but  the  soitrnings  o, 
I  deUcate  feeling — the  tenderness  and  prolbun'j 


hi 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


affliction  which  he  has  been  forced  to  add  to 
the  fatal  impulse  of  the  original  character, 
sho%v,  more  strongly  than  any  thing  else,  the 
radical  difference  between  the  ancient  and 
the  modem  conception  of  the  piiso^ion. 

The  Political  institutions  of  Greece  hadalso 
a  remarkable  effect  on  their  literature;  and 
nothing  can  show  this  so  strongly  as  the  strik- 
ing contrast  bet\\een  Athens  and  Sparta — 
E laced  under  the  same  sky — with  the  same 
inguage  and  religion — and  yet  so  opposite  in 
their  govermrient  and  in  their  literary  pur- 
suits. The  ruling  passion  of  the  Athenians 
was  that  of  amusement;  for.  though  the 
emulation  of  glory  was  more  lively  among 
them  than  among  any  other  people,  it  was  still 
subortlinate  to  their  rapturous  admiration  of 
successful  talent.  Their  law  of  ostracism  is 
a  proof,  how  much  thej-  were  afraid  of  their 
own  propensity  to  idolize.  They  could  not 
-trust  themselves  in  the  presence  of  one  who 
had  become  too  popular.  This  propensity 
ilso  has  had  a  sensible  effect  upon  their 
poetry ;  and  it  should  never  be  forgotten,  that 
t  was  not  composed  to  be  read  and  studied 
md  criticized  in  the  solitude  of  the  closet, 
ike  the  works  that  have  been  produced  since 
he  invention  of  printing ;  but  to  be  recited  to 
Tiusic,  before  multitudes  assembled  at  feasts 
md  high  solemnities,  where  every  thing  fa- 
•oured  the  kindling  and  diffusion  of  that  en- 
hu^^iasm,  of  which  the  history  now  seems  to 
IS  ^o  incredible. 

There  is  a  separate  chapter  on  the  Greek 

Irama — wliich  is  full  of  brilliant  and  original 

bservations; — though  we  have  already  antic- 

jated  the  substance  of  many  of  them.    The 

•reat  basis  of  its  peculiarity,  was  the  constant 

iterposition  of  the  Gods.      Almost  all  the 

iolenl  passions  are  represented  as  the  irre- 

istible  inspirations  of  a  superior  power; — 

Iniost  all  their  extraordinary  actions  as  the 

ilfilment  of  an  oracle — the  accomplishment 

f  an  unrelenting   destiny.      This  probably 

'  dded  to  the  awfulness  and  terror  of  the  rep- 

^sentation,  in  an  audience  which  believed 

nplicitly  in  the  reality  of  those  dispensations. 

ut  it  has  impaired  their  dramatic  excellence, 

\'  dispensing  them  too  much  from  the  ne- 

'ssity  of  preparing  their  catastrophes  by  a 

adation  of  natural  events, — the  exact  de- 

lieation  of  character, — and  the  touching  rep- 

-  'sentation   of   those    preparatory    struggles 

hich  precede  a  resolution  of  horror.    Orestes 

lis  his  mother,  and  Electra  encourages  him 

the  deed, — without  the  least  indication,  in 

'ther,  of  that  poig-nant  remorse  which  after- 

'  'ards  avenges   the   parricide.     No   modern 

■amatist  could  possibly  have  omitted  so  im- 

:    Ttant  and  natural  a  part  of  the  exhibition ; — 

it  the  explanation  of  it  is  found  at  once  in 

:-  'e  ruling  superstition  of  the  age.    Apollo  had 

!'   ■mmanded  the  murder — and  Orestes  could 

'    It  hesitate  to  obey.     When  it  is  committed, 

.  '  ^  Furies  are  commissioned  to  pursue  him ; 

i  d  the  audience  shudders  with  reverential 

i  e  at  the  torments  they  inflict  on  their  victim. 

•  I'lman  sentiments,  and  human  motives,  have 

!.  It  little  to  do  in  bringing  about  these  catas- 

t  phes.    They  are  sometimes  suggested  by 


the  Chorus;— but  the  heroes  themselves  act 
always  by  the  order  of  the  Gods.  Accord- 
ingly, the  authors  of  the  most  atrocious  actions 
are  "seldom  represented  in  the  Greek  trag-edies 
as  properly  gijihy,  but  only  aspiacular; — and 
their  general  moral  is  rather,  that  the  Gods 
are  omnipotent,  than  that  crimes  should  give 
rise  to  punishment  and  detestation. 

A  great  part  of  the  effect  of  these  represen- 
tations must  have  depemled  on  the  exclusive 
national ity_of  their  subjects,  and  the  extreme 
nationality  of  their  auditors;  though  it  is  a 
striking  remark  of  JNladame  de  Stael,  that  the 
Greeks,  after  all.  were  more  national  than  re- 
publican,— and  were  never  actuated  with  that 
profound  hatred  and  scorn  of  tyranny  wliich 
afterwards  exalted  the  Roman  character.  Al- 
most all  their  tragic  subjects,  accordingly,  are 
taken  from  the  misfortunes  of  kings ; — of  kings 
descended  from  the  Gods,  and  upon  whose 
genealogy  the  nation  still  continued  to  pride 
itself.  The  fate  of  the  Tarquins  could  never 
have  been  regarded  at  Rome  as  a  worthy  oc- 
casion either  of  pity  or  horror.  Republican 
sentiments  are  occasionally  introduced  into 
the  Greek  Choruses ; — though  we  cannot  agree 
with  Madame  de  Stael  in  considering  these  mu- 
sical bodies  as  intended  to  represent  the  people. 

It  is  in  their  comedy,  that  the  defects  of  the 
Greek  literature  are  most  conspicuous.  The 
world  was  then  too  young  to  supply  its  mate- 
rials. Society  had  not  existed  long  enough, 
either  to  develop  the  finer  shades  of  character 
in  real  life,  or  to  generate  the  talent  of  ob- 
serving, generalizing,  and  representing  them. 
The  national  genius,  and  the  form  of  govern- 
ment, led  them  to  delight  ui  detraction  and 
popular  abuse  ;  for  though  they  admired  and 
applauded  their  great  men,  they  had  not  in 
their  liearts  any  great  respect  lor  them  ;  and 
the  degradation  or  seclusion  in  which  they 
kept  their  -women,  took  away  almost  all  inte- 
rest or  elegance  from  the  intercourse  of  private 
life,  and  reduced  its  scenes  of  gaiety  to  those 
of  coarse  debauch,  or  broad  and  humourous  de- 
rision. The  extreme  coarseness  and  vulgarity 
of  Aristophanes,  is  apt  to  excite  our  wonder, 
when  we  first  consider  him  as  the  contempo- 
rary of  Euripides,  and  Socrates,  and  Plato ; — 
but  the  truth  is.  that  the  Athenians,  after  all, 
were  but  an  ordinary  populace  as  to  moral 
delicacy  and  social  refinement.  Enthusiasm, 
and  especially  the  enthusiasm  of  superstition 
and  nationality,  is  as  much  a  passion  of  the 
vulgar,  as  a  delight  in  ribaldry  and  low  buf- 
foonery. The  one  was  gratified  by  their 
tragedy; — and  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes 
was  exactly  calculated  to  give  delight  to  the 
other.  In  the  end,  however,  their  love  of 
buffoonery  and  detraction  unfortunately  proved 
too  strong  for  their  nationality.  When  Philip 
was  at  their  gates,  all  the  eloquence  of  Demos- 
thenes could  not  rouse  them  from  their  the- 
atrical dissipations.  The  great  danger  whicn 
they  always  apprehended  to  their  hberties, 
was  from  the  excessive  power  and  popularity 
of  one  of  their  own  great  men ;  and,  by  a 
singular  fatality,  they  perished,  from  a  profli- 
gate indifference  and  insensibility  to  the 
charms  of  patriotism  and  greatness. 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


In  philosophy,  ^Madame  de  Stael  does  not 
rank  the  Greeks  very  high.  The  greater  part 
of  them,  indeed,  were  orators  and  poets, 
rather  than  piofound  thinkers,  or  exact  in- 
quirers. They  discoursed  rhetorically  upon 
vague  and  abstract  ideas  :  and.  up  to  the  time 
of  Aristotle,  proceeded  upon  the  radical  error 
of  substituting  hypothesis  for  observation. 
That  eminent  person  first  showed  the  use  and 
the  necessity  of  analysis;  and  did  infinitely 
more  for  posterity  than  all  tlie  mystics  thai 
went  before  him.  As  their  stales  were  small, 
and  their  domestic  life  inelegant,  men  seem 
to  have  been  considered  almost  e.xclusivcly 
in  their  relations  to  the  public.  There  is, 
accordingly,  a  noble  air  of  patriotism  and  de- 
voted ness  to  the  common  weal  in  all  the  mo- 
rality of  the  ancients ;  and  though  Socrates 
.set  the  example  of  fixing  the  principles  of 
virtue  for  private  life,  the  ethics  of  Plato,  and 
Xenophon,  and  Zeno,  and  most  of  the  other 
philosophers,  are  little  else  than  treatises  of 
political  duties.  In  modern  times,  from  the 
prevalence  of  monarchical  government,  and 
the  great  extent  of  societies,  men  are  very 
generally  loosened  from  their  relations  with 
the  pubhc,  and  are  but  too  much  ejigrossed 
with  their  private  interests  and  aflections. 
This  may  be  venial,  when  they  merely  forget 
the  state. — by  which  they  are  forgotten ;  but 
it  is  base  and  fatal,  when  they  are  guided  by 
those  interests  in  the  few  public  functions  they 
have  still  to  perform.  After  all,  the  morality 
of  the  Greeks  was  very  clumsy  and  imperfect. 
In  political  science,  the  variety  of  their  govern- 
ments, and  the  perpetual  play  of  war  and  nego- 
tiation, had  made  tiiem  more  expert.  Their 
historians  narrate  with  spirit  and  simplicity; 
and  this  is  their  merit.  They  make  scarcely 
any  re/lections:  and  are  marvellously  indiffer- 
ent as  to  vice  or  virtue.  They  reeortl  the  most 
atrocious  and  most  heroic  actions — the  most 
disirnsting  crimes  and  most  exem])lary  gener- 
osity— with  the  same  Irancjuil  accuracy  with 
which  they  would  ch\scribe  the  succession  of 
storms  and  .sunshine.  Thucydides  is  some- 
what of  a  higher  pitch;  but  the  imir.ense  dif- 
ference between  him  and  Tacitus  proves, 
better  perhaps  than  any  general  reasoning,  tlie 
j)n)gress  which  hail  been  made  in  the  interim 
m  the  powers  of  reflection  and  observation  : 
and  how  near  the  Greeks,  with  all  their 
boasted  attainments,  should  be  placed  to  the 
intellectual  infancy  of  the  species.  In  all 
their  productions,  indeed,  the  fewness  of  their 
ideas  is  remarkable;  antl  their  most  impres- 
sive writings  may  be  compared  to  the  niusie 
of  certain  rude  nations,  which  produces  the 
most  astonishing  efl'ects  by  the  combination 
of  not  more  than  four  or  five  simple  notes. 

Madame  de  Stncl  now  proceeds  to  the  Ro- 
mans— who  will  not  detain  us  by  any  means 
so  long.  Their  literature  was  confessedly 
borrowed  from  that  of  Greece ;  for  little  is 
ever  invented,  where  borrowini:- will  serve  the 
purposi! :  Hut  it  was  marked  with  several  dis- 
tinctions, to  which  alone  it  is  now  necessary 
to  atti'iid.  In  the  first  place — and  this  is  very 
remarkable — the  Romans,  contrary  to  the 
custom  of  all  other  nations,  began  their  career 


of  letters  with  pliilosophy ;  and  the  cause  of 
this  peculiarity  is  very  characteristic  of  the 
nation.  They  had  subsisted  longer,  and  ef- 
fected more,  without  literature,  than  any  other 
people  on  record.  They  had  become  a  great 
state,  wisely  constituted  and  skilfully  admin- 
istered, long  before  any  one  of  their  citizens  | 
had  ever  appeared  as  an  author.  The  love  i 
of  their  country  was  the  passion  of  each  indi- 
vidual— the  greatness  of  the  Roman  name  the 
object  of  their  pride  and  enthusiasm.  Studies 
which  had  no  reference  to  political  objects, 
theri^fore,  could  find  no  favour  in  their  eyes; 
and  it  was  from  their  subserviency  to  po])ular  ; 
and  senatorial  oratory,  and  the  aid  which  they 
promised  to  afford  in  the  management  of  fac-  ■ 
lions  and  national  concerns,  that  they  were 
first  led  to  li.sten  to  the  lessons  of  the  Greek 
philoso))hers.  Nothing  else  could  have  in- 
duced Cato  to  enter  upon  such  a  study  at  such 
an  advanced  perioil  ol  life.  Though  tlie  Ro- 
mans borrowed  their  pliilosophy  from  the 
Greek.s,  however,  they  made  much  more  use 
of  it  than  their  masters.  They  carried  into 
tlieir  practice  much  of  what  the  others  con- 
tented themselves  with  setting  down  in  their 
books ;  and  thus  came  to  attain  much  more 
precise  notions  of  practical  duty,  than  could 
ever  be  invented  by  mere  di.scoursers.  The 
philosophical  writings  of  Cicero,  though  iu-  .  r 
cumbered  with  the  subtleties  of  his  Athen-  ' 
ian  preceptors,  contain  a  much  more  complete 
code  of  morality  than  is  to  be  found  in  all  the 
volumes  of  the  Greeks — though  it  may  be 
doubted,  whether  his  political  information  and 
acuteness  can  be  compared  with  that  of  Aris- 
totle. It  was  the  philosophy  of  the  Stoics, 
however,  that  g-ained  the  hearts  of  the  Ro- 
mans ;  for  it  was  that  which  fell  in  with  their 
national  habits  and  dispositions. 

The  same  character  and  the  same  national 
institutions  that  led  them  to  adopt  the  Greek 
philosophy  instead  of  their  poetry,  restrained 
them  from  the  imitation  of  their  theatrical 
excesses.  As  their  free  government  was 
strictly  aristocratical,  it  could  never  permit 
its  legitimate  chiefs  to  be  held  up  to  mockery 
on  the  sta<>e,  as  the  democratical  licence  of 
the  Athenians  held  up  the  pretendeis  to  theii 
favour.  But.  independently  of  this,  the  .«eveie 
dignity  of  the  Roman  chaiacter,  and  the  deepe: 
respect  and  premier  afl'ection  they  entertaineijjij 
for  all  that  exalted  the  glory  of  their  country-llr, 
woulil  at  all  events  have  interdicted  such  in' 
decorous  and  humiliating  exhibitions.  'J"h( 
comedy  of  Aristophanes  never  could  havi 
been  tolerated  at  Rome :  and  though  Plautu 
and  Terence  were  allowed  to  imitate,  or  rathe 
to  translate,  the  more  inotfensive  dramas  of; 
later  age,  it  is  remarkable,  that  they  seldor 
ventured  to  subject  even  to  that  mitigatd. 
and  more  general  ridicule  any  one  invests 
witli  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  citizen.  The  man 
ners  represente<l  are  almost  entirely  Gree 
manners;  and  the  ridiculous  parts  are  aimos; 
without  any  exception  assigned  to  foreignerfl 
and  to  persons  of  a  servile  condition.  Wome. 
were,  from  the  beginning,  of  more  account  i 
the  estimation  of  the  Romans  than  of  tb 
Greeks — though  their  province  was  still  stric 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


53 


ly  domestic,  and  did  not  extend  to  what,  in 
modern  times,  is  denominated  society.  With 
all  the  severity  of  their  character,  the  Romans 
had  much  more  real  tenderness  than  the 
Greeks, — though  they  repressed  its  external 
indications,  as  among  those  marks  of  weak- 
ness which  were  unbecoming  men  intrusted 
with  the  interests  and  the  honour  of  their 
country.  Madame  de  Stael  has  drawn  a 
pretty  picture  of  the  parting  of  Brutus  and 
Portia;  and  contrasted  it,  as  a  specimen  of 
national  character,  with  the  Grecian  group  of 
Pericles  pleading  for  Aspasia.  The  general 
observation,  we  are  persuaded,  is  just ;  but 
the  examples  are  not  quite  fairly  chosen. 
Brutus  is  a  little  too  good  for  an  average  of 
Roman  virtue.  If  she  had  chosen  Mark  An- 
tony, or  Lepidus,  the  contrast  would  have 
been  less  brilliant.  The  self-control  which 
their  pruiciples  required  of  them — the  law 
which  they  had  imposed  on  themselves,  to 
have  no  hidulgence  for  sutTering  in  them- 
selves or  m  others,  excluded  tragedy  from 
the  range  of  their  literature.  Pity  was  never 
to  be  recognized  by  a  Roman,  but  when  it 
came  in  the  shape  of  a  noble  clemency  to  a 
vanquished  foe ; — and  wailings  and  complaints 
were  never  to  disgust  the  ears  of  men,  who 
knew  how  to  act  and  to  suffer  in  tranquillity. 
The  very  frequency  of  suicide  in  Rome,  be- 
longed to  this  characteristic.  There  was  no 
other  alternative,  but  to  endure  firmly,  or  to 
die; — nor  were  importunate  lamentations  to 
be  endured  from  one  who  was  free  to  quit 
life  whenever  he  could  not  bear  it  without 
murmuring. 

What  has  been  said  relates  to  the  literature 

5f  republican  Rome.     The  usuipation  of  Au- 

-u^rus  gave  a  new  character  to  her  genius; 

iid  brought  it  back  to  those  poetical  stutlies 

,vith  which  most  other  nations  have  begun. 

Ihe   cause   of  this,  too,  is   obvious.     While 

jberty  survived,  the  study  of  philosophy  and 

)ratory  and  history  was  but  as  an  instrument 

n  the  hands  of  a  liberal  and  patriotic  ambi- 

!i)n.  and  naturally  attracted  the  attention  of 

11  whose  talents  entitled  them  to  aspire  to 

he  lirst  dignities  of  the  state.     After  an  ab- 

lolute    government   was    established,    those 

ligh  prizes  were  taken  out  of  the  lottery  of 

ife;   and  the  primitive  uses  of  those  noble 

istruments  expired.     There  M-as  no   longer 

ny  safe  or  worthy  end  to  be  gained,  by  in- 

uencing  the  conduct,  or  fixing  the  principles 

f  men.     But  it  was  still  pennitted  to  seek 

leir  applause  by  ministering  to  their  delight; 

rid  talent  and  ambition,  when  excluded  from 

le  nobler  career  of  political  activity,  naturally 

)ught  for  a  humbler  harvest  of  glory  in  the 

iltivation  of  poetry,  and  the  arts  of  iraagina- 

on.     The  poetry  of  the  Romans,  however, 

erived  this  advantajre  from  the  lateness  of 

>   origin,  that   it  was   enriched   by  all  that 

lowledge  of  the  human    heart,  and  those 

ibits  of  reflection,  which  had  been  generated 

.     y  the  previous  study  of  philosophy.  There  is 

liformly  more  thought,  therefore,  and  more 

ivelopment,  both  of  reason  and  of  moral 

eling,  in  the  poets  of  the  Augustan  age,  than 

I  :n-  of  their  Greek  predecessors ;  and  though 


repressed  in  a  good  degree  by  the  remains  of 
their  national  austerity,  there  is  also  a  great 
deal  more  tenderness  of  affection.  In  spite 
of  the  pathos  of  some  scenes  in  Euripides, 
and  the  melancholy  passion  of  some  frag- 
ments of  Simonides  and  Sapjiho,  there  is  no- 
thhig  at  all  like  the  fourth  book  of  Virgil,  the 
Alcrnene,  and  Baucis  and  Philemon  of  Ovid, 
and  some  of  the  elegies  of  Tibullus.  in  the 
\\hole  range  of  Greekliterature.  The  memory 
of  their  d'eparted  freedom,  too,  conspired  to 
give  an  air  of  sadness  to  much  of  the  Roman 
poetry,  and  their  feeling  of  the  lateness  of  the 
age  in  which  they  were  born.  The  Greeks 
thought  only  of  the  present  and  the  future ; 
but  the  Romans  had  begun  already  to  live  in 
the  past,  and  to  make  pensive  reflections  on 
the  faded  glory  of  mankind.  The  historians 
of  this  classic  age,  though  they  have  more  of 
a  moral  character  than  those  of  Greece,  are  still 
but  superlicial  teachers  of  wisdom.  Their 
narration  is  more  animated,  and  more  pleas- 
ingly dramatised,  by  the  orations  with  which 
it  is  interspersed  ; — but  they  have  neither  the 
profound  reflection  of  Tacitus,  nor  the  power 
of  explaining  great  events  by  general  causes, 
which  distinguishes  the  writers  of  modem 
times. 

The  atrocious  tyranny  that  darkened  the 
earlier  ages  of  the  empire,  gave  rise  to  the 
third  school  of  Roman  Hterature.  The  suffer- 
ings to  which  men  were  subjected,  turned 
their  thoughts  inward  on  their  own  hearts; 
and  that  philosophy  which  had  first  been 
courted  as  the  handmaid  of  a  generous  ambi- 
tion, was  now  sought  as  a  shelter  and  con- 
solation in  misery.  The  maxims  of  the  Stoics 
were  ag-ain  revived, — not,  indeed,  to  stimulate 
to  noble  exertion,  but  to  harden  ag-ainst  mis- 
fortune. Their  lofty  lessons  of  virtue  were 
again  repeated — but  with  a  bitter  accent  of 
despair  and  reproach;  and  that  indulgence,  or 
indifference  towards  vice,  which  had  charac- 
terised the  first  philosophers,  was  now  con- 
verted, by  the  terrible  experience  of  its  evils, 
into  vehement  and  gloomy  invective.  Seneca, 
Tacitus,  Epictetus,  all  fall  under  this  descrip- 
tion ;  and  the  same  spirit  is  discernible  in 
Juvenal  and  Lucan.  Much  more  profound 
views  of  human  nature,  and  a  far  greater  mo- 
ral sensibility  characterise  thisage, — and  show 
that  even  the  unspeakable  degradation  to 
\\hich  the  abuse  of  power  had  then  sunk  the 
mistress  of  the  world,  could  not  arrest  alto- 
gether that  intellectual  progress  which  gathers 
its  treasures  from  all  the  varieties  of  human 
fortune.  Quintilian  and  the  two  Phnys  afford 
further  evidence  of  this  progress; — for  they 
are,  in  point  of  thought  and  accuracy,  and 
profound  sense,  conspicuously  superior  to  any 
writers  upon  similar  subjects  in  the  days  of 
Augustus.  Poetry  and  the  fme  arts  languish- 
ed, indeed,  under  the  rigours  of  this  blasting 
despotism : — and  it  is  honourable,  on  the 
whole,  to  the  memory  of  their  former  great- 
ness, that  so  few  Roman  poets  should  have 
sullied  their  pens  by  any  traces  of  adulation 
towards  the  monsters  who  then  sat  in  the 
place  of  power. 

We  pass  over  Madame  de  Stael's  view  of 
£2 


54 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


the  middle  ages,  and  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  mixture  of  the  northern  and  southern  races 
amehorated  the  intellect  and  the  morality  of 
both.  One  great  c<iuse  of  their  mutual  im- 
provement, howevur,  she  truly  states  to  have 
been  the  general  prevalence  of  Christianity; 
which,  by  the  abolition  of  domestic  slavery, 
removed  the  cliief  cause,  both  of  the  corrup- 
tion and  the  ferocity  of  ancient  manners.  By 
investing  the  conjugal  union,  too,  with  a  sacred 
character  of  equality,  it  at  once  redressed  the 
long  injustice  to  which  the  female  sex  had 
been  subjected,  and  blessed  and  gladdened 
private  life  with  a  new  progeny  of  joys,  and  a  I 
new  fund  of  knowledge  of  the  most  interest- 
ing description.  Upon  a  subject  of  this  kind, 
we  naturally  expect  a  woman  to  express  her- 
self with  peculiar  animation  ]  and  Madame 
de  Stael  has  done  it  ample  justice  in  the  fol- 
lowing, and  in  other  passages. 

"  C'est  done  alors  que  les  fcmmes  commencerent 
a  eire  de  moitic  dans  rassociation  liumaine.  C'est 
alors  aussi  que  Ton  coniiut  veritablemeni  le  bonheur 
domeslique.  Trop  de  puissance  deprave  la  bonio, 
altf're  toutes  les  jouissances  de  la  delicatessen  les 
verius  et  les  seniimt^ns  ne  peuvent  resister  d'une 
part  a  re.xercice  du  pouvoir,  de  I'auire  a  {'habitude 
de  la  crainte.  La  felicite  de  rhomme  s'accrut  de 
loute  I'iiidefiendance  qu'obtint  Tobjet  de  sa  ten- 
dresse ;  il  put  se  croire  airne ;  un  etre  libre  le 
choisit ;  un  eire  libre  obcit  a  ses  desirs.  Les  ap- 
per^us  de  I'esprit,  les  nuances  senties  par  le  cmur 
se  niultiplierent  avec  les  idces  et  les  impressions  de 
ces  ames  nouvelles,  qui  s'essayoient  a  I'e.xisience 
morale,  apres  avoir  long-temps  langui  dans  la  vie. 
Les  femnies  n'ont  point  compose  d'ouvrages  verit- 
ablemeni superiems;  niaisellcs  n'en  ont  pas  moins 
eiTiineninient  servi  ks  progres  de  la  lilteraiure, 
par  la  fouie  de  pensees  qu'ont  inspirees  au.x  hommes 
les  relations  entretenues  avec  ces  etres  mobiles  et 
delicais.  Tous  les  rapports  se  soni  doubles,  pour 
ainsi  dire,  depuis  que  les  objets  ont  ete  considercs 
sous  un  point  de  vue  tout-a-tait  nouveau.  La  con-  j 
fiance  d'un  lien  iniirne  en  a  plus  appris  sur  la  naiure 
morale,  que  lous  les  traiu's  et  tous  les  svsiemes  qui 
peignoient  rhomme  lel  qu'il  se  niontre  a  Thomme, 
et  non  lel  qu'il  est  reellement." — pp.  197,  198. 

"  Les  femmes  ont  decouvert  dans  les  caracteres 
une  loule  de  nuances,  que  le  bcsoiii  de  doniiner  on 
la  crainte  d'etre  asservies  leur  a  fait  appercevoir : 
elles  ont  fourni  au  talent  dramaiique  de  nouvpau.\ 
secrets  pour  eniouvoir.  Tous  les  sentimens  au.\- 
quels  il  leur  est  pcrmis  de  se  livrer.  la  crainte  de  la 
mort,  le  regret  de  la  vie,  le  devonement  sans 
bonies,  rinoignation  sans  mesure,  enrichisseni  la 
litterature  d'e.xpressions  nouvelles.  De-la  vieni 
que  lea  mornlistes  modernes  ont  en  general  beau- 
coup  plus  de  finesse  et  de  sagncite  duns  la  ronnois- 
eaiu*  des  hommes,  que  les  inoralistes  de  rniiiiqniie. 
Quironque,  chez  les  anciens,  ne  pouvoit  atteindrea 
la  reiiommee,  n'avoit  auciin  motil  de  developpe- 
ment.  Depuis  qu'on  est  deux  dans  la  vie  domes- 
lique, les  comniimications  de  I'esprit  et  I'exercice 
de  la  morale  exisient  toujourp,  au  moins  dans  un 
petit  cercle;  les  enfans  soni  devenus  plus  chers  a 
leur  parens,  par  la  lendresse  reciproque  qui  forme  le 
lien  conjugal ;  et  toutes  les  affi'ctions  ont  pris  I'em- 
preinte^  de  cette  divine  alliance  de  I'amour  ei  de 
ramiljc,  de  I'esiime  et  de  I'aitrait,  de  la  confi;ince 
nieritec  et  de  la  seduction  involoniaire. 

"  Un  age  aride,  que  la  gloire  et  la  vertu  pouvoient 
honorer,  inais  qui  ne  devoit  plus  eire  ranime  par 
les  emotions  du  tojur.  la  vieillesse  s'est  enricliie  de 
toutes  les  pensees  de  la  melancolie;  il  lui  a  ete 
donne  de  se  ressouvenir,  de  retjretter,  d'aimer  en- 
core cequ'cllc  avoit  aime.  Les  afTeciions  morales, 
unies,  dos  la  jeunessp,  nux  pnssions  bnilantes, 
peuvent  se  prolonger  par  de  nobles  traces  jusqu'a 


la  fin  de  I'existence,  et  laisser  voir  encore  le  meme 
tableau  sous  le  cr^pe  funebre  du  temps. 

"  Une  sensibilite  reveuse  el  profonde  est  un  des 
plus  grands  charmes  de  quelques  ouvrages  mo- 
dernes  ;  et  ce  scmt  les  ieainns  qui,  ne  connoissant 
de  la  vie  que  la  iacuhe  d'aimer,  ont  fait  passer  la 
douceur  de  leurs  impressions  dans  le  style  de  quel- 
ques ecrivains.  En  lisant  les  livres  composes  de- 
puis la  renaissance  des  lettres,  Ton  pourroit  mar- 
quer  a  chaque  page,  qu'elles  soni  les  idees  qu'on 
n'avoit  pas.  avani  qu'on  eiii  accorde  aux  tenimes 
une  sorie  d'egaliie  civile.  La  generosite,  la  valeur, 
I'humaniie,  onl  pris  a  quelques  c'gards  une  accep- 
lion  diflerente.  Toutes  les  vertus  des  anciens 
etoient  fondeessur  I'amour  de  la  pairie  ;  les  femmes 
exerceni  leurs  qualites  d'une  manicreindependante. 
La  piiie  pour  la  foiblesse.  la  sympathie  pour  le  mal- 
heur,  une  elevaiion  d'ame,  sans  autre  bul  que  la 
jouigsance  meme  decetie  elevaiion,  sont  beaucoup 
plus  dans  leur  naiure  que  les  verius  poliiiques.  Les 
inodernes,  influences  par  les  femmes,  ont  facile- 
ment  cede  aux  liens  de  la  philanthropic  ;  et  I'esprit 
est  deveiMie  plus  philosophiquement  libre,  en  se 
livrani  moins  a  I'empire  des  associations  exclusives." 
—pp.  212—215. 

It  is  principally  to  this  cause  that  she 
ascribes  the  improved  morality  of  modern 
times.  The  improvement  of  their  intellect 
she  refers  more  generally  to  the  accumula- 
tion of  knowledge,  and  the  experience  of 
which  they  have  had  the  benefit.  Instead 
of  the  eager  spirit  of  emulation,  and  the  un- 
weighed  and  rash  enthusiasm  which  kindled 
the  genius  of  antiquity  into  a  sort  of  yonlhful 
or  instinctive  animation,  we  have  a  spint  of 
deep  reflection,  and  a  feeling  of  mingled  j 
melancholy  and  philanthropy,  inspired  by  a 
more  intimate  knowledge  of  the  sufferings, 
the  affections,  and  the  frailties  of  human 
nature.  There  is  a  certain  touching  and  pa- 
thetic tone,  therefore,  diffused  over  almost 
all  modern  writings  of  the  higher  order;  and 
in  the  art  of  agitating  the  soul,  and  moving 
the  gentler  affections  of  the  heart,  there  is 
nothing  in  all  antiquity  that  can  be  considered 
as  belonging  to  the  same  class  with  the  wri- 
tings of  Bossuct  or  Rousseau — many  passages 
in  the  English  poets — and  some  few  in  tliose 
of  Germany.  The  sciences,  of  course,  have 
made  prodigious  adA-ances;  for  in  these  noth- 
ing once  gained  can  be  lost, — and  the  mere 
elapse  of  ages  .supposes  a  vast  accumulation. 
In  morals,  the  progress  has  been  greatest  in 
the  private  virtues — in  the  sacred  regard  foi 
life — in  compassion,  sympathy,  and  benefi-, 
cence.  Nothing,  indeed,  can  illustrate  thtf 
difference  of  the  two  systems  more  strikingly) 
than  the  opposite  views  they  take  of  the  r&, 
lation  of  parent  and  child.  Filial  obediencii 
and  submission  was  enjoined  by  the  aiicien 
code  with  a  rigour  from  which  reason  am 
justice  equally  revolt.  Acconlinnr  to  our  pre 
sent  notions,  parental  love  is  a  duty  of  at  leas 
mutual  oblic"ation ;  and  as  nature  has  jilacei 
the  power  of  showing  kindness  almost  excln 
siveiy  in  the  hands  of  the  fiither,  it  seerai 
but  reasonable  that  the  exercise  of  it  shoulii 
at  last  be  enjoined  as  a  duty. 

Madame  de  Stael  begins  her  review  o 
modern  literature  with  that  of  Italy.  It  WJ> 
therf  that  the  mannscrijit.s — the  monnmeni 
— the  works  of  art  of  the  imperial  natioi 
were  lost ; — and  it  was  there,  of  course,  thi 


i 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


55 


they  were  ultimately  recovered.  The  re- 
searches necessary  for  this,  required  authority 
and  money;  and  they  were  begun,  accord- 
ingly, under  the  patronage  of  princes  and 
academies: — circumstances  favourable  to  the 
accumulation  of  knowledge,  and  the  forma- 
tion of  mere  scholars— but  adverse  to  the 
development  of  original  genius.  The  Italians, 
according-ly,  have  been  scholars,  and  have 
furnished  the  rest  of  Europe  with  the  im- 
plements of  liberal  study;  but  they  have 
achieved  little  for  themselves  in  the  high 
philosophy  of  politics  and  morals — though 
they  have  to  boast  of  Galileo,  Cassini,  and  a 
long  list  of  celebrated  names  in  the  physical 
sciences.  In  treating  of  subjects  of  a  large 
and  commanding  interest,  they  are  almost 
always  bombastic  and  shallow.  Nothing,  in- 
deetl,  can  be  more  just  or  acute  than  the 
following  delineation  of  this  part  of  their 
character. 

"  Les  Italiens,  accoutumcs  souvent  a  ne  rien 
croire  et  a  tout  proiesser,  se  sent  bieii  plus  e.xerces 
dans  la  plaisaiiterie  que  dans  le  raisonnenient.  lis  se 
moquent  de  leiir  propre  nianiere  d'etre.  Qiiand  lis 
veulent  renoncer  a  leur  talent  naturel,  a  I'esprit 
comiqiie,  pour  essayer  de  I'eloquence  oratoire,  lis 
ont  presque  toujours  de  lafl'ectaiion.  Les  souvenirs 
d'une  grandeur  passce,  sans  aucun  sentiment  de 
grandeur  presente,  produisent  le  gigantesque.  I,es 
Italiens  aurnieiii  de  la  dignite,  si  la  plus  sombre 
:ristesse  forinoit  leur  caractere  ;  mats  quaiid  les 
juccesseurs  des  Remains,  prives  de  tout  eclat  na- 
ioiial,  do  toute  liberie  politique,  sont  encore  un  des 
Deuples  les  plus  gais  de  la  terre,  ils  ne  peuvent 
ivoir  aucun  elevation  naturelle. 

■'  Les  Italiens  se  moquent  dans  leur  contes,  et 
iouvent  meme  sur  le  theatre,  des  prctres,  auxquels 
Is  sont  d'ailleurs  eniierenient  a.^servis.  M;iis  ce 
I'est  point  sous  un  point  de  vue  philosophique  qu'ils 
itiaquent  les  abus  de  la  religion.  lis  n'ont  pas, 
;onmie  quelques-uns  de  nosecrivains,  le  but  de  re- 
"ornier  les  defauis  dont  ils  plaisanient  ;  cc  qu'ils 
/eulent  seulement,  c'est  s'amuser  d'autant  plus 
lue  le  sujet  est  plus  serieu.x.  Leurs  opinions  sont, 
laiis  le  fond,  assez  opposees  a  tous  les  genres 
,l'aaioriie  au.xquels  ils  sont  soumis;  mais  cet  esprit 
I'opposiiion  n'a  de  force  que  ce  qu'il  faut  pour 
)ouvoir  mepriscr  ceu.x  qui  les  commandeiit.  C'est 
■a  ruse  des  enfans  envers  leurs  pedagogues ;  ils  leur 
!»beissent,  a  condition  qu'il  leur  soit  permis  de  s'en 
fnoquer." — p.  248. 

In  poetry,  however,  the  brilliant  imag-ina- 
ion  of  the  South  was  sure  to  re-assert  its 
launs    to    admiration ;    and    the    first    great 
■)oets  of  modern  Italy  had  the  advantage  of 
opening  up  a  new  career  for  their  talents, 
'uftical  fiction,  as  it  is  now  known  in  Europe, 
-    to    have    had    two    distinct    sources. 
2    the   fierce  and  illiterate  nations  of 
.'    North,  nothing  had  any  chance  of  being- 
si  ciied  to,  that  did  not  relate  to  the  feats  of 
>ar  ill  which  it  was  their  sole  ambition  to 
\l' ■! ;  and  poetical  invention  was  forced  to 
i-'.)l:iy  itself  in  those  legends  of  chivaiiy, 
.!i.'  h  contain  merely  an  e.xaggerated  picture 
■  m^s  that  were  familiar  to  all  their  audi- 
Iii  Asia,  again,  the   terrors  of  a  san- 
M  y  despotism  had  driven  men  to  express 
t-motions,  and  to  insinuate  their  moral 
.  niitioiiR,  in  the  form  of  apologues  and 
iuies:  and  as  these  necessarily  took  a  very 
'"ild   and   improbable   course,   their   fictions 
issumed  a  much  more  extravagant  and  va- 


ried form  than  those  of  the  northern  roman- 
cers. The  two  styles  however  were  brought 
together,  partly  by  the  ellect  of  the  crusades, 
and  partly  by  the  INIoorish  settlement  in 
Spain  ;  and  Ariosto  had  the  merit  of  first 
combining  them  into  one,  in  that  miraculous 
poem,  which  contains  more  painting,  more 
variety,  and  more  imagination,  than  any  other 
poem  in  existence.  The  fictions  of  Boyardo 
are  more  purely  in  the  taste  of  the  Orientals; 
and  Tasso  is  imbued  far  more  deeply  with  the 
spirit  and  manner  of  the  Augustan  classics. 

The  false  refinements,  the  concetti,  the  in- 
genious turns  and  misplaced  subtlety,  which 
have  so  long  been  the  reproach  of  the  Italian 
literature,  Madame  de  Slael  ascribes  to  their 
early  study  of  the  Greek  Theologians,  and 
later  Platonists,  who  were  so  much  in  I'avour 
at  the  first  revival  of  learning.  The  nice 
distinctions  and  sparkling  sophistries  which 
these  gentlemen  applied,  with  considerable 
success,  in  argument,  were  unluckily  trans- 
ferred, by  Petiaich,  to  subjects  of  love  and 
gallantry ;.  and  the  fashion  was  set  of  a  most 
unnatural  alliance  between  wit  and  passion — 
ingenuity  and  profound  emotion, — which  has 
turned  out,  as  might  have  been  expected,  to 
the  discredit  of  both  the  contracting  parties. 
AVe  admit  the  fact,  and  its  consequences :  but 
we  do  not  agree  as  to  the  causes  which  are 
here  supposed  to  have  produced  it.  VVe  really 
do  not  think  that  the  polemics  of  Constanti- 
nople are  answerable  for  this  extravagance ; 
and  have  little  doubt  that  it  originated  in  that 
desire  to  impress  upon  their  productions  the 
visible  marks  of  labour  and  art.  which  is  felt 
by  almost  all  artists  in  the  infancy  of  the 
study.  As  all  men  can  speak,  and  set  words 
together  in  a  natural  order,  it  was  likely  to 
occur  to  those  A\ho  first  made  an  art  of  com- 
position, and  challenged  general  admiration 
for  an  arrangement  of  words,  that  it  was 
necessary  to  make  a  very  strong  and  con- 
spicuous distinction  between  their  composi- 
tions and  ordinary  and  casual  discourse  ;.  and 
to  proclaim  to  the  most  careless  reader  or 
hearer,  that  a  great  difficulty  had  been  sur- 
mounted, and  something  eiTected  which  every 
one  was  not  in  a  condition  to  accomplish. 
This  feeling,  we  have  no  doubt,  first  gave 
occasion  to  versification  in  all  languages ;  and 
will  serve  to  account,  in  a  good  degree,  for 
the  priority  of  metrical  to  prose  compositions: 
but  where  versification  was  remarkably  easy, 
or  already  familiar,  some  visible  badge  of 
artifice  would  also  be  required  in  the  thought  j 
and,  accordingly,  there  seems  to  have  been  a 
certain  stage  in  the  progress  of  almost  all 
literature,  in  which  this  excess  has  been  com- 
mitted. In  Italy,  it  occurred  so  early  as  the 
time  of  Petrarch.  In  France,  it  became  con- 
spicuous ill  the  writings  of  Voiture,  Balsac, 
and  all  that  coterie  ;  ami  in  England,  in  Cow- 
ley, Donne,  and  the  whole  tribe  of  nieta- 
phy.sical  poets.  Simplicity,  in  short,  is  the 
last  attainment  of  progressive  literature  ;  and 
men  are  very  long  afraid  of  being  natural, 
from  'the  dread  of  being  taken  for  ordinary. 
There  is  a  simplicity,  indeetl,  that  is  antece- 
dent to  the  existence  of  anything  like  litei-ary 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


ambition  or  critical  taste  in  a  nation. — the  sim- 
plicity of  the  primitive  ballads  and  legends 
of  all  rude  nations ;  but  after  a  certain  degree 
of  taste  has  been  created,  and  composition 
has  become  an  object  of  pretty  general  atten- 
tion, simplicity  is  sure  to  be  despised  for  a 
considerable  period  ;  and  indeed,  to  be  pretty 
uniformly  violated  in  practice,  even  after  it  is 
restored  to  nominal  hoaoui-  and  veneration. 

We  do  not,  however,  agree  the  less  cordial- 
ly with  Madame  de  Stael  in  her  remarks  upon 
tae  irreparable  injury  which  affectation  does 
.to  taste  and  to  chaiacter.  The  following  is 
marked  with  all  her  spirit  and  sagacity. 

"  L'aflectaiion  est  de  lous  les  dcfauts  dcs  carac- 
teres  et  dcs  ecrits,  celui  qui  tarit  de  la  inanii^re  la 
plus  irreparable  la  source  de  tout  bien ;  car  elle 
blase  sur  la  veriie  meine,  dont  elle  imite  I'accent. 
Dans  quelque  eenre  que  ce  soit,  tous  les  mots  qui 
ont  servi  a  desldees  fausses,  ii  do  froides  exagcra- 
tions,  sont  pendant  long-temps  frappes  d'aridite  ; 
et  telle  langue  meme  peut  perdre  eniierement  la 
puissance  d'emouvoir  sur  lel  siijei,  si  elle  a  t-tt'  imp 
Bouvent  prodiguee  a  ce  sujet  meme.  Ainsi  peut-eire 
I'ltalien  est-il  de  toutes  les  langues  de  I'Europe  la 
moins  propre  a  Teloquence  passionnee  de  i'amour, 
comme  la  noire  est  maintenant  usee  pour  {'elo- 
quence de  la  libertc." — pp.  241,  242. 

Their  superstition  and  tyrannj- — their  in- 
quisition and  arbitrary  governments  have  ar- 
rested the  progress  of  the  Italians — as  they 
have  in  a  great  degree  prevented  that  of  the 
Spaniards  in  the  career  of  letters  and  philoso- 
phy. But  for  this,  the  Spanish  genius  would 
probably  have  gone  far.  Their  early  roman- 
ces show  a  grandeur  of  conception,  and  a  gen- 
uine enthusiasm ;  and  their  dramas,  though 
irregular,  are  full  of  spirit  and  invention. 
Though  bombastic  and  uiniatural  in  most  of 
their  serious  compositions,  their  extravagance 
is  not  so  cold  and  artificial  as  that  of  the  Ital- 
ians; but  seems  rather  to  proceed  from  a 
natural  exaggeration  of  the  fancy,  and  an  in- 
considerate straining  after  a  magnificence 
which  they  had  not  skill  or  patience  to  attain. 

We  come  now  to  the  literature  of  the  North, 
— by  which  name  Madame  de  Stael  desig- 
nates the  literature  of  England  and  Germany, 
and  on  which  she  passes  an  encomium  which 
•we  scarcely  expected  from  a  native  of  the 
South.  She  startles  us  a  little,  indeed,  when 
she  sets  off  with  a  dashing  parallel  between 
Homer  and  Ossian  ;  and  proceeds  to  say,  that 
the  peculiar  character  of  the  northern  litera- 
ture has  all  been  derived  from  that  Patriarch 
of  the  Celts,  in  the  same  way  as  that  of  the 
south  of  Europe  may  he  ultimately  traced 
back  to  the  genius  of  Homer.  It  is  certainly 
rather  against  this  hypothesis,  that  the  said 
Ossian  has  only  been  known  to  the  readers 
and  writers  of  the  North  for  about  forty  years 
from  the  present  day.  and  has  not  been' held 
in  especial  reverence  by  those  who  have  most 
distinguished  themselves  in  that  short  period. 
However,  we  shall  suppose  that  Madame  de 
Stael  means  only,  that  the  style  of  Ossian  re- 
unites the  peculiarities  that  distinguish  the 
northern  school  of  letter.",  and  may  be  sup- 
posed to  exhibit  them  such  as  they  were 
before  the  introduction  of  the  cla.sisical  and 
southern  models.     We  rather  think  she  is 


right  in  saying,  that  there  is  a  radical  differ- 
ence in  the  taste  and  genius  of  the  two  re- 
gions; and  that  there  is  more  melancholy, 
more  tenderness,  more  deep  feeling  and  tixed 
and  lofty  passion,  engendered  among  the 
clouds  and  mountains  of  the  North,  than  upon 
the  summer  seas  or  beneath  the  perfumed 
groves  of  the  South.  The  causes  of  the  dif- 
ference are  not  perhaps  so  satisfactorily  sta- 
ted. Madame  de  Stael  gives  the  thst  place 
to  the  climate. 

Another  characteristic  is  the  hereditary 
independence  of  the  northern  tribes — arising 
partly  from  their  scattered  population  and  in- 
accessible retreats,  and  partly  from  the  physi- 
cal force  and  hardihood  which  their  way  of 
life,  and  the  exertions  requisite  to  procure 
subsistence  in  those  regions,  necessarily  pro- 
duced. Their  religious  creed,  too,  even  be- 
fore their  conversion  to  Christianity,  was  less 
fantastic,  and  more  capable  of  leading  to 
heroic  emotions  than  that  of  the  southern 
nations.  The  respect  and  tenderness  with 
which  they  always  regarded  their  women,  is 
another  cause  (or  effect)  of  the  peculiarity  of 
their  national  character :  and.  in  later  times, 
their  general  adoption  of  the  Protestant  faith 
has  tended  to  confirm  that  chaiacter.  For 
our  own  part,  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe  more 
weight  to  the  last  circumstance,  than  to  all 
the  others  that  have  been  mentioned  ;  and 
that  not  merely  from  the  better  education 
which  it  is  the  genius  of  Protestantism  to 
bestow  on  the  lower  orders,  but  from  the  nec- 
essary effect  of  the  universal  study  of  the 
Scriptures  which  it  enjoins.  A  very  great 
proportion  of  the  Protestant  population  of 
Europe  is  familiarly  acijuainted  with  the  Bi- 
ble ;  and  there  are  many  who  are  acquainted 
with  scarcely  any  other  book.  Now,  the 
Bible  is  not  only  full  of  lessons  of  patience 
and  humility  and  compassion,  but  abounds 
with  a  gloom}'  and  awful  poetry,  which  can- 
not fail  to  make  a  powerful  impression  on 
minds  that  are  not  exposed  to  any  other,  and 
receive  this  under  the  persuasion  of  its  divine 
origin.  The  peculiar  character,  therefore, 
which  Madame  de  Stael  has  ascribed  to  the 
people  of  the  North  in  geneml.  will  now  be 
found,  we  believe,  to  belong  only  to  such  of 
them  as  profess  the  reformed  religion  :  and 
to  be  discernible  in  all  the  communities  that 
maintain  that  profession,  Mithout  much  re- 
I  crard  to  the  degree  of  latitude  which  they  in- 
I  habit — thongh  at  the  same  time  it  is  umle- 
)  niable,  that  its  general  adoption  in  the  North 
!  must  be  ex])]aine(l  by  some  of  the  more  gene- 
I  ral  causes  which  we  have  shortly  indicated 
above. 

I  The  ijreat  fault  which  the  French  imiaite 
I  to  the  writers  of  the  North,  is  want  of  la.^te 
I  and  politt^iiess.  They  generally  admit  that 
I  they  have  irenius  :  but  contend  that  the\  (1( 
not  know  how  to  use  it ;  while  thtir  p:irl!-;!ii> 
maintain,  that  what  is  called  want  of  t;i>t<'  ij 
]  merelv  excess  of  genius,  and  independi-nce 
'  of  pedantic  rules  and  authorities.  Madamf 
de  Stael,  though  admitting  the  transceiuien' 
merits  of  some  of  the  English  writers,  take? 
part,  upon  the  whole,  against  them  in  this 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


57 


controversy;  and,  after  professing  her  unquali- 
fied preference  of  a  piece  compounded  of  great 
blemishes  and  great  beauties,  compared  with 
one  free  of  faults,  but  distinguished  by  little 
excellence,  proceeds  very  wisely  to  remark, 
that  it  would  be  still  better  if  the  great  faults 
were  corrected — and  that  it  is  but  a  bad  spe- 
cies of  independence  which  manifests  itself 
by  being  occasionally  otlensive  :  ami  then  she 
attacks  Shakespeai'e,  as  usual,  for  interspers- 
ing so  many  puerilities  and  absurdities  and 
grossierctes  with  his  sublime  and  pathetic 
passages. 

Now,  there  is  no  denying,  that  a  poem 
vrould  be  better  without  faults ;  and  that  ju- 
dicious painters  use  shades  only  to  set  off 
their  pictures,  and  not  blots.  But  there  are 
two  little  remarks  to  be  made.  In  the  first 
place,  if  it  be  true  that  an  extreme  horror  at 
faults  is  usually  found  to  exclude  a  variety 
of  beauties,  and  that  a  poet  can  .scarcely  ever 
attain  the  higher  excellencies  of  his  art,  with- 
out some  degree  of  that  rash  and  headlong 
confidence  which  naturally  gives  rise  to  blem- 
ishes and  excesses,  it  may  not  be  quite  so 
absurd  to  hold,  that  this  temperament  and 
disposition,  with  all  its  hazards,  deserves  en- 
couragement, and  to  speak  with  indulgence 
of  faults  that  are  symptomatic  of  great  beau- 
ties. There  is  a  primitive  fertility  of  soil  that 
naturally  throws  out  weed?  along  with  the 
matchless  crops  which  it  alone  can  bear;  and 
we  might  reasonably  grudge  to  reduce  its 
vigour  for  the  sake  of  purifying  its  produce. 
There  are  certain  savage  virtues  that  can 
!  scarcely  exist  in  perfection  in  a  state  of  com- 
plete civilization;  and,  as  specimens  at  least, 
we  may  wish  to  preserve,  and  be  allowed  to 
admire  them,  with  all  their  e.vceptionable 
accompaniments.  It  is  easy  to  say,  that 
there  is  no  necessary  connection  between  the 
faults  and  the  beauties  of  our  great  dramat- 
ist ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  since  men  have  be- 
come afraid  of  falling  into  his  faults,  no  one 
has  approached  to  his  beauties ;  and  we  have 
already  endeavoured,  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion, to  explain  the  grounds  of  this  con- 
;  nection. 

But  our  second  remark  is.  hat  it  is  not  quite 
fair  to  represent  the  controversy  as  arising 
altogether  from  the  excessive  and  undue  in- 
dulgence of  the  English  for  the  admitted 
faults  of  their  favourite  authors,  and  their  per- 
sisting to  idolize  Shakespeare  in  spite  of  his 
biitlooneries.  extravagancies,  and  bombast. 
We  admit  that  he  has  those  faults ;  and,  as 
they  are  faults,  that  he  would  be  better  with- 
out them  :  but  there  are  many  more  things 
which  the  French  call  faults,  but  which  Me 
deliberately  consider  as  beauties.  And  here, 
wp  suspect,  the  dispute  does  not  admit  of  any 
settlement:  Because  both  parties,  if  they  are 
really  sincere  in  their  opinion,  and  understand 
the  subject  of  discussion,  may  very  well  be 
riiiht.  and  for  that  very  reason  incapable  of 
coming  to  any  agreement.  We  consider  taste 
to  mean  merely  the  faculty  of  receiving  plea- 
sure from  beauty ;  and,  so" far  as  relates  to  the 
person  receiving  that  pleasure,  we  apprehend 
:  it  to  admit  of  little  doubt,  that  the  best  taste 
8 


is  that  which  enables  him  to  receive  the 
greatest  quantity  of  pleasure  from  the  greatest 
number  of  things.  With  regard  to  the  author 
again,  or  artist  of  any  other  description,  who 
pretends  to  bestow  the  pleasure,  his  object  of 
course  should  be,  to  give  as  much,  and  to  as 
many  persons  as  possible ;  and  especially  to 
those  who,  from  their  rank  and  education,  are 
likely  to  regulate  the  judgment  of  the  re- 
mainder. It  is  his  business  therefore  to  as- 
certain what  does  please  the  greater  part  of 
such  persons;  and  to  fashion  his  productions 
according  to  the  rules  of  taste  which  may  be 
deduced  from  that  discovery.  Now,  we  hum- 
bly conceive  it  to  be  a  complete  and  final  jus- 
tification for  the  whole  body  of  the  English 
nation,  who  understand  French  as  well  as 
English  and  yet  prefer  Shakespeare  to  Racine, 
just  to  state,  modestly  and  firmly,  the  fact  of 
that  preference;  and  to  declare,  that  their 
habits  and  tempers,  and  studies  and  occupa- 
tions, have  been  such  as  to  make  them  receive 
far  greater  pleasure  from  the  more  varied 
imagery — the  more  flexible  tone — the  closer 
imitation  of  nature — the  more  rapid  succes- 
sion of  incident;  and  vehement  bursts  of  pas- 
sion of  the  English  author,  than  from  the 
unvarying  majesty — the  elaborate  argument 
— and  epigrammatic  poetry  of  the  French  dra- 
matist. For  the  taste  of  the  nation  at  large, 
we  really  cannot  conceive  that  any  other  apol- 
ogy can  be  necessary;  and  though  it  might 
be  very  desirable  that  they  should  agree  with 
their  neighbours  upon  this  point,  as  well  as 
upon  many  others,  we  can  scarcely  imagine 
any  upon  which  their  disagreement  could  be 
attended  with  less  inconvenience.  For  the 
authors,  again,  that  have  the  misfortune  not 
to  be  so  much  admired  by  the  adjoining  na- 
tions as  by  their  own  countrymen,  we  can 
only  suggest,  that  this  is  a  very  common  mis- 
fortune^ and  that,  as  they  wrote  in  the  lan- 
guage of  their  country,  and  will  probably  be 
always  most  read  within  its  limits,  it  was  not 
perhaps  altogether  unwise  or  unpardonable  in 
them  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  taste 
which  was  there  established. 

Madame  de  Stael  has  a  separate  chapter 
upon  Shakespeare ;  in  which  she  gives  him 
full  credit  for  originality,  and  for  having  been 
the  first,  and  perhaps  the  only  considerable 
author,  who  did  not  copy  from  preceding 
models,  but  drew  all  his  greater  conceptions 
directly  from  his  own  feelings  and  observa- 
tions. His  representations  of  human  passions, 
therefore,  are  incomparably  more  true  and 
touching,  than  those  of  any  other  writer  ;  and 
are  presented,  moreover,  in  a  far  more  elemen- 
tary and  simple  state,  and  without  any  of 
those  circumstances  of  dignity  or  contrast 
with  which  feebler  artists  seem  to  have  held 
it  indispensable  that  they  should  be  set  off. 
She  considers  him  as  the  first  writer  who  has 
ventured  upon  the  picture  of  overwhelming 
sorrow  and  hopeless  wretchedness; — that  de- 
solation of  the  heart,  which  arises  from  the 
long  contemplation  of  ruined  hopes  and  irre- 
parable privation ; — that  inward  anguish  and 
bitterness  of  soul  which  the  public  life  of  the 
ancients  prevented  them  from  feeling,  and 


58 


LITEKATURE  A.\D  BIOGRAPHY. 


their  stoical  precepts  interdicted  ihem  from 
disclosing.  The  German  poets,  and  some 
succeeding  English  authors,  have  produced  a 
prodigious  effect  by  the  use  of  this  powerful 
instrumL'iit;  but  nothing  can  e.vceed  the  orig- 
inal sketches  of  it  e.vhibited  in  Lear,  in  Ham- 
let, in  Timon  of  Athens,  and  in  some  parts  of 
Richard  and  of  Othello.  He  has  likewise 
drawn,  with  the  hind  of  a  master,  the  strug- 
gles of  nature  under  the  immediate  contem- 
plation of  approaching  death;  and  that  with- 
out those  supports  of  conscious  dignity  or 
exertion  with  which  all  other  writers  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  blend  or  to  contrast 
their  pictures  of  this  emotion.  But  it  is  in  the 
excitement  of  the  two  proper  tragic  passions 
of  pity  and  terror,  that  the  force  and  origin- 
ality of  his  genius  are  most  conspicuous  ;  pity 
not  only  for  youth  and  iiniocence.  and  noble- 
ness and  virtue,  as  in  Imogen  and  Desdemona, 
Brutus  and  Cariolanus — but  for  insignificant 
persons  like  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  or  profli- 
gate and  worthless  ones  like  Cardinal  Wolsey ; 
— terror,  in  all  its  forms,  from  the  madness 
of  Lear,  and  the  ghost  of  Hamlet,  up  to  the 
dreams  of  Richard  and  Lady  Macbeth.  In 
comparing  the  effects  of  such  delineations 
with  the  superstitious  horror  excited  by  the 
mythological  persons  of  the  Greek  drama,  the 
vast  superiority  of  the  English  author  cannot 
fail  to  be  apparent.  Instead  of  supernatural 
beings  interfering  with  their  cold  and  impas- 
sive natures,  in  the  agitations  and  sufferings 
of  men,  Shakespeare  employs  only  the  magic 
of  powerful  passion,  and  of  the  illusions  to 
which  it  gives  birth.  The  phantoms  and  ap- 
paritions which  he  occasionally  conjures  up 
to  add  to  the  terror  of  the  scene,  are  in  truth 
but  a  bolder  personification  of  those  troubled 
dreams,  and  thick  coming  fancies,  which  har- 
row up  the  souls  of  guilt  and  agony :  and 
even  his  sorcery  and  incantation  are  but  traits 
of  the  credulity  and  superstition  which  so 
frequently  accompany  the  exaltation  of  the 
greater  passions.  But  perhaps  the  most  mi- 
raculous of  all  his  representations,  are  those 
in  which  ho  has  pourtrayed  the  wanderings 
of  a  disordered  intellect,  and  especially  of 
that  species  of  distraction  which  arises  from 
excess  of  sorrow.  Instead  of  being  purely 
terrible,  those  scenes  are,  in  his  hands,  in  the 
highest  degree  touching  and  pathetic ;  and 
the  wild.iess  of  fancy,  and  richness  of  imagery 
which  they  display,  are  even  less  admirable 
than  the  constant,  though  incoherent  expres- 
sion of  that  one  sentiment  of  agonizing  grief 
Avhich  had  overborne  all  the  faculties  of  the 
soul. 

Such  are  the  chief  beauties  which  Madame 
de  Stael  discovers  in  Shakespearii ;  and  thouyh 
they  are  not  perhaps  exactly  what  an  English 
reader  would  think  of  brmging  most  into  no- 
tice, it  is  interesting  to  know  what  strikes  an 
inteilig-^nt  foreigner,  in  pieces  with  which  we 
ourselves  have  always  been  familiar.  The 
chief  fault  she  im]>utes  to  him,  besides  the 
mixtnr'^  of  low  buffoonery  with  tragic  jmssion, 
are  occasional  tediousness  and  rep-tition — t  )0 
much  visible  horror  and  bloodshed — and  the 
perso.ial  deformity  of  Caliban  and  Richard 


III.;  for  all  which  we  shall  leave  it  to  our 
readers  to  make  the  best  apology  they  can. 

Madame  de  Stael  thinks  very  poorly  of  our 
talent  for  pleasantry ;  and  is  not  very  success- 
ful in  her  delineation  of  what  we  call  humour. 
The  greater  part  of  the  nation,  she  sa)s,  lives 
either  in  the  serious  occupations  of  business 
and  politics,  or  in  the  tranquil  circle  of  family 
affection.  What  is  called  society,  therefore, 
has  scarcely  any  existence  among  them  ;  and 
yet  it  is  in  that  sphere  of  idleness  and  frivolity, 
that  taste  is  matured,  and  gaiety  made  ele- 
gant. They  are  not  at  all  trained,  therefore, 
to  observe  the  finer  shades  of  character  and 
of  ridicule  in  real  life;  and  consequently  nei- 
ther think  of  delineating  them  in  their  com- 
positions, nor  are  aware  of  their  merit  when 
delineated  by  others.  We  are  unwilling  to 
think  this  perfectly  just;  and  are  encouraged 
to  suspect,  that  the  judgment  of  the  ingenious 
author  may  not  be  altogether  without  appeal 
on  such  a  subject,  by  observing,  that  she  rep- 
resents the  paltry  flippancy  and  disgusting 
affectation  of  Sterne,  as  the  purest  specimen 
of  true  English  humour;  and  classes  the  char- 
acter of  Falstaft  along  with  that  of  Pistol,  as 
parallel  instances  of  that  vulgar  caricature 
from  which  the  English  still  condescend  to 
receive  amusement.  It  is  more  just,  how- 
ever, to  observe,  that  the  humour,  and  in 
general  the  pleasantry,  of  our  nation,  has  very 
frequently  a  sarcastic  and  even  misanthropic 
character,  which  distinguishes  it  from  the 
mere  playfulness  and  constitutional  gaiety  of 
our  French  neighbours ;  and  that  we  have  not", 
for  the  most  part,  succeeded  in  our  attempts 
to  imitate  the  graceful  pleasantry  and  agree- 
able trifling  of  that  ingenious  people.  We 
develope  every  thing,  she  maintains,  a  great 
deal  too  laboriously ;  and  give  a  harsh  and 
painful  colouring  to  those  parts  which  the 
very  nature  of  their  style  requires  to  be  but 
lightly  touched  and  delicately  shaded.  We 
never  think  we  are  heard,  unless  we  cry  out; 
— nor  understood,  if  we  leave  any  thing  un- 
told : — an  excess  of  diffuseness  and  labour 
which  could  never  be  endured  out  of  our  own 
island.  It  is  curious  enough,  indeed,  to  ob- 
serve, that  men  who  have  nothing  to  do  with 
their  time  but  to  get  rid  of  it  in  amusement, 
are  always  much  more  impatient  of  any  kind 
of  tediousness  in  their  entertainers,  than  those 
who  have  but  little  leisure  for  entertainment. 
The  reason  is,  we  suppose,  that  familiarity 
with  business  makes  the  latter  habitually 
tolerant  of  tediousness;  while  the  less  en-, 
grossing  pursuits  of  the  former,  in  order  tO; 
retain  any  degree  of  interest,  re<jnire  a  very; 
rapid  succession  and  constant  variety.  Oa 
the  whole,  we  do  not  think  Madame  tie  Stael) 
very  correct  in  her  notions  of  English  gaiety;^ 
and  cannot  help  suspecting,  that  she  must 
have  been  in  some  respects  unfortunate  in  hcii 
society,  during  her  visit  to  this  country.  i 

Her  estimate  of  our  poetry,  and  of  our  works 
of  fiction,  is  more  unexceptionable.  She  doee 
not  allow  us  much  invention,  in  the  strictesi 
sense  of  that  word;  and  still  less  grace  anc 
sprisfhtliness  in  works  of  a  light  and  playfu 
character:    But,  for  glowing  descriptions  of 


MADAME  DE  STAEL  HOLSTEIN. 


59 


Mature — for  the  pure  language  of  the  afFcc- 
tions — for  profound  thought  and  lofty  senti- 
ment, she  admits,  that  the  greater  poets  of 
England  are  superior  to  any  thing  else  that 
the  world  has  yet  exhibited.  Milton,  Young. 
Thomson,  Goldsmith,  and  Gray,  seem  to  be 
her  chief  favourites.  We  do  not  find  that 
Cowper.  or  any  later  author,  had  come  to  her 
knowledge.  The  best  of  them,  however,  she 
says,  are  chargeable  with  the  national  faults 
of  exaggeration,  and  ^dcs  longueurs.^  She 
overrates  the  merit,  we  think,  of  our  novels, 
when  she  says,  that  with  the  exception  of  La 
Nouvelle  Heloise, which  belongs  exclusively  to 
the  genius  of  the  sing-ular  individual  who  pro- 
duced it,  and  has  no  relation  to  the  character 
of  his  nation,  all  the  novels  that  have  suc- 
ceeded in  France  have  been  undisguised  imi- 
tations of  the  English,  to  whom  she  ascribes, 
■without  qualification,  the  honour  of  that  meri- 
torious invention. 

The  last  chapter  upon  English  literature  re- 
lates to  their  philosophy  and  eloquence ;  and 
here,  though  the  learned  author  seems  aware 
^  of  the  transcendent  merit  of  Bacon,  we  rather 
■  think  she  proves  herself  to  be  unacquainted 
with  that  of  his  illustrious  contemporaries  or 
immediate  successors,  Hooker,  Taylor,  and 
Barrow — for  she  places  Bacon  as  the  only  lu- 
minary of  our  sphere  in  the  period  preceding 
the  Usurpation,  and  considers  the  true  era  of 
British  philosophy  as  commencing  with  the 
reign  of  King  William.  We  cannot  admit  the 
accuracy  of  this  intellectual  chronology.  The 
character  of  the  English  philosophy  is  to  be 
patient,  profound,  and  always  guided  by  a 
view  to  utility.  They  have  (lone  wonders  in 
the  metaphysic  of  the  understanding;  but 
have  not  equalled  De  Retz,  La  Bruyere,  or 
even  Montaigne,  in  their  analysis  of  the  pas- 
sions and  dispositions.  The  folloM-ing  short 
passage  is  full  of  sagacity  and  talent. 

"  Les  Anglais  otit  avance  dans  les  sciences  phi- 
losophiqnes  comma  dans  I'indiisirie  coninierciale, 
a  I'aide  de  la  paiience  ei  du  temps.  Le  penchant 
•■  de  leurs  philosophes  pour  les  abstractions  sombloit 
devoir  les  entrainer  dans  dcssysiemes  qui  pouvoieni 
6tre  cnntraires  a  la  raison  ;  mais  I'esprit  de  calcni. 
qui  regularise,  dans  leur  application,  les  combinai- 
Bons  abslraites.  la  moralite.  qui  est  la  plus  experi- 
mentale  de  routes  les  idees  huniaines,  I'interet  du 
commerce,  I'amourde  !alil)erte,ont  toujoursratriene 
les  philosophes  Anglais  a  des  resultats  pratiques. 
Que  d'oiivraofes  ontrepris  pour  servir  utilement  les 
hommes.  pnur  rpducation  des  enfans,  pour  le  son- 
lagement  des  malheureux.  pour  reconomie  politi- 
que.  laletrislation  criminelle.  les  sciences,  la  morale, 
lametaphysiqne  !  Quelle  piiilosopliie  dans  les  con- 
ceptions !  quel  rf spect  pnur  Texperience  dans  le 
choix  des  nioyens! 

"  C'est  a   la   liberte  qu'il    faut    attribuer   cette 

emulation  ct  cette  sagesse.    On  pouvoit  si  rarement 

se  flatter  en  France  d'infiuer  par  si  s  ecrits  sur  les 

(     institutions  de  son  pays,  qu'on  ne   songeoit   qii'a 

'     montrer  de  I'esprit  dans  les  discussions  mcme  les 

plus  sericuscs.     On  poussoit  jusqu'au  paradoxe  uii 

sysienie  vrai  dans  une  certaine  mesure  ;   la  raison 

M"  pouvant  avoir  une  eflTet  utile,  on  vouloit  au  moins 

I     que  le  paradoxe  fut  brillant.     D'ailleurs  sous  une 

;     monarchie  ahsolue,  on  pouvoit  sans  danger  vanter. 

I     coiTime  dans  le  Conlrat  Social,  la  democratie  pure  ; 

I     mais  on    n'auroit   point    ose   approcher   des  idees 

I    possibles.     Tout  etoit  jeu  d'esprit  en  France,  hors 

I    les  arrets  du  conscil  du  roi :  tandis  qu'en  Angle- 


terre,  chacuti  pouvant  agir  d'une  maniere  quelcon- 
que  sur  les  resolutions  de  ses  repreaentans,  Ton 
prend  I'habitude  de  comparer  la  pensee  avec  Tac- 
tion, et  Ton  s'accoutume  a  I'amour  du  bien  public 
par  I'espoir  d'y  contribuer." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  5 — 7. 

She  returns  again,  however,  to  her  former 
imputation  of  "ion™cwr.s,"  and  repetitions, 
and  excessive  development;  and  maintains, 
that  the  greater  part  of  English  books  are 
obscure,  in  consequence  of  their  prolixity,  and 
of  the  author's  extreme  anxiety  to  be  perfectly 
understood.  We  suspect  a  part  of  the  confu- 
sion is  owing  to  her  want  of  familiarity  with 
the  language.  In  point  of  fact,  we  know  of 
no  French  writer  on  similar  subjects  so  con- 
cise as  Hume  or  Smith;  and  believe  we  might 
retort  the  charge  of  longvciirs.  in  the  name 
of  the  whole  English  nation,  upon  one  half  of 
the  French  classic  authors — upon  their  Kollin 
and  their  iMasiJlon — their  D'Alembert — their 
BufTon — their  Helvetius — and  the  whole  tribe 
of  their  dramatic  writers: — while  as  to  repe- 
titions, we  are  quite  certain  that  there  is  no 
one  English  author  who  has  repeated  the  same 
ideas  half  so  often  as  Voltaire  himself — cer- 
tainly not  the  most  tedious  of  the  fraternity. 
She  complains  also  of  a  want  of  warmth  and 
animation  in  our  prose  writers.  And  it  is 
true  that  Addison  and  Shaftesbury  are  cold; 
but  the  imputation  only  convinces  us  the 
more,  th:it  she  is  unacquainted  with  the  writ- 
ings of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  that  illustrious 
train  of  successors  which  has  terminated,  we 
fear,  in  the  person  of  Burke.  Our  debates  in 
parliament,  she  says,  are  more  remarkable  for 
their  logic  than  their  rhetoric  ;  and  have  more 
in  them  of  sarcasm,  than  of  poetical  figure 
and  ornament.  And  no  doubt  it  is  so — and 
must  be  so — in  all  the  discussions  of  perma- 
nent assemblies,  occupied  from  day  to  day, 
and  from  month  to  month,  with  great  ques- 
tions of  internal  legislation  or  foreign  policy. 
If  she  had  heard  Fox  or  Pitt,  however,  or 
Burke  or  Windham,  or  Grattan,  we  cannot 
conceive  that  she  should  complain  of  our  want 
of  animation;  and,  warm  as  she  is  in  her  en- 
comiums on  the  eloquence  of  Mirabeau,  and 
some  of  the  orators  of  the  first  revolution,  she 
is  forced  to  confess,  that  our  system  of  elo- 
quence is  better  calculated  for  the  detection 
of  .sophistry,  and  the  effectual  enforcement 
of  all  salutary  truth.  We  really  are  not  aware 
of  any  other  purposes  which  eloquence  can 
serve  in  a  great  national  assembly. 

Here  end  her  remarks  on  our  English  litera- 
ture— and  here  we  must  contrive  also  to  close 
this  desultory  account  of  her  lucubrations — 
though  we  have  accompanied  her  through 
little  more  than  one  half  of  the  work  before 
us.  It  is  impossible,  however,  that  Ave  can 
now  find  room  to  say  ai>y  thing  of  her  expo- 
sition of  (lerman  or  of  French  literature — and 
still  less  of  her  anticipations  of  the  change 
which  the  establishment  of  a  Republican  gov- 
ernment in  the  last  of  those  countries  is  likely 
to  produce, — or  of  the  hints  and  cautions  with 
which,  in  contempkition  of  that  event,  she 
thinks  it  necessary  to  provide  her  countrymen.. 
These  are  perhaps  the  most  curious  parts  of 
the  work : — but  we  cannot  enter  upon  them 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPH\'. 


at  present; — and  indeed,  in  what  we  have 
already  said,  we  have  so  far  exceeded  the 
limits  to  which  we  always  wish  to  confine 
ourselves,  that  we  do  not  very  well  know  what 
apology  to  make  to  our  readers — except 
merely,  that  we  are  not  without  hope,  that 
the  miscellaneous  nature  of  the  subject,  by 
which  we  have  been  insensibly  drawn  into 
this  great  prolixity,  may  have  carried  them 
also  along,  with  as  moderate  a  share  of  fatigue 
as  we  have  ourselves  experienced.  If  it  be 
otherwise — we  must  have  the  candour  and 
the  gallantry  to  say,  that  we  are  persuaded 
the  fault  is  to  be  imputed  to  us,  and  not  to 


the  nigenious  author  upon  whose  work  we 
have  been  employed;  and  that,  if  we  had 
confined  ourselves  to  a  mere  abstract  of  her 
lucubrations,  or  interspersed  fewer  of  our  own 
remarks  with  the  account  we  have  attempted 
to  give  of  their  substance,  we  might  have 
extended  this  article  to  a  still  greater  length, 
:  without  provoking  the  impatience  even  of  the 
I  more  fastidious  of  our  readers.  As  it  is,  we 
I  feel  that  we  have  done  but  scanty  justice, 
{  either  to  our  author  or  her  subject — though 
we  can  now  make  no  other  amends,  than  by 
I  earnestly  entreating  our  readers  to  study  both 
I  of  them  for  themselves.  • 


(iuln,  1S06.) 

The  Complete  Works,  in  Philosophy,  Politics,  and  Morals,  of  the  late  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin. 
Now  first  collected  and  arranged.  With  Memoirs  of  his  Early  Life,  written  by  himself. — 
3  vols.  8vo.  pp.  1450.     Johnson,  London;  1806. 

Nothing,  we  think,  can  show  more  clearly  ,  able  and  unworthy  service.  It  is  ludicrous 
the  singular  want  of  literary  enterprise  or  ]  to  talk  of  the  danger  of  disclosing  in  1795, 
activity,  in  the  United  States  of  America,  i  any  secrets  of  state,  with  regard  to  the  war 
than  that  no  one  has  yet  been  found  in  that  of  American  independence ;  and  as  to  any 
flourishing  republic,  to  collect  and  publish  I  anecdotes  or  observations  that  might  give 
the  works  of  their  only  philosopher.  It  is  not  ;  ofience  to  individuals,  we  think  it  should 
even  very  creditable  to  the  liberal  curiosity  j  always  be  remembered,  that  public  func- 
of  the  English  public,  that  there  should  have  ;  tionaries  are  the  property  of  the  public ;  that 
been  no  complete  edition  of  the  writings  of  i  their  character  belongs  to  history  and  to  pos- 
Dr.  Franklin,  till  the  year  1806:  and  we  terity;  and  that  it  is  equally  absurd  and  dis- 
should  have  been  altogether  unable  to  ac-  creditable  to  think  of  suppressing  any  part  of 
count  for  the  imperfect  and  unsatisfactory  the  evidence  by  which  their  merits  must  be 
manner  in  which  the  task  has  now  been  per-  J  ultimately  determined.  But  the  whole  of  the 
fonned,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  statement  in  works  that  have  been  suppressed,  certainly 
the  prefatory  advertisement,  which  removes  did  not  relate  to  republican  politics.  The 
all  blame  from  the  editor,  to  attach  it  to  a  histqry  of  the  author's  life,  down  to  1757, 
higher  quarter.  It  is  there  stated,  that  re-  could  not  well  contain  any  matter  of  ofTeiice  ; 
cently  after  the  death  of  the  author,  his  and  a  variety  of  general  remarks  and  specu- 
grandson,  to  whom  the  whole  of  his'  papers  lations  which  he  is  understood  to  have  lell. 
had  been  bequeathed,  made  a  voyag:e  to  behind  him,  might  have  been  permitted  to 
London,  for  the  purpose  of  preparing  and  dis-  see  the  light,  though  his  diplomatic  revelations 
posing  of  a  comi)lete  collection  of  all  his  had  been  forbidden.  The  emissary  of  Gov- 
published  and  unpublished  writing.*,  with  ernment,  however,  probably  took  no  care  ul 
memoirs  of  his  life,  brought  down  by  himself  those  things.  He  was  resolved,  we  suppose, 
to  the  year  1757,  and  continued  to  his  death  •'•to  leave  no  rubs  nor  botches  in  his  work  :  " 
by  his  descendant.  It  was  settled,  that  the  and,  to  stifle  the  dreaded  revelation,  he  thouglii 
work  should  be  published  in  three  quarto  i  the  best  way  was  to  strangle  all  the  innocents 
volumes,  in  England,  Germany,  and  France;  j  in  the  vicinage. 

and  a  negotiation  was  commenced  with  the  ]  Imperfect  as  the  work  now  before  us  nec- 
booksellers.  as  to  the  terms  of  the  purchase  essarily  is,  we  think  the  public  is  very  much 
and  publication.  At  this  stage;  of  the  busi-  j  indebted  to  its  editor.  It  is  presented  in  a 
ne.ss,  however,  the  proposals  were  suddenly  !  cheap  and  unostentatious  form  ;  and  thoiuh 


withdrawn  ;  and  nothing  more  has  been  heard 
of  the  work,  in  this  its  fair  and  natural  mar- 
ket. '-The  proprietor,  it  seems,  had  found  a 
bidder  of  a  different  description,  in  some  emis- 
sary of  Government,  whose  object  was  to 
withhold  the  manuscripts  from  the  world, — 
not  to  benefit  it  by  their  publication  ;  and 
they  thus  either  pa.ssed  into  other  hands,  or 
the  persijii  to  whom  they  were  be(]ueathed,  re- 
ceived a  remuneration  iov  suppresstiiii  them." 
If  this  statement  be  correct,  we  have  no 
hesitation  in  sjiying,  that  no  emissary  of  Gov- 
ermnent  was  ever  employed  on  a  more  miser- 


it  contains  little  that  has  not  been  already 
printed  as  the  composition  of  the  author,  ainl 
does  not  often  settle  any  point  of  di.sputec! 
authenticity  in  a  sirtisfactory  manner,  it  seems, 
on  the  wKole,  to  have  been  compiled  with 
sufiicieiit  diligence,  and  arranged  with  con- 
siderable judgment.  Few  writings,  indeed, 
require  the  aid  of  a  commentator  less  than 
those  of  Dr.  Franklin ;  and  though  tliis  editor 
is  rather  too  sj)ariiig  of  his  presence,  we  are 
infinitely  better  satisfied  to  be  left  now  and 
then  to  our  conjectures,  than  to  be  incumber- 
ed with  the  explanations,  and  overpowered 


DR.  BENJAIVnN  FRANKLIN. 


61 


'I 


with  the  loquacit}',  of  a  more  officious  at- 
tendant. 

We  do  not  propose  to  give  any  thing  like  a 
regular  account  of  the  papers  contained  in 
these  volumes.  The  best  of  them  have  long 
been  familiar  to  the  pubhc;  and  there  are 
many  which  it  was  proper  to  preserve,  that 
caruiot  now  be  made  interesting  to  the  general 
reader.  Dr.  Franklin,  however,  is  too  great 
a  man  to  be  allowed  to  walk  past,  without 
some  observation ;  and  our  readers,  we  are 
persuaded,  wnll  easily  forgive  us,  if  we  yield 
to  the  temptation  of  making  a  few  remarks  on 
his  character. 

This  self-taught  American  is  the  most  ra- 
tional, perhaps,  of  all  philosophers.  He  never 
loses  sight  of  common  sense  in  any  of  his 
speculations ;  and  when  his  philosopliy  does 
not  consist  entirely  in  its  fair  and  vigorous 
application,  it  is  always  regulated  and  con- 
trolled by  it  in  its  application  and  result.  No 
individual,  perhaps,  ever  possessed  a  juster 
understanding ;  or  was  so  seldom  obstructed 
in  the  use  of  it,  by  indolence,  enthusiasm,  or 
authority. 

Dr.  Franklin  received  no  regular  education ; 
and  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  a 
society  where  there  was  no  relish  and  no  en- 
couragement for  literature.  On  an  ordinary 
mind,  these  circumstances  would  have  pro- 
duced their  usual  effects,  of  repressing  all 
sorts  of  intellectual  ambition  or  activity,  and 
perpetuating  a  generation  of  incurious  me- 
chanics :  but  to  an  understanding  like  Frank- 
lin's, we  cannot  help  considering  them  as 
peculiarl}'-  propitious;  and  imagine  that  we 
can  trace  back  to  them,  distinctly,  almost  all 
the  peculiarities  of  his  intellectual  charac- 
ter. 

Regular  education,  we  think,  is  unfavour- 
able to  vigour  or  originality  of  understanding. 
Like  civilization,  it  makes  society  more  in- 
telligent and  agreeable ;  but  it  levels  the  dis- 
tinctions of  nature.  It  strengthens  and  assists 
the  feeble  ;  but  it  deprives  the  strong  of  his 
triumph,  and  casts  down  the  hopes  of  the 
aspiring.  It  accomplishes  this,  not  only  by 
training  up  the  mind  in  an  habitual  veneration 
for  authorities,  but,  by  leading  us  to  bestow  a 
disproportionate  degree  of  attention  upon 
studies  that  are  only  valuable  as  keys  or  in- 
struments for  the  understanding,  they  come 
at  last  to  be  regarded  as  ultimate  objects  of 
pursuit ;  and  the  means  of  education  are  ab- 
surdly mistaken  for  its  end.  How  many 
powerful  understandings  have  been  lost  in 
the  Dialectics  of  Aristotle  !  And  of  how 
m\ich  good  philosophy  are  we  daily  defraud- 
ed, by  the  preposterous  error  of  taking  a 
knowledge  of  prosody  for  useful  learning! 
The  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  escaped  this 
training,  will  at  least  have  fair  play.  What- 
ever other  errors  he  may  fall  into,  he  Avill  be 
safe  at  least  from  these  infatuations:  And  if 
he  thinks  proper,  after  he  grows  up,  to  study 
Greek,  it  will  probably  be  for  some  better 
purpose  than  to  become  critically  acquainted 
with  its  dialects.  His  prejudices  will  be 
those  of  a  man,  and  not  of  a  schoolboy ;  and 
ais  speculations  and  conclusions  will  be  inde- 


pendent of  the  ma\ims  of  tutors,  and   the 
oriicles  of  literary  patrons. 

The  consequences  of  living  in  a  refined  and 
literary  community,  are  nearly  of  the  same 
kind  with  those  of  a  regular  education.  There 
are  so  many  critics  to  be  satisfied — so  many 
qualifications  to  be  established — so  many  ri- 
vals to  encounter,  and  so  much  derision  to  be 
hazarded,  that  a  young  man  is  apt  to  be  de- 
terred from  so  perjious  an  enterprise,  and  led 
to  seek  for  distinction  in  some  safer  line  of 
exertion.  He  is  discouraged  by  the  fame  and 
the  perfection  of  certain  models  and  favourites, 
who  are  always  in  the  mouths  of  his  judges, 
and,  "  under  them,  his  genius  is  rebuked,-' 
and  his  originality  repressed,  till  he  sinks  into 
a  paltry  copyist,  or  aims  at  distinction,  by  ex- 
travagance and  affectation.  In  such  a  state 
of  society,  he  feels  that  mediocrity  has  no 
chance  of  distinction  :  and  what  beginner  can 
expect  to  rise  at  once  into  excellence?  He 
imagines  that  mere  good  sense  will  attract  no  I 
attention;  and  that  the  manner  is  of  much 
more  importance  than  the  matter,  in  a  candi- 
date for  public  admiration.  In  his  attention 
to  the  manner,  the  matter  is  apt  to  be  ne- 
glected; and,  in  his  solicitude  to  please  those 
who  require  elegance  of  diction,  briUiancy  of 
wit,  or  harmony  of  periods,  he  is  in  some  dan- 
ger of,  forgetting  that  strength  of  reason,  and 
accuracy  of  observation,  by  which  he  first  pro- 
posed to  recommend  himself.  His  attention, 
when  extended  to  so  many  collateral  objects, 
is  no  longer  vigorous  or  collected  : — the  stream, 
divided  into  so  many  channels,  ceases  to  flow 
either  deep  or  strong; — he  becomes  an  unsuc- 
cessful pretender  to  fine  writing,  or  is  satis- 
fied with  the  frivolous  praise  of  elegance  or 
vivacity. 

We  are  disposed  to  ascribe  so  much  power 
to  these  obstructions  to  intellectual  originality, 
that  we  cannot  help  fancying,  that  if  Franklin 
had  been  bred  in  a  college,  he  would  have 
contented  himself  with  expounding  the  me- 
tres of  Pindar,  and  mixing  argument  with  his 
port  in  the  common  room;  and  that  if  Boston 
had  abounded  with  men  of  letters,  he  would 
never  have  ventured  to  come  forth  from  his 
printing-house;  or  been  driven  back  to  it,  at 
any  rate,  by  the  sneers  of  the  critics,  after  the 
first  publication  of  his  Essays  in  the  Busy 
Body. 

This  vi-ill  probably  be  thought  exaggerated ; 
but  it  cannot  be  cienied,  we  think,  that  the 
contrary  circumstances  in  his  history  had  a 
powerful  effect  in  determining  the  character 
of  his  understanding,  and  in  producing  those 
peculiar  habits  of  reasoning  and  investigation 
by  which  his  writings  are  distinguished.  He 
was  encouraged  to  publish,  because  there  was 
scarcely  any  one  around  him  whom  he  could 
not  easily  excel.  He  wrote  with  great  brevi- 
ty, because  he  had  not  leisure  for  more  volu- 
minious  compositions,  and  because  he  knew 
that  the  readers  to  whom  he  addressed  him- 
self were,  for  the  most  part,  as  bu.sy  as  him- 
self. For  the  same  reason,  he  studied  great 
perspicuity  and  simplicity  of  statement.  His 
countrymen  had  then  no  relish  for  fine  writ- 
ing, and  could  not  easily  be  made  to  under- 


62 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


stand  a  deduction  depending  on  a  long  or 
elaborate  process  of  reasoning.  He  was 
forced,  therefore,  to  coiicenti-ate  what  he  had 
to  say:  and  since  he  had  no  chance  of  being 
admired  for  the  beauty  of  his  composition,  it 
•was  natural  for  him  to  aim  at  making  an  im- 
pression by  the  force  and  the  clearness  of  his 
statements. 

His  conclusions  were  often  rash  and  inaccu- 
rate, from  the  same  circumstances  which  ren- 
dered his  productions  concise.  l'hilo.sophy 
and  speculation  did  not  form  the  bu.siness  of 
his  life;  nor  did  he  dedicate  himself  to  any 
particular  study,  with  a  view  to  exhaust  and 
complete  the  investigation  of  it  in  all  its  parts, 
and  under  all  its  relations.  He  engaged  in 
every  interesting  incjuiry  that  suggested  itself 
to  him,  rather  as  the  necessary  exercise  of  a 
powerful  and  active  mind,  than  as  a  task 
"which  he  had  bound  himself  to  perform.  He 
cast  a  quick  and  penetrating  glance  over  the 
facts  and  the  data  that  were  presented  to  him ; 
and  drew  his  conclusions  with  a  rapidity  and 
precision  that  have  not  often  been  equalled. 
But  he  did  not  generally  stop  to  examine  the 
completeness  of  the  data  upon  which  he  pro- 
ceeded, nor  to  consider  the  ultimate  effect  or 
application  of  the  principles  to  which  he  had 
been  conducted.  In  all  question.s,  therefore, 
where  the  facts  upon  which  he  was  to  deter- 
mine, and  the  materials  from  which  his  judg- 
ment was  to  be  formed,  were  either  few  in 
number,  or  of  such  a  nature  as  not  to  be  over- 
looked, his  reasonings  are,  for  the  most  part, 
perfectly  just  and  conclusive,  and  his  decisions 
unexceptionably  sound;  but  where  the  ele- 
ments of  the  calculation  were  more  numerous 
and  widely  scattered,  it  appears  to  us  that  he 
has  often  been  precipitate,  and  that  he  has 
either  been  misled  by  a  partial  apprehension  of 
the  conditions  of  the  problem,  or  has  discovered 
only  a  portion  of  the  truth  which  lay  before 
him.  In  all  physical  inquiries;  in  almost  all 
questions  of  particular  and  immediate  policy; 
and  in  much  of  what  relates  to  the  practical 
wisdom  and  happiness  of  private  life,  his 
views  will  be  found  to  be  admirable,  and  the 
reasoning  by  which  they  are  supj)orted  most 
masterly  and  convincing.  But  upon  subjc^cts  of 
general  politics,  of  abstract  morality,  and  politi- 
cal economy,  his  notions  appear  to  be  more  un- 
satisfactory and  incomplete.  He  secsms  to  have 
wanted  leisure,  and  perhaps  inclination  also, 
to  spread  out  before  him  the  whole  vast  pre- 
mises of  those  extensive  sciences,  and  scarcely 
to  have  had  patience  to  hunt  for  his  con- 
clusions through  so  wide  and  intricate  a  region 
as  that  upon  which  they  invited  him  to  enter. 
He  has  been  satisfied,  therefore,  on  many  occa- 
sions, with  reasoning  from  a  very  limit(xl  view 
of  the  facts,  and  often  from  a  particular  in- 
stance; and  he  has  done  all  that  sagacity  and 
sound  sense  could  do  with  such  materials : 
but  it  cannot  e.xcite  wonder,  if  he  has  some- 
times overlooked  an  essential  jmrt  of  the  argu- 
ment, and  often  advanced  a  particular  truth 
into  the  place  of  a  general  principle.  He  sel- 
dom reasoned  U])()u  lliose  subjects  at  all,  we 
believe,  without  having  some  practical  appli- 
cation of  them  immediately  in  view ;  and  as 


te  began  the  investig-ation  rather  to  determine 
a  particular  case,  than  to  establish  a  general 
ma.vim,  so  he  probably  desisted  as  soon  as  he 
had  relieved  himself  of  the  present  difBculty. 

There  are  not  many  among  the  thorough- 
bred scholars  and  pliilosophers  of  Europe,  who 
can  lay  claim  to  distinction  in  more  than  one 
or  two  dej)artments  of  science  or  literature. 
The  uneducated  tradesman  of  America  has 
left  writings  that  call  for  our  respectful  atten- 
tion, in  natural  plulosophy, — in  jjolitics, — in 
political  economy, — and  in  general  literature 
and  morality. 

Of  his  labours  in  the  department  of  Physics. 
we  do  not  propose  to  say  much.  They  were 
almost  all  suggested  by  views  of  utility  in  the 
beginning,  and  were,  without  exception,  ap- 
plied, we  believe,  to  promote  such  views  in 
the  end.  His  letters  upon  Ehctrkily  have 
been  more  extensively  circulated  than  any  of 
his  other  writings  of  this  kind;  and  are  en- 
titled to  more  praise  and  popularity  than  they 
seem  ever  to  have  met  with  in  this  country. 
iXothing  can  be  more  admirable  than  the  lu- 
minous and  graphical  precision  with  which 
the  experiments  are  narrated;  the  ingenuity 
with  which  they  are  projected ;  and  the  suga.- 
city  with  which  the  conclusion  is  inferred, 
limited,  and  confirmed. 

The  most  remarkable  thing,  however,  in 
these,  and  indeed  in  the  whole  of  his  physical 
speculations,  is  the  unparalleled  simplicity 
and  facility  with  which  the  reader  is  con- 
ducted from  one  stage  of  the  inquiry  to  an- 
other. The  author  never  appears  for  a  mo- 
ment to  labour  or  to  be  at  a  loss.  The  most 
ingenious  and  profound  explanations  are  sug- 
gested, as  if  they  were  the  most  natural 
and  obvious  way  of  accounting  for  the  }>li^"- 
nomena;  and  the  author  seems  to  value  him- 
self so  little  on  his  most  important  discoveries, 
that  it  is  necessary  to  compare  him  with 
others,  before  we  can  form  a  just  notion  of  his 
merits.  As  he  seems  to  be  conscious  of  no 
exertion,  he  feels  no  partiaUty  for  any  part  of 
his  speculations,  and  never  seeks  to  raise  the 
reader's  idea  of  their  importance,  by  any  arts 
of  declamation  or  eloquence.  Indeed,  the  ha- 
bitual pr(H"ision  of  his  conceptions,  and  his 
invariable  practice  of  referring  to  specific  lad- 
and  observations,  secured  him,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure, both  from  those  extravagant  conjectuivs 
in  which  so  many  naturalists  have  induli^eil, 
and  from  the  zeal  and  enthusiasm  whieli 
seems  so  naturally  to  be  engendered  in  Ihi'ir 
defence.  He  was  by  no  means  averse  to  give 
scope  to  his  imagination,  in  suggesting  a  va- 
riety of  explanations  of  obscure  and  unman- 
ageable phenomena;  but  he  never  allowed 
liimself  to  confound  these  vague  and  conjec- 
tural theories  with  the  solid  results  of  experi- 
ence and  observation.  In  his  Meteorological 
papers,  and  in  his  Observations  upon  Heat  and 
Light,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  such  bold  and 
original  suggestions:  but  he  evidently  sets  but 
little  value  upon  them;  and  has  no  sooner 
disburd(>ned  his  mind  of  the  impressions  from 
which  they  proceeded,  than  he  seems  to  dis- 
miss them  entirely  from  his  consideration, 
and  turns  to  the  legitimate  philosophy  of  ex- 


DR.  BENJAmN  FRANKLIN. 


63 


periment  with  unabated  diligence  and  hu- 
mility. As  an  instance  of  this  disposition,  we 
may  quote  part  of  a  letter  to  the  Abbe  Sou- 
laive.  upon  a  new  Theory  of  the  Earth,  which 
he  proposes  and  dismisses,  without  concern  or 
anxiety,  in  the  course  of  a  few  .sentences; 
though,  if  the  idea  had  fallen  upon  the  brain 
of  an  Europea  1  philosopher,  it  might  have  ger- 
minated into  a  volume  of  eloquence,  like 
ButToirs,  or  an  infinite  array  of  paragraphs  and 
observations,  like  those  of  Parkinson  and  Dr. 
Hut  ton. 

After  remarking,  that  there  are  manifold 
indications  of  some  of  the  highest  parts  of  the 
land  having  been  formerly  covered  by  sea, 
,  Dr.  Frankliir  observes — 

j  "Such  changes  in  the  superficial  parts  of  the 
!  globe,  seemed  to  me  unlikely  to  happen,  if  the 
earth  were  solid  in  the  centre.  I  therefore  imagined, 
that  the  iiuernal  parts  might  be  a  fluid  more  dense, 
and  of  greater  specific  sravity  than  any  of  the  solids 
we  are  acquaiiiied  with,  which  therefore  might 
swim  in  or  upon  that  fluid.  Thus  the  surface  of 
the  globe  would  be  a  shell,  capable  of  being  broken 
and  disordered  by  the  violent  movements  of  the 
fluid  on  which  it  rested.  And  as  air  has  been  com- 
pressed by  art  so  as  to  be  twice  as  dense  as  water, 
and  as  we  know  not  yet  the  degree  of  density  to 
which  air  may  be  compressed,  and  M.  Amontons 
calculated  that  its  density  increasing  as  it  approached 
the  centre  in  the  same  proportion  as  above  the  sur- 
face, it  would,  at  the  depth  of  leagues,  be  heavier 
than  gold,  and  possibly  the  dense  fluid  occupying 
the  internal  parts  of  the  globe  might  therefore  be 
air  compressed.  And  as  the  force  of  expansion  in 
dense  air,  when  heated,  is  in  proportion  to  its 
density,  this  central  air  might  afford  another  agent 
to  move  the  surface,  as  well  as  be  of  use  in  keeping 
alive  the  subterraneous  fires;  though,  as  you  observe, 
the  sudden  rarefaction  of  water  coming  into  contact 
with  those  fires,  may  also  be  an  agent  sufliciently 
strong  for  that  purpose,  when  acting  betsveen  the 
incuiiibent  earth  and  the  fluid  on  which  it  rests. 

"  If  one  might  indulge  imagination  in  supposing 
how  such  a  globe  was  formed.  I  should  conceive, 
that  all  the   elements  in  separate  particles  being 
originally  mixed  in  confusion,  and  occupying  a  great 
space,  they  would  (as  soon  as  the  Almighty  fiat  or- 
dained gravity,  or  the  mutual  attraction  of  certain 
pans,  and  the  mutual  repulsion  of  others  to  e.xist) 
all  move  to  their  coinmon  centre  :  that  the  air  being 
'a  fluid  whose  parts  repel  each  other,  though  drawn 
to  the  common  centre  by  their  gravity,  would  be 
densest  towards  the  centre,  and  rarer  as  more  re- 
•    mote;    consequently,   all  matters  lighter  than  the 
i    central  parts  of  that  air,  and  immersed  in  it,  would 
,    recede  from  the  centre,  and  rise  till  they  arrived  at 
,    that  region  of  the  air  which  was  of  the  same  specific 
gravity  with  themselves,  where  they  would  rest; 
while' other   matter,  mixed  with    the   lighter  air, 
-    would  descend,  and  the  two,  meeting,  would  form 
i    the  shell  of  the  first  earth,  leaving  the  upper  atmos- 
\:    phere  nearly  clear.     The  original  movement  of  the 
pans  towards-  their  common  centre,  would  natu- 
'    rally  form  a  whirl  there  ;  which  would  continue, 
upim  the  turning  of  the  new-formed  globe  upon  its 
axis:  and  the  greatest  diameter  of  the  shell  would 
i    be  in  its  oqtiuior.     If,  by  any  accident  afterwards, 
:    the  axis  should  be  changed,  the  dense  mternal  fluid, 
by  altering  its  form,  must  burst  the  shell,  and  throw 
til  i's  substance  into  the  confusion  in  which  we  find 
".     I  will   not  trouble  you  at  present  with  my  fan- 
cies concerning  the  manner  of  forming  the  rest  of 
it'    Dur  system.    Superior  beings  smile  at  our  theorie.s, 
rf   :ind  at  our  presumption  in  making  them." — vol.  ii. 
^I  l?p.  117-119. 

:fe  [    He  afterwards  makes  his  theory  much  finer 
t'*  Mid  more  extravagant,  by  combining  with  it  a 


very  wild  speculation  upon  magnetism  ;  and, 
notwhhstanding  the  additional  temptation  of 
this  new  piece  of  ingenuity,  he  abandons  it  in 
the  end  with  as  much  unconcern,  as  if  he 
had  had  no  share  in  the  making  of  it.  We 
shall  add  the  whole  passage. 

"  It  has  lonu'  been  a  supposition  of  mine,  that  the 
iron  contained  m  the  surface  of  the  globe  has  made 
it  capable  of  becoming,  as  it  is,  a  great  magnet  ; 
that  the  fluid  of  magnetism  perhaps  exists  in  all 
space;  so  that  there  is  a  magiieiical  north  and 
south  of  the  Universe,  as  well  as  of  this  globe,  so 
that  if  it  were  possible  for  a  man  to  fly  from  star  lo 
star,  he  might  govern  his  course  by  the  compass  ; 
that  it  was  by  the  power  of  this  general  magnetism 
this  globe  became  a  particular  magnet.  In  soft  or 
hot  iron  the  fluid  of  magnetism  is  naturally  diffused 
equally:  But  when  within  the  influence  of  the 
magnet,  it  is  drawn  to  one  end  of  the  iron  ;  made 
denser  there,  and  rarer  at  the  other.  While  the 
iron  continues  soft  and  hot,  it  is  only  a  temporary 
magnet :  if  it  cools  or  grows  hard  in  that  situation, 
it  becomes  a  permanent  one,  the  magnetic  fluid  not 
easily  resuming  its  equilibrium.  Perhaps  it  may 
be  owing  to  the  permanent  magnetism  of  this  globe, 
which  it'had  not  at  first,  that  its  axis  is  at  present 
kept  parallel  to  itself  and  not  hable  to  the  changes 
it  formerly  suffered,  which  occasioned  the  rupture 
of  its  shell,  the  submersions  and  emersions  of  its 
lands,  and  the  confusion  of  its  seasons.  The  present 
polar  and  equatorial  diameters  differing  from  each 
other  near  ten  leasues,  it  is  easy  to  conceive,  in  case 
some  power  should  shift  the  axis  gradually,  and 
place  it  in  the  present  equator,  and  make  the  new 
equator  pass  through  the  present  poles,  what  a 
sinking  of  the  waters  would  happen  in  the  present 
equatorial  regions,  and  what  a  rising  in  the  present 
polar  regions  ;  so  that  vast  tracts  would  be  dis- 
covered, that  now  are  under  water,  and  others 
covered,  that  are  now  dry,  the  water  rising  and 
sinking  in  the  different  extremes  near  five  leagues. 
Such  an  operation  as  this  possibly  occasioned  much 
of  Europe,  and  among  the  rest  this  Mountain  of 
Passy  on  which  I  live,  and  which  is  composed  of 
limestone  rock  and  sea-shells,  to  be  abandoned  bv 
the  sea,  and  to  change  its  ancient  climate,  which 
seems  to  have  been  a  hot  one.  The  globe  being 
now  become  a  perfect  magnet,  we  are,  perhaps, 
safe  from  any  change  of  its  axis.  But  we  are  still 
subject  to  the  accidents  on  the  surface,  which  are 
j  occasioned  by  a  wave  in  the  internal  ponderous 
fluid  ;  and  such  a  wave  is  producible  by  the  sudden 
violent  explosion  you  mention,  happening  from  the 
junction  of  water  and  fire  under  the  earth,  which 
not  only  lifts  the  incumbent  earth  that  is  over  the 
explosion,  but  impressing  with  the  same  force  the 
fluid  under  it,  creates  a  wave,  that  may  run  a 
thousand  leagues,  lifting,  and  thereby  shaking,  suc- 
cessively, all  the  countries  under  which  it  passes.  I 
know  not  whether  I  have  expressed  myself  so 
clearly,  as  not  to  get  out  of  your  sight  in  these 
reveries.  If  they  occasion  any  new  inquiries,  and 
produce  a  better  hypothesis,  they  will  not  be  quite 
useless.  You  see  I  have  given  a  loose  to  imagination; 
but  I  approve  much  more  your  method  of  philoso- 
phizing, which  proceeds  upon  actual  observation, 
makes  a  collection  of  facts,  and  concludes  no  furlher 
than  those  facts  will  warrant.  In  my  present  cir- 
cumstances, that  mode  of  studying  the  nature  of 
the  globe  is  out  of  my  power,  and  therefore  I  have 
permitted  myself  to  wander  a  httle  in  the  wilds  of 
fancy."— vol.  ii.  p.  119—121. 

Our  limits  will  not  permit  us  to  make  any 
analysis  of  the  other  physical  papers  contained 
in  this  collection.  They  are  all  admirable  for 
the  clearness  of  the  description,  the  felicity 
and  familiarity  of  the  illustrations,  and  the 
singular  sagacity  of  the  reintnks  with  which 
they  are  interspersed.     The  theory  of  whirl- 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


winds  and  -vraterppouts,  as  well  as  the  obser- 
vations on  the  course  of  the  winds  and  on  cold. 
seem  to  be  excellent.  The  paper  called  Mari- 
time Observations  is  full  of  ingenuity  and 
practical  good  sense;  and  the  remarks  on 
Evaporation,  and  on  the  Tides,,  most  of  which 
are  contained  in  a  series  of  letters  to  a  young 
lady,  are  admirable,  not  merely  for  their  per- 
?piouity,  but  for  the  interest  and  amusement 
they  are  calculated  to  communicate  to  every 
description  of  readers.  The  remarks  on  Fire- 
places and  Smoky  chimnies  are  infinitely  more 
original,  concise,  and  scientific,  than  those  of 
Count  Rumford  :  and  the  observations  on  the 
Gulph-stream  afford,  we  beHeve,  the  first 
example  of  just  theory,  and  accurate  investi- 
gation, applied  to  that  phenomenon. 

Dr.  Franklin,  we  think,  has  never  made  use 
of  the  mathematics,  in  his  investigation  of  the 
phenomena  of  nature:  and  though  this  may 
render  it  surprising  that  he  has  fallen  into  so 
few  errors  of  importance,  we  conceive  that  it 
helps  in  some  measure  to  explain  the  un- 
equalled perspicuit}-  and  vivacity  of  his  expo- 
sitions. An  algebraist,  who  can  work  wonders 
with  letters,  seldom  condescends  to  be  much 
indebted  to  words :  and  thinks  himself  enti- 
tled to  make  his  sentences  obscure,  provided 
his  calculations  be  distinct.  A  writer  who 
has  nothing  but  words  to  make  use  of,  must 
make  all  the  use  he  can  of  them :  he  cannot 
afford  to  neglect  the  only  chance  he  has  of 
being  understood. 

We  should  liow  say  something  of  the  politi- 
cal writings  of  Dr.  Franklin. — the  productions 
which  first  raised  him  into  public  office  and 
eminence,  and  which  will  be  least  read  or 
attended  to  by  posterity.  They  may  be  di- 
vided into  two  parts;  those  which  relate  to 
the  internal  affairs  and  provincial  differences 
of  the  American  colonies,  before  their  quarrel 
with  the  mother  country,  and  those  which 
relate  to  that  quarrel  and  its  consequences. 
The  former  are  no  longer  in  any  degree  in- 
teresting :  and  the  editor  has  done  wisely,  we 
think,  in  presenting  his  readers  \vith  an  ab- 
stract oidy  of  the  longest  of  them.  This  was 
published  in  1759,  under  the  title  of  an  His- 
torical Review  of  the  Constitution  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, and  consisted  of  upwards  of  r)00  pages, 
composed  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  the 
political  privileges  reserved  to  the  founder  of 
the  colony  had  been  illegally  and  oppressively 
used.  The  Canada  pamphlet,  written  in  1760, 
for  the  purpose  of  pointing  out  the  importance 
of  retaining  that  colony  at  the  peace,  is  given 
entire  ;  and  appears  to  be  composed  with  great 
force  of  reason,  and  in  a  style  of  extraordinary 
perspicuity.  The  same  may  be  said  of  what 
are  called  the  Albany  Papers,  or  the  plan  for 
a  general  political  union  of  the  colonies  in 
1754  ;  and  a  variety  of  other  tracts  on  the 
provincial  politics  of  that  day.  All  these  are 
worth  pveservaiic.  both  as  monuments  of  Dr. 
Franklin"?  talents  and  activity,  and  as  afford- 
ing, in  many  places,  very  excellent  models  of 
strong  reasoning  and  popular  eloquence  :  but 
the  interest  of  the  subjects  is  now  completely 
gone  by;  an.l  the  few  specimens  of  general 
reasoning  which  we  meet  with,  serve  only  to 


increase  our  regret,  that  the  talents  of  the 
author  should  have  been  wasted  on  such 
perishable  materials. 

There  is  not  much  written  on  the  subject  of 
the  dispute  with  the  colonies;  and  most  of  Dr. 
Franklin's  papers  on  that  subject  are  already 
well  known  to  the  public.  His  examination  be- 
fore the  House  of  Commons  in  1766  affords  a 
striking  proof  of  the  extent  of  his  information, 
the  clearness  and  force  of  his  extempore  com- 
position, and  the  .steadiness  and  self-possession 
which  enabled  him  to  display  these  qualities 
with  so  much  effect  upon  such  an  occasion. 
His  letters  before  the  commencement  of  hos- 
tilities are  full  of  grief  and  anxiety;  but.  no 
sooner  did  matters  come  to  extremities,  than 
he  appears  to  have  assumed  a  certain  keen 
and  confident  cheerfulness,  not  unmixed  with 
a  seasoning  of  asperity,  and  more  vindictive- 
ness  of  spirit  than  perhaps  became  a  philoso- 
pher. In  a  letter  written  in  October  1775.  he 
expresses  him-^elf  in  this  manner: — 

"  Tell  our  dear  good  friend  *  *  *,  who  sometimes 
has  his  doubts  and  despondencies  about  our  firm- 
ness, tliat  .'\merica  is  deierinined  and  unanimous; 
a  very  few  Tories  and  placemen  excepted,  who 
will  probably  soon  export  themselves.  Britain,  at 
the  expense  of  three  millions,  has  killed  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  Yankica  this  campaiyii,  which  is 
•20,000/.  a  head  ;  and.  at  Bunker's  HiFl,  she  gained 
a  mile  of  ground,  half  of  which  she  lost  again  by 
our  taking  post  on  PlouL'hed  Hill.  Dunns:  the 
same  time,  si.Tiv  thousand  cliildieii  have  been  born 
in  America.  Prom  these  data,  his  mathematical 
head  will  easily  calculate  the  time  and  expense  nec- 
essary to  kill  us  all.  and  conquer  our  whole  terri- 
tory.'''—vol.  iii,  p.  357,  358. 

The  following  letters,  which  passed  between 
Dr.  Franklin  and  Lord  Howe,  when  his  Lord- 
ship arrived  off  the  American  coast  v.  ilh  \\  iiat 
were  called  the  pacificatory  proposals  in  177  6, 
show  not  only  the  consiileration  in  which  ihe 
former  was  held  by  the  Noble  Commissio:)(  r, 
but  contain  a  very  striking  and  prophetic  stau - 
ment  of  the  consequences  to  be  appii  he;;ik  J 
from  the  perseverance  of  Great  Britain  in  In.  r 
schemes  of  compulsion.  His  Lordship  wr^tt^s, 
in  June  1776, — 

"  I  cannot,  my  worthy  friend,  permit  the  letters 
and  parcels,  which  I  have  sent  (in  the  stale  1  re- 
ceived ihcm,)  to  be  landed,  without  adding  a  vsord 
upon  the  subject  of  the  injurious  extrcmitifs  in 
wliicli  our  unhappy  disputes  have  engaged  us. 

"  You  will  learn  the  nature  of  my  mission.  I'rom 
the  official  despatches  which  I  have  recommended 
to  be  forwarded  by  the  same  conveyance.    Retain- 
ing all  the  earnestness  I  ever  expressed,  to  ste  our 
ditTerenccs  accommodated  ;    I  shall  conceive,  if  I 
meet  with  the  disposition  in  the  colonics  which  I 
was  once  taught  to  expect,  ihe  most  flattering  hopes 
of  proving  serviceable  in  the  objects  of  the  King's  i 
paternal  solicitude,  by  promoting  the  esialilishment  li 
of  lasting  peace  and  union  with  the  Colonies.     But, 
if  the  deep-rooted  prejudices  of  America,  and  the 
necessity  of  preventing  her  trade  Irom  passing  into 
foreign  channels,  must  keep  us  still  a  divided  people, 
I  shall,  from  every  private  as  well  a.«  public  motive, 
most  heartily  lament,  that  this  i.^  not  ihe  moment, 
wherein  those  great  objects  of  my  ambition  are  to 
be  attained,  and  that  I  am  to  be  lonser  deprived  of  ( 
an  opportunity  to  assure  you,  per-'cnally.  of  the  re-  J 
gard  with  which  I  am,  6i.c." — vol.  iii.  p.  3C5— 367. "' 

Dr.  Franklin  answered, — 

"I  received  safe  the  letters  your  Lordship  so 


DR.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


65 


kindly  forwarded  to  me,  and  beg  you  to  accept  my 
thanks. 

"  The  official  despatches  to  which  you  refer  me, 
contain  nothing  more  than  what  we  had  seen  in  the 
act  of  Parliament,  viz.  '  Offers  of  pardon  upon  sub- 
mission ;'  which  I  was  sorry  to  find  ;  as  it  must 
give  your  Lordship  pain  to  be  sent  so  far  on  so 
nopeles.s  a  business. 

"  Directing  pardons  to  be  offered  to  the  colonies, 
who  are  the  very  parties  injured,  expresses  indeed 
that  opinion  of  our  isjnoratioe,  baseness,  and  insen- 
sibility, wliich  your  uninformed  and  proud  nation 
has  long  been  pleased  to  entertain  of  us  •■,  but  it  can 
have  no  other  etTect  than  that  of  increasing  our  re- 
sentments. It  is  impossible  we  should  think  of 
submission  to  a  government  that  has,  with  the  most 
wanton  barbarity  and  cruelty,  burned  our  defence- 
less towns  in  the  midst  of  winter;  e.xcited  the 
savages  to  massacre  our  (peaceful)  farmers,  and  our 
slaves  to  murder  their  inasters  ;  and  is  even  now* 
bringing  foreign  mercenaries  to  deluge  our  settle- 
metits  with  blood.  These  atrocious  injuries  have 
eccthnxuisked  every  spark  of  affection  for  that  parent 
country  we  once  held  so  dear:  but,  were  it  possible 
for  us  to  forget  and  forgive  them,  it  is  not  possible 
for  yvu,  (1  mean  the  British  nation)  to  forgive  the 
people  you  have  so  heavily  injured.  You  can 
never  confide  again  in  those  as  fellow-subjects,  and 
permit  them  to  enjoy  equal  freedom,  to  whom  yoti 
know  you  have  given  such  just  causes  of  lasting 
enmity:  and  this  must  impel  you,  were  we  again 
under  your  government,  to  endeavour  the  breaking 
our  spirit  by  the  severest  tyranny,  and  obstructing, 
by  every  means  in  your  power,  our  growing  strength 
and  prosperity. 

"But  yoltr  Lordship  mentions  'the  King's  pa- 
ternal solicitude  for  promoting  the  establishment  of 
lasting  peace  and  union  with  the  Colonies.'  If  by 
peace  is  liere  meant,  a  peace  to  be  entered  into  by 
distinct  states,  now  at  war;  and  his  Majesty  has 
given  your  Lordship  powers  to  treat  with  us  of  such 
a  peace ;  I  may  venture  to  say.  though  without  au- 
thority, that  I  think  a  treaty  for  that  purpose  not 
quite  impracticable,  before  we  enter  m(o  foreign 
alliances.  But  T  am  persuaded  you  have  no  such 
powers.  Your  nation,  though,  by  punishing  those 
American  governors  who  have  fomented  the  discord, 
rebuilding  our  burnt  towns,  and  repairing  as  far  as 
possible  the  mischiefs  done  us.  she  might  recover  a 
great  share  of  our  regard,  and  the  greatest  share 
of  our  growing  commerce,  with  ail  the  advantages 
of  that  additional  strength,  to  be  derived  from  a  , 
friendsihip  with  us  ;  yet  I  know  loo  well  her  abotmd- 
ing  priile  and  deficient  wisdom,  to  believe  she  will 
ever  take  such  salutary  measures.  Her  fondness  for 
iConquest  as  a  warlike  nation;  her  lust  of  dominion 
as  an  ambitious  one;  and  her  thirst  for  a  gainful 
monopoly  as  a  commercial  one,  (none  of  them  legit- 
imate causes  of  war,)  will  join  to  hide  from  her 
eyes  every  view  of  lier  true  interest,  and  con- 
tinuaHy  goad  Iter  on  iti  those  ruinous  distant  expe-  I 
ditions,  so  destructive  both  of  lives  and  of  treasure,  j 
that  they  must  prove  as  pernicious  to  her  in  the  end,  ' 
fts  the  Croisades  formerly  were  to  most  of  the  na-  I 
tions  of  Europe.  j 

"I  have  not  the  vanity,  my  Lord,  to  think  of  in- 
timidating, by  thus  predicting  the   effects  of  this  ! 
war;  for  I  know  it  will  in  England  have  the  fate  I 
jf  all  my  former  predictions — not  to  be  believed  ! 
ill  the  event  shall  verify  it. 

"  Long  did  I  endeavour,  with  unfeigned  and  uti- 
A-earied  zeal,  lo  preserve  from  breaking  that  fine 
tnd  iioMe  porcelain  vase — the  British  empire  ;  for  I 
<new  that,  being  once  broken,  the  separate  parts 
■oiild  not  retain  even  their  share  of  the  strength  and 
'alue  that  existed  in  the  whole;  and  that  a  perfect 
eunion  of  those  parts  could  scarce  ever  be  hoped 
or.  Your  Lordship  may  possibly  remember  the 
ears  of  joy  that  wetted  my  cheek,  when,  at  your 
Cood  sister's  in  London,  you  on^e  gave  me  expec- 


I  *  About  this  time  the  Hessians,  tkc.  had  just  arrived 
Iroin  Europe  at  Slaten  Island  and  New  York.     B.  V. 


tations  that  a  reconciliation  might  soon  take  place. 
I  had  the  misfortune  to  find  these  expectations  dis- 
appointed, and  to  be  treated  as  the  cause  of  the 
nuschief  I  was  labouring  to  prevent.  My  consola- 
tion under  that  groundless  and  malevolent  treatment 
was,  that  I  retained  the  friendship  of  many  wise 
and  good  men  in  that  country  ;  ai;d,  among  tlie 
rest,  some  share  in  the  regard  of  Lord  Howe. 

"  The  well-founded  esteem,  and,  permit  me  to 
say,  affection,  which  I  shall  always  have  for  your 
Lordship,  make  it  painful  to  me  to  see  you  engaged 
in  conducting  a  war,  the  great  ground  of  which  (as 
described  in  your  letter)  is  '  the  necessity  of  pre- 
venting the  American  trade  from  passing  into 
foreign  channels.'  To  me  it  seems,  that  neither 
the  obtaining  or  retaining  any  trade,  how  valuable 
soever,  is  an  object  for  which  men  may  justly  spill 
each  other's  blood  ;  tiiat  the  true  and  sure  means 
of  extending  and  securing  commerce,  are  the  good- 
ness and  cheapness  of  comtiiodities  ;  and  that  the 
profits  of  no  trade  can  ever  be  equal  to  the  e.x- 
pense  of  compelling  it,  and  holding  it  by  fleets  and 
armies.  I  consider  this  war  against  us,  therefore, 
as  both  unjust  and  unwise;  and  I  am  persuaded  that 
cool  and  dispassionate  posterity  will  condemn  to 
infamy  those  who  advised  it;  and  that  even  success 
will  not  save  from  some  degree  of  dishonour,  those 
who  have  voluntarily  engaged  to  conduct  it. 

"  I  know  your  great  motive  in  coming  hither  was 
the  hope  of  being  instrumental  in  a  reconciliation  ; 
and  I  believe,  when  you  find  that  to  be  impossible, 
on  any  terms  given  you  to  propose,  you  will  then 
relinquish  so  odious  a  command,  and  return  to  a 
more  honourable  private  station. 

"With  the  greatest  and  most  sincere  respect,  I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  &c." — vol.  iii.  p.  367 — 371. 

None  of  Dr.  Franklin's  political  writings, 
during  the  nine  years  when  he  resided  as 
Ambas.sador  at  the  Court  of  France,  have  yet 
been  made  public.  Some  of  them,  we  should 
imagine,  must  be  highly  interesting. 

Of  the  merit  of  this  author  as  a  political 
economist,  we  have  already  had  occasion  to 
say  something,  in  the  general  remarks  which 
we  made  on  the  character  of  his  genius ;  and 
we  cannot  now  spare  time  to  go  much  into 
particulars.  He  is  perfectly  sound  upon  many 
important  and  practical  points; — upon  the 
corn-trade,  and  the  theory  of  money,  for  in- 
stance ;  and  also  upon  the  more  general  doc- 
trines, as  to  the  freedom  of  commerce,  and 
the  principle  of  population.  In  the  more  ele- 
mentary and  abstract  parts  of  the  science, 
however,  his  views  seem  to  have  been  less 
just  and  luminous.  He  is  not  very  consistent 
or  profound  in  what  he  says  of  the  effects  of 
lu.xury;  and  seems  to  have  gone  headlong 
into  the  radical  error  of  the  Economisfcs,  when 
he  maintains,  that  all  that  is  done  by  manu- 
facture, is  to  embody  the  value  of  the  manu- 
facturer's subsistence  in  his  work,  and  that 
agriculture  is  the  only  source  from  which  a 
real  increase  of  wealth  can  be  derived.  An- 
other favourite  position  is,  that  all  commerce 
is  chcatmg^  where  a  commodity,  produced  by 
a  certain  quantity  of  labour,  is  e.xchanged  for 
another,  on  which  more  labour  has  been  ex- 
pended ;  and  that  the  only  /ozV  price  of  any 
thing,  is  some  other  thing  requiring  the  same 
exertion  to  bring  it  to  market.  This  is  evi- 
dently a  very  narrow  and  erroneous  view  of 
the  nature  of  commerce.  The  fair  price  to 
the  purchaser  is,  whatever  he  deliberately 
chooses  to  give,  rather  than  go  without  the 
commodity; — it  is  no  matter  to  him,  whether 
f2 


€6 


LITER.\TrRE  XSD  BIOGRAPHY. 


the  seller  bestowed  much  or  little  labour  upon  I 
it.  or  whether  it  came    into   his   possession  I 
without  any  labour  at  ail; — whether  it  be  a  I 
diamond,  which  he  picked  up.  or  a  picture,  at  j 
which  he  had  been  workinir  tor  years.     The  | 
commodity  is  not  valued  by  the  purcha.ser. 
on  account  of  the  labour  which  is  supposed  to 
be  embotlied  in  it,  but  solely  on  account  of 
certain  qualities,  which  hi-  rinds  convenient 
or  agreeable :  he  compares  the  convenience 
and  delight  which  he  expects  to  derive  from 
this  object,  with  the  convenience  and  delight 
which  is  afforded  by  the  things  asked  in  ex- 
change for  it ;  and  if  he  find  the  fonner  pre- 
ponderate, he  consents  to  the  exchange,  and 
makes  a  beneficial  bargain. 

We  have  stated  the  case  in  the  name  of  a 
purchaser,  because,  in  barter,  both  parties 
are  truly  purchasers,  and  act  upon  the  same 
principles}  and  it  is  easy  to  show,  that  all 
commerce  resolves  itself,  ultimately,  into  bar- 
ter. There  can  be  no  unfairness  in  trade, 
except  where  there  is  concealment  on  the 
part  of  the  seller,  either  of  the  defects  of  the 
commodity,  or  of  the  fact  that  the  purchaser 
may  be  supplied  with  it  at  a  cheaper  rate  by 
another.  It  is  a  matter  of  fad.  but  not  of 
morality,  that  the  price  of  most  commodities 
Avill  be  influenced  by  the  labour  employed  in 
producing  them.  If  they  are  capable  of  being 
produced  in  unlimited  quantities,  the  compe- 
tition of  the  producers  will  sink  the  price  very 
nearly  to  what  is  necessary-  to  maintain  this 
labour;  and  the  impo.ssibility  of  continuing 
the  production,  without  repaying  that  labour, 
will  prevent  it  from  sinking  lower.  The  doc- 
trine does  not  apply  at  all,  to  cases  where  the 
materials,  or  the  skill  necessar3-to  work  them 
up,  are  scarce  in  proportion  to  the  demand. 
Tne  author's  speculations  on  the  effects  of 
paper-money,  seem  also  to  be  superficial  and 
inaccurate.  Statistics  had  not  been  carefully 
studied  in  the  days  of  his  activity;  and.  ac- 
cordhigly,  we  meet  with  a  good  deal  of  loose 
assumption,  and  sweeping  calculation  in  his 
writings.  Yet  he  had  a  genius  for  exact  ob- 
servation, and  complicated  detail;  and  proba- 
bly wanted  nothing  but  leisure,  to  have  made 
very  great  advanccsin  thisbranch  of  economy. 

As  a  writer  on  morality  and  general  litera- 
ture, the  merits  of  Dr.  Franklin  cannot  be 
estimated  properly,  without  taking  into  con- 
sideration the  peculiarities  that  have  been 
already  alluded  to  in  his  early  history  and 
situation.  He  never  had  the  benefit  of  any 
academical  instruction,  nor  of  the  society  of 
men  of  letters- — his  style  was  formed  entirely 
by  his  own  judgment  and  occasional  reading; 
and  most  of  his  moral  pieces  were  written 
■while  he  was  a  tratlesman,  addressing  him- 
self to  the  tradesmen  of  his  native  city.  We 
cannot  expect,  therefore,  either  that  he  should 
write  with  extraordinary  elegance  or  irrace : 
or  that  he  should  treat  of  the  accomplish- 
ments, follies,  and  occupations  of  polite  life. 
He  had  no  great  occasion,  as  a  moralist,  to 
expose  the  guilt  and  the  folly  of  gaming  or 
seduction  ;  or  1o  point  a  poignant  and  jilavfid 
ridicule  against  the  lighter  immoralities  of 
iashiojiable  life.     To  the  mechanics  and  tra- 


ders of  Boston  and  Philadelphia,  such  warn- 
ings were  altogether  unnecessary;  and  he 
endeavoured,  therefore,  with  moie  appropri- 
ate eloquence,  to  impress  upon  them  the  im- 
portance of  industry,  sobriety,  and  eeonomvj 
and  to  direct  their  wise  and  humble  ambition 
to  the  attainment  of  useful  knowledge  and 
honourable  independence.  That  morality, 
after  all.  is  certainly  the  most  valuable,  \vhich 
is  adapted  to  the  circumstances  of  the  greater 
part  of  mankind ;  and  that  eloquence  the  most 
meritorious,  that  is  calculated  to  convince  and 
persuade  the  multitude  to  virtue.  Nothing 
can  be  more  perfectly  and  beautifully  adapted 
to  its  object,  than  most  of  Dr.  Franklin's 
compositions  of  this  sort.  The  tone  of  famili- 
arity, of  good-will,  and  homely  jocularity — 
the  plain  and  pointed  illustrations — the  short 
sentences,  made  up  of  short  words — and  the 
strong  sense,  clear  infomnation,  and  obvious 
conviction  of  the  author  himself,  make  most 
of  his  moral  exhortations  perfect  models  of 
popular  elocjuence  ;  and  afford  the  finest  spec- 
imens of  a  style  which  has  been  but  too  httle 
cultivated  in  a  country  which  numbers  per- 
haps more  than  half  a  million  of  readers 
among  its  tradesmen  and  artificers. 

In  writings  which  possess  such  solid  and 
unusual  merit,  it  is  of  no  great  consequence 
that  the  fastidious  eye  of  a  critic  can  discover 
many  blemishes.  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
vulgarity  in  the  practical  writings  of  Dr. 
Franklin ;  and  more  vulgarity  than  was  any 
way  necessary  for  the  object  "he  had  in  view. 
There  is  something  childish,  too,  in  some  of 
his  attempts  at  pleasantry;  his  story  of  the 
Whistle,  and  his  Parisian  letter,  announcing 
the  discovery  that  the  sun  gi^-es  light  as  soon 
as  he  rises,  are  instances  of  this.  The  solilo- 
quy of  an  Ephemeris,  however,  is  much  bet- 
ter ;  and  both  if,  and  the  Dialogue  with  the 
Gout,  are  executed  with  the  lightness  and 
spirit  of  genuine  French  compositions.  The 
Speech  in  the  Divan  of  Algiers,  composed  as 
a  parody  on  those  of  the  defenders  of  the 
slave  trade,  and  the  scriptuial  parable  against 
persecution  are  inimitable; — they  have  all 
the  point  and  facility  of  the  line  pleasantries 
of  Swift  and  Arbulhnot,  with  something  more 
of  directness  and  apparent  sincerity. 

The  style  of  his  letters,  in  general,  is  ex- 
cellent. They  are  chiefly  remarkable,  for 
great  simj)licity  of  language,  admirable  good 
sen.se  and  ingenuity,  and  an  amiable  and 
inoffensive  cheeriuhiess,  that  is  never  over- 
cloiided  or  eclipsed.  Among  the  most  valua- 
ble of  the  writings  that  are  published  for  the 
first  time,  in  the  present  edition,  are  four  let- 
ters from  Dr.  Franklin  to  Mr.  Whatley,  writ- 
ten within  a  few  years  of  his  death,  and 
expressive  of  all  that  unbroken  gaiety,  phi- 
lanthropy, and  activity,  which  distinpiiish  the 
compositions  of  his  earlier  years.  We  give 
with  pleasure  the  following  extracts. 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  saying  of  Alplion- 
SU9,  which  you  allude  to  as  a  sanclificaiion  of  your 
rigidity,  in  refusing  to  allow  me  the  plea  of  old  age 
as  an  excuse  for  my  want  o(  e.xactimd^'  in  coire-' 
spondcncc.  What  was  that  saying? — Yoiidonot.it, 
eeeuis,  feel  any  occasion  for  such  an  excuse,  though  ; 


DR.  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


diH) 


you  are,  as  you  say,  risinj^  seventy-five,  but  I  am 
rising  (perhaps  more  properly  falling)  eighty — and 
I  leave  the  excuse  wi'h  you  till  you  arrive  at  that 
age;  perhaps  you  may  then  be  more  sensible  of  its 
validity,  and  see  fit  to  use  it  for  yourself. 

"  I  must  a^nee  with  you  that  the  gout  is  bad,  and 
that  the  stone  is  worse.  I  am  happy  in  not  having 
them  iioih  togpther  ;  and  I  join  in  your  prayer,  that 
you  may  live  till  you  die  without  either.  But  I  doubt 
the  author  of  the  epitaph  you  sent  me  is  a  little  mis- 
taken, wliea,  speaking  of  the  world,  he  says,  that 

'  he  iie'or  car'd  a  pin 

What  they  said  or  may  say  of  the  mortal  within.' 
"  It  is  so  natural  to  wish  to  be  well  spoken  of, 
whether  alive  or  dead,  that  I  imagine  he  could  not 
be  quite  exempt  from  that  desire;  and  that  at  least 
he  wished  to  be  thought  a  wit,  or  he  would  not 
have  given  himself  the  trouble  of  writing  so  good 
an  epitaph  to  leave  behind  him." — "You  see  I 
have  some  reason  to  wish  that  in  a  future  state  I 
may  not  only  be  as  roell  as  I  teas,  but  a  Utile  better. 
And  I  hope  it :  for  I,  too.  with  your  poet,  trust  in 
God.  And  when  I  observe,  that  there  is  great  fru- 
gality as  well  as  wisdom  in  his  works,  since  he  has 
been  evidently  sparing  both  of  labour  and  materials; 
for,  by  the  various  wonderful  inventions  of  propa- 
gation, he  has  provided  for  the  continual  peopling 
his  world  with  plants  and  animals,  without  being 
at  the  trouble  of  repeated  new  creations  :  and  by 
the  natural  reduction  of  compound  substances  to 
their  original  elements,  capable  of  being  employed 
in  new  compositions,  he  has  prevented  the  neces- 
sity of  creating  new  matter;  for  that  the  earth, 
water,  air,  and  perhaps  fire,  which  being  compound- 
ed, form  wood,  do,  when  the  wood  is  dissolved,  re- 
turn, and  again  become  air,  earth,  fire  and  water  j — 
I  say,  that  when  I  see  nothing  annihilated,  and  not 
even  a  drop  of  water  wasted,  I  cannot  suspect  the 
annihilation  of  souls;  or  believe  that  he  will  suffer 
the  daily  waste  of  millions  of  minds  ready  made 
that  now  exist,  and  put  himself  to  the  continual 
trouble  of  making  new  ones.  Thus  finding  my- 
self to  exist  in  the  world,  I  believe  I  shall  in  some 
shape  or  other  always  exist.  And  with  all  the  in- 
conveniences human  life  is  liable  to,  I  shall  not 
object  to  a  new  edition  of  mine;  hoping,  however, 
that  the  errata  of  the  last  may  be  corrected." — Vol. 
iii.  pp.  546—548. 

■■  Our  constitution  seems  not  to  be  well  under- 
stood with  you.  If  the  congress  were  a  permanent 
body,  there  would  be  more  reason  in  being  jealous 
of  giving  it  powers.  But  its  members  are  chosen 
annually,  and  cannot  be  chosen  more  than  three 
years  successively,  nor  more  than  three  years  in 
seven,  and  any  of  them  may  be  recalled  at  any  time, 
whenever  their  constituents  shall  be  dissatisfied 
with  their  conduct.  They  are  of  the  people,  and 
return  again  to  mix  with  the  people,  having  no 
more  durable  preeminence  than  the  difTerent  grains 
of  sand  in  an  hour-glass.  Such  an  assembly  can- 
not easily  become  dangerous  to  liberty.  They  are 
the  servants  of  the  people,  sent  together  to  do  the 
people's  business,  and  promote  the  public  welfare ; 
their  powers  must  be  sufficient,  or  their  duties  can- 
not be  performed.  They  have  no  profitable  ap- 
pointments, but  a  mere  payment  of  daily  wages, 
such  as  are  scarcely  equivalent  to  their  expenses ; 
so  that,  having  no  chance  of  great  places  and  enor- 
mous salaries  or  pensions,  as  in  some  countries, 
there  is  no  intriguing  or  bribing  for  elections.  I 
wish  Old  England  were  as  happy  in  its  govern- 
ment, but  I  do  not  see  it.  Your  people,  however,  I 
think  their  constitution  the  best  in  the  world,  and  j 
affect  to  despise  ours.  It  is  comfortable  to  have  a 
good  opinion  of  one's  self,  and  of  every  thing  that 
belongs  to  us;  to  think  one's  own  religion,  king, 
and  wife,  the  best  of  all  possible  wives,  kings,  and 
religions.  I  remember  three  Greenlanders,  who 
had  travelled  two  years  in  Europe,  under  the  care 
if  some  Moravian  missionaries,  and  had  visited 
Germany,  Denmark,  Holland,  and  England :  wlien 
[  asked  thern  at  Philadelphia  (when  they  were  in 


their  way  home)  whether,  now  they  had  seen  how 
much  more  commodiously  the  white  people  lived 
by  the  help  of  the  arts,  they  would  not  choose  to 
remain  anuing  us — ilieir  answer  was,  thai  they  were 
pleased  with  liaving  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
many  fine  things,  hut  tluy  chose  to  live  in  their  own 
country:  which  country,  by  the  way,  consisted  of 
rock  only  :  for  the  Moravians  were  obliged  to  car- 
ry earth  in  their  ship  Ironi  JVew  York,  lor  the  pur- 
pose of  making  there  a  Cabbage  garden !" — Vol.  iii. 
pp.  btiO,  551. 

"  You  are  now  seventy-eight,  and  I  am  eighty- 
two.  You  tread  fast  upon  my  heels ;  but,  though 
you  have  more  streiigih  and  spirit,  you  cannot 
come  up  wiili  me  till  I  stop,  which  must  now  be 
soon  ;  for  I  am  grown  so  old  as  to  have  buried  most 
of  the  friends  of  my  youth;  and  1  now  often  hear 
persons,  whom  I  knew  when  children,  called  old 
Mr.  such  a  one,  to  distinguish  them  from  their  sons, 
now  men  grown,  and  in  business;  so  that,  by  liv- 
ing twelve  years  beyond  David's  period,  I  seem  to 
have  intruded  myself  into  the  company  of  posterity, 
when  I  ought  to  have  been  abed  and  asleep.  Yet 
had  I  gone  at  seventy,  it  would  have  cat  off  twelve 
of  the  most  aciive  yt-ars  of  my  life,  employed,  too, 
in  matters  of  the  greatest  itnportaiice  :  but  whether 
I  have  been  doing  good  or  mischief,  is  for  time  to 
discover.  I  only  know  that  1  intended  well,  and 
I  hope  all  will  end  well. 

"Be  so  good  as  to  present  my  affectionate  re- 
spects to  Dr.  Rowley.  I  am  under  great  obliga- 
tions to  him,  and  shall  write  to  him  shortly.  It 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  him  to  hear  that  my  nialady 
does  not  grow  sensibly  worse,  and  that  is  a  great 
point;  for  it  has  always  been  so  tolerable,  as  not 
to  prevent  my  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  society, 
and,  being  cheeri'ul  in  conversation.  I  owe  this  m 
a  great  measure  to  his  good  counsels." — Vol.  iii. 
pp.  555,  556. 

"  Your  eyes  must  continue  very  good,  since  you 
are  able  to  write  so  small  a  hand  without  specta- 
cles. I  cannot  distinguish  a  letter  even  of  large 
print ;  but  am  happy  in  the  invention  of  double 
spectacles,  which,  serving  for  distant  objects  as  well 
as  near  ones,  make  my  eyes  as  useful  to  me  as 
ever  they  were.  If  all  the  other  defects  and  in- 
firmities of  old  age  could  be  as  easily  and  cheaply 
remedied,  it  would  be  worth  while,  my  friend,  to  live 
a  good  deal  longer.  But  I  look  upon  death  to  be  as 
necessary  to  oin-  constiiutions  as  sleep.  We  shall 
rise  refreshed  in  the  morning.  Adieu,  and  believe 
me  ever,  &-c." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  544,  545. 

There  is  somethins:  extremely  amiable  in 
old  age,  when  thus  exhibited  without  quem- 
lousness,  discontent,  or  impatience,  and  free, 
at  the  same  time,  from  any  affected  or  unbe- 
coming levity.  We  think  there  must  be 
many  more  of  Dr.  Franklin's  letters  in  exist- 
ence, than  have  yet  been  given  to  the  public  j 
and  from  the  tone  and  tenor  of  those  which 
we  have  seen,  we  are  satisfied  that  they 
would  be  read  with  general  avidity  and  im- 
provement. 

His  account  of  his  own  lif<e,  down  to  the 
year  1730,  has  been  in  the  hands  of  the  pub- 
lic since  1790.  It  is  written  with  great  sim- 
plicity and  liveliness,  though  it  contains  too 
many  trifling  details  and  anecdotes  of  obscure 
individuals.  It  affords  however  a  striking 
example  of  the  irresistible  force  with  which 
talents  and  industry  bear  upwards  in  society  ; 
as  well  as  an  impressive  illustration  of  the 
substantial  wisdom  and  good  policy  of  invaria- 
ble integrity  and  candour.  We  .should  think 
it  a  very  useful  reading  for  all  young  persons 
of  unconfirmed  principles,  who  have  their 
fortunes  to  make  or  to  mend  in  the  world. 


63 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Upon  the  whole,  we  look  uix)n  the  life  and 
writings  of  Dr.  Franklin  as  aflording  a  striking 
illustration  of  the  incalculable  value  of  a 
sound  and  well  directed  understanding  j  and 
of  the  comparative  uselessness  of  learning 
and  laborious  accomplishments.  Without  the 
slightest  pretensions  to  the  character  of  a 
scholar  or  a  man  of  science,  he  has  extended 
the  bounds  of  human  knowledge  on  a  variety 
of  subjects,  which  scholars  and  men  of  sci- 
ence had  previously  investigated  without  suc- 


cess ;  and  has  only  been  found  deficient  in 
those  studies  which  the  learned  have  gene- 
rally turned  from  in  disdain.  We  would  not  be 
understood  to  say  any  thing  in  disparagement 
of  scholarship  and  science ;  but  the  value 
of  these  instnmients  is  apt  to  be  over-rated 
by  their  possessors;  and  it  is  a  wholesome 
mortitication,  to  show  them  that  the  work 
may  be  done  without  them.  We  have  long 
known  that  their  employment  does  not  insure 
its  success. 


(September,  1816.) 


The  Works  of  Jonathan  Swift.  D.  D..  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  Dublin.  Containing  Addi- 
tional Letters,  Tracts,  and  Poems  not  hitherto  jnihhshed.  With  Notes,  and  a  life  of  the  Au- 
thor, by  Walter  Scott,  Esq.     19  vols.  8vo.     Edhiburgh  :  1815. 

By  far  the  most  considerable  change  which  1  that  they  are  declined  considerably  from  'the 


has  taken  place  in  the  world  of  letters,  in  our 
days,  is  that  by  which  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  have  been  gradually  brought 
down  from  the  supremacy  which  they  had 
enjoyed,  without  competition,  for  the  best  part 
of  a  century.  When  we  were  at  our  studies, 
some  twenty-five  years  ago,  we  can  perfectly 
remember  that  every  young  man  was  set  to 
read  Pope,  Swift,  and  Addison,  as  regularly 
as  Virgil.  Cicero,  and  Horace.  All  who  had 
any  tincture  of  letters  were  familiar  with  their 
writings  and  their  history;  allusions  to  them 
abounded  in  all  popular  discourses  and  all 
ambitious  conversation:  and  they  and  their 
contemporaries  were  universally  acknow- 
ledged as  our  great  models  of  excellence,  and 
placed  without  challenge  at  the  head  of  our 


illowed  to  have  merit. 


were  never 


thought 


high  meridian  of  their  glory,'  and  may  fairly 
be  apprehended  to  be  '  hastening  to  their  set- 
ting.' Neither  is  it  time  alone  that  has 
wrought  this  obscuration  :  for  the  fame  of 
Shakespeare  still  shines  in  undecaying  bright- 
ness; and  that  of  Bacon  has  been  steadily 
advancing  and  gathering  new  honours  during 
the  whole  period  which  has  witnessed  the  rise 
and  decline  of  his  less  vigorous  successors. 

There  are  but  two  possible  solutions  for 
phenomena  of  this  sort.  Our  taste  has  either 
degenerated — or  its  old  models  have  been 
fairly  surpassed;  and  we  have  ceased  to  ad- 
mire the  Avriters  of  the  last  century,  only  be- 
cause they  are  too  good  for  us — or  because 
they  are  not  good  enough.  Now.  we  confess 
we  are  no  believers  in  the  absolute  and  per 


national  literature.     New  books,  even  when    manent  corruption  of  national  taste;  on  the 


contrary,  we  think  that  it  is.  of  all  faculties, 


of  as  tit  to  be  placed  in  the  same  class,  butffthat  which  is  most  sure  to  advance  and  im- 
were  generally  read  and  foigotten,  and  passedj  prove  with  time  and  experience;  and   that. 


away  like  the  transitory  meteors  of  a  lower 
sky;  while  //tci/ remained  in  their  brightness, 
and  were  supposed  to  shine  with  a  tixed  and 
unalterable  glory. 

All  this,  however,  we  take  it,  is  now  pretty 
well  altered  ;  and  in  so  far  as  persons  of  our 
antiquity  can  judge  of  the  training  and  habits 
of  the  rising  generation,  those  celebrated 
writers  no  longer  form  the  manual  of  our  stu- 
dious youth,  or  enter  necessarily  into  the  in- 
stitution of  a  liberal  education.  Their  names, 
indeed,  are  still  familiar  to  our  ears :  but  their 
writings  no  lonper  solicit  our  habitual  notice, 
and  their  subjects  begin  already  to  fade  from 
our  recollection.  Their  high  privilieges  and 
proud  distinctions,  at  any  rate,  have  evidently 
passed  into  other  hands.  It  is  no  longer  to 
them  that  the  ambitious  look  up  with  envy, 
or  the  humble  with  admiration  ;  nor  is  it  in 
their  pages  that  the  pretenders  to  wit  and 
eloquence  now  search  for  allusions  that  are 
sure  to  captivate,  and  illustrations  that  cannot 
be  mistaken.  In  this  decay  of  their  reputa- 
tion they  have  few  advocates,  and  no  imita- 
tors :  and  from  a  comjxirison  of  many  obser- 
Tatione,  it  seems  to  be  clearly  ascertained, 


with  the  exception  of  those  great  physical  or 
political  disasters  which  have  given  a  check 
to  civilization  itself,  there  has  always  been  a 
sensible  progress  in  this  particular:  and  that 
the  general  taste  of  every  successive  genera- 
tion is  better  than  that  of  its  predecessors. 
There  are  little  capricious  fluctuations,  no 
doubt,  and  fits  of  foolish  admiration  or  fasti- 
diousness, which  cannot  be  so  easily  account- 
ed for:  but  the  great  movements  are  all  pro- 
gressive :  and  though  the  progress  consists  at 
one  time  in  withholdinir  toleration  from  gross 
fault.s,  and  at  another  in  giving  their  high 
prerogative  to  great  beauties,  this  alternation 
has  no  tendency  to  obstruct  the  general  ad- 
vance ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  best  and 
the  .safest  course  in  which  it  can  be  con- 
ducted. 

We  are  of  opinion,  then,  that  the  writers 
who  adorned  the  beginning  of  the  last  cen- 
tury have  been  eclipsed  by  those  of  our  own 
time;  and  that  they  have  no  chance  of  ever 
regaining  the  supremacy  in  which  they  have 
thus  been  supplanted.  There  is  not.  however, 
in  our  judgment,  any  thing  very  stupendous 
in  this  triumph  of  our  contemporaries;  and 


!J 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


69 


the  greater  wonder  with  us,  is,  that  it  was  so 
long  delayed,  and  left  for  them  to  achieve. 
For  the  truth  is.  that  the  writers  of  the  former 
age  had  not  a  great  deal  more  than  their  judg- 
ment and  industry  to  stand  on:  and  were 
always  much  more  remarkable  for  the  few- 
ness of  their  faults  than  the  greatness  of  their 
beauties.  Their  laurels  were  won  much  more 
by  good  conduct  and  discipline,  than  by  en- 
terprising boldness  or  native  force; — nor  can 
it  be  regarded  as  any  very  great  merit  in  those 
who  had  so  little  of  the  inspiration  of  genius. 
to  have  steered  clear  of  the  dangers  to  which 
that  inspiration  is  liable.  Speaking  generally 
of  that  generation  of  authors,  it  may  be  said 
that;  as  poets,  they  had  no  force  or  greatness 
of  fancy — no  pathos,  and  no  enthusiasm ; — 
and,  as  philosophers,  no  comprehensiveness, 
depth;  or  originality.  They  are  sagacious,  no 
doubt,  neat,  clear,  and  reasonable;  but  for 
the  most  part  cold,  timid,  and  superficial. 
They  never  meddle  with  the  great  scenes  of 
nature,  or  the  great  passions  of  man  ;  but 
content  themselves  with  just  and  sarcastic 
representations  of  city  life,  and  of  the  paltry 
passions  and  meaner  vices  that  are  bred  in 
that  lower  element.  Their  chief  care  is  to 
avoid  being  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the 
witty,  and  above  all  to  eschew  the  ridicule 
of  excessive  sensibility  or  enthusiasm — to  be 
at  once  witty  and  rational  themselves,  with 
as  good  a  grace  as  possible;  but  to  give  tlieir 
countenance  to  no  wisdom,  no  fancy,  and  no 
morality,  which  passes  the  standards  current 
in  good  company.  Their  inspiration,  accord- 
ingly, is  little  more  than  a  sprightly  sort  of 
good  sense;  and  they  have  scarcely  any  in- 
vention but  what  is  subservient  to  the  pur- 
poses of  derision  and  satire.  Little  gleams 
of  pleasantry,  and  sparkles  of  wit,  glitter 
through  their  compositions;  but  no  glow  of 
feeling — no  blaze  of  imagination — no  flashes 
of  genius,  ever  irradiate  their  .substance.  They 
never  pass  beyond  '-the  visible  diurnal 
sphere;"  or  deal  in  any  thing  that  can  either 
lift  us  above  our  vulgar  nature,  or  ennoble  its 
reality.  With  these  accomplishments,  they  j 
may  pass  well  enouirli  for  sensible  and  polite 
writers, — but  scarcely  for  men  of  genius;  and 
it  is  certainly  far  more  surprising,  that  per- 
sons of  this  description  should  have  maintain- 
ed themselves,  for  near  a  century,  at  the  head 
of  the  literature  of  a  country  that  had  pre- 
viously produced  a  Shakespeare,  a  Spenser,  a 
Bacon,  and  a  Taylor,  than  that,  towards  the 
end  of  that  loni;  period,  doubts  should  have 
arisen  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  the  title  by 
which  they  laid  claim  to  that  high  station. 
Both  parts  of  the  phenomenon,  however,  we 
dare  say,  had  causes  which  better  expounders 
might  explain  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  the 
world.  We  see  them  but  imperfectly,  and 
have  room  only  for  an  imperfect  sketch  of 
what  we  see. 

Our  first  literature  consisted  of  saintly  le- 
gends, and  romances  of  chivalry, — thouirh 
Chaucer  gave  it  a  more  national  and  popular 
icharacter,  by  his  original  descriptions  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  and  the  familiarity  and  gaiety 
of  his  social  humour.     In  the  time  of  Eliza- 


beth, it  received  a  copious  infusion  of  classical  I 
images  and  ideas:  but  it  was  still  intrinsically  j 
romantic — serious — and  even  somewhat  lofty  | 
and  enthusiastic.  Authors  were  then  so  few  ' 
in  number,  that  they  were  looked  upon  with 
a  sort  of  veneration,  and  considered  as  a  kind 
of  inspired  persons;  at  least  they  were  not 
yet  so  numerous,  as  to  be  obliged  to  abuse 
each  other,  in  order  to  obtain  a  share  of  dis- 
tinction for  themselves; — and  they  neither 
atTected  a  tone  of  derision  in  their  writings, 
nor  wrote  in  fear  of  derision  from  others. 
They  were  filled  with  their  subjects,  and  dealt 
with  them  fearlessly  in  their  own  way;  and 
the  stamp  of  originality,  force,  and  freedom, 
is  consequently  ui)on  almost  all  their  produc- 
tions. In  the  reigii  of  James  l.,  our  literature,  / 
with  some  few  exceptions,  touching  rather 
the  form  than  the  substance  of  its  merits,  ap- 
pears to  us  to  have  reached  the  greatest  per- 
fection to  which  it  has  yet  attained;  though 
it  would  probably  have  advanced  still  farther 
in  the  succeeding  reign,  had  not  the  great  na- 
tional dissensions  which  then  aro.se,  turned 
the  talent  and  energy  of  the  people  into  other 
chaimels — first,  to  the  assertion  of  their  civil 
rights,  and  afterwards  to  the  discussion  of 
their  religious  interests.  The  graces  of  litera- 
ture suffered  of  course  in  those  fierce  conten- 
tions; and  a  deeper  shade  of  austerity  was 
thrown  upon  the  intellectual  character  of  the 
nation.  Her  genius,  however,  though  less  cap- 
tivating and  adorned  than  in  the  happier  days 
which  preceded,  was  still  active,  fmitful,  and 
commanding;  and  the  period  of  the  civil  wars, 
besides  the  mighty  minds  that  guided  the 
public  councils,  and  were  absorbed  in  public 
cares,  produced  the  giant  powers  of  Taylor, 
and  HobboS;  and  Barrow — the  muse  of  Mil- 
ton— the  learning  of  Coke — and  the  ingenuity 
of  Cowley. 

The  Restoration  introduced  a  French  court 
— under  circumstances  more  favourable  for 
the  effectual  exercise  of  court  influence  than 
ever  before  existed  in  England  :  but  this  of 
itself  would  not  have  been  sufficient  to  ac- 
count for  the  sudden  change  in  our  literature 
which  ensued.  It  was  seconded  by  causes 
of  far  more  general  operation.  The  Restora- 
tion was  undoubtedly  a  popular  act; — and, 
indefeiisible  as  the  conduct  of  the  army  and 
the  civil  leaders  was  on  that  occasion,  there 
can  be  no  question  that  the  severities  of  Crom- 
well, and  the  extravagancies  of  the  sectaries, 
had  made  republican  professions  hateful,  and 
religious  ardour  ridiculous,  in  the  eyes  of  a 
great  proportion  of  the  people.  All  the  emi- 
nent writers  of  the  preceding  period,  however, 
had  inclined  to  the  party  that  was  now  over- 
thrown; and  their  writings  had  not  merely 
been  accommodated  to  the  character  of  the 
government  under  which  they  were  produced, 
but  were  deeply  imbued  with  its  obnoxiou.'? 
principles,  which  were  those  of  their  respect- 
ive authors.  When  the  restraints  of  authority 
were  taken  off,  therefore,  and  it  becam('  pro- 
fitable, as  well  as  popular,  to  discredit  the 
fallen  party,  it  was  natural  that  the  leading 
authors  should  affect  a  style  of  levity  and 
derision,  as  most  opposite  to  that  of  their  op- 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPIH^ 


ponents,  and  best  calculated  for  the  purposes 
they  had  in  view.  The  nation,  too,  was  now 
for  tlie  first  time  essentially  divided  in  point 
of  character  and  principle,  and  a  much  greater 
proportion  were  capable  both  of  writing  in 
support  of  their  own  notions,  and  of  being  in- 
fluenced by  what  was  written.  Add  to  all 
this,  that  there  were  real  and  serious  defects 
in  tfie  style  and  manner  of  the  fonner  gener- 
ation: and  that  the  grace,  and  brevity,  and 
vivacity  of  that  sfayer  manner  which  was  now 
introduced  i'rom  France,  were  not  only  good 
and  captivating  in  themselves,  but  had  then 
all  the  channs  of  novelty  and  of  contrast ; 
and  it  will  not  be  dilHcult  to  understand  how 
it  came  to  supplant  that  which  had  been  es- 
tablished of  old  in  the  country, — and  that  so 
suddenly,  that  the  same  generation,  among 
•whom  Milton  had  been  formed  to  the  severe 
sanctity  of  wisdom  and  tlie  noble  independ- 
ence of  genius,  lavished  it?  loudest  applauses 
on  the  obscenity  and  servility  of  such  writers 
as  Rochester  and  Wycherly. 

This  change,  however,  like  all  sudden 
changes,  was  too  fierce  and  violent  to  be  long^ 
maintained  at  the  same  pitch  :  and  when  the 
wits  and  profligates  of  King  Charles  had  suf- 
ficiently insulted  the  seriousness  and  virtue 
of  their  predecessors,  there  would  probably 
have  been  a  revulsion  towards  the  accustomed 
taste  of  the  nation,  had  not  the  party  of  the 
mnovators  been  reinforced  by  champions  of 
more  temperance  and  judgment.  The  result 
seemed  at  one  time  suspended  on  the  will 
of  Dryden — in  whose  individual  person  the 
genius  of  the  English  and  of  the  French  school 
of  literature  may  be  said  to  have  maintained 
a  protracted  stiiigirle.  But  the  evil  principle 
prevailed  !  Carried  by  the  original  bent  of 
his  genius,  and  his  familiarity  with  our  older 
models,  to  the  cultivation  of  our  native  style. 
to  which  he  might  have  imparted  more  steadi- 
ness and  correctness — for  in  force  and  in 
sweetness  it  was  already  matchless — he  was 
unluckily  seduced  by  the  attractions  of  fash- 
ion, and  the  dazzling  of  the  dear  wit  and  gay 
rhetoric  in  which  it  delighted,  to  lend  his 
powerful  aid  to  the  new  corruptions  and  re- 
finements: and  in  fact,  to  prostitute  his  great 
gifts  to  the  purposes  of  party  rage  or  licentious 
ribaldry. 

The  sobriety  of  the  succeeding  reigns  al- 
layed this  fever  of  profanity  :  but  no  genius 
arose  sufficiently  powerful  to  break  the  spell 
that  still  withheld  us  from  the  use  of  our  own 
peculiar  gifts  and  faculties.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  the  unfortunate  ambition  of  the  next 
generation  of  authors,  to  improve  and  perfect 
the  new  style,  rather  than  to  return  to  the  old 
one; — and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  did 
improve  it.  Tlipy  corrected  its  gross  indecen- 
cy— increased  its  precision  and  correctness 
— made  its  plea.santry  and  sarciism  more  pol- 
ished and  elegant — and  spread  through  the 
whole  of  its  irony,  its  narration,  ami  its  re- 
flection, a  tone  of  clear  and  condensed  good 
sense,  which  recommended  itself  to  all  who 
had,  arrd  all  who  hail  not  any  reli.sh  for  higher 
beauties. 

This  is  the  praise  of  Queen  Anne's  wits — 


and  to  this  praise  they  are  justly  entitled. 
This  was  left  for  them  to  do,  and  they  did  it 
well.  They  were  invited  to  it  by  the  circum- 
stances of  their  situation,  and  do  not  seem  to 
have  been  possessed  of  any  such  bold  or  vigor- 
ous spirit,  as  either  to  neglect  or  to  outgo  the 
invitation.  Coming  into  life  immediately  after 
the  consummation  of  a  bloodless  revolution, 
effected  much  more  by  the  cool  sense,  than 
the  angry  passions  of  the  nation,  they  seem 
to  have  felt  that  they  were  born  in  an  age  of 
reason,  rather  than  of  feeling  or  fancy ;  and 
that  men"s  minds,  though  considerably  di- 
vided and  unsettled  upon  many  points,  were 
in  a  much  better  temper  to  relish  judicious 
argument  and  cutting  satire,  tium  the  glow 
of  enthusiastic  passion,  or  the  ricluiess  of  a 
luxuriant  imagination.  To  those  accordingly 
they  made  no  pretensions;  but,  writing  with 
infinite  good  sense,  and  great  grace  and  vi- 
vacity, and,  above  all.  writijig  for  the  first 
time  in  a  tone  that  was  peculiar  to  the  upper 
ranks  of  society,  and  upon  subjects  that  were 
almost  exclusively  interesting  to  them,  they 
'naturally  figured,  at  least  while  the  manner 
was  new,  as  the  most  accomplished,  fashiona- 
ble, and  perfect  writers  which  the  world  had 
ever  seen ;  and  made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and 
humble  sweetness  of  our  earlier  authois  ap- 
pear rude  and  untutored  in  the  comjiarison. 
INIen  grew  ashamed  of  admirinir,  and  afraid  of 
imitating  writers  of  so  little  skill  and  smart- 
ness ;  and  the  opinion  became  general,  not 
only  that  their  faults  were  intolerable,  but 
that  even  their  beauties  were  puerile  and  bar- 
barous, and  unworthy  the  serious  regard  of  a 
polite  and  distinguishing  age. 

These,  and  similar  considerations,  will  go 
far  to  account  for  the  celebrity  which  those 
authors  acquired  in  their  day;  but  it  is  not 
quite  so  easy  to  explain  how  they  should 
have  so  lonir  retained  their  ascendant.  One 
cause  undoubtedly  was,  the  real  excellence 
of  their  productions,  in  the  style  which  they 
had  adopted.  It  was  hopeless  to  think  of 
surpassing  them  in  that  style;  and,  recom- 
mended as  it  was,  by  the  felicity  of  their  exe- 
cution, it  required  some  courage  to  depart 
from  it,  and  to  recur  to  another,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  so  lately  abandoned  for  its  sake. 
The  age  which  succeeded,  too.  was  not  the 
age  of  courage  or  adventure.  There  never 
was,  on  the  whole,  a  quieter  time  than  the 
reigns  of  the  two  fir.st  Georges,  and  the  great- 
er part  of  that  which  ensued.  There  were 
tAvo  little  provincial  rebellions  indeed,  and  a 
fair  proportion  of  foreign  war;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  stir  the  minds  of  the  people  at 
large,  to  rouse  their  passions,  or  excite  their 
imaginations — nothing  like  the  agitations  of  ^ 
the  Reformation  in  the  sixteenth  century,  or 
of  the  civil  wars  in  the  seventeenth.  They 
went  on,  accordingly,  minding  their  old  busi- 
ne.s.s,  and  reading  tfieir  old  books,  with  great 
patience  and  stupidity:  And  certainly  there 
never  was  so  remarkable  a  dearth  of  original; 
talent — so  long  an  intcrrcgmnn  of  native  ge-f 
nius — as  during  about  sixty  years  in  the 
middle  of  the  last  century.  Tlie  dramatic, 
art  was  dead  fifty  years  before — and  poetry 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


71 


Ij    see-med  verging  to  a  similar  extinction.     The 
'    few  sparks  that  appeared,  too,  showed  that 
the  old  fire  was  burnt  out,  and  that  the  allar 
must  hereafter  be  heaped  with  fuel  of  another 
quality.     Gray,  with  the  talents,  rather  of  a 
critic  than  a  poet — with  learning,  fastidious- 
ness, and  scrupulous  delicacy  of  taste,  instead 
of  fire,  tenderness,  or  invention — began  and 
ended  a  small  school,  which  we  could  scarce- 
ly' ly  have  wished  to  become  permanent,  admir- 
l,i    able  in  many  respects  as  some  of  its  produc- 
li    tions  are — being  far  too  elaborate  and  artiti- 
i,    cial,  either  for  grace  or  for  fluency,  and  titter 
r    to  excite  the  admiration  of  scholars,  than  the 
\'    delight  of  ordinary  men.     However,  he  had 
ii    the  merit  of  not  being  in  any  degree  French, 
r   and  of  restoring  to  our  poetry  the  dignity  of 
!^    seriousness,  and  the  tone  at  least  of  force  and 
r   energy.     The  Whartons,  both  as  critics  and 
;i   as  poets,  were  of  considerable  service  in  dis- 
,    crediting  the  high  pretensions  of  the  former 
.!   race,  and  in  bringing  back  to  public  notice 
I'   the  great  stores  and  treasures  of  poetry  which 
lay  hid  in  the  records  of  our  older  literature. 
Akenside  attempted  a  sort  of  classical  and 
philosophical  rapture,  which  no  elegance  of 
language  could  easily  have  rendered  popular, 
but  which  had  merits  of  no  vulgar  order  for 
•  those  who  could  study  it.     Goldsmith  wrote 
with  perfect  elegance  and  beauty,  in  a  style 
of  mellow  tenderness  and  elaborate  simplici- 
ty.    He  had  the  harmony  of  Pope  without  his 
quaintness,  and  his  selectness  of  diction  with- 
out his  coldness  and  eternal  vivacity.     And, 
last  of  all,  came  Cowper,  with  a  style  of  com- 
plete originality, — and,  for  the  iirst  time,  made 
it  apparent  to  readers  of  all  descriptions,  that 
Pope  and  Addison  were  no  longer  to  be  the 
'     models  of  English  poetry. 

In  philosophy  and  prose  writing  in  general, 
;     the  case  was  nearly  parallel.     The  name  of 
I     Hume  is  by  far  the  most  considerable  which 
^    occurs  in  the  period  to  which  we  have  al- 
luded.   But.  though  his  thinking  was  English, 
his  style  is  entirely  French;  and  being  natu- 
:     rally  of  a  cold  fancy,  there  is  nothing  of  that 
It  (eloquence  or  richness  about  him,  which  char- 
it  i  acterizes  the  writings  of  Taylor,  and  Hooker, 
in  iand  Bacon — and  continues,  with  less  weight 
ii    of  matter,  to  please  in  those  of  Cowley  and 
;;    Clarendon.     Warburton   had   great   powers; 
V    and  wrote  with  more  force  and  freedom  than 
th<'   wits  to    whom   he   succeeded — but  his 
faculties  were  perverted  by  a  paltry  love  of 
•    paradox,  and  rendered  useless  to  mankind  by 
an  unlucky  choice  of  subjects,  and  the  arro- 
ii:i!u'e  and  dogmatism  of  his  temper.     Adam 
>;iiith  was  nearly  the  first  who  made  deeper 
I 'asonings  and  more  exact  knov/ledge  popu- 
lar among  us;  and  Junius  and  Johnson  the 
Iirst    who   again  familiarized   us  with  more 
[,ii  ,e!owing  and  sonorous  diction — and  made  us 
tiii  ifeel  the  lameness  and  poorness  of  the  serious 
;r(!  Istyle  of  Addison  and  Swift. 
1    '     This  brings  us  down  almost  to  the  present 
times — in  v.hich  the  revolution  in  our  litera- 
ture has  been  accelerated  and  confirmed  by 
J  :   the  concurrence  of  many  causes.     The  agita- 
„.ji  tions  of  the  French  revolution,  and  the  discus- 
ions  as  well  as  the  hopes  and  terrors  to 


which  it  gave  occasion — the  genius  of  Ed- 
mund Burke,  and  some  others  of  his  land  of 
genius — the  impression  of  the  new  literature 
of  Germany,  eviilently  the  original  of  our 
lake-school  of  poetry,  and  many  innovations 
in  our  drama — the  rise  or  revival  of  a  more 
evangelical  spirit,  in  the  body  of  the  people 
— and  the  vast  extension  of  our  political  and 
commercial  relations,  which  have  not  only 
familiarized  all  ranks  of  people  with  distant 
coinilries.  and  great  undertakings,  but  have 
brought  knowledge  and  enterprise  home,  not 
merely  to  the  imagination,  but  to  the  actual 
experience  of  almost  every  individual. — All 
these,  and  several  other  circumstances,  have 
so  far  improved  or  excited  the  character  of 
our  nation,  as  to  have  created  an  effectual 
demand  for  more  profound  speculation,  and 
more  serious  emotion  than  was  dealt  in  by 
the  writers  of  the  former  century,  and  which, 
if  it  has  not  yet  produced  a  corresponding 
supply  in  all  branches,  has  at  least  had  the 
effect  of  decrying  the  commodities  that  were 
previously  in  vogue,  as  unsuited  to  the  altered 
condition  of  the  times. 

Of  those  ingenious  writers,  whose  charac- 
teristic certainly  was  not  vigour,  any  more 
than  tenderness  or  fancy.  Swift  was  indis- 
putably the  most  vigorous — and  perhaps  the 
least  tender  or  fanciful.     The  greater  part  of 
his  works  being  occupied  with  politics  and 
personalities  that  have  long  since  lost  all  in- 
terest, can  now  attract  but  little  attention, 
except  as  memorials  of  the  manner  in  which 
politics  and  personalities  were  then  conduct- 
ed.    In  other  parts,  however,  there  is  a  vein 
of  peculiar  humour  and  strong  satire,  which 
will   always    be   agreeable — and   a   sort   of 
heartiness  of  abuse  and  contempt  of  mankind, 
which  produces  a  greater  sympathy  and  ani- 
mation in  the  reader  than  the  more  elaborate 
sarcasms  that  have  since  come  into  fashion. 
Altogether  his  merits  appear  to  be  more  unique 
and  inimitable  than  those  of  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  and  as  his  works  are  connected 
in  many  parts  with  historical  events  which  it 
must  always  be  of  importance  to  understand, 
we  conceive  that  there  are  none,  of  which  a 
new  and  careful  edition  is  so  likely  to  be  ac- 
ceptable to  the  public,  or  so  worthy  to  engage 
the   attention  of  a  person  qualified  for  the 
undertaking.     In  this  respect,  the  projectors 
of  the  present  publication  must  be  considered 
as  eminently  fortunate — the  celebrated  per- 
son who  has  here  condescended  to  the  func- 
tions of  an   editor,  being  almost  as  much 
distinguished  for  the  skill  and  learning  re- 
j  (juired   for  that   humbler  office,  as   for   the 
I  creative  genius  which  has  given  such  unex- 
I  ampled  popularity  to  his  original  compositions 
'  — and  uniting  to  the  minute  knowledge  and 
patient  research  of  the   Malones  and  Chal- 
j  merses,  a  vigour  of  judgment  and  a  vivacity 
of  style  to  which  they  had  no  pretensions. 
I  In  the  exercise  of  these  comparatively  humble 
j  functions,  he  has  acquitted  himself,  we  think, 
j  on  the  present  occasion,  with  great  judgment 
I  and  ability.     The  ediiion,  upon  the'whole,  is 
I  much  better  than  that  of  Drydtni.     It  is  less 
j  loaded  with  long  notes  and  illustrative  quota- 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPITi'. 


tions;  while  it  furnishes  all  the  information  |  fax :  and.  under  that  ministry;  the  members 
that  can  reasonably  be  desired,  in  a  simple  ^  of  which  he  courted  in  private  and  defended 
and  compendious  form.  It  contains  upwards  in  public,  he  received  church  preferment  to 
of  a  hundred  letters,  and  other  original  pieces  [  the  value  of  near  400?.  a  year  (equal  at  least 
of  Swift's  never  before  published — and,  among  to  1200/.  at  present),  with  the  promise  of  still 
the  rest,  all  that  has  been  preserved  of  his    farther  favours.     He  was  dissatistied,  how- 


correspondence  with  the  celebrated  Vanessa. 
Explanatory  notes  and  remarks  are  supplied 
with  great  diligence  to  all  the  passages  over 
which  time  may  have  thrown  any  obscurity ; 
and  the  critical  observations  that  are  prefixed 
to  the  more  considerable  productions,  are, 
.with  a  reasonable  allowance  for  an  editor's 
partiality  to  his  author,  very  candid  and  in- 
genious. 

The  Life  is  not  every  where  extremely  well 


ever,  because  his  livings  were  not  in  England  ; 
and  having  been  sent  over  on  the  afiairs  of 
the  Irish  clergj-  in  1710.  when  he  found  the 
Whig  ministry  in  a  tottering  condition,  he 
temporized  for  a  few  months,  till  he  saw  that 
their  downfal  was  inevitable;  and  then,  with- 
out even  the  pretext  of  any  public  motive, 
but  on  the  avowed  ground  of  not  having  been 
sufficiently  rewarded  for  his  former  services, 
he  went  over  in  the  most  violent  and  decided 


written,  in  a  literary  point  of  view :  but  is  ^  manner  to  the  prevailing  party ;  lor  w  hose 


drawn  up,  in  substance,  with  great  iniell 
gence,  liberality,  and  good  feeling.  It  is  quite 
fair  and  moderate  in  politics;  and  perhaps 
rather  too  indulgent  and  tender  towards  indi- 
viduals of  all  descriptions — more  full,  at  least, 
of  kindness  and  veneration  for  genius  and 
social  virtue,  than  of  indignation  at  baseness 
and  profligacy.  Altogether,  it  is  not  much 
like  the  production  of  a  mere  man  of  letters, 
or  a  fastidious  speculator  in  sentiment  and 
morality;  but  exhibits  throughout,  and  in  a 
very  pleasing  form,  the  good  sense  and  large 
toleration  of  a  man  of  the  world — with  much 
of  that  generous  allowance  for  the 

"  Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise," 

which  genius  too  often  requires,  and  should 
therefore  always  be  most  forward  to  show. 
It  is  impossible,  however,  to  avoid  noticing. 
that  Mr.  Scott  is  by  far  too  favourable  to  the 
personal  character  of  his  author ;  whom  we 


gratification  he  abused  his  former  friends  and 
benefactors,  with  a  degree  of  virulence  and 
rancour,  to  which  it  would  not  be  too  much 
to  apply  the  term  of  brutality ;  and.  in  the 
end,  when  the  approaching  death  of  the 
Queen,  and  their  internal  dissensions  made 
his  services  of  more  importance  to  his  new 
friends,  openly  threatent-d  to  destrt  them  also, 
and  retire  altogether  from  the  scene,  unless 
they  made  a  suitable  provision  for  him ;  and 
having,  in  this  way,  extorted  the  deanery  of 
St.  Patrick's,  which  he  always  complamed 
of  as  quite  inadequate  to  his  merits,  he  coun- 
selled measures  that  must  have  involved  the 
country  in  a  civil  war,  for  the  mere  chance 
of  keeping  his  party  in  power;  and.  finally, 
on  the  Queen's  death,  retired  in  a  state  o/ 
despicable  desjxjudency  and  bitterness  to  his 
living,  where  he  continued,  to  the  end  of  his 
hfe,  to  libel  liberty  and  mankind  with  unre- 
lenting and  pitiable  rancour — to  correspond 
think,  it  would  really  be  injurious  to  the  cause  \  with  convicted  traitors  to  the  constitution  they 
of  morality  to  allow  to  pass,  either  as  a  very  j  had  sworn  to  maintain — and  to  lament  as  the 
dignified  or  a  very  amiable  person.  The  truth  worst  of  calamities,  the  dissolution  of  a  minis- 
is,  we  think,  that  he  was  extremely  ambi-  i  try  which  had  no  merit  but  that  of  having 
tious,  arrogant,  and  selfish ;  of  a  morose,  vin- j  promised   him  advancement,   and  of   vine' 


dictive,  and  haughty  temper;  and,  though 
capable  of  a  sort  of  patronizing  generosity 
towards  his  dependants,  and  of  some  attach- 
ment towards  those  who  had  long  known  and 
flattered  him,  his  general  demeanour,  both  in 
public  and  private  life,  appears  to  have  been 
far  from  exemplary.  Destitute  of  temper  and 
magnanimity — and,  we  will  add,  of  principle, 
in  the  former;  and,  in  the  latter,  of  tender- 
ness, fidelity,  or  compassion. 

The  transformation  of  a  young  Whig  into 
an  old  Tory — the  gradual  falling  off  of  pru- 
dent men  from  unprofitable  virtues,  is.  per- 
haps, too  common  an  occurrence,  to  deserve 
much  notice,  or  justify  much  reprobation. 
I  But  Swift's  desertion  of  his  first  principles 
was  neither  gradual  nor  early — and  was  ac- 
complished under  such  circ-umstancesas  really 
require  to  be  exposed  a  little,  and  cannot  well 
be  passed  over  in  a  fair  account  of  his  life 
and  character.  He  was  bred  a  Whig  under 
Sir  William  Temple— he  took  the  title  pub- 
licly in  various  productions;  and,  during  all 
the  reign  of  King  William,  was  a  strenuous, 
and  indeed  an  intolerant  advocate  of  Revolu- 
tion principles  and  Whig  pretensions.     His 


veral  of  the  leading  members  immed  alely 
indemnified  themselves  by  taking  oflice  m 
the  court  of  the  Pretender. 

As  this  part  of  his  conduct  is  passed  over  a 
great  deal  too  slightly  by  his  biographer;  and 
as  nothing  can  be  more  pernicious  than  the 
notion,  that  the  political  sins  of  eminent  per- 
sons should  be  forcotten  in  the  estimate  of 
their  merits,  we  must  beg  leave  to  verify  the 
comprehensive  sketch  we  have  now  given,  liy 
a  few  references  to  the  documents  that  air  to 
be  found  in  the  volumes  before  us.  Of  his 
original  Whig  professions,  no  proof  will  ]  lo- 
bably  be  required ;  the  fact  being  notorieus, 
and  admitted  by  all  his  biographers.  Abundant 
evidence,  however,  is  furnished  by  his  first 
successful  pamphlet  in  defence  of  Lord  So- 
mers,  and  the  other  Whig  lords  impeaclieil  in 
1701; — by  his  own  exj)ress  declaration  in 
another  work  (vol.  iii.  p.  240).  that  "having 
been  long  conversant  with  the  Greek  and 
Latin  authors,  and  therefore  a  lover  of  liberty, 
he  was  naturally  inclined  to  be  what  they  call 
a  Whig  in  politics;" — by  the  copy  of  verses 
in  which  he  deliberately  designates  himself 

a  Whig,  and  one  who  wears  a  gown;'" — by 


first  patrons  were  SomerSj  Hortland,  and  Hali-  \  his  exulting  statement  to  Tisdal,  whom  he 


WORICS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


73 


reproaches  with  being  a  Torj-,  and  says — '•  To 
:ool  your  insolence  a  little,  know  that  the 
3ueen,  and  Court,  and  House  of  Lords,  and 
:iall'  the  Commons  almost,  aie  Whigs,  and  the 
lumber  daily  increases:" — And,  among  in- 
lumerable  other  proofs,  by  the  memorable 
rerses  on  Whitehall,  in  which,  alluding  to  the 
execution  of  King  Charles  in  front  of  that 
building,  he  is  pleased  to  say,  with  more  zeal 
.han  good  prosody, 

"  That  theatre  produced  an  action  truly  great, 
Oil  whicli  eiernal  acclamations  wait,"  &,c. 

Such  being  the  principle-s,  by  the  zealous 
)rofession  of  which  he  had  tirst  obtained  dis- 
inction  and  preferment,  and  been  admitted 

0  the  iVieinlship  of  such  men  as  Somers,  Ad- 
iison,  and  Steele,  it  only  remains  to  be  seen 
)n  what  occasion,  and  on  what  considerations, 
le  afterwards  renounced  them.    It  is,  of  itself. 

1  tolerably  decisive  fact,  that  this  change 
ook  place  just  when  the  Whig  ministry  went 
lut  of  power,  and  their  adversaries  came  into 
ull  possession  of  all  the  patronage  and  inter- 
•st  of  the  government.  The  whole  matter, 
lowever,  is  fairly  spoken  out  in  various  parts 
if  his  own  writings  : — and  we  do  not  believe 
here  is  anywhere  on  record  a  more  barefaced 
.vowal  of  political  apostasy,  undisguised  and 
mpalliated  by  the  slightest  colour  or  pretence 
if  public  or  conscientious  motives.  It  is  quite 
.  singular  fact,  we  believe,  in  the  history  of 
his  sort  of  conversion,  that  he  nowhere  pre- 
ends  to  say  that  he  had  become  aware  of  any 
langer  to  the  country  from  the  continuance 
if  the  Whig  ministry — nor  ever  presumes  to 
all  in  question  the  patriotism  or  penetration 
'f  Addison  and  the  rest  of  his  former  asso- 
iates,  who  remained  faithful  to  their  first 
irofessions.  His  oidy  apology,  in  short,  for 
his  sudden  dereliction  of  the  principles 
v'hich  he  had  maintained  for  near  forty  years 
-for  it  was  at  this  ripe  age  that  he  got  the 
irst  glimpse  of  his  youthful  folly — is  a  pre- 
tence of  ill  usage  from  the  party  with  whom 
le  had  held  them ,  a  pretence — to  say  nothing 
f  its  inherent  baseness — which  appears  to  be 
itterly  without  foundation,  and  of  which  it  is 
inough  to  say,  that  no  mention  is  made,  till 
hat  same  party  is  overthrown.  While  they 
emain  in  office,  they  have  full  credit  for  the 
incerity  of  their  good  wishes  (see  vol.  xv.  p. 
50,  kc. ) :— and  it  is  not  till  it  becomes  both 
afe  and  profitable  to  abuse  them,  that  we 
ear  of  iheir  ingratitude.  Nay,  so  critically 
nd  judiciously  timed  is  this  discovery  of 
!iPH  un worthiness,  that,  even  after  the  worthy 
uthor's  arrival  in  London  in  1710,  when  the 
;iovements  had  begun  which  terminated  in 
Iheir  ruin,  he  continues,  for  some  month.s,  to 
jeep  on  fair  terms  with  them,  and  does  not 
live  way  to  his  well  considered  resentment, 
[11  it  is  quite  apparent  that  his  interest  must 
jain  by  the  indulgence.  He  says,  in  the 
iounial  to  Stella,  a  few  days  after  his  arrival, 
jThe  Whigs  would  gladly  lay  hold  on  me,  as 
I  twig,  while  they  are  drowning — and  their 
ireat  men  are  making  me  their  clumsy  apolo- 
;ies.  But  my  Lord  Treasurer  (Godolphin) 
3ceived  me  with  a  great  deal  of  coldness, 

hich  lias  enraged  me  so,  that  I  am  almost 
10 


vowing  revenge.''  In  a  few  weeks  after — 
the  change  being  by  that  time  complete — he 
takes  his  part  definitively,  and  makes  his  ap- 
proaches to  Harley,  in  a  manner  which  we 
shoukl  really  imagine  no  rat  of  the  present 
day  would  have  confidence  enough  to  imitate. 
In  mentioning  his  first  interview  with  that 
eminent  person,  he  says,  "  I  had  prepared 
him  before  by  another  haml,  where  he  was 
very  intimate,  and  got  myself  represented 
(which  I  might  justly  do)  as  07ic  extremely  ill 
used  by  the  last  ministry,  after  some  (.bligation, 
because  I  refn.sed  to  go  certain  lengths  they 
would  have  me."  (Vol.  xv.  p.  350.)  About 
the  same  period,  he  gives  us  farther  lights 
into  the  conduct  of  this  memorable  conver- 
sion, in  the  following  passages  of  the  Journal. 

"  Oct.  7.  He  (Harley)  told  me  he  must  bring 
Mr.  St.  John  and  me  acquainted  ;  and  spoke  so 
many  things  of  personal  kindness  and  esiecni,  that 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  what  some  Jricnds  iiad  told 
me,  that  he  would  do  every  thing  to  hrivf;  me  over. 
He  desired  me  to  dine  with  him  on  Tuesday;  and, 
after  four  hours  being  with  him,  set  me  down  at 
St.  James's  coffee-house  in  a  Hackney-coach. 

"  I  must  tell  you  a  great  piece  of  refinement  in 
Harley.  He  charged  me  to  come  and  see  hirei 
often ;  I  told  him  I  w  as  loath  to  trouble  him,  in  so 
much  business  as  he  had,  and  desired  I  might  have 
leave  to  come  at  his  levee  ;  which  he  immediately 
refused,  and  said,  '  That  was  no  place  for  friends.' 

"  I  believe  never  was  any  thing  compassed  so 
soon :  and  purely  done  by  my  personal  credit  with 
I\Ir.  Harley  ;  who  is  so  excessively  obliging,  that  1 
know  not  what  to  make  of  it,  unless  to  s/tew  the  ras- 
cals of  the  other  party,  that  they  used  a  man  unwor- 
thily  viho  had  deserved  better.  He  speaks  all  the 
kind  things  of  me  in  the  world. — Oct.  14.  I  stand 
with  the  new  people  ten  times  better  than  ever  I 
did  with  the  old,  and  forty  times  more  caressed." 
Lfe,  vol.  i.  p.  126. 

"  Nov.  8.  Why  should  the  Whigs  think  I  came 
to  England  to  leave  them  ?  But  who  the  devil  cares 
what  they  think  ?  Am  1  under  obligations  in  the 
least  to  any  of  them  all?  Rot  them,  ungrateful 
dogs.  I  will  make  ihem  repent  their  usr.ye  of  me, 
before  I  leave  this  place.  They  say  the  same  thing 
here  of  my  leaving  the  Whigs  ;  but  they  own  they 
ca7inot  blame  me,  C07isidering  the  treatment  I  have 
had,"  &,c.  &c. 

If  he  really  ever  scrupled  about  going 
lengths  with  his  Whig  friends  (which  we  do 
believe),  he  seems  to  have  resolved,  that  his 
fortune  should  not  be  hurt  by  any  delicacy  of 
this  sort  in  his  new  connection  ; — for  he  took 
up  the  cudgels  this  time  with  the  i'erocity  of 
a  hireling,  and  the  rancour  of  a  renegade.  In 
taking  upon  himself  the  conduct  of  the  paper 
called  '-'The  Examiner,"  he  g-ave  a  new  char- 
acter of  acrimony  and  bitterness  to  the  con- 
tention in  which  he  mingled — and  not  only 
made  the  most  furious  and  unnn^asured  at- 
tacks upon  the  body  of  the  party  to  w  Inch  it  had 
formerly  been  his  boast  that  ho  belonged,  but 
singled  out,  wath  a  sort  of  savage  discourtesy, 
a  variety  of  his  former  friends  and  benefac- 
tors, and  made  them,  by  name  and  descrip- 
tion, the  objects  of  the  most  malignant  abuse. 
Lord  Somers,  Godolpliin,  Steele,  and  many 
others  with  whom  he  had  formerly  lived  in 
intimacy,  and  from  whom  he  had  received 
obligations,  were  successively  attacked  in  pub- 
lic with  the  most  rancorous  personalities,  and 
often  with  the  falsest  insinuations :  In  short, 


74 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


as  he  has  himself  emphatically  expressed  it 
in  the  Jouma!,  he  '•'  Ubelled  them  all  round." 
While  he  was  thus  abusing  men  hi;  could  not 
have  ceassxl  to  esteem,  it  is  quite  natural,  and 
in  course,  to  find  him  professiii:^  the  greatest 
affection  for  those  he  hated  and  despised.  A 
thorou^rh  partisan  is  a  thorough  despiser  of 
sincerity  ;  and  no  man  seems  to  have  got  over 
that  weakness  more  completely  than  the  rev- 
erend person  before  us.  In  every  page  of 
th"  Journal  to  Stella,  we  find  a  triumphant 
statement  of  things  he  was  writing  or  saying 
to  the  people  about  him,  in  direct  contradic- 
tion to  his  real  sentiments.  We  may  quote  a 
line  or  two  from  the  first  passage  that  pre- 
sents itself.  "  I  desired  my  Lord  Radnor's 
brother  to  let  my  lord  know  I  would  call  on 
him  at  -:\.  which  I  did;  and  was  arguing 
with  him  three  hours  to  bring  him  over  to  us; 
and  I  spoke  so  closely,  that  I  believe  he  wili 
be  tractable.  But  he  is  a  scoundrel ;  and 
thon^h  I  said  I  only  talked  from  my  love  to  him. 
I  told  a  lie  :  for  I  did  not  care  if  he  were  hang- 
ed :  but  crcr>j  one  gained  over  is  of  coitse- 
q'lencc.''' — Vol.  iii.  p.  2.  We  think  there  are 
not  many  even  of  those  who  have  served  a 
regular  apprenticeship  to  corraption  and  job- 
bing, who  could  go  through  their  base  task 
wi  h  more  coolness  and  hardihood  than  this 
pioLis  neophyte. 

These  fe  V  references  are,  of  themselves,  suf- 
ficient to  show  the  spirit  and  the  true  motives 
of  this  dereliction  of  his  first  principles;  and 
seem  entirely  to  exclude  the  only  apology 
which  the  partiality  of  his  biographer  has 
been  able  to  suggest,  viz.  that  thoni:h.  from 
first  to  last,  a  Whig  in  politics,  he  was  all 
along  still  more  zealously  a  H'gh-Church- 
man  as  to  religion  ;  and  left  the  Whigs  merely 
because  the  Tories  seemed  more  favourable  to 
ecclesiastical  pretensions.  It  is  obvious,  how- 
ever, that  this  is  quite  inadmissible.  The 
Whigs  were  as  notoriously  connected  with  the 
Low-Church  party  when  he  joined  and  de- 
fended tli"in,  as  when  he  deserted  and  re- 
viled them  ; — nor  is  th's  anywhere  made  the 
specific  ground  '^*"  his  revilings.  It  would  not 
have  been  very  easy,  indeed,  to  have  asserted 
such  a  principle  as  the  motive  of  his  libels  on 
the  Earl  of  Nottingham,  who,  though  a  Whig, 
was  a  zealous  H'gh-Churchman,  or  his  eulo- 
gies ofi  Bolin^fbroke,  who  was  pretty  well 
known  to  1'-  no  churchman  at  all.  It  is  plain, 
indeed,  that  Swift's  High-Church  principles 
were  all  along  but  a  part  of  his  selfishness  and 
ambition  ;  and  meant  nothing  else  than  a  de- 
sire to  raise  the  consequence"  of  the  order  to 
which  he  happened  to  belong.  If  he  had 
been  a  layman,  we  have  no  doubt  he  would 
have  treated  the  pretensions  of  the  priesthood, 
as  he  treated  the  persons  of  all  priests  who 
were  opposed  to  him,  with  the  most  bitter 
and  irreverent  disdain.  Accord inijly.  he  is  so 
far  from  ever  recommendinir  Whig  principles 
of  government  to  his  High-Church  friends,  or 
from  confining  h's  abuse  of  the  Whigs  to  their 
tenets  in  matters  ecclesiastical,  that  he  goes 
the  whole  l<Mirrlh  of  proscribing  the  party,  and 
proposirr.  with  the  desperation  of  a  true 
apostatej  that  the  Monarch  should  be  made 


substantially  absolute  by  the  assistance  of  a 
military  force,  in  order  to  make  it  impossible 
that  their  principles  should  ever  again  acquire 
a  preponderance  in  the  country.  It  is  impos- 
sible, we  conceive,  to  give  any  other  mean- 
ing to  the  advice  contained  in  his  -  Free 
Thoughts  on  the  State  of  Affairs,"  which  he 
wrote  just  before  the  Queen's  death,  and 
which  Bohngbroke  himself  thouuht  too  strong 
for  publication,  even  at  that  critical  period. 
His  leading  injunction  there,  is  to  adopt  a  sys- 
tem of  the  most  rigorous  exclusion  of  all 
Whigs  from  every  kind  oi'  employment :  and 
that,  as  they  cannot  be  too  much  or  too  soon 
disabled,  they  ought  to  be  proceeded  ag-ainst 
with  as  strong  measures  as  can  possibly  con- 
sist with  the  lenity  of  our  government;  so 
that  in  no  time  to  come  it  should  be  in  the 
power  of  the  Crown,  even  if  it  wished  it,  to 
choose  an  ill  majority  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. Thisgreat  work,  he  adds  very  explic- 
itly, could  only  be  well  carried  on  by  an 
entne  new-modelUng  of  the  army  :  and  espe- 
cially of  the  Royal  Guards. — which,  as  the\ 
then  stood,  he  chooses  to  allege  were  fitter  ti 
guard  a  prince  to  the  bar  of  a  high  court  oi 
justice,  than  to  secure  him  on  the  throne 
(Vol.  V.  p.  404.)  This,  even  Mr.  Scott  is  & 
little  able  to  reconcile  with  the  alleged  Whi: 
principles  of  his  author,  that  he  is  forced  tc 
observe  upon  it.  that  it  is  '-daring,  uncomi 
promising  counsel ;  better  suited  to  ihe  geniuij 
of  the  man  \\  ho  gave  it,  than  to  that  of  iht 
Briti-sh  nation,  and  most  likely,  if  followed,  t. 
have  led  to  a  civil  war.''  After  this  adrais 
sion,  it  really  is  not  very  easy  to  understam 
by  what  shigular  stretch  of  charity  the  learn 
ed  editor  conceives  he  may  consi-stently  hold 
that  Swift  was  always  a  good  Revolutioi 
Whig  as  to  politics,  and  only  sided  with  thi 
Tories — reluctantly,  we  must  suppose,  anc,' 
with  great  tenderness  to  his  political  oppoj 
nents — out  of  his  overpowering  zeal  for  thi 
Church. 

While  he  thus  stooped  to  the  dirtiest  an< 
most  dishonourable  part  of  a  partisan's  drudge' 
ry,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  shoul'^ 
decline  any  of  the  mean  arts  by  which  a  Coui, 
party  may  be  maintained.  Accorduigly,  w 
find  him  regular  in  his  attendance  upon  Mr: 
Masham,  the  Queen's  favourite ;  and,  aftt 
reading  the  contemptuous  notices  that  occi. 
of  her  in  some  of  his  Whig  letters,  as  ''on' 
of  the  Queen's  dressers,  who,  by  great  ii' 
trigue  and  flattery,  had  gained  an  ascendai 
over  her,"  it.  is  very  edifying  to  find  hii 
writing  periodical  accounts  of  the  progress  c 
her  pregnancy,  and  "  praying  God  to  presen 
her  life^  which  is  of  grea't  imjjortance  to  th 
nation,"  &c.  &c. 

A  connection  thus  begun  upon  an  avowe 
dissatisfaction  with  the  reward  of  forrrn 
services,  cannot,  with  consistency,  be  su) 
posed  to  have  had  any  thin^'  but  self-intere 
as  its  foundation  :  and  though  Swift's  love  ( 
power,  and  especially  of  the  power  of  woum 
ing,  was  probably  gratified  by  his  exertioi 
in  behalf  of  the  triumphant  party,  no  room 
left  for  doubtiiii:  that  these  exertiors  we 
substantially  prompted  by  a  desire  to  bett  , 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


76 


Jus  own  fortune,  and  that  his  opinion  of  the 
merits  of  the  party  depended  entirely  upon 
their  power  and  apparent  inclination  to  per- 
form this  first  of  all  duties.  The  thing  is 
spoken  out  continually  in  the  confidential 
Journal  to  Stella;  and  though  he  was  very 
angry  with  Harley  for  offering  him  a  bank 
note  for  fifty  pounds,  and  refused  to  be  his 
chaplain,  this  was  very  plainly  because  he 
considered  these  as  no  sufficient  pay  for  his 
services — by  no  means  because  he  wished  to 
serve  without  pay.  Very  soon  after  his  pro- 
fession of  Toryism.*he  writes  to  Stella — •'  This 
is  the  last  sally  I  shall  ever  make  ;  but  1  hope 
it  irill  turi)  to  some  account.  I  have  done  more 
for  these,  and  I  think  they  are  more  honest 
than  the  last.""  And  a  little  after — "Rly  new 
friends  are  very  kind ;  and  I  have  promises 
enongh.  To  return  without  some  mark  of 
distinction,  would  look  extremely  little ;  and 
I  would  likewise  gladly  he  somewhat  richer  than 
I  am."  At  last,  he  seems  to  have  fairly  asked 
for  the  see  of  Hereford  (Vol.  xvi.  p.  45.) ;  and 
when  this  is  refused,  he  says.  "I  dined  with 
' Lord  Tieasurer,  who  chid  me  for  being  absent 
I  three  days.  Mighty  kind  with  a  p —  !  Less 
of  civility,  and  more  of  interest!"  At  last, 
vihen  the  state  of  the  Queen's  health  made 
the  duration  of  the  ministry  extremely  pre- 
ciuious,  and  the  support  of  their  friends  more 
essential,  he  speaks  out  like  a  true  Swiss,  and 
tells  them  that  he  will  run  away  and  leave 
them,  if  they  do  not  instantly  make  a  provi- 
sion for  him.  In  the  Journal  to  Stella,  he 
writes,  that  having  seen  the  warrants  for  three 
ideaneries,  and  none  of  them  for  him,  he  had 
;gone  to  the  Lord  Treasurer,  and  •'  told  him  I 
■had  nothijig  to  do  but  to  go  back  to  Ireland 
limraediately  ;  for  I  could  not,  with  any  reputa- 
ition,  stay  longer  here,  unless  I  had  something 
^honourable  immediately  giicn  to  me.  He  after- 
wards told  me  he  had  stopped  the  warrants, 
'and  hoped  something  might  be  compassed  for 
me."  &c.  And  in  the  page  following  we  find, 
|that  all  li's  love  for  his  dear  friend  the  Lord 
Treasurer,  would  not  induce  him  ever  to  see 
him  again,  if  he  was  disappointed  in  this  ob- 
ject of  ambition.  "The  warrants  for  the 
deaneries  are  still  stopped,  for  fear  I  should 
;be  gone.  Do  you  think  any  thing  will  be 
'done '?  In  the  mean  time,  I  prepare  for  my 
J  journey,  and  see  no  great  peojjle  ; — nor  will  I 
see  Lord  Treasurer  any  more,  if  I  go."  (Vol.  iii. 
p.  207.)  It  is  under  this  threat  that  he  extorts 
the  Deanery  of  St.  Patrick's, — which  he  ac- 
cepts with  much  grumbling  and  discontent, 
and  does  not  enter  into  possession  till  all  hope 
lof  better  preferment  seems  for  the  time  at  an 
■end.  In  this  extremity  he  seems  resolved, 
however,  to  make  the  most  of  it ;  and  Ihiding 
■that  the  expenses  of  his  induction  and  the 
■usual  payments  to  government  on  the  occa- 
sioti  come  to  a  considerable  sum,  he  boldly 
'resolves  to  ask  a  thousand  pounds  from  the 
ministers,  on  the  score  of  his  past  services,  in 
Order  to  make  himself  easy.  This  he  an- 
Inounces  to  Stella  soon  after  "the  appointment. 
!'•  I  hope  in  time  they  will  be  persuaded  to 
istve  me  some  money  to  c!e;ir  ofl  these  debts. 
[They  expect  I  shall  pass   the   next  winter 


here ;  and  then  I  will  drive  them  to  give  me  a 
sum  of  money.''''  And  a  little  after — "I  shall 
be  sadly  cramped,  unless  the  Queen  will  give 
me  a  thousand  pounds,  i  am  sure  she  owes 
me  a  great  deal  more.  Lord  Treasurer  rallies 
me  upon  it,  and,  I  am  sure,  intends  it — but 
quandoV  And  agaui — "  Lord  Treasurer  uses 
me  barbarously.  He  laughs  when  I  mention  a 
thousand  pounds — though  a  thousand  pounds 
is  a  very  serious  thuig."  It  appears,  however, 
that  this  modest  request  never  ^\  as  complied 
with ;  for,  though  Bolingbroke  got  the  Queen's 
warrant  for  it,  to  secure  Swift's  attachment 
after  he  had  turned  out  Harley,  yet  her  ma- 
jesty's immediate  death  rendered  the  gift 
unavailing. 

If  any  thing  were  wanting  to  show  that  his 
change  of  party  and  his  attachment  to  that 
A\ hich  was  now  uppermost,  was  wholly  foun- 
ded on  personal,  and  in  no  degree  on  public 
considerations,  it  would  be  supplied  by  the 
innumerable  traits  of  personal  vanity,  and  the 
unrestrained  expressions  of  eulogy  or  abuse, 
accoiding  as  that  vanity  was  gratified  or 
thwarted,  that  are  scattered  over  the  whole 
journal  and  correspondence, — and  which  are 
utterly  irreconcileable  with  the  conduct  of  a 
man  who  was  acting  on  any  principle  of  dig- 
nity or  fairness.  With  all  his  talent  and  all 
his  pride,  indeed,  it  appears  that  Swift  ex- 
hibited, during  this  period  of  favour,  as  much 
of  the  ridiculous  airs  of  a  parvenu — of  a  low- 
bred underling  brought  suddenly  into  contact 
wixh  wealth  and  splendour,  as  any  of  the  base 
understrappers  that  ever  made  party  disgust- 
ing. The  studied  rudeness  and  ostentatious 
arrogance  with  which  he  withheld  the  usual 
tribute  of  respect  that  all  well-bred  persons 
pay  to  rank  and  office,  may  be  reckoned 
among  the  signs  of  this.  But  for  a  fuller  pic- 
ture, we  would  refer  to  the  Diary  of  Bishop 
Kennet,  who  thus  describes  the  demeanour 
of  this  politic  partisan  in  the  year  1713. 

"  Dr.  Swift  came  into  the  coffee-house,  and  had  a 
bow  from  every  body  but  me.  When  I  came  to 
the  aiiiichami)er  to  wait  before  prayers,  Dr.  Swift 
was  the  principal  man  of  talk  and  business,  and 
acted  as  a  master  of  requests.  He  was  sohciiing 
the  Karl  of  Arran  to  speak  to  his  brother  the  Duke 
of  Ormond,  to  eet  a  chaplain's  place  established  in 
the  garrison  of  Hull  tor  Mr.  Fiddes,  a  clergyman  in 
that  neighbourhood,  who  had  lately  been  in  jail,  and 
published  sermons  to  pay  fees.  He  was  promising 
i\Ir.  Thorold  to  undertake  with  my  Lord  Treasurer, 
iliai,  according  to  his  petition,  he  should  obtain  a 
salary  of  200/.  per  annuvias  mit^ister  of  the  English 
rliurch  at  Rotterdam.  He  slopped  [•'.  Gwynne, 
Esq..  going  in  with  the  red  bag  lo  the  Queen,  and 
told  hiin  aloud  he  had  something  to  say  to  him  from 
my  Lord  Treasurer.  He  talked  with  the  son  of 
Dr.  Davenant  to  be  sent  abroad,  and  tool;  out  his 
popl;et-book,  and  v\rote  down  several  things,  as 
mntwranda,  to  do  for  him.  He  turned  to  the  fire, 
and  took  out  his  gold  watch,  and  telling  the  time  of 
the  day,  complained  it  was*  very  late.  A  genileman 
s;nd  'he  was  too  fast.' — '  How  can  I  help  i','  says 
ibe  doctor,  '  if  the  courtiers  give  me  a  watch  that 
won't  go  right?'  Then  he  instructed  a  young  no- 
bleman, that  the  best  poet  in  England  was  iVIr. 
Pope  (a  papist),  ■who  had  begun  a  translation  of 
Homer  into  English  verse,  for  which  '  he  must  have 
iheiTi  all  subscribe;' — 'for,'  says  he,  'the  authoi 
,t//u//  not  begin  to  print  till  1  have  a  thousand  guineas 
for  liim.'   Lord  Treasurer,  after  leaving  the  Queen, 


76 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


came  through  the  room,  beckouiog  Dr.  Swift  to 
follow  him:  both  went  off  just  hi  fore  prayers." — 
Life,  vol.  i.  p.  139,  140. 

We  are  very  unwilling,  in  any  cape,  to  as- 
cribe to  unworthy  motives,  what  may  be  sui- 
ficiently  accounted  for  uiwn  better  considera- 
tions j  but  we  really  have  not  charity  enough 
to  impute  Swift's  zealous  efforts  to  prevent  the 
rupture  between  Harley  and  Boliiigbroke.  or 
his  continued  friendship  with  both  after  that 
rupture  took  place,  to  his  personal  and  disin- 
terested affection  for  those  two  individuals. 
In  the  first  place,  he  had  a  most  manifest  in- 
terest to  prevent  their  disunion,  as  that  which 
plainly  tended  to  the  entire  dissolution  of  the 
muiistry,  and  the  ruin  of  the  party  on  which 
he  depended;  and,  as  to  his  remaining  the 
friend  of  both  after  they  had  become  the  most 
rancorous  enemies  of  each  other,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  they  were  still  respectively 
the  two  most  eminent  individuals  with  whom 
he  had  been  connected;  and  that,  if  ever  that 
party  should  be  restored  to  power,  from  which 
alone  he  could  now  look  lor  preferment,  he 
who  stood  well  with  both  t?iese  statesmen 
would  have  a  double  chance  of  success.  Con- 
sidering, indeed,  the  facility  with  which  he 
seems  to  have  cast  off  friendships  far  more 
intimate  than  the  inequality  of  their  condition 
renders  it  possible  that  those  of  Oxford  or  Bo- 
lingbroke  could  be  with  him,  whenever  party 
interest  interfered  with  them; — considering 
the  disrespect  with  which  he  spoke  of  Sir 
William  Temple's  memory,  after  he  had  ab- 
jured his  principles; — the  coarseness  with 
which  he  calls  Lord  Somers  "a  false  deceit- 
ful rascal;"'  after  having  designated  him  as  the 
modern  Aristides,  for  his  blameless  integrity; 
— and  the  unfeeling  rancour  with  which  he 
exposes  the  personal  failings  and  pecuniary 
embarrassments  of  Steele,  with  whom  he  had 
been  long  so  closely  united  : — it  would  seem 
to  require  something  more  than  the  mere  per- 
sonal attachment  of  a  needy  pamphleteer  to 
two  rival  peers,  to  account  for  his  expressions 
of  affection  for  both,  after  one  had  supplanted 
the  other.  The  natuial  solution,  indeed. 
seems  to  lie  sufficiently  open.  After  the  per- 
fidy he  had  shown  to  the  Whig  party,  and  the 
virulence  with  which  he  had  revenged  his 
own  apostasy,  there  was  no  possibility  of  his 
being  again  received  by  them.  His  only 
chance,  therefore,  was  in  the  restoration  of  the 
Tories,  and  his  only  policy  to  keep  well  with 
both  their  great  leaders. 

Mr.  Scott,  indeed,  chooses  to  represent  him 
as  actuated  by  a  romantic  attachment  to  Lord 
Oxford,  and  pronounces  an  eloquent  encomium 
on  his  devoted  generosity  in  applying  for 
leave  of  absence,  upon  ihat  nobleman's  dis- 
grace, in  oriler  to  be  able  to  visit  him  in  his 
retirement.  Though  he  talks  of  such  a  visit, 
however,  it  is  certain  that  he  never  did  pay 
it;  and  that  he  was  all  the  time  engaged  in 
the  most  friendly  correspondence  with  Ro- 
lingbroke,  from  whom  the  very  day  after  he 
had  kicked  out  his  dear  friend  with  the  most 
undisguised  anger  and  contempt,  he  conde- 
scended to  receive  an  order  for  the  thousand 
pounds  be  had  so  long  solicited  from  his  pre- 


decessor in  vain.  The  following,  too,  are  the 
terms  in  which  Bohngbroke.  at  that  very  time, 
thought  there  was  no  impropriety,  and  could 
be  no  offence,  in  writing  of  Oxford,  in  a  pri- 
vate confidential  letter  to  this  his  dear  de- 
voted friend.  "Your  state  of  late  passages  is 
right  enough.  I  reflect  upon  them  with  in- 
dignation; and  shall  never  forgive  myself  for 
having  tioisted  so  long  to  so  much  real  pride 
and  awkward  humility: — to  an  air  of  such  fa- 
miliar friendship,  and  a  heart  so  void  of  all 
tenderness; — to  such  a  tejnper  of  engrossing 
business  and  power,  and  so  perfect  an  inca- 
pacity to  manage  one,  with  such  a  tyrannical 
disposition  to  abuse  the  other,"  &c.  &c.  (Vol. 
xvi.  p.  219.)  If  Swift's  feelings  for  Oxford  had 
borne  any  resemblance  to  those  v  hich  Mr. 
Scott  has  imputed  to  him.  it  is  not  conceiv- 
able that  he  should  have  continued  upon  a 
footincrof  the  greatest  cordiality  with  the  man 
who,  after  supplanting  him,  could  speak  in 
those  terms  of  his  fallen  rival.  Yet  Swift's 
friendship,  as  they  called  it,  with  Bohngbroke. 
continued  as  long  as  that  with  Oxford,  and 
we  find  him  not  only  giving  him  his  advice 
how  to  act  in  the  government  wliich  had  now 
fallen  entirely  into  his  hands,  but  kindly  of- 
fering, "  if  his  own  services  may  be  of  any 
use,  to  attend  him  by  the  beginning  of  win- 
ter." (Id.  p.  215.)  Those  who  know  of  what 
stuff  political  friendships  are  generally  made,  •  1, 
indeed,  will  not  require  even  this  evidence  to 
prove  the  hollowness  of  those  in  which  Swift 
was  now  connected.  The  following  passage, 
in  a  letter  from  Lewis,  the  most  intimate  ana 
confidential  of  all  his  coadjutors,  dated  only  a  ■ 
week  or  two  before  Oxfords  disgrace,  gives  a 
delicious  picture,  we  think,  of  the  whole  of 
those  persons  for  whom  the  learned  Dean  was 
thus  professing  the  most  disinterested  attach- 
ment, and  receiving,  no  doubt,  in  return,  pro- 
fessions not  less  animated  and  sincere.  It  is 
addressed  to  Swift  in  July,  1714. 

"I  meet  wiih  no  man  or  woman,  who  pretend 
upon  any  probable  grounds  to  judge  who  will  carry 
the  great  point.  Our  female  (riendcMrs.  Masham) 
told  I  he  dragon  (Lord  O.xford)  in  her  own  house, 
last  'I  hursday  morning,  these  words :  '  You  never 
<lid  the  Queen  any  service,  nor  are  you  capable  of 
doing'  lier  any.'  He  made  no  reply,  hut  siij^d 
vtilh  her  and  Merrurialis  (Bolingbrokc)  that  night 
at  htr  oxrn  house. — His  revenge  is  not  the  less  medi- 
tated for  that.  He  lells  the  N^ords  clearly  and  dis- 
iini:tly  lo  all  mankind.  Those  trho  range  under  hit 
banner,  rail  her  ten  thousand  hilehes  and  kitchen- 
wcvrhe.t.  Tliose  who  hate  him  do  the  same.  And 
from  niy  heart,  I  grieve  that  she  should  give  such 
a  loose  to  her  passion  ;  for  she  is  susceptible  of  true 
friendship,  and  has  many  social  and  domestic  vir- 
uics.  The  great  attorney  {Lord  Chancellor  Har- 
couri)  who  made  you  the  sham  offer  of  the  York- 
shire living,  had  a  long  conference  with  ihe  dragon 
on  Thursday,  kissed  him  at  parting,  and  cursed  him  , 
at  night.'" — vol.  xvi.  p.  173,  174. 

The  death  of  Queen  Anne,  however,  which 
happened  on  the  1st  of  August  thereafter, 
speedily  composed  all  those  dissensions,  and 
confouiided  the  victors  and  the  vanquished  in 
1  one  common  proscription.  Among  the  most 
miserable  and  downcast  of  all  the  mourners' 
]  on  that  occasion,  we  confess  we  were  some-' 
I  what  surprised  to  find  our  reverend  author. 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


77 


He  who,  but  a  few  months  before,  was  willing  i 
to  have  hazarded  all  the  horrors  of  a  civil  war,  j 
for  the  chance  of  keeping  his  party  in  olHce,  i 
sunk  instantly  into  pitiabTe  and  unmanly  des- 
pondency upon  the  final  disgrace  of  that  party. 
We  are  unwilling  to  believe,  and  we  do  not 
in  fact  believe,  that  Swift  was  privy  to  the  de-  | 
signs  of  Boliiigbroke,  Ormond,  and  Mar,   to 
bring  in  the  Pretender  on  the  Queen's  demise, 
md  are  even  disposed   to    hold    it    doubtful 
whether  Oxford  concurred  in  those  mea.sures; 
but  we  are  sure  that  no  man  of  common  liim- 
less  could  have  felt  more  sorrow  and  despair, 
f  the  country  had  been  concjuered  by  a  law- 
ess  invader,  than  tliis  friend  of  the  Act  of 
Settlement  did   upon  the  quiet  and  regular 
ran.smission  of  the  sceptre  to  the  appointed 
leir:  and  the  discomliture  of  those  ministers 
,vho  are  proved  to  have  traitorously  conspired 

0  accompli-sh  a  counter  revolution,  and  re- 
store a  dynasty  which  he  always  affected  to 
consider  as  justly  rejected.  How  all  this  sor- 
ow  is  to  be  reconciled  to  the  character  of  a 
rood  Revolution  Whig,  we  leave  it  to  the 
earned  editor,  who  has  invested  him  with 
hat  character,  to  discover.  To  us  it  merely 
.ffords  new  evidence  of  the  selfishness  and 
.mbition  of  the  individual,  and  of  that  utter 
.rid  almost  avowed  disregard  of  the  public, 
vhich  constituted  his  political  character.  Of 
he  sorrow  and  despondency  itself,  we  need 
iroduce  no  proofs, — for  they  are  to  be  found 

1  every  page  of  his  subsequent  writings. 
lis  whole  life,  indeed,  after  this  event,  was 
ne  long  fit  of  spleen  and  lamentation  :  and, 
,3  the  very  end  of  his  days,  he  never  ceases 
ewailing  the  irreparable  and  grievous  calam- 
:y  which  the  world  had  suffered  in  the  death 
f  that  most  imbecile  princess.  He  speaks 
f  it,  in  short,  throughout,  as  a  pious  divine 
light  be  supposed  to  speak  of  the  fall  of 
rimeval  man  from  the  state  of  innocence, 
'he  sun  seems  darkened  for  ever  in  his  eyes, 
nd  mankind  degenerated  beyoiul  the  tolera- 
on  of  one  who  was  cursed  with  the  remem- 
rance  of  their  former  dignity  I  And  all  this 
i)r  what  1 — because  the  government  was,  with 
\e  full  assent  of  the  nation,  restored  to  the 
ands  of  those  whose  talents  and  integrity  he 
ad  once  been  proud  to  celebrate — or  rather, 
ecause  it  was  taken  from  those  "saIio  would 
ave  attempted,  at  the  evident  risk  of  a  civil 
•ar,  to  defeat  that  solemn  settlement  of  which 
e  had  always  approved,  and  m  virtue  of 
hich  alone  the  late  Sovereign  had  succeed- 
;l ; — because  the  liberties  of  the  nation  were 
i2^in  to  be  secured  in  peace,  under  the  same 

,    juncils  which  had  carried  its  glories  so  high 

i    i  war — and  the  true  friends  of  the  Revolution 

>    '  1688   to  succeed  to  that  patronage  wliich 

I    ^id  previously  been  exercised  by  its  virtual 

lemies  !     Such  were  the  public  calamities 

hich  he  had  to  lament  as  a  patriot  ; — and 

ie  violence  done  to  his  political  attachments 

'   ,!ems  to  have  been  of  the  same  character. 

'   lis  two  friends  were  Bolingbroke  and    Ox- 

'•    'fd:  and  both  these  had  been  abusing  each 

*    her^  and    endeavouring   to    supplant   each 

'*'    her,  with  all  their  might,  for  a  long  period 

f  f  time ;— and,  at  last,  one  of  them  "did  this 


good  office  for  the  other,  in  the  most  insult- 
ing and  malignant  manner  he  could  devise : 
and  yet  the  worthy  Dean  had  charily  enough 
to  love  them  both  just  as  dearly  as  ever.  He? 
was  always  a  zealous  advocate,  too,  for  the 
Act  of  Settlement;  and  lias  in  twenty  places 
expressed  his  abomination  of  all  who  ci-u!d 
allow  themselves  to  think  of  the  guilt  of  call- 
ir.g  in  the  Pretender.  If,  therefore,  he  could 
love  and  honour  ami  flatter  Bolingbiokc,  who 
not  only  turned  out  his  beloved  Oxi'ord,  but 
actually  went  over  to  the  Pretender,  it  is  not 
easy  to  see  why  lie  should  have  been  so  im- 
placable towards  those  old(>r  friends  of  his, 
who  only  turned  out  Bolingbroke  in  order  to 
prevent  the  Pretender  from  being  brought  in. 
On  public  grounds,  in  short,  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said  for  him ; — nor  can  his  conduct  or 
feelings  ever  receive  any  e.xplanation  upon 
such  principles.  But  every  thing  becomes 
plain  and  consistent  when  we  look  to  another 
quarter — when  we  consider,  that  by  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  Tory  piirty,  his  hopes  of  pre- 
ferment were  also  extinguished ;  and  that  he 
was  no  longer  to  enjoy  the  dearer  delight  of 
bustling  in  the  front  of  a  triumphant  party — 
of  inhaling  the  incense  of  adulation  from  its 
servile  dependants — and  of  insulting  with  im- 
punity the  principles  and  the  benefactors  he 
had  himself  deserted. 

That  this  was  the  true  key  to  his  feeling,s, 
on  this  and  on  every  other  occasion,  may  be 
concluded  indeed  with  safety,  not  only  from 
his  former,  but  from  his  after  life.  His  Irish 
politics  may  all  be  referred  to  one  principle — 
a  desire  to  insult  and  embarrass  the  govern- 
ment by  which  he  was  neglected,  and  with 
which  he  despaired  of  being  reconciled  : — A 
single  fact  is  decisive  upon  this  point.  While 
his  friends  were  in  power,  we  hear  nothing 
of  the  grievances  of  Ireland ;  and  to  the  last 
we  hear  nothing  of  its  radical  grievance,  the 
oppression  of  its  Cathohc  population.  His 
object  was,  not  to  do  good  to  Ireland,  but  to 
ve.\  and  annoy  the  English  ministry.  To  do 
this  however  with  effect,  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  speak  to  the  interests  and  the 
feelings  of  some  party  who  possessed  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  power  and  influence.  This 
unfortunately  was  not  the  case  in  that  day 
with  the  Catholics ;  and  though  this  gave  them 
only  a  stronger  title  to  the  services  of  a  truly 
brave  or  generous  advocate,  it  was  suflicient 
to  silence  Swift.  They  are  not  so  much  as 
named  above  two  or  three  times  in  his  writ- 
ings— and  then  only  with  .scorn  and  reproba- 
tion. In  the  topics  which  he  does  take  up.  it 
is  no  doubt  true,  that  he  frequently  inveighs 
aeainst  real  oppression  and  acts  of  indisput- 
able impolicy;  yet  it  is  no  want  of  charity  to 
say,  that  it  is  quite  manifest  that  these  were 
not  his  reasons  for  bringing  them  forward,  and 
that  he  liad  just  as  little  scruple  to  make  an 
outcry,  \\here  no  public  interest  was  concern- 
ed, as  where  it  was  apparent.  It  ^^as  suffi- 
cient for  him,  that  the  subject  was  likely  to 
ej.cite  popular  prejudice  and  clamour, — or 
that  he  had  some  personal  pique  or  aninsosity 
to  gratify.  The  Drapier's  letters  are  a  suffi- 
cient proof  of  the  influence  of  the  fonner 
g2 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


principle;  and  the  Legion  Club  and  the  num- 
berless brutalities  against  Tighc  and  Bettes- 
worth.  of  the  latter.  Every  body  is  novv 
satisfied  of  the  perfect  harmlessuess,  and  ui- 
deed  of  the  great  utility  of  W  ood  s  scheme 
for  a  new  copper  coinage  ;  and  the  only  pre- 
texts for  the  other  scurrilities  to  vhich  we 
have  alluded  were,  that  the  Parhanrent  had 
shown  a  disposition,  to  interfere  tor  the  alle- 
viation, in  some  inconsiderable  particulars,  of 
the  intolerable  oppression  of  the  t'the  system 
—to  the  detriment,  as  Swift  imagined,  of    he 


even  the  inconsistencies  of  honest  minds,  we  ■ 
hope  we  shall  always  be  sufhciently  indulgent ; 
and  especially  to  such  errors  in  practical  life 
as  are  incident  to  literary  and  ingenious  men. 
For  Swift,  however,  there  is  no  such  apology. 
His  profession,  through  life,  was  much  more  • 
that  of  a  politician  than  of  a  clergyman  or  an 
author.  He  was  not  led  away  in  any  degree 
by  heated  fancv,  or  partial  affection— by  de- 
ludiiiir  visions  o'f  impossible  improvements,  or 
excessive  indignation  at  incurable  viceSi,  He' 
followed,  from  lirst   to  last,  the  eager,  but 


eel,  01  me    loiiuweu,  iium  m-^v   .^  --— ,    -         o    , 
orci;nowhichhe  himself  p.,|la,.tl.j^^^ 
Mr.  Tighe  ^^^^  ob|ain^^^^^^^^  . 

own,  a  l'^'''S;.^'  V^.;:^^^^^^^^^  spared  the  character  or  the  feelings  ot  a  single 

cure  for  one  ol  his  ct.  P'-"^\^".^s-  ,  lindividual  who  appeared  to  stand  in  his  wayA 

His  main  object  in.  all  th.  >     e  make  no     ml  v  dua  Pl^^^^^^^_      ^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^  ^^^^^ 


c\ouhU^J'v^rsou^\w^ne^nd\engeru.cej--  I.^  no  respect 
vet  it 'is  probable,  that  there  was  occasionally,  -1-^ 
or  throughout,  an  expectation  of  being  again 
broil "ht  into  the  paths  of  power  and  preler- 
menl"  by  the  notoriety  which  these  publica- 
tions enabled  him  to  maintain,  and  by  the 
motives  which  they  held  out  to  each  succes- 
sive ministry,  to  secure  so  efficient  a  pen  m 
their  favour.  Tliat  he  was  willing  to  have 
made  his  peace  with  Walpole,  even  during 
the  rei-n  of  George  L,  is  admitted  by  Mr 
Scott  —though  he  discredits  the  details  which 
Lord'chesterfield  and  others  have  given,  ap- 
parently from  very  direct  authority,  of  the 
humiliating  terms  upon  which  he  was  wi  Img 
to  accede  to  the  alliance  ;-and  it  is  certain, 
that  he  paid  his  court  most  assiduously  to  the 
successor  of  that  Prince,  both  while  he  was 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  after  his  accession  to 
the  throne.     The  manner  in  which  he  paid 


his  conrt,  too,  was  truly  debasing,  and  espe- 
cially unworthy  of  a  High-Churchman  and  a 
public  satirist.     It  was  chiefly  by  flatteries 
and  assiduity  to  his  mistress,  Mrs.  Howard  ! 
with  whom  he  maintained  a  close  correspond- 
ence, and  upon  whom  he  always  professed 
mainly    to    rely   for    advancement.      When 
George  I.  died.  Swift  was  among  the  first  to 
kiss  tie  hands  of  the  new  sovereign  and  in- 
dul<'ed  anew  in  the  golden  dreams  ot  preler- 
ment.     Walpole's  recal  to  power,  however, 
soon  overcast  those  visions ;  and  he  then  wrote 
to  the  mistress,  humbly  and  earnestly  entreat- 
ing her,  to  tell  him  sincerely  what  were  his 
cl^nces   of   success.     She  flattered  him  for 
a  while  with  hopes;  but  at  last  he  discovered 
that  the  prejudice  against  him  was  too  strong 
to  be  overcome;  and  ran  back  m  terrible  hu- 
mour to  Ireland,  where  he  railed  ever  atter 
with  his  usual  vehemence  against  the  King, 
the  Queen,  and  the  concubine.     The  truth,  it 
seems,  was,  that  the  latter  was  disposed  to  fa- 
vour him  ;  but  that  her  Inliuence  with  the  Kwj. 
was  subordinate  to  that  of  the  Queen,  who 
made  it  a  principle  to  thwart  all  applications 
which  were  made  through  that  channel. 

Such,  we  think,  is  a  faithful  sketch  of  the 
political  career  of  this  celebrated  person  ;— 
and  if  it  be  correct  in  the  main,  or  even  in 
any  material  particulars,  we  humbly  conceive 
that  a  more  unprinc-lpled  and  base  course  ot 
proceeding  never  was  held  up  to  the  scorn 
and  ridicule  of  maiikuid.    To  the  errors  and 


claim  to  leiuty;— and  noAv,  when  his  fau  ts 
are  of  importance  only  as  they  may  sen-e  the 
purpose  of  warnii^  or  misleading  to  oth^&, 
we  consider  it  as" our  mdispensable  dutv  to 
point  them  out  in  their  true  colours:  and  to 
show  that,  even  when  united  to  talents  as 
distiim-uished  as  his,  political  profligacy  and 
political  rancour  must  lead  to  universal  dis- 
trust and  avoidance  during  the  hie  ot  the  in- 
dividual,  and  to  contempt  and  mfamy  there- 

^w'Swift's  personal  character,  his  ingenious 
biographer  has  given  almost  as  partial  a  rrp- 
resentation,  as  of  his  political   conduct;— a 
ereat  part  of  it  indeed  has  been  anticipated, 
in  tracing  the  principles  of  that  conduct  ;- 
the  sitme'"  arrocance  and  disdaui  of  mankind, 
leadiiiL'  to  profligate  ambition  and  scurrility  m 
public  life,  and  to  domineermg  and  sdhsh 
habits  in  private.   His  character  seems  to  have 
been  radically  overbearing  and  tyrannical  ;- 
for  thou-h,  like  other  tyrants,  he  could  stoop 
low  enough  where  his  interests  required  it,  it 
was  his  delight  to  exact  an  implicit  compli- 
ance with  his  humours  and  fancies    and  to 
impose  upon  all  around  him  the  task  ot  ub- 
seivin<Tand  accommodating  themselves  to  his 
habits:  without  the  slightest  regard  to  their 
convenience  or  comfort.    Wherever  he  came, 
the  ordinary  forms  of  society  were  to  give  way 
to  his  pleasure ;  and  every  thing,  even  to  the 
domestic  arrangements  of  a  family,  to  be  sus- 
pended for  his  caprice.-If  he  was  to  be  intro- 
duced to  a  person  of  rank,  he  insisted  that  tt^e 
first  advancesand  the  flrst  visit  should  be  made 
to  him     If  he  went  to  see  a  friend  in  the  conn- 
try,  he  would  order  an  old  tree  to  be  cut  down, 
if  it  obstructed  the  view  from  his  wmdow-and 
was  never  at  his  ease  unless  he  was  allowed 
10  give  nicknames  to  the  lady  of  the  lu-usC; 
and  make  lampoons  upon  her  acquainlaiicc 
On  •'ohi'-  for  the  first  time  into  any  family,  ht 
frecmently  prescribed  beforehand   the   fioun 
for  their  meals,  sleep,  ^n^  exercise :  and  in 
sted  ri-oronsly  upon  the  literal  fulfilment  ol 
the  capitulation.     From  his  intimates  he  urn 
formly  exacted  the  most  implicit  submissioi 
to  all  his  whims  and  absurdities;  and  carnei 
his  prerogative  so  far,  that  he  sometimes  use( 
to  chase  the  Grattans  and  other  accommoc  atin; 
friends,  through  the  apartments  of  the  Dean 
ery,  and  up  and  down  stairs,  driving  them  lik. 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN'  SWIFT. 


hox<cs.  with  a  large  whip,  till  he  thought  he 

'vdd  enouch  of  exeicise.  ;  All  his  jesta  have 

lie  .same  character  of  insolence  and  coarse- 

.t'>s.  V  When   he   first  came  to  his  curate^s 

u/ust>,  he  amiounced  himself  as  "his  mas- 

(  r  :'■ — look  possession  of  the  fireside,  and  or- 

liM'd  his  wife  to  take  charge  of  his  shirts  and 

lockings.    When  a  young  clergyman  was  in- 

rodiiced  to  him,  he  offered  him  the  dregs  of 

!  little  of  wine,  and  said,  he  always  kept  a 

parson  about  him  to  drink  up  his  dregs. 

:  in  hiring  servants,  he  always  chose  to 

:i^ii!t  them,  by  inquiring  into  their  qualifica- 

ioiis  for  some   filthy  and   degrading  office. 

liui   though  it  may  be  true,  that  his  after 

oiuluct  was  not  exactly  of  a  piece  with  those 

reliminaries.  it  is  obvious,  that  as  no  man  of 

roper  feelings  could  submit  to  such  imperti- 

eiiee,  .so  no  man  could  have  a  right  to  indulge 

1  it.     Even  considered  merely  as  a  manner 

:    ssumed  to  try  the  character  of  those  with 

•horn  he  lived,  it  was  a  test  which  no  one 

lit  a  tyrant  could  imagine  himself  entitled  to 

pply  ; — and  Swift- s  practical  conclusion  from 

was  just  the  reverse  of  what  might  be  ex- 

ected.     He  attached  himself  to  those  only 

ho  were  mean  enough  to  bear  this  usage, 

id  broke  with  all  who  resented  it.     While 

3  had  something  to  gain  or  to  hope  from  the 

orld,  he   seems  to  have  been  occasionally 

■ss  imperious ;  but,  after  he  retired  to  Ireland. 

-    s  gave  w-ay  without  restraint  to  the  native 

I      rogance  of  his  character ;  and,  accordingly, 

-   )[ifined  himself  almost  entirely  to  the  society 

a  few  easy-tempered  persons,  who  had  no 

lents  or  pretensions  to  come  in  competition 

ith  his:  and  who,  for  the  honour  of  his  ac- 

laintance.  were  willing  to  submit  to  the  do- 

,  -    i:  11' 111  hi'  usurped. 

A  singular  contrast  to  the  rudeness  and  ar- 
aance  of  this  behaviour  to  his  friends  and 
'jipudants.  is  afforded  by  the  instances  of 
;;iavagant    adulation    and    base    humility, 
liicli  occur  in  his  addresses  to  those  upon 
h'jm  his  fortune  depended.     After  he  gets 
■  I  the  society  of  Bolingbroke  and  Oxford, 
1  up  to  the  age  of  forty,  these  are  composed 
something  of  a  better  taste;  but  the  true 
II  lels  are  to  be  found  in  his  addresses  to  Sir 
illiara  Temple,  the  first  and  mo.st  honoured 
a's  patrons,  upon  whose  sickness  and  re- 
:y  he  has  indited  a  heroic  epistle  and  a 
i.iiic  ode,  more  fulsome  and  extravagant 
i  ;iny  thing  that  had  then  proceeded  from 
[ifu  even  of  a  poet-laureate  :  and  to  whom, 
:   ■!  he  had  left  his  family  in  bad  humour, 
'lids  a  miserable  epistle,  entreating  a  cer- 
tf!  of  character,  in  terms  which  are  scarce- 
insistent  with  the  consciousness  of  de- 
:ig  it;  and  are,  at  all  events,  infinitely 
isistent  with  the  proud  and  peremptory 
which  he  assumed  to  those  who  would 
with   it.     A  few  lines   may  be   worth 
'  iiig.    He  was  then  full  twenty-seven  years 
..  <  :i2^p,  and  a  candidate  for  ordination.     After 
'plaining  this,  he  adds — 

■  I  entreat  that  your  honour  will  consider  tliis, 

;il  will  fjlpase  to  send  me  some  certificate  of  my 

I  liaviour  during  almost  three  years  in  your  family; 

.  J.  [11,'^jerein  I  shall  stand  in  need  of  all  your  goodness  to 


excuse  my  many  weaknessea  and  oversights,  much 
more  to  say  any  thing  to  my  advani:\i,'o.  The  par- 
ticulars e.Kpecied  of  me  arc  what  rclaie  to  morals 
and  learning,  atid  the  reasons  of  (luitiing  your 
honour's  family,  that  is,  whether  the  last  was  oc- 
casioned by  any  ill  actions.  They  are  all  left  entirely 
to  your  honour's  mercy,  though  in  the  first  I  think 
I  cannot  reproach  myself  any  fan  her  than  for  iw- 
firmitle^. 

"  This  is  all  I  dare  bes  at  present  from  your  honour, 
under  circumstances  of  life  not  worth  your  regard. 
What  is  left  me  to  wish  (next  to  the  health  and  pros- 
perity of  your  honour  and  family),  is,  that  Heaven 
would  one  day  allow  me  the  opporiuniiy  of  leaving 
my  acknowledgments  at  your  feet  for  so  many  fa- 
vours I  have  received  ;  which,  whatever  effect  they 
have  had  upon  my  fortune,  shall  i;pver  fail  to  have 
the  greatest  upon'  my  mind,  in  approving  myself, 
upon  all  occasions,  your  honour'.-i  most  obedient 
and  most  dutiful  servant." — Vol.  xv.  pp.  230,  231. 

By  far  the  most  characteristic,  and  at  the 
same  tune  most  discreditable  and  most  inter- 
estinir  part  of  Swift's  history,  however,  is  that 
which  relates  to  his  connection  with  the  three 
unfortunate  women,  whose  happiness  he  ru- 
ined, and  whose  reputation  he  did  what  was 
in  him  to  destroy.  We  say,  the  three  women 
— for  though  Varina  was  cast  oti  before  he 
had  fame  or  practice  enough  in  composition 
to  celebrate  her  in  song,  like  Stella  or  Vanessa^ 
her  injuries  seem  to  have  been  nearly  as  great, 
and  altogether  as  unpardonable  as  those  of  the 
other  two.  Soon  after  leaving  college,  he 
appears  to  have  formed,  or  at  best  proiessed, 
an  attachment  to  a  Miss  Jane  ^Varyng,  the 
sister  of  a  fellow-student,  to  whom  his  assidu- 
ities seemed  to  have  rendered  him  acceptable, 
and  with  whom  he  corresponded  for  a  series 
of  years,  under  the  preposterous  name  of  Va- 
rina. There  appear  to  be  but  two  letters  of  this 
correspondence  preserved,  both  written  by 
Swift,  one  in  the  height  of  his  passion,  and 
the  other  in  its  decline — and  both  extremely 
characteristic  and  curious.  The  first  is  dated 
in  1696,  and  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  its  ex- 
treme badness  and  stupidity;  though  it  is  full 
enough  of  love  and  lamentation.  The  lady, 
it  seems,  had  long  before  confessed  a  mutual 
flame :  but  prudential  considerations  made 
her  averse  to  an  immediate  union, — upon 
which  the  lover  raves  and  complains  in  the 
following  deplorable  sentences, — written,  it 
w-ill  be  observed,  when  he  was  on  the  borders 
of  thirty,  and  proving,  along  with  his  early 
poems,  how  very  late  he  came  to  the  use  of 
his  faculties. 

"  Madam — Impatience  is  the  most  inseparable 
quality  of  a  lover,  and  indeed  of  every  person  who 
is  in  pursuit  of  a  design  whereon  he  conceives  his 
greatest  happiness  or  misery  to  depend.  It  is  the 
same  thing  in  war,  in  courts,  and  in  common  busi- 
ness. Every  one  who  hunts  after  pleaiune,  or  fame, 
or  fortune,  is  still  restless  and  uneasy  till  he  has 
hunted  down  his  game  ;  and  all  this  is  not  only 
very  natural,  but  something  reasonable  too :  for  a 
violent  desire  is  little  better  than  a  distemper,  and 
therefore  men  are  not  to  blame  in  looking  after 
a  cure.  I  find  mijf:e]f  hugely  infecltd  with  this 
malady,  and  am  easily  vain  enough  to  believe  it 
has  some  very  good  reasons  to  excuse  it.  For  in- 
deed, in  my  case,  there  are  some  circumstances 
whiih  will  admit  pardon  for  more  than  ordinary 
disquiets.  That  dearest  object  upon  v.hich  all 
my  prospect  of  happiness  entirely  depiaula,  is  in 
perpetual  danger  to  be  removed  for  ever  from  uiy 


«0 


LITERATURE  Ax\D  BIOGRAPHY 


sight.  Varina's  life  is  daily  wastin°; ;  and  though 
one  just  and  honourable  action  would  furnish  health 
to  her,  and  unspeakable  happiness  lo  us  both,  yet 
some  power  that  repines  at  human  felicity  has  that 
influence  to  hold  her  continually  doating  upon  her 
crueltv,  and  me  on  the  cause  of  it. 

'■  Would  to  Heaven  you  were  but  a  while  sensi- 
ble of  the  thoughts  into  which  my  present  distrac- 
tions plunge  me  ;  they  hale  me  a  thousand  ways, 
ariti  I  not  ahle  to  hear  them.  It  is  so,  by  Heaveji: 
The  love  of  Varina  is  of  more  tragical  consequence 
than  her  cruelty.  Would  to  God  you  had  treated 
and  scorned  me  from  the  beginning.  It  was  your 
pity  opened  the  first  way  to  my  misfortune  ;  and 
now  your  love  is  finishing  my  ruin  :  and  is  it  so 
then  ?  In  one  fortnight  I  must  take  eternal  farewell 
of  Varina :  and  (I  wonder)  will  she  weep  at  part- 
ing, a  little  to  justify  her  poor  pretences  of  some 
affection  to  me  ? 

"  Surely,  Varina,  you  have  but  a  very  mean 
opinion  of  the  joys  that  accompany  a  true,  honour- 
able, unlimited  love  ;  yet  either  nature  and  our  an- 
cestors have  highly  deceived  us,  or  else  all  other 
sublunary  things  are  dross  in  comparison.  Is  it 
possible  you  can  be  yet  insensible  to  the  prospect 
of  a  rapture  and  dehght  so  innocent  and  so  e.xalted  ? 
By  If  (liven,  Varijia.  you  are  more  experienced  and 
have  less  vir^iyi  innocence  than  I.  Would  not  your 
conduct  make  one  think  you  were  hugely  skilled 
in  all  the  little  politic  methods  of  intrigue  ?  Love, 
with  the  gall  of  too  much  discretion,  is  a  thousand 
titnes  worse  than  with  none  at  all.  It  is  a  peculiar 
part  of  nature  which  art  debauches,  but  cannot 
improve. 

"  Farewell,  madam  ;  and  may  love  make  you  a 
while  forget  your  temper  to  do  me  justice.  Only 
remember,  that  if  you,  still  refuse  to  be  mine,  you 
will  quickli/  lose,  for  ever  lose,  him  that  has  resolved 
to  die  as  he  has  lived,  all  yours,  Jo.v.  SwiFT." — 
Vol.  XV.  pp.  eS^— 237. 

Notwithstanding  these  tragic  denunciations, 
he  neither  died — nor  married — nor  broke  ofT 
the  coimection,  for  four  years  thereafter:  in 
the  latter  part  of  which,  having  been  at  last 
presented  to  two  livings  in  Ireland,  worth 
near  4001.  a  yean  the  lady  seems  to  have 
been  reduced  to  remind  him  of  his  former 
impatience,  and  fairly  to  ask  him,  whether 
his  affections  had  suffered  any  alteration.  His 
answer  to  this  appeal  is  contained  in  the 
second  letter; — and  is,  we  think,  one  of  the 
most  complete  patterns  of  meanness,  selfish- 
ness, and  brutality,  we  have  ever  met  W'ith. 
The  truth  undoubtedly  was.  that  his  affections 
were  estranged,  and  nad  probably  settled  by 
this  time  on  the  unfortunate  Stella:  but  in- 
stead of  cither  fairly  avowing  this  inconstancy, 
or  honourably  fulfilling  engagements,  from 
which  inconstancy  perhaps  could  not  release 
him,  he  thinks  fit  to  write,  in  the  most  frigid, 
in.solent;  and  hypocritical  terms,  undervaluing 
her  fortune  and  person,  and  finding  fault  with 
her  humour ; — and  yet  pretending,  that  if  she 
would  only  comply  with  certain  conditions 
which  he  specifies,  he  might  still  be  persuaded 
to  venture  himself  with  her  into  the  perils  of 
matrimony.  It  will  be  recollected,  that  when 
he  urged  immediate  marriage  so  passionately 
in  1G9(),  In;  had  no  provision  in  the  world,  and 
must  have  nitended  to  live  on  her  fortune, 
which  yi'dded  about  100?.  a  year,  and  that  he 
thought  her  health  as  well  as  happiness  would 
be  suvfid  by  the  match.  In  1700,  when  he 
had  got  two  livings,  he  addresses  her  as  fol- 
lows— 
"I  desire,  therefore,  you  will  let  me  know  if 


your  health  be  otherwise  than  it  was  when  you 
told  me  the  doctors  advised  you  against  marriage, 
as  what  would  certainly  hazard  your  life.  Are 
they  or  you  grown  of  another  opinion  in  this  partic- 
ular? are  you  in  a  condition  to  manage  domestic 
affairs,  with  an  income  of  less  (perhaps)  than  300/. 
a-year  ?  (it  must  have  been  near  500/.)  have  you 
such  an  inclination  to  my  person  and  humour,  as 
to  comply  with  my  desires  and  way  of  living,  and 
endeavour  to  make  us  both  as  happy  as  you  can  ? 
can  you  bend  your  love  and  esteem  and  indifference 
to  others  the  same  way  as  I  do  mine  ?  shall  I  have 
so  much  power  in  your  heart,  or  you  so  much  gov- 
ernment of  your  passions,  as  to  grow  in  good : 
humour  upon  my  approach,  ihotigh  provoked  by  ai 

?   have    you   so   much   good   nature  as   to  r 

endeavour  by  soft  words  to  smooth  any  rugged  ij 
humour  occasioned  by  the  cross  accidents  of  lifet  | 
shall  the  place  wherever  your  husband  is  thrown; 
be  more  welcome  than  courts  or  cities  without 
him  ?  In  short,  these  are  some  of  the  necessary  me- 
thods to  phase  men,  who.  like  me.  are  deep  read  in 
the  world  ;  and  to  a  person  thus  made,  I  should  Ite 
proud  in  givins.  all  due  retur7is  towards  making 
her  happy." — Vol.  xv.  pp.  247,  248. 

He  then  tells  her,  that  if  every  thing  else 
were  suitable,  he  should  not  care  \\iit'ther 
her  person  were  beautiful,  or  her  fortune  large 

"  Cleanliness  in  the  first,  and  compeiency  in  the; 
other,  is  all  I  look  for.  I  desire,  indted,  a  plentiful' 
revenue,  but  would  ratlier  it  should  he  of  my  own; 
though  I  should  bear  from  a  wife  to  be  reproached 
for  the  greatest." — Vol.  xv.  pp.  248. 

To  complete  the  picture  of  his  indifference, 
or  rather  his  ill-disguised  disinclination,  he 
adds — 

'*  The  dijimal  account  you  say  I  have  given  you 
of  my  livings  I  can  assure  you  to  be  a  true  one; 
and,  since  it  is  a  dismal  one  even  in  your  own 
opinion,  you  ca7i  best  draw  consequeiices  from  it. 
The  place  where  Dr.  Bolton  lived  is  upon  a  living 
which  he  keeps  with  the  deanery;  but  the  place 
of  residence  for  that  they  have  given  me  is  wiihir 
a  mile  of  a  town  called  Trim,  twenty  miles  from; 
hence;  and  there  is  no  other  way  but  to  hire  8 
house  at  Trim,  or  build  one  on  the  spot ;  the  /r»i' 
IS  hardly  to  be  done,  and  the  other  I  am  too  poor  U 
perform  at  present.'^ — Vol.  xv.  p.  246. 

The  ladv:  as  was  to  be  e.\pected.  broke  off 
all  correspondence  after  this  letter — and  s( 
ended  Swift's  first  matrimonial  eng-ai>i'nient 
and  first  eternal  passion  ! — What  biH'nnie  ol 
the  unhappy  person,  whom  he  thus  heartlcssk 
abandoned,  with  impaired  health,  and  morti, 
fied  affections,  after  a  seven-years'  courtship 
is  nowhere  explained.  The  fate  of  his  ne.\ 
victim  is  at  least  more  notorious. 

Esther  .lohnson,  better  known  to  the  reade 
of  Swift's  works  by  the  name  of  Stella,  wa, 
the  child  of  a  London  merchant,  who  died 
her  infancy  ;  when  she  went  with  her  mothei 
who  was  a  friend  of  Sir  \V.  Temple's  sistei 
to  reside  at  Moorpark,  where  Swift  was  th 
domesticated.  Some  part  of  the  charge  of  he> 
education  devolved  upon  him ; — and  thong; 
he  was  twenty  years  tier  senior,  the  interef 
with  which  he  regarded  her.  apjiears  to  hav' 
ripened  into  something  as  much  like  afiectio 
as  could  find  a  place  in  his  .selfish  bosorr. 
Soon  after  Sir  William's  death,  he  got  hi 
Irish  livings,  besides  a  considerable  legticy  :- 
and  as  she  had  a  small  independeiirc  of  h 
own,  it  is  obvious  that  there  was  nothing  l 
prevent  their  honourable  and  immediate  uiiioi 
Some  cold-blooded  vanity  or  ambition,  hov 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


81 


ever,  or  some  politic  anticipation  of  his  own 
possible  inconstancy,  deterred  him  from  this 
onward  and  open  course ;  and  led  him  to  an 
arrangement  which  was  dishonourable   and 
absurd  in  the  beginning,  and  in  the  end  pro- 
ductive of  the  most  accumulated  misery.    He 
prevailed  upon  her  to  remove  her  residence 
from  the  bosom  of  her  own  family  in  Eng- 
land, to  his  immediate  neighbourhood  in  Ire- 
land, where  she  took  lodgings  with  an  elderly 
cunipanion.  of  the  name  of  Mrs.  Dingley — 
avowedly  for  the  sake  of  his  society  and  pro- 
tection, and  on  a  footing  of  intimacy  so  very 
strange  and  unprecedented,  that  whenever  he 
left  his  parsonage  house  for  England  or  Dub- 
lin, these  ladies  immediately  took  possession, 
and  occupi(^d  it  till  he  came  back. — A  situa- 
tion so  extraordinary  and  undefined,  was  liable 
of  course  to  a  thousand  misconstructions  ;  and 
must  have  been   felt   as   degrading  by  any 
v,-oman  of  spirit  and   delicacy:  and  accord- 
in:;ly,  though  the  master  of  this  Platonic  se- 
raiilio  seems  to  have  used  all  manner  of  paltry 
\ui[  insulting  practices,  to  protect  a  reputation 
rtlnch  he  had  no  right  to  bring  into  question, 
—by  never  seeing  her  except  in  the  presence 
it   Airs.  Dingley,  and  never  sleeping  under 
h-  same  ixjof  with  her, — it  is  certain  both 
';  ■  the  connection  was  regarded  as  indeco- 
~  by  persons  of  her  own  sex,  and  that  she 
-.  If  felt  it  to  be  humiliating  and  improper. 
\;'.<;xlingly,  within  two  years  after  her  set- 
lenu'nt  in  Ireland,  it  appears  that  she  encou- 
;ii:ed   the  addresses  of  a  clergyman  of  the 
aine  of  Tisdall,  between  whom  and  Swift 
ii-ie  was  a  considerable  intimacy;  and  that 
he  would  have  married  him,  and  thus  sacri- 
eeil  her  earliest  attachment  to  her  freedom 
nd  her  honour,  had  she  not  been  prevented 
y  the  private  dissuasions  of  that  false  friend. 
ho  did  not  choose  to  give  up  his  own  claims 
1  h'M-.  although  he  had  not  the  heart  or  the 
'iir  to  make  her  lawfully  his  own.     She 
-   then  a  blooming  beauty,  of  little  more 
twenty,   with  fine  black  hair,  delicate 
..'nres,  and  a  playful  and  affectionate  char- 
ts.    It  seems  doubtful  to  us.  whether  she 
Liinally  felt  for  Swift  any  thing  that  could 
"pcrly  be  called  love — and  her  willingness 
marry  another  in  the  first  days  of  tliPir 
':inection.    seems    almost   decisive    on    the 
ibject:  but  the  ascendancy  he  had  acquired 
tT  her  mhid;  and  her  long  habit  of  submit- 
j'   her  own  judgment  and  inclinations   to 
~   uave  him  at  least  an  equal  power  over 
an.d  moulded  her  pliant  affections  into 
deep  and   exclusive  a   devotion.     Even 
i.e  his  appointment  to  the  Deanery  of  St. 
/ilck's,   it  is  utterly  impossible  to  devise 
\-  apology  for  his  not  marrying  her,  or  allow- 
s  her  to  marry  another ;  the  ordy  one  that 
■  ever  appears  to  have  stated  himself,  viz. 
"  want  of  a  sufficient  fortune  to  sustain  the 
'  penses  of  matrimony,  being  palpably  absurd 
'  the  mouth  of  a  man  bom  to  nothing,  and 
;-eady  more  wealthy  than  nine-tenths  of  his 
<ier:  but,  after  he  obtained  that  additional 
]eferment,  and  was  thus  ranked  among  the 
"'l\  beneficed  dignitaries  of  the  establish- 
)?nt,  it  was  plainly  an  insult  upon  common 
11 


sense  to  pretend  that  it  was  the  want  of  mo- 
ney that  prevented  him  from  fulfilling  his 
engagements.  Stella  was  then  twenty-six, 
and  he  near  forty-five ,  and  both  had  hitherto 
lived  very  far  within  an  income  that  was  now 
more  than  doubled.  That  she  now  expected 
to  be  made  his  wife,  appears  from  the  pains 
he  takes  in  the  Journal  indirectly  to  destroy 
that  expectation ;  and  though  the  awe  in 
which  he  habitually  kept  her,  probably  pre- 
vented her  either  from  complaining,  or  in- 
quiring into  the  cause,  it  is  now  certain  that 
a  new  attachment,  as  heartless,  as  unprinci- 
pled, and  as  fatal  in  its  consequences  as  either 
of  the  others,  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  cruel 
and  unpardonable  proceeding. 

During  his  residence  in  London,  from  1710 
to  1712,  he  had  lei.sure,  in  the  intervals  of  his 
political  labours,  to  form  the  acquaintance  of 
INliss  Esther  Vanhomrigh,  whose  unfortunate 
love  he  has  recorded,  with  no  great  delicacy, 
under  the  name  of  Vanessa.  This  young 
lady,  then  only  in  her  twentieth  year,  joined 
to  all  the  attractions  of  youth,  fashion,  and 
elegance,  the  still  more  dangerous  gifts  of  a 
lively  imagination,  a  confiding  temper,  and  a 
capacity  of  strong  and  permanent  affection — 
Swift,  regardless  of  the  ties  which  bound  him 
to  Stella,  allowed  himself  to  be  engaged  by 
those  qualities;  and,  without  explaining  the 
nature  of  those  ties  to  his  new  idol,  strove  by 
his  assiduities  to  obtahi  a  return  of  affection — 
■VA  hile  he  studiously  concealed  from  the  un- 
happy Stella  the  wrong  he  was  conscious  of 
doing  her.  We  willingly  borrow  the  words 
of  his  partial  biographer,  to  tell  the  rest  of  a 
story,  which,  we  are  afraid,  we  should  tell 
with  little  temper  ourselves. 

"  While  Vanessa  was  occupying  much  of  his 
time,  and  much  doubtless  of  his  thoughts,  she  is 
never  once  mentioned  in  the  Journal  directly  by 
name,  and  is  only  twice  casually  indicated  by  the 
title  of  Vanhomrigh's  eldest  daughter.  I'here  was, 
therefore,  a  consciousness  on  Swift's  part,  that  his 
attachment  to  his  younger  pupil  was  of  a  nature 
which  could  not  be  gratifying  to  her  predecessor, 
although  he  probably  shut  his  own  eyes  to  the  con- 
sequences ot  an  intimacy  which  he  wished  to  con 
ccal  from  those  of  Stella.  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  in 
the  mean  while,  conscious  of  the  pleasure  which 
Sw  ilt  received  from  her  society,  and  ot  the  advan- 
taires  of  youth  and  fortune  which  she  possessed, 
and  ignorant  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which 
he  stood  with  respect  to  another,  naturally,  and 
surely  without  offence  either  to  reason  or  virtue, 
(.'ave  M-ay  to  the  hope  of  forming  an  union  with  a 
man  whose  talents  had  first  attracted  her  admira- 
tion, and  whose  attentions,  in  the  course  of  their 
mutual  studies,  had,  by  degrees,  gained  her  affec- 
tions, and  seemed  to  warrant  his  own.  The  friends 
continued  to  use  ilie  language  of  friendship,  but 
Nviih  the  assiduity  and  earnestness  of  a  warmer 
passion,  until  Vanessa  rent  asunder  the  veil,  by  in- 
timating to  Swift  the  state  of  her  affections  ;  and  in 
this,  as  she  conceived,  she  was  justified  by  his  own 
favourite,  though  dangerous  maxim,  of  doing  that 
N\hich  seems  iiritself  right,  withoiit  respect  to  the 
common  opinion  of  the  world.  We  cannot  doubt 
that  he  actually  felt  the  'shame,  disappointment, 
guilt,  surprise,'  expressed  in  his  celebrated  poem, 
though  he  had  not  courage  to  take  the  open  and 
manly  course  of  avowing  those  engagements  with 
Stella,  or  other  impediments  which  prevented  him 
from  accepting  the  hand  and  fortune  of  her  rival. — 
Without,  therefore,  making  this  painful  but  just 


S2 


LITERATURE  Ax\D  BIOGRAPHY. 


confession,  he  answered  the  avowal  of  Vanessa's 
passion,  at  first  in  raillery,  and  afterwards  by  an 
offer  of  devoted  and  everlasting  friendship,  fotinded 
on  the  basis  of  virtuous  esteem.  Vanessa  seems 
neither  to  have  been  contetiied  nor  silenced  by  the 
result  of  her  declaration;  but  to  the  very  close  of 
her  life  persisted  in  endeavouring,  by  entreaties  and 
arguments,  to  extort  a  more  lively  return  to  her 
passion,  than  this  cold  proffer  was  calculated  to 
afford. 

■•  The  effect  of  his  imreasiiig  intimacy  with  the 
thscinaiiiig  Vanessa,  may  be  plainly  traced  in  the 
Journal  lo  Stella,  which,  in  the  course  of  its  pro- 
gress, becomes  more  and  more  cold  and  indiffer- 
ent,— hreaihes  fewer  of  those  aspirations  after  the 
quiet  felicity  of  a  life  devoted  to  .\I.  D.  and  the 
willows  at  Laracor, — uses  less  frequently  the  affec- 
tionate jart'on,  called  the  '  little  language.'  in  which 
his  loiidDcss  at  first  displays  itself, — and,  in  short, 
exhibits  all  the  symptoms  of  waninsr  affecion. 
Stella  was  neither  blind  to  the  ahered  style  of  his 
correspondence,  nor  deaf  lo  the  rumours  which 
were  wiifted  to  Ireland.  Her  letters  are  not  prc- 
nerved;  but,  froi7i  several  passages  of  the  Journal, 
it  appears  that  they  intimated  displeasure  and  jea- 
lousy, which  Swift  endeavours  to  appease. 

"  Upon  Swift's  return  to  Ireland,  we  may  guess 
at  the  disturbed  state  of  his  feelincrs,  wounded  at 
once  by  ungratified  ambition,  and  harasse  i  by  his 
affection  being  divided  between  two  objects,  e-ach 
worthy  of  his  attachment,  and  each  having  great 
claims  upon  him,  while  neither  was  likely  to  remaiM 
contented  with  the  limited  return  of  friendship  in 
e.xchange  for  love,  and  that  friendship  too  divided 
with  a  rival.  The  claims  of  Stella  were  preferable 
in  point  of  date ;  and,  to  a  man  of  honour  and  good 
fai:h,  in  every  respect  irresistible.  She  had  resigned 
her  country,  her  friends,  and  even  hazarded  her 
character,  in  hopes  of  one  day  being  united  to 
Swift.  But  if  Stella  had  made  the  greatest  sarri- 
fi'^e,  Vanessa  was  the  more  important  victim.  She 
had  youth,  fortune,  fashion;  all  the  acquired  ac- 
omplishments  and  information  in  which  Stella  was 
deficient;  possessed  at  least  as  much  wit,  and  cer- 
tainly higher  powers  of  imagination.  That  he  had 
no  intention  to  marry  Vanessa,  is  evident  from  pas- 
sag--s  in  his  letters,  which  are  inconsistent  with 
such  an  arrangement;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  their 
whole  tenor  excludes  that  of  guilty  intimacy.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  conduct,  with  respect  to  Stella, 
was  equally  dubious.  So  soon  as  he  was  settled  in 
the  Deanery-house,  his  first  care  was  to  secure 
lodgings  for  Mrs.  Dingley  and  Stella,  upon  Or- 
nioiid's  Quay,  on  thf  oihor  side  of  the  Liffy ;  and 
to  resume,  with  the  same  guarded  caution,  the  in- 
tercourse which  had  formerly  existed  between  them. 
But  circumstances  soon  compelled  him  to  give  that 
connection  a  more  definite  character. 

"  .Mrs.  Vanhomrigh  was  now  dead.  Her  two 
sons  survived  her  but  a  short  tmie ;  and  the  eir- 
cum.'^iances  of  the  young  ladies  were  so  far  em- 
barrassed by  inconsiderate  expences.  as  gave  them 
a  handsome  excuse  for  retiring  to  Ireland,  where 
their  father  had  left  a  small  property  near  C'elbridge. 
The  arrival  of  Vanessa  in  Dublin  excited  ihe  ap- 
prehensions of  Swift,  and  the  jealousy  of  Stella. 
However  imprudently  the  Dean  might  have  in- 
dulged himself  and  the  imforiunate  young  ladv.  by 
frequenting  her  society  during  his  residence  in  Eng 
land,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  was  alive  to  all  the 
hazards  that  might  accrue  to  the  reputation  and 
peace  of  both,  by  continuing  the  same  intimacy  in 
Dublin.  Biit  the  means  of  avoiding  it  were  no 
longer  in  his  power,  alihouiih  his  reiterated  re- 
monstrances assumed  even  the  character  of  unkind- 
ncss.  She  importuned  him  with  complaints  ol^  ne- 
glect and  cruelly  ;  and  it  was  obvious,  that  any 
decisive  measure  to  break  their  correspondence, 
would  be  attended  with  some  such  tragic  conse- 
quence, as,  though  late,  at  length  conchidrd  their 
s"fry.  Thus  eiigagi-d  in  a  labyrinth,  where  puisc- 
Ttiaace  was  wrong,  and  retreat  seemed  almost  im-  I 


possible.  Swift  resolved  to  temporise,  in  hopes, 
probably,  that  time,  accident,  the  mutability  inci- 
dent to  violent  affections,  might  extricate  himself 
and  Vanessa  from  the  snare  in  which  his  own 
culpable  imprudence  had  involved  them.  Mean- 
while, he  continued  to  bestow  on  her  those  marks 
of  regard  which  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  to  her 
feelings  towards  him,  even  if  they  had  not  been 
reciprocal.  But  the  conduct  which  he  adopted 
as  kindest  to  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  was  likely  to  prove 
fatal  to  Stella.  His  fears  and  aiflections  were  next 
awakened  for  that  early  favourite,  whose  suppress- 
ed grief  and  jealousy,  acting  upon  a  frame  naturally 
delicate,  menaced  her  health  in  an  alarming  man- 
ner. The  feelings  with  which  Swift  beheld  the 
wreck  which  his  conduct  had  occasioned,  will  not 
bear  description.  Mrs.  Johnson  had  forsaken  her 
country,  and  clouded  even  her  reputation,  to  be- 
come the  sharer  of  his  fortunes,  when  at  their 
lowest ;  and  the  implied  ties  by  which  he  was  bound 
to  make  her  compensation,  viere  as  strong  as  the 
most  solemn  promise,  if  indeed  even  promi.«es  of 
future  marriage  had  not  been  actually  exchanged 
between  them.  He  employed  Dr.  St.  George 
Ashe,  Bishop  of  Cloi,'her,  his  tutor  and  early  friend, 
to  request  the  cause  of  her  melancholy  ;  and  he 
received  the  answer  which  his  conscience  must 
have  anticipated — it  was  her  sensibility  to  his  recent 
indifference,  and  to  the  discredit  which  her  own 
character  sustained  from  the  long  subsistence  of 
the  dubious  and  mysterious  connection  between 
them.  To  convince  her  of  the  constancy  of  his 
affection,  and  to  remove  her  beyond  the  reach  of 
calumny,  there  was  but  one  remedy.  To  this  com- 
munication Swift  replied,  that  he  had  formed  two 
resolutions  concerning  matrimony  : — one.  that  he 
would  not  marry  till  possessed  of  a  competent  for- ' 
tune;  the  other,  that  the  event  should  take  place' 
at  a  time  of  life  which  gave  him  a  reasonable  proa-' 
pect  to  see  his  children  settled  in  the  world.  The' 
independence  proposed,  he  said,  he  had  not  yet 
achieved,  being  still  embarras.=ed  by  debt;  and.  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  past  that  term  of  lile  afier 
which  he  had  determined  never  to  marry.  Yet  he 
was  ready  to  go  through  the  ceremony  for  the  ease 
of  Mrs.  Johnson's  mind,  providing  it  should  re- 
main a  strict  secret  from  the  public,  and  that  ihe) 
should  continue  to  live  separately,  and  in  the  sum*' 
guarded  manner  as  formerly.  To  these  hard  'erm.' 
."Stella  subscribed  ;  they  relieved  her  own  niiiul  a 
leas:  from  ail  scruples  on  the  impropriety  oi  liit-i 
connection;  and  they  soothed  her  jealousy,  b; 
rendering  it  impossible  that  Swift  should  ever  givi 
his  hand  to  her  rival.  They  were  married  m  lb 
garden  ol  the  Deanerv,  by  the  Bishop  of  Cloghei 
in  the  year  1716."— Vol.  i.  pp.  2-29— 238. 

Even  admitting  all  the  palliations  that  ar 
here  suggested,  it  is  plain  that  Swift's  coiulut 
is  utterly  indefensible — and  that  his  ingt'i:ioi: 
biographer  thinks  nearly  as  ill  of  it  as  w  »  di 
Supposing  it  possible  that  a  man  of  his  p'-.n 
tration  should  have  inspired  an  innocent  \  u  i; 
girl  with  a  violent  passion,  without  b(:i  _-  : 
all  aware  of  it,  what  possible  apolog\  u 
there  he  for  his  not  disclosing  his  eiicag 
ments  with  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  pereniptnri 
breaking  olfall  intercourse  with  her  rcj'Cii 
rival? — He  was  bound  to  her  by  tic. <  > n 
more  sacred  than  those  of  actual  marr: 
and  was  no  more  at  liberty,  under  such  Cj 
cumslances,  to  disguise  that  connection  tJ 
the  other: — or  if  he  had  himself  uiiconscioiuj 
imbibed  an  irresistible  passion  for  his  young! 
admirer,  it  would  have  been  far  less  guilty 
dishonourable  to  have  avowed  this  to  Stel' 
and  foJiowcd  the  impnlsi^  of  such  a  fatal 
taclunent.     lu  either  of  these  ways,  he  woi' 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


83 


have  spared  at  least  one  of  his  victims.  But 
he  h;id  not  the  apology  of  anj-  such  passion; 
and,  desirous  apparently  of  saving  himself 
the  shock  of  any  unpleasant  disclosure,  or 
wishuig  to  secure  to  himself  the  gratiiication 
ot  both  their  attachments,  he  endeavoured 
h;ist'ly  to  conceal  from  each  the  share  which 
th''  other  had  in  his  alfections.  and  sacrificed 
the  peace  of  both  to  the  indulgence  of  this 
mean  and  cflkl-blooded  duplicity.     The  same 

;    disgusting  seltishness  is,  if  possible,  still  more 

1  apparent,  in  the  mortifying  and  degrading 
conditions  he  .annexed  to  his  nominal  marriage 
with  Stella,  for  the  concealment  of  which  no 
reason  can  bo  assigned,  to  winch  it  is  possible 

/  to  listen  whh  patience, — at  least  after  the 
death  of  Vanessa  hail  removetl  all  fear  of  its 
afflicting  or  irritating  that  unhappy  rival.  This 
tragical  event,  of  which  Swift  was  as  directly 

:  iiid  as  guiltily  the  cause,  as  if  he  had  plunged 
1  dagger  into  her  heart,  is  described  with 
nruch  feeling  by  Mr.  Scott,  who  has  added  a 
•idler  account  of  her  previous  retirement  than 
my  former  editor. 

"  About  the  year  1717,  siie  retired  from  Dublin, 
0  her  house  and  property  near  Celbridge,  to  nurse 
ler  hopeless  passion  in  seclusion  from  t  lie  world, 
^wift  seems    to   have    foreseen   and    warned    her 
iffainst  the  consequences  of  this  step.     His  letters 
; ,    iiiiformly  exhort  her  to  seek  genera!  society,  to 
ake  e.tercise,  and  to  divert,  as  much  as  possible, 
he  current  of  her  thoughts  from  the  unfortunate 
tibject  which  was  preying  upon  her  spirits.     He 
veil  c.vhorts  her  to  leave  Ireland.     Until  the  year 
7-20.  he  never  appears  to  have  visited  her  at  Cel- 
iridijre  ;  ihey  only  met  when  she  was  occasionally 
n  Dublin.     But  iii  that  year,  and  down  to  the  time 
f  her  death,  Swift  came  repeatedly  to  Celbridge  ; 
>       nd,  trom  the  informaiion  of  a  most  obliging  cor- 
espondent, I  am  enabled  to  give  account  of  some 
ninuie  particulars  attending  them. 
"  Marley  .Abbey,  near  Celbridge,  where  Miss 
anhomrigh  resided,  is  built  much  in  the  form  of  a 
:a!  cloister,  especially  in  its  e.xternal  appearance. 
in  aged  man  (upwards  of  ninety  by  his  own  ac- 
ouiHi  showed   ihe  grounds  to  my  correspondent. 
!e  was  the  son  of  Mrs.  Vanhomrigh's  gardener, 
nd  used  to  work  with  his  father  in  the  garden  when 
boy.     He  remembered  the  unforiunate  Vanessa 
ell,  and  his  account  other  corresponded  wiih  the 
?ual  description  other  person,  especially  as  to  her 
nhonpoinl.     He  said  she  went  seldom  abroad,  and 
iw  little  company  :  her  constant  amusement  was 
riding,  or  walking  in  the  garden.    Yet,  according 
'  ihis  authority,  her  society  was  courted  by  several 
inilies  in   the   neighbourhood,   who  visited   h<;r. 
)i withstanding  her  seldom  returning  that  atten- 
III, — and  he  added,  that  her  manners  interested 
ery  one  who  knew^  her.     But  she  avoided  com- 
iny,  and  was  always  melancholy  save  when  Dean 
^vift  was   there,  and  then   she  seemed   happy. — 
lie  garden  was  to  an  uncommon  degree  crowded 
I'h  laurels.     The  old  man  said,  that  when  Miss 
anhomrigh  expected  the  Dean,  she  always  plani- 
.  witii  her  own  hand,  a  laurel  or  two  against  his 
rival.     He  showed  her  favourite  seat,  still  called 
niessa's  Bower.     Three  or  four  trees,  and  some 
irels,   indicate   the  spot.     They  had   formerly, 
■ording  to  the  old  man's  information,  been  traiii- 
into  a  close  arbour.     There  were  two  seats  and 
d  a  rude  table  within  the  bower,  the  opening  of 
rich  commanded  a  view  of  the  Lifl'y,  which  had 
■      iomaniic  effect  ;  and  there  was  a  small  cascade 
V  murmured  at  some  distance.     In  this  seques- 
.    '   '  ed  spot,  according  to  the  old  gardener's  account, 
2  Dean  and  Vanessa  used  often  to  sit,  with  books 
.[^j5([  *i writing-materials  onihe  table  before  them. 


"Vanessa,  besides  musing  over  her  unhnpiiy 
attachment,  had,  during  her  residence  in  this  soli- 
tude, the  care  of  nursing  the  declining  health  of 
her  yijiiiiger  sister,  who  at  length  died  about  1720. 
This  (.vent,  as  it  left  her  alone  in  the  world,  seems 
10  have  increased  the  energy  of  her  fatal  passion  for 
."-^witt,  while  he,  on  the  contrary,  saw  room  for  still 
greater  reserve,  when  her  situation  became  that  of 
a  solitary  female,  without  the  society  or  counte- 
nance ot  a  female  relation.  But  Miss  Vanhomrigh, 
irriiaicd  at  the  situaiion  in  which  she  found  herself, 
deierinincd  on  briii<;ing  to  a  crisis  those  e.vpecta- 
lions  of  an  union  with  the  object  of  her  affections, 
10  the  hope  ol  which  she  had  clung  amid  every 
vicissitude  of  his  conduct  towards  her.  The  most 
probable  liar  was  his  undefined  connection  with 
Mrs.  Johnson,  which,  as  it  must  have  been  per- 
tecily  known  to  her,  had,  doubtless,  long  e.xcitcd 
her  secret  jealousy  :  although  only  a  single  hint  to 
that  purpose  is  lo  be  found  in  their  correspondence, 
and  thai  so  early  as  1713,  when  she  writes  to  him, 
then  in  Ireland,  "'  If  you  are  very  happy,  it  is  ill- 
natured  of  you  not  to  tell  me  so,  except  'lis  what 
is  i neons ixt.t  fit  irith  mine.'  Her  silence  and  pa- 
tience under  this  state  of  uncertainty,  tor  no  less 
than  eight  years,  must  have  been  partly  owing  to 
her  awe  for  Swift,  and  partly  jierhaps  to  the  weak 
state  of  her  rival's  health,  which  from  year  to  year, 
seemed  to  announce  speedy  dissolution.  At  length, 
however.  Vanessa's  impatience  prevailed  ;  and  she 
ventured  on  the  decisive  step  of  writing  to  Mrs. 
Johnson  herself,  requesting  to  know  the  nature  of 
that  connection.  Siella,  in  reply,  informed  her  of 
her  marriage  with  the  Dean  ;  and,  full  of  the  high- 
est resentment  against  Swift  for  having  given  an- 
other female  such  a  right  in  him  as  Miss  Vanhom- 
righ's inquiries  implied,  she  sent  to  him  her  rival's 
letter  of  interrogation,  and,  without  seeing  him,  or 
awaiting  his  reply,  retired  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Ford,  near  Dublin.  Every  reader  knows  the  con- 
sequence. Swift,  in  one  of  those  paroxysms  of 
fury  to  which  he  was  liable,  both  from  temper  and 
disease,  rode  instantly  to  Marley  Abbey.  As  he 
entered  the  apartment,  the  sternness  of  his  counte- 
nance, which  was  peculiarly  formed  to  express  the 
fiercer  passions,  struck  the  unfortunate  Vanessa 
with  such  terror,  that  she  could  scarce  ask  whether 
he  would  not  sit  down.  He  answered  by  flinging 
a  letier  on  the  table:  and,  instantly  leaving  the 
house,  mounted  his  horse,  and  returned  to  Dublin. 
When  Vanessa  opened  the  packet,  she  only  found 
her  own  letter  to  Stella.  It  was  her  death  warrant. 
She  sunk  at  once  under  the  disappointment  of  the 
delayed,  yet  cherished  hopes,  wlrch  had  so  long 
sickened  her  heart,  and  beneath  the  unrestrained 
"rath  of  him  for  whose  sake  she  had  indulged 
them.  How  long  she  survived  this  last  interview, 
is  uncertain,  but  the  time  does  not  seem  to  have 
exceeded  a  few  weeks." — Life,  vol.  i.  pp.  248 — 2.')3. 

Among  the  novelties  of  the  present  edition, 
is  what  is  called  a  complete  copy  of  the  cor- 
respondence betwij;t  Swift  and  this  unfortu- 
nate lady.  To  us  it  is  manifest,  that  it  is  by 
no  means  a  complete  copy: — and.  on  the 
whole,  the  parts  that  are  now  published  for 
the  first  time,  are  of  less  moment  than  those 
that  had  been  formerly  printed.  But  it  is 
altogether  a  very  interesting  and  painful  col- 
lection; and  there  is  something  to  us  inex- 
pressibly touching  in  the  innocent  fondnes.'j. 
and  ahriost  childish  gaiety,  of  Vanessa  at  its 
commencement,  contrasted  with  the  deep 
gloom  into  which  she  sinks  in  its  later  stages; 
while  the  ardour  of  affection  which  breathes 
through  the  whole,  and  the  tone  of  devoted 
innocence  and  simplicity  of  character  which 
are  every  where  preserved,  make  us  both 
hate  and  wonder  at  the  man  who  could  de- 


84 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


liberately  break  a  heart  so  made  to  be  cher- 
ished. We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
extracting  a  little  of  the  only  part  of  this 
whole  publication  in  which  any  thing  like 
heart  or  tentlerness  is  to  be  discovered.  His 
first  letter  is  written  immediately  after  their 
first  separation,  and  while  she  yet  believed 
that  his  slowness  in  returning  her  passion 
aro.-se,  as  he  had  given  her  ample  warrant  to 
suppose,  (see  the  whole  of  the  poem  of  Cad- 
enusand  Vanessa,  vol.xiv.J  from  nothing  but 
a  sense  of  the  unsuitableness  of  their  years 
and  habits,  which  would  give  way  to  the  con- 
tinued proofs  of  its  constancy  and  ardour. 
He  had  written  her  a  cold  note  on  his  journey, 
to  which  she  thus  rapturously  answers: — 

"  Now  you  ore  good  beyond  expression,  in  send- 
ing nie  that  denr  voluntary  from  Si.  Alban's.  It 
fives  me  more  happiness  tlian  you  can  imagine,  or 
describe,  to  Hnd  that  your  head  is  so  nnjch  belter 
already.  I  do  assure  you  all  my  wishes  are  em- 
ployed for  the  continuanre  of  it.  I  hope  the  next 
will  tell  me  they  have  been  of  force.  Pray,  wiiy 
did  not  you  remember  me  at  Dimstable,  as  well  as 
Moll  ?  Lord  !  what  a  monster  is  Moll  grown  since. 
But  nothinw  of  poor  Hess;  except  that  the  mark 
will  be  in  the  same  place  of  Davilla  when;  you  left 
it.  Indeed,  it  is  nor  much  advanced  yet,  tor  I  have 
been  studying  of  Rochefoncault  to  see  if  he  de- 
scribed as  much  of  love  as  1  found  in  myself  a  Sun- 
day, and  I  find  he  falls  very  short  of  it.  I  am  very 
impaiient  to  hear  from  you  at  Chester.  It  is  im- 
possible to  tell  you  how  often  I  have  wished  you  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  an  orange  at  your  inn." — Vol. 
xix,  pp.  40ri,  404. 

Upon  hearing  of  his  arrival  in  Ireland,  she 
writes  again  in  the  same  spirit. 

"  Here  is  now  three  long  weeks  passed  since 
you  wrote  to  me.  Oh  !  happy  Dublin,  that  can 
employ  all  your  thoughts,  and  happy  Mrs.  Emer- 
son, that  could  hear  from  you  the  moment  you 
landed.  Had  it  not  been  for  her,  I  should  be  yet 
more  uneasy  than  I  cm.  1  really  believe,  before 
you  leave  Ireland,  I  shall  give  you  just  reason  to 
wish  I  did  not  know  my  letters,  or  at  least  that  I 
could  not  write:  and  I  had  rather  you  should  wish 
80,  than  entirely  forget  me.  .Mr.  Lewis  has  given 
nie  '  Lex  Dialogues  Di-s  JMorlts,^  and  I  am  so 
charmed  with  them,  that  1  am  resolved  to  (juit  my 
hody,  let  the  consequence  he  what  it  will,  except 
you  will  talk  to  me,  for  I  find  no  conversation  on 
earth  comparable  to  yours  ;  so,  if  you  core  1  should 
stav,  do  but  talk,  and  you  will  keep  me  with  plea-  ! 
sure."— Vol.  xix,  pp.  407—409.  ] 

Th'^re  is  a  great  deal  more  of  this  trifling 
of  a  heart  at  ease,  and  supported  hv  enchant- 
ing hopes.  It  is  miserable  to  think  how  sadly 
the  style  is  changed,  when  she  comes  to  know 
better  the  object  on  whom  she  had  thus  irre- 
trievably lavished  her  affections.  The  follow- 
ing is  the  first  letter  that  appears  after  she  fol- 
lowed him  to  Irclami  in  1714  :  and  it  appears 
to  us  infinitely  more  touching  and  pathetic, 
in  the  truth  and  simplicity  of  the  wretched- 
ness it  expresst  !<,  than  all  the  eloquent  despair 
of  all  the  heroines  of  romance.  No  man, 
with  a  heart,  we  think,  could  receive  such 
letters  and  live. 

"  You  bid  me  be  easy,  and  you'd  see  me  as  often 
as  you  could  -.  you  had  better  have  said  as  often  as 
you  could  gel  the  belter  of  your  inclinations  so 
niuc:h  ;  or  as  often  as  you  remembered  there  was 
such  a  person  in  the  world.     If  you  continue  to 


treat  me  as  you  do,  you  will  not  be  made  uneasy 
by  me  long.  'Tis  impossible  to  describe  what  I 
have  suffered  since  I  saw  you  last ;  I  am  sure  I 
could  have  borne  (he  rack  much  better  than  those 
killing,  killing  words  of  yours.  Sometimes  1  have 
resolved  to  die  without  seeing  you  more,  but  those 
resolves,  to  your  misfortune,  did  not  last  huig:  for 
there  is  something  in  human  nature  that  prompts 
one  so  to  find  relief  in  this  world  :  I  must  giye  way 
to  ii,  and  beg  you'd  see  me,  and  speak  kniuly  to 
me  !  for  I  am  sure  you  would  not  condemn  any 
one  to  suffer  what  I  have  done,  could  you  but  know 
it.  Tlie  reason  I  write  lo  you  is,  because  1  cannot 
tell  it  you,  should  I  see  you;  for  when  1  begin  to 
complain,  then  you  are  angry,  and  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  look  so  awful,  that  it  striKes  me  dumb. 
Oh  I  that  you  may  bui  have  so  much  regiird  tor  nie 
left,  that  this  complaint  may  touch  your  soul  with 
pity.  I  say  as  liiile  as  ever  I  can.  Did  \ou  but 
know  what  I  thought,  I  am  sure  it  would  move 
you.  Forgive  me,  and  believe  I  cannot  help  tell- 
ing you  this,  and  live." — Vol.  xix.  p.  4-21. 

And  a  little  after, 

"  I  am,  and  cannot  avoid  being  in  tlie  spleen  to 
the  last  degree.  Every  thing  combines  to  make 
me  so.  Yet  this  and  all  other  disappoininienis  in 
life  I  can  bear  with  ease,  but  that  of  being  neglected 
by  ....  Spleen  I  cannot  help,  so  you  must  ex- 
cuse it.  I  do  all  I  can  to  get  the  better  ot  it  ;  but 
it  is  too  strong  for  me.  I  have  read  more  since  I 
saw  Cnd,  than  I  did  in  a  great  while  passed,  and 
chose  those  books  that  required  most  attention,  on 
purpose  to  engage  my  thoughts,  but  I  find  ihe  more 
I  think  the  more  unhappy  1  am. 

"  I  had  once  a  mind  not  to  have  wrote  to  you, 
for  fear  of  making  you  uneasy  to  find  me  so  dull ; 
but  I  could  not  keep  lo  ihat  resolution,  for  the 
pleasure  of  writing  to  you.  The  satisfaction  I  have 
in  your  remembering  me,  when  you  read  my  letters, 
and  the  delight  I  have  in  expecting  one  from  Cad, 
makes  me  rather  choose  to  give  you  some  uneasi- 
ness, than  add  to  my  own." — Vol.  xix.  pp.  431,432. 

As  the  correspondence  draws  to  a  close,  hei 
despair  becomes  more  eloquent  and  agonizing. 
The  following  two  letters  are  dated  in  1720. 

"  Believe  me,  it  is  with  the  utmost  regret  that  ' 
now  complain  to  you  ; — yet  what  can  I  do  ?     I  mus 
either  unload  my  heart,  and  tell  you  all  its  griefs 
or  sink  under  the  inexpressible  distress  I  now  suffc 
by  your  prodigious  neglect  of  me.     'Tis  now  tei 
long  weeks  since  I  saw  you.  and  in  all  ihat  time 
have  never  recfivcd  but  one  letter  from  you,  anj'-' 
a  little  note  with  an  excuse.     Oh,  how  have  yolN* 
forgot  ine!     You  endeavour  by  severities  to  forcfPB.'! 
me  from  you  :  Nor  can  I  blame  you  ;  for  with  th 
uimost  distress  and  confusion,  I  behold  myself  th, 
cause  of  uneasy  refieciions  to  you.   yet   I   cann( 
comfort  you,  but  here  declare,  that  'lis  not  in  \} 
power  of  time  or  accident  to  lessen  the  inexprc-^sib 
passion  which  I  have  for 

"  Put  my  passion  under  the  utmost  restraint, - 
send  me  as  distant  from  you  as  the  earth  will  ailo^j 
— yet  you  cannot  banish  i  hose  charming  ideas  whitj 
will  ever  slick  by  me  whilst  I  liave  ihe  use  <i 
memory.  Nor  is  the  love  1  bear  you  only  scan 
ill  my  soul,  for  there  is  not  a  single  atom  of  n 
frame  that  is  not  blended  wiih  it.  Therefore,  dor 
flatter  yourself  thai  scjiaraiion  will  ever  cliaiiire  n 
sentiments  ;  for  I  find  myself  unquiet  in  the  mit 
of  silence,  and  my  heart  is  at  once  pierced  wi, 
sorrow  and  love.  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  mewl/ 
has  caused  this  prodieioiis  change  on  you,  whici 
have  found  of  laie.  If  you  have  the  least  remains 
piiy  for  me  left,  tell  nic  tenderly.  No  :  don't  :  t 
it  so  tliat  it  may  cause  my  present  death,  and  do 

fler  me  to  live  a  life  like  a  languishing  dea 
which  is  the  only  life  I  can  lead,  it  you  have  I 
any  of  vour  tenderness  for  me." — Vol.  xix.  pp.* 
442. 

Tell  me  sincerely,  if  you  have  once  wiB«^.«iit}j, 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


85 


vrith  earnestness  to  see  me,  since  I  wrote  last  to 
you.  No,  so  tar  trom  that,  you  have  not  once 
pitied  me,  though  I  told  you  how  1  was  distressed. 
Solitude  IS  insupportable  to  a  mind  which  is  not  at 
ease.  I  have  worn  on  my  days  in  sighing,  and  my 
nights  with  watchin";  and  thinking  of.  .  .  .  who 
thinks  not  ot"  me.  How  many  letters  must  I  send 
you  before  I  shall  receive  an  answer?  Can  you 
deny  me  in  my  misery  the  only  comfort  which  I 
can  e.xpect  at  present?  Oh  !  that  I  could  hope  to 
see  you  here,  or  that  1  could  go  to  you  1  1  was 
born  with  violent  passions,  which  terminate  all  in 
one,  that  inexpressible  passion  I  have  for  you. 
Consider  the  killing  emotions  which  I  feel  Ironi 
your  neglect,  and  show  some  tenderness  for  me,  or 
I  shall  lose  my  senses.  Sure  you  camiot  possibly 
be  so  much  taken  up,  but  vou  might  command  a 
moment  to  write  to  me,  and  force  your  inclinations 
to  do  so  great  a  charity.  I  firmly  believe,  could  I 
know  your  thoughts  which  no  human  creature  is 
capable  of  guessing  at,  (because  never  any  one 
living  thouglit  like  you,)  I  should  find  you  have 
often  in  a  rage  wished  me  religious,  hoping  then  I 
should  have  paid  my  devotions  to  Heaven:  but 
that  would  not  spare  you, — for  was  I  an  enthusiast, 
still  you'd  be  the  deity  1  should  worship.  What 
(narks  are  there  of  a  deity,  but  what  you  are  to  be 
inown  by? — you  are  present  everywhere:  your 
lear  image  is  always  before  mine  eyes.  Some- 
imes  you  strike  me  with  that  prodigious  awe,  I 
remble  wiih  fear,  at  other  times  a  charming  com- 
)assion  shines  through  your  countenance,  which 

■  evives  my  soul.     Is  it  not  more  reasonable  to  adore 
.  radiant  Ibrm  one  has  seen,   than  one  only  de- 

'■    cribed  ?"— Vol.  xix.  pp.  442,  443. 

From  this  heart-breaking  scene  we  turn  to 

lii    nother,   if   possible,    still   more   deplorable. 

»  ^anessa   was    now   dead.     The    grave    had 

f-    eaped  its  tranquillising  mould  on  her  agi- 

ited  heart,  and  given  her  tormentor  assur- 

nce.  that  he  should  no  more  sufler  from  her 

I'jironches  on  earth ;  and  yet,  though  with  her 

le  la^t  pretext  was  extinguished  for  refusing 

-    I  acknowledge  the  wife  he  had  so  infamously 

bused,  we  find  him,  with  this  dreadful  ex- 

]f   .uple  before  his  eyes,  persisting  to  withhold 

t;t   oin  his  remaininir  victim,  that  late  and  im- 

■  ^rfect  justice  to  which  her  claim  was  so 
^parent,  and  from  the  denial  of  which  she 
as  sinking  before  his  eyes  in  sickness  and 

,     arow  to  the  grave.     It  is  utterly  impossible 

,v    suggest  any  excuse  or  palliation  for  such 

ilJ-blooded    barbarity.      Even    though   we 

ere  to  believe  with  Mr.  Scott,  that  he  had 

■ased  to  be  a  man,  this  would   afford  no 

lology   for   his   acting   like   a   beast!      He 

i^ht  still  have  acknowledged  his  wife   in 

iijic;  and  restored  to  her  the  comfort  and 

tionour.  of  which  he  had  robbed  her  with- 

ihe  excuse  of  violent  passion,  or  thought- 

-■ -  precipitation.     He  was  rich,  far  beyond 

lal  either  of  them   could   have   expected 

iei\  their  union  was  first  contemplated  ;  and 

id  attained  a  name  and  a  station  in  society 

Mich  made  him  independent  of  riches.    Yet, 

1  the  sake  of  avoiding  some  small  awkward- 

iss  or  inconvenience  to  himself — to  be  se- 

<  red  from  the  idle  talking  of  those  who  might 

^Hlder  why,  since  they  were  to  marry,  they 

tl  not  marry  before — or  perhaps  merely  to 

Iain  the  object  of  his  regard  in  more  com- 

fte  subjection  and  dependence,   he  could 

lir  to  see  her  pining,  year  after  year,  in 

.Siitude  and  degradation,  and  sinking  at  last 

iniK  -ijj  ^^  untimely  grave,  prepared  by  his  hard 


and  unrelenting  refusal  to  clear  her  honour  to 
the  world,  even  at  her  dying  hour.  There 
are  two  editions  of  this  dying  scene — one  ou 
the  authority  of  JMr.  Sheridan,  the  other  on 
that  of  Mr.  Theophilus  Swift,  who  is  said  to 
have  received  it  from  Mrs.  Whiteway.  Mr. 
Scott,  who  is  unable  to  discredit  the  former, 
and  is  inclined  at  the  same  time  to  prefer  the 
least  disreputable  for  his  author,  is  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  supposing,  that  both  may 
be  true,  and  that  Mr.  Sheridan's  story  may 
have  related  to  an  earlier  period  than  that 
reported  by  Mrs.  Whiteway.  We  shall  lay 
both  before  our  readers.     Mr.  Sheridan  says, 

"  '  A  short  time  before  her  death,  a  scene  passed 
between  the  Dean  and  her,  an  account  of  which  I 
had  from  my  father,  and  which  I  shall  relate  with 
reluctance,  as  it  seems  to  bear  more  hard  on  Swift's 
humanity  than  any  other  part  of  his  conduct  in  lite. 
As  she  found  her  final  dissolution  approach,  a  few 
days  before  it  happened,  in  the  presence  of  Dr. 
Sheridan,  she  addressed  Swift  in  the  most  earnest 
and  pathetic  terms  to  grant  her  dying  request ; 
"  That,  as  the  ceremony  of  marriage  had  passed 
between  them,  though  tor  sundry  considerations 
they  had  not  cohabited  in  that  state,  in  order  to  put 
it  out  of  the  power  of  slander  to  be  busy  with  her 
fame  after  death,  she  adjured  him  by  their  friend- 
ship to  let  her  have  the  satisfaction  of  dying  at 
least,  though  she  had  not  lived,  his  acknowledged 
wife." 

"  •  Swift  made  no  reply,  but,  turning  on  his  heel, 
walked  silently  out  of  the  room,  nor  ever  saw  her 
afterward,  during  the  few  days  she  lived.  This 
behaviour  threw  Mrs.  Johnson  into  unspeakable 
agonies,  and  for  a  time  she  sunk  under  the  weight 
of  so  cruel  a  disappointment.  But  soon  after, 
roused  by  indignation,  she  inveighed  against  his 
cruelty  in  the  bitterest  terms;  and,  sending  for  a 
lawyer,  made  her  will,  bequeathing  her  fortune  by 
her  own  name  to  charitable  uses.  This  was  done 
in  the  presence  of  Dr.  Sheridan,  whom  she  ap- 
pointed one  of  her  executors.'  " — Vol.  i.  p.  357. 

If  this  be  true,  Swift  must  have  had  the 
heart  of  a  monster  :  and  it  is  of  little  conse- 
quence, whether,  when  her  death  was  nearer, 
he  pretended  to  consent  to  what  his  unhappy 
victim  herself  then  pathetically  declared  to 
be  '  too  late  ■'  and  to  what,  at  all  events,  cer- 
tainly never  was  done.  Mrs.  Whiteway's 
statement  is  as  follows : — 

"  '  When  Stella  was  in  her  last  weak  state,  and 
one  day  had  come  in  a  chair  to  the  Deanery,  she 
was  with  difficulty  brought  into  the  parlour.  The 
Dean  had  prepared  some  mulled  wine,  and  kept  it 
by  the  fire  for  her  refreshment.  After  tasting  it, 
she  becanjevery  faint,  but  having  recovered  a  little 
by  degrees,  when  her  breath  (for  she  was  asthmatic), 
was  allowed  her,  she  desired  to  lie  down.  She 
was  carried  up  stairs,  and  laid  on  a  bed ;  the  Dean 
sitting  by  her,  held  her  hand,  and  addressed  her  in 
the  most  afteclionate  manner.  She  drooped,  how- 
ever, very  much.  Mrs.  Whiteway  was  the  only 
third  person  present.  After  a  short  time,  her  po- 
liteness induced  her  to  withdraw  to  the  adjoining 
room,  but  it  was  necessary,  on  account  of  air,  that 
the  door  should  not  be  closed, — it  was  half  shut: 
the  rooms  were  close  adjoining.  Mrs.  Whiteway 
had  too  much  honour  to  listen,  but  could  not  avoid 
observing,  that  the  Dean  and  Mrs.  Johnson  con- 
versed together  in  a  low  tone;  the  latter,  indeed, 
was  too  weak  to  raise  her  voice.  Mrs.  Whiteway 
paid  no  attention,  having  no  idle  curiosity,  but  at 
length  she  heard  the  Dean  say,  in  an  audible  voice, 
"  Wrll,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it,  it  shall  be  oiuned,'* 
to  which  SicUa  aiiswcred  with  a  sigh,  "It  is  too 
late."— Vol  i.  pp.  355,  356. 
H 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


With  the  consciousness  of  having  thus  bar- 
barously destroyed  all  the  women  for  whom 
he  had  ever  professed  affection,  it  is  not  won- 
derful that  his  latter  days  should  have  been 
overshadowed  with  glooni  and  dejection :  but 
it  was  not  the  depression  of  late  regret,  or  un- 
availing self-condemnation,  that  darkened  his 
closing  scene.  It  was  but  the  rancour  of  dis- 
appointed ambition,  and  the  bitterness  of  proud 
misanthropy :  and  we  verily  believe,  that  if 
his  party  had  got  again  into  power,  and  given 
him  the  prefennent  he  expected,  the  pride 
and  joy  of  his  vindictive  triumph  would  have 
been  but  little  alloyed  by  the  remembrance 
of  the  innocent  and  accomplished  women  of 
whom  we  have  no  hesitation  to  pronounce  him 
the  murderer.  In  the  whole  of  liis  later 
writings,  indeed,  we  shall  look  in  vain  for  any 
traces  of  that  penitential  regret,  which  was 
due  to  the  misery  he  had  occasioned,  even  if 
it  had  arisen  without  his  gidlt,  or  even  of  that 
humble  and  solemn  self-reproach,  which  is 
apt  to  beset  thoughtful  men  in  the  decline  of 
life  and  animation,  even  when  their  conduct 
has  been  generally  blameless,  and  the  judg- 
ment of  the  candid  finds  nothing  in  them  to 
condermi:  on  the  contrary,  there  is  nowhere 
to  be  met  with,  a  tone  of  more  insolent  re- 
proach, and  intolerant  contempt  to  the  rest  of 
the  world,  or  so  direct  a  claim  to  the  posses- 
sion of  sense  and  viitue,  which  that  world 
was  no  longer  worthy  to  employ.  Of  women, 
too,  it  is  very  remarkable,  that  he  speaks  with 
unvaried  rudeness  and  contempt,  and  rails 
indeed  at  the  whole  human  race,  as  wretches 
with  whom  he  thinks  it  an  indignity  to  share 
a  common  nature.  All  this,  we  confess,  ap- 
pears to  us  intolerable  ;  for,  whether  we  look 
to  the  fortune,  or  the  conduct  of  this  extiaor- 
dinary  person,  we  really  recollect  no  individual 
who  was  less  entitled  to  be  either  discontented 
or  misanthropical — to  complain  of  men  or  of 
accidents.  Born  almost  a  beggar,  and  neither 
very  industrious  nor  very  engaging  in  his  early 
habits,  he  attained,  almost  with  his  first  efforts, 
the  very  height  of  distinction,  and  was  re- 
wardect  by  appointments,  which  placed  him 
in  a  state  of  independence  and  respectability 
for  life.  He  was  honoured  with  the  acquaint- 
ance of  ail  that  was  distinguished  for  rank, 
liteiature,  or  reputation  ; — and,  if  not  very 
generally  beloved,  was,  what  lie  prcibably 
valued  far  more,  admired  and  feared  by  most 
of  those  with  whom  he  was  acquainted. 
When  his  party  was  overthrown,  neither  his 
person  nor  his  fortune  suffered  ; — but  he'was 
indulged,  through  the  whole  of  his  life,  in  a 
licence  of  scurrility  and  abuse,  which  has 
never  been  permitted  to  any  other  writer, — 
and  pos.'^essed  the  exclusive  and  devoted  af- 
fection of  the  only  two  women  to  wliom  he 
wished  to  appear  interesting.  In  this  history, 
we  confess,  we  see  but  little  apology  for  dis- 
content and  lamentation  ; — and.  in  his  conduct, 
there  is  assuredly  still  less  for  misanthropy. 
In  public  life,  we  do  not  know  where  we 
could  have  found  any  body  half  so  profligate 
and  unprincipled  as  himself,  and  the  friends 
to  whom  he  /inally  attached  himself; — nor 
can  we  conceive  that  complaints  of  venaUty, 


and  want  of  patriotism,  could  ever  come  with 
so  ill  a  grace  from  any  quarter,  as  from  him 
who  had  openly  deserted  and  libelled  his 
original  party,  without  the  pretext  of  any 
other  cause  than  the  insufficiency  of  the  re- 
wards they  bestowed  upon  him, — and  joined 
himself  with  men,  who  were  treacherous  not 
only  to  their  first  professions,  but  to  their 
country  and  to  each  other,  to  all  of  whom  he 
adhered,  after  their  mutual  hatred  and  vil- 
lanies  were  detected.  In  private  life,  again, 
with  what  face  could  he  erect  himself  into  a 
rigid  censor  of  morals,  or  pretend  to  complain 
of  men  in  general,  as  unworthy  of  his  notice, 
after  breaking  the  hearts  of  two,  if  not  three, 
amiable  women,  whose  affections  he  had  en- 
gaged by  the  most  constant  assiduities. — aiter 
savagely  libelling  almost  all  his  early  friends 
and  benefactors,  and  exhibiting,  in  h!s  daily 
life  and  conversation,  a  picture  ot  domuieering 
insolence  and  dogmati.«m.  to  which  no  parallel 
could  be  found,  we  believe,  in  the  history  of 
any  other  individual,  and  which  rendered  his 
society  intolerable  to  all  who  were  not  subilued 
by  their  awe  of  him.  or  inured  to  it  by  long 
use  ■?  He  had  some  right,  perhaps,  to  look  with 
disdain  upon  men  of  ordinary  understandings ; 
but  for  all  that  is  the  proper  object  of  reproach, 
he  should  have  looked  only  vAthin  :  and  what- 
ever may  be  his  merits  as  a  writer,  we  do 
not  hesitate  to  say.  that  he  was  despicable  as 
a  politician,  and  hateful  as  a  man. 

With  these  impressions  of  his  personal  char- 
acter, perhaps  it  is  not  easy  for  us  to  judge 
quite  fairly  of  his  works.     Yet  we  are  ia) 
from  being  insensible  to  their  great  and  ver} 
peculiar  merits.     Their  chief  peculiarity  is 
that  they  were  almost  all  v\  hat  may  be  callec 
occasional  productions — not  written  for  fami 
or  for  posterity — trom  the  fulness  of  the  mind 
or  the  desire  of  instructing  mankind — but  o; 
the  spur  of  the  occasion — for  promoting  som 
temporary  and    immediate  object,   and  ])rc 
ducing  a  practical  effect,  in  the  attaii.mer 
of  which  their  whole  importance   centerec 
With  the  exception  of  The  Tale  of  a  Tub.  (>u 
liver,  the  Polite  Conversation,  and  about  ha^ 
a  volume  of  poetry,  this  description  will  aj 
ply  to  almost  all  that  is  now  before  us  ; — ar 
it  is  no  small  proof  of  the  vigour  and  vivaci; 
of  his  genius,  that  posterity  should  have  bei 
so  anxious    to    preserve    these  caielt-s    ai 
ha.sty  productions,  upon  which  their  ;iiith 
appears  to  have  set  no  other  value  liKin 
means  for  tlie  attainment  of  an  end.     T' 
truth  is.  accordingly,  that  they  are  very  (  .\ti 
ordinar}  performances:  And.  considertd  wi 
a  view  to  the  purposes  for  which  they  wf 
intended,  have  probably  never  been  ecjuall 
in  any  period  of  the  world.     They  are  wi 
ten  with  gr«"at  plainness,  force,  and  intrepid ' 
— advance  at  once  to  the  matter  in  dispute 
give  battle  to  the  strength  of  the  enemy,  a 
never  seek  any  kind  of  advantage  from  da 
ness  or  obscurity.     Their  distinguishing  f 
ture,  however,  is   the   force   and   the  ve/ 
mence  of  the  invective  in  which  they  aboui, 
— the  copiousness,  the  steatiiuess.  th^'  ]iei' 
verance,  and  the  dexterity  with  which  iibM 
and  ridicule  are  shout  red   upon  tiie  ach  • 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


87 


sary.     This,  we  think,  was,  be3-ond  all  doubt, 
Swift's  great  talent,  and  the  weapon  by  which 
he  made  himself  formidable.     He  was,  with- 
out exception,  the  greatest  and  most  efficient 
■ihciler  that   ever  exercised  the   trade;   and 
].05sessed,  in  an  eminent  degree,  all  the  quali- 
ilcations  which  it  retjuires: — a  clear  head — a 
iold  heart — a  vintiictive  temper — no  admira- 
;ion  of  noble  qualities — no  sympathy  with  suf- 
h-v'mg — not  much  conscience — not  much  con- 
-islency — a  ready  wit — a  sarcastic  humour — 
I  thoiough  knowledge  of  the  baser  parts  of 
aman  nature — and  a  complete  familiarity 
vith  every  thing  that  is  low,  homely,  and  fa- 
niliar  in  language:     These  were  his  gifts; — 
■  nd   he  soon   felt  for  what  ends  they  were 
_iven.     Almost  all  his  works  are  libels;  gene- 
rally upon  individuals,  sometimes  upon  sects 
and  parties,  sometimes  upon  human  nature. 
W^'hatever    be    his    end,    however,    personal 
abuse,  direct,  vehement,  unsparing  invective, 
is  his  means.     It  is  his  sword  and  his  shield. 
„    ,  his  panoply  and  his  chariot  of  war.     In  all  his 
writings,  accordingly,  there  is  nothing  to  raise 
,  i     or  exalt  our  notions  of  human  nature, — but 
,  ,     every  thing  to  vilify  and  degrade.     We  may 
,    learn  from  them,  perhaps,  to  dread  the  con- 
sequences of  ba.se  actions,  but  never  to  love 
the  feelings  that  lead  to  generous  ones.  There 
,     is  no  spirit,  indeed,  of  love  orof  honour  in  any 
part  of  them  ;  but  an  unvaried  and  harassing 
display  of  insolence   and   animosity  in   the 
writer,  and  villany  and  folly  in  those  of  whom 
he  is  writing.     Though  a  great  polemic,  he, 
makes  no  use  of  general  principles,  nor  ever 
enlarges  his  views  to  a  wide  or  comprehen- 
sive conclusion.     Every  thing  is   particular 
with  him.  and,  for  the  most  part,  strictly  per- 
sonal.    To  make  amends,  however,   we  do 
.     think    him   quite    without    a   competitor   in 
,     personalities.     With  a  quick  and  sagacious 
.   I^i^j  ppirit.  and  a  bold  and  popular  manner,   he 
"jjlljoins  an  exact  knowledge  of  all  the  strong  and 
„  jj^jthe  weak  parts  of  every  cause  he  has  to  man- 

'      'ige  :   and,  without   the   lea.st  restraint  from 

liilicaey,  ehher   of  taste   or   of  feeling,    he 

-eems  always   to   think   the   most  efl'ectnal 

jiows  the  most  advisable,  and  no  advantage 

iiilawful  that  is  likely  to  be  successful  foi' 

he  moment.     Disregarding  all  the  laws  of 

dished  hostility,  he  u.ses,  at  one  and   the 

•ame  moment,  his  sword  and  his  po'soned 

lugger — his  hands  and  his  teeth,  and  his  en- 

.'enomed  breath. — and  does  not  even  scruple. 

liion  occasion,  to  imitate  his  own  yahoos,  by 

lischnrginji:  on  his  unhappy  victims  a  shower 

!"  filth,  from  which  neither  courage  nor  dex- 

I'lity   can   afford   any   protection. — Against 

'  '^■jjtuch  an  antagonist,   it  was,  of  course,  at  no 

^f"  ^ Aime  very  easy  to  make  head;  and  accord- 

'J'     Migly  his  invective  sfems.  for  the  most  part, 

1  hnve  been  as  much  dreaded,  and  as  tre- 

lendous  as  the  personal  ridicule  of  Voltaire. 

Joth  were  inexhaustible,  well-directed,  and 

nisparins-:  buteven  when  Voltaire  drew  blood, 

-,  |ie  did  not  mangle  the  victim,  and  was  only 

I  '''' .  taischievous  when  Swift  was  brutal.    Any  one 

iiliif)."  .  [vho  will  compare  the  epigrams  on  M.  Fianc 

■<'^K\  p  Pompignan  with  those  on  Tighe  or  Bettes- 

:M'"''"H'orLli,  will  easily  understand  the  distinction. 


Of  the  few  works  which  he  wrote  in  the 
capacity  of  an  author,  and  not  of  a  party  zealot 
or  personal  enemy.  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  was 
by  far  the  earliest  in  point  of  time,  and  has, 
by  many,  been  considered  as  the  lirst  in  point 
of  merit.  We  confess  we  are  not  of  that  opin- 
ion. It  is  by  far  too  long  and  elaborate  for  a 
piece  of  pleasantry; — the  humour  sinks,  in 
many  places,  into  mere  buffoonery  and  non- 
sense ; — and  there  is  a  real  and  extreme  te- 
diousness  arising  from  the  too  successful  mim- 
iciy  of  t("diousness  and  pedantry.  All  these 
defects  are  apparent  enough  even  in  the  main 
story,  in  which  the  incidents  are  without  the 
shadow  of  verisimilitude  or  interest  and  by 
far  too  thhdy  scattered ;  but  they  become  in- 
sufferable in  the  interludes  or  digressions, 
the  greater  part  of  which  are  to  us  utterly 
illegible,  and  seem  to  consist  almost  entirely 
of  cold  and  forced  conceits,  and  exaggerated 
representations  of  long  exploded  whims  and 
absurdities.  The  style  of  this  work,  which 
appears  to  us  greatly  inferior  to  the  History  of 
John  Bull  or  even  of  Martinus  Scriblerus,  is 
evidently  more  elaborate  than  that  of  Swift's 
other  writings, — but  has  all  its  substantial 
characteristics.  Its  great  merit  seems  to  con- 
sist in  the  author's  perfect  familiarity  with 
all  sorts  of  common  and  idiomatical  expres- 
sions, his  unlimited  command  of  established 
phrases,  both  solemn  and  familiar,  and  the 
unrivalled  profusion  and  propriety  with  which 
he  heaps  them  up  and  applies  them  to  the 
exposition  of  the  most  fantastic  conceptions. 
To  deliver  absurd  notions  or  incredible  tales 
in  the  most  authentic,  honest,  and  direct 
terms,  that  have  been  used  for  the  commu- 
nication of  truth  and  reason,  and  to  luxuriate 
in 'all  the  variations  of  that  grave,  plain,  and- 
perspicuous  phraseology,  which  dull  men  use 
to  express  their  homely  opinions,  seems  to  be 
the  great  art  of  this  extraordinary  humorist, 
and  that  which  gives  their  character  and 
their  edge  to  his  sly  strokes  of  satire,  his 
keen  sarcasms  and  bitter  personalities. 

The  voya<res  of  Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver 
is  indisputably  his  greatest  work.  The  idea 
of  making  fictitious  travels  the  vehicle  of 
satire  as  well  as  of  amusement,  is  at  least  as 
old  as  Lucian  ;  but  has  never  been  carried 
info  execution  with  such  success,  spirit,  and 
originality,  as  in  this  celebrated  performance. 
'The  brevity,  the  minuteness,  the  homeliness, 
the  unbroken  seriousness  of  the  narrative,  all 
give  a  character  of  truth  and  simplicity  to  the 
work,  which  at  once  palliates  the  extrava- 
gance of  the  fiction,  and  enhances  the  effect 
of  those  weighty  reflections  and  cutting  se- 
verities in  which  it  abounds.  Yet  though  it 
is  probable  enough,  that  without  those  touch- 
es of  satire  and  observation  the  work  would 
have  appeared  childish  and  preposterous,  we 
are  persuaded  that  it  pleases  chiefly  by  the 
novelty  and  vivacity  of  the  extraordinary  pic- 
tures it  presents,  and  the  entertainment  we 
receive  from  following  the  fortunes  of  the 
traveller  in  his  .seveml  extraordinary  adven- 
tures. The  greater  part  of  the  wisdom  and 
satire  at  least  appears  to  ns  to  be  extremely 
vulgar  and  common-place:  and  we  have  no 


88 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


idea  that  they  could  possibly  appear  either 
impressive  or  entertaining,  if  presented  with- 
out these  accompaniments.  A  considerable 
part  of  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  voy- 
ages of  Gulliver,  in  short,  is  of  the  same  de- 
.<«cription  with  that  which  we  receive  from 
those  of  Snibad  the  sailor;  and  is  chiefly 
neightened;  we  believe,  by  the  greater  brevi- 
ty and  minuiene.ss  of  the  story,  and  the  su- 
perior art  that  is  employed  to  give  it  an  ap- 
pearance of  truth  and  probability,  in  the  very 
midst  of  its  wonders.  Among  those  arts,  as 
•Air.  Scott  has  judiciously  observed,  one  of 
the  most  important  is  the  exact  adaptation  of 
the  narrative  to  the  condition  of  its  supposed 
author. 

"  The  character  of  the  imaginary  traveller  is  e.\- 
actly  that  of  Dampier,  or  any  other  sturdy  nautical 
wanderer  of  the  period,  endowed  with  courage  and 
common  sense,  who  sailed  tlirough  distant  seas, 
without  losing  a  single  English  prijndice  which  he 
had  brought  from  Portsmouth  or  Plymouth,  and 
on  his  return  gave  a  grave  and  sunple  narrative  of 
what  he  had  seen  or  heard  in  foreign  countries. 
The  character  is  perhaps  strictly  English,  and  can 
be  hardly  relished  by  a  foreigner.  Tlie  reflections 
and  observations  of  Gulliver  are  never  more  refined 
or  deeper  than  might  be  e.xpected  from  a  plain  mas- 
ter of  a  merchantman,  or  surgeon  in  the  Old  Jew- 
ry ;  and  there  was  such  a  reality  given  to  his  whole 
person,  that  one  seaman  is  said  to  have  sworn  he 
Knew  Captain  Gulliver  very  well,  but  he  lived  at 
Wapping,  not  at  Rotherhithe.  It  is  the  contrast 
between  the  natural  ease  and  simplicity  of  such  a 
style,  and  the  marvels  which  the  volume  contains, 
that  forms  one  great  charm  of  this  memorable  satire  j 
on  the  imperfections,  follies,  and  vices  of  mankind.  ' 
The  exact  calculations  preserved  in  the  first  and 
second  part,  have  al.*o  the  effect  of  qualifying  the 
extravagance  of  the  fable.  It  is  said  tliat  in  natural 
objects  where  proportion  is  exactly  preserved,  the 
marvellous,  whether  the  object  be  gigantic  or  di- 
minutive, is  lessened  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectator; 
and  it  is  certain,  in  general,  that  proportion  forms 
an  essential  attribute  of  truth,  and  consequently  of 
verisimilitude,  or  that  which  renders  a  narration 
probable.  If  the  reader  is  disposed  to  grant  the 
traveller  his  postulates  as  to  the  e.xistence  of  the 
strange  people  whom  he  visits,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  detect  any  inconsistency  in  his  narrative.  On 
the  contrary,  it  W(3uld  seem  that  he  and  they  con 
duct  themselves  towards  each  other,  precisely  as 
must  necessarily  have  happened  in  the  respective 
circumstances  which  the  author  has  supposed.  In 
this  point  of  view,  perhaps  the  highest  praise  that 
could  have  been  bestowed  on  (Julliver's  Travels 
was  the  censure  of  a  learned  Irish  prelate,  who 
said  the  book  contained  .somethings  which  he  could 
not  prevail  upon  himself  to  believe." — Vol.  i.  pp. 
340,  341, 

That  the  interest  does  not  arise  from  the 
satire  but  from  the  plausible  description  of 
physical  wonders/seems  to  be  farther  proved 
by  the  fact,  that  the  parts  which  please  the  j 
least  are  those  in  which  there  is  most  satire  j 
and  least  of  those  wonders.  Iti  the  vovaire 
to  Laputa,  after  the  first  description  of  the  j 
flying  island,  the  attention  is  almost  exclu- 
s  vely  directed  to  intellectual  absurdities; 
and  every  one  is  aware  of  the  dulness  that  is 
the  result.  Even  as  a  .satire,  indeed,  this 
part  is  extremely  poor  and  defective  ;  nor  can 
any  thing  show  more  clearly  the  author's  in- 
capacity for  large  and  comprehensive  views 
than  his  signal  failure  in  all  those  parts  which 
invite  him  to  such  contemplations.     In  the 


multitude  of  his  vulgar  and  farcical  represen- 
tations of  particular  errors  m  philosophy,  he 
nowhere  appears  to  have  any  sense  of  its 
true  value  or  principles ;  but  satisfies  him- 
self with  collecting  or  imagining  a  number 
of  fantastical  quackeries,  which  tend  to  illus- 
trate nothing  but  his  contempt  for  human  un- 
derstanding. Even  where  his  subject  seems 
to  invite  him  to  something  of  a  higher  flight, 
he  uniformly  shrinks  back  from  it,  and  takes 
shelter  in  common-place  derision.  What,  for 
instance,  can  be  poorer  than  the  use  he  makes 
of  the  evocation  of  the  illustrious  dead — in 
which  Hannibal  is  conjured  up.  ju.st  to  say 
that  he  had  not  a  drop  of  vinecar  in  his  camp; 
and  Aristotle,  to  ask  two  of  his  commentators, 
"  whether  the  rest  of  the  tribe  were  as  great 
dunces  as  themselves'?"  The  voyage  to  the 
Houyhnhmns  is  commonly  .supposed  to  dis- 
please by  its  vile  and  degrading  representa- 
tions of  human  nature ;  but.  if  we  do  not 
strangely  mistake  our  own  feelings  on  the 
subject,  the  impression  it  produces  is  not  so 
much  that  of  disgust  as  of  dulness.  The  pic- 
ture is  not  only  extravag-ant.  but  bald  and 
tame  in  the  highest  degree  ;  while  the  storj- 
is  not  enlivened  by  any  of  those  numerous 
and  uncommon  incidents  which  are  detailed 
in  the  two  first  parts,  with  such  an  inimitable 
air  of  probability  as  almost  to  persuade  us  of 
their  reality.  For  the  rest,  we  have  observed 
already,  that  the  scope  of  the  whole  work, 
and  indeed  of  all  his  writings,  is  to  degiade 
and  vilify  human  nature :  and  though  some 
of  the  images  which  occur  in  this  part  may 
be  rather  coarser  than  the  others,  we  do  not 
thmk  the  difference  so  considerable  as  to  ac- 
count for  its  admitted  inferiority  in  the  power 
of  pleasing. 

His  only  other  con.siderable  works  in  prose, 
are  the  '-Polite  Conversation,"  wh'ch  we 
think  admirable  in  its  sort,  and  exct  ssively 
entertaining;  and  the  "Directions  to  Ser- 
vants," which,  though  of  a  lower  pitch,  con- 
tains as  much  perhaps  of  his  peculiar,  vigor- 
ous and  racy  humour,  as  any  one  of  his  pro- 
ductions. The  Journal  to  Stella,  which  was 
certainly  never  intended  for  publication,  is 
not  to  be  judged  of  as  a  literary  Avork  at  all 
— but  to  us  it  is  the  most  hiteresting  of  all 
hisproduction.s — exhibiting  not  only  a  minute 
and  masterly  view  of  a  very  extraordinary 
political  crisis,  but  a  truer,  and,  upon  the 
whole,  a  more  favourable  picture  of  h  s  own 
mind,  than  can  be  gathered  from  all  ihe  rrsl 
of  his  Avritings — together  with  innumerable 
anecdotes  characteristic  not  only  of  vaiiou.' 
eminent  individuals,  but  of  the  private  man- 
ners and  public  taste  and  morality  of  tht 
times,  more  nakedly  and  surely  authentit' 
than  any  thing  that  can  be  derived  from  con, 
temporary  publications. 

Of  his"  Poetry,  we  do  not  think  there  i; 
much  to  be  said; — forVe  cannot  persuad<' 
ourselves  that  Swift  was  in  any  respect  : 
poet.  It  would  be  proof  enough,  we  think 
just  to  observe,  that,  thouirh  a  popular  ant 
most  miscellaneous  writer,  he  does  not  men 
tion  the  name  of  Shakespeare  above  two  o 
three  times  in  any  part  of  his  works,  and  ha 


i 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


^ 


89 


nowhere  said  a  word  in  his  praise.  His  par- 
tial editor  admits  that  he  has  produced  iioth- 
iui;-  which  can  be  called  either  sublime  or 
pathetic:  and  we  are  of  the  same  opinion  as 
to  the  beautiful.  The  merit  of  correct  rhAmu-'s 
and  easy  diction,  we  shall  not  deny  him  ;  but 
the  diction  is  almost  invariably  that  of  the 
most  ordinary  prose,  and  the  matter  of  his 
pieces  no  otherwise  poetical,  than  that  the 
Muses  and  some  other  persons  of  the  Hea- 
tiii'n  mythology  are  occasionally  mentioned. 
He  has  written  lampoons  and  epigrams,  and 
satirical  ballads  and  abusive  songs  in  great 
abundance,  and  with  infinite  success.  But 
these  things  are  not  poetry ; — and  are  better 
in  verse  than  in  prose,  for  no  other  reason 
tlian  that  the  sting  is  more  easily  remem- 
bered, and  the  ridicule  occasionally  enhanced, 
by  the  hint  of  a  ludicrous  parody,  or  the  drol- 
lery of  an  extraordinary  rhjTne.  His  witty 
verses,  when  they  are  not  made  up  of  mere 
filth  and  venom,  seem  mostly  framed  on  the 
model  of  Hudibras ;  and  are  chiefly  remarka- 
ble, like  those  of  his  original,  for  the  easy  and 
apt  application  of  homely  and  familiar  phrases, 
to  illustrate  ingenious  sophistry  or  unexpected 
allusions.  One  or  two  of  his  imitations  of 
Horace,  are  executed  with  spirit  dnd  elegance, 
and  are  the  best,  we  think,  of  his  familiar 
pieces;  unless  we  except  the  verses  on  his 
own  death,  in  which,  however,  the  great 
charm  arises,  as  we  have  just  stated,  from 
the  singadar  ease  and  exactness  with  which 
he  has  imitated  the  style  of  ordinary  society, 
and  the  neatness  with  which  he  has  brought 
together  and  reduced  to  metre  such  a  number 
of  natural,  characteristic,  and  common-place 
j  expressions.  The  Cadenus  and  Vanessa  is, 
1  of  itself,  complete  proof  that  he  had  in  him 
'  none  of  the  elements  of  poetry.  It  was  writ- 
ten when  his  faculties  were  in  their  perfec- 
tion, and  his  heart  animated  with  all  the  ten- 
derness of  which  it  was  ever  capable — and 
yet  it  is  as  cold  and  as  flat  as  the  ice  of  Thule. 
Though  describing  a  real  passion,  and  a  real 
perplexity,  there  is  not  a  spark  of  fire  nor  a 
throb  of  emotion  in  it  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  All  the  return  he  makes  to  the  warm- 
hearted creature  who  had  put  her  destiny  into 
his  hands,  consists  in  a  frigid  mythological 
fiction,  in  which  he  sets  forth,  that  Venus  and 
tlie  Graces  lavished  their  gifts  on  her  in  her 
infancy,  and  moreover  got  Minerva,  by  a  trick, 
to  inspire  her  with  wit  and  wisdom.  The  style 
is  mere  prose — or  rather  a  string  of  familiar 
and  vulgar  phrases  tacked  together  in  rhyme, 
like  the  general  tissue  of  his  poetry.  How- 
ever, it  has  been  called  not  only  easy  but 
elegant,  by  some  indulgent  critics — and  there- 
(ore.  as  we  take  it  for  granted  nobody  reads  it 
now-a-days,  we  shall  extract  a  few  lines  at 
I  random,  to  abide  the  censure  of  the  judicious. 
jTo  us  they  seem  to  be  about  as  much  poetry 
as  80  many  lines  out  of  Coke  upon  Littleton. 

"  But  in  the  poets  we  may  find 
A  wholesome  law,  time  out  of  rnind, 
Had  been  confirm'd  by  Fate's  decree, 
That  ^ods,  of  whatsoe'er  degree, 
Resume  not  what  themselves  have  given. 
Or  any  brother  god  in  Heaven  : 
12 


Whii-li  keeps  tlio  peace  among  tiie  gods, 
Or  ilicy  must  always  be  lU  odds: 
And  I'allas,  if  she  l)roke  tlie  laws, 
Must  yield  licr  foe  the  stronger  cause; 
A  shame  to  one  so  much  ador'd 
For  wisdom  nt  Jove's  council  board ; 
Besides,  slie  fear'd  the  Queen  ol  Love 
Would  meet  with  belter  friends  above. 
And  though  she  nnist  with  grief  reflect, 
'I'o  see  a  mortal  virgin  deck'd 
With  graces  hiiherto  unknown 
I'o  female  breasts  except  her  own  : 
Yet  she  would  act  as  best  became 
A  goddess  of  unspotted  lame. 
Slie  knew  by  augury  divine, 
Venus  would  fail  in  iter  de.sign  : 
She  studied  well  the  point,  and  Ibund 
Her  Ice's  conclusions  were  not  sound, 
From  premises  erroneous  l)roughi ; 
And  therefore  the  deduction's  naught, 
And  must  have  contrary  effects. 
To  what  her  treacherous  foe  expects." 

Vol.  xiv.  pp,  448,  449. 

The  Rhapsody  of  Poetry,  and  the  Legion 
Club,  are  the  only  two  pieces  in  \^  hich  there 
is  the  least  glow  of  poetical  animation ;  though, 
in  the  latter,  it  takes  the  shape  of  ferocious 
and  almost  frantic  invective,  and,  in  the  for- 
mer, shhies  out  but  by  fits  in  the  midst  of  the 
usual  small  wares  of  cant  phrases  and  snap- 
pish misanthropy.  In  the  Rhapsody,  the  fol- 
lowing lines,  for  instance,  near  the  begiiming, 
are  vigorous  and  energetic. 

"  Not  empire  to  the  rising  stm 
By  valour,  conduct,  fortune  won  ; 
Not  highest  wisdom  in  debates 
For  framing  laws  to  govern  states; 
Not  skill  in  sciences  profound 
So  large  to  grasp  the  circle  round  : 
Such  heavenly  influence  require, 
As  how  to  strike  the  Muse's  lyre. 

Not  beggar's  brat  on  bulk  begot ; 
Not  bastard  of  a  pedlar  Scot ; 
Not  boy  brought  up  to  cleaning  shoes, 
The  spawn  of  bridewell  or  the  stews  ; 
Nor  infants  dropped,  the  spurious  pledges 
Of  gypsies  littering  under  hedges; 
Are  so  disqualified  by  iaie 
To  rise  in  church,  or  law,  or  state. 
As  he  whom  Phoebus  in  his  ire 
Has  blasted  with  poetic  fire." 

Vol.  xiv.  pp.  310,  311. 
Yet,  immediately  after  this  nervous  and  po- 
etical line,  he  drops  at  once  into  the  lowness 
of  ^allga^  flippancy. 

"  What  hope  of  custom  in  the  fair, 

Willie  not  a  soul  demands  your  ware?"  &c. 

There  are  undoubtedly  many  strong  lines, 
and  much  cutting  satire  in  this  poem ;  but 
the  staple  is  a  mimicry  of  Hudibras,  without 
the  richness  or  compression  of  Butler;  as,  for 
example, 

"  And  here  a  simile  comes  pat  in  : 
Though  chickens  take  a  month  to  fatten, 
The  guests  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
Will  more  than  half  a  score  devour. 
So,  after  toiling  twenty  days 
To  earn  n  slock  of  pence  and  praise, 
Thy  labours,  grown  the  critic's  prey, 
Are  swallow'd  o'er  a  dish  of  tea: 
Gone  to  be  never  heard  of  more, 
(Jone  where  the  chickens  went  iiefore. 
How  shall  a  new  attempier  learn 
Of  different  spirits  to  discern, 
And  how  distinguish  which  is  which, 
The  poet's  vein,  or  scribbling  iich  ?" 

Vol.  XIV.  pp.  311,312. 
H  2 


90 


LITERATURE  AKD  BIOGRAPHY. 


The  Legion  Qub  is  a  satire,  or  rather  a 
tremendous  invective  on  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons,  who  had  incurred  the  reverend 
author''s  displeasure  for  entertaining  some 
propositions  about  alleviatinir  the  burden  of 
the  tithes  in  Ireland  ;  and  is  chiefly  remarka- 
ble, on  the  whole,  as  a  proof  of  the  extraor- 
dinary liberty  of  the  press  which  was  in- 
dulged to  the  disaffected  in  those  days — no 
prosecution  having  been  instituted,  either  by 
that  Honourable  House  itself,  or  by  any  of  the 
individual  members,  who  are  there  attacked 
in  a  way  in  which  no  public  men  were  ever 
attacked,  before  or  since.  It  is  also  deserving 
of  attention,  as  the  most  thoroughly  animated, 
fierce,  and  energetic,  of  all  Swift's  metrical 
compositions ;  and  though  the  animation  be 
altogether  of  a  ferocious  character,  and  seems 
occasionally  to  verge  upon  absolute  insanity, 
there  is  still  a  force  and  a  terror  about  it  which 
redeems  it  from  ridicule,  and  makes  us  shud- 
der at  the  sort  of  demoniacal  inspiration  with 
which  the  malison  is  vented.  The  invective 
of  Swift  appears  in  this,  and  some  other  pieces, 
like  the  infernal  five  of  IMilton's  rebel  angels, 
which 

••  Scorched  and  blasted  and  o'erilirew — " 
and  was  launched  even  agtiinst  the  righteous 
w-ith  such  impetuous  fury, 
"  That  whom  it  lilt  none  on  iheir  feet  might  stand, 

'I'lioufh  standing  else  as  rocks — but  down  they 
fell 

By  thousands,  angel  on  archangel  rolled." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remark,  however, 
that  there  is  never  the  least  approach  to  dig- 
nity or  nobleness  in  the  style  of  these  terrible 
invectives;  and  that  they  do  not  even  pretend 
to  the  tone  of  a  high-minded  disdain  or  gene- 
rous impatience  of  un worthiness.  They  are 
honest,  coarse,  and  violent  effusions  of  furious 
anger  and  rancorous  hatred :  and  their  effect 
depends  upon  the  force,  heartiness,  and  ap- 
parent sincerity  with  which  those  feelings  are 
expressed.  The  author's  object  is  simply  to 
vilify  his  opponent. — by  no  means  to  do  honour 
to  himself.  If  he  can  make  his  victim  writhe, 
he  caves  not  what  may  be  thought  of  his  tor- 
mentor : — or  rather,  he  is  contented,  provided 
hi^  can  make  him  sufficiently  disgusting,  that 
a  cfood  share  of  the  filth  which  he  throws 
should  stick  to  his  own  fingers :  and  that  he 
should  himself  excite  some  of  the  loathing 
of  which  his  enemy  is  the  principal  object. 
In  the  piece  now  before  us,  many  of  the 
personalities  are  too  coarse  and  filthy  to  be 
quoted  :  but  the  very  opening  shows  the  spirit 
in  which  it  is  written. 

"  .\s  I  siroU  the  city  oft  I 
See  a  huildins  larae  and  lofty, 
Not  a  lu)w-shot  from  the  colU'ne, 
Half  the  globe  from  sense  and  knowledge  ! 
Bv  the  prudent  archiieci, 
Pla'-'d  against  the  church  direct, 
Making  good  my  grandam's  jest, 
'  Near  ihe  church' — you  know  the  rest. 

"  Tell  ns  what  the  pile  contains  ? 
Many  a  head  that  holds  no  brains. 
These  demoniacs  let  mc  dub 
Wiih  the  name  of  Legion  Club. 
Such  assemblies,  you  might  swear, 
Meet  when  butchers  bait  a  bear  : 


1 


Such  a  noise  and  such  haranguing, 
When  a  brother  thief  is  hanging  : 
Such  a  rout  and  such  a  rabble 
Run  to  hear  Jackpudding  gabble  : 
Such  a  crowd  their  ordure  throws 
On  a  far  less  villain's  nose. 

"  Could  I  from  the  building's  top 
Hear  the  rattling  thunder  drop, 
While  the  devil  upon  the  roof 
(If  the  devil  be  thunder  proot) 
Should  with  poker  fiery  red 
Crack  the  stones,  and  melt  the  lead  ; 
Drive  them  down  on  every  scull, 
When  the  den  of  thieves  is  full; 
Quite  destroy  the  harpies'  nest ; 
How  then  might  our  isle  be  blest  I 

"  Let  them,  when  they  once  get  in. 
Sell  the  nation  tor  a  pin  ; 
While  they  sii  a  picking  straws, 
Let  them  rave  at  making  laws ; 
While  they  never  hold  their  tongue, 
Let  them  dabble  in  their  dung; 
Let  them  form  a  grand  comminee. 
How  to  plagtie  and  starve  the  ciiy  : 
Let  them  siare,  and  storm,  and  Irown 
When  they  see  a  clergy  gown  ; 
Let  them,  ere  they  crack  a  louse  ; 
Call  tor  ih'  orders  ol  the  House  ; 
Let  them,  with  their  gosling  quills, 
Scribble  senseless  heads  of  bills; 
We  mqy,  while  they  strain  their  throats, 
Wipe  our  noses  with  their  votes. 

"  LetCir  Tom,  that  rampant  ass, 
S'ufi'  his  guts  with  flax  and  gra^s ; 
But  before  the  priest  he  fleeces, 
Tear  the  Bible  all  to  pieces  : 
At  the  parsons,  Tom,  halloo,  boy  ! 
Worthy  offspring  of  a  shoeboy, 
Footman  !  traitor  !  vile  seducer  ! 
Perjur'd  rebel !  brib'd  accuser  ! 
Lay  thy  paltry  privilege  aside, 
Sprung  from  Papists,  and  a  regicide ! 
Fall  a  working  like  a  mole. 
Raise  the  dirt  about  your  hole  !" 

Vol.  X.  pp.  548— ."JSO. 
This  is  strong  enough,  we  suspect,  for  most 
readers ;  but  we  shall  venture  on  a  few  lirieB 
more,  to  show  the  tone  in  which  the  leading 
characters  in  the  country  might  be  libelled 
by  name  and  surname  in  those  days. 
"In  the  porch  Briareus  siands. 
Shows  a  bribe  in  all  his  hands ; 
Briareus  the  secretary,     ^ 
But  wc  mortals  call  hin'  '"arty. 
When  the  rogues  their  country  fleece, 
Thev  may  hope  for  pence  a-piece. 

"  Clio,  who  had  been  so  wise 
To  put  on  a  fool's  disguise. 
To  bespeak  some  approbation. 
And  be  thought  a  near  relation. 
When  she  saw  three  hundred  brutes 
AH  involv'd  in  wild  disputes. 
Roaring  till  their  lungs  were  spent, 
Privilege  of  Paklia.ment, 
Now  a  new  misfortune  feels. 
Dreading  to  be  laid  by  ih'  lieels,"  &c. 
"  Keeper,  show  me  where  to  fix 
On  the  puppy  pair  of  Dicks: 
By  their  lantern  jaws  and  leathern, 
You  might  swear  they  both  are  brethren: 
Dick  Fitzhaker.  Dick  the  player! 
Old  acquaintance,  are  you  there? 
Dear  companions,  hug  and  kiss, 

'J'oast  Old  Glorious  in  your ; 

Tie  them,  keeper,  in  a  tether, 
I,et  ihetn  starve  and  stink  together; 
Both  are  apt  to  be  unruly, 
Lash  them  daily,  lash  them  duly  ; 
Though  'lis  hopeless  to  reclaim  iliem, 
Scorpion  rods,  perhaps,  may  tame  them." 
Vol.  x.  pp.  563,  554, 


WORKS  OF  JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


91 


Such  were  the  libels  which  a  Tory  writer 
found  it  safe  to  publish  under  a  Whig  admin- 
istration in  1736  ;  and  we  do  not  find  that  uny 
national  disturbance  arose  from  their  impu- 
nity,— thouiih  the  libeller  was  the  most  cele- 
brated and  by  far  the  most  popular  writer  of 
the  age.  Nor  was  it  merely  the  exasperation 
of  bad  fortune  tliat  put  that  polite  party  upon 
the  use  of  this  discourteous  style  of  discus- 
sion. In  all  situations,  the  Tories  have  been 
the  great  libellers — and,  as  is  fitting,  the 
great  prosecutors  of  libels ;  and  even  in  this 
early  age  of  their  glory,  had  themselves,  when 
in  power,  encouraged  the  same  licence  of 
defamation,  and  in  the  same  hands.  It  will 
scarcely  be  believed,  that  the  following  char- 
acter of  the  Earl  of  Wharton,  then  actually 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  was  publicly 
printed  and  sold,  with  his  Lordship's  name 
and  addition  at  full  length,  iji  1710,  and  was 
one  of  the  first  productions  by  which  the  rev- 
erend penman  bucklered  the  cause  of  the 
Tory  ministry,  and  revenged  himself  on  a 
parsimonious  patron.  We  cannot  afford  to 
give  it  at  full  length — but  this  specimen  will 
answer  our  purpose. 

"  Thomas,  Earl  of  Wharton,  Lord  Lieutenant 
of  Irehiud.  by  ilie  forre  of  a  wonderful  constitution, 
has  some  years  pasb^ed  his  grand  climateric,  without 
any  visible  effects  of  old  age,  eitiier  on  his  body  or 
his  mind  ;  and  in  spite  of  a  continual  prostitution  to 
those  vices  which  usually  wear  out  both.  His  be-' 
haviour  is  in  all  the  forms  of  a  young  man  at  five- 
and-tweniy.  Whether  he  walks,  or  whistles,  or 
talks  bawdy,  or  calls  names,  he  acquits  himself  in 
ea(;h,  beyotid  a  templar  of  three  years'  standing. — 
He  seems  lo  be  luU  an  ill  dissembler,  and  an  ill  liar, 
although  they  are  the  two  talents  he  most  practises, 
and  most  values  himself  upon.  The  ends  he  has 
gained  by  lyinnf,  appear  to  be  more  owing  to  the  fre- 
quency, limn  the  art  of  them  :  his  lies  being  some- 
limes  detected  in  an  hour,  often  in  a  day,  and  al- 
ways in  a  week.  He  tells  them  freely  in  mixed 
companies,  although  he  knows  half  of  those  that 
hear  him  to  be  his  enemies,  and  is  sure  they  will 
discover  them  the  moment  they  leave  him.  He 
Fwears  solemnly  he  loves  and  will  serve  you;  and 
your  back  is  no  sooner  turned,  but  he  tells  those 
about  him,  you  are  a  dog  and  a  rascal.  He  goes 
constantly  to  prayers  in  the  forms  of  his  place,  and 
will  talk  bawdy  and  blasphemy  at  the  chapel-door. 
He  is  a  presbvterian  in  politics,  and  an  atheist  in 
religion  ;  but  he  chooses  at  present  to  whore  with  a 
papist. — Pie  has  sunk  his  fortune  by  endeavouring 
to  ruin  one  kingdom,  and  has  raised  it  by  going  far 
in  the  ruin  of  another. 

"  He  bears  the  gallantries  of  his  lady  with  the 
indiff'rence  of  a  stoic;  and  thinks  them  well  re- 
conippii'^ed,  by  a  return  of  children  to  support  his 
familv,  without  the  fatigues  of  being  a  father. 

"  He  has  three  predominant  passions,  which  vou 
will  seldom  find  united  in  the  same  man.  as  arising 
from  different  dispositions  of  mind,  and  naturally 
thwarting  each  other  :  these  are,  love  of  pow(>r. 
love  of  money,  and  love  of  pleasure;  they  ride  him 
sometimes  by  turns,  sometimes  all  together.  Since 
he  went  into  Ireland,  he  seems  most  disposed  ti> 
the  second,  and  has  met  with  great  success;  hav- 
ing gained  by  his  goverrnent.  of  under  two  years, 
five-and-forty  thousand  pounds  by  the  most  favour- 
able com[)ntation,  half  in  the  regular  way,  and  half 
in  the  prudential, 

"  He  was  never  yet  known  to  refuse,  or  keep  a 
promise,  as  I  remember  he  told  a  lady,  but  with  an 
exception  to  the  promise  he  then  made  (which  was 
to  gel  her  a  pension) ;  yet  he  broke  even  that,  and, 
I  confess,  deceived  us  both.     But  here  I  desire  to 


distinguish  between  a  promise  and  a  bargain ;  for 
he  will  be  sure  to  keep  the  latter,  when  he  has  the 
fairest  offer." — Vol.  iv.  pp.  149—152. 

We  have  not  left  ourselves  room  now  to 
say  much  of  Swift's  style,  or  of  the  general 
character  of  his  literary  genius : — But  our 
opinion  may  be  collected  from  the  remarks 
we  have  made  on  particular  passages,  and 
from  our  introductory  observations  on  the 
school  or  class  of  authors,  with  whom  he 
mui^  undoubtedly  be  rated.  On  the  subjects 
to  which  he  confines  himself,  he  is  unques- 
tionably a  strong,  masculine,  and  perspicuous 
writer.  He  is  never  finical,  fantastic,  or 
absurd — takes  advantage  of  no  equivocations 
in  argument — and  puts  on  no  tawdriness  for 
ornament.  Dealing  always  with  particulars, 
he  is  safe  from  all  great  and  systematic  mis- 
takes; and,  in  fact,  reasons  mostly  in  a  series 
of  small  and  minute  propositions,  in  the  hand- 
ling of  which,  dexterity  is  more  requisite  than 
genius;  and  practical  good  sense,  with  an 
exact  knowledge  of  transactions,  of  far  more 
importance  than  profound  and  high-reaching 
judgment.  He  did  not  write  history  or  phi- 
losophy, but  party  pamphlets  and  journals; — ■ 
not  satire,  but  particular  lampoons; — not 
pleasantries  for  all  mankind,  but  jokes  for  a 
particular  circle.  Even  in  his  pamphlets,  the 
broader  questions  of  party  are  always  waved, 
to  make  way  for  discussions  of  personal  or  im- 
mediate interest.  His  object  is  not  to  show 
that  the  Tories  have  better  principles  of  gov- 
ernment than  the  Whigs, — but  to  prove  Lord 
Oxford  an  angel,  and  Lord  Somers  a  fiend,  to 
convict  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  of  avarice 
or  Sir  Richard  Steele  of  insolvency  ; — not  to 
point  out  the  wrongs  of  Ireland,  in  the  depres- 
sion of  her  Catholic  population,  her  want  of 
education,  or  the  discouragement  of  her  in- 
dustry; but  to  raise  an  outcry  against  an 
amendment  of  the  copper  or  the  gold  coin,  or 
against  a  parliamentary  proposition  for  remit- 
ting the  tithe  of  aQ:istmcnt.  For  those  ends, 
it  cannot  be  denied,  that  he  chose  his  means 
judiciousl)',  and  used  them  with  incomparable 
skill  and  spirit.  But  to  choose  such  ends, 
we  humbly  conceive,  was  not  the  part  either 
of  a  high  intellect  or  a  high  character;  and 
his  genius  must  share  in  the  disparage- 
ment which  ought  perhaps  to  be  confined  to 
the  impetuosity  and  vindictiveness  of  his 
temper. 

Of  his  style,  it  has  been  usual  to  speak  with 
gretit,  and,  we  think,  exaggerated  praise.  It 
is  less  mellow  than  Dryden'.s — less  elegant 
than  Pdpe's  or  Addison's — less  free  and  noble 
than  Lord  Bolingbroke's — and  utterly  without 
the  glow  and  loftiness  which  belonged  to  our 
earlier  masters.  It  is  radically  a  low  and 
homelv  style — without  grace  and  without  af- 
fectation; and  chiefly  remarkable  for  a  great 
choice  and  profusion  of  common  words  and 
expressions.  Other  writers,  who  have  used  a 
plain  and  direct  st3le.  have  been  for  the  most 
part  jejune  and  limited  in  their  diction,  and 
generally  give  us  an  impression  of  the  poverty 
as  well  as  the  tameness  of  their  language; 
but  Swift,  without  ever  trespassing  into  figured 
or  poetical  expressions,  or  ever  employing  a 


92 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


word  that  can  be  called  fine,  or  pedantic,  has 
a  prodigious  variety  of  good  set  phrases  al- 
ways at  his  command,  and  displays  a  sort  of 
homely  richness,  like  the  plenty  of  an  old 
English  dinner,  or  the  wardrobe  of  a  wealthy 
burgess.  This  taste  for  the  plain  and  sub- 
stantial was  fatal  to  his  poetry,  which  subsists 
not  on  such  elements ;  but  was  in  the  highest 
degree  favourable  to  the  effect  of  his  humour, 
very  much  of  which  depends  on  the  imposing 
gravity  with  which  it  is  delivered,  and  orkthe 
various  turns  and  heightenings  it  may  receive 
from  a  rapidly  shifting  and  always  appropriate 
expression.  Almost  all  his  works,  after  The 
Tale  of  a  Tub,  seem  to  have  been  written 
very  fast,  and  with  very  little  minute  care  of 
the  diction.  For  his  own  ease,  therefore,  it 
is  probable  they  were  all  pitched  on  a  low 
key.  and  set  about  on  the  ordinary  tone  of  a 
familiar  letter  or  conversation;  as  that  from 
which  there  was  a  little  hazard  of  falling, 
even  in  moments  of  negligence,  and  from 
which  any  rise  that  could  be  effected,  must 
always  be  easy  and  conspicuous.  A  man 
fully  possessed  of  his  subject,  indeed,  and 
confident  of  his  cause,  may  almost  always 
write  with  vigour  and  effect,  if  he  can  get 
over  the  temptation  of  writing  finely,  and 
really  confine  himself  to  the  strong  and  clear 
exposition  of  the  matter  he  has  to  bring  for- 
ward. Half  of  the  affectation  and  offensive 
pretension  we  meet  with  in  authors,  ari,ses 
from  a  want  of  matter, — and  the  other  half, 
from  a  paltry  ambition  of  being  eloquent  and 
ingenious  out  of  place.  Swift  had  complete 
confidence  in  himself;  and  had  too  much  real 
business  on  his  hands,  to  be  at  leisure  to  in- 
trigue for  the  fame  of  a  fine  writer; — in  con- 
sequence of  which,  his  writings  are  more  ad- 
mired by  the  judicious  than  if  he  had  bestowed 
all  his  attention  on  their  style.  He  was  so 
much  a  man  of  business,  indeed,  and  so  much 
accustomed  to  consider  his  writings  merely  as 
means  for  the  attainment  of  a  practical  end — 
whether  that  end  was  the  strengthening  of  a 
party,  or  the  wounding  a  foe — that  he  not  only 
disdained  the  reputation  of  a  composer  of 
pretty  sentences,  but  seems  to  have  been 
thoroughly  nidifferent  to  ail  sorts  of  literary 
fame.  He  enjoyed  the  notoriety  and  influence 
which  he  had  procured  by  his  writings;  but 
it  was  the  glory  of  having  carried  his  point, 
and  not  of  having  written  well,  that  he  valued'.' 
As  soon  as  his  publications  had  served  their 
turn,  they  seem  to  have  been  entirely  forgot- 
ten by  their  author; — and,  desirous  as  he  was 
of  being  richer,  he  appears  to  have  thought 
as  little  of  making  money  as  immortality  by 
means  of  them.     He  mentions  somewhere, 


that  except  300/.  which  he  got  for  Gulliver,  ho 
never  made  a  farthing  by  any  of  his  writings. 
Pope  understood  his  trade  better, — and  not 
only  made  knowing  bargains  for  his  own 
works,  but  occasionally  borrowed  his  friends' 
pieces,  and  pocketed  the  price  of  the  whole. 
This  was  notoriously  the  case  with  three 
volumes  of  IMiscellanies,  of  which  the  greater 
part  were  from  the  pen  of  Swift. 

In  humour  and  in  irony,  and  in  the  talent  of 
debasing  and  defiling  what  he  hated,  we  join 
with  all  the  world  in  thinking  the  Dean  of  St. 
Patrick's  without  a  rival.  His  humour,  though 
sufficiently  marked  and  peculiar,  is  not  to  be 
easily  defined.  The  nearest  description  we 
can  give  of  it,  would  make  it  consist  in  ex- 
pressing .sentiments  the  most  absurd  and 
ridiculous — the  most  shocking  and  atrocious 
— or  sometimes  the  most  energetic  and  origi- 
nal— in  a  sort  of  composed,  calm,  and  uncon- 
scious way,  as  if  they  were  plain,  undeniable, 
commonplace  truths,  which  no  person  could 
dispute,  or  expect  to  gain  credit  by  announcing 
— and  in  mamtaining  them,  always  in  the 
gravest  and  most  familiar  language,  with  a 
consistency  which  somewhat  palliates  their 
extravagJince,  and  a  kind  of  perverted  inge- 
nuity, which  seems  to  give  pledge  for  their 
sincerity.  The  secret,  in  short,  seems  to  con- 
sist in  employing  the  language  of  humble 
good  sense,  and  simple  undoubting  conviction, 
to  express,  in  their  honest  nakedness,  senti- 
ments which  it  is  usually  thought  necessary 
to  disguise  under  a  thousand  pretences — or 
truths  which  are  usually  introduced  with  a 
thousand  apologies.  The  basis  of  the  art  is 
the  personating  a  character  of  great  simplicity 
and  opennes.s,  for  whom  the  conventional  or 
artificial  distinctions  of  society  are  supposed 
to  have  no  existence ;  and  making  use  of  this 
character  as  an  instrument  to  strip  vice  and 
folly  of  their  disguises,  and  expose  guilt  in  all 
its  deformity,  and  trutli  in  all  its  terrors.  In- 
dependent of  the  moral  or  satire,  of  which 
they  may  thus  be  the  vehicle,  a  great  part  of 
the  entertainment  to  be  derived  from  works 
of  humour,  arises  from  the  contrast  between 
the  grave,  unsuspecting  indifference  of  the 
character  personated,  and  the  ordinary  feel- 
ings of  the  world  on  the  subjects  which  he 
discusses.  This  contrast  it  is  easy  to  heighten, 
by  all  sorts  of  imputed  absurdities:  in  which 
case,  the  humour  degenerates  into  mere  farce 
and  buffoonery.  Swift  has  yielded  a  little  to 
this  temptation  in  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  :  but 
scarcely  at  all  in  Gulliver,  or  any  of  his  later 
writings  in  the  same  style.  Of  his  talent  for 
reviling,  we  have  already  said  at  least  enough, 
in  some  of  the  preceduig  pages. 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


93 


Jaiiuari),   1810. 


Correspondance  inedite  de  IMada.mk  dc  Deffaxd.  avec  D'Alembert,  Montesquieu,  Ic  President 
Renault,  La  Duchesse  du  Matne.  Mesdamcs  de  Choiseul,  De  Staal,  Ifc.  ifc.  3  tomes.  12ino. 
Paris:  1809. 

Lettres  de  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinass-e.  ecrifes  depuis  V  Annie  1112  jusqit'dVAnnee  1776,  &c. 
3  tomes.  12mo.     Paris:  1809. 


The  popular  works  of  La  Harpe  and  Mar- 
moiitel  have  made  the  names  at  least  of  these 
ladies  pretty  well  known  in  this  country;  and 
we  have  been  induced  to  place  their  corres- 
pondence under  one  article,  both  because  their 
history  is  in  some  measure  connected,  and 
because,  though  extremely  unlike  each  other, 
they  both  form  a  decided  contrast  to  our  own 
national  character,  and,  taken  together,  go  far 
to  exhaust  what  was  peculiar  in  that  of  France. 

Most  of  our  readers  probably  remember 
what  La  Harpe  and  Marmontel  have  said  of 
these  two  distinguished  women;  and,  at  all 
events,  it  is  not  necessary  for  our  purpose  to 
give  more  than  a  very  superficial  account  of 
them.  Madame  du  Deffand  was  left  a  widow 
with  a  moderate  fortune,  and  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  wit,  about  1750;  and  soon  after  gave 
up  her  hotel,  and  retired  to  apartments  in  the 
convent  de  St.  Joseph,  where  she  continued  to 
receive,  almost  every  evening,  whatever  was 
most  distinguished  in  Paris  for  rank,  talent, 
or  accomplishment.  Having  become  almost 
blind  in  a  few  years  thereafter,  she  found  she 
required  the  attendance  of  some  intelligent 
young  woman,  who  might  read  and  write  for 
tier,  and  assist  in  doing  the  honours  of  her 
conversazioni.  For  this  purpose  she  cast  her 
eyes  on  Mademoiselle  Lespinasse,  the  illegiti- 
mate dauafhter  of  a  man  of  rank,  who  had 
been  boarded  in  the  same  convent,  and  was 
for  some  time  delighted  with  her  election. 
By  and  bye,  however,  she  found  that  her 
young  companion  began  to  engross  more  of 
the  notice  of  her  visitors  than  she  thought 
suitable;  and  parted  from  her  with  violent, 
ungenerous,  and  implacable  displeasure. 
Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse,  however,  carried 
with  her  the  admiration  of  the  greater  part  of 
her  patroness'  circle ;  and  having  obtained  a 
small  pension  from  government,  opened  her 
own  doors  to  a  society  not  less  brilliant  than 
that  into  which  she  had  been  initiated  under 
Madame  du  Deffand.  The  fatigue,  however, 
which  she  had  undergone  in  reading  the  old 
marchioness  asleep,  had  irreparably  injured 
her  health,  which  was  still  more  impaired  by 
the  agitations  of  her  own  inllammable  and 
ambitious  spirit ;  and  she  died,  before  she  had 
obtained  middle  age,  about  1776, — leaving  on 
the  minds  of  almost  all  the  eminent  men  in 
France,  an  impression  of  talent,  and  of  ardour 
of  imagination,  which  seems  to  have  been 
considered  as  without  example.  Madame  du 
Deffand  continued  to  preside  in  her  circle  till 
a  period  of  extreme  old  aire ;  and  died  in 
1780,  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties. 


Where  the  letters  that  are  now  given  to  the 
world  have  been  secreted  for  the  last  thirty 
years,  or  by  whom  they  are  at  last  pubhsh- 
ed,  we  are  not  informed  in  either  of  the  works 
before  us.  That  they  are  authentic,  we  con- 
ceive, is  demonstrated  by  internal  evidence  ; 
though,  if  more  of  them  are  extant,  the  selec- 
tion that  has  been  made  appears  to  us  to  be  a 
little  capricious.  The  correspondence  of 
Madame  du  Deffand  reaches  from  the  year 
1738  to  1764; — that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Les- 
pinasse extends  only  from  1773  to  1776.  The 
two  works,  therefore,  relate  to  different  pe- 
riods ;  and,  being  entirely  of  different  charac- 
ters, seem  naturally  to  call  for  a  separate 
consideration.  We  begin  with  the  correspon- 
dence of  Madame  du  Deffand,  both  out  of 
respect  to  her  seniority,  and  because  the  va- 
riety which  it  exhibits  seems  to  afford  room 
for  more  observation. 

j      As  this  lady's  house  was  for  fifty  years  the 

I  resort  of  every  thing  brilliant  in  Paris,  it  is 

'  natural  to  suppose,  that  she  herself  must  have 
possessed  no  ordinary  attraction — and  to  feel 
an  eager  curiosity  to  be  introduced  even  to 
that  shadow  of  her  conversation  which  we 
may  expect  to  meet  with  in  her  correspond- 
ence. Though  the  greater  part  of  the  letters 
are  addressed  to  her  by  vaiious  correspond- 
ents, yet  the  few  which  she  does  write  are 
strongly  marked  with  the  traces  of  her  pecu- 
liar character  and  talent;  and  the  whole  taken 
together  give  a  very  lively  idea  of  the  struc- 
ture and  occupations  of  the  best  French  so- 
ciety, in  the  days  of  its  greatest  splendour. 
Laying  out  of  view  the  greater  constitutional 
gaiety  of  our  neighbours,  it  appears  to  us,  thai 
this  society  was  distinguished  from  any  that 

j  has  ever  existed  in  England,  by  three  circum- 
stances chiefly: — in  the  first  place,  by  the 
exclusion  of  all  low-bred  persons;  secondly, 

•  by  the  superior  intelligence  and  cultivation  of 

j  the  women ;  and,  finally,  by  the  want  of  politi- 
cal avocations,  and  the  ab.sence  of  political 
antipathies. 

j  By  the  first  of  these  circumstances,  the  old 
Parisian  society  was   rendered  considerably 

,  more  refined,  and  infinitely  more  easy  and 
natural.  The  general  and  peremptory  pro- 
scription of  the  bourgeois,  excluded,  no  doubt, 
a  irood  deal  of  vulgarity  and  coarseness  ;  but 
it  had  a  still  better  effect  in  excludiiiir  ihose 

'  feelings  of  mutual  jealousy  and  contempt,  and 
that  conflict  of  family  pride  and  conse(j\iential 

!  opulence,  which  can  only  be  prevented  from 
disturbing  a  more  promiscuous  assi  nibly.  by 

,  means  oi'  universal  and  systematic  reserve. 


94 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Where  all  are  noble,  all  are  equal ; — there  is 
no  room  for  ostentation  or  pretension  of  any 
sort; — every  one  is  in  his  place  everywhere; 
and  the  same  manners  being  familiar  to  the 
whole  society  from  their  childhood,  manners 
cease  in  a  great  measure  to  he  an  object  of 
attention.  Nobody  apprehends  any  imputa- 
tion of  vulgarity ;  and  nobody  values  himself 
on  being  free  from  it.  The  little  peculiarities 
by  which  individuals  are  distinguished,  are 
ascribed,  not  to  ignorance  or  awkwardness, 
but  to  caprice  merely,  or  to  peculiarity  of  dis- 
position ]  and  not  being  checked  by  contempt 
or  derision,  are  indulged,  for  the  most  part,  as 
caprice  or  disposition  may  dictate  ;  and  thus 
the  very  highest  society  is  brought  back,  and 
by  the  same  causes,  to  much  of  the  freedom 
aud  simplicity  of  the  lowest. 

In  England,  we  have  never  had  this  ar- 
rangement. The  great  wealth  of  the  mercan- 
tile classes,  and  the  privilege  which  every 
man  here  possesses  of  aspiring  to  every  situa- 
tio;x,  has  always  prevented  any  such  complete 
separation  of  the  high  and  the  low-born,  even 
in  ordinary-  .society,  and  made  all  large  assem- 
blages of  people  to  a  certain  degree  promis- 
cuous.' Great  wealth,  or  great  talents,  being 
sufficient  to  raise  a  man  to  power  and  emi- 
nence, are  necessarily  received  as  a  sufficient 
passport  into  private  company ;  and  fill  it,  on 
the  large  scale,  with  such  motley  and  dis- 
cordant characters,  as  visibly  to  endanger 
either  its  ease  or  its  tranquillity.  The  pride 
of  purse,  and  of  rank,  and  of  manners,  mutu- 
ally provoke  each  other ;  and  vanities  which 
were  undiscovered  while  they  were  univer- 
sal, soon  become  visible  in  the  light  of  oppo- 
site vanities.  With  us,  therefore,  society, 
when  it  passes  beyond  select  clubs  and  asso- 
ciations, is  apt  either  to  be  distracted  with 
little  jealousies  and  divisions,  or  finally  to 
settle  into  constraint,  insipidity,  and  reserve. 
People  meeting  from  all  the  extremes  of  life, 
are  afraid  of  being  misconstrued,  and  despair 
of  being  understood.  Conversation  is  left  to 
a  few  professed  talkers ;  and  all  the  rest  are 
satisfied  to  hold  their  tongues,  and  despise 
each  other  in  their  hearts. 

The  superior  cultivation  of  French  Women, 
however,  was  productive  of  still  more  sub- 
stantial advantages.  Ever  since  Europe  be- 
came civilised,  the  females  of  that  country 
have  stood  more  on  an  intellectual  level  with 
the  men  than  in  any  other, — and  have  taken 
their  share  in  the  politics  and  literature,  and 
public  controversies  of  the  day,  far  more 
largely  than  in  any  other  nation  with  which 
we  are  acquainted.  For  more  than  two  cen- 
turies, they  have  been  the  umpires  of  polite 
letters,  and  the  depositaries  and  the  aijentsof 
tho.se  intrigues  by  which  the  functions  of  gov- 
ernment are  usually  forwarded  or  impeded. 
They  could  talk,  therefore,  of  every  thing  that 
men  could  wi.sh  to  talk  about ;  and  general 
conversation,  conseciuentl}-,  assumed  a  tone, 
both  less  frivolous  and  less  uniform,  than  it 
has  ever  attained  in  our  country. 

The  grand  source,  however,  of  the  differ- 
ence between  the  good  society  of  France  and 
of  England,  is,  that,  in  the  former  counry,  men 


had  nothing  but  society  to  attend  to ;  whereas, 
in  the  latter,  almost  all  who  are  considerable 
for  ranks  or  for  talents,  are  continually  en- 
grossed with  politics.  They  have  no  leisure, 
therefore,  for  society,  in  the  first  place :  in  the 
second  place,  if  they  do  enter  it  at  all,  they  are 
apt  to  regard  it  as  a  scene  rather  of  relaxation 
than  exertion ;  and,  finally,  they  naturally 
acquire  those  habits  of  thinking  and  of  talk- 
ing, which  are  better  adapted  to  carry  on 
business  ami  debate,  than  to  enliven  people 
assembled  for  amusement.  In  England,  men 
of  condition  have  still  to  perform  the  high 
duties  of  citizens  and  statesmen,  and  can  only 
rise  to  eminence  by  dedicating  their  days  and 
nights  to  the  study  of  business  and  atiairs — 
to  the  arts  of  inlluencing  those,  Avith  whom, 
and  by  whom,  they  are  to  act — and  to  the 
actual  management  of  those  strenuous  con- 
tentions by  which  the  government  of  a  free 
state  is  perpetually  embarrassed  and  pre- 
served. In  France,  on  the  contrary,  under 
the  old  monarchy,  men  of  the  first  rank  had 
no  political  functions  to  discharge — no  control 
to  exercise  over  the  government — and  no  rights 
to  assert,  either  for  themselves  or  their  fellow- 
subjects.  They  werd  either  left,  therefore, 
to  solace  their  idleness  with  the  frivolous  en- 
chantments of  polished  society,  or,  if  they  had 
any  object  of  public  ambition,  were  driven  to 
pursue  it  by  the  mediation  of  those  favourites 
or  mistresses  who  were  most  likely  to  be  won 
by  the  charms  of  an  elegant  address,  or  the 
assiduities  of  a  skilful  flatterer. 

It  is  to  this  lamentable  inferiority  in  the 
government  and  constitution  of  their  country, 
that  the  French  are  indebted  for  the  superi- 
ority of  their  polite  assemblies.  Their  saloons 
are  better  filled  than  ours,  because  they  have  no 
senate  to  fill  out  of  their  population ;  and  their 
conversation  is  more  sprightly,  and  their  so- 
ciety more  animated  than  ours,  because  there 
is  no  other  outlet  for  the  talent  and  ingenuity 
of  the  nation  hut  society  and  conversation. 
Our  parties  of  pleasure,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
mostly  left  to  beardless  youths  aud  superan- 
nuated idlers — not  because  our  men  want 
talents  or  taste  to  adorn  them,  but  because 
their  ambition,  and  their  sense  of  public  duty, 
have  dedicated  them  to  a  higher  service. 
When  we  lose  our  constitution — when  the 
houses  of  parliament  are  shut  up,  our  assem- 
blies, we  have  no  doubt,  will  be  far  more  ani- 
mated and  rational.  It  would  be  easy  to  have 
splendid  gardens  and  parterres,  if  we  would 
only  give  up  our  corn  fields  and  our  pa.stures: 
nor  should  we  want  for  magnificent  fountains 
and  ornamental  canals,  if  we  were  contented 
to  drain  the  whole  surrounding  country  of  the 
rills  that  maintain  its  fertility  and  beauty. 

But.  while  it  is  impossible  to  deny  lliat  the 
French  enjoyed,  in  the  agreeable  constitution 
of  their  higher  society,  no  slight  compensation 
for  the  want  of  a  free  government,  it  is  curious, 
and  not  unsatisfactory,  to  be  able  to  trace  the 
operation  of  this  same  compensating  principle 
through  all  the  departments  we  have  alluded 
to.  It  is  obviously  to  our  free  goverinnent, 
and  to  nothing  else,  that  we  owe  that  mixture 
of  ranks  and  of  characters,  wliich  certainly 


III 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


95 


reiiJers  our  large  society  less  amiable,  and 
less  uncoustrained,  than  that  of  the  old  French 
i:iibi]ity.  INIen,  possessed  of  wealth  and  po- 
litical power,  must  be  associated  with  by  all 
\'.ith  whom  they  choose  to  associate,  and  to 
whom  their  friendship  or  support  is  material. 
A  t.ader  who  has  boujiht  his  borough  but  yes- 
t Tiiay.  will  not  give  his  influence  to  any  set 
n:  loblemeu  or  ministers,  who  will  not  receive 
ii  ni  and  his  family  into  their  society,  and 
auree  to  treat  them  as  their  equals.  The  same 
priuciple  extends  downwards  by  impercepti- 
ble gradations  : — and  the  whole  coirmiunity  is 
i;i:ii:zled  in  private  life,  it  must  be  owned  with 
s  in"  little  discomfort,  by  the  ultimate  action 
o:  the  same  principles  which  combine  them, 
t>i  thnr  incalculable  benefit,  in  public. 

Even  the  backwardness  or  the  ignorance  of 
mu  women  may  be  referred  to  the  same  no- 
b!f'  origin.     Women  have  no  legal  or  direct 
political  functions  in  any  country  in  the  uni- 
vTse.     In  the  arbitrary  governments  of  Eu- 
r'i;>\  however,  they  exert  a  personal  influence 
uvrT   those   in   power  and   authority,  which 
raises   them    into    consequence,   familiarizes 
■ ::  'ui  in  some  degree  with  business  and  affairs, 
;ujI  leads  them  to  studythe  character  and  the 
dispositions  of  the  most  eminent  persons  of 
tlieir  day.     In  free  states,  again,  where  the 
personal  inclination  of  any  individual  can  go 
but  a  little  way,  and  where  every  thing  must 
be  canvassed  and  sanctioned  by  its  legitimate 
cpiisors,  this  influence  is  very  inconsiderable; 
a.  J  women  are  excluded  almost  entirely  from 
a:iy  concern  in  those  affairs,  with  which  the 
leading  spirits  of  the  country  are  necessarily 
occupied.     They  come,  therefore,  almost  un- 
avoidably, to  be  considered  as  of  a  lower  order 
of  intellect,  and  to  act,  and  to  be  treated,  upon 
that  apprehension.     The  chief  cause  of  their 
i  ,;"  riority,  however,  arises  from  the  circum- 
-'  Mces  that  have  been  already  stated.     Most 
■  ■  i^  men  of  talent  in  upper  life  are  engaged 
'suits  from  which  women  are  necessarily 
:  led.  and  have  no  leisure  to  join  in  those 
-  iits  which  might  occupy  them  in  com- 
.    Being  thus  abandoned  in  a  good  degree 
:: '  society  of  the  frivolous  of  our  sex,  it  is 
;:n]ios.s!ble  that  they  should  not  be  frivolous 
in  their  turn.    In  old  France,  on  the  contrary. 
h"  'nen  of  talents  in  upper  life  had  little  to 
'i!t  to  please  and  be  pleased  with  the  avo- 
;  and  they  naturally  came  to  acquire  that  | 
'ledge  and  those  accomplishments  which  : 
!  them  for  such  society.  1 

I  !i  ^  last  distinction  between  good  French  I 
:_v)od  English  society,  arises  from  the  dif-  ' 
'   position  which  was  occupied  in  each: 
.1^  men  of  letters.     In  France,  certainly,  I 
■  '.ninaled  much  more  extensively  with  the 
'  :  •  world. — incalculably  to  the  benefit  both 
itat  world,  and  of  themselves.  In  England,  j 
L'eat  scholars  and  authors  have  commonly  i 
i   in  their  studies,  or  in  the  societv  of  a 
a'arned  friends  or  dependants;  and  their  ! 
iias  been  so  generally  gloomy,  laborious  ; 
liieleirant;  that  literature  and  intellectual  : 
.     .'or.ce  have  lost  some  of  their  honours,  and 
nuch  of  their  attraction.     With  us,  when  a  ] 


looked  upon  as  having  renounced  both  the  ";ay 
and  busy  world  ;  and  the  consequence  is,  tliat 
the  gay  are  e\trt>mely  frivolous,  and  the  ac- 
tive rash  and  superficial ;  while  the  man  of 
genius  is  admired  by  posterity,  and  linishes 
his  days  rather  dismally,  without  knowing  or 
caring  for  any  other  denomination  of  men, 
than  authors,  booksellers  and  critics. 

This  distinction  too.  we  think,  arises  out  of 
the  difference  of  government,  or  out  of  some 
of  its  more  immediate  consequences.  Our 
politicians  are  too  busy  to  mix  with  men  of 
study  :  and  our  iiilers  are  too  weak  and  too 
frivolous.  The  studious,  therefore,  are  driven 
in  a  great  measure  to  herd  with  each  other, 
and  to  form  a  little  world  of  their  own,  in 
which  all  their  peculiarities  are  aggravated, 
their  vanity  encouraged,  and  their  awkward- 
ness confirmed.  In  Paris,  where  talent  and 
idleness  met  together,  a  society  grew  up,  both 
more  inviting  and  more  accessible  to  men  of 
thought  and  emdition.  What  they  commu- 
nicated to  this  society  rendered  it  more  nitel- 
ligent  and  respectable  ;  and  what  they  learned 
from  it,  made  them  much  more  reasonable, 
amiable,  and  happy.  They  learned,  in  short, 
the  true  value  of  knowledge  and  of  wisdom, 
by  seeing  exactly  how  much  they  could  con- 
tribute to  the  government  or  the  embellish- 
ment of  life  ;  and  discovered,  that  there  were 
sources  both  of  pride  and  of  happiness,  far 
more  important  and  abundant  than  thinking, 
writmg,  or  reading. 

It  is  curious,  accordinglj',  to  trace  in  the 
volumes  before  us,  the  more  intimate  and 
private  life  of  some  of  those  distmguivshed 
men,  whom  v-e  find  it  difficult  to  represent  to 
ourselves  under  any  other  aspect,  than  that 
of  the  authors  of  their  learned  publications. 
D'Alembert,  Montesquieu.  Henault,  and  sev- 
eral others,  all  appear  in  those  letters  in  their 
true  and  habitual  character,  of  cheerful  and 
careless  men  of  the  world — whose  thoughts 
ran  mostly  on  the  little  exertions  and  amuse- 
ments of  their  daily  .^society ;  who  valued  even 
their  greatest  works  chiefly  as  the  means  of 
amusing  their  leisure,  or  of  entitling  them  to 
the  admiration  of  their  acquaintances :  and 
occupied  themselves  about  posterity  far  less 
than  po,*terity  will  be  occupied  about  them. 
It  will  probably  scandalize  a  good  part  of  our 
men  of  learning  and  science  (though  we  think 
it  will  be  consolatory  to  some)  to  be  told,  that 
there  is  great  reason  for  suspecting  that  the 
most  profound  of  those  authors  looked  upon 
learnuig  chiefly  as  a  sort  of  tranquil  and  in- 
nocent amusement ;  to  which  it  was  very  well 
to  have  recourse  when  more  lively  occupa- 
tions were  not  at  hand,  but  which  it  was  wise 
and  meritorious,  at  all  times,  to  postpone  to 
pleasant  parties,  and  the  natural  play,  either 
of  the  imagination  or  of  the  aftVctions.  It  ap- 
pears, accoidingly.  not  onlv  that  they  talked 
easily  and  familiarly  of  all  their  works  to  their 
female  friends,  but  that  they  gave  themselves 
very  little  anxiety  either  about  their  sale,  or 
their  notoriety  out  of  the  sphere  of  their  own 
acquaintances,  and  made  and  invited  all  sorts 
of  jokes  upon  them  with  uT;f<  igind  g-aiety  and 
indifference.    The  lives  of  our  learned  men 


96 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


would  be  much  happier,  and  their  learning 
much  more  useful  and  amiable,  if  they  could 
be  persuaded  to  see  things  in  the  same  hght. 
It  is  more  than  time,  however,  to  introduce 
the  reader  to  the  characters  in  the  volumes 
before  us. 

Madame  du  DefTand's  correspondence  con- 
sists of  letters  from  Montesquieu,  D'Alem- 
bert,  HenauU.  D'Argens,  Formont.  Bernstorff, 
Scheffer.  &c.  among  the  men, — antl  Mesdames 
de  Staal,  de  Choiseul.  &c.  among  the  women. 
Her  own  letters,  as  we  have  already  intimat- 
ed, form  but  a  very  inconsiderable  part  of 
the  collection  ; — anci,  as  these  distinguished 
names  naturally  excite,  in  persons  out  of  Paris, 
more  interest  than  that  of  any  witty  mar- 
chioness whats^oever.  we  shall  begin  with 
some  specimens  of  the  intimate  and  private 
style  of  those  eminent  individuals,  who  are 
already  so  well  known  for  the  value  and  the 
beauty  of  their  public  instructions. 

Of  these,  the  oldest  and  the  most  popularly 
known,  was  Montesquieu, — an  author  who 
frequently  appears  profound  when  he  is  only 
paradoxical,  and  seems  to  have  studied  with 
great  success  the  art  of  hiding  a  desultory  and 
fantastical  style  of  reasoning  in  imposing 
aphorisms,  and  epigrams  of  considerable  ef- 
fect. It  is  impossible  to  read  the  Esprit  des 
Loix,  without  feeling  that  it  is  the  work  of  an 
indolent  and  very  ingenious  person,  who  had 
fits  of  thoughtfulness  and  ambition ;  and  had 
meditated  the  different  points  which  it  com- 
prehends at  long  intervals,  and  then  connect- 
ed them  as  he  best  could,  by  insinuations, 
metaphors,  and  vague  verbal  distinctions. 
There  is  but  little  of  him  in  this  collection ; 
but  what  there  is.  is  e.vtremely  characteristic. 
D'Alembert  had  proposed  that  he  should  write 
the  articles  Democracy  and  Despotism,  for  the 
Encyclopedie ;  to  which  proposal  he  answers 
with  much  naivete,  as  follows : 

"  Quant  a  mon  introduniion  dans  I'Encyclope- 
die,  c'est  un  beau  palais  ou  je  serais  Men  glorieu.x 
de  mettre  les  pieds ;  tnais  pour  Ips  deux  ariicles 
Democratie  et  Dei>po(isine,  je  ne  voudrais  pas  pren- 
dre ceux-!a;  j'ai  tire,  sur  ces  articles,  de  mon  cer- 
veau  tout  ce  qui  y  etait.  Li^sprit  que  fni  eat  nn 
moule;  on  n^en  tire  jamais  que  les  memes  portraits: 
aiuai  je  ne  vous  dirais  que  ce  que  j'ai  dit,  et  peut- 
etre  plus  mal  que  je  ne  I'ai  dit.  Ainsi,  si  vous 
voulez  de  moi,  laisscz  a  mon  esprit  le  choix  de  quel- 
ques  articles ;  et  si  vous  voulez  ce  choix,  ce  fera 
chez  madame  du  Dcffand  avec  du  marasquin.  Le 
pcre  Castel  dit  qu'il  ne  pent  pas  se  corriger,  parce 
qu'en  corrigeant  son  ouvratrc,  il  en  fait  un  autre  ;  et 
moi  je  ne  puis  pas  me  corriger,  parce  que  je  chanie 
toujours  ia  meme  chose.  li  me  vient  dans  Tcsprit 
que  je  pourrais  prendre  pcut-eire  I'nrticle  Goi/t,  ct 
je  prouvcrai  bien  que  difficile  est  proprit  communia 
dicerer—Vo\.  i.  pp.  30,  31. 

There  is  likewise  another  very  pleasing  let- 
ter to  M.  de  Henault.  and  a  gay  copy  of  verses 
to  Madame  de  Mirepoix; — but  we  hasten  on 
to  a  personage  still  more  engaging.  Of  all 
the  men  of  genius  that  ever  existed,  D'Alem- 
bert perhaps  is  the  most  amiable  and  truly 
respectable.  The  great  extent  and  variety  of 
his  learning,  his  vast  attainments  and  dis- 
coveries in  the  mathematical  sciences,  and  the 
beautv  and  eloquence  of  his  literary  composi- 
tions, "are  known  to  all  the  world:  But  the 


simplicity  and  openness  of  his  character — his 
perpetual  gentleness  and  gaiety  in  society — 
the  unostentatious  independence  of  his  senti- 
ments and  conduct — his  natural  and  cheerful 
superiority  to  all  feelings  of  worldly  ambition, 
jealousy,  or  envy — and  that  air  of  perpetual 
youth  and  unassuming  kindness,  which  made 
him  so  delightful  and  so  happy  in  the  society 
of  women, — are  traits  which  we  scarcely  ex- 
pect to  find  in  combination  with  those  splendid 
qualifications;  and  compose  altogether  a  char- 
acter of  which  we  should  have  been  tempted 
to  question  the  reality,  were  we  not  fortunate 
enough  to  be  familiar  with  its  counterpart  in 
one  living  individual.* 

It  is  not  possible,  perhaps,  to  give  a  better 
idea  of  the  character  of  D'Alembert,  than 
merely  to  state  the  fact,  and  the  reason  of  his 
having  refused  to  go  to  JBerlin,  to  preside  over 
the  academy  founded  there  by  Frederic.  In 
answer  to  a  most  flattering  and  urgent  appli- 
cation from  that  sovereign,  he  writes  thus  to 
M.  D'Argens.t 

"  La  siiualion  ou  je  suis  seroii  ppiii-eire,  mon- 
sieur, un  motif  suffisant  pour  bien  d'auire.'s.  de  re- 
noncer  a  leur  pays.  Ma  fortune  e.«t  au-dessous  du 
mediocre  ;  1700  liv.  de  rente  font  tout  mon  revenu: 
entierement  independant  et  niaiire  de  nie.«  volontes, 
je  n'ai  point  de  famille  qui  s'y  oppose;  oublie  du 
gouvernement  coninie  tant  de  gens  le  sont  de  la 
Providence,  persecute  meme  autiini  qn'on  peul 
I'etre  qiiand  on  cviie  de  dnnner  trop  d'avaiuages 
sur  soi  a  la  nu'chanct'te  dcs  hommes  ;  je  n'ai  aucune 
part  aux  recompenses  qui  plcuvent  ici  sur  les  gens 
de  lettres,  avec  plus  de  profusion  que  de  lumicres. 
Malgre  tout  cela.  monsieur,  la  iranquilliie  dont  je 
jouis  est,si  parfaite  et  si  douce,  que  je  ne  puis  me 
resoudre  a  kii  faire  coiirir  le  nioindre  risque."— 
"  Superieur  a  la  manvaise  fortune,  les  epreuves  de 
loute  espece  que  j'ai  essuyees  dans  ce  genre,  m'ont 
endurci  a  I'iiidigence  et  au  malheur.  et  ne  m'ont 
laisso  de  seiisibilite  que  pour  ceiix  qui  me  ressein- 
blenf.  A  force  de  privations,  je  me  suis  accomunie 
sans  effort  i\  nie  contentcrdu  plus  etroii  iiecessaire, 
et  je  serois  mcnie  en  ctat  de  partager  mon  pen  de  for- 
tune avec  (J'hoiinelesgenspius  pauvre?  que  uioi.  J'ai 
commence,  conimc  les  autres  hornnips,  par  desircr 
les  places  el  les  ridiesses.  j'ai  fini  |)ar  y  renoiic<-r  ab- 
solument ;  et  de  jour  en  jour  je  m'en  irouve  niieux. 
La  vie  retin'e  et  assez  obscure  que  je  nune  est 
parfaitement  conforme  a  mon  caractere,  a  mon 
amour  extreme  pour  I'iridcpendance,  et  pcui-etre 
meme  a  un  pen  d'eloignement  que  les  eveneniens 
de  ma  vie  m'ont  inspire  pour  les  hommes.  La  re- 
traite  ou  le  regime  que  me  prescrivent  mon  eiat  et 
mon  got'it  m'ont  prociire  la  same  la  phis  parfaiie  et 
la  plus  egale — c'esi-a-dire,  le  premier  I'ien  d'un 
philosophe  ;  enfinj'ai  le  bonheur  de  joiiird'im  petit 
nombre  d'amis.  dont  le  commerce  et  la  contiance 
font  la  consolation  et  le  cliarme  de  ma  vie.  Jiigei 
maintenant  vous-mcme,  monsieur,  s'il  ni'est  possi- 
ble de  renoncer  a  ces  avaniatres,  e!  de  changer  un 
bonheur  sur  pour  une  situation  toujours  inceriaiiie, 
quelque  brillante  qu'elfe  puisse  eire.  Je  ne  doine 
nullemcnt  des  bontes  du  roi,  et  de  tout  ce  qu'il  pent 


*  It  cannot  7ioir  offend  the  modesty  of  any  living 
reader,  if  I  explain  that  the  person  lure  alluded  to 
was  my  excellent  and  amiable  friend.  tl:e  late  Pro- 
fessor Plavfair. 

t  This  learned  person  writes  in  a  very  affected 
and  pri'ciciisr  style.  He  ends  one  of  his  letters  to 
D'Alembert  with  the  fallowing  eloquent  expres- 
sion : — "  Ma  santo  s'effoiblit  tons  les  j<nirs  de  plus 
en  plus  ;  et  je  me  dispose  a  alter  faire  hienlot  met 
revtreiices  au  pire  e.ternel:  maLs  landis  que  je  res* 
lerai  dans  ce  monde  je  serai  le  plus  zele  de  vos  ad- 
mirateuis.' ' 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


97 


faire  pour  me  rendre  agreable  mon  nouvel  etat ; 
mais,  malheureuseiiient  pour  moi,  toutes  les  circon- 
stances  essentielles  a  mon  bonheur  ne  sont  pas  en 
son  pouvoir.  Si  ma  sante  venoit  a  s'altorer,  ce  qui 
ne  seroit  que  trop  a  craindre,  (jue  deviendrois-je 
alord  ?  Incapable  de  me  rendre  utile  au  roi,  je  me 
verrois  force  a  alier  finir  mes  jours  loin  de  lui.  et  a 
rcpreiidre  dans  nta  patrie,  ou  ailieurs,  mon  ancien 
ciat,  qui  auroit  perdu  ses  premiers  charmes.  Peul- 
etre  menie  n'aurois-je  plus  la  eonsolaiion  de  re- 
trouver  en  France  les  amis  que  j'y  aurois  laisses,  et 
a  qui  je  percerois  Ic  cceur  par  mon  depart.  Je  vous 
avoue,  monsieur,  que  cetie  derniere  raison  seule 
peui  tout  sur  moi. 

"  Entin  (et  je  vous  prie  d'etre  persuade  que  je  ne 
cherche  point  a  me  parer  ici  d'une  fausse  modesiie) 
je  doute  que  je  fusse  aussi  propre  a  cette  place  que 
S.  M.  veut  hien  le  croire.  Livre  des  mon  enCance 
a  des  etudes  coniinueiies,  je  n'ni  que  dans  la  theorie 
la  connoissance  des  homnies,  qui  est  si  necessaire 
dans  la  p  aiique  quand  on  a  affaire  a  eu.x.  La  iran- 
quillilo,  et.  si  je  I'ose  dire,  Voisiveft  du  cabinet, 
m'ont  rendu  al)so{uineiu  incapable  des  details  aux- 
quels  le  chef  d'un  corps  doit  se  livrer.  D'ailleurs, 
dans  les  difterens  objeis  .dont  1' Academic  s'occupe, 
il  en  est  qui  me  soul  eniierement  inconnus,  comme 
la  chimie,  I'liistoire  naturelle,  et  plusieurs  auires. 
sur  lesquels  par  consequent  je  ne  pourrois  etre  aussi 
utile  que  je  le  d^sirerois.  Enfin  une  place  aussi 
brillante  que  celle  dont  le  roi  veut  m'honorer,  oblige 
a  une  sorte  de  representation  tout-a-fait  elnignee 
du  train  de  vie  que  j'ai  pris  jusqu'ici ;  elle  engage 
a  un  grand  nombre  de  devoirs  :  et  les  devoirs  soni 
les  eatraves  d'un  honime  libre." — Vol.  ii.  pp.73— 78. 

This  whole  transaction  was  kept  quite  se- 
cret for  many  months  ;  and.  when  it  beiz^ri  to 
take  air,  he  speaks  of  it  to  Madame  du  Def- 
fand.  ill  the  following  natural  manner. 

"  Apres  tout,  que  cela  se  repande  ou  ne  se  re- 
pande  pas,  je  n'en  suis  ni  fache  ni  bien-aise.  .Te 
garderai  au  roi  de  Prusseson  secret,  meme  lorsqu'il 
ne  I'e.xisre  plus,  et  vous  verrez  aisement  que  mes 
lettres  n'ont  pas  ete  faites  pour  etre  vues  du  minis- 
lere  de  France  ;  je  suis  bien  resolu  de  ne  lui  pas 
demander  plus  de  graces  qu'aux  ministresdu  roi  de 
Conwo ;  et  je  me  contenlerai  que  la  posterite  lise 
sur  mon  tombeau  ;  il  ftit  estimi  des  honnetes  getis, 
'A  est  mort pauvre.  farce  Qu  il  Vabieu  voulii.  Voila, 
madame,  ae  quelle  maniere  je  pense.  .le  ne  veux 
-araver  ni  aussi  flatter  les  gens  qui  m'ont  faitdu  nial, 
JU  qui  sont  dans  la  disposition  de  m'en  faire  ;  mais  je 
nie  londuirai  de  maniere  que  je  le.*  reduirai  seuie- 
[meni  a  ne  me  pas  faire  du  bien." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  33,  34. 

I  Upon  publishing  his  Melanges,  he  was 
furiously  attacked  by  a  variety  of  acrimonious 
writers ;  and  all  his  revenge  was  to  retire  to 
ais  geometry,  and  to  write  such  letters  as  the 
"olio wing  to  Madame  du  Deffand. 

"  Me  voila  claquemure  pour  long- temps,  et  vrai- 
■•.emblahionient  pour  toujour?,  dans  ma  iriste.  mais 
Tos-cbere  et  trC-s-paisible  Geometric  1  Je  suis  fort 
.!ontent  de  trouver  un  prctexte  pour  ne  plus  rien 
aire,  dans  le  dechaniement  que  mon  livre  a  excite 
bontre  moi.  Je  n'ai  pourtant  ni  attaque  personnc. 
li  meme  desitrne  qui  que  ce  soit,  plus  que  n'a  fait 
'auteur  du  Mechant,  et  vingf  autres.  coiitre  lesnuels 
!iersonne  ne  s'est  dechinne.  Mais  il  n'y  a  qu'neiir 
•t  nialheur.  Je  n'ai  hesoin  ni  de  I'amitie  de  tons 
jes  gens-!a.  puisqne  assurement  je  ne  veux  rien 
leur  demander,  ni  de  leur  estime,  puisque  j'ai  bien 
lesolu  de  ne  jamais  vivre  avec  eux  :  aussi  je  les  meis 
'.  pis  faire. 

"  Adieu,  Madame;  hatez  votre  retour.  Que  ne 
avez-vous  de  la  geometrie  !  qu'avec  clle  on  se 
asse  de  bien  des  choses!" — Vol.  i.  pp.  104,  105. 
:  "Mon  ouvrage  est  public  ;  il  s'est  un  peu  vendu  ; 
i;s  frais  de  I'impression  sont  r'.'tires  ;  les  eloges. 
■iS  critiques  et  I'argent  viendront  quand  ils  vou- 
iront." — "Je  n'ai  encore  rien  louche.  Je  vous  man- 
13 


derai  ce  que  je  gagnerai :  il  n'y  a  pas  d'apparence 
que  cela  se  monte  tort  haul ;  il  n'y  a  pas  d'appa- 
rence non  plus  que  je  continue  a  iravailler  dans  cc 
fenre.  Jeftrai  de  la  geometrie,  et.  je  lirai  TaciteJ 
I  me  semhle  qu'on  a  grande  envie  que  je  nie  taisc, 
et  en  veriie  je  ne  domande  pas  micux.  Quand  ma 
petite  fortune  ne  suffira  plus  a  ma  subsistence,  je. 
me  retirerai  dans  quelq^ue  endroit  oii  je  puisse  vivre 
et  mourir  ii  bon  inarche.  Adieu,  Madame.  Es- 
tintez,  comme  moi,  les  hommes  ce  qu'ils  valent,  et 
il  ne  vous  manquera  rien  pour  etre  heureuse.  On 
dit  Voltaire  raccommode  avec  le  roi  de  Prusse,  et 
Maupertuis  retombe.  Ma  foi,  les  iiommes  sont 
bien  foux,  a  commencer  par  les  sages." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  50,  51. 

"  Eh  bien  !  vous  ne  voulez  done  pas,  ni  Formont 
non  plus,  que  je  me  claquemure  dans  ma  geome- 
tric ?  J'en  suis  pourtant  bien  tente.  Sivoussavicz 
combien  cette  oeomtirie  est  une  retraite  douce  a  la 
paresse  !  et  puis  les  sots  ne  vous  liseni  point,  et  par 
consequent  ne  vous  blament  ni  ne  vous  louent:  et 
coinpttz-vous  cet  avantage-la  pour  rien  ?  En  tout 
cas.  j'ai  de  la  geometric  pour  un  an,  tout  au  nioins. 
Ah  !  que  je  fais  a  present  de  belles  choses  que  per- 
sonne  ne  lira ! 

"J'ai  bien  quelques  morceaux  de  litterature  a 
trailer,  qui  seroient  peut-etre  assez  agreables ;  mais 
je  chasse  tout  celade  ma  tete,  comme  mauvais  train. 
La  geometric  est  ma  femme,  et  je  me  suis  remis  en 
menage. 

"Avec  cela,  j'ai  plus  d'argent  devant  moi  que 
je  n'en  puis  depenser.  Ma  foi,  on  est  bien  fou  de 
se  tant  tourmenter  pour  des  choses  qui  ne  rendent 
pas  plus  heureux  :  on  a  bien  plutot  fait  de  dire  :  Ne 
pourrois-je  pas  me  passer  de  cela  »  Et  c'estlarecette 
dontj'use  depuis  long-temps." — Vol.  ii.  pp.52,  53. 

With  all  this  softness  and  carelessness  of 
character,  nothing  could  be  more  fiiTn  and 
inflexible  when  truth  and  justice  were  in 
question.  The  President  Renault  was  the 
oldest  and  first  favourite  of  Madame  du  Def- 
fand ;  and,  at  the  time  of  publishing  the  En- 
cyclopaedia, Madame  du  DefTand  had  more 
power  over  D'Alembert  than  any  other  person. 
She  M  ished  very  much  that  something  flatter- 
ing should  be  said  of  her  favourite  in  the  In- 
troductory Discourse,  which  took  a  review  ol 
the  progress  of  the  arts  and  sciences;  but 
D'Alembert  resisted,  with  heroic  courage,  all 
the  entreaties  that  were  addressed  to  him  on 
this  subject.  The  following  may  serve  as 
specimens  of  the  tone  wliich  he  maintained 
on^the  occasion. 

"  Je  suis  devenu  cent  fois  plus  amoureux  de  la 
retraite  et  de  la  solitude,  que  je  ne  I'etois  quand 
vous  avez  quitte  Paris.  Je  dine  et  soupe  chez  moi 
tous  les  jours,  ou  presque  tous  les  jours,  et  je  me 
trouve  ires-bien  de  cette  maniere  de  vivre.  Je  vous 
verrai  done  quand  vous  n'aurez  personne,  et  aux 
heures  ou  je  pourrai  esperer  de  vous  trouver  seule: 
dans  d'auJres  temps,  j'y  renconirerois  votre  presi- 
dent, qui  m'embarrasseroit,  parce  qu'il  croiroit  avoir 
des  reproches  a  me  faire,  que  je  ne  crois  point  en 
rneriter,  et  que  je  ne  veux  pas  etre  dans  le  cas  dele 
dcsobliger,  en  me  justifiant  aupres  de  lui.  Ce  que 
vous  me  demandez  pour  lui  est  impossible,  et  je 
puis  vous  assurer  qu'il  est  bien  impossible,  puisque 
je  ne  fais  pas  cela  pour  vous.  En  premier  lieu,  le 
Discoiirs  prrliminaire  est  imprime,  il  y  a  plus  de  six 
semaines:  aiiisi  je  ne  pourrois  pas  I'y  fourrer  au- 
jourd'liui,  meme  quand  je  le  voudrois.  En  second 
lieu,peri,=ez-vous  de^  bonne  foi,  madame,  que  dans 
un  ouvrage  destine  a  celebrer  les  grands  gcnies  de 
la  nation  et  les  ouvrages  qui  ont  verilablement  con- 
tribue  aux  progres  des  lettres  et  des  sciences,  je 
doive  parler  de  I'Abrege  chronoiogique  ?  C'eet 
un  ouvrage  utile,  j'en  conviens,  et  assez  commode  i 
mais  voila  tout  en  verite:  c'est  la  ce  que  les  gens 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


de  lettres  en  pensent,  c'est  la  ce  qu'on  en  dira  quand 
le  president  iie  sera  plus:  et  quand  je  ne  serai  plus 
Tnoi,  je  suis  jaiou.x  qu'on  ne  me  reproche  pas 
d'avoir  donne  d'eloges  excessifs  a  personne." — 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  35.  36. 

"  J'ai  une  confes.sion  a  vous  faire :  j'ai  parle  de 
lui  dans  T  Encyclopedic,  non  pas  a  Chronologie,  car 
cela  est  pour  Newton,  Petau  et  Scaliger, "mais  a 
Chronolo^lqne.  J'y  dis  que  nous  avons,  en  notre 
langue,  plusieurs  bons  abresres  chronologiques  :  le 
sieii,  un  autre  qui  vaut  pour  le  moins  autant,  et  un 
iroisienie  qui  vaut  mieux.  Cela  n'est  pas  dit  si 
crfiinent,  ainsi  ne  vous  fachez  pas.  II  Irouvera  la 
louango  bien  mince,  surtout  la  partageant  avec 
d'autrcs;  mais  Dieu  et  vous.  et  nieme  vous  toute 
seule,  ne  me  Ceroient  pas  changer  de  langage." — 
'•  II  fera  sur  ['Academic  tout  ce  qui  lui  plaira;  ma 
conduiie  prouve  que  je  ne  desire  point  d'eii  cire,  et 
en  vcriie  je  le  serois  sans  lui,  si  j'en  avois  bien 
envie  ;  mais  le  plaisir  de  dire  la  verite  iibrement 
quand  on  n'outrage  ni  n'attaque  personne.  vaut 
mieux  que  touies  fes  Academies  dn  monde,  depuis 
la  Fran^fiise.  jusqu'a  celle  de  Dusjasi." — "  Puisque 
je  suis  deja  d'une  Academic,  c'est  nn  petit  agre- 
ment  de  plu5  que  d'etre  des  autres  ;  mais  si  j'avois 
mon  experience,  et  qiiinze  ans  de  moins.  jc  vous 
reponds  que  je  ne  serois  d'aucune." — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
56—64. 

We  may  now  take  a  peep  at  the  female 
correspondents,— in  the  first  rank  of  whom 
we  must  place  Madame  de  Staal,  so  well 
known  to  most  of  our  readers  by  her  charm- 
ing Memoirs.  This  lady  was  attached  to  the 
court  of  the  Duchess  of  Maine;  and  her  let- 
ters, independent  of  the  wit  and  penetration 
they  display,  are  exceedingly  interesting,  from 
the  near  and  humiliating  view  they  afford  of 
the  miserable  ennui,  the  selfishness  and  paltrj- 
jealousies  which  brood  in  the  atmosphere  of 
a  court, — and  abundantly  avenge  the  lowly 
for  the  outward  superiority  that  is  assumed 
by  its  inhabitants.  There  are  few  things  more 
instructive,  or  more  compa-ssionable,  than  the 
picture  which  Madame  de  Staal  has  drawn,  in 
the  following  passages,  of  her  poor  princess 
dragging  herself  about  in  the  rain  and  the 
burning  sun,  in  the  vain  hope  of  escaping  from 
the  load  of  her  own  inanity, — seeking  rehef, 
in  the  multitude  of  her  visitors,  from  the  sad 
vacuity  of  friendship  and  animation  around 
her, — and  poorly  tr>ing  to  revenge  herself  for 
her  own  unhappiness.  by  making  every  body 
near  her  uncomfortable. 

"  Je  lus  avaiit-hicr  vofre  lettre,  ma  reine,  a  S.  A. 
Elle  etait  dans  un  acces  de  frayeurdu  tonnerre,  qui 
ne  fit  pas  valoir  vos  gaianteries.  J'aurai  soin  une 
autre  fois  de  ne  vous  pas  exposcr  a  I'orase.  Nous 
nagcons  ces  jours  passes  dans  la  joie ;  nous  nagcons 
a  pre.sent  dans  la  pluie.  Nos  idccs,  devenues  deuces 
«t  agreables,  vont  reprendre  loute  leur  noirceur. 
Pardessus  cela  est  arrive,  depuis  deux  jours,  a  notre 
princesse  un  rhuinc,  avec  de  la  fiijvre  :  ce  nonob- 
ftant  et  malgre  le  temps  diaboliq\ie,  la  promenade 
va  toujours  son  train.  II  semble  que  la  Providence 
prenne  soin  de  construire  pour  Ics  princes  des  corps 
a  I'usage  de  leurs  fantaisies,  sans  quoi  ils  ne  pour- 
raient  aitraperage  d'homme." — Vol.  i.  pp.  161, 162. 

"  En  depit  d'un  troisieme  orage  plus  violent  que 
les  deux  prccedens.  nous  nrrivons  d'une  chasse  : 
nous  avons  essuye  la  bordee  au  beau  milieu  de  la 
foret.  J'esperais  eviter  comme  a  I'ordinaire  cette 
belle  parlie  ;  mais  on  a  adroitemenl  tire  parti  des  rai- 
6ons  que  j'avais  alb'guces  pour  m'en  aispetiser;  ce 
qui  m'a  mis  hors  d'etat  de  rcculer.  C'est  doinmage 
<)u'un  art  si  ingriiicux  suit  employe  a  desoler  les 
gens  " — Vol.  i.  p.  164. 

"  Je  suifi  (res  iachee  que  vous  manquiez  d'amuse- 


mens:  c'est  un  medicament  necessaire  a  la  sant^; 
notre  princesse  le  pense  bien ;  car  eiant  veritable- 
ment  malade,  elle  va  sans  fin.  sans  cesse,  quelque 
temps  qu'il  fasse." — Vol.  i.  p.  168. 

"  Nous  faisons,  nous  disons  toujours  les  memes 
choses  :  les  promenades,  les  observations  sur  le 
vent,  le  cavagnole,  les  remarques  sur  la  perie  et  le 
gain,  les  mesures  pour  tenir  les  portes  fermees  quel- 
que chaud  qu'il  fasse,  la  desolation  de  ce  qu'on  ap- 
pelle  les  etouffes,  au  nombre  desquels  je  suis,  et 
dont  vous  n'etes  pas,  qualite  qui  redouble  le  desir 
de  voire  societe." — Vol.  i.  p.  197. 

"  Rien  n'est  egal  a  la  surprise  et  au  chagrin  on 
Ton  est,  ma  reine,  d'avoir  appris  que  vous  avez  et^ 
chez  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Mode;ie.  Un  amant 
bien  passionne  et  bien  jaloux  supporte  plus  tran- 
qnillement  les  demarches  les  plus  suspecies,  qu'on 
n'endure  celle-ci  de  votre  part.  '  Vous  allez  vous 
devouer  la,  abandonner  lout  le  reste  ;  voila  a  quoi 
on  etoit  reserve :  c'est  une  destince  bien  cruelle  !* 
&,c.  J'ai  dit  ce  qu'il  y  avait  a  dire  pour  ramener 
le  calme  ;  on  n'a  voulu  rien  entendre.  Quoique  je 
ne  doive  plus  m'etonner,  cette  scene  a  encore  trouve 
moyen  de  me  surprendre.  Venez,  je  vous  conjure, 
ma  reine.  nous  rassurer  contre  cette  alarnie :  ne 
louez  point  la  personne  dont  il  s'agit,  et  surtout  ne 
parlez  pas  de  son  affliction  ;  car  cela  serait  pris  pour 
un  reproche." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  22,  23. 

All  this  is  miserable :  but  such  are  the  i 
necessary  consequences  of  being  bred  up 
among  flatterers  and  dependants.  A  prince ' 
has  more  chance  to  escape  this  heartlessness 
and  insignificance;  because  he  has  high  and 
active  duties  to  discharge,  which  necessarily 
occupy  his  time,  and  exercise  his  understand- 
ing: but  the  education  of  a  princess  is  a  work 
of  as  great  difficulty  as  it  may  come  to  be  oi 
importance.  We  must  make  another  extract, 
or  two  from  Madame  de  Staal,  before  taking 
leave  of  her. 

"  Madame  du  Chaielet  et  Voltaire,  qui  s'etaieni 
annonces  pour  aujourd'hui  et  qu'on  avait  perdusd€ 
vue,  parureni   hier,    sur  le  miiiuit,   coinine   deuj 
spectres,  avec  une  odeur  de  corps  embaunies  qu'ilj 
semblaient  avoir  apportee  de  leurs  tombeaux.     Oi 
sortait  de  table.     C'etaient   pourtant  des  spectret 
afllarnes:  il  leur  fallut  un  souper,  et  qui  plus  est,  da 
liis,  qiii  n'etaient  pas  prepares.     La  concierge,  dejj 
couchee,  se  leva  a  grande  hate.     Gaya,  qui  avai 
offert  son  logenient  pour  les  cas  pressans,  tut  turci 
de  le  ceder  dans  celui-ci.  demcnagea  avec  auian 
de  precipitation  et  de  deplaisir  qn'une  annoe  sur 
prise   dans  son  camp,  laissant  une   panic   de  soi 
bagage  au  pouvoir   de  I'ennemi.      Voltaire    s'es, 
bien  trouve  du  giie:  cela  n'a  point  du  tout  consol 
Gaya.     Pour  la  dame,  son  lit  ne  s'est  pas  trouv 
bien  fait :  il  a  f'allu  la  deloger  aujourd'hui.     Note 
que  ce  lit  elle  I'avait  fait  elie-meme,  faute  dc  ge^f 
et  avait  trouve  un  defaut  de  .  .  .  .  dans  les  niatelas 
ce  qui,  je  crois,  a  plus  blessc  son  esprit  exact  qu 
son  corps  peu   dclicat." — "Nos   revenans   iie   » 
montrent  point  dc  jour,  ils  apparurent  hier  a  di 
heures  du  soir :  je  ne  pense  pas  q^u'on  les  voie  ^uer 
plus  lot  aujourd'hui;  I'un  est  a  dccrire  de  nau; 
fairs,  I'autre  a  commenter  Newton  ;  ils  ne  veulei 
ni  jourr  ni  se  proinener:   ce  sont  bien  des  non-v! 
leurs  dans  une  societe,  ou  leurs  doctes  ccrits  ne  sor 
d'aucun    rapport." — "  Madame   du   Chatelet    e 
d'hier  a  son  troisirme  locement :  elle  nc  pouvs' 
plus  supporter  celui  qu'elle  avait  choisi  ;  il  y  av8 
du  bruit,  de   la  fumee  sans  feu  (il  me  semble  qt 
c'est  son  emblOine).     Le  bruit,  ce  n'est  pas  la  ni; 
qu'il  I'incommode,  a  ce  qu'elle   m'a  dit,  mais^ 
jour,  au  flirt  de  son  travail :  cela  derange  ses  idee 
Elle  fait  actuellement  la  revue  de  ses  principer 
c'est  un  exercice  qu'elle  reitere  chaque  annec,  soi 
quoi  ils  pourraicnt  s'echapper,  et  pcut-eire  s't  n  all 
si  loin  quelle  n'en  retrouveraii  pas  un  seul.     . 
crois  bien  que  sa  tete  est  pour  eux  une  maieon  < 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


99 


force,  et  non  pas  le  lieu  de  leur  naissance  :  c'est  le 
cas  de  voiller  soi<;neuseiTient  a  leur  garde.  EUe 
prefere  le  bon  air  de  ceite  occupation  a  lout  amuse- 
ment, el  persisie  a  ne  se  moiiirerqu'a  la  nnit  close. 
Voltaire  a  fait  <ies  vers  galaii<,  qui  reparent  un  peu 
le  mauvais  effet  de  leur  coiiduite  iriusitee." — Vol.  i. 
pp.  178,  170.  182.  185,  186. 

After  all  this  experience  of  the  follies  of  the 
great  and  the  learned,  this  lively  little  woman 
concludes  in  the  true  tone  of  French  practical 
philosophy. 

'•  O  ma  reine  !  que  les  homtties  et  leurs  femelles 
sont  de  plaisans  aniriiau.v  I  Je  ris  de  leurs  manoeu- 
vres, le  jour  que  j'ai  bien  dormi;^  auand  le  soin- 
meil  me  manque,  je  suis  prete  a  les  assoiiiuier. 
Ceiie  variete  de  mes  dispositions  me  fait  voir  que 
je  ne  degenerepas  de  monespece.  Moquons-nous 
des  autres,  et  qu'ils  se  moquent  de  nous;  c'est 
bien  fait  de  toule  part!" — Vol.  i.  p.  181. 

Among  the  lady  writers  in  these  volumes, 
we  do  not  know  if  there  be  any  entitled  to 
take  precedence  of  la  Duchesse  de  Choiseul, 
who  writes  thus  learnedly  on  the  subject  of 
3nnui  to  Madame  du  DefTand. 

"Savez-vous  pourquoi  vous  vous  ennuyez  tant, 
ma  chere  enfant  ?  C'est  justement  par  la  peine 
que  vous  prenez  d'eviter,  de  prevoir,  de  comhatlre 
I'eniiui.  Vivez  au  jour  la  journee  ;  prenez  le  temps 
:o'inne  il  vient ;  protitez  de  tous  les  momens,  et 
;ivec  cela  vous  verrez  que  vous  ne  vous  ennuiprez 
pas  :  si  les  circonstances  vous  sont  contraires,  cedez 
,iu  torrent  et  ne  pretendez  pas  y  resister." — 

"  Je  m'apergois,  ma  chere  enfant,  que  je  vous 

lis  des  clioses  bien  communes;  mais  accouiuniez- 

>ous  a  les  supporter,  1°,  parce  que  je  ne  suis  pas 

■n  etat  de  vous  en  dire  d'autres  ;  2°,  parce  qu'en 

norale  elies  sont   toujours  les  plus  vraies,  parce 

lu'elles  tiennent  a   la  nature.     Aprus  avoir   bien 

ixerce  son  esprit,  le  philosoplie  le  plus  eclaire  sera 

iblige  d'en  revenir,  a  ci^t  e^ard,  a  I'axiome  du  plus 

;raud  sot,  de  mcme  qu'il  partage  avec  !ui  I'air  qu'il 

espire." — "Les  prcjuges  se  muitiplient,  les  arts 

'accroissent,  les  sciences  s'approfondissent :  mais 

la  morale  est  toujours  la  meme,  parce  que  la  nature 

!ie  change  pas;  elle  est  toujours  rcduitea  ces  deux 

'  (loints:  eire  jusre   pour  eire  bon,  esre  sage  pour 

'   Hre  heureux      Sadi,  poete  Persan.  dit  que  la  m- 

'  ;-e*se  esl  dejouir,  la  bonte  defaire  jouir:  j'y  ajoute 

''  'a  justice." — 

'  '  •'  II  y  a  trois  choses  dont  vous  dites  que  les  fem- 
'  nes  ne  conviennent  jamais:  I'lme  d'entre  elles  est 

■  'e  s'enniiyer.  Je  n'en  conviens  pas  non  plus  ici : 
'  'nalgre  vos  soup^ons,  je  vols  mes  ouvriers,  je  crois 
'    'onduire  leurs  ouvrages.     A  ma  toilette,  j'ai  cettc 

elite  Corbie  qui  est  laide,  mais  fraiche  coinme  une 
eche,  folle  comme  un  jeiine  chien  ;  qui  chante, 
ui  rit,  qui  joue  du  clavecin,  qui  danse,  qui  saute 

■  u  lieu  de  marcher,  qui  ne  salt  ce  qu'eile  fait,  et 
lit  tout  avec  grace,  qui  nesait  ce  qu'eile  dit,  et  dit 

'[  |)ut  avec  esprit,  et  surtout  une  na'ivete  charmante. 
1!  U  nuit  je  dors,  le  jour  je  reve,  et  ces  plaisirs  si 
!'  !oux,  si  passifs,  si  betes,  sont  precisement  ceux  qui 
;i   'le  conviennent  le  mieux." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  134,  133. 

I  II  is  time  now  that  we  should  come   to 

j(.  ,Iadame  du  Deffand  herself: — the  wittiest,  the 

0  jioet  selfish,  and  the  most  ennuye  of  the  whole 

('■  farty.     Her  wit,  to  be  sure,  is  very  enviable 

'*  |nd  very  entertaining ;  but  it  is  really  con- 

alatory  to  common  mortals,  to  find  how  little 

could  amuse  its  possessor.     This  did  not 

roceed  in  her,  however,  from  the  fastidious- 

.     ess  which  is  sometimes  supposed  to  arise 

om  a  long  familiarity  with  excellence,  so 

luch  as  from  a  long  habit  of  selfishness,  or 

ither  from  a  radical  want  of  heart  or  afTec- 

* .  |on.    La  Harpe  says  of  her,  "  Qu'il  etoit  dif- 


ficile d'avoir  moins  de  sensibilite,  et  j)Ius 
d'egoisme."  With  all  this,  she  was  greatly 
given  to  gallantry  in  her  youth ;  though  her 
attachments,  it  would  seem,  were  of  a  kind 
not  very  likely  to  interfere  with  her  peace  of 
mind.  The  very  evening  her  first  lover  died, 
after  an  intimacy  of  twenty  years,  La  Harpe 
assures  us,  ''Qu'eile  vint  souper  en  grande 
coinpagnie  chez  Madame  de  Marchais,  oil 
j'etais;  et  on  lui  parla  de  la  perte  qu'eile  ve- 
nait  de  faire.  He  las !  il  cxt  mort  ce  soir  a  six 
hcures ;  sans  cela,  vous  ne  me  verricz  pas  ici 
Ce  furent  ses  propres  paroles ;  et  elle  soupa 
comme  a  son  ordinaire,  c'est-a-dire  foit  bien: 
car  elle  etait  tres-gourmande."  (Pref.p.xvi.j 
She  is  also  recorded  to  have  frequently'  de- 
clared, that  she  could  never  bring  herself  to 
love  any  thing, — though,  in  order  to  take 
every  possible  chance,  she  had  several  times 
attempted  to  become  devote — with  no  great 
success.  This,  we  have  no  doubt,  is  the 
secret  of  her  ennui ;  and  a  line  example  it  is 
of  the  utter  worthlessness  of  all  talent,  ac- 
complishment, and  glory,  when  disconnected 
from  those  feelings  of  kimlness  and  generosity, 
which  are  of  themselves  sufficient  for  happi- 
ness. Madame  du  Deffiind,  however,  must 
have  been  delightful  to  those  who  sought  only 
for  amusement.  Her  tone  is  admirable  ;.  her 
wit  flowing  and  natural ;  and  though  a  little 
given  to  detraction,  and  not  a  little  importu- 
nate and  exigeantc  towards  those  on  whose 
complaisance  she  had  claims,  there  is  always 
an  air  of  politeness  in  her  raillery,  and  of 
knowledge  of  the  world  in  her  murmurs,  that 
prevents  them  from  being  either  wearisome 
or  oflfensive. 

Almost  all  the  letters  of  her  writing  which 
are  published  in  these  volumes,  seem  to  have 
been  written  in  the  month  of  July  1742, 
when  she  spent  a  few  weeks  at  the  waters  of 
Forges,  and  wrote  almost  daily  to  the  Presi- 
dent Henault  at  Paris.  This  close  corres- 
pondence of  theirs  fills  one  of  these  volumes ; 
and,  considering  the  rapidity  and  carelessness 
with  which  both  parties  must  have  written, 
must  give,  we  should  think,  a  very  correct, 
and  certainly  a  very  favourable  idea  of  the 
style  of  their  ordinary  conversation.  We 
shall  give  a  few  extracts  very  much  at  ran- 
dom. She  had  made  the  journey  along  with 
a  Madame  de  Pequigni,  of  whom  she  gives 
the  following  account.  :; 

"  Mais  venons  a  un  article  bien  plus  inte^ressanf, 
c'est  ma  compagne.  O  mon  Dieu  !  qu'eile  me 
dcplait !  Elle  est  radicalement  folle  ;  elle  ne  con- 
noil  point  d'heure  pour  ses  repas ;  elle  a  dejeune  a 
Gisors  a  huit  heures  du  matin,  avec  du  veau  froid  ; 
a  Gournay,  elle  a  mange  du  pain  trempe  dans  le 
pot,  pour  nourrir  un  Limousin,  ensuiie  un  morceau 
de  brioche,  et  puis  trois  assez  grands  biscuits.  Nous 
arrivons,  il  n'est  quo  deux  heures  et  demie,  et  elle 
veut  du  riz  et  une  capilotade  ;  elle  mange  t-omme 
un  singe;  sesmainsrcssemblent a  leurs pattes;  elle 
ne  cesse  de  bavarder.  >Sa  pretention  est  d'avoir  de 
I'imaKination,  et  de  voir  toutes  choses  sous  des  faces 
singuliures,  el  comme  la  nouveaute  des  id<'es  lui 
manque,  elle  y  supplee  par  la  bizarrerie  de  I'ex- 
pression,  sous  pretextc  qu'eile  est  naturellc.  Elle 
me  declare  toutes  ses  fantaisies,  en  m'assurant 
qu'eile  ne  veut  que  ce  qui  me  convient ;  maie  je 
crains  d'etre  force  a  etre  ea  complaisaute;  cepen- 


100 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


dant  je  compte  bien  que  cela  ne  s'eiendra  pas  sur 
ce  qui  imcressera  mon  regime.  Elle  comptoit  tout 
a  I'heure  e'eiabiir  dans  ma  chambre  pour  y  laire 
868  repas,  mais  je  lui  ai  dit  que  j'allois  ecrire  :  je 
I'ai  priee  de  taire  dire  a  Madaini'  Laroche  les  lieures 
ou  elle  vouloit  manner  et  ce  qu'elle  voudroii  man- 
ger, et  ou  ello  vonli>it  manger ;  et  que,  pour  nioi, 
je  coniptois  avoir  la  mime  liberie:  en  consequence 
je  manoerai  du  nz  et  uii  poulet  a  huit  heures  du 
8oir."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  191,  19,'. 

After  a  few  days  she  returns  again  to  this 
unfortunate  comijanion. 

"  La  Pequigni  n'est  d'ancune  ressoiirce,  el  son 
esprit  est  comme  ler^pace:  il  y  a  ciendue,  profon- 
deur.  et  peut-etre  louies  les  auires  dimensions  que 
je  lie  saurais  dire,  parce  que  je  ne  les  sais  pas ; 
mais  cela  n'est  que  du,  vide  pour  I'usage.  Elle 
a  torn  8«n:i.  tout  jugn,  tout  eprouve.  tout  choisi, 
tout  rejete ;  elle  esi,  dit-elle,  d'une  ditficulie  sin- 
gulicre  en  compagnii;,  et  cependant  elle  est  touie 
la  journec  avec  louies  iios  peiiies  madames  a 
jaboter  comme  utie  pie.  Mais  ce  n'est  pas  cela 
qui  me  deplait  en  elle :  cela  ni'est  commode  des 
aiijourd'hui,  et  cela  me  sera  ires  agreable  siioi 
que  Formont  sera  arrive.  Ce  qui  iii'est  insup- 
portable, c'est  le  diner ;  elle  a  I'air  d'une  lolle 
en  mangeaiit  ;  elle  deptce  uiie  poularde  dans  le 
plat  ou  on  la  sen,  ensuiie  elle  la  met  dans  un  autre, 
se  fait  rapporter  du  bouillon  pour  mettre  dessus, 
tout  semblabie  a  celui  qu'elle  rend,  ei  puis  elle 
prend  un  haut  d'nilc.  ensuite  le  corps  dont  elle  ne 
mange  que  la  moitic  ;  et  puis  elle  ue  veut  pas  que 
Ton  reiourne  le  veau  pour  couper  un  os,  de  peur 
qu'on  n'amoUisse  la  peau  ;  elle  coupe^  un  os  avec 
toiite  la  pci;ie  possible,  elle  le  ronge  a  demi,  puis 
re'ourne  a  sa  poularde  ;  apres  elle  ^it'le  tout  le 
de.'sus  du  veau.  ensuite  elle  revient  h  ronger  sa 
poularde  :  cela  dure  deux  heures.  Elle  a  sur  sou 
assiette  des  morceau.x  d'os  rontjees,  du  peau.x  sn- 
cees,  e:  pendant  ce  temps,  ou  je  m'ennuie,  a  la 
niort,  ou  je  mange  plus  qu'il  ne  taudrait.  C'est 
line  cirio'^i;''  de  lui  voir  manger  un  biscuit;  cela 
dure  une  domi-heure,  et  le  total,  c'est  qu'elle 
manae  comme  un  loup:  il  est  vrai  qu'elle  fait  un 
exercicc  enrage.  Je  suis  f&chee  que  voiis  ayez  de 
commun  avec  elle  rimpossibilite  de  resier  une 
minute  en  repos.'' — Vol.  iii.  pp.  39 — 41. 

The  rpst  of  h^r  company  do  not  come  any 
better  off.  The  lady  she  praises  most,  seems 
(0  come  near  to  the  English  character. 

"  ]\Iadame  de  Bancour  a  Irente  ans;  elle  n'est 
pas  vilaine  ;  elle  est  trt's  douce  et  ties  polie,  et  ce 
n'est  pas  sa  faute  de  ti'eire  pns  plus  amusante; 
c'est  fauie  d'avoir  rien  vu  :  car  elle  a  du  bon  sens, 
n'a  nulle  pretention,  et  est  fort  naturelle  ;  son  ton 
de  voi.x  est  doux,  naif  et  meme  un  pen  niais,  dans 
If  go  It  (le  Jelioi ;  .si  elle  avail  vecu  dans  le  nionde, 
elle  serait  ainiable :  je  lui  fais  confer  sa  vie;  elle 
est  occupee  de  ses  devoirs,  sans  aus'erite  ni  osien- 
ta:ion  ;  bi  elle  ne  ni'ennuyait  pas,  elle  me  plairait 
ossez." — Vol.  iii.  p.  2r>. 

The  following  are  some  of  her  mailings 
over  her  tanishment. 

"  l\me.  prend  des  etonnemens  funestes  d'etre  ici : 
c'est  conimc  la  pcii.-ee  de  la  mort ;  si  je  ne  m'en 
distrayais,  I'en  mourrais  reelletnent.  Vousiiesnu- 
nez  vouH  figurer  la  trisiesne  de  ce  .sejour;  mais  si 
fait,  puwpie  vous  eie.i  a  Piombieres :  mais  non  ; 
c'est  que  ce  n'est  point  le  lieu,  c'est  la  compagnie 
dont  il  em  impossible  de  faire  aucuii  usage.  Heu- 
reiisemenl  depuis  que  je  suis  ici,  i'ai  un  certain 
hebetement  qui  teraii  que  je  n'enteiidrais  pas  le  plus 
petit  raiHonnementj  je  vt'gt'te." — "  Je  ne  crois 
pas  qu'aucun  remcde  puissc  eire  bon  lorsqu'on 
s'ennuie  autant  niie  je  fais:  cc  n'est  pas  que  je 
aupporte  mon  nial  paiicminent  ;  mais  jamais  je  ne 
suis  bicn-aise,  et  ce  n'est  que  parcu  que  je  vegete 
que  je  suie  tranquillc  :  quand  dix  heures  arrivent  je 


suis  ravie,  je  vois  la  fin  de  la  journee  avec  delices. 
Si  je  n'avais  pas  mon  lit  et  mon  fauteuil,  je  serais 
cent  fois  plus  malheureuse." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  96 — 98. 

The  following,  though  short,  is  a  good  spec- 
imen of  the  tone  in  which  she  treats  her 
lover. 

"  Je  crois  que  vous  me  regrettez,  c'est -a-dire, 
que  vous  pensez  beaucoup  a  moi.  Mais  (comme 
de  raison)  vous  vous  divertissez  fort  bien  :  vous  etes 
comme  les  quieiistes,  vous  fanes  tout  en  moi,  pour 
moi  et  par  moi  j  mais  le  fait  est  que  vous  faiies  tout 
sans  moi  ei  que  vos  journees  se  passent  gaiement, 
que  vous  jouissez  d'une  certaine  liberie  qui  voua 
plait,  et  vous  etes  fort  aise  que  pendant  ce  lemps-la 
je  travaille  a  me  bien  porter.  Mes  units  ne  sent 
pas  trop  bonnes,  et  je  crois  que  c'est  que  je  mange  i 
un  peu  trop:  hier  je  me  suis  retranche  le  Loeut,  au- 
jourd'hui  je  compie  reformer  la  quaniiie  de  pain." 
— "  N'allez  point  vous  corriger  sur  rien,  j'aime  que 
vous  me  parliez  ormeaux,  ruisseaux.  moineaux,  etc., 
el  ce  m'est  une  occasion  tres-agreable  de  v>»us  don- 
I  ner  des  demeiiiis,  de  vous  conloiidre,  de  vous  tour- 
j  menter,  c'est  je  crois  ce  qui  coniriliue  le  plus  a  me 
j  faire  pas.*er  mes  eaux." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  126,  1-27.  129. 

We  have  scarcely  left  ourselves  room  to 
I  give  any  of  the  gentleman's  part  of  this  cor- 
respondence.    It  is  very  pleasingly  and  gaily 
sustained  by  him, — though  he  deals  mostly  in 
I  the  tittle-tattle  of  Paris,  and  appears  a  little 
'  vain  of  his  oAvn  currency  and  distinction.  We 
extract  the  following  paragraphs;  just  as  the) 
turn  up  to  us. 

"  Je  ne  crois  pas  que  Ton  pnisse  etre  heureux  ei 
province  qnand  on  a  passe  sa  vie  a  Pans ;  mai 
lieureux  qui  n'a  jamais  connu  Paris,  et  qui  n'ajout 
pas  nccessairement  a  cetie  vie  les  maux  chime 
riques,  quisont  les  plus  grands!  caronpeut  guerir  u 
seigneur  qui  geniit  de  ce  qu'il  a  ete  grele,  en  h 
faisant  voir  qu'il  se  trompe,  et  que  sa  vigne  est  cot 
verte  de  raisin  ;  mais  la  grele  metaphysique  ne  pei 
etre  combattue.  La  naiure,  ou  la  providence  n'e: 
pas  si  injusie  qu'on  le  veut  dire;  n'y  meltons  rif 
du  noire,  et  nous  serons  moins  a  plaindre ;  et  pu 
regardons  le  terme  qui  approche,  le  marteaii  qui  i 
frapper  I'heure,  et  persons  que  tout  cela  va  di 
para  It  re. 

"  Ah  I  I'inconcevable  Pont  de  Veyle  !  il  vient  i 
donner  une  parade  chez  M.  le  due  d' Orleans  :  cet 
scene  que  vous  connaissez  du  vendeur  d'orvieta 
Au  lieu  du  Forcalquier,  c'eiait  le  peiit  Gaiiffin  q 
faisait  le  Giles;  et  Pont  de  Veyle  a  disiribue 
moins  deux  cents  boites  avec  in>  couplet  pour  to 
le  monde:  il  est  plus  jeune  que  quand  vous  I'av 
vu  la  premiere  fois  ;  (7  s' amuse  de  'out;  n'aime  rie 
et  n'a  conserve  de  la  memoire  de  la  detunte  que 
hnine  pour  la  musique  frangaise." — Vol.  i.  i 
110.  111. 

At  the  end  of  the  letters,  there  are  plac 
a  variety  of  portraits,  or  characters  of  the  mi 
distinguished  persons  in  Madame  du  D^ 
fand's  society,  written  by  each  other — son 
times  with  great  freedom,  and  sometiir 
with  much  flattery — but  almost  always  w 
wit  and  penetration.  We  give  the  follow 
by  Madame  du  Deffand  as  a  specini 
chiefly  because  it  is  shorter  than  most  of  : 
others. 

"  Madame  la  Duchesse  d'Aiguillon  a  la  bou  s 
enfonce,  le  nez  de  travers.  le  regard  fol  et  hard  • 
et  malgre  cela  eile  est  belle.  L'cclat  de  son  t  ' 
I'emporie  sur  I'irregulariie  de  ces  trails. 

"  .Sa  taille  est  grossiere,  sa  gorge,  ses  bras  i ' 
enormes ;  cependant  elle  n'a  point  I'air  pesan  li 
epais  :  la  force  suppli'e  en  elle  a  la  legereu'. 

"Son  esprit  a  beaucoup  dc  rapport  a  sa  figuri' 
est  pour  ainsi  dire  aussijpal  aessineque  i:On  visi' 


MAD.  Dll  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  LESPINASSE. 


lo: 


et  aussi  eclatant :  I'abondance,  I'activi  c,  rinipetu- 
osite  en  sont  les  qualites  dominantes.  8an9  gout, 
sans  grace,  et  sans  juslesse,  elle  eiomie,  elle  sur- 
prena,  niais  elle  iie  phut  iii  n'intcresse. 

"  On  pourrait  comparer  Madame  la  Duohesse 
d' Aiguillon  ii  ces  statues  faitcs  pour  le  cintrc,  et  qui 
paraissent  moiistrueuses  etant  dans  le  parvis.  Sa 
figure  ni  son  esprit  ne  veulent  point  ^Ire  viis  iii  ex- 
amines de  trop  pres  ;  une  ceriaine  distance  est  noces- 
saire  a  sa  beauie :  des  juges  pen  eclairos  et  peii 
delicats  sont  les  sculs  qui  puissent  ctre  favorables  a 
son  esprit. 

"  Setnblabie  a  la  trompette  du  jugetnent,  elle  est 
faite  pour  resusciter  les  rnoris;  ce  sont  les  impiiis- 
sans  qui  doivent  I'aimer,  ce  sont  lea  sourds  qui  doi- 
veiit  rentendre." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  154 — IfiG. 

There  are  three  characters  of  Madame  du 
Deffand  herself,  all  very  flattering.  That  by 
the  President  Renault  is  the  least  so.  It  ends 
as  follows. 

i  "  Cependani,  pour  ne  pas  marquer  trop  de  prf'- 
'r  vention  et  obtenir  plus  dc  croyance,  j'ajouterai  que 
I'age.  sans  iui  oter  ses  lalens,  I'avait  rendue  ja- 
louse  et  mefiante,  cedant  a  ses  premiers  mouve- 
mens,  maladroite  pour  conduire  les  hommes  dont 
elle   disposait   naturellement ;    enfin    de   I'humeur 

■  inegale,  injuste,  ne  cessant  d'etre  aimable  qn'aux 
yeux  des  personnes  auxquelles  il  Iui  itnportait  de 

,  plaire,  et,  pour  finir,  la  personne  par  laquelle  j'ai 

■  ete  le  plus  heureux  et  le  plus  malheureux,  parce 
qu'elle  est  ce  que  j'ai  leplus  aime." — Vol.  iii.  p.  188. 

He  is  infinitely  more  partial  to  a  Madame 
de  Flamarens,  whose  character  he  begins 
with  great  elegance  as  follows. 

"  Madame  de  Flamarens  a  le  visage  le  plus 
touchanl  et  le  plus  modeste  quifut  jamais  ;  c'est  un 
.  genre  de  beaute  que  la  nature  n'a  attrape  qu'une 
f'ois :  il  y  a  dans  ses  traits  quelque  chose  de  rare  et 
de  mysterieux,  qui  aurait  fait  dire,  dans  les  temps 
.  fabuleux,  qu'une  in^mortelle,  sous  cette  forme,  ne 
(  ,8'eiait  pas  assez  denuisee !"— Vol.  iii.  p.  196. 
■  I  We  take  our  leave  now  of  these  volumes : 
!  'and  of  the  brilliant  circle  and  brilliant  days 
(  of  Madame  du  Deffand.  Such  a  society  pro- 
bably never  will  exist  again  in  the  world : — 
:  nor  can  we  say  we  are  very  sorry  for  it. 
"  It  was  not  very  moral,  we  are  afraid;  and  we 
'  have  seen,  that  the  most  distinguished  mcm- 
|:  jbers  of  it  were  not  very  happy.  When  we 
',  |Say  that  it  nmst  have  been  in  the  highest  de- 
',  Igree  delightful  to  those  who  sought  oidy  for 
n'  amusement,  we  wish  it  to  be  understood,  not 
f  ionly  that  amusement  does  not  constitute  hap- 
'■  'piness,  but  that  it  can  afford  very  little  plea- 
sure to  those  who  have  not  other  sources  of 
•  happiness.  The  great  e.vtent  of  the  accom- 
I  plisned  society  of  Paris,  and  the  familiarity 
'  of  its  intercourse,  seems  to  have  gradually 
';  brought  almost  all  its  members  to  spend  their 
-'-  Avhole  lives  in  public.  They  had  no  notion, 
s'  itherefore,  of  domestic  enjoyments;  and  their 
i*'  (affections  being  dissipated  among  so  many 
i*  icompetitors,  and  distracted  by  such  an  inces- 
«'  'sant  variety  of  small  occupations,  came  natur- 
ally to  be  weakened  and  exhausted  ;  am!  a 
It  tertain  heartless  gaiety  to  be  extended  indis- 
\i*  l^riminately  to  the  follies  and  the  misfortunes 
■«'  bf  their  associates.  Bating  some  little  fits  of 
^  jrallantry,  therefore,  there  could  be  no  devo- 
Ijj  jtedness  of  attachment ;  and  no  profound  sym- 
■'  jpathy  for  the  sufferings  of  the  most  intimate 
f|i  friends.  Every  thing,  we  find  accordingly, 
0  kas  made  a  subject  for  epigrams;  and  those 


who  did  not  make  jests  at  their  friends"  ca- 
lamities, were  glad,  at  any  rate,  to  forget  them 
in  the  society  of  those  who  diil.  VVhen  wi; 
recollect,  too,  that  the  desertion  of  all  the  high 
duties  of  patriots  and  statesmen,  and  the  in- 
sulting and  systematic  degradation  of  the  great 
body  of  the  people  were  necessary  conditions 
of  the  excellence  of  this  society,  we  cannot 
hesitate  in  sayinir,  that  its  brilliancy  was 
maintained  at  tar  too  great  a  cost;  and  that 
the  fuel  which  was  wasted  in  its  support, 
would  have  been  infinitely  better  applied  in 
diffusing  a  gentler  light,  and  a  more  genial 
heat,  through  the  private  dweUings  of  the 
land. 

We  have  occupied  ourselves  so  long  with 
Madame  du  Deffand  and  her  associates,  that 
we  can  afford  but  a  small  portion  of  our  atten- 
tion for  Mademoiselle  de  Lespina.sse.  Avery 
extraordinary  person  we  will  allow  her  to  have 
been ;  and  a  most  extraordinary  publication 
she  has  left  us  to  consider.  On  a  former  oc- 
casion, we  took  some  notice  of  the  account 
which  Marmontel  had  given  of  her  character 
and  conduct,  and  expressed  our  surprise  that 
any  one,  who  had  acted  the  unprincipled  and 
selfish  part  which  he  imputes  to  her,  should 
be  thought  worthy,  either  of  the  admiration 
he  expresses,  or  of  the  friendship  and  patron- 
age of  so  many  distinguished  characters,  or 
of  the  devoted  attachment  of  such  a  man  as 
D'Alembert.  After  reading  these  letters,  we 
see  much  reason  to  doubt  of  the  accuracy  of 
Marmontel's  representation  ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  find  great  difficulty  in  settling  our  own 
opinion  of  the  author.  Marmontel  describes 
her  as  having  first  made  a  vain  attempt  upon 
the  heart  of  M.  de  Guibert,  the  celebrated 
author  of  the  Tactics. — and  then  endeavoured 
to  indenniify  herself  by  making  a  conquest  of 
M.  de  Mora,  the  son  of  the  Spanish  ambassa- 
dor, upon  whose  death  she  is  stated  to  have 
died  of  mortification  :  and,  in  both  cases,  she 
is  represented  as  having  been  actuated  more 
by  a  selfish  and  paltry  ambition,  than  by  any 
feeling  of  affection.  The  dates,  and  the  tenor 
of  the  letters  before  us,  enable  us  to  detect 
many  inaccuracies  in  this  statement ;  while 
they  throw  us  into  new  perplexity  as  to  the 
true  character  of  the  writer.  They  begin  in 
1773,  after  M.  de  Mora  had  been  recalled  to 
Spain  hv  his  relations,  and  when  her  whole 
soul  seems  to  be  occupied  with  anguish  for 
this  separation  ;  and  they  are  all  addressed  to 
M.  de  (luibert;  who  had  then  recently  recom- 
mended himself  to  her,  by  the  tender  interest 
he  took  in  her  affliction.  From  the  very  be- 
ginning, however,  there  is  more  of  love  in 
them,  than  we  can  well  reconcile  with  the 
subsistence  of  her  first  engrossing  passion ; 
and,  long  before  the  death  of  M.  Mora,  she 
expresses  the  most  vehement,  unequivocal, 
and  passionate  attachment  to  M.  Guibert. 
Sometimes  she  has  fits  of  remorse  for  this; 
but,  for  the  most  part,  she  seems  quite  uncon- 
scious, either  of  inconsistency  or  impropriety; 
and  M.  Guibert  is,  in  the  same  letter,  ad- 
dressed in  terms  of  the  most  passionate  ado- 
ration, and  made  the  confident  of  her  un- 
speakable, devoted,  and  luialterable  love  for 
1  2 


102 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


M.  Mora.  So  she  goes  on, — most  furiously  and 
outrageously  in  love  with  them  both  at  the 
same  time, — till  the  death  of  M.  JNIora,  in 
1774.  This  event,  however,  makes  no  differ- 
ence in  her  feelings  or  e.xpressions;  she  con- 
tinues to  love  his  memory,  just  as  ardently  as 
his  living  successor  in  her  affection ;  and  her 
letters  are  divided,  as  before,  between  ex- 
pressions of  heart-rendinii:  grief  and  unbounded 
attachment — between  her  bcsoin  de  mourir  for 
M.  Mora,  and  her  delight  in  living  for  M. 
Guibert.  There  are  still  more  inexplicable 
things  in  those  letters.  None  of  Guibert's 
letters  are  given, — so  that  we  cannot  see  how 
he  responded  to  all  these  raptures;  but,  from 
the  very  first,  or  almost  from  the  first,  she 
complains  bitterly  of  his  coldness  and  dissipa- 
tion :  laments  that  he  has  a  heart  incapable 
of  tenderness;  and  that  he  feels  nothing  but 
gratitude  or  compassion  for  a  being  whom  he 
had  fascinated,  exaUed,  and  possessed  with 
the  most  ardent  and  unbounded  passion.  We 
cannot  say  that  we  see  any  clear  traces  of  her 
ever  having  hoped,  or  even  wished  that  he 
should  marry  her.  On  the  contrary,  she  re- 
commends several  wives  to  him  ;  and  at  last 
he  takes  one,  with  her  approbation  and  con- 
sent, while  the  correspondence  goes  on  in  the 
game  tone  as  before.  The  vehemence  and 
excess  of  her  passion  continue  to  the  last  of 
the  letters  here  published,  which  come  down 
to  within  a  few  weeks  of  her  death,  in  1776. 
The  account  which  we  have  here  given  ap- 
pears ridiculous:  and  there  are  people,  and 
wise  people,  who,  even  after  looking  into  the 
book,  will  think  Mademoiselle  de  Lespinasse 
deserving  of  nothing  but  ridicule,  and  consign 
her  and  her  ravings  to  immeasurable  con- 
tempt. Gentle  spirits,  however,  will  judge 
more  gently;  and  there  are  few,  we  believe, 
who  feel  interest  enough  in  the  work  to  read 
it  through,  who  will  not  lay  it  down  with 
emotions  of  admiration  and  profound  com- 
passion. Even  if  we  did  not  know  that  she 
was  the  chosen  companion  of  D'Alembert, 
and  the  respected  friend  of  Turgot,  Condillac, 
Condorcet,  and  the  first  characters  in  France, 
there  are,  in  the  strange  book  before  us,  such 
traces  of  a  powerful,  generous,  and  ardent 
mind,  as  necessarily  to  command  the  respect 
even  of  those  who  may  be  provoked  with  her 
inconsistencies,  and  wearied  out  with  the  ve- 
hemence of  ht,*r  sorrow.  There  is  something 
so  natural  too,  so  elo(}uent,  and  so  pathetic  in 
her  expression — atone  of  ardour  and  enthusi- 
asm so  infectious,  and  so  much  of  the  true 
•and  agonizing  voice  of  heart-struck  wretched- 
ness, that  it  burdens  us  with  something  of  the 
weight  of  a  real  sorrow ;  and  we  are  glad  to 
make  ourselves  angry  at  her  unaccountable- 
ness,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  oppression.  It 
ouizht  to  be  recollected  also,  that  during  the 
whole  course  of  the  corres])ondene(^  this  poor 
young  woman  was  dying  of  a  painful  and  ir- 
ritating disease.  Tortured  with  sickness,  or 
aoritated  with  opium,  her  blood  never  seems 
in  all  tliat  time  to  have  llowed  peaceably  in 
her  veins,  and  her  nfrves  and  her  passions 
seem  to  h:ive  reacted  upon  each  other  in  a 
series  of  cruel  agitations.    Why  she  is  so  very 


wretched,  and  so  very  angry,  we  do  not  in- 
deed always  understand  ;  but  there  is  no  mis- 
taking the  language  and  real  emotion ;  and 
while  there  is  something  wearisome,  perhaps, 
in  the  uniformity  of  a  vehemence  of  which  we 
do  not  clearly  see  the  cause,  there  is  some- 
tliing  truly  dechirant  in  the  natural  and  pite- 
ous iteration  of  her  eloquent  complainings, 
and  something  captivalhig  and  noble  in  the 
fire  and  rapidity  with  which  she  pours  out  her 
emotions.  The  style  is  as  original  and  extra- 
ordinary as  the  character  of  its  author.  It  is 
quite  natural,  and  even  negligent — altogether 
without  gaiety  or  assumed  dignity — and  yet 
full  of  elegance  and  spirit,  and  burning  with 
the  flames  of  a  heart  abandoned  to  passion, 
and  an  imaghiation  exalted  by  enthusiasm. 
It  is  not  easy  to  fall  into  the  measure  of  such 
a  composer,  in  running  over  a  miscellany  of 
amusement ;  but  we  cannot  avoid  addhig  a 
few  extracts,  if  it  Avere  only  to  make  what 
we  have  been  saying  intelligible,  to  some  at 
least  of  our  readers. 

"  Je  nie  sentoi?  uiie  repugnance  mortclle  a  ouvrir 
voire  lettre :  si  je  n'avois  craint  de  vous  otfenser, 
j'allois  voiis  la  renvoyer.  Quelque  chose  nie  disoit 
qu'elle  irriieroit  mes  mau.x,  ct  je  voulois  me  me- 
nager.  La  soufTrance  coniinncUe  de^  mon  corps 
affai-ssc  mon  ame  :  j'ai  encore  eu  la  fievre  ;  je  n'ai 
pas  ferme  I'ceil ;  je  n'en  puis  plus.  De  grace,  par 
piiie,  ne  tourmentez plus une  vie  qui  s'eieiiit,  et  dont 
tou.?  les  installs  sent  devoues  a  la  douleur  et  aux 
regrets.  Je  iie  vous  accuse  point,  je  n'e.xige  rien, 
vous  ne  me  devez  rien  :  car,  en  effei.  je  n'ai  pas  eu 
un  mouvement,  pas  un  sentiment  auquel  j'ai  con- 
senti ;  el  quand  j';ii  eu  le  malheur  d'y  ceder,  j'ai 
toujours  deteste  la  force,  ou  la  foiblesse,  qui  ni'en- 
trainoif.  Vous  voyez  que  vous  ne  me  devez  aucune 
reconnaissance,  et  que  je  n'ai  le  droit  de  vous  taire 
aucun  reproche.  Soyez  done  libre,  retournez  a  ce 
que  vous  aimez,  et  a  ce  qui  vous  convient  plus  que 
vous  ne  croyez  peui-etre.  Laisscz-moi  a  ma  dou- 
leur ;  lais.?cz-moi  m'occuper  sans  distnciion  du  seul 
ohjet  que  j'ai  adore,  et  dont  le  s^ouvenir  m'est  plus 
cher  que  tout  ce  qui  reste  dans  la  nature.  Mon 
Dieu  !  je  ne  devrois  pas  le  pleurer ;  j'aurois  du  le 
suivre  :  e'est  vous  qui  me  faites  vivre,  qui  faiies  le 
tourment  d'une  creature  que  la  douleur  consume, 
et  qui  eniploie  ce  qui  lui  reste  de  forces  a  invoquer 
la  mort.  Ah !  vous  en  faites  irop,  et  pas  assez  pour 
moi.  Je  vous  le  disois  bien  11  y  a  huit  jours,  vous 
me  rendez  difficile,  exi^eante :  en  donnant  tout,  on 
veut  obienir  quelque  chose.  Maia,  encore  une  fois, 
je  vous  pardiinne,  et  je  ne  vous  hais  point :  ce  n'est 
pas  par  gencrosite  que  je  vous  pardonne,  ce  n'est 
pas  par  honte  que  je  ne  vous  hais  pas ;  c'est  que 
mon  ame  est  lasse,  qu'elle  meiirt  de  fatigue.  Ah! 
mon  ami,  lai.-sez-nioi.  ne  me  diies  plus  que  vou3 
ni'aimcz  :  ce  baume  devient  du  poison  ;  vous  calmez 
et  dechirez  ma  plaie  tour  a  tour.  Oh!  que  vous 
me  faites  mnl  !  que  la  vie  me  pe.«e  !  que  je  vous 
aime  pourtant,  et  que  je  .serois  desolee  de  meitre  de 
la  irisiesse  dans  votre  ame  !  Mon  ami,  elle  est  trop 
pariagee,  tiop  dissipee,  pour  que  le  vrai  plaisir  y 
puisse  peiietrer.  Vous  voulez  que  je  vous  voie  ce 
soir;  et  bien,  venez  done  !" — Vol.  ii.  pp.  20() — 208. 

"  Combiendefois  auroisje  pu  me  plaindre  ;  com- 
bien  de  fois  vous  ai-je  cache  mes  larmcs  !  Ah  1  je 
le  vols  trop  bien:  on  ne  snuroit  iii  reteiiir,  ni  ra- 
niener  un  co?ur  qui  est  entranip  par  un  autre  pen- 
chant :  jp  me  le  dis  sans  cesse,  quelquefois  je  me 
rroi.i  gueric ;  vous  paroissez,  et  tout  est  detruit. 
La  reflexion,  mes  resolutions,  le  malheur,  tout  perd^ 
sa  force  au  premier  mot  que  vous  prononcez.  Je 
ne  vois  pln.-»  d'asile  quo  la  mon.  et  jamais  aucuD: 
malheureiix  ne  I'a  iuvoquee  avec  plu*  d'ardeui 
Je  retiena  la  moitie  de  mon  nnie  :  sa  clinjeur,  sor' 
mouvement  vous  imporiui-rtrrrr,  el  vous  eleindrot 


MAD.  DU  DEFFAND  AND  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 


103 


tout-a-fait ;  le  feu  qui  n'echauffe  pas,  incommode.  |  the  heart ;  and,  when  we  thhik  that  this  ex- 
Ah !  si  vous  saviez,  si  voua  lisiez  comme  j'ai  tait  i  traoidinary  woman  wrote  all  this,  not  in  the 
jouir  une  ame  forte  et  passionnee,  du  plaisir  d'etre  Jays  of  impatient  youth,  when  the  heart  is 
aimee !     11  comparoit  ce  qui     avoit  a.me,  ce  qui      ^       ^      sutferinf?,  and  takes  a  strange  de- 

light  in  the  vehemence  even  ot  its  pamlul 
emotions,  but  after  years  of  misery,  and  with. 


rainioit  encore,  et  il  nie  disoit  sans  cesse :  '  01 
elled  ne  sont  pas  dignes  d'eire  vos  ocolieres  ;  votre 
anie  a  ete  cliaullee  par^  ie  soleil  de  Lima,  et  ines 
conipatriotcs  semblent  eire  iiees  sous  U's  glares  de 
la  Lapoiiie.'  Et  c'etoit  de  Madrid  qu'il  me  niaiidoit 
celal  Mon  ami,  il  ne  me  loiioit  pas;  il  jouissoii  ; 
et  je  ne  ciois  point  me  louer,  quand  je  vous  dis 
qu"en  vous  anuaiit  a  la  folie,  je  ne  vous  donne  que 
ce  que  je  ne  puis  pas  garder  ou  relenir." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  215—217. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu  I  que  Ton  vit/or<  lorsqu'on  est 
mort  a  tout,  exceptc  a  un  objei  qui  est  I'univers 
pour  nous,  et  qui  s'empare  tellemcnt  de  touics 
nos  tacultes,  qu'il  n'est  plus  possible  de  vivre  dans 
d'autres  temps  que  dans  le  moment  oii  Ton  est ! 
Eh  1  comment  voulez-vous  que  je  vous  dise  si  je 
vous  atmerai  dans  <™ts  mols?  Comment  pourrois- 
je,  avec  ma  pensee,  me  distraire  de  mon  senii- 
nient?  Vous  voudnez  que,  lorsque  je  vous  vois, 
lorsque  votre  presence  charme  mes  sens  et  mon 
ame,  je  pusse  vous  rendre  compte  de  reffei  que  je 
recevrai  de  voire  manage ;  mon  ami,  je  n'en  sais 
rien, — mais  rien  du  tout.  S'ii  me  guerissoit.  je 
vous  le  dirois,  et  vous  eies  assez  juste  pour  ne  m'en 
pas  blamer.  Si.  au  coiitraire,  il  porinit  le  desespoir 
datis  mon  ame,  je  ne  me  plaiiidrois  pas,  et  je  soufFri- 
rois  bien  pen  de  temps.  Alors  vous  seriez  assez 
sensible  et  assez  delicat  pour  approuver  un  parti  qui 
ne  vous  cofiieroit  que  des  regrets  passagers,  et  dont 
votre  nouvelle  situation  vous  distrairoit  bien  vite  ;  et 
je  vous  assure  que  cette  pensee  est  consolante  pour 
moi :  je  m'en  sens  plus  libre.  Ne  me  demandez 
done  plus  ce  que  je  ferai  lorsque  vous  aurez  engage 
voire  vie  ^  une  autre.  Si  je  n'avois  que  de  la  vanite 
et  de  I'aniour-propre,  je  serois  bien  plus  eclairee  sur 
ce  que  j'eprouverai  alors.  II  n'y  a  guere  de  meprise 
aux  calculs  de  I'amour-propre ;  il  prevoit  assez 
juste:  la  passion  n'a  point  d'avenir  ;  ainsi  en  vous 
disant :  je  vous  airne,  je  vous  dis  tout  ce  que  je  sais 
et  tout  ce  que  je  sens. — Oh  I  mon  ami,  je  rne  sens 
capable  de  tout,  excepte  de  plier :  j'aurois  la  force 


leatli  before  her  eyes — advancing  by  gradual 
but  visible  steps,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel 
an  iiulescribable  emotion  of  pity,  resentment, 
and  admiration.     One  little  word  more. 

"Oh!  que  vous  pcsez  sur  mon  ccEur,  lorsque 
vous  voulez  me  prouver  qu'il  doit  etre  content  du 
voire !  Je  ne  me  plaindrois  jamais,  mais  vous  me 
forcez  sotivent  a  ciicr.  taut  le  mal  que  vous  me 
faites  est  aigu  et  profond  !  Mon  ami,  j'ai  etc  aimee, 
je  le  suis  encore,  et  je  meurs  de  regret  en  pensant 
que  ce  n'est  pas  de  vous.  J'ai  beau  me  dire  que  je 
ne  meritai  jamais  le  bonheur  que  je  regrette ;  mon 
coBur  cette  iois  lait  taire  mon  amour-propre:  il  me 
dit  que,  sije  dus  jamais  ctre  aimee,  c'etoit  de  celui 
qui  auroit  assez  de  charme  a  mes  yeux,  pour  me  dis- 
traire de  M.  de  M et  pour  me  retenir  a  la  vie, 

apres  I'avoir  perdu.  Je  n'ai  fait  que  languir  depuis 
votre  depart  ;  je  n'ai  pas  ete  une  heure  sans  souf- 
france  ;  le  mal  de  mon  ame  passe  a  mon  corps  ;  j'ai 
tous  les  jours  la  fievre,  et  mon  medecin,  qui  n'esl 
pas  le  plus  habile  de  tous  les  homines,  me  repete 
sans  eesse  que  je  suis  consumee  de  chagrin,  que 
mon  pouts,  que  ma  respiration  annoncent  une  dou- 
leur  active  ;  et  il  s'en  va  toujours  en  me  disant : 
nous  11  avails  point  de  remedc  pour  I'ame.  II  n'y  en 
a  plus  pour  moi :  ce  nest  pas  guerir  que  je  voudrois, 
mais  me  calmer,  mais  retrouver  quelques  momens 
de  repos  pour  me  conduire  a  celui  que  la  nature 
m'acrordera  bieniot." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  146,  147. 

"  Je  n'ai  plus  assez  de  force  pour  mon  ame— elle 
me  tue.  Vous  ne  pouvez  plus  rien  sur  moi,  que 
me  faire  souffrir.  Ne  tachez  done  plus  a  me  conso- 
ler, et  cessez  de  vnuloir  me  faire  le  victimede  votre 
morale,  apres  m'avoir  fait  celle  de  votre  legerete. — 
Vous  ne  m'avez  pas  vue,  parce  que  la  journee  n'a 
que  douze  heures,  et  que  vous  aviez  de  quo!  les 
remplir  par  des  inierets  et  des  plaisirs  qui  vous  sont, 


d'un  martyr,  pour  satisfaire  ma  passion  ou  celle  de  |  pt  quj  doivent  vous  etre  plus  chers  que  mon  mal 
la  personiie  qui  m'aimeroit :  mais  je  ne  trouve  rien  ;  heur.  Je  ne  reclame  rien,  je  n'exige  rien,  et  je  me 
en  moi  qui  me  reponde  de  pouvoir  jamais  faire  le  ;  ^jg  sa„g  cpsse  que  la  source  de  mon  bonheur  et  de 
sacritice  de  mon  sentiment.  La  vie  n'est  rien  en  p^on  plaisir  est  perdu  pour  jamais."— Vol.  iii.  p.  59. 
comparaison,  et  vous  verrez  si  ce  ne  sont  la  que  les  •  u     i, 

discours  d'une  tete  exaltee.  Oui,  peut-etre  ce  sont  I  We  cannot  leave  our  readers  with  these 
la  les  pensees  d'une  ame  exaltee,  mais  a  laquelle  !  painful  impressions;  and  shall  add  just  one 
appartiennent  les  actions  fortes.  Seroit-ce  a  la  rai-  :  ^^^^^.j  ^^  j^^.^  ^j-  ^^.p^j^f  jg  jrayest  in  these  deso- 
son  qui  est  si  prevoyante,  si  loible  dans  ses  vues,  et  |  .     .  , 

;menie  si  impuissante  dans  ses  moyens,  que  ces  i  1^'^i^S  volumes. 

pensees  pourroieiitappartenir?  Mon  ami,  je  ne  suis  "  i\i.  Grimm  est  de  retour  ;  je  I'ai  accable  de 
point  raisoiinable,  et  c'est  peut-etre  a  force  d'etre  ]  questions.  II  peint  la  Czarine,  non  pas  comme  une 
passionnee  que  j'ai  mis  toute  ma  vie  tani  de  raison  ii  |  gouveraine,  mais  comme  une  femme  aimable,  pleine 
tout  ce  qui  est  soumis  au  jiigement  et  a  Topinion  des  j  d'esprit,  de  saillies,  et  de  tout  ce  qui  pent  seduire 
indifferens.  Combien  j'ai  usurpe  d'eloges  sur  ma  g,  charmer  Mais  dans  tout  ce  qu'il  me  disoit,  je 
Imuderation,  sur  ma  noblesse  d'ame,  sur  mon  desin-  1  reconnoissois  plutot  cet  art  charmant  d'une  courti- 
leressement,  sur  les  sacrifices  pretendus  que  je  ;  garie  arecque,  que  la  dignite  et  I'eclat  de  I'lmpera- 
Tai-ois  a  une  memoire  respectable  et  chere,  et  a  la  ,  (^ice  d'un  criand  empire." — Vol.  ii-  p-  105. 
maison  H'Alb.  .  .  .  !  Voila  comme  le  monde  jiige,  !  «.  Avani  diner  je  vais  voir  rue  de  Clery  desauto- 
comme  il  voii !  Eh,  bon  Dieu  !  sots  que  vous  eies.  j  ,Tiaies  ;  qui  sont  prodigieux.  a  ce  qu'on  dit.  Quand 
je  ne  merite  pas  vos  louanses :  mon  ame  n'etoit     j'allois  dans  le  monde,  je  n'aurois  pas  eu  cette  cii- 


'■    |pas  faiie  pour  les  peiits  inierets  qui  vous  occupent 

'    toute  entiere  au  bonheur  d'aimeret  d'etre,  aimc  il 

'    jie  m'a  fallu  iii  force,  ni  honnetete  pour  supporter 

la  pauvrete,  et  pour  dedaigner  les  avantages  de  la 

'     vanite.     J'ai  taut  joui,  j'ai  si  bien  senti  le  prix  de  la 

vie.  que  s'il  falloit  recommencer,  je  voudrois  que  ce 

'    ilui  aux  memifS  conditions.     Aimer  et  souffrir — le 

"•    biel,  I'enfer, — voila  a  quoi  je  me  devouerois.  voila 

*!'   '-e  que  je  voudrois  sentir,  voila  le  climat  que  je  vou- 

Irois  habiter;  et  non  cet  ctat  tempere  dans  leijuel 

iivciu  tous  les  sots  et  tous  les  automates  dont  nous 

»-jniines  environnes." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  228 — 233. 

*  I  All  this  is  raving  no  doubt;  but  it  is  the 
0'  taviiig  of  real  passion,  and  of  a  lofty  and 
«'!  k>owerful  spirit.     It  is  the  eloquent  raving  of 


nosite:  deux  ou  trois  soupers  en  donnent  satiete; 
mais  ceux  de  la  rue  de  Clery  valent  mieux :  ils 
agissent  et  ne  parlent  goini.  Venez-y,  en  allnnt 
au  :\Iarais,  et  je  v.nis  dirai  la  si  j'ai  la  loge  de  M. 
leducd'.\umont.  Madame  de  Ch.  .  .  ne  vous  croit 
point  coupable  de  negligence  :  elle  m'a  demande 
aujourd'hui  si  votre  retraite  duroit  encore.  Ce  ^ue 
les  femrnes  veulent  seulement,  c'est  d'etre  prefe- 
rees.  Pre.^que  personne  n'a  besoin  d'etre  airne,  et 
cela  est  bien  heureux :  car  c'est  ce  qui  se  fait  le 
plus  mal  a  Paris.  lis  osent  dire  qu'ils  aiment ;  et 
ils  sont  ralmes  et  di.ssipes  !  c'est  assurement  bien 
connoiire  le  sentiment  et  la  passion.  Pauvresgens! 
il  faiit  les  louer  comme  les  Liliputiens:  ils  sont 
bien  jolis,  bien  gentils,  bien  aimables.  Adieu,  moa 
ami."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  197,  198. 


r04 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPIH^, 


We  have  left  ourselves  no  room  to  make  '  visibly  within  a  few  weeks  of  her  end,  and  is 
any  reflections 3  except,  only,  that  the  French  j  wasted  with  coughs  and  spasms,  she  still  has 
fashion  of   living,  and   almost  of   dying,   in  I  her  salon  filled  twice  a  day  with  company, 


public,  is  nowhere  so  strikingly  exemplified 
as  in  the  letters  of  this  victim  of  passion  and 
of  fancy.  While  her  heart  is  torn  with  the 
most  agonizing  passions,  and  her  thoughts 
turned  hourly  on  suicide,  she  dines  out.  and 
makes  visits  every  day ;  and,  when  she  is 


and  drags  herself  out  to  supper  with  all  the 
countesses  of  her  acquaintance.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  French  character,  indeed,  in 
both  the  works  of  which  we  now  lake  our 
leave ; — a  great  deal  to  admire,  and  to  wonder 
at — but  very  little,  we  think,  to  envy. 


(August,  1825.) 


Wilhelm  Mcister^s  Apprenticeship: 
pp. 


a  Novel.     From  the  German  of  Goethe.     3  vols.  l2mo. 
1030.     Edinburgh:  1824. 


There  are  few  things  that  at  first  sight  ap- 
pear more  capricious  and  unaccountable,  than 
the  diversities  of  national  taste ;  and  yet  there 
are  not  many,  that,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least, 
admit  of  a  clearer  e.xplanation.  They  form 
evidently  a  section  in  the  great  chapter  of 
National  Character;  and,  proceeding  on  the 
assumption,  that  human  nature  is  everywhere 
fundamentally  the  same,  it  is  not  perhaps 
very  difficult  to  indicate,  in  a  general  way, 
the  circumstances  which  have  distinguished 
it  into  so  many  local  varieties. 

These  may  be  divided  into  two  great  class- 
es,— the  one  embracing  all  that  relates  to  the 
newness  or  antiquity  of  the  society  to  which 
they  belong,  or.  in  other  words,  to  the  stage 
which  any  particular  nation  has  attained  in 
that  great  progress  from  rudeness  to  refine- 
ment, in  which  all  are  engaged : — the  other 
comprehending  what  may  be  termed  the  ac- 
cidental causes  by  which  the  character  and 
condition  of  communities  may  be  affected ; 
such  as  their  government,  their  relative  posi- 
tion as  to  power  and  civilization  to  neighbour- 
ing countries,  their  prevailing  occupations, 
determined  in  some  degree  by  the  capabilities 
of  their  soil  and  climate,  and  more  than  all 
perhaps,  as  to  the  question  of  taste,  the  still 
more  accidental  circumstance  of  the  character 
of  their  first  models  of  excellence,  or  the 
kind  of  merit  by  which  their  admiration  and 
national  vanity  had  first  been  excited. 

It  is  needless  to  illustrate  these  obvious 
sources  of  peculiarity  at  any  considerable 
length.  It  is  not  more  certain,  that  all  primi- 
tive communities  proceed  to  civilization  by 
nearly  the  same  stages,  than  that  the  progress 
of  taste  ismarked  by  corresponding  gradations, 
and  may.  in  most  cases,  be  distinguished  into 
periods,  the  order  and  succession  of  which  is 
nearly  as  uniform  and  determined.  If  tribes 
of  savage  men  always  proceed,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  from  the  occupation  of  hunting 
to  that  of  pasturatre,  from  that  to  agriculture, 
and  from  that  to  commerce  and  manufactures, 
the  sequence  is  scarcely  less  invariable  in  the 
history  of  letters  and  art.  In  the  former, 
verse  is  uniformly  antecedent  to  prose — mar- 
vellous legends  to  correct  history — exagge- 
rated sentiments  to  just  representations  of 
nature.     Invention,  in  short,  regularly  comes 


before  judgment,  warmth  of  feeling  before 
correct  reasoning — and  splendid  declamation  ] 
and  broad  humour  before  delicate  sunplicity 
or  refined  wit.  In  the  arts  again,  the  progress 
is  strictly  analagous — from  mere  monstrosity 
to  ostentatious  displays  of  labour  and  design, 
first  in  massive  formality,  and  next  in  fantas- 
tical minuteness,  variety,  and  flutter  of  parts; 
— and  then,  through  the  gradations  of  start- 
ling contrasts  and  overwrought  expression,  to  , 
the  repose  and  simplicity  of  graceful  nature. 
These  considerations  alone  explain  much 
of  that  contrariety  of  taste  by  which  diflerent ' 
nations   are   distinguished.      They  not   only 
start  in  the  great  career  of  improvement  at 
different   times,  but  thej-  advance  in  it  with 
different  velocitie.s — some  lingering  longer  in 
one  stage  than  another — some  obstructed  and 
some  helped  forward,  by  circumstances  oper» 
atinc:  on  them  from  within  or  from  without. 
It  is  the  unavoidable  consequence,  however, 
of  their  being  in  any  one  particular  position, 
■  that  they  will  judge  of  their  own  productions: 
jand  those  of  their  neighbours,  according  to' 
ithat  standard  of  taste  which  belongs  to  the 
jplace   they  then  hold  in  this  great  circle ; — 
and   that  a  whole  people  will  look  on  their 
neighbours  with  wonder  and   scorn,  for  ad- 
miring what  their  own  grandfathers  looked  on 
with   equal   admiration, — while   they  them-' 
selves  are  scorned  and  vilified  in  return,  fox 
tastes  which  will  infallibly  be  adopted  by  the 
grandchildren  of  those  who  despi.se  them.      ; 
What  we  have  termed  the  accidental  causes 
of  great  differences  in  beings  of  the   samt' 
nature,  do  not  of  course  admit  of  quite  sc 
simple  an  exposition.     But  it  is  not  in  realit) 
more  difficult  to  prove   their  existence  ant 
explain   their  operation.      Where  great  ant 
degrading  despotisms  have  been  early  estab 
lished,  either  by  the  aid  of  superstition  or  of 
mere  force,  as  in  most  of  the  states  of  .Asia- 
or  where  small  tribes  of  mixed  descent  have 
been  engaged  in  perpetual  contention  for  free 
dom  and  superiority,  as  in  ancient  Greece— 
where  the  ambition  and  faculties  of  individ 
uals  have  been  chained  up  by  the  inslitutioj 
of  castes  and  indelible  separations,  as  in  Indi; 
and  Egypt,  or  where  all  men  practise  all  oc 
cupations  and  aspire  to  all  honours,  as  in  Ger 
many  or  Britain — where  the  sole  occupatioi 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


105 


of  the  people  has  been  uar,  as  in  infant  Rome,  I 
or  where  a  vast  pacific  population  has  been 
ibr  ages  inured  to  mechanical  drudgery,  as  in 
China — it  is  needless  to  say,  that  very  oppo-  , 
site  notions  of  what  conduces  to  delight  and  ; 
amusement  must  necessarily  prevail ;  and  that 
the  Taste  of  the  nation  must  be  aifected  both 
by  the  sentiments  which  it  has  been  taught  to 
cultivate,  and  the  capacities  it  has  been  led 
to  unfold. 

The  influence  of  early  models,  however,  is 
perhaps  the  most  considerable  of  any;   and 
may   be   easily  enough   understood.     When 
men  have  been  accustomed  to  any  particular 
kind   of  excellence,    they  naturally  become 
good  judges  of  it,  and  account  certain  consid- 
erable  degrees   of   it   indispensable, — while 
they  are  comparatively  blind  to  the  merit  of 
other  good  qualities  to  which  they  had  been 
less  habituated,  and  are  neither  offended  by 
their  absence,  nor  at  all  skilful  in  their  estima- 
tion. Thus  those  nations  who,  like  the  English 
ind  the  Dutch,  have  been  long  accustomed  to 
ireat  cleanliness  and  order  in  their  persons 
|md  dwellings,  naturally  look  with  admiration 
3n  the  higher  displays  of  those  qualities,  and 
ire  proportionally  disgusted  by  their  neglect; 
ivhile  they  are  apt  to  undervalue  mere  pomp 
uid  stateiiness,  when  destitute  of  these  re- 
■oinmendations :    and  thus  also  the  Italians 
i!i(l  Sicilians,  bred  in  the  midst  of  dirt  and 
nagiiificence,  are  curiously  alive  to  the  beau- 
ies  of  architecture  and  sculpture,  and  make 
lut  litle  account  of  the  more  homely  comforts 
\ hull  are  so  highly  prized  by  the  others.    In 
he  same  way,  if  a  few  of  the  first  successful 
'.dventurers  in  art  should  have  excelled  in 
ny  particular  qualities,  the  taste  of  their  na- 
ioii  will  naturally  be  moulded  on  that  stand- 
.n! — will   regard  those  qualities  almost  ex- 
lusively  as  entitled  to  admiration,  and  will 
:ot  only  consider  the  want  of  them  as  fatal  to 
11  pretensions  to  excellence,  but  will  unduly 
lespise   and   undervalue   other   qualities,  in 
ihemselves  not  less  valuable,  but  with  which 
(heir  national  models  had  not  happened  to 
laake  them  timeously  familiar.     If,  for  ex- 
mple.  the  first  great  writers  in  any  country 
honld  have  distinguished  themselves  by  a 
'ompous  and  severe  regularity,  and  a  certain 
laborate  simplicity  of  design  and  execution, 
will  naturally  follow,  that  the  national  taste 
.ill  not  only  become  critical  and  rigorous  as 
3  those  particulars,  but  will  be  proportionally 
(niiicned  to  the  merit  of  vivacity,  nature,  and 
ivt^ntion,  when  combined  with  irregularity, 
onieliness,  or  confusion.    While,  if  the  great 
atriarchs  of  letters  had  excelled  in  variety 
ml  rapidity  of  invention,  and  boldness  and 
mil  of  sentiment,  though  poured  out  with 
Oiisjderable  disorder  and  incongruity  of  mau- 
ler, those  qualities  would  quickly  come  to  be 
pe  national  criterion  of  merit,  and  the  cor- 
pctness  and  decorum  of  the  other  school  be 
fespised.  as  mere  recipes  for  monotony  and 
ameness. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  plain  and  certain 

Jffects  of  the  peculiar  character  of  the  first 

Veat  popular  writers  of  all  countries.     But 

■e  do  not  conceive  that  they  depend  al- 

14 


treat  t 
ill  wt 


together  on  any  thing  so  purely  accidental  as 
the  temperament  or  I'arly  history  of  a  lew  in- 
dividuals. No  doubt  the  national  taste  of 
France  and  of  England  would  at  this  moment 
have  been  diiferent,  had  Shakespeare  been  a 
Frenchman,  and  Boilrau  and  Racine  written 
in  English.  But  then,  we  do  not  think  that 
Shakespeare  co!<W  have  been  a  Frenchman; 
and  we  conceive  that  his  character,  and  that 
of  other  original  writers,  though  no  doubt  to 
be  considered  on  the  whole  as  casual,  must 
yet  have  been  modified  to  a  great  extent  bv: 
the  circumstances  of  the  countries  in  which  \ 

they  were  bred.  It  is  plahi  that  no  original  V 
force  of  genius  could  have  enabled  Shakespeare  I ,  •■  <. 
to  write  as  he  had  done,  if  he  had  been  bom  » 
and  bred  among  the  Chinese  or  the  Peruvians. 
Neither  do  we  think  that  he  could  have  done 
so,  in  any  other  country  but  England — free, 
sociable,  discursive,  reformed,  familiar  Eng- 
land— whose  motley  and  mingling  population 
not  only  presented  "  every  change  of  many- 
coloured  life"  to  his  eye,  but  taught  and  per- 
mitted every  class,  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest,  to  know  and  to  estimate  the  feelings 
and  the  habits  of  all  the  others — and  thus 
enabled  the  gifted  observer  not  only  to  deduce 
the  true  character  of  human  nature  from  this 
infinite  variety  of  experiments  and  examples, 
but  to  speak  to  the  sense  and  the  hearts  of 
each,  with  that  truly  universal  tongue,  which 
every  one  feels  to  be  peculiar,  and  all  enjoy 
as  common. 

We  have  said  enough,  however,  or  rather 
too  much,  on  these  general  views  of  the  sub- 
ject— which  in  truth  is  sufficiently  clear  in 
those  extreme  cases,  where  the  contrariety  is 
great  and  universal,  and  is  only  perplexing 
when  there  is  a  pretty  general  conformity 
both  in  the  causes  which  influence  taste  and 
in  the  results.  Thus,  we  are  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  find  the  taste  of  the  Japanese  or  the 
Iroquois  very  different  from  our  own — and 
have  no  difficulty  in  both  admitting  that  onr 
human  nature  and  human  capacities  are  sub- 
stantially the  same,  and  in  referring  this  dis- 
crepancy to  the  contrast  that  exists  in  the 
whole  state  of  society,  and  the  knowledge, 
and  the  opposite  qualities  of  the  objects  to 
w  hich  we  have  been  respectively  accustomed 
to  give  pur  admiration.  That  nations  living  in 
times  or  places  altogether  remote,  should  dis- 
agree in  taste,  as  in  every  thing  else,  seems 
to  us  quite  natural.  They  are  only  the  nearer 
cases  that  puzzle.  And,  that  gieat  European 
countries,  peopled  by  the  same  mixed  races, 
educated  in  the  admiration  of  the  same  clas- 
sical models — venerating  the  same  remains 
of  antiquity — engaged  substantially  in  the 
same  occupations — communicating  everyday, 
on  busines.s,  letters,  and  society — bound  up  in 
short  in  one  great  commonwealth,  as  against 
the  inferior  and  barbarous  parts  of  the  world, 
should  yet  differ  so  widely — not  only  as  to 
the  comparative  excellence  of  their  respective 
productions,  but  as  to  the  constituents  of  ex- 
cellence in  all  works  of  genius  or  skill,  does 
indeed  sound  like  a  paradox,  the  solution  of 
which  every  one  may  not  be  able  to  deduce 
from  the  preceding  observations. 


106 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY, 


The  great  practical  equation  on  which  we 
in  this  country  have  been  hitherto  most  fre- 
quently employed,  has  been  between  our  own 
standard  of  taste  and  that  which  is  recognized 
among  our  neighbours  of  France : — And  cer- 
tainly^ though  teelings  of  rivalry  have  some- 
what aggravated  its  apparent,  beyond  its  real 
amounf,  there  is  a  great  and  substantial  differ- 
ence to  be  accounted  for. — in  the  way  we  have 
sug^rested — or  in  some  other  way.  Stating  that 
difference  as  generally  as  possible,  we  would 
say,  that  the  French,  compared  with  ourselves, 
are  more  sensitive  to  faults,  and  less  trans- 
ported with  beauties — more  enamoured  of  art, 
and  less  indulgent  to  nature — more  charmed 
with  overcoming  difhculties,  than  with  that 
power  which  makes  us  unconscious  of  their 
existence — more  averse  to  strong  emotions,  or 
at  least  less  covetous  of  them  in  their  intensity 
1  — more  students  of  taste,  in  short,  than  adorers 
lof  genius — and  far  more  disposed  than  any 
•  other  people,  except  perhaps  the  Chinese,  to 
circumscribe  the  rules  of  taste  to  such  as  they 
themselves  have  been  able  to  pjactise,  and  to 
limit  the  legitimate  empiie  of  genius  to  the 
provinces  they  have  explored.  There  has 
been  a  good  deal  of  discussion  of  late  years, 
in  the  face  of  literary  Europe,  on  these  de- 
batable grounds;  and  we  cannot  but  think 
that  the  result  has  been  favourable,  on  the 
whole,  to  the  English,  and  that  the  French 
have  been  compelled  to  recede  considerably 
from  manv  of  their  exclusive  pretensions — a 
result  which  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe,  less 
to  the  arguments  of  our  native  champions, 
than  to  those  circumstances  in  the  recent  his- 
tory of  Europe,  which  have  compelled  our 
ingenious  neighbours  to  mingle  more  than 
they  had  ever  done  before  with  the  surround- 
ing nations — and  thus  to  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  diversified  foiTns  which 
genius  and  talent  may  assume. 

But  while  we  are  thus  fairly  in  the  way  of 
settling  our  differences  with  France,  we  are 
little  more  than  beginning  them,  we  fear,  with 
Germany;  and  the  perusal  of  the  extraordinary 
volumes  before  us,  which  has  suggested  all 
the  preceding  reflections,  has  given  us.  at  the 
same  time,  an  impression  of  such  radical,  and 
apparently  irreconcilable  disagreement  as  to 
principles,  as  we  can  scarcely  hope  either  to 
remove  by  our  reasonings,  or  even  very  satis- 
factorily to  account  for  by  our  suggestions. 

This  is  allowed,  by  the  general  consent  of  all 
Germany,  to  be  the  very  greatest  work  of  their 
very  greatest  writer.  The  most  original,  the 
mo.st  varied  and  inventive, — the  most  charac- 
teristic, in  short,  of  the  author,  and  of  his  coun- 
try. We  receive  it  as  such  accordingly,  with 
implicit  faith  and  suitable  respect;  and  have 
perused  it  in  coiisecjuence  with  very  great  at- 
tention and  no  common  curiosity.  VVe  have 
perascd  it,  indeed,  only  in  the  translation  of 
which  we  have  prefixed  the  title:  Bui  it  is  a 
translation  by  a  professed  admirer;  and  by  one 
who  is  proved  by  his  Preface  to  be  a  person  of 
talents,  and  by  every  part  of  the  work  to  be  no 
ordinary  master,  at  least  of  one  of  the  languages 
with  which  he  has  to  deal.  We  need  .scarcely 
Bay,  that  we  profess  to  judge  of  the  work  only 


according  to  our  own  principles  of  judgment  and 
habits  of  feeling;  and,  meaning  nothing  less  than 
to  dictate  to  the  readers  or  the  critics  of  Ger- 
many what  they  should  tliink  of  their  favour- 
ite authors,  propose  only  to  let  them  know,  in 
all  plainness  and  modesty,  what  vre.  and  we 
really  believe  most  of  our  countrymen,  actually 
think  of  this  chef-d^anvre  of  Teutonic  genius. 

We  must  say,  then,  at  once,  that  we  cannot  "t 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  this  German  idolatry;  ;, 
nor  at  all  comprehend  upon  what  grounds  the  l 
work  before  us  could  ever  bt   i-onsidered  as  •' 
an  admirable,  or  even  a  commendable  per-  -j 
^formance.     To  us  it  certainly  appears,  after  i 
the  most  deliberate  consideration,  to  be  emi- 
nently absurd,  puerile,   incongruous,  vulgar, 
and  affected  ; — and,  though  redeemed  by  con- 
siderable powers  of  invention,  and  some  traits 
of  vivacity,  to  be  so  far  from  perfection,  as  to 
be,  almost  from  beginning  to  end.  one  flagrant 
offence  against  every  principle  of  taste,  and 
every  just  rule  of  composition.     Though  indi- 
cating, in  many  places,  a  mind  capable  both 
of  acute  and  profound  reflection,  it  is  full  of 
.mere  sillhiess  and  childi.«h  afftctation; — and  i 
though  evidently  the  work  of  one  vho  had 
seen  and  observed  much,  it  is  throughout  al- 
together unnatural,  and   not  so  jrropeily  im- 
probable, as  affectedly  fantastic  and  absurd — 
kept,  as  it  were,  studiously  aloof  from  general 
or  ordinary  nature — never  once  brirgirg  us 
into  contact  with  real  life  orgeruine  chaiactei 
— and,  vhere  not  occupied  with  the  profes- 
sional squabbles,  paltry  jargon,  ai.d  sctnicai 
profligacy  of  strolling  players,  tumblers,  am 
mummers  (which   may  be   said  to  form   its 
staple),  is  conversant  only  with  incomprt  hen 
sible  mystics  and  vulgar  men  of  whim,  will 
whom,  if  it  were  at  all  possible  to  understanc 
them,  it  would  be  a  baseness  to  be  acquainted 
Every  thing,  and  every  body  we  meet  with 
is  a  riddle  and  an  oddity ;  and  though  the  tis 
sue  of  the  story  is  sufficiently  coarse,  and  th' 
manners  and  sentiments  infected  with  a  stron, 
tinge  of  vulgarity,  it  is  all  kept  in  the  air,  lik 
a  piece  of  machinery  at  the  minor  theatres 
and  never  allowed  to  touch  the  solid  giounc 
or  to  give  an  impression  of  reality,  by  th 
disclosure  of  known  or  living   features.     I 
the  midst  of  all  this,  however,  there  are,  ever 
now  and  then,  outbreakings  of  a  fine  speculi 
tion,   and  gleams  of  a  warm  and   sprightl 
imagination — an  occasional  wild  and   exoti 
glow  of  fancy  and  poetry — a  vigorous  heapin 
up  of  incidents,  and  touches  of  bright  ai) 
powerful  description. 

It  is  not  very  easy  certainly  to  account  f 
these  incongruities,  or  to  suggest  an  intellig 
ble  theory  for  so  strange  a  practice.     But 
so  far  as  we  can  guess,   these  peculiaritii 
of  German  taste  are  to  be  referred,  in  part, 
the  comparative  newness  of  original  comp 
sition  among  that  ingenious  people,  and   i 
the  state  of  European  literature  when   th< 
first  ventured  on  the  experiment — and  in  pa 
to  the  state  of  society  in  that   great  count 
itself,  and  the  comparatively  humble  conditi' 
of  the  greater  part  of  those  who  write,  or 
whom  \\  riting  is  there  addressed. 

The  Germans,  though  undoubtedly  an  im 


GOETHES  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


107 


ginative  and  even  enthusiastic  race,  had  ne- 1 
q-lpcted  their  native  literature  for  two  hundred 
years — and  were  chiefly  known  for  their 
K-arning  and  industry.  They  wrote  huge 
Latin  treatises  on  Law  and  Theology — and 
put  forth  bulky  editions  and  great  tomes  of 
annotations  on  the  classics.  At  last,  however, 
they  grew  tired  of  being  respi>cted  as  the 
learned  drudges  of  Europe,  and  reproached 
with  their  consonants  and  commentators  :  and 
determined,  about  fifty  years  ago,  to  show 
what  metal  they  were  made  of,  and  to  give 
the  world  a  taste  of  their  quality,  as  men  of 

.  genius  and  invention.  In  this  attempt  the 
:  first  thing  to  be  effected  was  at  all  events  to 

I  avoid  the  imputation  of  being  scholastic  imi- 
i  tators  of  the  classics.  That  would  have  smelt 
loo  much,  they  thought,  of  the  old  shop ;  and 
in  order  to  prove  their  claims  to  originality,  it 
'  was  necessary  to  go  a  little  into  the  opposite 
extreme, — to  venture  on  something  decidedly 
modern,  and  to  show  at  once  their  indepen- 
dence on  their  old  masters,  and  their  supe- 
rioiily  to  the  pedantic  rules  of  antiquity. 
With  this  view  some  of  them  betook  them- 
selves to  the  French  models — set  seriously  to 
study  how  to  be  gay — appendrc  a  etre  vif — and 

■  composed   a   variety   of    petites   pieces   and 

■  novels  of  polite  gallantry,  in  a  style — of  which 
'     we  shall  at  present  say  nothing.  This  manner, 

however,  ran  too  much  counter  to  the  general 
character  of  the  nation  to  be  very  much  fol- 
lowed--and  undoubtedly  the  greater  and  bet- 
ter part  of  their  writers  turned  rather  to  us. 

-  for  hints  and  lessons  to  guide  them  in  their 
'i  lambitioLis  career.  There  was  a  greater  original 
'"    affinity  in  the  temper  and  genius  of  the  two 

nations — and.  in  addhion  to  that  consideration, 
•     our  great  authors  were  indisputably  at  once 

more  original  and  less  classical  than  those  of 
»''  jFrance.  England,  however,  we  are  sorry  to 
If-  fsay.  could  furnish  abundance  of  bad  as  well 
»1-  'asof  gootl  models — and  even  the  best  were 
*;  'perilous  enough  for  rash  imitators.  As  it 
i-  happenetl.    however,    the   worst    were    most 

Lienerally  selected — and  the  worst  parts  of  the 

2onil.  Shakespeare  was  admired — but  more 
;  for  his  flights  of  fancy,  his  daring  improprie- 
s  ■  [ties,  his  trespasses  on  the  borders  of  absurdity, 
eff  [than  for  the  infinite  sagacity  and  rectifying 
"    's'ootl  sense  by  which  he  redeemed  those  e.\- 

-  travagancies.  or  even  the  profound  tenderness 
and  simple  pathos  which  alternated  with  the 

i«.  'lofty  soaring  or  dazzling  imagery  of  his  style. 
his  {Altogether,  however,  Shakespeare  was  beyond 

;their  rivalry  ;  and  althouiih  Schiller  has  dared. 
jiiiit  land  not  ingloriously,  to  emulate  his  miracles, 
ntell  lit  was  plairdy  to  other  merits  and  other  rival- 
Biit  Iries  that  the  body  of  his  ingenious  country- 
liaA,|men  aspired.  The  ostentatious  cib.surdily — 
pait'lthe  affected  oddity — the  pert  familiarity — the 
cou]  ibroken  style,  and  exa<rireiated  sentiment  of 
afiJ  iTristram  Shandy — the  mawkish  morality. 
fn'i  rtlawdlinjrdetnils,  and  interminable  agonies  of 

i!ichanlson— the  vulgaradvenlures,  and  home- 

\y.  though,  at  the  same  time,  fantastical  sjiecu- 
,„.  lations  of  John  Buncle  and  others  of  his  for- 
[je.oi  (gotten  class,  found  far  more  favour  in  their 

'eyes.  They  were  original,  startling,  unclas- 
They  excited  curiosity 


pjco.      iiiey  were   » 

jpii  pical,  and  puzzling. 


by  not  being  altogether  intelligible — efTectu- 
ally  excluded  monotony  by  the  rapidity  and 
violence  of  their  transitions,  and  promised  to 
rouse  the  most  torpid  sensibility,  by  the  vio- 
lence and  perseverance  with  which  tiiey  thun- 
dered at  the  heart.  They  were  the  very 
things,  in  short,  which  tlm  German  originals 
were  in  search  of; — and  they  were  not  slow, 
tlierefore,  in  adopting  and  improving  on  them. 
In  order  to  make  them  thoroughly  their  own, 
they  had  only  to  exaggerate  their  peculiarities 
— to  mix  up  with  them  a  certain  allowance 
of  their  old  visionary  philosophy,  misty  meta- 
physics, and  superstitious  visions — and  to  in- 
troduce a  few  crazy  .sententious  theorist.s,  to 
sprinkle  over  the  whole  a  seasoning  of  rash 
speculation  on  morality  and  the  fine  arts. 

The  style  was  also  to  be  relieved  by  a  va- 
riety of  odd  comparisons  and  unaccountable 
similes — borrowed,  for  the  most  part,  from 
low  and  revolting  objects,  and  all  the  better 
if  they  did  not  exactly  fit  the  subject,  or  even 
introduced  new  perplexity  into  that  which 
they  professed  to  illustrate. 

This  goes  far,  we  think,  to  explain  the  ab- 
surdity, incongruity,  and  aff'ectation  of  the 
works  of  which  we  are  speaking.  But  there 
is  yet  another  distinguishing  quality  for  which 
we  have  not  accounted — and  that  is  a  peculiar 
kind  of  vulgarity  which  pel  vades  all  their  va- 
rieties, and  constitutes,  perhaps,  their  most 
repulsive  characteristic.  We  do  not  know 
very  well  how  to  describe  this  unfortunate 
peculiarity,  except  by  saying  that  it  is  the 
vulgarity  of  pacific,  comfortable  burghers,  oc- 
cupied with  stuffing,  cooking,  and  providing 
i^or  their  coarse  personal  accommodations. 
There  certainly  never  were  any  men  of  genius 
who  condescended  to  attend  so  minutely  to 
the  rion-rtatvrah  of  their  heroes  and  heroines 
as  the  novelists  of  modern  Germany.  Their 
woiks  smell,  as  it  were,  of  groceries — of 
brown  papers  filled  with  greasy  cakes  and 
slices  of  bacon, — and  fryings  in  frowsy  back 
pailours.  All  the  interesting  recollections  of 
childhood  turn  on  remembered  tidbits  and 
plunderings  of  savoury  store-rooms.  In  the 
midst  of  their  most  passionate  scenes  there  is 
always  a  serious  and  affectionate  notice  of  the 
substantial  pleasures  of  eating  and  drinking. 
The  raptures  of  a  tete-a-tete  are  not  complete 
without  a  bottle  of  nice  wine  and  a  "trim 
collation.""  Their  very  sages  deliver  their 
o?acles  over  a  glass  of  punch  ;  and  the  en- 
char.ted  lover  finds  new  apologies  for  his 
idolatrv  in  taking  a  survey  of  his  mistress' 
'•combs,  soaj).  and  towels,  with  the  traces  of 
their  use."  These  baser  necessities  of  our 
nature,  in  short,  which  all  other  writers  who 
have  aimed  at  raising  the  Imagination  or 
touching  the  heart  have  Kept  studiously  out 
of  view,  are  ostentatiously  brought  forward, 
and  fondly  dwell  on  by  the  pathetic  authors 
(if  Germanv. 

We  really  cannot  well  account  for  this  ex- 
traordin.ary  taste.  But  we  sus])ect  it  is  owing 
to  the  importance  that  is  really  attached  to 
those  solid  comforts  and  supi)lies  of  neces- 
saries, by  the  greater  part  of  the  readers  and 
writers  of  that  country.     Though  .here  is  a 


108 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


great  deal  of  freedom  in  Germany;  it  operates- 
less  by  raising  the  mass  of  the 'people  to  a 
potential  equality  with  the  nobles,  than  by 
securing  to  them  their  inferior  and  plebeian 
privileges :  and  consists  rather  in  the  immu- 
nities of  their  incorporated  tradesmen,  which 
may  enable  them  to  become  rich  as  such,  than 
in  any  general  participation  of  national  rights, 
by  which  they  may  aspife  to  dignity  and  ele- 
gance, as  well  as  opulence  and  comfort.  Now. 
the  writers,  as  well  as  the  readers  in  that 
country,  belong  almost  entirely  to  the  plebeian 
and  vulgar  class.  Their  learned  men  are 
almost  all  wolully  poor  and  dependent ;  and 
the  comfortable  burghers,  who  buy  entertain- 
ing books  by  the  thousand  at  the  Frankfort 
fair,  probably  agree  with  their  authors  in  )iolh- 
ing  so  much  as  the  value  they  set  on  those 
homely  comforts  to  which  their  ambition  is 
mutually  limited  by  their  condition  ;  and  enter 
into  no  part  of  them  so  heartily  as  those  which 
set  forth  their  paramount  and  continual  im- 
portance. 

It  is  time,  however,  that  we  should  proceed 
to  give  some  more  particular  account  of  the 
work  which  has  given  occasion  to  all  these 
observations.  Nor  indeed  have  we  anything 
more  of  a  general  nature  to  premise,  except 
that  we  really  cannot  join  in  the  censure  which 
we  have  found  so  generally  bestowed  on  it 
for  its  alleged  grossness  and  immorality.  It 
is  coarse,  certainly,  in  its  examples,  and  by 
no  means  very  rigorous  in  its  ethical  precepts. 
But  it  is  not  worse  in  those  respects  than  many 
works  on  which  we  pride  ourselves  at  home — 
Tom  Jones,  for  example,  or  Roderick  Random. 
There  are  passages,  no  doubt,  that  would 
shock  a  delicate  young  lady  ;  but  to  the  bulk 
of  male  readers,  for  whom  we  suppose  it  was 
chiefly  intended,  we  do  not  apprehend  that  it 
will  either  do  any  great  harm,  or  give  any 
great  offence. 

Wilhelm  Meister  is  the  son  of  a  plodding 
merchant,  in  one  of  the  middling  towns  of 
Germany,  who,  before  he  is  out  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship, takes  a  passion  for  play-going ; 
which  he  very  naturally  follows  up  by  en- 
gaging in  an  intrigue  with  a  little  pert  actress, 
who  performed  young  officers  and  other  male 
parts  with  great  success.  The  book  opens 
with  a  supper  at  her  lodgings;  where  he  tells 
her  a  long  silly  story  of  his  passion  for  pujipel- 
shows  in  his  childhood — how  he  stole  a  set 
of  puppets  out  of  a  pantry  of  his  mother's,  into 
which  he  had  slipped  to  lilch  sugar-plums — 
how  he  fitted  up  a  puppet-show  of  his  own,  in 
a  garret  of  his  father's  hou,se,  and  enacted 
David  and  Goliah,  to  the  wonder  and  delight 
of  the  whole  family,  and  various  complaisant 
neighbours,  who  condescended  to  enact  audi- 
ence— how  a  half-pay  lieutenant  assisted  him 
in  painting  ihc.  figures  and  nailing  up  the 
boards — and  how  out  of  all  this  arose  his  early 
taste  for  ])layhouses  and  actresses.  This 
goodly  stuff  extends  through  fifty  mortal 
pages — all  serious,  solemn,  and  silly,  far  be- 
yond the  pitch  of  the  worst  gilt  thing  ever 
published  by  Mr  Newberry.  As  this  is  one 
of  the  most  characteristic  parts  of  the  work, 
we  must  verify  the  account  we  have  ventured 


to  give  of  it  by  a  few  extracts.  Willielm  is 
describing  the  dress  of  the  prophet  Samuel  in 
his  Punch's  Opera  of  Goliah.  and  teUing  "how 
the  taffeta  of  the  cassock  had  been  taken  from 
a  gown  of  his  grandmother's,"  when  a  noise 
is  heard  in  the  street,  and  the  old  maid  Bar- 
bara informs  them  that 

"  The  disturbance  arose  from  a  set  of  jolly  com- 
panions, who  were  just  then  sallying  out  ot  the 
Italian  i'avern,  hard  by,  where  they  liad  been  busy 
discussing /resA  oysters,  a  cargo  of  wliich  had  just 
arrived,  and  by  no  means  sparing  their  champagne. 
'  Pity,'  Mariana  said,  '  that  we  did  not  think  of  it 
in  time  ;  we  might  have  had  some  entertainment  to 
ourselves.'  '  It  is  not  yet  too  late,'  said  Wilhelm, 
giving  Barbara  a  louis  d'or:  '  get  us  wliat  we  want ; 
then  come  and  take  a  share  with  us.'  The  old 
dame  made  speedy  work  ;  ere  long  a  trimly-covered 
table,  with  a  neat  collation,  stood  before  the  lovers. 
They  made  Barbara  sit  with  them  ;  thei/  ate  and 
drank,  and  enjoyed  themselves.  On  such  occa- 
sions, there  is  never  want  of  enough  to  say.  Mari- 
ana soon  look  up  little  Jonathan  again,  and  the  old 
dame  turiud  the  conversation  upon  VVilhelin's 
favourite  topic.  '  You  were  telling  us,'  she  said, 
'  about  the  first  exhibition  of  a  puppet-show  on 
Christmas-eve  :  I  remember  you  were  interrupted, 
just  as  the  ballet  was  going  to  begin.'  '  I  assure 
you,'  said  Wilhelm,  'it  went  off  quite  well.  And 
certainly  the  strange  caperings  of  these  Moors  and 
.Mooresses,  these  shepherds  and  shepherdesses, 
tiiese  dwarfs  and  dwarfesses,  will  never  altogether 
leave  my  recollection  while  I  live,'  "  &,c.  &c. 

We  spare  our  readers  some  dozen  pages  of 
doll-dressing  and  joinery,  and  come  to  the 
following  choice  passage. 

"  'In  well  adjusted  and  regulated  houses,'  con- 
tinued Wilhelm,  '  children  have  a  feeling  not  unlike 
what  1  conceive  rats  and  mice  to  have ;  they  keep 
a  sharp  eye  on  all  crevices  and  holes,  where  they 
may  come  at  amj  forbidden  dainty;  they  enjoy  it 
al.so  with  a  fearful,  stolen  satisfaction,  which  forms 
no  small  part  of  the  happiness  of  childhood.  More 
than  any  other  of  the  young  ones,  I  was  in  the  habit 
ol  looking  out  attentively  to  see  if  I  could  notice 
a/iy  cuphoard  left  open,  or  key  standing  in  its  lock. 
The  more  reverence  I  bore  in  my  heart  for  those 
clo.=cd  doors,  on  the  outside  of  which  I  had  to  pass 
by  for  weeks  and  months,  catching  only  a  furtive 
glance  when  our  mother  now  and  then  opened  the 
consecrated  place  to  take  something  from  it, — the 
quicker  was  I  to  make  use  of  any  opportunities 
whicli  the  forgetfiiliiess  of  our  housekeepers  at  times 
afforded  me.  Among  all  the  doors,  that  of  the  store- 
room was.  of  course,  the  one  I  watched  most  nar- 
rowlv.  F'cw  of  the  joyful  anticipations  in  life  can 
equal  the  leelinw  which  I  used  to  have,  when  my 
mother  happened  to  call  me,  that  I  might  help  her  to 
carry  out  any  thing,  after  which  I  might  pick  up  a 
few  dried  plums,  either  with  her  kind  permission, 
or  by  help  of  my  own  dexterity.  The  accumulated 
treasures  of  this  chamber  took  hold  of  my  imagina- 
tion by  their  magnitude  ;  the  very  iragrance  exhaled 
by  so  multifarious  a  collection  of  sweet-snitlline; 
spices  produced  such  a  craving  effect  on  me,  that  I 
never  tailed ,  when  jiassing  near,  to  linger  for  a  little, 
and  regale  myseli  at  least  on  the  unbolted  atmos- 
phere. At  length,  one  Sunday  morning,  my  mo-  ' 
tlier,  being  hurried  by  the  ringing  of  the  church 
bells,  forgot  to  take  this  precious  key  with  heron 
shutting  the  door,  and  went  away  leaving  all  the 
lious'e  ill  a  deep  sabbath  stillness.  No  sooner  had 
I  niark(  d  this  oversijiht,  than  gliding  softly  once  or 
twice  to  and  from  ihe  place,  I  at  last  approached 
very  g  njirrly,  opened  the  door,  and  felt  myself, 
after  a  single  step,  in  immediate  contact  with  these 
manifold  and  long-wished-fbr  means  of  happiness. 
I  glanced  over  fflasses,  chests,  and  hags,  and  drawers 
and  boxes,  with  a  quick  and  doubtful  eye,  consider- 


GOETHE-S  WILHELM  RIEISTER. 


109 


ing  what  I  ought  to  take  ;  turned  finally  to  my  dear 
withered  plums,  provided  myself  also  with  a  few 
dried  apples,  and  completed  the  forage  with  an 
orange-chip.  I  was  quietly  retreating  with  my 
plunder,  when  some  little  chests,  lying  piled  over 
one  another,  caught  my  attention  :  the  more  so,  as  I 
noticed  a  wire  with  hooks  at  the  end  of  it,  sticking 
through  the  joint  of  the  lid  in  one  of  them.  Fnll 
of  eager  hopes,  I  opened  this  singular  packa'j;e; 
and  judge  of  my  emotions,  when  I  found  my  glad 
world  of  heroes  all  sleeping  safe  within  !  I  meant 
to  pick  out  the  topmost,  and,  having  examined  tfiem, 
to  pull  up  those  below;  but  in  this  attempt  the 
wires  got  very  soon  entangled,  and  I  fell  mio  a 
fright  and  flutter,  more  particularly  as  thr  conk  jus' 
then  began  making  some  stir  in  the  kitchen,  which 
hill  close  by;  so  Thaf'  I  had  nothing  tor  it  but  to 
squeeze  the  whole  together,  the  best  way  I  could, 
and  to  shut  the  chest,  having  stolen  from  it  nothing 
but  a  little  written  book,  which  happened  to  be 
lying  above,  and  contained  the  whole  drama  of 
Guliah  and  David.  With  this  booty  I  made  good 
my  retreat  into  the  garret.'  " — pp.  20 — 22. 

This,  we  suppose,  will  be  received  as  a 
sufficient  specimen  of  the  true  German  taste 
for  comfits,  cooking,  and  cockerina;.  If  any 
one  should  wish  for  a  sample  of  pure  childish- 
ness, or  mere  folly,  there  are  pages  on  pages 
like  the  following. 

"'It  was  natural  that  the  operas,  with  their 
manifold  adventures  and  vicissitudes,  should  attract 
me  more  than  any  thing  beside.  In  these  compo- 
sitions, I  found  stormy  seas;  gods  descending  in 
chariots  of  cloud;  and,  what  most  of  all  delighted 
nil',  abundance  of  thunder  and  lightning.  I  did  my 
btst  with  pasteboard,  paint,  and  paper:  I  could 
make  ni^ht  very  prettily  ;  my  lightning  was  feaiful 
to  behold  ;  only  my  thunder  did  not  always  pros- 
per, which  however  was  of  less  importance.  In 
operas,  moreover.  I  found  frequent  opportunities  of 
mtroducing  my  David  and  Goliah,  persons  whoni 
the  regular  drama  would  hardly  admit.  Daily  I  felt 
more  attachment  for  the  hampered  spot  where  I 
enjoyed  so  many  pleasures;  and,  I  must  confess, 
the  fragrance  which  the  puppets  had  acquired  from 
the  store-room  added  not  a  little  to  my  satisfaction. 

"  '  The  decorations  of  my  theatre  were  now  in  a 
lolerable  state  of  completeness.  I  had  always  had 
the  nack  of  drawing  with  compasses,  and  clipping 
pasteboard,  and  colouring  figures ;  and  here  it  serv- 
ed me  in  good  stead.  But  the  more  sorry  was  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  when,  as  frequently  happened,  my 
stock  of  actors  would  not  suffice  for  representing 
great  alTairs. — .My  sisters  dressing  and  undressing 
their  dolls,  awoke  in  me  the  project  of  furnishing 
my  heroes  by  and  by  with  garments,  which  might 
alao  be  put  off  and  on.  Accordingly,  I  slit  the 
scraps  of  cloth  from  off  their  bodies;  tacked  the 
fragments  together  as  well  as  possible ;  saved  a  par- 
ticle of  money  to  buy  new  ribbons  and  lace  ;  beg- 
ged many  a  rag  of  tafTeta ;  and  so  formed,  by  de- 
grees, a  full  theatrical  wardrobe,  in  which  hoop- 
petticoats  for  the  ladies  were  especially  remember- 
ed.— My  troop  was  now  fairly  provided  with  dresses 
for  the  most  important  piece,  and  you  might  have 
expected  that  henceforth  one  exhibition  would  fol- 
low close  upon  the  heels  of  another.  But  it  hap- 
pened with  me,  as  it  often  happens  with  children  ; 
they  embrace  wide  plans,  make  mighty  prepara- 
tions, then  a  few  trials,  and  the  whole  undertaking 
•8  abandoned.    I  was  guilty  of  this  fault,'  "  &c.  &.c. 

But  we  mu.st  get  on  with  our  stor)^  While 
he  is  lulling  his  little  actress  to  sleep  by  these 
edifying  discourses,  and  projecting  to  go  on 
the  stage  along  with  her,  our  mercantile  hero 
is  suddenly  sent  off  by  his  father,  to  collect 
debts  from  their  country  customers.  The  in- 
genious author,  however,  cannot  possibly  let 
him  go,  without  presenting  his  readers  with 


an  elaborate  character  of  the  worthy  old  trader 
and  his  partner.     Old  Meister,  it  seems,  had 

'■  A  peculiar  inclination  for  magnificence,  for 
whatever  catches  the  eye  and  possesses  at  the  same 
time  real  worth  and  durability.  In  his  house,  he 
would  have  all  things  solid  and  massive  ;  his  stores 
(UMst  t)e  copious  and  rich,  all  his  plate  mu.st  be 
heavy,  the  furniture  of'  liis  table  must  be  costly. 
On  tiie  other  hand,  his  guests  were  seldom  invited  ; 
tor  everif  dinner  was  a  festival,  which,  both  for  its 
expense  and  for  its  inconvenience,  could  not  often 
be  repeated.  The  economy  of  his  house  went  on  at 
a  settled  uniforni  rate,  and  every  thing  that  moved 
or  had  a  place  in  it  was  just  what  yielded  no  one 
any  real  enjoyment. 

"  The  elder  Werner,  in  his  dark  and  hampered 
house,  led  quite  another  sort  of  life.  The  business 
of  the  day,  in  his  narrow  counting-room,  at  his  an- 
cient desk,  once  done,  Werner  liked  to  eat  well  and 
if  possible  to  drink  httter.  Nor  could  he  fully  en- 
joy (rood  things  in  solitude  ;  with  his  ftimily  he  must 
always  see  at  table  his  friends  and  any  stranger 
that  had  the  slightest  connection  with  his  house. 
His  chairs  were  of  unknown  age  and  antic  fashion, 
but  he  daily  invited  some  to  sit  on  them.  Thedainiy 
victuals  arrested  the  attention  of  his  guests,  and 
none  remarked  that  they  were  served  up  in  com- 
mon ware.  His  cellar  held  no  great  stock  of  wine  : 
but  the  emptied  niches  were  usually  filled  by  more 
of  a  superior  sort." — pp.  56,  57. 

This  must  be  admitted  not  to  be  the  very 
be.st  exemplification  of  the  style  noble.  Nor 
is  the  outfit  of  the  hero  himself  described  in 
a  vein  more  lofty. 

"He  must  prepare,"  said  ]\Ieister,  "and  set 
forth  as  soon  as  pos.^ible.  Where  shall  we  get  a 
horse  for  him  to  suit  this  busine.«s  ? — We  shall  not 

seek  far.     The  shopkeeper  in  H ,  v^hn  owes  vs 

somewhat,  but  is  withal  a  good  man,  has  offered  me 
a  horse  instead  of  payment.  My  son  knows  it,  and 
tells  me  it  is  a  serviceable  beast.  He  may  fetch  it 
himself;  let  him  go  with  the  diligence  ;  the  day 
after  to-morrow  he  is  back  again  betimes  ;  we  have 
his  saddle-hags  and  letters  made  ready  in  the  mean 
time  ;  he  can  set  out  Monday  morning." 

The  following  passage,  however,  is  a  fairer 
sample  of  the  average  merit  of  the  work ; 
and  exhibits  some  traits  of  vivacity  and  elo- 
quence, though  debased  by  that  aiTectation 
of  singularity,  and  that  predominating  and 
characteristic  vulgarity,  of  which  we  have 
already  said  so  much.  He  is  describing  hia 
hero"s  hours  of  fascination,  in  the  playhouse, 
and  el.sewhere. 

For  hours  he  would  stand  bv  the  sooty  light 
frame,  inhaling  the  vapour  of  fallow  lamps,  look- 
out at  his  mistress  ;  and  when  she  returned  and 
cast  a  kindly  glance  upon  him,  he  was  himself 
ost  in  ecstacy,  and.  though  close  upon  laths  and 
)are  spars,  he  seemed  transported  into  paradise. 
The  stuffed  bunches  of  wool  denominated  lambs, 
the  water-falls  of  tin,  the  paper  roses,  and  the  one- 
sided huts  of  straw,  awoke  in  him  fair  poetic  visions 
ot  an  old  pastoral  world.  Nay,  the  very  dancing 
girls,  ugly  as  they  were  when  seen  at  hand,  did 
not  always  inspire  him  with  disgust.  They  trod 
the  same  floor  with  Mariana.  So  true  is  it,  that 
love,  which  alone  can  give  their  full  charm  to  rose- 
bowers,  myrtle-groves,  and  moonshine,  can  also 
communicate,  even  to  shavings  of  wood  and  paper 
clippings,  the  aspect  of  animated  nature.  It  is  so 
a'rong  (1  spice,  that  ta^^feliss,  or  even  nauseous 
soups,  are  by  it  rendered  palatable  I 

"  So  potent  a  spice  was  certainly  required  to  ran- 
der  tolerable,  nay  at  last  agreeable,  the  state  in 
which  he  usually  found  her  chamber,  not  to  say 
herself. — Biouglit  up  in  a  substantial  burgher's 
house,  cleanliness  and  "rder  were  the  element  in 


no 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


which  he  breathed ;  and  inheriting  as  he  did  a  por- 
tion of  his  father's  tas'e  for  finery,  it  had  always 
been  his  care,  in  bovhood,  to  furnish  up  his  cham- 
ber, whicii  he  regarded  as  his  htile  kingdom,  m  the 
stateliest  fashion.  He  had  got  himselt  a  carpet  for 
the  middle  of  his  chamber,  and  a  finer  one  for  his 
table.  He  had  also  a  white  cap.  which  he  wore 
Btraight  up  like  a  turban  I  and  the  sleeves  of  his 
night-2own  he  had  caused  to  be  cut  short,  in  the 
mode  of  rhe  Orientals.  As  a  reason  for  this,  he 
pretended,  that  long  wide  sleeves  encumbered  him 
in  writing. 

"  In  those  times,  how  happy  did  he  think  the 
players,  whom  he  saw  possessed  of  so  many  splen- 
did garments,  trappings,  and  arms;  and  in  the  con- 
stant practice  of  a  loTty  demeanour,  the  spirit  of 
which  seemed  to  hold  up  a  mirror  of  whatever,  in 
the  opinions,  relations,  and  passions  of  men,  w-as 
stateliest  and  most  magnificent.  Of  a  piece  wiih 
this,  thought  Wilhelm,  is  al.=o  the  player's  domes- 
tic life  ;  a  series  of  dignified  transactions  and  em- 
ployments, whereof  their  appearance  on  the  stage 
18  but  the  outmost  portion  !  Like  as  a  mass  of  sil- 
ver. Ions:  simmering  about  in  the  purifying  furnace, 
at  leng:li  gleams  with  a  bright  and  beauiiful  tinge 
in  the  eye  of  the  refiner,  and  shows  him,  at  the  same 
lime,  that  the  metal  now  is  cleansed  of  all  foreign 
mixture. 

"  Great,  accordingly,  was  his  surprise  at  first, 
when  he  found  himself  beside  his  mistress,  and 
looked  down,  through  the  cloud  that  environed 
him,  on  tables,  stools,  and  floor.  The  wrecks  of  a 
transient,  light,  and  false  decoration  lay,  like  the 
glittering  coat  of  a  nkimied  fish,  dispersed  in  wild 
disorderT  The  implements  of  personal  cleanliness, 
combs,  soap,  toicels,  with  the  traces  of  their  jise .' 
were  not  concealed.  Music,  portions  of  plays  and 
pairs  of  shoes,  washes  and  Italian  floweits,  pin- 
cushions, hair-shewers,  rouge-pals  and  ribbons, 
books,  and  siraw-hats;  no  article  despised  the 
neighbourhood  of  another;  all  were  united  by  a 
common  element,  powder  and  dust.  Yet  as  Wil- 
helm scarcely  noticed  in  her  presence  aught  except 
herself;  nay',  as  all  that  had  belonged  to  her,  that 
she  had  touched,  was  dear  to  him,  he  came  at  last 
to  feel,  in  this  chaoii<'  housekeeping,  a  charm  which 
the  proud  pomp  of  his  own  habitaiion  never  had 
communicated.  When,  on  this  hand,  he  lifted 
aside  her  boddice,  to  get  at  the  harpsicord  ;  on  that, 
threw  her  gown  upon  the  bed,  that  he  might  find  a 
seat:  when  she  herself,  with  careless  freedom,  did 
not  seek  to  hide  from  him  many  a  natural  office.' 
which,  out  of  respect  for  the  presence  of  a  second  per- 
son, is  usually  coiiceaJed;  he  felt  as  if  by  all  this 
he  was  coming  nearer  to  her  every  moment,  as  if 
the  communion  betwixt  them  was  fastening  by  in- 
visible ties !" 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  raptureS;  and  just 
after  he  had  been  gallantly  serenading  her 
with  the  trumpets  of  a  travelling  shovMnan, 
he  detects  his  frail  fair  one  in  an  intrigue  with 
a  rival ;  and  falls  into  the  most  horrible  ago- 
nies, the  nature  and  violence  of  which  the  in- 
genious author  illustrates  by  the  following 
very  obvious  and  dignified  simile. 

"  As  when  by  chance,  in  the  preparation  of  some 
artificial  fire-works,  any  part  of  the  composition 
kindles  before  its  time,  and  the  skilluUy  bored  and 
loaded  barrels, — which,  arranged,  and  burning 
after  a  settled  plan,  would  have  painted  in  the  air  a 
magnificently  varying  series  of  flaming  images, — 
now  hissing  and  roaring,  promiscuously  e.xplode 
with  a  confused  and  dangerous  crash  ;  so,  in  our 
hero's  case,  did  happiness  and  hope,  pleasure  and 
joys,  realities  and  dreams,  clash  together  with  de- 
structive tumult,  all  at  once  in  his  bosom." 

He  sots  off,  however,  on  his  journey,  and 
speedily  gets  into  tho.se  more  extensive  theat- 
rical connections;  from  which  he  can  scarcely 


be  said  to  escape  till  the  end  of  the  work. 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  ludicrously  un- 
natural than  the  luck  he  has  in  meeting  with 
nothing  but  players,  and  persons  connected 
with  playhouses.  On  his  very  first  sally,  he 
falls  in  with  a  player  who  had  run  away  with 
a  young  lady,  whom  he  had  captivated  from 
the  stage — and  has  scarcely  had  tmie  to  ad- 
mire the  mountam  scenery  among  which  he 
has  to  pass  his  first  evening,  when  he  is  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  the  work-people  in  the 
adjacent  village  are  about  to  act  a  play  ! — the 
whole  process  of  which  is  described  with  as 
solemn  a  tediousness  as  his  own  original  pup- 
pet-show. In  the  first  town  to  which  he 
descends,  he  meets  first  with  a  seducing  com- 
pany of  tumblers  and  rope-dancers,  reinforced 
by  the  valuable  addition  of  a  Strong  Man  ; 
and  in  half  an  hour  after  makes  acquaintance 
with  a  g-ay  and  bewitching  damsel — who 
sends  across  the  street  to  beg  a  nosegay  she 
sees  in  his  hands — and  turns  out,  by  the  hap- 
piest accident  in  the  world,  to  be  a  strolling 
actress,  waiting  there  for  the  chance  of  em- 
plopnent.  To  give  our  readers  an  idea  of 
the'  sort  of  descriptions  with  which  the  great 
writers  in  Germany  now  electrify  their  read- 
ers, we  copy  the  following  simple  and  impres- 
sive account  of  the  procession  of  the  tumbling 
party. 

"  Preceded  by  a  drum,  the  manager  advanced  on 
horseback ;  he  was  followed  by  a  female  dancer 
mounted  on  a  corresponding  hack,  and  holding  a 
child  before  her,  all  bedizened  with  ribbons  and 
spangles.  Next  came  the  remainder  of  the  troop 
on  fool  ;  some  of  them  carrying  children  on  their 
shoulders  in  danurerous  postures,  yet  smoothly  and 
lightly  ;  among  these  the  young,  dark,  black-haired 
figure  again  attracted  Wilhelm's  notice. — Pickle- 
herring  ran  gaily  up  and  down  the  crowded  multi- 
tude, distributin'^  his  hand-bills  with  much  practical 
fun  ;  here  smacking  the  lips  of  a  girl,  there  breech- 
ing a  boy,  and  awakening  njenerally  among  the 
people  an  invincible  desire  to  know  more  of  him. — 
On  the  painted  flags,  the  manifold  science  of  the 
company  was  visibly  delineated." 

The  new  actress,  to  whom  he  is  introduced 
by  another  of  the  fraternity  whom  he  finds  at 
jhis  inn.  is  named  Philina;  and  her  character 
hs  sketched  and  sustained  throughout  the  book 
Kvith  far  more  talent  than  could  be  expected 
tfrom  any  thing  we  have  hitherto  cited.  She 
ps  gay,  forward,  graceful,  false,  and  good-na- 
Hured ;  with  a  daring  and  capricious  pleasantry, 
which,  if  it  often  strikes  as  unnatural,  is  fre- 
quently original  and  effective.  Her  debut, 
however,  we  must  say,  is  in  the  author's  most 
characteristic  maimer. 

"  She  came  out  from  her  room  in  a  pair  of  tight 
little  slippers  v)ilh  hiah  heels,  to  give  ihem  welcome. 
She  had  thrown  a  black  mantle  over  her,  above  a 
white  negligee,  not  indeed  superstitiously  clean, 
but  which,  for  that  very  reason,  gave  her  a  more 
frank  and  domestic  air!  Her  short  dress  did  not 
hide  a  pair  of  the  prettiest  feet  and  ancles  in  the 
world. — '  You  are  welcome,'  she  cried  to  Wilhelm, 
'  and  I  thank  you  for  your  charming  flowers.'  She 
led  him  into  her  chamber  with  the  one  hand,  press- 
ing the  nosegay  to  her  breast  with  the  other.  Be- 
ing all  seatea,  and  got  into  a  pleasant  train  of  general 
talk,  to  which  she  had  the  art  of  giving  a  delightful 
turn,  Laertes  threw  a  handful  of  (ringerhreod  nuU 
into  her  lap,  and  she  immediately  began  to  eat 
them.—'  Look  what  a  child  this  yovtng  gallant  is!' 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


in 


she  snid :  '  He  wants  to  persuade  you  that  I  am 
)bnd  of  such  confectionary ;  and  it  is  himself  that 
caniioi  live  without  licl'iug  hix  lips  over  something 
of  the  kind.' — '  Let  us  confess,'  repHed  Laertes, 
'  thai,  in  this  point,  as  in  others,  you  and  I  go  hand 
in  hand.  For  e.xample,'  he  continued,  '  the  weather 
isdehghiful  to-day  :  wiiat  if  we  should  take  a  drive 
into  the  counirv.  and  eat  our  dinner  M  the  Mill?'  " 
—  Vol.  i.  pp.  143,  144. 

Even  at  the  mill  they  are  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  with  a  dramatic  representation — some 
miners  in  the  neighhourhood  having,  by  great 
good  luck,  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  set  forth 
the  utility  of  their  craft  in  a  sort  of  recitative 
tlispiite  with  some  unbelieving  countrymen, 
ami  to  sing  through  a  part  of  Werner's  Lec- 
tures on  Mineralogj- — upon  which  very  natural 
and  probable  occurrence  our  apprentice  com- 
ments, in  this  incredible  manner. 

'■  '  In  this  little  dialogue,'  said  Wilhelm,  when 
seated  at  table,  '  we  have  a  lively  proof  how  useful 
the  theatre  might  be  to  all  ranks ;  what  advantage 
even  the  Stale  inight  procure  from  it,  if  the  occupa- 
tions,  trades,  and  undertakings  of  men  were   all 
;     brought  upon  the  stage  !  and  presented  on  their 
-     praiseworthy  side,  in  that  point  of  view  in  which 
the  State  itself  should  honour  and  protect  them  ! 
As  matters  stand,  we  e.xhibit  only  the  ridiculous 
.    side  of  men. — Might  it  not  be  a  worthy  and  pleasing 
.     task  for  a  statesman  to  survey  the  natural  and  re- 
ciprocal influence  of  all  classes  on  each  other,  and 
~    to  guide  some  poet,  gifted  with  sufficient  humour, 
in  such  labours  as  these  ?  In  this  way,  I  am  per- 
r    suaded,   many   very  entertaining,  both 
,..    and  useful  pieces,  might  be  executed.'  " 

Such  is  the  true  sublime  of  German  specu- 
lation !  and  it  is  by  writing  such  sheer  non- 
sense as  this  that  men  in  that  country  acquire 
the  reputation  of  great  genius — and  of  uniting 
with  pleasant  inventions  the  most  profound 
susaestions  of  political  wisdom  !  Can  we  be 
wrrmg  in  maintaining,  after  this,  that  there 
ire  diversities  of  national  taste  that  can  never 
'le  reconciled,  and  scarcely  ever  accounted 
-  fur? 

I  %  On  another  day  they  go  in  a  boat,  and  agree, 
I  by  way  of  pastime,  to  "extemporise  a  Play," 
iicrf  by  each  taking  an  ideal  character,  and  at- 
(isa!  tempting  to  sustain  it — and  this,  "  because  it 
atie  forces  each  to  strain  his  fancy  and  his  wit  to 
bcti  ihe  uttermost,"  is  pronounced  to  be  a  most 
ectet  ['comfortable  occupation," — and  is  thus  mo- 
Sk  j'alized  upon  by  a  reverend  clergj-man  who 
i-ii,  [lad  joined  their  party,  and  enacted  a  country 
antii  i)arson  with  great  success. 
isliM  "  '  I  think  this  practice  very  useful  among  actors, 
jettl  ind  even  in  the  company  of  triends  and  acquaint- 
nces.  It  is  the  best  mode  of  drawing  men  out  of 
hemselves,  and  leading  them,  by  a  circuitous  path, 
•ack  into  themselves  again.'  " 

Their  evening  occupation  is  not  less  intel- 
ectual  and  dramatic;  though  it  ends,  we 
ttust  own,  with  rather  too  much  animation, 
^hey  all  meet  to  read  a  new  play ;  and 
-"between  the  third  and  fourth  acl,  the  punch 
rrived,  in  an  ample  bowl ;  and  there  being  much 
a  |ghting  and  drinking  in  the  piece  itself,  nothing 
as  more  natural  than  that,  on  every  such  occur- 


i.0 


jj  pnce,  the  company  should  transport  themselves 
"' 1^  nto  the  situation  of  the  heroes,  should  flourish  and 
[f  L||,  jtrike  along  wiih  them,  and  drijtk  long  life  to  their 
id  1"°'^'"''^^^  amon^  the  dramatis  persona:. 
'\t  I  "  Each  individual  of  the  party  was  inflamed  with 
"j  iji  [le  most  noble  fire  of  national  ■spirit.   How  it  grati- 


fied this  German  company  to  be  poetically  enter- 
tained, according  to  their  own  eharacier,  on  stuff 
of  their  own  manufacture  I  In  particular,  the  vaults 
and  caverns,  the  ruined  castles,  the  mo.ss  and  hol- 
low trees;  but  above  all  the  nocturnal  Gipsey- 
scenes,  and  the  Secret  Tribunal,  produced  a  quite 
incredible  eflcct. 

"  Towards  the  fifth  act  the  approl)ation  became 
more  im|)etuous  and  louder;  and  at  last,  when  the 
hero  actually  trampled  down  his  oppressor,  and 
the  tyrant  met  his  doom,  the  ecstasy  increased  to 
such  a  height,  that  all  averred  they  had  never 
passed  such  happy  moments.  Meliiia,  whom  the 
liquor  had  inspired,  was  the  noisiest ;  and  when  the 
second  bowl  was  empty,  and  midnight  near,  Laertes 
swore  through  thick  and  thin,  that  no  living  mortal 
was  worthy  ever  more  to  put  these  glasses  to  his 
lips;  and,  so  swearing,  he  pitched  his  own  right 
over  his  head,  through  a  window-pane,  out  into  the 
street.  The  rest  followed  his  example  ;  and  not- 
withstanding the  protestations  of  the  landlord,  who 
came  running  in  at  the  noise,  the  pmich-bovd  itself, 
never  after  this  festivity  to  be  polluted  by  imholy 
drink,  was  dashed  into  a  thousand  shreds.  Philina, 
whose  exhilaration  was  the  least  noticed,  the  other 
two  girls  by  that  time  having  laid  themselves  upon 
the  sola  in  no  very  elegant  positions,  maliciously 
encouraged  her  companions  in  their  tumult. 

"  Meanwhile  the  town-guard  had  arrived,  and 
were  demanding  admission  to  the  house.  Wilhelm, 
much  heated  by  his  reading,  though  he  had  drank 
but  little,  had  enough  to  do  with  the  landlord's  help 
to  content  these  people  by  money  and  good  words, 
and  afterwards  to  get  the  various  members  of  his 
party  sent  home  in  that  unseemly  case." 

Most  of  our  readers  probably  think  they 
have  had  enough  of  this  goodly  matter.  But 
we  cannot  spare  them  a  taste  of  the  manner  of 
courtship  and  flirtation  that  prevailed  among 
these  merry  people.  Philina  one  day  inade  a 
garland  of  flowers  for  her  own  hair — and  then 
another,  which  she  placed  on  the  brows  of 
our  hero. 

"  '  And  I,  it  appears,  must  go  empty  !  '  said 
Laertes. — '  Not  by  any  means ;  you  shall  not  have 
reason  to  complain,'  replied  Philina,  taking  off  the 
garland  from  her  own  head,  and  putting  it  on  his. — 
'  If  we  were  rivals,'  said  Laertes,  '  we  might  now 
dispute  very  warmly  which  of  us  stood  higher  in 
thy  favour.' — '  And  the  more  fools  you,'  said  she, 
whilst  she  bent  herself  towards  him,  and  offered 
him  her  lips  to  kiss:  and  then  immediately  turned 
round,  threw  her  arm  about  Wilhelm,  and  be- 
stowed a  kind  salute  on  him  also.  '  Which  of 
them  tastes  best  V  said  she  archly. — '  Surprisingly  !' 
exclaimed  Laertes :  '  it  seems  as  if  nothing  else 
had  ever  such  a  tang  of  wormwood  in  it.' — '  As 
little  wormwood,'  she  replied,  'as  any  gift  that  a 
man  may  enjoy  without  envy  and  without  conceit. 
But  now,'  cried  she,  'I  should  like  to  have  an 
hour's  dancing,  and  after  that  we  must  look  to  our 
vau Iters.'  " 

Another  evening,  as  Wilhelm  was  sitting 
pensively  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door, 

"  Philina  came  singing  and  skipping  along 
through  the  front  door.  She  sat  down  l)y  him  ;  nay, 
we  might  almost  say,  an  him,  so  close  did  she 
press  herself  towards  him ;  site  leant  upon  his 
shoulders,  began  playing  with  his  hair,  patted  him, 
and  gave  him  the  best  words  in  the  world.  She 
begged  of  him  to  stay  with  them,  and  not  leave  her 
alone  in  that  company,  or  she  must  die  of  ennui: 
she  could  not  live  any  longer  in  the  same  house 
with  Melina,  and  had  come  over  to  lodge  in  the 
other  inn  for  that  very  reason. — He  tried  in  vain  to 
satisfy  her  with  denials;  to  make  her  understand 
that  lie  neither  could  nor  would  remain  any  longer. 
She  did  not  cease  lnr  entreaties  ;  nay,  suddenly 
she  threw  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  ht/n 


112 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


with  the  Irveliesl  expression  of  fondness. — '  Are 
you  mad,  PhilinaV  cried  Wilhelm,  endeavouring 
to  disengage  himself;  '  to  make  the  open  street  the 
scene  ot  siich  caresses,  which  I  nowise  merit !  Let 
me  go  ;  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  stay.' — '  And  I  will 
hola  thee  fast,'  said  she,  'and  kiss  thee  here  on 
the  open  street,  and  kiss  thee  till  thou  promise 
what  I  want.  I  shall  die  of  laughing,'  she  con- 
tinued :  '  By  this  familiarity  the  good  people  here 
must  take  me  for  thy  wife  of  four  weeks'  standing  ; 
and  husliands  that  witness  this  touching  scene  will 
commend  nie  to  their  wives  as  a  pattern  of  child- 
hke  simple  tenderness.' — Some  persons  were  just 
then  going  by ;  she  caressed  him  in  the  most 
graceful  way  ;  and  he,  to  avoid  giving  scandal,  was 
constrained  to  play  the  part  of  the  patient  husband. 
Then  she  made  faces  at  the  people,  when  their 
backs  were  turned;  and,  in  the  wildest  humour, 
continued  to  conmiit  all  sorts  of  improprieties,  till 
at  last  he  was  obliged  to  promise  th.it  he  would  not 
go  that  day,  or  the  morrow,  or  the  next  day. — 
'  You  are  a  true  clod  !  '  said  she,  quitting  him  ; 
'  and  I  am  but  a  fool  to  spend  so  much  kindness 
on  you.'  "—Vol.  i.  pp.  208,  209. 

But  we  are  tired  of  extracting  so  much 
trash,  and  must  look  out  for  something  better. 
Would  any  one  believe;  that  the  same  work 
which  contains  all  these  platitudes  of  vulgarity 
should  have  furnished  our  great  novelist  with 
one  of  his  most  fantastical  characters,  and 
Lord  Byron  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
passasres  in  his  poetry?  Yet  so  it  is.  The 
character  of  Fenella,  in  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
is  borrowed  almost  entire  from  the  Mignon 
of  the  work  before  us — and  the  prelude  to 
the  Bride  of  Abydos,  beginning,  "O  know 
you  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle  ?" 
is  tiiken,  with  no  improvement^  from  a  little 
wild  air  which  she  sings.  It  is  introduced 
here,  too,  with  more  propriety,  and  eflfect 
than  in  the  work  of  the  noble  author  :  for  she 
is  represented  as  having  been  stolen  from 
Italy  :  and  the  song,  in  this  its  original  form, 
ehafiows  out  her  desire  to  be  restored  to  that 
delightful  land  and  the  stately  halls  of  her 
ancestors. — retracing  her  way  by  the  vv'ild 
/  passes  of  the  Alps.  It  is  but  fair  to  the  poet- 
/  ical  powers  of  Goethe  to  srive  this  beautiful 
pong,  as  it  is  here,  apparentlv.  very  ably  trans- 
lated. 

"Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  lemon-trees 
bloom  ? 

Where  the  gold  orange  glows  in  the  deep  thick- 
et's gloom  ? 

Where  a  wind  ever  soft  from  the  blue  heaven 
blows, 

And  the  groves  are  of  laurel  and  myrtle  and  rose  ? 

Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither!  O  thither. 

My  dearest  and  kindest,  with  thee  would  I  go. 

Know'st  thou  the  house,  with  its  turreted  walls, 
Where  the  chambers  are  glancing,  and  vast  are 

the  halls? 
Where  the  figures  of  marble  look  on  me  so  mild. 
As  if  thinking :  '  Why  thus  did  they  use  thee, 

poor  child  ?' 
Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither!  O  thiiher, 
My  guide  and  my  guardian,  with  thee  would  I  go. 

Know'st  ihou  the  mountain,  its  cloud-cover'd 
arch. 

Where  the  mules  among  mist  o'er  the  wild  tor- 
rent march  ? 

In  the  clefts  ol  it.  dragons  lie  coil'd  with  their 
brood ; 


The  rent  crag  rushes  down,  and  above  it  the  flood. 
Know'st  thou  it  ? 

Thither!  O  thiiher, 
Our  way  ieadeth :   Father !  O  come  let  us  go  I" 
Vol.  i.  p.  229. 

The  mystery  that  hangs  over  the  original 
condition  of  Fenella  in  Rushin  Castle,  is  dis- 
carded, indeed,  as  to  Mignon,  from  the  tirst ; 
for  she  is  first  e.vhibited  to  us  as  actually  tum- 
bling!— and  is  rescued  by  our  hero  from  the 
scourge  of  the  master  tumbler,  who  was  dis- 
satisfied with  her  performance.  But  the  fonds 
of  the  character  is  the  same.  She  is  beautiful 
and  dwartish,  unaccountable,  and  lull  of  sen- 
sibility, and  is  secretly  in  love  with  her  pro- 
tector, who  feels  for  her  nothing  but  common 
kindness  and  compassion.  She  comes  at  last. 
to  be  sure,  to  be  rather  more  mad  than  Fenel- 
la, and  dies  the  victim  of  her  hopeless  passion. 
The  following  is  the  description,  something 
overworked  perhaps,  and  not  quite  intelligible, 
but,  on  the  whole,  most  prnverful  and  impres- 
sive, of  this  fairy  creature's  first  indication 
of  her  love  to  her  youthful  deliverer. 

"  Nothing  is  more  touching  than  the  first  disclo- 
sure of  a  love  which  has  been  nursed  in  silence,  of 
a  faith  grown  strong  in  secret,  and  which  at  last 
comes  forth  in  the  hour  of  need,  and  reveals  itself 
to  him  who  formerly  has  reckoned  it  of  small  ac- 
count. The  bud,  which  had  been  closed  so  long 
and  firmly,  was  now  ripe,  to  burst  its  swaihings, 
and  Wilhelm's  heart  could  never  have  been  readier 
to  welcome  ihe  impressions  of  aflection. 

"  She  stood  before  him,  and  noticed  his  di.squiet- 
ude.      '  Master!'  she  cried.  '  if  thou  art  unhappy, 
what  will  become  of  Mignon?'   'Dear  little  crea- 
ture,' said  he,  taking  her  hands,  '  thou  too  art  part 
of  my  anxieties.     I  must  go.'     She  looked  ai  his 
eyes,   glistening  with  restrained   tears,  and  kneii 
down  with  vehemence  before  iiim.     He  kept  hei 
hands  ;  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  knees,  and  re- 
mained quite  siill.    He  played  with  her  hair,  paitec 
her,  and  spoke  kindly  to  her.     She  cuntiinied  mo 
tionless  for  a  considerable  time.    At  last  he  felt  a  sor 
of  palpitating  movement  in  her,  which  began  ver} 
softly,  and  then  by  detrrees  with  iiicressing  violenci 
diffused  itself  over  all  her  frame.    '  What  ails  thee 
Mignon  V  cried  he  ;   '  what  ails  thee  V    She  raisei 
up  her  little  head,  looked  at  him,  and  all  at  one 
laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  with  the  coumenanc 
of  one  repressing  the  utterance  of  pain.     He  raise 
her  up,  and  she  fell  upon  his  breast ;  he  presse 
her  towards  him,  and   kissed  her.     She  replied  nc 
by  any  pressure  of  the  hand,  by  any  motion  what 
ever.    She  held  firmly  against  her  heart ;  and  all  i 
once  gave  a  cry,  which  was  accompanied  by  spa; 
modic  movements  of  the  body.      She  started  ui 
and  immediately  fell  down  before  him,  as  if  broke 
in  every  joint.     It  was  an   excruciating  moment 
'  My  child!'  cried  he,  raising  her  up.  and  claspin 
her  fast ;  '  My  child,  what  ails  thee  ?'  The  palpit: 
tions  continued,  spreading  from  the  heart  over  8 
the   lax  and   povN'crless   limbs ;    she    was    mere' 
hanging  in  his  arms  !  All  at  once  she  again  becan 
quite  stiff,  like  one  enduring  the  sharpest  corpore 
agony  ;  and  soon  with  a  new  vehemence  all  h' 
frame  once  more  became  alive  ;  and  she  threw  he 
self  about  his  neck,  like  a  bent  spring  that  is  closin 
while   in   her  soul,  as  it  v\-ere  a  strong  rent  to< 
place,  and  at  the  same  moment  n  s'ream  of  tea 
flowed  from  her  shut  eyes  into  his  bosom-    He  he 
her  fast.      She  wept  !  and  no  tongu'*  can  expre 
the  force  of  these  Tears.   Her  long  hair  had  loosene 
and  was  hangin?  down  before  her ;  it  seemed  as 
her  whole    being  was  melting   incessantly  into 
brook  of  tears  !   Her  rigid  limbs  were  ajrain  becor 
relaxed  ;  her  inmost  soul  was  ponriiis  itself  forl'i 
In  the  wild  confusion  of  the  moment,  Wilhelm  w' 


GOETHE-S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


113 


afraid  she  would  dissolve  in  his  arms,  and  leave 
nothing  there  for  him  to  grasp.  He  held  her  faster 
and  taster.  'My  child!'  cried  he,  'my  child!' 
Her  tears  contmued  flowing.  At  last  she  raised  hor- 
sell';  a  taint  gladness  shone  upon  her  face.  'My 
father  !'  cried  she,  '  thou  wilt  not  forsake  me  ?  Wilt 
be  my  father?  I  am  thy  child.'  " 

We  cannot  better  illustrate  the  strange  in- 
consistency of  our  author's  manner,  than  by 
subjoiniuy  to  this  highly  passionate  and  really 
beautiful  scene,  his  account  of  the  egg  dance, 
'  which  this  little  creature  performs  a  few  days 
after,  for  her  friend's  entertahiment. 

j,   '     "  She  came  into  his  room  one  evening  carrying  a 

little  carpet  below  her  arm,  which  she  spread  out 

]   iupon  the  floor.    She  then  brought  four  candles,  and 

■  placed  one  upon  each  corner  of  the  carpet  A  little 
!    basket  of  eggs,  which  she  next  carried  in,  made  her 

purpose  clearer.     Carefully  measuring  her  steps, 

I    slie  then  walked  to  and  tro  on  the  carpet,  spreading 

I    out  the  eggs  in  certain  figures  and  positions ;  which 

done,  she  called  in  a  man  that  was  waiting  in  the 

bouse,  and  could  play  on  the  viohn.     He  retired 

■  with  his  instrument  into  a  corner  ;  she  tied  a  band 
about  her  eyes,  gave  a  signal,  and,  like  a  piece  of 
wheel-work  set  a-going,  she  began  moving  the 
same  instant  as  the  music,  accompanying  her  beats 
ind  the  notes  of  the  tune  with  the  strokes  of  a  pair 
jf  castanets. 

"  Lightly,  nimbly,  quickly,  and  with  hairsbreadth 
iccuracy,  she  carried  on  tiie  dance.  She  skipped 
;o  sharply  and  surely  along  between  the  eggs,  and 
rode  so  closely  down  beside  them,  that  you  would 
lave  thought  every  instant  she  must  trample  one 
)f  theni  in  pieces,  or  kick  the  rest  away  in  her  rapid 
urns.  By  no  means!  She  touched  no  one  of  them, 
htiugh  winding  herself  through  their  mazes  with 
ill  kinds  of  steps,  wide  and  narrow,  nay  even  with 
e;ips,  and  at  last  half  kneeling. — Constant  as  the 
mviment  of  a  clock,  she  ran  her  course  ;  and  the 
-range  music,  at  each  repetition  of  the  tune  gave  a 
,  lew  impulse  to  the  dance,  recommencing  and  again 
*;  rushing  off' as  at  first. 

F'  [  "The  dance  being  ended,  she  rolled  the  e^gs 
"'■  logether  softly  with  her  foot  into  a  little  heap,  left 
'''■■  'lone  behind,  harmed  none  ;  then  placed  herself 
'"'  beside  it,  taking  the  bandage  from  her  eyes,  and 
*■  'xjncluding  her  performance  with  a  little  bow." 

ns  i  Soon  after  this,  the  whole  player  party  ate 
lui  iaken  to  the  castle  of  a  wealthy  Count,  to  as- 
•  feist  him  in  entertaining  a  great  Prince  and  his 
''*'  numerous  attendants,  from  whom  he  was  ex- 
ff  becting  a  visit.  Our  hero  is  prevailed  on  to 
*^  go  also,  and  tnkes  Mignoii  along  with  him — 
ijii  |ind  though  treated  with  some  indignity,  and 
ery  ill  lodged  and  attended,  condescends  to 
mpose  a  complimentary  piece  in  honour  of 
he  illustrious  stranger,  and  to  superintend,  as 
ell  as  to  take  a  part  in,  all  the  private  theat- 
icals.  By  degrees,  however,  he  steals  into 
favour  of  the  more  distinguished  guests — 
employed  to  read  to  the  Countess,  and  at 
it  is  completely  fascinated  with  her  elegance 
■«'?';  |.nd  beauty — while,  as  it  turns  out,  he  has  un- 
'",  '.onsciously  made  some  impression  on  her  in- 
"jjj  [ocent  heart.  He  is  not  a  little  assisted  in  his 
^jui,  tesigus,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  by  a 
,oi;i  fertain  intriguing  Baroness,  who  dresses  him 
H(-  kit,  on  one  occasion,  in  the  Count's  clothes, 
""*  Vhen  that  worthy  person  was  from  home,  in- 
ending  to  send  the  Countess  in  upon  him,  by 
'lling  her  that  her  lord  was  suddenly  return- 
1.  But  this  scheme  is  broken  up  by  the 
,'lffi  nexpected  verification  of  her  fable ;  for  the 
ount  actually  returns  at  the  moment:  and, 
15 


'bri; 
ionic. 


on  stepping  into  his  dressing-room,  is  so  much 
terrified  at  seeing  himself  sitting  quietly  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fire,  that  he  runs  out  in  a 
great  fright,  and  soon  after  becomes  a  vision- 
arj',  and  joins  the  insane  flock  of  Swedenborg. 
A  critical  scene,  however,  is  at  last  brought 
on  accidentally — and  though  the  transaction 
recorded  is  by  no  means  quite  correct,  we 
cannot  help  inserting  the  account  of  it,  as  a 
very  favourable  specimen  of  the  author's  most 
animated  and  most  natural  style.  VVilhelm 
had  been  engaged  in  reading,  as  usual,  to  the 
Countess  and  her  female  party,  when  they 
are  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  visitors. 
The  Baroness  goes  out  to  receive  them ; 

"  And  the  Countess,  while  about  to  shut  her 
writing-desk,  which  was  standing  open,  look  up 
her  casket,  and  put  some  other  rings  upon  her  fin- 
ger. '  We  are  soon  to  part,'  said  she,  keeping  her 
eyes  upon  the  casket :  '  accept  a  memorial  of  a  true 
friend,  who  wishes  nothing  more  earnestly,  than 
that  you  may  always  prosper '  She  then  took  out 
a  ring,  which,  underneath  a  crystal,  bore  a  little 
plate  of  woven  hair,  beautifully  set  with  diamonds. 
She  held  it  out  to  Wiihelm,  who,  on  taking  it, 
knew  neither  what  to  say  nor  do,  but  stood  as  if 
rooted  to  the  ground.  The  Countess  shut  her  desk, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  sofa.  '  And  I  must  go 
empty  V  said  Philina,  kneeling  down  at  the  Count- 
ess' right  hand.  '  Do  but  look  at  the  man  !  he 
carries  such  a  store  of  words  in  his  mouth,  when 
no  one  wants  to  hear  them  ;  and  now  he  cannot 
slammer  out  the  poorest  syllable  of  thanks.  Quick, 
sir  I  E.xpress  your  services,  by  way  of  pantomime 
at  least ;  and  if  to-day  you  can  invent  nothing  ;  then, 
ibr  Heaven's  sake,  be  my  imitator  !'  Philma  seized 
the  right  hand  of  the  Countess,  and  kissed  it  warm- 
ly. Wiihelm  sank  upon  his  knee,  laid  hold  of  the 
left,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  The  Countess  seem- 
ed embarrassed,  yet  without  displeasure.  '  Ah  !' 
cried  Philina  ;  '  so  much  splendour  of  attire  I  may 
have  seen  before  ;  but  never  one  so  fit  to  wear  it. 
What  bracelets,  but  also  what  a  hand!  What  a 
neck-dress,  but  also  what  a  bosom  !'  '  Peace,  little 
cozener  !'  said  the  Countess.  '  Is  this  his  Lordship 
then  V  said  Phihna,  pointing  to  a  rich  medallion, 
which  the  Countess  wore  on  her  left  side,  by  a 
particular  chain.  '  He  is  painted  in  his  bridal  dress,' 
replied  the  Countess.  '  Was  he  then  so  young?' 
inquired  Philina ;  I  know  it  is  but  a  year  or  two 
since  you  were  married.'  '  His  youth  must  be 
placed  to  the  artist's  account,'  replied  the  lady. 
'  He  is  a  handsome  man,'  observed  Philina.  '  But 
was  there  never,'  she  continued,  placing  her  hand 
upon  the  Countess'  heart,  '  never  any  other  image 
that  found  its  way  in  secret  hither?'  'Thou  art 
very  bold,  Philina!'  cried  she;  'I  have  spoiled 
thee.  Let  me  never  hear  such  another  speech.' 
'  If  you  are  angry,  then  am  I  unhappy,'  said  Phi- 
lina, springing  up,  and  hastening  from  the  room. 

"  Wiihelm  still  held  that  lovely  hand  in  both  of 
his.  His  eyes  were  fi.xed  upon  the  bracelet-clasp  ; 
he  noticed,  with  extreme  surprise,  that  his  initials 
were  traced  on  it,  in  lines  of  brilliants.  \  Have  I 
then,'  he  modestly  inquired,  '  you  own  hair  in  this 
precious  ring  ?'  '  Yes,'  replied  she  in  a  faint  voice  ; 
then  suddeiily  collecting  herself,  she  said,  and 
pressed  his  hand:  'Arise,  and  fare  you  well!' 
'  Here  is  my  name,'  cried  he,  •  by  the  most  curious 
chance!'  He  pointed  to  the  bracelet-clasp.  *  How  ?' 
cried  the  Countess;  '  it  is  the  cipher  of  a  female 
friend  I'  '  They  are  the  initials  of  my  name.  For- 
get nic  not.  Your  image  is  engraven  on  my  heart, 
and  will  never  be  effaced.  Farewell !  I  must  be 
trone.'  He  kissed  her  hand,  and  meant  to  rise;  but 
as  in  dreams,  some  strange  thing  fades  and  changes 
into  something  stranger,  and  the  succeeding  wonder 
takes  us  by  surprise  ;  so,  without  knowing  how  it 
happened,  he  found  the  Countess  in  his  arms  !  Her 
K  2 


114 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


lips  were  resting  upon  his,  and  their  warm  mutual 
kisses  were  yielding  them  that  blessedness,  which 
mortals  sip  from  the  topmost  sparkling  foam  on  the 
freshly  poured  cup  of  l(»ve  I 

"  Her  head  lay  upon  his  shoulder;  the  disordered 
ringlets  and  rufflt-s  were  Ibrgotten.  She  had 
thrown  her  arm  around  him  ;  he  clasped  her  with 
vivacity ;  and  pressed  her  again  and  again  to  his 
breast.  O  that  such  a  moment  could  but  last  for- 
ever I  And  wo  to  envious  faie  that  shortened  even 
this  brief  moment  to  our  friends!  How  terrified 
w;is  Wilhelm,  how  astounded  did  he  start  from  tliis 
happy  dream,  when  the  Countess,  with  a  shriek, 
on  a  sudden  tore  herself  away,  and  hastily  pressed 
her  hand  against  her  heart.  He  stood  contounded 
before  her ;  she  held  the  other  hand  upon  her  eyi-s, 
and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  e-xclainied  :  '  Away  ! 
leave  me  I  delay  not!'  He  continued  standing. 
'  Leave  me  I'  she  cried;  and  taking  oft'  her  hand 
from  her  eyes,  she  looked  at  him  with  an  indescrib- 
able expression  of  ruuntenance  ;  and  added,  in  the 
most  tender  and  afTecting  voice:  '  Fly,  if  you  love 
me.'  Wilhelm  was  out  of  the  chamber,  and  a<?ain 
in  his  room,  before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing. 
Unhappy  creatures!  What  singular  warning  of 
chance  or  of  destiny  tore  them  asunder  ?'  " 

These  questionable  doings  are  followed  up 
by  long  speculations  on  the  art  of  playing;  and 
the  proper  studies  and  exercises  of  actors. 
But  in  the  end  of  these,  which  are  mystical 
and  prosiiig  enough,  we  come  suddenly  upon 
what  we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  the 
most  able,  eloquent,  and  profound  exposition 
of  the  character  of  Hamlet,  as  conceived  by 
our  great  dramatist,  that  has  ever  been  given 
to  the  world.  In  justice  to  the  author,  we 
shall  give  a  part  of  this  admirable  critique. 
He  first  delineates  him  as  he  was  before  the 
calamities  of  his  family. 

"  '  Soft,  and  from  a  noble  stem,  this  royal  flower 
hnd  sprung  up  under  the  immediate  influences  of 
majesty:  the  idea  of  moral  rectitude  with  that  of 
princely  elevation,  the  feeling  of  the  good  and  dig- 
nified with  the  consciousness  of  high  birih,  had  in 
him  been  unfolded  simultaneously.  He  was  a 
prince,  by  birth  a  prince  ;  and  he  wished  to  reign, 
only  that  good  men  might  be  good  without  obstruc- 
tion. Pleasing  in  form,  polished  by  nature,  cour- 
teous from  the  heart,  he  was  meant  to  be  the  pat- 
tern of  youth  and  the  joy  of  the  world. 

"  '  Without  any  prominent  passion,  his  love  for 
Ophelia  was  a  still  presentiment  of  sweet  wants. 
His  zeal  in  knightly  accomplishments  was  not  en- 
tirely his  own;  it  needed  to  be  quickened  and  in- 
flamed by  praise  bestowed  on  others  for  excelling 
in  them.  He  was  calm  in  his  temper,  artless  in  his 
conduct,  neither  pleased  with  idleness,  nor  too  vio- 
lently eager  for  employment.  The  routine  of  a 
university  he  seemed  to  continue  when  at  court. 
He  possessed  more  mirth  of  humour  than  of  heart  ; 
he  was  a  good  companion,  pliant,  courteous,  dis- 
creet, and  able  to  forget  and  forgive  an  injury  ;  yet 
never  able  to  unite  himself  with  those  who  over- 
slept the  limits  of  the  right,  the  good,  and  the 
becoming.'  " 

He  then  considers  the  effects  of  the  mis- 
fortunes of  his  house  on  such  a  disposition. 
The  first  is  the  death  of  his  father,  by  which 
his  fair  hopes  of  succession  are  disappointed. 

"He  is  now  poor  in  goods  and  favour,  and  a 
stranger  in  the  scene  which  from  youth  he  had 
looked  upon  as  his  inheritance.  His  temper  here 
assumes  its  first  mournful  tinge.  He  feels  that  now 
he  is  not  more,  that  he  is  less,  than  a  private  no- 
bleman ;  he  nflers  himself  as  the  servant  of  every 
0  '(>  ;  he  is  not  courteous  and  condescending,  he  is 
needy  and  degraded. 


"'The  second  stroke  that  came  upon  him 
wounded  deeper,  bowed  still  more.  It  was  the 
marriage  of  his  mother.  The  faithful  tender  son 
had  yet  a  mother,  when  his  lather  passed  away. 
He  hoped,  in  the  company  of  his  surviving  and 
noble-minded  parent,  to  reverence  the  heroic  form 
of  the  departed  ;  but  his  mother  too  he  loses  I  and 
it  is  something  worse  than  death  that  robs  him  of 
her.  The  trustful  image,  which  a  good  child  loves 
to  form  of  his  parents,  is  gone.  With  the  deadi 
there  is  no  help — on  the  living  no  hold  !  She  alsO' 
is  a  woman,  and  her  name  is  Frailty,  hke  that  of  aU 
her  sex.  ,     , 

"  'Figure  to  yourselves  this  youth,'  cried  he,^ 
'  this  son  of  princes ;  conceive  him  vividly,  bringi 
his  state  before  your  eyes,  and  then  observe  him 
when  he  learns  that  his  father's  spirit  walks! 
Stand  by  him  in  the  terrors  oi  the  night,  when  the 
venerable  ghost  itself  appears  before  him.  A  hor- 
rid shudder  passes  over  him  ;  he  speaks  to  the  mys- 
terious form  ;  he  sees  it  beckon  him  ;  he  follows  it, 
and  hears.  The  fearful  accusation  of  his  uncle 
rings  in  his  ears;  the  summons  to  revenge,  and  the 
piercing  oft-repeated  prayer.  Remember  me  ! 

"  '  And  when  the  ghost  has  vanished,  who  is  it 
that  stands  before  us?  A  young  hero  panting  for 
vengeance  ?  A  prince  by  birth,  rejoicing  to  be 
called  to  punish  the  usurper  of  his  crown?  No! 
Trouble  and  astonishment  take  hold  of  the  solitary 
young  man  :  he  grows  bitter  against  smiling  vil- 
lains, swears  that  he  will  not  forget  the  spirit,  and 
concludes  with  the  expressive  ejaculation  : 

The  time  is  out  of  joint :  O  !  cursed  spite,  I 

That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  them  right ! 

"  '  In  these  words,  I  imagine,  will  be  found  thf 
key  to  Hamlet's  whole  procedure.  To  me  it  ii 
clear  that  .Shakespeare  meant,  in  the  present  case 
to  represent  the  efTects  of  a  great  action  laid  upon  i* 
soul  unfit  for  the  performance  of  it.  In  this  view 
the  whole  piece  seems  to  me  to  be  cotnposed.  Ai 
oak-tree  is  planted  in  a  costly  jar,  which  shouk 
have  borne  only  pleasant  flowers  in  its  bosom  ;  thi 
roots  expand,  the  jar  is  shivered  !  A  lovely,  pure 
noble,  and  most  moral  nature,  without  the  strengll 
of  nerve  which  forms  a  hero,  sinks  beneath  a  bur 
den  which  it  cannot  bear,  and  must  not  cast  awa\ 
All  duties  are  holy  for  him  ;  the  present  is  too  hare 
Impossibiliiies  have  been  required  of  him  ;  not  i 
themselves  impossibilities,  but  such  for  him.  H 
winds,  and  turns,  and  torments  himself;  he  advance 
and  recoils;  is  ever  put  in  mind,  ever  puts  himsel 
in  mind;  at  last  does  all  but  lose  his  purpose  trot 
his  thoughts;  yet  still  without  recovering  his  peac 
of  mind.'  " 

There  is  nothing  so  good  as  this  in  any  c 
our  own  commentators — nothing  at  once  s 
poetical,  so  feeling,  and  so  just.  It  is  incor 
ceivable  that  it  should  have  been  written  t 
the  chronicler  of  puppet-shows  and  gluttonot 
vulgarities. 

"The  players,  with  our  hero  at  their  hea 
now  travel  across  the  countrj-,  rehearsin 
lecturing,  squabblhig,  and  kissing  as  usuf 
There  is  war  however  on  their  track ;  ai 
when  seated  pleasantly  at  dinner  in  a  wot 
on  their  journey,  they  are  attacked  by  son 
armed  marauders,  robbed  of  their  goods,  ai 
poor  Wilhelm  left  wounded  and  senseless  < 
the  field.  What  follows,  though  not  ve 
original  in  conception,  is  described  with  efff 
and  vivacity. 

"  On  again  opening  his  eyes,  he  found  himself 
the  strangest  posture.  The  first  thing  that  pierc 
the  dimness  which  yet  swam  before  his  vision,  m 
Philina's  face  bent  down  over  his.  He  leli  hims; 
weak  ;  and  making  a  movement  to  rise,  he  0 
covered  that  he  was  in  Philina's  lap ;  into  wbiti 
indeed,  he  again  sank  down.    She  was  sitting 


GOETHES  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


115 


I  the  sward.     She  had  sofily  pressed  towards  her  the 

■  head  of  the  lalleii  young  man ;  and  made  for  him 
an  easy  couch,  as  tar  as  this  was  in  her  power. 
Migiion  was  kneeling  with  dishevelled  and   hloody 

■  hair  at  his  feet,  whiL'h  she  embraced  with  many 
,  tears.  Philina  let  him  know  that  this  Inic-hearted 
'■  creature,  seeing  her  friend   wounded,  and  in  the 

hurry  of  the  instant,  being  able  to  think  of  nothing 

1  whicti  would  staunch  the  blood,  had  taken  her  own 
hair  that  was  flowina;  round  her  head,  and  tried  to 
Slop  tlie  wounds  with  it  ;  hut  had  soon  been  obliged 
to  g;ive  up  the  vain  attempt;  that  afterwards  they 
had  hound  with  moss  and  dry  mushrooms,  Philina 
herself  criving  up  her  neck-kerchief  for  that  purpose. 

'  ■  Atier  a  tew  mmnents.  a  young  lady  issued  iVoiii 
the  thickets,  riding  on  a  gray  courser,  and  accom- 
panied by  an  elcierly  gentleman  and  some  cavaliers. 
Grooms,  servants,  and  a  troop  of  hussars,  closed  up 
the  rear.  Philina  stared  at  this  phenomenon,  and 
was  about  to  call,  and  entreat  the  Amazon  for  help  ; 
when  the  latter,  turning  her  astonished  eyes  on  the 
group,  instantly  checked  her  horse,  rode  up  to 
them,  and  halted.  She  inquired  eagerly  about  the 
wounded  man,  whose  posture  in  the  Tap  of  this  light- 
■  minded  Samaritan  seemed  to  strike  her  as  peculiar- 
ly strange,  '  Is  it  your  husband  ?'  she  inquired  of 
Philina.  '  Only  a  friend.'  replied  the  other,  with  a 
tone  that  Wilhelm  liked  e.xtremely  ill.  He  had 
fi.fed  his  eyes  upon  the  soft,  elevated,  calin,  sympa- 
thizing features  of  the  stranger:  he  thought  he  had 
never  seen  aught  nobler  or  more  lovely.  Her  shape 
he  could  not  see  :  it  was  hid  by  a  man's  great -coat. 
which  she  seemed  to  have  borrowed  from  some  of 
her  attendants,  to  screen  her  from  the  chill  evening 
air."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  38—43. 

A  surgeon  in  this  compassionate  party  ex- 
amines his  wounds,  and  the  lovely  young 
woman,  after  some  time 

— "turned  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  said,  'Dear 
uiii  If.  may  I  be  generous  at  your  expense  ?'  She 
took  off  the  great-coat,  with  the  visible  intention  to 
give  it  to  the  stripl  and  wounded  youth. 

"  Wilhelm.  whom  the  healing  look  of  her  eyes 

had  hitherto  held  fixed,  was  now,  as  the  surtout  tell 

away,  astonished  at  her  lovely  figure.     She  came 

near,  and  softly  laid  the  coat  above  him.     At  this 

,moment,  as  he  tried  to  open  his  mouth,  and  stam- 

pier  out  some  words  of  graii;ude,  the  lively  impres- 

,    ision   of  her   presence  worked  so  strongly  on  his 

..   senses,  already  caught  and  bewildered,  that  all  at 

,    pnce  it  appeared  to  him  as  if  her  head  were  encir- 

:led  with  rays  ;  and  a  glancing  light  seemed  by  de- 

Igrees  to  spread  itself  over  all  her  form  !     At  this 

'::■   moment  the  surgeon,  endeavouring  to  extract  the 

('   ioall  from  his  wound,  gave  him  a  sharper  twinge  ; 

(.  jhe  angel  faded  away  from  the  eyes  of  the  fainting 

iPatient :  he  lost  all  consciousness  ;  and,  on  returning 

0  himself,  the  horsemen  and  coaches,  the  fair  one 

>vith  her  attendants,  had  vanished  like  a  dream. 

"  He,  meanwhile,  wrapt  up  in  his  warm  surtout, 

A'as  lying  peacefully  upon  the  litter.     An  electric 

J,'  [Aarmth  seeined  to  flow  from  the  fine  wool  into  his 

.    ;3ody  :  in  short,  he  telt  himself  in  the  most  delight- 

lul  frame  of  mind.     The  lovely  being,  whom  this 

'     ijarment  lately  covered,  had  affected   him  to  the 

2  Very  heart.  He  still  saw  the  coat  falling  down 
V-   -rom   her  shoulders:  saw  that  noble  form,  begirt 

villi  radiance,  stand  beside  him  ;  and  his  soul  hied 
iver  rocks  and  forests  on  the  footsteps  of  his  de- 
, .  ^larted  benefactress. — Vol.  ii.  pp.  45 — 47. 

i*^     The  party  afterwards  settles  in  a  large 

[own,  under  the  charge  of  a  regular  manager. 

tir?  There  are  endless  sqabbles  and  intrigues,  and 

lip  Interminable  dissertations  on  acting.  Our  hero 

■'    'lerforms  Hamlet  with  great   applause,  and 

ets  tipsy  with  the  whole  company  at  a  riotous 

upper  after  it — the  rehearsals,  the  acting, 

, :    iid  the  said  supper  being  all  described  with 


great  spirit  and  animation.     We  may  extract 
the  end  of  the  latter. 

"  .'^mid  the  pleasures  of  the  entertainment,  it 
had  not  been  nonced  ihat  the  children  and  the  Harper 
were  away.  Ere  long  they  made  their  entrance, 
and  were  blithely  welcomed  by  the  company. 
They  came  in  together,  very  strangely  deckea : 
Feli.x  was  beating"  a  triangle,  Mignon  a  tambou- 
rine ;  the  old  man  had  his  large  harp  hung  round 
his  neck,  and  was  playing  on  it  whilst  he  carried  it 
before  him.  They  marched  round  and  round  the 
table,  and  sang  a  multitude  of  songs.  Eatables 
were  handed  to  them  ;  and  the  guests  believed 
ihey  could  not  do  a  greater  kindness  to  the  children, 
than  by  giving  them  as  much  street  wine  as  they 
chose  to  drink.  For  the  company  themselves  had 
not  by  any  means  neglected  a  stock  of  savoury 
fidfkg,  presented  by  the  two  amateurs,  which  had 
arrived  this  evening  in  baskets.  The  children 
tripped  about  and  sang;  Mignon  in  particular  was 
frolicsome  beyond  what  any  one  had  ever  seen  her. 
She  beat  the  tambourine  wiih  the  greatest  liveli- 
ness and  grace :  now,  with  her  finger  jiressed 
against  the  parchment,  she  hr.mmed  across  it  quick- 
ly to  and  fro ;  now  rattled  on  it  with  her  knuckles, 
now  with  the  back  of  her  hand;  nay  sometimes, 
with  alternating  rhythm,  she  struck  it  first  against 
her  knee  and  tjjen  against  her  head ;  and  anon 
twirling  it  in  her  hand,  she  made  the  shells  jingle 
by  themselves ;  and  thus,  from  the  simplest  instru- 
ment, elicited  a  great  variety  of  tones.  The  com- 
pany, as  much  as  they  had  laughed  at  her  at  first. 
were  in  fine  obliged  to  curb  her.  But  persuasion 
was  of  small  avail ;  for  she  now  sprana  up,  and 
raved,  and  shook  her  tambourine,  ana  capered 
round  the  table.  Wuh  her  hair  flymg  out  behind 
her,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  limbs  as 
it  were  cast  into  the  air,  she  seemed  like  one  of 
those  antique  Maenades,  whose  wild  and  all  but 
impossible  positions  still  strike  us  with  astonish- 
ment when  seen  on  classic  monuments,  »fec. 

"  It  was  late  ;  and  Aurelia,  perhaps  the  only  one 
retaining  self-possession  in  the  party,  now  stood  up, 
and  signified  that  it  was  time  to  go.  By  way  of 
termination,  Serlo  gave  a  firework,  or  what  resem- 
bled one  :  for  he  could  imitate  the  sound  of  crack- 
ers, rockets,  and  fire-wheels  with  his  mouth,  in  a 
style  of  nearly  inconceivable  correctness.  You 
had  only  to  shut  your  eyes,  and  the  deception  was 
complete.  On  reaching  the  open  air,  almost  all 
of  them  observed  that  they  had  drank  too  liberally. 
They  glided  asunder  without  taking  leave. 

"The  instant  Wilhelm  gained  his  room,  he 
stripped,  and,  extinguishing  his  candle,  hastened 
into  bed.  Sleep  was  overpowering  him  without 
delay,  when  a  noise,  that  seemed  to  issue  from  be- 
hind the  stove,  aroused  him.  In  the  eye  of  his 
heated  fancy,  the  image  of  the  harnessed  king  was 
hovering  near  hint :  he  sat  up  that  he  might  address 
the  spectre  ;  but  he  felt  himself  encircled  with  soft 
arms,  and  his  mouth  was  shut  with  kisses,  which 
he  had  not  force  to  push  away  !" — Vol.  ii.  pp.  205 — 
209. 

In  this  division  of  the  story  we  hear  a  great 
deal  of  an  Aurelia — a  sisterof  the  managers — 
an  actress  of  course — but  a  woman  of  talent 
and  sentiment — who  had  been  perfidiously 
left  by  her  lover — and  confided  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  her  heart  to  our  hero.  There  is  a 
good  deal  of  eloquence  in  some  of  these  dia- 
logues— and  a  nearer  approach  to  nature,  than 
in  any  other  part  of  the  work.  This  is  a 
sample  of  them. 

"'One  more  forsaken  woman  in  the  world'.' 
you  will  say.  You  are  a  man.  You  are  thinking : 
'  What  a  noise  she  makes,  the  fool,  about  a  neces- 
sary evil,  which  certainly  as  death  awaits  women 
when  such  is  the  fidelity  of  men  !'  Oh,  my  friend! 
if  my  fate  were  common,  I  would  gladly  undergo 


116 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


a  common  evil.  But  it  is  so  singular :  why  cannot 
I  present  it  to  you  in  a  mirror,  whv  not  command 
some  one  lo  tell  it  you  ?  Oh,  hacl  I.  had  I  been 
seduced,  surprised,  and  afterwards  forsaken  I  there 
would  then  be  comfort  in  despair :  but  I  am  far 
more  miserable  ;  I  have  been  my  own  deceiver ;  I 
have  wittingly  betrayed  myself;  and  this,  this  is 
what  shall  never  be  forgiven  me.' 

"  '  I  hate  the  French  languase.'  she  added, 
'  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  During  the  period 
of  our  kindliest  connection,  he  wrote  in  German, 
and  what  pemiine.  powerful,  cordial  CJermnn  !  It 
was  not  till  he  warned  to  get  quit  of  me,  that  he 
began  seriously  to  write  in  French.  I  marlied.  I 
felt  what  he  meant.  What  he  would  have  blushed 
to  utter  in  his  mother  tongue,  he  could  by  this 
means  write  with  a  quiet  conscience.  It  is  the  lan- 
guage of  reservations,  equivocations,  and  lies  :  it  is 
a  pfrj^ious  language  !  Heaven  he  praised  !  I  can- 
not find  another  word  lo  express  this  ■perfide  of 
theirs  in  all  its  compass.  Our  poor  treulos,  the 
faithless  of  the  English,  are  innocent  as  babes  be- 
side it.  Perfide  means  faithless  with  enjoyment, 
with  insolence  and  malice.  How  enviable  is  the 
culture  of  a  nation  that  can  figure  out  so  many 
shades  of  meaning  by  a  single  word  !  French  is 
exactly  the  language  of  the  world;  worthy  to  be- 
come the  universal  language,  that  all  may  have  it 
in  their  power  to  cheat,  and  lozcii,  and  betray  each 
other!  His  French  letters  were  always  smooth 
and  pleasant  while  yon  read  them.  If  yo'i  chose 
to  believe  it.  they  sonndi  d  warmly,  even  passion- 
ately :  but  if  you  examined  narrowly,  they  were 
but  phrases,  accursed  phrases  !  Me  has  spoiled  my 
feeling  to  the  whole  language,  to  French  literature, 
even  to  the  beautiful  delicious  expressions  of  noble 
souls  which  may  be  found  in  it.  I  shudder  when 
a  French  word  is  spoken  in  my  hearing.'  " 

What  follows  is  still  more  in  the  raving 
style — and  we  suppose  is  much  more  admired 
in  Germany. 

"  She  simk  in  thought ;  then  after  a  brief  pause, 
she  exclaimed  with  violence  :  '  You  are  accustomed 
to  have  all  things  fly  into  ynii-  arms.  No,  you 
cannot  feel  ;  no  vian  is  iti  a  case  to  feel  the  worth 
of  a  woman  that  cait  reverence  herself.  By  all  the 
holy  angels,  by  all  the  images  of  blessedness  which 
a  pure  and  kindly  heart  creates,  there  is  not  any 
thing  more  heavenly  'ban  'he  .<:oiil  of  a  woman  that 
gives  herself  to  the  man  she  loves!  Wc  are  cold, 
proud,  high,  clear-sighted,  wise,  while  we  deserve 
the  name  of  women  ;  and  all  these  qualities  we 
lay  down  at  your  feet,  the  instant  that  we  love,  that 
we  hope  to  excite  a  return  of  love.  Oh  '  how  have 
I  cast  away  my  entire  existence  wittingly  and  wil- 
lingly !  But  now  will  I  despair,  purposely  despair. 
There  is  no  drop  of  blood  within  me  but  shall 
suffer,  no  fibre  that  I  will  not  puitish.  Smile,  I 
pray  you ;  laugh  at  this  theatrical  display  of  pas- 
sion.' 

"  VVilhelm  was  far  enough  from  any  tendency 
lo  laugh.  Thi.s  horrible,  half-i;aturnl,  half-fictitious 
coniliiion  of  his  Iriend  afflicted  him  but  too  deeply. 
She  looked  him  intently  in  the  face,  and  asked: 
'  Can  you  say  that  you  never  yet  betrayed  a  woman, 
that  you  never  tried  with  thoughtless  gallantry, 
with  hUc  Ms.«everatioi^.s.  with  ctijolinc  oaths,  to 
wheedle  favour  from  her  ?'  '  I  can,'  .'^aid  Wilhelm, 
'  and  indeed  without  much  vanity ;  my  life  has  been 
so  simple  and  sequestered.  I  have  had  but  few  en- 
ticements lo  attempt  such  things.  And  what  a 
warning,  my  beautiful,  my  noble  friend,  is  this 
melancholy  slate  in  which  I  see  you  !  Accept  of 
me  a  vow,  which  is  suited  'o  my  heart,  &,c. ;  no 
woman  shall  receive  an  acknowledgment  of  love 
from  my  lips,  to  whom  I  caimot  consecrate  my 
life.'  She  looked  at  him  with  a  wild  indifierence ; 
and  drew  back  some  steps  as  he  offered  her  his 
hand.  '  'Tis  of  no  moment !'  cried  she  :  '  so  many 
women'8  tears  more  or  Icwcr !  the  ocean  will  not 


swell  by  reason  of  them !  And  yet,'  contmned 
she,  '  among  thousands  one  woman  saved  !  that  still 
is  something:  among  thousands  one  honest  man 
discovered  ;  this  is  not  to  be  refused.  Do  you 
know  then  what  you  promise?'  *I  know  it,'  an- 
swered VVilhelm  with  a  smile,  and  holding  out  his 
hand.  'I  accept  it  then,'  said  she,  and  made  a 
movement  with  her  right  hand,  as  if  metining  to 
take  hold  of  his  :  but  mslanily  she  darted  it  into 
her  pocket,  pulled  out  her  dagger  as  quick  as  light- 
ning,  and  scored  with  the  edge  and  point  of  it 
across  his  hand!  He  hastily  drew  back  his  arm: 
but  the  blood  was  already  running  down. 

"  '  Ont  must  mark  you  men  rather  sharply,  if 
one  means  you  to  lake  heed,'  cried  she  wi:li  a  wile 
mirth,  which  soon  passed  into  a  quick  assiduity 
She  took  her  handkerchief,  and  bound  his  ham: 
with  it  to  staunch  the  fast-fiowing  blood.  '  Fori 
give  a  half-crazed  being,'  cried  she.  'and  regrei 
not  these  few  drops  of  blood.  I  am  appeased, ,( 
am  again  myself.  On  my  knees  will  I  crave  you' 
pardon  :  leave  me  the  comfort  of  healing  you.'  "- 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  12S— 132. 

Alternating  with  these  agonies,  we  hav 
many  such  scenes  as  the  following. 

"  '  'Tis  a  pity,  I  declare,'  said  Serlo  lo  Philinj 
'  that  we  have  no  ballet  ;  else  I  would  make  yo, 
dance  me  a  jms  de  due:c  with  your  first,  and  anoth« 
with  your  second   husband  :  the  harper  might  V 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  measure  ;  and  your  bits  c 
feet  and  ancles  would   look  so  pretty,  tripping  i 
and  fro  upon  the  side  stage.'     '  Of  my  ancles  yc 
do  not  know  much,'  replied  she  snappishly  ;  '  ar 
I  as  to  my  bits  of  feet,'  cried  she,  hastily  rcachit 
below  the  \Ahle,  pulling  off  her  slippers,  and  hole 
ing  them  out  to  Serlo  ;  '  here  are  the  cases  of  ther 
and  I  give  you  leave  to  find  me  nicer  ones.'     ' 
were  a  serious  task,'  said  he,  looking  at  the  elega 
half-shoes.     '  In  truth,  one   does  not  often    me 
with  any  thing  so  dainty.'     They  were  of  Parisi; 
workmanship  ;  Philina  had  obtained  them  as  a  pi 
sent    from  the  countess,   a   lady   whose   foot  w 
celebrated   for  its  beauty.     '  A  charming  thing 
cried  Serlo;  '  mv  heart  leaps  at  the  sight  of  thei 
'  What  gallant  throbs!'  replied  Philina.  '  There 
nothing  in  the  world  beyond  a  pair  of  slippers,'  »' 
he  ;  'of  such  pretty  manutacture,  in  their  prof 

time  and  place '     Philina  look  her  slipp' 

from  his  hands,  crying,  '  You  have  squeezed  thi 
all  I  They  are  far  too  wide  for  me!'  She  plaj 
with  them,  and  rubbed  the  soles  of  them  togeth 
'  How  hot  it  is  !'  cried  she,  clapping  the  sole  up 
her  check,  then  again  rubbing,  and  holding  it  • 
Serlo.  He  was  innocent  enough  to  stretch  out  i 
hand  to  feel  the  warmth.  '  Clip  I  clap  !'  cried  Sj, 
giving  him  a  smart  rap  over  the  knuckles  with  .1 
heel,  that  he  screamed  and  drew  back  his  hai; 
'  I  will  teach  you  how  to  use  my  slijipers  betl" 
'  And  I  will  teach  you  also  how  to  use  old  folk  i;» 
children,'  cried  the  other  ;  then  sprang  up,  sei'l 
her,  and  plundered  many  a  kiss,  every  one  of  wl,» 
she  artfully  contested  with  a  show  of  serious  reli  - 
ance.  In  this  romping,  her  long  hair  goot  lo;', 
and  floated  round  the  eioup;  the  chair  overset ;  i 
Aurelia,  inwardly  indignant  at  such  rioting,  a'  8 
in  great  vexation." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  166,  167.  \ 

This  said  Aurelia  has  a  little  boy  ca;:d 
Feli.\ — and  dying  at  last  of  her  sorrow,  lea^B 
a  letter  for  her  betrayer,  which  she  had  d* 
gaged  our  hero  to  deliver  to  him  in  peri_». 
But  between  the  giving  and  e.xecution  of  i'JB 
mandate,  the  ingenious  author  has  inte'** 
lated  a  sep;irat(!  piece,  which  he  has  cnti:jd 
"  the  confessions  of  a  fair  Saint" — and  wl* 
has  no  other  apparent  connection  with.p 
story,  than  that  poor  Aurelia's  physician' jd 
lent  it  to  her  to  read  in  her  last  momef- 
Though  eminently  characteristic  of  the  aui»' 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


117 


/it  need  not  detain  us  long.  The  first  part  is 
full  of  vulgarity  and  obscurity— the  last  ab- 
solutely unintelligible.  This  fair  saint  lived 
in  her  youth  among  a  set  of  people  whom  she 
calls  German  courtiers,  and  says,  with  singu- 
lar delicacy, 

"  Ilook  \ipon  it  as  a  providential  guidance,  tliat 
none  of  these  many  hand.sonie,  rich,  and  wcli- 
dressed  men  could  take  my  fancy.  They  were 
rakes,  and  did  not  hide  it ;  this  scared  me  back  : 
their  speech  was  frequently  adorned  with  double 
meanings;  this  offended  me.  and  made  me  act  with 
coldness  towards  them.  Many  times  their  impro- 
prieties surpassed  belief  1  and  I  did  not  prevent  my- 
self from  being  rude.  Besides:,  my  ancient  coun- 
sellor had  once  in  confidence  contrived  to  tell  me, 
that,  with  the  greater  part  of  these  lewd  fellows, 
health  as  well  as  virtue  was  in  danger!  I  now 
shuddered  at  the  sight  of  them  ;  I  was  afraid,  if  one 
of  them  in  any  way  approached  too  near  me.  I 
.  would  not  touch  their  cups  or  glasses,  even  the 
chairs  they  had  been  silting  on  !  Thus  morally 
and  physically  I  remained  apart  from  them." 

'  She  then  falls  in  love  with  a  certain  Narciss, 
with  whom  her  first  acquaintance  was  formed 

■  at  a  ball,  where,  '-'after  having  jigged  it  for  a 
'  while  in  the  crowd,  he  came  into  the  room 
;  where  I  w^as,  in  consequence  of  a  bleeding  at 

the  nose,  with  which  he  had  been  overtaken, 
and  beean  to  speak  about  a  multitude  of 
;  things  !"  In  spite  of  this  promising  beginning, 
'  however,  the  mutual  flame  is  not  caught  till 
'  they  meet  again  at  a  dinner,  where, 
;  1  "  Even  at  table,  we  had  many  things  to  suffer; 
'  '  for  several  of  the  gentlemen  had  drank  too  much: 
! ;  and  after  rising  from  it,  they  insisted  on  a  sjame  at 
1 1  forfeits.  It  went  on  with  great  vivacity  and  tumult. 
;  I  ^farciss  had  lost  a  forfeit :  they  ordered  him,  by 
:  1  way  of  penally,  to  svhisper  something  pleasant  in 
)  f  the  ear  of  every  member  of  the  company.  It  seems, 
;  he  staid  too  long  beside  my  neighbour,  the  lady  of 
;:  .a  captain.  The  latter  on  a  .sudden  struck  him  such 
i-Ahox  with  his  fist,  that  the  powder  flew  ahr)Ut-my 
sieyes  and  blinded  me!  Wlien  I  had  cleared  my 
(-  I  sight,  and  in  some  degree  recovered  from  my  terror, 
;.\l  saw  that  bo'h  of  them  had  drawn  their  swords. 
ll.|Narciss  was  bleeding;  and  the  other,  mad  with 
[ii(wine,  and  rage,  and  jealousy,  cmld  scarcely  be 
«[,  (held  back  by  all  the  company:  I  seized  Narciss, 
jj  fled  him  by  tiie  arm  up  stairs;  and  as  I  did  not  think 
[  |my  friend  even  here  in  safety  from  his  frantic 
,1  (enemy,  I  shut  the  door  and  bolted  it." 

'•!     After  this  they  are  soon  betrothed  ;  but  she 

■  Igrows  Methodistical,  and  he  cold, — and  their 
j[eng^ement  lliesotT: — And  then  she  becomes 
li:  (pious  m  good  earnest,  and  is  by  turns  a  Hal- 
miean  and  a  Herrnhuther,  and  we  do  not  know 
<![how  many  other  things,  and  raves  through 
I*  seventy  or  eighty  pages,  of  which  we  have 
*'  |not  coarage  to  attempt  any  analysis. 

j'j  We  now  get  rid  in  a  great  degree  of  plays 
ind  players,  and  emerge  into  the  region  of 
mysticism.     Wilhelm  goes  to  the  country  to 

*  ieliver  Aurelia's  letter  to  Lothario;  but  finds 
worthy  Baron  so  busy  preparing  to  fight 
I  duel,  that  he  cannot  find  an  opportunity  to 
lisoharge  himself  of  his  mission.  He  remains, 
lowever,  in  the  ca.stle,  and  soon  finds  himself 
n  the  midst  of  several  peremptory  and  om- 
liscient  people,  who  make  what  they  please; 
»f  him.  In  discourse,  they  liappen  to  make 
nention  of  a  certain  Count,  a  brother-in-law 
f  Lothario's,  who  had  grown  melancholy,  and 
alked  of  joming  the  Herrnhuthers,  with  his 


beautiful  wife.  Wilhelm  immediately  incpiireg 
what  Count  they  are  speakmg  of. 

"  '  One  whom  you  know  very  well,'  said  Jarno. 
'  You  yourself  are  the  ghost  that  have  chased  the 
unhappy  wiseacre  into  piety  ;  you  are  the  villain 
who  have  brought  his  pretty  wife  to  such  a  stale, 
that  she  inclines  accompanying  him.'  'And  she 
is  Lothario's  sisier  ?'  cried  our  friend.  '  No  other  !' 
— '  And  Lothario  knows?' — '  The  whole.'  '  0  let 
me  fly  !'  cried  Wilhelm  :  '  How  shall  I  appear  be- 
fore him?  Wliai  can  he  say  to  me?'  "That  no 
man  should  cast  a  stone  at  his  brother ;  that  when 
one  composes  long  speeches,  with  a  view  to  shame 
his  neighbours,  he  should  speak  them  to  a  looking- 
glass.'  'Do  you  know  that  also?'  'And  many 
things  beside,'  said  .Tarno  with  a  smile." 

From  this  momeni  our  hero  gives  up  the 
idea  of  reproaching  the  Baron  with  his  perfidy 
to  Aurelia.  and  oilers  his  services  to  decoy 
away  from  him  anolher  love-sick  damsel  who 
is  then  in  the  house,  and  w  hose  hysterics,  it 
is  thought,  might  retard  the  cure  of  the  wound 
he  has  just  received  in  his  duel.  He  takes 
her  away,  accordingly,  under  some  false  pre- 
te.\t,  to  a  certain  I'heresa,  another  deserted 
love  of  Lothario,  and  who  is  distinguished  by 
a  singular  passion  for  housekeeping  and  all 
manner  of  economical  employmenl.s.  The 
conception  of  this  character,  which  is  dwelt 
on  at  great  length,  is  one  of  the  most  glaring 
absurdities  and  aflectations  in  the  book.  The 
author  has  actually  endeavoured,  in  serious 
earnest,  to  exalt  the  common  qualifications 
of  a  domestic  drudge,  or  notable  housewife, 
into  heroic  virtues,  and  to  elaborate  his  fa- 
vourite heroine  out  of  these  base  materials. 
The  whole  scene  is  tinged,  even  beyond  the 
average  standard  of  the  book,  with  the  appa- 
rently opposite  faults  of  vulgarity  and  e.\trava- 
gance.     This  is  the  debut. 

"She  entered  VVilhelm's  room,  inquiring  if  he 
wanted  anything.  'Pardon  me,'  said  she,  'for 
having  lodged  you  in  a  chamber  which  the  smell  of 
paint  siill  renders  disagreeable:  my  little  dwelling 
is  but  just  made  ready  ;  vou  are  handselling  this 
room,  which  is  appointed  for  my  guests ;  also,  you 
will  have  many  things  to  pardon.  My  cook  has  run 
nmaif  from  me,  at  this  unseasonable  lime ;  and  a 
serving-man  has  bruised  his  hand.  I  might  be 
forced  to  manage  all  myself;  and  if  it  were  so,  we 
must  just  put  up  wiih  it.  One  is  plagued  with  no- 
body so  much  as  with  one's  servants :  not  one  of 
them  will  serve  you.  scarcely  oven  serve  himself 
She  said  a  good  deal  more  on  different  matters :  in 
general  she  seemed  to  like  to  speak. 

They  then  take  a  walk  together,  and,  on 
their  return, 

"  Wilhelm  testified  his  admiration  at  her  skill  in 
husbandry  concerns.  '  Decided  inclination,  early 
opportunity,  external  impulse,  and  continued  occu- 
paiion  in  a  useful  business,'  said  she,  '  make  many 
things,  which  were  at  first  far  harder,  possible  in 
life.'  On  returning  home,  she  sent  him  to  her  little 
garden.  Here  he  scarce  could  turn  himself,  so 
narrow  were  the  walks,  so  thickly  was  it  sown  and 
planted.  On  looking  over  to  the  court,  he  could 
not  keep  from  smiling:  ilie^rewiwrf  was  lyirig  tin  re, 
as  accuraicly  sawed,  split,  and  piled,  as  it  it  had 
been  part  of  the  building,  and  had  been  intended  to 
abide  there  constantly.  The  tubs  and  implements, 
all  clean,  were  standing  in  their  places:  the  house 
was  vainled  white  and  red;  it  was  really  pleasant 
to  behold!  Whatever  can  be  done  by  handicraft, 
that  knows  not  beautiful  proportions,  but  that  la- 
bours for  convenience,  cheerfulness,  and  durability, 
appeared  united  on  the  spot." 


118 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


She  then  pnts  on  men's  clothes !  which,  in- 
deed, she  generally  wore  as  most  handy;  and 
they  have  another  walk,  in  the  course  of  which 
she  tells  him  her  story.  She  was  nobly  born. 
But 

''  '  From  my  earliest  yiKiih,  the  kitchen,  the  store- 
room, the  granaries,  (lie  tit-id,  were  my  selected 
element !  Cleanliness  and  order  in  the  house 
seemed,  even  while  I  was  playing  in  ii,  to  be  my 
peculiar  instinct,  my  peculiar  object.  This  tendency 
gave  pleasure  to  my  father ;  and  he  by  degrees  af- 
forded it  the  most  suitable  employment.  When  we 
were  by  ourselves,  when  walking  through  the  fields, 
when  I  was  helping  to  e.\amnie  his  accounts.  I 
could  perceive  what  happiness  he  was  enjoying.'  " 

Her  mother  took  great  delight  in  a  private 
theatre — "  But  I,'^  she  observed.  "  very  seldom 
staid  among  the  audience  ;  however,  /  alwaijs 
snuffed  their  candles,  and  prepared  the  supper, 
— and  put  the  wardrobe  in  order."'  After  her 
father^s  death,  her  mother  wastes  the  property, 
and  she  goes  as  a  kind  of  steward  or  manager, 
into  the  family  of  a  neighbouring  lady,  whom 
•'she  faithfully  assisted  in  struggling  with  her 
steward  and  domestics." 

"'I  am  neither  of  a  niggardly  nor  grudging 
temper;  but  we  women  are  accusiomed  to  insist, 
more  earnestly  than  men.  that  nolhinp;  shall  he 
wasted.  Embezzlement  of  all  sorts  is  intolerable 
to  us.     Here  1  was  in  my  element  once  more.'  " 

This  is  enough,  we  suppose,  for  the  char- 
acter of  Theresa.  But  the  accomplished  Lo- 
thario falls  in  love  with  this  angel,  and  here 
are  the  grounds  on  which  he  justifies  his  pre- 
ference. 

"  '  What  is  the  highest  happiness  of  mortals,  if 
not  to  execute  what  we  consider  right  and  good ; 
to  be  really  masters  of  the  means  conducive  to  our 
aims?  And  where  should  or  can  our  first  and 
nearest  aims  be  but  within  the  house?  All  those 
indispensable,  and  still  to  be  renewed  supplies, 
where  do  we  expect,  do  we  require  to  find  them, 
if  it  is  not  in  the  place  where  we  arise  and  where 
we  go  to  sleep,  where  kitchen  and  cellar,  and  every 
species  of  accomniodaiion  for  ourselves  and  ours  is 
to  be  always  ready  ?  What  unvarying  activity  is 
needed  to  conduct  this  constantly  recurring  series 
in  unbroken  living  order  I  It  is  whi'ri  a  woman  has 
attained  this  inward  mastery,  that  she  truly  makes 
the  husband  whom  she  loves  a  ma-^iier:  her  atten- 
tion will  acquire  all  sorts  ot  knowledi^e  for  her  ;  her 
activity  will  turn  them  all  to  profit.  Thus  is  she  de- 
pendent upon  no  one  ;  and  she  procures  her  husband 
genuine  independence,  that  which  is  interior  and 
domestic  :  whatever  he  possesses  he  beholds  se- 
cured;  what  he  earns,  well  employed.'  "  &c. 

They  are  engaged  accordingly  to  be  mar- 
ried ;  init  the  match  is  broken  off  by  an  un- 
lucky discovt^ry.  that  this  gay  Lothario  had 
formerly  had  a  love  affair  with  Theresa's 
mother,  when  she  was  travelling  abroad  under 
a  feigned  name  !  We  are  rather  surprised, 
we  confess,  at  the  notable  fair  one's  delicacy, 
in  considering  this  as  a  bar  to  their  union — for 
her  notions  on  the  subject  of  conjuiral  fidelity 
must  be  owned  to  be  sufficiently  liberal, 
having  intimated,  in  reference  to  her  lover's 
subsetpietit  intrigues  with  Aurelia  and  others, 
tliat 

"  Even  if  he  had  been  her  husband,  she  would 
have  had  siiffirient  spirit  to  endure  a  matter  of  this 
kind,  if  //  hnd  nnl  trouhlnl  hrr  domestic  order:  at 
least  she  often  used  to  say,  that  a  wile,  who  pro- 
perly conducted  her  economy,  should  lake  no  um- 


brage at  such  little  fancies  of  her  husband,  but  be 
ahvays  certain  that  he  would  return." 

Our  hero  returns  to  the  castle  quite  en- 
chanted with  this  paragon  of  women — and 
his  rising  tlame  is  fed  by  the  conversation 
which  takes  place  with  regard  to  her.  After 
amusing  themselves  with  each  telling  confi- 
dentially their  pretty  love  adventures,  the 
accomplished  Lothario  holds  forth  in  this 
edifying  and  decided  maimer. 

"'It  is  true,'  observed  Lothario,  'there  can 
scarcely  any  feeling  in  the  world  be  more  agreea- 
ble, than  when  the  heart,  after  a  pause  of  indifler- 
ence,  a^in  opens  to  love  for  some  7iew  object.  Yet 
I  would  for  ever  have  renounced  thai  happiness, 
had  fate  been  pleased  to  unite  me  with  Theresa. 
What  a  heaven  had  I  figured  for  myself  beside 
Tlieresa  !  iS'ot  the  heaven  of  an  enthusiastic  bliss; 
but  of  a  sure  life  on  earth:  order  in  prosperity, 
courage  in  adversity,  cure  for  the  smallest,  and  a 
spirit  capable  of  comprehending  and  mana^i?!^  the 
greatest.  You  may  well  forgive  me,'  added  he, 
and  turned  to  Wilhelm  with  a  smile,  'that  I  for- 
sook Aurelia  for  Theresa:  with  the  one  I  could 
e.xpect  a  calm  and  cheerful  life,  with  the  other  not 
a  happy  hour.'  '  I  will  confess,'  said  Wilhelm, 
'  that  in  coming  hither,  I  had  no  small  anger  in  my 
heart  against  you;  that  I  proposed  to  censure  with 
severity  your  conduct  to  Aurelia.'  '  It  was  really 
censurable,'  said  Lothario:  '  I  should  not  have  ex- 
changed my  friendship  for  her  with  the  sentiment 
of  love  ;  I  should  not,  in  place  of  the  respect  which 
she  deserved,  have  intruded  an  attachment  she  was 
neither  calculated  lo  e.vcite  nor  maintain.  Alas  ! 
she  was  not  lovely  when  she  lovtdf  the  greatest  misery 
which  can  befall  a  woman.'  " 

And  in  this  cavalier  manner  is  the  subject 
dismissed.  He  denies,  however,  that  Felix  is 
his  child,  or  Aurelia's  either;  and  avers  that 
he  was  brought  to  her  by  the  old  woman 
Barbara,  by  whom  the  boy  was  generally 
attended.  On  this  hint  Wilhelm  flies  backj 
to  the  town,  fmds  out  Barbara,  in  whom  hoi 
at  length  recognises  the  attendant  of  his  firpl; 
love,  Mariana,  and  learns  from  her  that  the 
boy  Feli.x  is  the  offspring  of  their  early  con- 
nexion, and  that  the  unhappy  mother  died  in 
consequence  of  his  desertion,  not  only  heart- 
broken but  innocent !  He  is  long  incredulous 
and  appoints  the  ancient  crone  to  come  to  hiir 
again  at  night,  and  abide  all  his  interroga- 
tions.— The  scene  which  follows,  we  think,  ii, 
very  powerfully  executed,  and  is  the  only  par- 
almost  of  the  book  which  produces  any  thinf 
of  a  {)athetic  effect. 

"  Midnight  was  past,  when  something  rustled  a' 
the  half-open  door,  and  Barbara  came  in  with  , 
little  basket.  '  I  am  lo  tell  you  the  story  of  ou 
woes,'  said  slie  ;  '  and  I  nuist  believe  that  you  wi 
sit  unmoved  at  the  recital ;  that  you  are  w.iiiing  fc 
me  but  10  satisfy  your  curiosity  ;  that  you  will  now 
as  you  did  formerly,  retire  within  your  cold  selfish 
ness,  while  our  hearts  are  breaking.  But  look  yo 
here  !  Tlius.  on  that  happy  evening,  did  I  bring  yo, 
the  bottle  ot  champagne  !  thus  did  I  place  the  thre 
glas.«es  on  the  table  !  and  as  you  then  began,  wit, 
soft  nursery  talcs,  to  ciizen  us  and  lull  us  asleej 
so  will  I  now  with  stern  truths  instruct  you  an 
keep  yon  wakinw.' 

"  ^Vilhrlm  knew  not  what  to  say,  when  the  cror 
in  fact  let  go  the  cork,  and  filled  three  glasses  t 
the  brim.  '  Drink  !'  cried  she.  haying  emptied  : 
a  draught  her  foaming  glass.  '  Drink,  ere  the  spit 
of  it  pass!  'I'his  third  glass  shall  froth  nwny  ui 
tasted,  to  the  memory  of  my  unhappy  Marianr 
How  red  were  her  lips,  when  she  then  drank  yoi 


GOETHE'S  WILHELM  MEISTER. 


119 


health!  Ah!  and  now  for  ever  pale  and  cold  I' 
'Sibyl!  Fury!'  Wilhelm  cried,  springing  up,  and 
striking  the  table  with  his  tist.  '8ottly,  Mein 
Herr!'  replied  the  crone;  'you  sliall  not  rutlie 
me.  Your  debts  to  us  are  deep  and  dark  :  the 
railing  of  a  debtor  does  not  anger  one.  But  you 
are  nglit  :  the  simplest  narrative  will  punish  you 
suthcienily.  Hear,  thi.Mi,  the  struggle  and  the  vic- 
tory of  -Mariana  si  riving  to  continue  yours.'  " 

She  then  tells  a  long  story,  explaining  away 
the  hidications  of  perfidy,  on  the  strength  of 
which  lie  had  quitted  her;  and  the  scene 
ends  in  this  very  dramatic  and  truly  touching 
manner. 

"  'Good,  dear  Barbara  !'  cried  Wilhelm,  spring- 
ng  up,  and  seizing  the  old  woman  by  the  haiul, 
'  we  have  had  enough  of  mummery  and  piepara- 
:ion  !  Thy  indifTerent,  thy  calm,  contented  tone 
jetrays  thee.  Give  me  back  my  Mariana  !  She 
s  living  !  slie  is  near  at  hand  !  Not  in  vain  didst 
hou  choose  this  late  lonely  hour  to  visit  me  ;  not 
n  vain  hast  thou  prepared  me  by  thy  most  delicious 
larrative.  Where  is  she?  where  hast  thou  hid 
ler?  I  believe  all,  I  will  promise  lo  believe  all. 
rhy  object  is  attained.  Where  hast  thou  hid  her  ? 
jCt  me  light  thee  with  this  candle, — let  me  once 
nore  see  her  fair  and  kindly  (ace  !' 

"  He  had  pulled  old  Barbara  from  her  chair  :  she 

tared  at  him  ;  tears  started  to  her  eyes  ;  wild  pangs 

;    if  grief  took  hold  of  her.     '  What  luckless  error,' 

:ied  she,  leaves  you  still  a  moment's  hope  ?    Yes, 

have  hidden  her — but  beneath  the  ground  !  nei- 

her  the  light  of  the  sun  nor  any  social  taper  shall 

<    gain   illuminate  her  kindly  face.     Take  the  boy 

;    'elix  to  her  grave,  and  say  to  him  :   "  There  lies 

1    by  mother,  whom  thy  father  doomed   unheard." 

"he  heart  of  Mariana  beats  no  longer  with  impa- 

,  iCnce   to   behold   you.      Not    in    a   neighbouiitig 

'  Ihamber  is  she  waiting  the  conclusion  of  my  narra- 

'    've,  or  fable  ;  the  dark  chamber  has  received  her, 

S  ■)  which  no  bridegroom  follows,  from  which  none 

!  omes  to  meet  a  lover."     She  cast  herself  upon  the 

il  |00r  beside  a  chair,  and  wept  bitterly." 

It  i  She  then  shows  him  some  of  the  poor  girl's 

I  ptters,  which  he  had  refused  to  receive,  and 

fc  iiiother  which  she  had  addressed  to  him  on 

tii  jer  deathbed.    One  of  the  former  is  as  follows. 

j  "  '  Thou  regardest  me  as  guilty — and  so  I  am  ; 
jjt  not  as  thou  thinkest.  Come  to  me!  It  in- 
plves  the  safety  of  a  soul,  it  involves  a  life,  two 
i^es,  one  of  which  must  ever  be  dear  to  thee, 
his,  too,  thy  suspicion  will  discredit  ;  yet  1  will 
leak  it  in  the  hour  of  death:  the  child  which  I 
|irry  underneath  my  heart,  is  thine.  Since  I 
■^gan  to  love  thee,  no  other  man  has  even  pressed 
f[S  »y  hand:  O  that  thy  love,  that  thy  uprightness, 
l|r  id  been  the  companions  of  my  youth  !'  " 

j  After  this  he  sends  the  boy  and  Mignon  to 
iIjI  |s  new  love.  Theresa,  and  goes  back  himself 
,(1  1  Lothario,  by  whom,  and  his  energetic 
the  touching  tale  he  had  to  tell  "is 
jated  with  indifference  and  levity."  And 
iW  comes  the  mystery  of  mysteries.  After 
great  deal  of  oracular  talk,  he  is  ordered, 
e  morning  at  sunrise,  to  proceed  to  a  part 
the  castle  to  which  he  had  never  before 
md  access;  and  when  he  gets  to  the  end  of 
lark  hot  passage,  he  hears  a  voice  call  "  En- 
!"  and  he  lifts  a  tapestry  and  enters ! — 
The  i'all,  in  which  he  now  st0"d.  appeared  to 
re  at  one  time  been  a  chapel ;  instead  of  the  altar 
obeerved  a  large  table  raised  some  steps  above 
floor,  and  covered  with  a  green  cloth  hanfjing 
•ierit.  On  the  fop  of  this,  a  drawn  curtain  seemed 
!l  it  hid  a  picture  ;  on  the  sides  were  .'spaces  beaii- 
lily  worked,  and  covered  in  with  fine  wire  net- 
g,  like  the  shelves  of  a  library  ;  only  here,  instead 


of  books,  a  multitude  of  rolls  had  been  inserted. 
Nobody  was  in  the  hall.  The  rising  sun  shone 
through  the  window,  right  on  Wilhelm,  and  kindly 
saluted  him  as  he  came  in. 

"•Be  seated  I'  cried  a  voice,  which  seemed  to 
issue  from  the  altar.  Wilhelm  placed  himself  in  a 
sniidl  arm-chair,  which  stood  against  the  tapestry 
where  he  had  entered.  Tiicre  was  no  seat  but  this 
in  the  room;  Wilhelm  was  obliged  to  lake  it, 
though  the  inornitig  radiance  dazzled  him  ;  the 
chair  stood  fast,  he  could  only  keep  his  hand  before 
his  eves. 

"  6ut  now  the  curtain,  which  hung  down  above 
the  altar,  went  asunder  wiih  a  gentle  rustling  ;  and 
showed,  within  a  piciure-tranie,  a  dark  empty  aper- 
ture. A  man  slept  forward  at  it,  in  a  common  dress  ; 
saluted  the  astonished  looker-on,  and  said  to  him  : 
'  Do  you  not  recognise  me?'  " 

We  have  not  room,  however,  for  the  detail 
of  all  this  mummery.  A  succession  of  figures, 
known  and  unknown,  present  themselves ; — 
among  others,  the  ghost  of  Hamlet.  At  last, 
after  a  pause. 

"  The  Abbe  came  to  view,  and  placed  himself 
behind  the  green  table.  '  Come  hither!'  cried  he 
to  his  marvelling  friend.  He  went,  and  mounted 
up  the  steps.  On  the  green  cloth  lay  a  httle  roll 
'  Here  is  your  Indenlure,'  said  the  Alibe  ;  '  take  it 
to  heart ;  it  is  of  weighty  import.'  Wilhelm  lifted, 
opened  it,  and  read: 

"  Indenture. — 

"  Art  is  long,  life  short,  judgment  difficult,  occa- 
sion transient.  To  act  is  easy',  to  think  is  hard ;  to 
act  according  to  our  thought  is  troublesome.  Every 
beginning  is  cheerful ;  the  threshold  is  the  place  of 
expectation.  The  boy  stands  astonished,  his  im- 
pressions guide  him  ;  he  learns  sportfully,  serious- 
ness comes  on  him  by  surprise.  Imitation  is  born 
with  us;  what  should  be  imitated  is  not  easy  to 
discover.  The  excellent  is  rarely  found,  more 
rarely  valued.  The  height  charms  us,  the  steps  to 
it  do  not ;  with  the  summit  in  our  eye,  we  love  to 
walk  along  the  plain.  It  is  but  a  part  ol  art  that 
can  be  taught ;  the  artist  needs  it  all.  Who  knows 
it  half,  speaks  much  and  is  always  wrong  ;  who 
knows  it  wholly,  inclines  to  act,  and  speaks  seldom 
or  late.  The  former  have  no  secrets  and  no  force  ; 
the  instruction  they  can  give  is  like  baked  bread, 
savoury  and  satisfying  for  a  single  day  ;  but  flour 
eannot  be  sown,  and  seed-corn  ought  not  to  be 
ground.  Words  are  good,  but  they  are  not  the  best. 
The  best  is  not  to  be  explained  by  words.  The 
spirit  in  which  we  act  is  the  highest  matter.  Action 
can  he  understood  and  again  represented  by  the 
spirit  alone.  No  one  knows  what  he  is  doing,  while 
he  acts  rightly  ;  but  of  what  is  wrong  we  are  always 
conscious.  Whoever  works  with  symbols  only,  is 
a  pedant,  a  hypocrite,  or  a  bungler.  There  are 
many  such,  and  they  like  to  be  together,  ^i'heir 
liabbling  detains  the  scholar;  their  obstinate  medi- 
ocrity vexes  even  the  best.  The  instruction,  which 
the  true  artist  givf^s  us,  opens  up  the  mind;  for 
where  words  fail  him,  deeds  si)eak.  The  true 
scholar  learns  from  the  known  to  untold  the  un- 
known, and  approaches  more  and  more  to  being  a 
master. 

■'  '  Enough  I'  cried  the  Abbe;  '  the  rest  in  due 
lime.     Now,  look  round  you  among  these  cases.' 

"  Wilhelm  went  and  read  the  titles  of  the  rolls. 
With  astonishment,  he  found  Lothario  s  Apprin lice- 
ship,  Janio's  AppreiitireJihiv,  and  his  own  Aji]>ren- 
tirrship  placed  there,  with  many  others  whose 
names  he  did  not  know.  '  May  I  ho|)e  to  cast  a 
look  into  these  rolls  ?'  '  In  this  chamber,  there  is 
now  noihing  hid  from  you.'  'May  I  put  a  (|ues- 
lion  ?'  '  Ask  not,'  said  the  Abbe.  '  Hail  to  thee, 
young  man  !  Thy  apprenticeship  is  done  ;  Nature 
has  pronounced  ihee  free.'  " 

When  he  afterwards  inspecte  tliis  roll,  he 


t20 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


finds  "his  whole  life  delineated  with  large, 
shaqj  strokes,  and  a  number  of  bland  and 
ceneral  reflections!"  We  doubt  whether 
there  is  any  such  nonsense  as  this,  any 
where  else  in  the  universe. 

After  this  illumination,  the  first  step  he 
takes,  with  the  assent  of  these  oracular  sages, 
is  to  propose  for  Theresa,  in  a  long  letter. 
But  while  waiting  for  her  answer,  he  is  sent 
by  Lothario  to  visit  his  sister,  to  whose  care, 
it  appears,  poor  INIignon  had  been  transferred 
by  Theresa.  This  sister  he  takes,  of  course, 
for  the  Countess  from  whom  he  had  parted 
so  strangely  in  the  castle,  and  is  a  little  em- 
barrassed at  the  thought  of  meetuig  her.  But 
he  discovers  on  the  road  that  there  is  another 
sister :  and  that  she  is  the  very  healing  an- 
gel who  had  given  him  the  great  coat  when 
wounded  in  the  forest,  and  had  haunted  his 
fancy  ever  since. 

"  He  entered  the  house  ;  he  found  himself  in  the 
most  earnest,  and,  x\a  he  almost  felt,  the  holiest 
place,  which  he  had  ever  trod.  A  pendent  dazzling 
lustre  threw  its  light  upon  a  broad  and  softly  rising 
etair,  which  lay  before  him,  and  which  paned  into 
two  divisions  at  a  turn  above.  Marble  statues  and 
busts  were  standing  upon  pedestals,  and  arranged  in 
niches;  some  of  them  seemed  known  to  him.  The 
impressions  of  our  childhood  abide  with  us.  even 
in  their  minutest  traces.  He  recognised  a  Muse 
which  had  formerly  belonged  to  his  grandtather-" 

He  finds  poor  Mignon  in  a  wretched  state 
of  health — and  ascertains  that  it  is  a  secret 
passion  for  him  that  is  preying  on  her  deli- 
cate form.  In  the  mean  time,  and  just  as  his 
romantic  love  for  Natalia  (his  iair  hostess) 
has  resumed  its  full  sway,  she  delivers  him 
Theresa's  letter  of  acceptance — very  kind  and 
confiding,  but  warning  him  not  to  lay  out  any 
of  his  money,  till  she  can  assist  and  direct  him 
about  the  investment.  This  letter  peiple.v- 
es  him  a  little,  and  he  replies,  with  a  bad 
grace,  to  the  waim  congratulations  of  Natalia 
— when,  just  at  this  moment  Lothario's  friend 
steps  in  most  opportunely  to  inform  them, 
that  Theresa  had  been  discovered  not  to  be 
the  daughter  of  her  reputed  mother ! — and 
that  the  bar  to  her  union  with  Lothario  was 
therefore  at  an  end.  Wilhelm  affects  great 
magnanimity  in  resigning  her  to  his  prior 
claim.s — but  is  puzzled  by  the  warmth  of  her 
late  acceptance — and  still  more,  when  a  still 
more  ardent  letter  arrives,  in  which  she  sticks 
to  her  last  choice,  and  assures  him  that  '"'her 
dream  of  living  with  Lothario  has  wandered 
far  away  from  her  soul ;"  and  the  matter 
seems  finally  settled,  when  she  comes  post- 
haste in  her  own  person,  flies  into  his  arms. 
and  exclaims,  '-Aly  friend — my  love — my 
husband  !  Yes,  for  ever  thnie  !  amid.st  the 
warmest  kisses'' — and  he  responds,  "0  my 
Theresa!" — and  kis.sps  in  return.  In  spite 
of  all  this,  however,  Lothario  and  his  friends 
come  to  urge  his  suit :  and,  with  the  true  Ger- 
man taste  for  impossibilities  and  protracted 
agonies,  the  whole  party  is  represented  as 
living  together  quite  quietly  and  harmonious- 
ly for  several  weeks — none  of  the  parties 
pressing  for  a  final  determination,  and  all  of 
them  occupied,  in  the  interval,  with  a  variety 
of  tasks,  duties,  and  dissertations.     At  last 


the  elective  afiinities  prevail.  Theresa  begins 
to  cool  to  her  new  love  ;  and,  on  condition  of 
Natalia  undertaking  to  comfort  Wilhelm,  con- 
sents to  go  back  to  her  engagements  with  Lo- 
thario— and  the  two  couples,  and  some  more, 
are  happily  united. 

This  is  the  ultimate  catastrophe — though 
they  who  seek  it  m  the  book  will  not  get  at  it 
quite  so  easily — there  being  an  infinite  varie- 
ty of  other  events  intermingled  or  premised. 
There  is  the  death  of  poor  Mignon — and  her 
musical  obsequies  in  the  Hall  of  the  Past— 
the  arrival  of  an  Italian  Marchese,  who  turns 
out  to  be  her  uncle,  and  recognises  his  brother 
in  the  old  crazy  harper,  of  whom,  though  he 
has  borne  us  company  all  along,  we  have  not 
had  time  to  take  notice — the  return  of  Phili- 
na  along  with  a  merry  cadet  of  Lothario's 
house,  as  sprightly  and  indecorous  as  ever — 
the  saving  of  Felix  from  poi.soiiing,  by  his 
drinking  out  of  the  bottle  instead  of  the  glass 
— and  the  coming  in  of  the  Count,  whom 
Wilhelm  had  driven  into  dotage  and  piety  by 
wearing  his  clothes — and  the  fair  Countess, 
who  is  now  discovered  to  have  suffered  foj 
years  from  her  mom  en  tarj- lapse  in  the  casth 
— the  picture  of  her  hu.sband  having,  by  i 
most  apt  retribution,  been  pressed  so  hard  t( 
her  breast  in  that  stolen  embrace,  as  to  givt 
pain  at  the  time,  and  to  alHict  her  with  fear: 
of  cancer  for  very  long  after!  Besidt  s  a! 
this,  there  are  the  sayings  of  a  very  decidei 
and  infallible  gentleman  called  Jarno — anc 
his  final  and  not  very  intelligible  adniissior 
that  all  which  our  hero  hp.d  seen  in  the  ha' 
of  the  castle  was  "but  the  rehcsof  a  voulhfi 
undertaking,  in  which  the  greater  part  (>f  tli 
initiated  were  once  in  deep  earnest,  tlioug 
all  of  them  now  viewed  it  with  a  smile." 

Many  of  the  passages  to  which  we  hai 
now  alluded  are  e.xecuted  with  gi-e.-it  tnleni 
and  we  are  very  sensible  are  better  woiih  e: 
tracting  than  many  of  those  we  have  cite( 
But  it  is  too  late  now  to  change  our  .«rle>tioi 
— and  we  can  still  less  aflbrd  to  add  to  iher 
On  the  whole,  we  close  the  book  with  son 
feelings  of  mollification  towards  its  fault 
and  a  disposition  to  abate,  if  possible,  son 
part  of  the  censure  we  were  impelled  to  b 
stow  on  it  at  the  beginning.  It  improves  cf 
tainly  as  it  advances — and  though  nowhe 
probable,  or  conversant  indeed  eitln  r  wi 
natural  or  conceivable  characters,  the  ii  vi  i 
ive  powers  of  the  author  seem  to  sti<  i  2'h 
by  e.xercise,  and  come  gradually  to  !-•■  li 
frequently  employed  on  childish  or  n  \'>V. 
subjects.  While  we  hold  out  the  work  tiic 
fore  as  a  curious  and  striking  instance  ot  tl 
diversity  of  national  tastes,  which  makes 
writer  idolized  in  one  part  of  polishf  d  KurO]' 
who  could  not  be  tolerated  in  ni.othri,  ■ 
would  be  understood  as  holding  it  out  as' 
object  rather  of  wonder  than  of  coiiteni) 
and  though  the  greater  part  certainly  coi. 
not  be  endured,  and  indeed  could  not  hs 
been  written  in  England,  there  are  manyp 
sages  of  which  any  country  might  reasona' ' 
be  proud,  and  which  demonstrate,  that  if  ta' 
be  local  and  variable,  genius  is  permanent  J I 
universal. 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


12 


((October,  ISO'i.) 

The  Correspondence  of  Samukl  Ixichaudson,  Author  of  Pamrla.  Clarissa,  ami  Sir  Charles 
[     Grandisoii  :  selected  from  the  oriii:iual  Maniiscripls  br(jui'alhed  to  his  Fawity.      To  which  are 
prefixed,  a  Biographical  account  of  that  Author,  and  UI)scrralions  on  his  If'nlings.     By  Anna 
LiETiTiA  Barbauld.     6  vols.  8vo.     Phillips,  London:   1804. 

and  of  his  sitting!:  down,  after  his  adventures 
are  concluded,  to  give  a  particular  account  of 
them  to  the  public. 

There  is  somethinjj  rather  childish,  we 
think,  in  all  this  investiiration  :  and  the  prob- 
lem of  comparative  probability  seems  to  be 
stated  purely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  solution. 
No  reader  was  ever  disturbed,  in  the  middle 
of  an  interesting  story,  by  any  sciuple  about 
the  means  or  the  inducements  which  the  nar- 
rator may  be  presumed  to  have  had  for  tell- 
ing it.  While  he  is  eng-aged  with  the  story, 
such  an  mquiry  never  suggests  itself;  and 
when  it  is  suggested,  he  recollects  that  the 
whole  is  a  fiction,  invented  by  the  author  for 
his  amusement,  and  that  the  best  way  of 
communicathig  it  must  be  that  by  which  he 
is  most  interested  and  least  fatigued.  To  us 
it  appears  very  obvious,  that  the  first  of  the 
three  modes,  or  the  author's  own  narrative,  is 
by  far  the  most  eligible ;  and  for  this  plain 
reason,  that  it  lays  him  under  much  less  re- 
straint than  either  of  the  other  two.  He  can 
introduce  a  letter  or  a  story  whenever  he 
hnds  it  convenient,  and  can  make  use  of  the 
dramatic  or  conversation  style  as  often  as 
the  subject  requires  it.  In  epistolary  writing 
there  must  be  a  great  deal  of  repetition  and 
egotism;  and  we  must  submit,  as  on  the 
stage,  to  the  intolerable  burden  of  an  insipid 
confidant,  with  whose  admiration  of  the  hero's 
epi.stles  the  reader  may  not  always  be  dis- 
posed to  sympathize.  There  is  one  species 
of  novel  indeed  (but  only  one),  to  which  the 
epistolary  style  is  peculiarly  adapted ;  that  is, 
the  novel;  in  which  the  whole  interest  de- 
pends, not  upon  the  adventures,  but  on  the 
characters  of  the  persons  represented,  and  in 
which  the  story  is  of  very  subordinate  im- 
portance, and  only  serves  as  an  occasion  to 
draw  forth  the  sentiments  and  feelings  of  the 
agents.  The  Heloise  of  Rousseau  may  be 
considered  as  the  model  of  this  species  of 
writing;  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  certainly  over- 
looked this  obvious  distinction,  when  she  as- 
serted that  the  author  of  that  extraordinary 
work  is  to  be  reckoned  among  the  imitators  of 
Richardson.  In  the  Heloise,  tliere  is  scarcely 
any  narrative  at  all;  and  the  interest  may  be 
said  to  consist  altogether  in  the  eloquent  ex- 
pression of  fine  sentiments  and  exalted  pas- 
sion. All  Richardson's  novels,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  substantially  narrative;  and  the 
letters  of  most  of  his  characters  contain  little 
more  than  a  minute  journal  of  th(?  conversa- 
tions and  transactions  in  which  they  were 
successivelv  engaged.  The  stylo  of  Richard- 
son might  "be  perfectly  copied,  though   the 


The  public  has  great  reason  to  be  satisfied, 
,i   ,we  think,  with  Mrs.  BarbaukPs  share  in  this 
i    ipublication.     She  has  contributed  a  very  well 
;     written  Introduction  ;  and  she  has  suppressed 
about  twice  as  many  letters  as  are  now  pre- 
-.    sented  to  our  consideration.     Favourably  as 
[  ,we  are  disposed  to  think  of  all  for  which 
(,  [she  is  directly  responsible,  the  perusal  of  the 
[s   i  whole  six  volumes   has  fully  convinced  us 
I     that  we  are  even  more  indebted  to  her  for- 
if,    bearance  than  to  her  bounty. 
j-  I     The  fair  biographer  unquestionably  posses- 
y  Ises  very  considerable  talents,  and  exercises 
[,    her  powers  of  writing  with  singular  judgTnent 
;    and  propriety.     Many  of  her  observations  are 
;  iacute  and  striking,  and  several  of  them  very 
it;  .fine  and  delicate.     Yet  this  is  not,  perhaps, 
<;  ithe  general  character  of  her  genius;  and  it 
':;,  jmust  be  acknowledged,  that  she  has  a  tone 
.   land  manner  which  is  something  formal  and 
,    heavy ;  that  she  occasionally  delivers  trite  and 
,    obvious  truths  whh  the  pomp  and  solemnity 
.  lof  important  discoveries,  and  sometimes  at- 
I    tempts  to  exalt  and  magnify  her  subject  by 
(:    a  very  clumsy  kind  of  declamation.     With 
all  those  defects,  however,  we  think  the  life 
,   land  observations  have  so  much  substantial 
,    ■merit,  that  most  readers  will  agree  with  us 
in  thinking  that  they  are  worth  much  more 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  publication. 
,     She  sets  oii'  indeed  with  a  sort  of  formal 
I  dissertation   upon   novels   and    romances   in 
,  .general ;  and,  after  obligingly  recapitulating 
(the  whole  history  of  this  branch  of  literature, 
,from  the  Theagenes  and  Chariclea  of  Helio- 
,    ;dorus  to  the  Gil  Bias  and  Nouvelle  Heloise 
,;,  lOf  modern  times,  she  proceeds  to  distinguish 
,!  ithese  performances  into  three  several  classes, 
.[  iaccording  to  the  mode  and  form  of  narration 
,  ladopted   by  the   author.     The   first,    she   is 
pleased  to  inform  us,  is  the  narrative  or  epic 
,:    form,  in  which  the  whole  story  is  put  into  the 
,    imouth  of  the  author,  who  is  supposed,  like  j 
.    the  Muse,   to  know  every  thing,  and  is  not  ! 
obliged  to  give  any  account  of  the  sources  of  ; 
hi-<  information;   the  second  is  that  in  which 
th:^  hero  relates  his  own  adventures;  and  the 
fh'nl    is   that   of  epistolary  correspondence,  ! 
wh'^re  all  the  agents  in  the  drama  successive- 
,,  1y  narrate  the  incidents  in  which  they  are 
j  [principally  concerned.     It  was  with  Richard- 
,;  ison,  Mrs. "Barbauld  then  informs  us,  that  this 
[last  mode  of  novel  writing  originated ;  and  ; 
■    she  enters  into  a  critical  examination  of  its  ad- 
j    vantages  and  disadvantages,  and  of  the  com-  ; 
jj.  parative  probability  of  a  person  dispatching  a 
narrative  of  every  interesting  incident  or  con- 
versation in  his  life  to  his  friends  by  the  post, 
16 


122 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPIH'. 


epistolary  form  were  to  be  dropped ;  but  no 
imitation  of  the  Heloise  could  be  recognised, 
if  it  were  not  in  the  shape  of  letters. 

After  finishing  her  discourse  upon  Novels. 
Mrs.  Barbauld  proceeds  to  lay  before  her 
readers  some  account  of  the  life  and  perform- 
ances of  Richardson.  The  biography  is  very 
scanty,  and  contains  nothing  that  can  be 
thought  very  interesting.  He  was  the  son  of 
a  joiner  in  Derbyshire;  but  always  avoided 
mentioning  the  town  in  which  he  was  born. 
He  was  intended  at  first  for  the  church;  but 
his  father,  finding  that  the  expense  of  his 
education  would  be  too  heavy,  at  last  bound 
him  apprentice  to  a  printer.  He  never  was 
acquainted  with  any  language  but  his  own. 
From  his  childhood,  he  was  remarkable  for 
invention,  and  was  famous  among  his  school- 
fellows for  amusing  them  with  tales  and 
stories  which  he  composed  e.xtempore.  and 
usually  rendered,  even  at  that  early  age,  the 
vehicle  of  some  useful  moral.  He  was  con- 
stitutionally shy  and  bashful ;  and  instead  of 
mixing  with  his  companions  in  noisy  sports 
and  exercises,  he  used  to  read  and  converse 
with  the  sedate  part  of  the  other  sex.  or  assist 
them  in  the  composition  of  their  love-letters. 
The  following  passage,  extracted  by  ISIis. 
Barbauld  from  one  of  the  suppressed  letters, 
is  more  curious  and  interesting,  we  think, 
than  any  thing  in  those  that  are  published. 

"As  a  bashful  and  not  forward  boy,  I  was  an 
early  favourue  with  all  the  yomiii  women  of  taste 
and  reading  in  the  neighbourhood.  Half  a  dozen 
of  them,  when  met  to  work  with  their  needles, 
used,  when  they  got  a  book  they  liked,  and  thought 
I  should,  to  borrow  me  to  read  to  them  ;  their 
mothers  sometimes  with  ihem;  and  both  mothers 
and  daughters  used  to  be  pleased  with  ihe  observa- 
tions lliL-y  put  me  upon  making. 

"I  was  not  more  than  thirteen,  when  three  of 
these  young  women,  unknown  to  each  other,  having 
an  high  opinion  of  my  taciturnity,  revealed  to  me 
their  love-secrets  in  order  to  induce  me  to  give  them 
copies  to  write  after,  or  correct,  for  answers  to  their 
lovers'  letters ;  nor  did  any  of  them  ever  know  that 
I  was  the  secretary  to  the  oihir.';.  I  have  been  di- 
rected to  chide,  and  even  to  repulse,  when  an 
offence  was  either  taken  or  giveti.  at  the  very  time 
that  the  heart  of  the  chider  or  rcpulser  was  open 
before  me,  overflowing  wiiii  esteem  and  affection; 
and  the  tair  repulser,  dreading  to  be  taken  at  her 
word,  directing  Ihis  word,  or  that  expression,  to  be 
softened  or  changed.  One  highly  gratified  w'vl\ 
her  lover's  fervour  and  vows  of  everlasting  love, 
has  said,  when  I  hive  asked  her  direction — I  can- 
not tell  you  what  to  write  ;  but  (her  heart  on  her 
lips)  you  cannot  write  too  kindly.  All  her  fear 
was  only  that  she  should  incur  slight  for  her  kind- 
ness."— Vol.  i.  Introduction,  p.  xx.xix.  xl. 

We  add  Mrs.  Barbauld's  observation  on 
this  passage,  for  the  truth  of  the  sentiment  it 
contains,  though  more  inelegantly  written 
than  any  other  sentence  in  her  performance. 

"  Human  nature  is  human  nature  in  every  class  ; 
the  hopes  and  the  fears,  the  perplexities  and  the 
struggles,  of  these  low-bred  girls  in  probably  an 
obscure  village,  supplied  the  future  author  with 
those  idea.«  which,  by  their  gradual  development, 
produced  the  characters  of  a  Cl.irissa  and  a  Cle- 
mentina; nor  was  he  prob.-ilily  happier,  or  amused 
in  a  more  lively  manner,  when  sitting  in  his  grotto, 
with  a  circle  of  the  best  informed  women  in  Eng- 
land about  him.   who  in  after  times  courted  his 


society,  than  in  reading  to  these  girls  in,  it  may  be, 
a  little  back  shop,  or  a  mantua-maker's  parlour 
with  a  brick  floor." — p.  xl.  xli. 

During  his  apprenticeship,  he  distinguished 
himself  only  by  exemplary  diligence  and 
fidelity ;  though  he  informs  us,  that  he  even 
then  enjoyed  the  correspondence  of  a  gentle- 
man, of  great  accomplislunents.  from  whose 
patronage,  if  he  had  lived,  he  entertauied  the 
highest  expectations.  The  rest  of  his  worldly 
history  seems  to  have  been  pretty  nearly  that 
of  Hogarth's  virtuous  apprentice.  He  married 
his  master's  daughter,  and  succeeded  to  his 
business ;  extended  his  wealth  and  credit  by 
sobriety,  punctuality,  and  hitegrity  ;  bought  a 
residence  in  the  coimtry ;  and,  though  he  did 
not  attain  to  the  supreme  dignity  of  Lord 
INIayor  of  London,  arrived  in  duf  time  at  the 
respectable  situation  of  Master  of  the  Wor- 
shipful Company  of  Stationers.  In  this  course 
of  obscure  prosperity,  he  appears  to  have 
continued  till  he  had  passed  his  fiftieth  year, 
without  giving  any  intimation  of  his  future 
celebrity,  and  even  without  appearing  to  be 
conscious  that  he  was  differently  gifted  from 
the  other  flourishing  traders  of  the  metropolis. 
He  says  of  himself,  we  observe,  in  one  of 
these  letters — "My  business,  till  within  these 
few  years,  filled  all  my  time.  I  had  no 
leisure  :  nor,  being  unable  to  write  by  a  rcgxi- 
lar  plan,  knew  I  that  I  had  so  much  invention, 
till  I  almost  accidentally  slid  into  the  writing 
of  Pamela.  And  besides,  little  did  I  imagine 
that  any  thing  I  could  write  would  be  s( 
kindly  I'eceived  by  the  world."  Of  the  origir 
and  progress  of  this  first  work  he  has  himsell 
left  the  following  authentic  account. 

"Two  booksellers,  my  particular  friends,  en 
treated  me  to  write  for  them  a  litile  volume  o 
letters,  in  a  common  style,  on  such  subjects  a 
might  be  of  use  to  those  country  readers  who  wer 
unable  to  indite  for  themselves.  Will  it  be  an; 
harm,  said  L  in  a  piece  you  want  to  be  written  S' 
low,  if  we  should  inslru'ci  them  how  they  shouli 
think  and  act  in  common  cases,  as  well  as  indite 
They  were  the  more  urgent  with  me  to  begin  th 
little  voluine  for  this  hint.  I  set  about  it;  and,  i 
the  progress  of  it,  writing  two  or  three  letters  t 
instruct  handsome  girls,  who  were  obliged  to  g 
out  to  service,  as  we  phrase  it,  how  lo  avoid  th 
snares  that  might  be  laid  against  their  virtue  ;  th 
above  story  recurred  to  my  thought;  and  henc 
sprung  Pamela." — Introd.  p.  liii. 

This  publication,  we  are  told,  which  mad 
its  first  appearance  in  1740,  was  received  wit 
a  burst  of  ajjplanse.  Dr.  Sherlock  iccon 
mended  it  from  the  pulpit.  Mr.  Pope  said 
would  do  more  good  than  volumes  of  seimoni 
and  another  literary  oracle  declared,  that  i 
all  other  books  were  to  be  burnt,  Pamela  an 
the  Bible  should  be  preserved  1  Its  snccef 
was  not  less  brilliant  in  the  world  of  fa.'^hioi 
'•  Even  at  Ranelagh,"  Mrs.  Barbanlil  assure 
us,  "it  was  usual  for  the  ladies  to  hold  up  tt 
volumes  to  one  another,  to  show  they  had  gt 
the  book  that  everyone  was  talking  of.''  An( 
what  will  appear  .still  more  extraordinary,  or 
gentleman  declares,  that  he  will  ijive  it  to  h 
S(m  as  soon  as  he  can  read,  that  he  mav  has 
an  early  impression  of  virtue. — After  faithful 
reciting  these  and  other  testimonies  of  tl 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


123 


high  estimation  in  which  this  work  was  once 
'  held  by  all  ranks  of  people,  Mrs.  Barbauld 
subjoins  some  very  acute  and  judicious  ob- 
servations both  on  its  literary  merits  and  its 
.  moral  tentlency.  We  cannot  find  room  for  the 
:  whole  of  this  critique ;  but  there  is  so  much 
'  good  sense  and  propriety  in  the  following  pas- 
;;  I  sage,  that  we  cannot  refrain  from  inserting  it. 

■  I  "  So  long  as  Pamela  is  solely  occupied  in  sciicnies 
11-  i  to  escape  from  her  persecutor,  her  virtuous  resist- 
t  ance  obtains  our  unqualified  approbation  ;  but  from 
.  the  moment  she  begins  to  entertain  hopes  of  mar- 
rying him,  we  admire  her  guarded  prudenee,  rather 
than  her  purity  of  mind.     She  has  an  end  in  view, 

;  an  interested  end  ;  and  we  can  only  consider  her  as 
i  the  conscious  possessor  of  a  treasure,  wliich  she  is 
i;  wisely  resolved  not  to  part  with  buf  for  its  just  price. 
I  Her  staying  in  his  house  a  moment  after  she  found 
L  herself  at  liberty  to  leave  it,  was  totally  unjustifiable: 
"    her  repentant  lover  ought  to  have  followed  her  to 

her  taiher's  cottage,  and  to  have  married  her  from 
»  thence.  The  familiar  fooling  upon  which  she  con- 
f  descends  to  live  with  the  odious  Jewkes,  shows 
;,:  also,  that  her  fear  of  offending  the  man  she  hoped 
..  to  make  her  husband,  had  got  the  better  of  her 
i    delicacy  and  just  resentment ;    and  the  same  fear 

leads  her  to  uive  up  her  correspondence  with  honest 

■  Mr.  Williams,  who  had  generously  sacrificed  his 
J  intenst  with  his  patron  in  order  to  effect  her  deliv- 
I  erance.  In  real  life,  we  should,  at  this  period,  con- 
,    sider  Pamela  as  an  interesting  girl :  but  the  author 

says,  she  married  Mr.  B.  because  he  had  won  her 
affection  :  and  we  are  bound,  it  may  be  said,  to  be- 

■  lieve  an  author's  own  account  of  his   characters. 

■  But  again,  it  is  quite  natural  that  a  girl,  who  had 
:.  ;such  a  genuine  love  for  virtue,  should  feel  her  heart 

aiirac  ed  to  a  man  who  was  endeavouring  to  destroy 
,    that  virtue  ?    Can  a  woman  value  her  honour  infi- 
nitely above  her  life,  and  hold  in  serious  detestation 
•    every  word  and  look  contrary  to  the  nicest  purity, 
■'■   and  yet  be  won  by  those  very  attempts  against  her 
honour  to  which  she  expresses  so  much  repugnance? 
— His  attempts  were  of  the  grossest  nature ;  and 

■  , previous  to.  and  during  those  attempts,  he  endeav- 
;  cured  to  iniiniidaie  her  by  sternness.  He  puts  on 
';  the  master  too  much,  to  win  upon  her  as  the  lover 
^l  'Can  affection  be  kindled  by  outrage  and  insult  ? 
J^^  ISurely,  if  her  passions  were  capable  of  being  awa- 
"■  kened  in  his  favour,  during  such  a  persecution,  the 
t  circumstance  would  be  capable  of  an  interpretation 
':  very  little  consistent  with  that  delicacy  the  author 
j"  meant  to  give  her.  The  other  alternative  is,  that 
"';  !she  married  him  for 

'  The  gilt  coach  and  dappled  Flanders  mares.' 
1)  jindeed.  the  excessive  humility  and  gratitude  ex- 
.  I  .pressed  by  Ik  rself  and  her  parents  on  her  exaltation, 
(J  .shews  a  reoaid  to  rank  and  riches  beyond  the  just 
measure  ot  an  independent  mind.  The  pious  good- 
,man  Andrews  should  not  have  thought  his  virtuous 
]ii  ^daughter  so  infinitely  beneath  her  licentious  mas- 
,,;•  ter,  who.  after  all,  married  her  to  graiity  his  own 
,jj,  ipassions.— Inirod.  pp.  I.xiii. — Ixvi. 

iiJ  I  The  first  part  of  this  work,  which  concludes 
lOC  fwith  the  marriage  of  the  heroine,  was  written 
it  lin  three  months:  and  was  founded,  it  seems, 
iSlon  a  real  story  which  had  been  related  to 
:K  iRichardson  by  a  gentleman  of  his  acquaint- 
lii  lance.  It  was  followed  by  a  second  part,  con- 
•«  ffessedly  very  inferior  to  the  first,  and  was 
pi!  fridiculed  by  Fielding  in  his  Joseph  Andrews; 
\\  Ian  offence  for  which  he  was  never  forgiven. 
.ti  I'  Within  eight  years  after  the  appearance  of 
I  [Pamela,  Richardson's  reputation  may  be  said 
ii'i  (to  have  attained  its  zenith,  by  the  successive 
'  publication  of  the  volumes  of  his  Clarissa. 
We  have  great  pleasure  in  laying  before  our 
reailers  a  part  of  Mrs.  Barbaiild's  very  judi- 


cious observations  upon  this  popular  and 
original  performance.  After  a  slight  sketch 
of  the  story,  she  observes, 

"The  plot,  as  we  have  seen,  is  simple,  and  no 
underplots  interfere  with  the  main  design — no  di- 
gressions, no  episodes.  It  is  wonderful  that,  without 
these  helps  of  common  writers,  he  could  support  a 
work  of  such  length.  With  Clarissa  it  begins, — 
with  Clarissa  it  ends.  We  do  not  come  upon  un- 
expected adventures  and  wonderful  recognitions,  by 
quick  turns  and  surprises :  We  see  her  fate  from 
afar,  as  it  were  through  a  long  avenue,  the  gradual 
approach  to  which,  without  ever  losing  sight  of  the 
object,  has  more  of  simplicity  and  grandeur  than  the 
most  cunning  labyrinth  that  can  be  contrived  by 
art.  In  the  approach  to  the  modern  country  seat, 
we  are  made  to  catch  transiently  a  side-view  of  it 
through  an  opening  of  the  trees,  or  to  burst  upon  it 
front  a  sudden  turning  in  the  road  ;  but  tlie  old 
mansion  stood  full  in  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  as  be 
drew  near  it,  contemplating  its  turrets,  wliich  grew 
larger  and  more  distinct  every  step  that  he  ad- 
vanced; and  leisurely  filling  his  eye  and  his  imagin- 
ation with  still  increasing  ideas  of  its  magnificence. 
As  the  work  advances,  the  character  rises;  the 
distress  is  deepened  ;  our  hearts  are  torn  with  pity 
and  indignation  ;  bursts  of  grief  succeed  one  another, 
till  at  length  the  mind  is  composed  and  harmonized 
with  emotions  of  milder  sorrow ;  we  are  calmed 
into  resignation,  elevated  with  pious  hope,  and  dis- 
missed glowing  with  the  conscious  triumphs  of  vir- 
tue.— Introd.  pp.  Ix.xxiii.  l.xxxiv. 

She  then  makes  some  excellent  remarks  on 
the  conduct  of  the  story,  and  opt  the  characters 
that  enliven  it ;  on  that  of  the  heroine,  she 
observes, 

"In  one  instance,  however,  Clarissa  certainly 
sins  against  the  delicacy  of  her  character,  that  is, 
in  allowing  herself  to  be  made  a  show  of  to  the 
loose  companions  of  Lovelace.  But,  how  does  her 
character  rise,  when  we  come  to  the  more  distress- 
ful scenes;  the  view  of  her  horror,  when,  deluded 
liy  the  pretended  relations,  she  re-enters  the  fatal 
house  ;  her  temporary  insanity  afier  the  outrage,  in 
which  she  so  affectingly  holds  up  to  Lovelace  the  li- 
cence he  had  procured,  and  her  dignified  behaviour 
when  she  first  sees  her  ravisher,  after  the  perpetra- 
tion of  his  crime  !  What  finer  subject  could  be  pre- 
sented to  the  painter,  than  the  prison  scene,  where 
she  is  represented  kneeling  amidst  the  gloom  and 
horror  of  that  dismal  abode  ;  illuminating,  as  it 
were,  the  dark  chamber,  her  face  reclined  on  her 
crossed  arms,  her  white  garments  floating  round 
her  in  the  negligence  of  woe  ;  Bellord  coiiteinplating 
her  wiih  resi)ectful  commiseration:  Or.  the  scene 
of  calmer  but  heart-piercing  sorrow,  in  the  interview 
Colonel  Morden  has  with  her  in  her  dying  mo- 
ments I  She  is  represented  fallen  into  a  slumber,  in 
her  elbow-chair,  leaning  on  the  widow  Lovick, 
whose  left  arm  is  around  her  neck :  one  faded 
rhcek  resting  on  the  good  woman's  bosom,  the 
kindly  warmth  of  which  had  overspread  it  wiih  a 
faintish  flush,  the  other  pale  and  hollow,  as  if  al- 
ready iced  over  by  death  ;  her  hands,  the  blueness 
of  the  veins  contrasting  their  whiteness,  hanging 
lifeless  before  her — the  widow's  tears  dropping  un- 
felt  upon  her  face — Colonel  Morden,  with  his  arms 
folded,  gazing  on  her  in  silence,  her  cofl^n  just  ap- 
pearing lithind  a  screen.  What  admiration,  what 
reverence,  does  the  amlinr  inspire  us  with  for  the 
innocent  sufferer,  the  sufferings  too  oi  such  a  pecu- 
liar nature  ! 

"There  is  something  in  virgin  purity,  to  which 
the  imagination  willingly  pays  homage.  In  all  ages, 
something  saintly  has  been  attached  to  the  idea  of^ 
unblemished  chastity;  but  it  was  reserved  im 
Richardson  to  overcome  all  circumstances  of  dis- 
honour and  disfjrace,  and  to  throw  n  splendour 
around  the  viohitvd  virgin,  more  radiant  than  she 
possessed  in  her  first  bloom.     lie  has  drawn  the 


i24 


LITERATURE  Ax\D  BIOGRAPHY. 


triumph  of  mental  chastify  ;  he  has  drawn  it  un- 
coniaminaied.  untarnished,  and  incapable  of  min- 
gling with  poliulion. — The  scenes  which  follow  the 
death  of  the  heroine,  exhibit  grief  in  an  affecting 
variety  of  forms,  as  it  is  modified  by  the  characters 
of  different  survivors.  They  run  into  considerable 
length,  but  we  have  been  so  deeply  interested,  that 
we  feel  it  a  relief  to  have  our  grief  drawn  off,  as 'it 
were,  by  a  variety  of  sluices,  and  we  are  glad  not 
to  be  dismissed  till  we  have  shed  tears,  even  to 
satiety." — Introd.  pp.  xciii. — xcvii. 

This  criticism  we  think  is  equally  judicious 
and  refined ;  and  we  could  easily  prolongs  this 
extract,  in  a  style  not  at  all  inferior.  With 
regard  to  the  morality  of  the  work,  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld  is  very  indignant  at  the  notion  of  its 
being  intended  to  exhibit  a  rare  instance  of 
female  chastity. 

She  objects  with  some  reason,  to  the  num- 
ber of  interviews  which  Clarissa  is  represented 
to  have  had  with  Lovelace  after  the  catas- 
trophe ;  and  adds,  •'  If  the  reader,  on  casually 
opening  the  book,  can  doubt  of  any  scene  be- 
tween them,  whether  it  passes  before  or  after 
the  outrage,  that  scene  is  one  too  much." — 
The  character  of  Lovelace,  she  thinks,  is  very 
much  of  a  fancy  piece ;  and  affirms,  that  our 
national  manners  do  not  admit  of  the  existence 
of  an  original.  If  he  had  been  placed  in 
France,  she  observes,  and  his  gallantries  di- 
rected to  married  women,  it  might  have  been 
more  natural;  "but,  in  England,  Lovelace 
would  have  been  run  through  the  bod}',  long 
before  he  had  seen  the  face  either  of  Clarissa 
or  Colonel  Morden." 

Mrs.  Barbauld  gives  us  a  copious  account 
of  the  praise  and  admiration  that  poured  in 
upon  the  author  from  all  (juarters,  on  the  pub- 
lication of  this  extraordinary  work :  he  was 
overwhelmed  with  cornplintientary  letters, 
messages,  and  visits.  But  we  are  most  grati- 
fied with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  of  his  female 
correspondents,  who  tells  him  that  she  is  very 
sorry,  '-'ihat  he  was  not  a  woman,  and  blest 
with  the  means  of  shining  as  Clarissa  did ;  for 
a  person  capable  of  thawing  such  a  character, 
would  certainly  be  able  to  act  in  the  same 
manner,  if  in  a  like  situation  V 

After  Clarissa,  at  an  interval  of  about  five 
years,  appeared  his  Sir  Charles  Grand ison. 
Upon  this  work,  also,  Mrs.  Barbauld  has  made 
many  excellent  observations,  and  pointed  out 
both  its  blemishes  and  beauties,  with  a  very 
delicate  and  discerning  hand.  Our  limits  wijl 
not  permit  us  to  enter  upon  this  disquisition: 
we  add  only  the  following  acute  paragraph. 

"  Sir  Charles,  as  a  Christian,  was  not  to  tight  n 
duel;  yet  he  was  to  be  recognised  as  the  fini.shod 
gentleman,  and  could  not  be  allowed  to  want  the 
most  essential  part  of  the  character,  the  deportmeil 
of  a  man  of  honour,  courage,  and  spirit.  .And.  in 
order  to  exhibit  his  spirit  and  courage,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  bring  them  into  action  by  adventin-es  and 
rencounters.  His  first  api)earance  is  in  the  rescue 
of  Miss  Byron,  a  meritorious  action,  but  one  wliich 
must  necessarily  expose  him  to  a  clnlleiiife.  \\i<w 
must  the  author  untie  this  knot?  lie  makes  him 
so  very  i^ood  a  swordsman,  that  he  is  always  capa- 
ble of  disarming  his  adversary  without  endangering 
either  of  their  lives.  But  are  a  man's  principles 
to  depend  on  the  science  of  his  fencing-master? 
Every  one  cannot  have  the  skill  of  Sir  Charles  ; 
every  one  cannot  be  the  heat  swordsman ;  and  the 


man  whose  study  it  is  to  avoid  fighting  is  not  quite 
so  hkely  as  another  to  be  the  best." 

Introd.  pp.  cxxvii.  cxxviii. 

Besides  his  great  works,  Richardson  pub- 
lished only  a  paper  in  the  Rambler  (the  97th); 
an  edition  of  ^sop's  Fables,  with  Reflections; 
and  a  volume  of  Familiar  Letters  for  the  use 
of  persons  in  inferior  situations.  It  was  this 
latter  work  which  gave  occasion  to  Pamela : 
it  is  excellently  adapted  to  its  object,  and  we 
think  may  be  of  singular  use  to  Mr.  Words- 
worth and  his  friends  in  their  great  scheme 
of  turning  all  our  poetry  into  the  language  of 
the  common  people.  In  this  view,  we  re-  ■ 
commend  it  very  earnestly  to  their  considera-  I 
tion.  *  .   ' 

There  is  little  more  to  be  said  of  the  trans- 
actions or  events  of  Richardson's  hfe.  His 
books  were  pirated  by  the  Dublin  booksellers : 
at  which  he  was  very  angry,  and  could  obtain 
no  redress.  He  corresponded  with  a  great 
number  of  females;  and  gradually  withdrew 
himself  from  the  fatigues  of  business  to  his 
country  residence  at  Par.son's  Green  ;  where 
his  life  was  at  last  terminated  in  1761,  by  a 
stroke  of  apoplexy,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two. 

His  moral  character  was  in  the  highest  de- 
gree exemplary  and  amiable.  He  was  tem- 
perate, industrious,  and  upright ;  punctual  and 
honourable  in  all  his  dealings;  and  with  a 
kindness  of  heart,  and  a  liberality  and  gene- 
rosity of  disposition,  that  must  have  made  him 
a  very  general  favourite,  even  if  he  had  never 
acquired  any  literary  distinction. — He  had  a 
considerable  share  of  vanity,  and  was  observ- 
ed to  talk  more  willingly  on  the  subject  of  his 
own  works  than  on  any  other.  The  lowness 
of  his  original  situation,  and  the  lateness  of 
his  introduction  into  polite  society,  had  given 
to  his  manners  a  great  shyness  and  reserve ; 
and  a  consciousness  of  his  awkwardness  and 
his  merit  together,  rendered  him  somewhat 
jealous  in  his  intercourse  with  persons  in  more 
conspicuous  situations,  and  made  him  require 
more  courting  and  attention,  than  every  one 
was  disposed  to  pay.  He  had  high  notions  of 
parental  authority,  and  does  not  seem  always 
quite  satisfied  with  the  share  of  veneration 
which  his  wife  could  be  prevailed  on  to  show 
for  him.  He  was  particularly  partial  to  the 
society  of  females;  and  lived,  indeed,  as  Mrs. 
Barbauld  has  expressed  it,  in  a  flower-garden 
of  ladies.  Mrs.  Barbauld  will  have  it,  that 
this  was  in  the  way  of  his  profession  as  an 
author ;  and  that  he  frequented  their  society  . 
to  study  the  female  heart,  and  instruct  him- 
self in  "all  the  niceties  of  the  female  charac- 
ter. From  the  tenor  of  the  correspondence 
now  before  us.  however,  we  are  more  inclin- 
ed to  believe,  with  Dr.  Johnson,  that  this  par- 
tiality was  owing  to  his  love  of  continual 
superiority,  and  that  he  preferred  the  conver-' 
satioii  of  ladies,  because  they  were  more 
lavish  of  thi'ir  admiration,  and  more  easily  en- 
ffaged  to  descant  on  the  perplexities  of  Sir 
Charles,  or  the  distres.ses  of  Clarissa.  His 
close  application  to  business,  and  the  seden- 
tary habits  of  a  literary  life,  had  materially 
injured  his  health :  He  loved  to  complain,  as 
most  uivalids  do  who  have  any  hope  of  being 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


125 


listened  to,  and  scarcely  writes  a  letter  with- 
out some  notice  of  his  nervous  tremors,  his 
giddiness  and  catchings.  "  I  had  originally 
a  good  constitution,"  he  says,  in  one  place, 
"  and  hurt  it  by  no  intemperance,  but  that  of 
application." 

[n  presenting  our  readers  with  this  imper- 
fect summary  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's  biographical 
dissertation,  we  have  discharged  by  far  the 
most  pleasing  part  of  our  task ;  and  proceed 
to  the  consideration  of  the  correspondence 
which  it  introduces,  with  considerable  heavi- 
ness of  spirit,  and  the  most  unfeigned  reluct- 
ance. The  letters  are  certainly  authentic  : 
and  they  were  bought,  we  have  no  doubt,  for 
a  fair  price  from  the  legal  proprietors  :  but 
their  publication,  we  think,  was  both  im- 
proper and  injudicious,  as  it  can  oidy  tend  to 
lower  a  very  respectable  character,  without 
communicating  any  gratification  or  instruction 
to  others.  We  are  told,  indeed,  in  the  pre- 
face, "  that  it  was  the  employment  of  Mr. 
Richardson's  declining  years,  to  select  and 
Arrange  the  collection  from  which  this  publi- 
cation has  been  made;  and  that  he  always 
looked  forward  to  their  publication  at  somt; 
distant  period;"  nay,  ''  that  he  was  not  with- 
out thoughts  of  publishing  them  in  his  life- 
time ;  and  that,  after  his  death,  they  remain- 
ed in  the  hands  of  his  last  surviving  daughter, 
upon  whose  decease  they  became  the  properly 
of  his  grandchildren,  and  were  purchased 
from  them  at  a  very  liberal  price  by  Mr.  Phil- 
lips." We  have  no  doubt  that  what  Mrs. 
Barbauld  has  here  stated  to  the  public,  was 
stated  to  her  by  her  employers :  But  we  can- 
not read  any  one  volume  of  the  letters,  with- 
out being  satisfied  that  the  idea  of  such  a 
publication  could  only  come  into  the  mind  of 
Richardson,  after  his  judgment  was  impaired 
by  the  infirmities  of  "  dechwrng  years ;"  and 
we  have  observed  some  passages  in  those 
which  are  now  published,  that  seem  to  prove 
sufficiently  his  own  consciousness  of  the  im- 
propriety of  such  an  exposure,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  any  idea  of  giving  them  to  the  world. 
In  the  year  1755,  when  nine-tenths  of  the 
whole  collection  must  have  been  completed, 
.  we  find  him  expressing  himself  in  these  Mords 
to  his  friend  Mr.  Edwards : 

I  "I  am  employing  myself  at  present  in  looking 
'  over  and   sorting  and  classing  my  correspondences 

and  other  papers.  This,  when  done,  will  annise 
me,  by  reading  over  again  a  very  ample  corres- 
pondence, and  in  comparing  the  sentiments  of  my 
correspondents,  at  the  time,  with  the  present,  and 
improving  from  both.     The  many  letters  and  papers 

I I  snail  destroy  will  make  an  executor's  work  the 
easier;  and  if  any  of  my  friends  desire  their  letters 
to  be  returned,  they  will  be  readily  come  at  tor  that 
purpose.  Otherwise  they  will  amuse  and  direct 
m-tj  children,  and  teach  them  to  honour  their  father's 

i  friends  in  their  closets  for  the  favours  done  him." 
Vol.  iii.  pp.  113,  114. 

Accordingly,  they  remained  in  the  closet 
till  the  death  of  the  last  of  his  children:  and 
then  the  whole  collection  is  purchased  by  a  , 
bookseller,   and   put   into   the   hands   of   an 
editor,  who  finds  it  expedient  to  suppress  two-  i 
thirds  of  it !  j 

Those  who  have  looked  into  the  volumes  , 


in  question,  will  be  at  no  less  to  comprehend 
the  reasons  of  the  unqualified  reprehension 
we  are  inclined  to  bestow  on  their  publica- 
tion. For  the  information  of  those  who  have 
not  had  an  onportiniity  of  seeing  them,  we 
may  observe  that,  so  far  from  containing  any 
view  of  the  literature,  the  politics,  or  maimers 
of  the  times — any  anecdotes  of  the  eminent 
and  extraordinary  personages  to  whom  the 
author  had  access — or  any  pieces  of  eh'gant 
composition,  refined  criticism,  or  interesting 
narrative,  they  consist  almost  entirely  of  com- 
pliments and  minute  criticisms  on  his  novels, 
a  detail  of  his  ailments  and  domestic  con- 
cerns, and  some  tetlious  prattling  disputations 
with  his  female  correspondents,  upon  the 
duties  of  wives  and  children ;  the  whole  so 
loaded  with  gross  and  reciprocal  fiattery,  as 
to  be  ridiculous  at  the  outset,  and  disgusting 
in  the  repetition.  Compliments  and  the  novels 
form  indeed  the  staples  of  the  whole  corres- 
pondence :  we  meet  with  the  divine  Clarissa, 
and  the  more  divine  Sir  Charles,  in  every 
page,  and  are  absolutely  stuimed  with  the 
clamorous  raptures  and  supplications  with 
which  the  female  train  demand  the  conver- 
sion of  Lovelace,  and  the  death  or  restoration 
of  Clementina,  Even  when  the  charming 
books  are  not  the  direct  subject  of  the  corres- 
pondence, they  appear  in  eternal  allusions, 
and  settle  most  of  the  arguments  by  an  au- 
thoritative quotation.  In  short,  the  Clarissa 
and  Grandison  are  the  scriptures  of  this  con- 
gregation ;  and  the  members  of  it  stick  as 
close  to  their  language  upon  all  occasions,  as 
any  of  our  sectaries  ever  did  to  that  of  the 
Bible.  The  praises  and  compliments,  again, 
which  are  interchanged  among  all  the  parties, 
are  so  extremely  hyperbolical  as  to  be  ludi- 
crous, and  so  incessant  as  to  be  excessively 
fatiguing.  We  shall  trouble  our  readers  with 
but  a  very  few  specimens. 

The  first  series  of  letters  is  from  Aaron  Hill, 
a  poet  of  some  notoriety,  it  seem,«.  in  his  day; 
but,  if  we  may  judge  from  these  epistles,  a 
very  bad  composer  in  prose.  The  only  amus- 
ing things  we  have  met  with  in  this  volume 
of  his  inditing,  are  his  prediction  of  his  own 
great  fame,  ancl  the  speedy  downfal  of  Pope's; 
and  his  scheme  for  making  English  wine  of  a 
superior  quality  to  any  that  can  be  imported. 
Of  Pope  he  says,  that  he  died  "in  the  wane 
of  his  popularity  ;  and  that  it  arose  originally 
only  from  meditated  little  personal  assidnitie.«, 
and  a  certain  bladdery  swell  of  management." 
And  a  little  after — 

"But  rest  his  memory  in  peace!  It  will  very 
rarely  lie  disturbed  by  that  time  he  himself  is  ashes. 
It  is  pleasant  to  observe  the  justice  ot  forced  fame; 
she  lets  down  those,  at  once,  who  got  themselves 
pushed  upward  ;  and  lifts  none  above  tlie  fear  of 
fallinw.  but  a  few  who  never  teased  her. 

"  What  she  intends  to  do  with  mf.  the  Lord 
knows!" — Vol.  i.  p.  107. 

In  another  place  he  adds,  '-For  my  part,  I 
am  afraid  to  be  popular;  I  see  .so  many  who 
write  to  the  living,  and  deserve  not  to  live, 
that  I  content  myself  with  a  re.'iurrrction 
when  dead  :"  And  after  Inmentin;.'  the  un- 
popularity of  some  of  his  writings,  li »  says 
l2 


126 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


"But  there  will  arise  a  time  in  which  they 
will  be  seen  in  a  far  different  light.  I  know 
tt  on  a  surer  hope  than  that  of  vanity."  The 
wine  project,  which  is  detailetl  in  many  pages, 
requires  no  notice.  As  a  specimen  of  the 
adulation  with  which  Richardson  was  in- 
censed by  all  his  correspondents,  we  may 
add  the  followuig  sentences. 

"  Whore  will  your  wonders  end?  or  how  could 
I  be  able  to  express  the  joy  it  gives  me  to  discern 
your  genius  ri.sing  wiih  the  graee  and  boldness  of  a 
pillarT  (fee.  Go  on,  dear  sir  (I  see  you  will  and 
nnistL  to  charm  and  captivate  the  world,  and  force 
a  scribbling  race  to  learn  and  practise  one  rare 
viriue— to  be  pleased  with  what  disgraces  them." 
— "  There  is  a  manner  (so  beyond  the  mailer,  ex- 
traordmary  too  as  thnt  is)  in  whatever  you  say  or 
do.  that  makes  it  an  impossibility  to  speak  those 
seniimenis  which  it  is  equally  impossible  not  to 
conceive  in  reverence  and  atiection  tor  your  good- 
ness." 

In  allusion  to  the  promise  of  Sir  Charles, 
he  says — 

"  I  am  greatly  pleased  at  the  hint  you  gave  of  a 
desiirn  to  raise  another  Alps  upon  this  Appenine: 
\vc  can  never  see  too  many  of  his  works  who  has 
no  equal  in  his  labours." 

These  passages,  we  believe,  will  satisfy 
most  readers ;  but  those  who  have  any  desire 
to  see  more,  may  turn  up  any  page  in  the 
volume  :  It  may  be  of  some  use,  perhaps,  as 
a  great  commonplace  for  the  materials  of 
"  soft  dedication.'' 

The  next  series  of  letters  is  from  Miss 
Fielding,  who  wrote  David  Simple,  and  Miss 
Collier,  who  assisted  in  writing  The  Cry. 
What  modern  reader  knows  any  thing  about 
the  Cry,  or  David  Simple  ?  And  if  the  elabo- 
rate performances  of  these  ladies  have  not 
been  thought  worthy  of  public  remeinbrance, 
what  likelihood  is  there  that  their  private  and 
confidential  letters  should  be  entitled  to  any 
notice  ?  They  contain  nothing,  indeed,  that 
can  be  interesting  to  any  description  of  read- 
ers ;  and  only  prove  that  Richardson  was  in- 
dulgent and  charitable  to  them,  and  that  their 
gratitude  was  a  little  too  apt  to  degenerate 
into  flattery. 

The  letters  of  Mrs.  Pilkington  and  of  Colley 
Cibber  appear  to  us  to  be  still  less  worthy  of 
publication.  The  former  seems  to  have  been 
a  profligate,  silly  actress,  reduced  to  beggary 
in  her  old  age.  and  distressed  by  the  miscon- 
duct of  her  ill-educated  children.  The  com- 
passionate heart  of  Richardson  led  him  to 
pity  and  relieve  her  ;  and  she  repays  him 
with  paltry  adulation,  interlarded,  in  the  bom- 
bastic style  of  the  green  room,  with  dramatic 
mis(|uotations  misapplied.  Of  the  letters  of 
Cibber,  Mrs.  B.  says  that  '•  they  .show  in 
every  line  the  man  of  wit  and  the  man  of  the 
world."  We  are  sorry  to  dissent  from  so  re- 
spectable an  opinion  ;  but  the  letters  appear 
to  us  in  every  respect  contemptible  and  dis- 
gusting; without  one  spark  of  wit  or  genius 
of  any  sort,  and  bearing  all  the  traces  of 
vanity,  impudence,  affectation,  and  superan- 
nuated debaucliery.  which  might  have  been 
expected  from  the  author.  His  first  epi-stle 
is  to  Mrs.  Pilkington  (for  the  editor  has  more 
than  once  favoured  us  with  letters  that  have 


no  sort  of  relation  to  Richardson  or  his  writ- 
ings), and  sets  otf  in  this  manner  : 

"  Thou  frolicsome  farce  of  fortune  !  What  !  Is 
ihcre  another  act  of  you  to  come  then?  I  was 
afraid,  some  lime  ago,  you  had  made  your  last  exit. 
Well !  but  without  wit  or  compliment,  I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  are  so  tolerably  alive,"  &c. 

We  can  scarcely  conceive  that  this  pitiful 
slang  could  appear  to  Mrs.  Barbauld  like  the 
pleasantry  of  a  man  of  fashion.  His  letters 
to  Richardson  are,  if  any  thing,  rather  more 
despicable.  After  reading  some  of  the  proof 
sheets  of  Sir  Charles,  he  writes, 

"  Z ds  !   I  have  not  patience,  till  I  know  what 

has  become  uf  her.  VVhv,  you — I  do  not  know 
what  to  call  you  ! — Ah  I  ah  !  you  may  laugh  if  you 
please  :  but  how  will  you  be  able  to  look  me  in  the 
face,  if  the  lady  should   ever  be  able  to  show  hers 

again  ?     What  piteous,  d d,  disgracelul  pitkle 

have  you  plunged  her  in  ?  For  God's  sake  send 
me  the  sequel ;  or — I  dont  know  what  to  say  I — " 

The  following  is  an  entire  letter : 

"  The  delicious  meal  I  made  of  Miss  Byron  on 
Sunday  last  has  given  me  an  appetite  for  another 
slice  of  her,  off  from  the  spit,  bel^nre  she  is  served  ' 
up  10  the  public  table.  If  about  five  o'clock  to- 1 
morrow  af^ternoon  will  not  be  inconvenient,  Mrs.; 
Brown  and  I  will  come  and  piddle  upon  a  bit  more  ; 
of  her  :  but  pray  let  your  whole  family,  with  Mrs.  ' 
Richardson  at  the  head  of  them,  come  in  for  their 
share.  This,  sir,  will  make  me  more  and  more 
yours,"  &c. 

After  these  polite  effuf^ions,  we  have  a  cor- 
respondence with  Mt.  Edwards,  the  author 
of  the  Canons  of  Criticism,  a  good  deal  of  i 
which  is  occupied  as  usual  with  flattery  and 
mutual  compliments,  and  the  rest  with  con- 
sultations about  their  different  jiublications. 
Richardson  exclaims,  "Othat  you  could  re- 
vsolve  to  publish  your  pieces  in  two  prett\ 
volumes!"  And  Mr.  Edwards  sends  hiir 
long  epistles  in  exaltation  of  Sir  Charles  imr 
Clarissa.  It  is  in  this  correspondence  tlia 
we  meet  with  the  first  symptom  of  that  nios 
absurd  and  illiberal  prejudice  which  Ricliard 
son  indulged  agirinst  all  tlie  writings  of  Field 
ing.     He  writes  to  Mr.  Edwards — 

"  Mr.  Fielding  has  met  with  the  disapprobatioi 
vou  foresaw  be  would  meet  with,  of  his  Amelia' 
He  is,  in  every  paper  he  publi.'<hes  under  ihe  lit! 
of  the  Common  Garden,  contributing  to  his  ow 
overihrow.  He  has  been  overmatched  in  his  ow 
way  by  people  whom  he  had  desjiised,  and  wlior 
hi!  thought  he  had  vogue  enough,  from  the  siiccee 
his  .spurious  brat  Tom  Jones  so  unaccountably  im 
with,  to  write  down,  but  who  have  turned  his  ow 
artillery  against  him,  and  beat  him  out  of  the  fieic 
and  made  him  even  poorly  in  his  Court  of  Criiicisi 
give  up  his  Amelia,  and  promise  to  write  no  mot 
on  the  like  subjects." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  33 — 31. 

This,  however,  is  but  a  small  specimen  c 
his  antipathy.  He  says  to  his  French  tram 
lator,  "Tom  Jones  is  a  dissolute  book.  lis  i-u' 
J.S  over,  even  with  us.  Is  it  true  that  Franci 
had  virtue  enough  to  refuse  to  license  sucht| 
profligate  performance?"  But  the  worst  (' 
all  is  the  following — 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  read  any  more  than  tl 
first  vohinie  of  Amelia.     Poor  Fielding!    I  cou 

I  not  help  tellinfT  his  ahtcr,  that  I  was  equally  81), 
prised  at,  and  concerned  for,  his  continued  lownef 

1  Had  your  brother,  said  I,  been  born  in  a  stable, 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  SAIMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


12" 


been  a  runner  at  a  sponging  house,  we  should  have 
thought  him  a  genius,  and  wished  he  had  had  the 
advantage  of  a  liberal  education,  and  of  bein^  ad- 
mitted into  good  company  ;  but  it  is  beyond  my 
coiicepiioii,  that  a  man  of  lamily,  and  who  had 
some  learning,  and  who  really  is  a  writer,  should 
descend  so  excessively  low  in  all  his  pieces.  Who 
can  care  for  any  of  his  people  ?  A  person  ot 
honour  asked  me,  the  other  day,  what  he  could 
mean,  by  saying,  in  his  Covent  Garden  Journal, 
that  he  had  followed  Homer  and  Virgil  ni  his 
Amelia?  I  answered,  that  he  was  justified  in  say- 
ing so,  because  he  must  mean  Cotton's  Virdl  Tra- 
ve.sicd.  where  the  women  are  drabs,  and  the  men 
,  scoundrels." — Vo\.  vi.  pp.  154,  155. 

j  It  is  lamentable  that  such  things  should 
j  have  been  written  confidentially ;  it  was  sure- 
ly unnecessary  to  make  them  public. 

Alter  the  dismissal  of  Mr.  Edwards,  we 
meet  with  two  or  three  very  beautiful  and 
interesting  letters  from  INLs.  Klopstock,  the 
first  wife  of  the  celebrated  German  poet. 
They  have  pleased  us  infinitely  beyond  any 
thing  else  in  the  collection  :  but  how  far  they 
are  iuilebted  for  the  charm  we  have  found  in 
them  to  the  lisping  innocence  of  the  broken 
Eaglish  in  which  they  are  written,  or  to  their 
intrinsic  merit,  we  cannot  pretend  to  deter- 
imine.  We  insert  the  following  account  of 
her  courtship  and  marriage. 

"  After  having  seen  him  two  hours,  I  was  obliged 
•to  pass  the  evenmg  in  a  company,  which  never  had 
been  so  wearisome  to  me.  I  could  not  speak,  I 
could  not  play  ;  I  thought  I  saw  nothing  but  Klop- 
stock.  I  saw  him  the  ne.xt  day,  and  the  following, 
and  we  were  very  seriously  friends.  But  the  fourfh 
day  he  departed.  It  was  an  strong  hour  the  hour 
,of  his  departure  !  He  wrote  soon  after,  and  from 
that  time  our  correspondence  began  to  be  a  very 
diligent  one.  I  sincerely  believed  my  love  to  be 
'riendship.  I  spoke  with  my  friends  of  nothing 
'3Ut  Klopstock,  and  showed  his  letters.  They 
"aillied  at  me,  and  said  I  was  in  love.  I  raillied 
ihein  again,  and  said  that  they  must  have  a  very 
Viendsliipless  heart,  if  they  had  no  idea  of  friend- 
ship to  a  man  as  well  as  to  a  woman.     Thus  it 

■  'lontinued  eight  months,  in  which  time  my  friends 
found  as  much  love  in  Klopstock's  letters  as  in  me. 

■  '■'.  perceived  it  likewise,  but  I  would  not  believe  it. 
:  At  the  last  Klopstock  said  plainly  that  he  loved  ; 

Imd  1  startled  as  for  a  wrong  thing.  I  answered, 
jhat  it  was  no  love,  but  friendship,  as  it  was  what  I 
felt  for  him  ;   we  had  not  seen  one  another  enough 

■  'o  love  (as  if  love  must  have  more  time  than  friend- 

hip!)  This  was  sincerely  my  meaning,  and  I  had 
'  'his  meaning  till  Klopstock  came  again  to  Ham- 
'  i'ure.  This  he  did  a  year  after  we  had  seen  one 
[  inoiher  the  first  time.  We  saw,  we  were  friends, 
■'■  ^-e  loved;  and  we  believed  that  we  loved:  and,  a 
iiort  lime  alter,  I  could  even  tell  Klopstock  that  I 
:>vpd.  But  we  were  obliged  to  part  again,  and 
:  i-ait  two  years  for  our  wedding.  My  mother 
;-  \fon\d  not  let  me  marry  a  stranger.  I  could  marry 
E  "sen  without  her  consentment,  as  by  the  death  of 
iiy  father  my  fortune  depended  not  on  her;  but 
^^  bis  was  an  horrible  idea  for  me  ;  and  thank  Hea- 
■'  !en  that  I  have  prevailed  by  prayers  1  At  this 
''■  fme  knowing  Klopstock,  she  loves  him  as  her 
,"  'fely  son.  and  thanks  God  that  she  has  not  per- 
-i:  isted  We  married,  and  I  am  the  happiest  wife 
i  1  the  world.  In  some  few  months  it  will  be  four 
/  ears  that  I  am  so  happy,  and  still  I  dote  upon 
•'    -lopsiock  as  if  he  was  my  bridegroom. 

"If  you  knew  my  husband,  you  would  not 
londer.  If  you  knew  his  poem,  I  could  describe 
ini  very  briefly,  in  saying  he  is  in  all  respects  what 
-'  is  as  a  poet.     This  I  can  say  with  all  wifely  mo- 

.    -Sty But  I  dare  not  to  speak  of  my  hus- 

l^ij  jWtt;  I  am  all  raptures^  when  I  do  it.    And  as 


happy  as  I  am  in  love,  so  happy  am  I  in  friendship, 
in  my  mother,  two  elder  sisters,  and  five  other 
women.     IIow  rich  I  am  I" — Vol.  iii.  pp.  hlG — 149. 

One  of  the  best  letters  is  dated  from  Tun- 
bridge  in  1751.  We  shall  venture  onane.xtract. 

"  But  here,  to  change  the  .scene,  to  see  Mr.  Walsh 
at  eighty  (Mr.  Gibber  calls  him  papa),  and  Mr. 
Gibber  at  seventy-seven,  hunting  alter  new  faces  i 
and  thinking  themselves  happy  it  they  can  obtain 
the  notice  and  familiarity  of  a  tine  woman  ! — How 
ridiculous  I — 

"  Mr.  Gibber  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with 
Miss  Ghudleigh.  Her  admirers  (such  was  his  hap- 
piness I)  were  not  jealous  of  him  ;  but,  pleased  with 
that  wit  in  him  which  they  had  not,  were  always 
for  calling  him  to  her.  She  said  pretty  thnigs — tor 
she  was  Miss  Ghudleigh.  lie  said  pretty  things — 
for  he  was  Mr.  Gibber;  and  all  the  company,  men 
and  women,  seemed  to  think  they  had  an  interest 
in  what  was  said,  and  were  halt  as  well  pleased  as 
if  they  had  said  the  sprightly  things  themselves; 
and  mighty  well  contented  were  they  to  be  second- 
hand repeaters  of  the  pretty  things.  But  once  I 
laced  the  laureate  squatted  upon  one  of  the  benches, 
with  a  face  more  wrinkled  than  ordinary  with  dis- 
appointment. '  I  thought,'  said  I.  '  you  were  of  the 
party  at  the  tea  treats— Miss  Ghudleigh  is  gone  into 
the  tea-room.' — 'Pshaw!'  said  he,  'there  is  no 
coming  at  her,  she  is  so  surrounded  by  the  toupets.' 
— .\nd  I  left  him  upon  the  fret — But' he  was  called 
to  soon  after  i  and  in  he  flew,  and  his  lace  shone 
again,  and  looked  smooth. 

"Another  extraordinary  old  man  we  have  hail 
here,  but  of  a  very  diflerent  turn;  the  noted  Mr. 
Whiston,  showing  eclipses,  and  explaining  other 
phenomena  of  the  stars,  and  preaching  the  millen- 
nium and  anabaptism  (for  he  is  now,  it  seems,  of 
that  persuasion)  to  gay  people,  who,  if  they  have 
white  teeth,  hear  him  with  open  mouths,  though 
perhaps  shut  hearts  ;  and  after  his  lecture  is  over, 
not  a  bit  the  wiser,  run  from  him  the  more  eagerly 
to  G — r  and  W — sh,  and  to  flutter  among  the  loud- 
laughing  young  fellows  upon  the  walks,  like  boys 
and  girls  at  a  breaking  up," — Vol.  lii.  p.  31G — 319, 

As  Richardson  was  in  the  habit  of  flattering 
his  female  correspondents,  by  asking  their 
advice  (though  he  never  followed  it)  as  to  the 
conduct  of  his  works,  he  prevailed  on  a  cer- 
tain Lady  Echlin  to  communicate  a  new 
catastrophe  which  she  had  devised  for  his 
Clarissa.  She  had  reformed  Lovelace,  by 
means  of  a  Dr.  Christian,  and  made  him  die 
of  remorse,  though  the  last  outrage  is  not 
supposed  to  be  committed.  How  far  Lady 
Echlin's  epistles  are  likely  to  meet  Avith 
readers,  in  this  fastidious  age,  may  be  con- 
jectured, from  the  following  specimen. 

"  I  heartily  wish  every  Christain  would  read  and 
wisely  consider  Mr.  Skelton's  fine  and  pious  les- 
sons. 1  admire  the  warmth  of  this  learned  gentle- 
man's zeal ;  it  is  laudable  and  necessary,  '  especially 
in  an  age  like  this,  which,  for  its  coldness  (he  ob- 
serves) may  be  called  the  winter  of  Christianity,' 
A  melancholy  truth,  elegantly  expressed!  I  have 
only  perused  a  small  part  of  this  divine  piece,  and 
am  greatly  delighted  with  what  1  have  read. 
Surely  he  is  a  heavenly  man.  I  am  also  very  fond 
of  Dr.  Clark:  a?id  excellent  good  Seed.'  1  thank 
you,  sir,  for  introducing  another  wise  charmer,  not 
less  worthy  of  every  body's  regard.  He  merits  atten- 
tion, and  religiously  commands  it," — Vol,  v,  p.  40, 

Next  come  several  letters  from  the  Rever- 
end Mr,  Skelton,  mostly  on  the  subject  of  the 
Dublin  piracy,  and  the  publication  of  some 
works  of  his  own.  He  seem.n  to  have  been  a 
man  of  strong,  coarse  sensi;,  but  extremely 
irritable.     Some  delay  iii  the  publication  of 


128 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHl'. 


hiis  sermons  dra-\TS  from  him  the  following 
amusing  piece  of  fretfulness. 

"Johnston  kept  ihem  a  monih  on  the  way; 
WiUoii  kept  them  three,  and  docs  notliing,  only 
hiiiis  a  sort  of  contemptuous  censure  of  them  to  you, 
and  huffs  them  out  ot  his  hands.  The  booksellers 
(^e^pise  them,  and  I  am  forced  to  print  them,  when 
the  season  for  sale  is  over,  or  burn  them.  God's 
will  be  done!  If  I  had  wrote  against  my  Saviour, 
or  his  religion,  my  work  would  long  ago  have  been 
bought,  and  reprinted,  and  bought  again.  Millar 
would  have  now  been  far  advanced  in  his  third 
edition  of  it !  But  why  do  I  make  these  weak  com- 
plaints ?  I  know  my  work  is  calculated  to  serve 
the  cause  of  God  and  truth,  and  by  no  means  con- 
tempiibiy  executed.  I  am  confident  also,  I  shall, 
il  God  spares  me  life  to  give  it  the  necessary  intro- 
duction, sell  it  to  advantage,  and  receive  the  thanks 
of  every  good  man  for  it.  I  will  therefore  be  in  the 
hands  of  God,  and  not  of  Mr.  Millar,  whose  indif- 
ference to  my  performances  invite  me  not  to  any 
overtures."— Vol.  v.  p.  234,  235. 

Although  Richardson  is  not  responsible  for 
more  than  one  fifth  part  of  the  dulness  e.\- 
hibited  in  this  collection,  still  the  share  of  it 
that  may  be  jusfly  imputed  to  him  is  so  con- 
siderable, and  the  whole  is  so  closely  asso- 
ciated with  his  name,  that  it  would  be  a  sort 
of  injustice  to  take  our  final  leave  of  his  works, 
without  casting  one  glance  back  to  those  orig- 
inal and  meritorious  performances,  upon 
which  his  reputation  is  so  firmly  established. 

The  great  excellence  of  Richardson's  novels 
con.sisls,  we  think,  in  the  unparalleled  minute- 
nevss  and  copiousness  of  his  descriptions,  and 
in  the  pains  he  takes  to  make  us  thoroughly 
and  intimately  acquainted  with  every  particu- 
lar in  the  character  and  sitiuition  of  the  per- 
sonages with  whom  we  are  occupied.  It  has 
been  the  policy  of  other  writers  to  avoid  all 
details  that  are  not  necessary  or  impressive,  to 
hurry  over  all  the  preparatory  scenes,  and  to 
reserve  the  whole  of  the  reader's  attention  for 
those  momentous  passages  in  which  some  de- 
cisive measure  is  adopted,  or  some  great 
passion  brought  into  action.  The  consequence 
i.s,  that  we  are  only  acquainted  with  their 
characters  in  their  dress  of  ceremony,  and 
that,  as  we  never  see  them  except  in  those 
critical  circumstances,  and  those  moments  of 
strong  emotion,  which  are  bnt  of  rare  occur- 
rence in  real  life,  we  are  never  deceived  into 
any  belief  of  their  reality,  and  contemplate 
the  whole  as  an  exaggerated  and  dazzling 
illusion.  With  such  authors  we  merely  make 
a  visit  by  appointment,  and  see  and  hear  only 
what  we  know  has  been  prepared  for  our  re- 
ception. With  Richardson,  we  shp,  invisible, 
into  the  domestic  privacy  of  his  characters, 
and  hear  and  see  every  thing  that  is  said  and 
doii'-  .■iiiiong  them,  \^hether  it  be  int(!restiiig 
or  otlr.'Mvise.  and  whether  it  gratify  our  curi- 
o.-;ily  or  disappoint  it.  We  sympathise  with 
tlf  foinier,  therefore,  only  as  we  .sympathise 
with  the  monarchs  and  statesmen  of  history, 
of  who.se  condition  as  individuals  we  have  but 
a  very  imperfect  conception.  We  feel  for  the 
latter,  as  for  our  private  friends  and  actiuaint- 
ancn,  with  whose  whole  situation  we  are 
familiar,  and  as  to  whom  we  can  conceive 
exactly  the  effects  that  will  be  produced  by 
every  thing  that  may  befal  ihem.     In   this 


art  Richardson  is  undoubtedly  without  an 
equal,  and,  if  we  except  De  Foe,  without  a 
competitor,  we  believe,  in  the  whole  history 
of  literature.  We  are  often  fatiirued.  as  we 
listen  to  his  prolLx  descriptions,  ami  the  repeti- 
tions of  those  rambling  and  inconclusive  con- 
versations, in  which  so  many  pages  are  con- 
sumed, without  any  apparent  progress  in  the 
storj-;  but,  by  means  of  all  this,  we  get  so 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  characters, 
and  so  impressed  with  a  persuasion  of  their 
reality,  that  when  any  thing  really  disastrous 
or  important  occurs  to  them,  we  feel  as  for  old 
friends  and  companions,  and  are  irresistibly 
led  to  as  lively  a  conception  of  their  sensa- 
tions, as  if  we  had  been  spectators  of  a  real 
transaction.  This  we  certainly  think  the  chief 
merit  of  Richardson's  productions:  For.  great 
as  his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  his 
powers  of  pathetic  description,  must  be  ad- 
mitted to  be,  we  are  of  opinion  that  he  might 
have  been  equalled  in  those  particulars  by 
many,  whose  productions  are  infinitely  less  I 
interesting.  ; 

That  his  pieces  were  all  intended  to  be  j 
strictly  moral,  is  indisputable:  but  it  is  not' 
quite  so  clear,  that  they  will  uniformly  be' 
found    to    have    this    tendency.     We    have 
already  quoted    some   obsen'afions   of  Mrs. 
Barbaijjd's  on  this  subject,  and  shall  only  add, 
in  general,  that  there  is  a  certain  air  of  irk-, 
some   regularity,  gloominess,   and   pi  dantrjy 
attached  to  most  of  his  virtuous  chaiacters, 
which  is  apt  to  encourage  more  unfortunate 
associations  than  the  engaging  (jualities  with 
which  he  has  invested  some  of  his  vicious 
ones.     The  mansion  of  the  HarJowes.  which.' 
before  the  appearance  of  Lovelace,  is  repre- 
sented as  the  abode  of  domestic  felicity,  is  i 
place  in  which  daylight  can  scarcely  be  sup 
posed  to  .shine;  and  Clarissa,  with  her  forma 
devotions,    her    intolerably  early  rising,  he 
day  divided  into  tasks,  and  her  quantities  o) 
needle-work  and  discretion,  has  something  ij 
her  much  less  winning  and  attractive  than  in 
ferior  artists  have  often  communicated  to  a; 
innocent  beauty  of  seventeen.     The  solem 
nity  and  moral  discourses  of  Sir  Charles,  hi 
bows,  minuets,  compliments,  and  immovc  abl' 
tranquillity,  are  much  more  likely  to  excif 
the  derision  than  the  admiration  of  a  moder 
reader.     Richardson's  good  people,  in  shor. 
are  too  wise  and  too  foimal,  ever  to  appear  i' 
the  light  of  desirable  companions,  or  to  excit' 
in   a   youthful   mind   any  wish  to  resembl; 
them.     The  gaiety  of  all  his  characters,  to 
is  extremely  girlish  and  silly,  and  is  mue 
more  like  the  prattle  of  spoiled  children,  tha' 
the  wit  and  pleasantry  of  persons  acquainte' 
with  the  world.     The  diction   ihrnugliout  ' 
heavy,  vulgar,  and  embarrassed :  though  tl^ 
interest  of  the  tragical  scenes  is  too  powerf 
to  allow  us  to  attend  to  any  inferior  consider; 
tion.     The   novels   of  Richnidson.   in   sho" 
though   ]ira'.sed    perhaps   seraewhat   beyoi 
their  merits,   will  always  be  read   with  a 
miration  :  and  certainly  can  never  appear  i 
greater  advantage  than  when  contrasted  wr' 
the  melancholy  farrago  which  is  here  entitli, 
his  Correspondence. 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


129 


(lulB,     1S13.) 

Correspondance,  Littemirc,  Philosophique  et  Critique.  Addressee  a  un  Souverain  d^ AUemagne, 
depuis  1770  jtisqu'd  1782.  Par  le  Baron  de  Grimm,  et  par  Diderot.  5  tomes,  8vo. 
pp.  2250.     Paris:   1812. 


This  is  certainly  a  very  entertaining  book 
— thougli  a  little  too  bulky — and,  the  greater 
part  of  it;  not  very  important.     We  are  glad 
to  see  it,  however ;  not  only  because  we  are 
glad  to  see  any  thing  entertaining,  but  also 
because  it  makes  us  acquainted  with  a  per- 
son, of  whom  every  one  has  heard  a  great 
deal,  and   most  people  hitherto  known  very 
little.  There  is  no  name  which  comes  ot'teiier 
across  us,  in  the  modern  hi.story  of  French 
literature,   than  that  of  Grimm :   and   none, 
perhaps,  whose   right  to  so  much   notoriety 
seemed  to  most  people  to  stand  upon  such 
scanty  titles.  Coming  from  a  foreign  country, 
without  rank,  fortune,  or  exploits  of  any  kind 
to  recommend  him,  he  contrived,  one  does  not 
very  well  see  how,  to  make  himself  conspicu- 
9us  for  forty  years  in  the  best  company  of 
Paris :  and  at  the  same  time  to  acquire  great 
influence  and  authority  among  literary  men 
jf  all  descriptions,  without   publishing   any 
:hing  himself,  but  a  few  slight  observations 
ppon  French  and  Italian  music. 
I    The  volumes  before  us  help,  in  part,  to  ex- 
plain this  enigma  ]  and  not  only  give  proof  of 
ialents  and  accomplishments  quite  sufficient 
:0  justify  the  reputation  the  author  enjoyed 
imong  his  contemporaries,  but  also  of  such  a 
iegree   of   industry  and  exertion,  as   entitle 
jiim,  we  think,  to  a  reasonable  reversion  of 
i'ame  from  posterity.      Before  laying  before 
;iur  readers  any  part   of  this   miscellaneous 
;hronicle,  we  shall  endeavour  to  give  them  a 
;:eneral  idea  of  its  construction — and  to  tell 
hem  all  that  we  have  been  able  to  discover 
ibout  its  author. 

.  Melchior  Grimm  was  born  at  Ratisbon  in 
723,  of  very  humble  parentage;  hut,  being 
olerably  well  educated,  took  to  literature  at 
';  very  early  period.  His  fust  essays  were 
aade  in  his  own  country — and.  as  we  under- 
stand, in  his  native  language — where  he  com- 
losed  several  tragedies,  which  were  hissed 
ipon  the  stage,  and  unmercifully  abused  in 
jie  closet,  by  Lessing.  and  the  other  oracles 
;f  Teutonic  criticism.  He  then  came  to  Paris, 
p  a  sort  of  tutor  to  the  children  of  JNI.  de 
ichomberg,  and  was  employed  in  the  humble 
,apacity  of  reader  to  the  Duke  of  Saxe-Gotha, 
'hen  he  was  first  brought  into  notice  by 
,    jOusseau,  who  was  smitten  with  his  enthusi- 

■  srn  for  music,  and  made  him  known  to 
I'iderot.  the  Baron  d'Holbach,  and  various 
"her  persons   of  eminence   in   the   literary 

orld.  His  vivacity  and  various  accomplish- 
lents  soon  made  him  generally  acceptable ; 
jhile  his  unifonn  prudence  and  excellent 
|)od  sense  prevented  him  from  ever  losing 

■  |iy  of  the  friends  he  had  gained.  Rousseau, 
deed,  chose  to  quarrel  with  him  for  life, 

17 


upon  his  sitting  down  one  evening  in  a  seat 
which  he  luul  previously  fixed  upon  for  hmi- 
self ;  but  with  Voltaire  and  D'Alembert,  and 
all  the  rest  of  that  illustrious  society,  both 
male  and  female,  he  continued  ah\  ays  on  the 
most  cordial  footing;  and,  while  he  is  re- 
proached with  a  certain  degree  of  obsequious- 
ness toward  the  rich  and  |X)werful,  must  be 
allowed  to  have  used  less  llattery  toward  his 
literary  associates  than  was  usual  in  the  in- 
tercourse of  those  jealous  and  artificial  beings. 

When  the  Duke  of  Saxe-Gotha  left  Paris, 
Grimm  undertook  to  send  him  regularly  an 
account  of  every  thing  remarkable  that  oc- 
cured  in  the  literary,  political,  and  scandalous 
chronicle  of  that  great  city;  and  acquitted 
himself  in  this  delicate  oflice  so  much  to  the 
satisfaction  of  his  noble  correspondent,  that 
he  nominated  him,  in  1776,  his  resident  at 
the  court  of  France,  and  raised  him  at  the 
same  time  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  a  Baron. 
The  volumes  before  us  are  a  part  of  the  des- 
patches of  this  literary  plenipotentiary ;  and 
are  certainly  the  most  amusing  state  papers 
that  have  ever  fallen  under  our  obversation. 

The  Baron  de  Grimm  continued  to  exercise 
the  functions  of  this  philosophical  diplomacy, 
till   the  g-athering   storm   of  the   Revolution 
drove  both  ministers  and  philosophers  from 
the  territories  of  the  new  Republic.     He  then 
took  refuge  of  course  in  the  court  of  his  mas- 
I  ter,  where  he  resided  till  1795;  when  Catha- 
!  rine  of  Russia,  to  whose  shrine  he  had  for- 
!  merly  made  a  pilgrimage  from  Paris,  gave 
him  "the  appointment  of  her  minister  at  the 
court  of  Saxony — which  he  continued  to  hold 
till  the  end  of  the  reigii  of  the  unfortunate 
Paul,  when  the  partial  loss  of  sight  obliged 
him  to  witiidraw   altogether  from  business, 
and  to  return   to   the   court   of  Saxe-Gotha, 
where  he  continued  his  studies  in  hterature 
and  the  arts  with  unabated  ardour,  till  he 
sunk  at  last  under  a  load  of  years  and  infirmi- 
ties in  the  end  of  1807. — He  was  of  an  un- 
comely and  grotescjue  appearance — with  huge 
projecting  eyes  and  discordant  features,  which 
he  rendered  still  more  hideous,  by  daubing 
them  profusely  with  white  and  with  red  paint 
i  — according  to  the  most  approved  costume  of 
pctits-maitrcs,   in   the   year    1748,  when  he 
'  made  his  debut  at  Paris. 
'      The  book  embraces  a  period  of  about  twelve 
'  yeais  only,  from  1770  to  1782,  with  a  gap  for 
j  1775  and  part  of  1776.     It  is  said  in  the  title- 
pas'e  to  be  partly  the  work  of  Grimm,  and 
j  partly  that  of  Diderot, — but  the  contributions 
I  of  the  latter  are  few,  and  comparatively  of 
little  importance.     It  is  written  half  in  the 
style  of  a  journal  intended  for  the  public,  and 
'  half  in  that  of  private  ar.d  confidential  cor- 


ISO 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPITi'. 


respondence;  and,  notwithstanding  the  re- 
trenchments which  the  editor  boasts  of  having 
made  in  the  pianuscript,  contains  a  vast  mis- 
cellany of  aU  sorts  of  uitelligence; — critiques 
upon  all  new  publications,  new  operas,  and 
new  performers  at  the  theatres ; — accounts 
of  all  the  meetings  and  elections  at  the  acade- 
mies,— and  of  the  deaths  and  characters  of  all 
the  eminent  persons  who  demised  in  the 
period  to  which  it  extends; — copies  of  the 
epigrams,  and  editions  of  the  scandalous  sto- 
ries that  occupied  the  idle  population  of  Paris 
'  during  the  same  period — interspersed  with 
various  original  compositions,  and  brief  and 
pithy  dissertations  upon  the  general  subjects 
that  are  suggested  by  such  an  enumeration. 
Of  these,  the  accounts  of  the  operas  and  the 
actors  are  (now)  the  most  tedious, — the  criti- 
cal and  biographical  sketches  the  most  live- 
ly.— and  the  peneral  obsei-vations  the  most 
striking  and  important.  The  whole,  however, 
is  given  with  great  vivacity  and  talent,  and 
with  a  degree  of  freedom  which  trespasses 
occasionally  upon  the  borders  both  of  pro- 
priety and  of  good  taste. 

There  is  nothing  indeed  more  e.vactly  paint- 
ed in  these  graphical  volumes,  than  the  char- 
acter of  M.  Grimm  himself ; — and  the  beauty 
of  it  is.  that  as  there  is  nothing  either  natural 
or  peculiar  about  it.  it  may  stand  for  the  char- 
acter of  most  of  the  wits  and  philosophers 
he  fretjuented.  He  had  more  wit,  perhaps, 
and  more  sound  sense  and  information,  than 
the  greater  part  of  the  society  in  which  he 
lived — But  the  leading  traits  belong  to  the 
whole  class,  and  to  all  classes  indeed,  in 
similar  situations,  in  every  part  of  the  world. 
Whenever  there  is  a  very  large  assemblage 
of  persons  who  have  no  other  occupation  but 
to  amuse  themselves,  there  will  infallibly  be 
generated  acuteness  of  intellect,  refinement 
of  manner.s,  and  good  taste  in  conversation  : — 
and,  with  the  same  certainty,  all  profound 
thought,  and  all  serious  affection,  will  be 
generally  discarded  from  their  society.  The 
multitude  of  persons  and  things  that  force 
themselves  on  the  attention  in  such  a  scene. 
and  the  rapidity  with  which  tliey  succeed 
*?ach  other  and  pass  away,  prevent  any  one 
from  making  a  deep  or  permanent  impression  ; 
and  the  mind,  having  never  been  tasked  to 
any  course  of  application,  and  long  habituated 
to  this  lively  succession  and  variety  of  objects, 
-comes  at  last  to  require  the  excitement  of 
perpetual  change,  and  to  find  a  multiplicity 
of  friends  as  indispensable  as  a  multiplicity 
of  amusements.  Thus  the  characteristics  of 
large  and  polished  society,  come  almost  in- 
evitably to  be,  wit  and  heartlessness — acute- 
ness and  perpetual  derision.  The  same  im- 
patience of  uniformity,  and  passion  for  va- 
riety, which  gives  so  much  grace  to  their 
conversation,  by  excluding  tediousness  and 
pertinacious  wrangling,  make  them  incapable 
of  dwelling  for  many  minutes  on  the  feelings 
and  concerns  of  any  one  individual;  while 
the  constant  pursuit  of  little  gratifications,  and 
the  weak  dread  of  all  uneasy  sensiitions, 
render  them  etiually  averse  from  serious  sym- 
pathy and  deep  thought.     They  speedily  find 


out  the  shortest  and  most  pleasant  way  to  all 
truths,  to  which  a  short  and  a  pleasant  way 
can  readily  be  discovered ;  and  then  lay  it 
down  as  a  maxim,  that  no  others  are  worth 
looking  after — and  in  the  'same  wa} .  they  dc 
such  petty  kindnesses,  and  indulge  such  light 
s}Tnpathies,  as  do  not  put  them  to  any  trouble. 
I  or  encroach  at  all  on  their  amusements, — 
■  whde  they  make  it  a  principle  to  wrap  them- 
;  selves  up  in  those  amusements  from  the  as- 
sault of  all  more  engrossing  or  imporlunat( 
;  affections. 

The  turn  for  derision  again  arises  naturalh 
out  of  this  order  of  things.  When  passioi 
'  and  enthusiasm,  affection  and  serious  occupa 
j  tion  have  once  been  banished  by  a  short-signt 
ed  voluptuousness,  the  sense  of  ridicule  i 
almost  the  only  lively  sensation  that  remains 
I  — and  the  envied  life  of  those  who  hav 
I  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  themselves,  woul( 
I  be  utterly  listless  and  without  interest,  if  the 
were  not  allowed  to  laugh  at  each  othei^ 
;  Their  quickness  in  perceiving  ordinary  follie; 
and  illusions  too.  affords  great  encouragemer 
to  this  laudable  practice; — and  as  none  o; 
them  have  so  much  passion  or  enthusiasij 
left,  as  to  be  deeply  wounded  by  the  shaf'! 
of  derision,  they  fall  lightly,  and  withoil 
rankling,  on  the  lesser  vanities,  which  supply 
in  them  those  master  springs  of  human  actio 
and  feeling. 

The  whole  style  and  tone  of  this  pubhc 
tion  affords  the  most  striking  illustration  i 
these  general  remarks.  From  one  end  of 
to  the  other,  it  is  a  display  of  the  most  cor 
plete  heartlessness,  and  the  most  uninterru) 
ed  levity.  It  chronicles  the  deaths  of  half  i 
authors  acquaintance — and  makes  jests  up 
them  all;  and  is  much  more  serious  in  d 
cussing  the  merits  of  an  opera  dancer,  th 
in  considering  the  evidence  for  the  being  o 
God,  or  the  first  foundations  of  morali 
Nothing;  indeed,  can  be  more  just  or  concl 
sive,  than  the  remark  that  is  forced  from  '. 
Grimm  himself,  upon  the  utter  carele.<sn( 
!  and  instant  oblivion,  that  followed  the  de? 
of  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  active,  a 
amiable  members  of  his  coterie; — "  tant 
est  vrai  que  ce  qui  nous  appellons  la  Sod' 
est  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  leger,  de  plus  ingi 
et  de  plus  frivole  au  monde  !"' 

Holding  this  opinion  very  finnly  oui.-eh  , 
it  will  easily  be  believed  tHat  we  are  vt^y  ' 
from  envying  {he  brilliant  persons  who  c('- 
posed,  or  gave  the  tone  to  this  exquisite  - 
ciety; — and  while  we  have  a  due  athnirati 
for  the  eleirant  pleasantry,  correct  laste,  :I 
gay  acuteness.  of  which  they  furnish,  perhf  •, 
the  only  peifcct  models,  we  think  it  more  • 
sirable,  on  the  whole,  to  be  the  spectat's 
than  the  possessors  of  those  accomplishmei.) 
and  would  no  more  wish  to  buy  them  at  e 
price  of  our  sober  thinking,  and  .settled  af  :• 
tions,  than  we  would  buy  the  dexterity  ( a 
fiddler,  or  a  ropedancer,  at  the  price  of  ir 
personal  respectability.  Even  in  the  day  if 
youth  and  high  spirits,  there  is  no  solid  en/* 
ment  in  living  altogether  with  people  * 
care  nothing  about  us ;  and  when  we  begiio 
grow  old  and  unamuseable,   there  can^ 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


131 


nothing  so  comfortless  as  to  be  surrounded 
iwith  those  who  think  of  nothing  but  amuse- 
ment. The  spectacle,  however,  is  gixy  and 
ibeautiful  to  those  who  look  upon  it  with  a 
igood-natured  sympathy;  or  indulgence;  and 
naturally  suggests  reflections  that  may  be  in- 
;tere.sting  to  the  most  serious.  A  judicious 
icxtractor,  we  have  no  doubt,  might  accom- 
modate both  classes  of  readers,  from  the 
;ample  mag-azine  that  lies  before  us. 

The  most  figuring  person  in  the  work,  and 
indeed  of  the  age  to  which  it  belongs,  was 
'  (beyond  all  question  Voltaire, — oi  whom,  and 
lof  whose  character,  it  presents  us  w-ith  many 
tveVy  amusing  traits.     He  receives  no  other 
■name  throughout  the  book,  than  '-The  Patri- 
arch'" of  the  Holy  Philosophical  Church,  of 
which  the  authors,  and   the  greater  part  of 
.  their  friends,  profess  to  be  humble  votaries 
and  disciples.     The  infallibility  of  its  chief, 
^  however,  seems  to  have  formed  no  part  of  the 
:  preed  of  this  reformed  religion;  for,  with  all 
:  .his  admiration  lor  the  wit.  and  playfulness, 
5  iind  talent  of  the  philosophic  pontiffj  nothing 
>  pan  exceed  the  freedoms  in  which  M.  Grimm 
f  indulges,  both  as  to  his  productions,  and  his 
•haracter.    All  his  poetry,  he  says,  after  Tan- 
•red,  is  clearly  marked  with  the  symptoms 
)f  approaching  dotage  and   decay ;  and  his 
I   /lews  of  many  important  subjects  he  treats 
is  altogether   erroneous,  shallow,  and   con- 
ii  jemptible.     He  is  particularly  offended  with 
(;  I'm  for  not  adopting  the  decided  atheism  of 
(I  \h.eSyxtc7ne  de  la  Nahire.  and  for  weakly  stop- 
it  aing  short  at  a  kind  of  paltry  deism.     '-The 
,15  Patriarch,"  says  he,   ••'  still  sticks  to  his  Re- 
;i>  nnnerateur-Vcnsciir,  without  whom  he  fancies 
;j!  [he  world  would  go  on  very  ill.     He  is  reso- 
j;  lute  enough,  I  confess,  for  putting  down  the 
»  tod  of  knaves  and  bigots,  but  is  not  for  part- 
,«  |ig  with  that  of  the  virtuous  and  rational.    He 
j;  jeasonsupon  all  this,  too,  like  a  baby — a  very 
j,(  tmart  baby  it  must  be  owned — but  a  baby 
5P  lotwithstanding.     He  would  be  a  little  puz- 
,,j  (led,  I  take  it,  if  he  were  asked  what  was 
,i,  he  colour  of  his  god  of  the  virtuous  and  wise, 
,.,.  pc.  &c.     He  cannot  conceive,  he  says,  how 
,j(  jiere  motion, undirected  by  inteiligence,should 
y,  jver  have  produced  such  a  world  as  we  in- 
,i^.  abit — and  we  verily  believe  him.     Nobody 
"  Ian  conceive  it — but"  it  is  a  fact  nevertheless; 
...v  |nd  we   see  it — which   is  nearly  as   good." 
^!,j,  jl^'e  give  this  merely  as  a  specimen  of  the 
isciple's  irreverence  towards  his  master  :  for 
othing  can  be  more  contemptible  than  the 
'asoning  of  M.  Grimm  in  support  of  his  own 
fsolatina:  opinions.     He  is  more  near  being 
iht,  where  he  makes  himself  merry  with 
I     le  Patriarch's  ignorance  of  natural  philoso- 
.,.,  jhy.     Every  Achilles  however,  he  adds,  has 
,,  ^    vulnerable  heel — and  that  of  the  hero  of 
'    terney  is  his  Physics.* 


I  *  This  is  only  tnie,  however,  with  regard  to  nat- 
al history  and  chemistry  i  for  as  to  the  nobler 
irt  of  physics,  which  depends  on  science,  liis  at- 
inrnents  were  equal  perhaps  to  those  of  any  of 
s  age  and  country,  with  the  exception  of  D'Aletn- 
•rt.  Even  his  astronomy,  however,  though  by 
)  means  "  mince  et  raccounie."  had  a  tendency 
,  confirm  him  In  that  paltry  Deism,  for  wluch  he 


M.  Grimm,  however,  reveals  worse  infirmi- 
ties than  this  in  his  great  preceptor.  There 
was  a  young  Mademoiselle  Rancour,  it  seems, 
who.  though  an  actress,  enjoyed  an  unblem- 
ished reputation.  Voltaire,  who  hatl  never 
seen  her,  chose  one  morning  to  write  to  the 
Marechal  de  Richelieu,  by  whom  she  was 
patronized,  that  she  was  a  tiotorious  prosti- 
tute, and  ready  to  be  taken  into  keeping  by 
atiy  one  who  would  olfer  for  her.  This  im- 
putation having  beeti  thoughtlessly  communi- 
cated to  the  damsel  herself,  produced  no  little 
commotion  ;  and  upon  Voltaire's  beitig  re- 
monstrated with,  he  immediately  retracted 
the  whole  story,  which  it  seems  was  a  piece 
of  pure  invention;  and  confessed,  that  the 
only  thing  he  had  to  object  to  IVhnille.  ]{iiucour 
was,  that  he  had  understood  tliey  had  put  off 
the  represciitation  of  a  new  play  of  his.  in  or- 
der to  gratify  the  public  with  her  appearance 
in  comedy: — '-and  this  was  enougli,"  sa)s 
M.  Grimm,  "to  irritate  a  child  of  seventy- 
nine,  against  another  child  of  seventeen,  who 
came  in  the  way  of  his  gratification  !" 

A  little  after,  he  tells  another  story  which 
is  not  only  very  disreputable  to  the  Patriarch, 
but  affordsa  striking  example  of  the  monstrous 
evils  that  arise  from  religious  intolerance,  in 
a  country  where  the  whole  popukition  is  not 
of  the  same  communion.  A  Mens,  de  H.  in- 
troduced himself  into  a  proteslant  family  at 
Montauban,  and  after  some  time,  publicly 
married  the  only  daughter  of  the  house,  hi  the 
church  of  her  pastor.  He  lived  several  years 
with  her,  and  had  one  daughter — dissipated 
her  whole  property — and  at  last  deserted  her, 
and  married  another  woman  at  Paris — upon 
the  pretence  that  his  first  union  was  not  bind- 
ing, the  ceremony  not  having  been  performed 
by  a  Catholic  priest.  The  Parliament  ulti- 
mately allowed  this  plea  ;  and  farther  direct- 
ed, that  the  daughter  should  be  taken  fiom  its 
mother,  and  educated  in  the  true  faith  in  a 
convent.  The  transaction  excited  general  in- 
dignation ;  and  the  legalhy  of  the  sentence, 
and  especially  the  last  part  of  it.  was  very 
much  disputetl,  both  in  the  profession  and  out 
of  it ; — when  Voltaire,  to  the  astonishment  of 
all  the  world,  thought  lit  to  put  forth  a  pam- 
phlet in  its  defence  I  M.  Grimm  treats  the 
whole  matter  with  his  usual  coldness  and 
pleasantry  ; — and  as  a  sort  of  apology  for  this 
extraordinary  proceeding  of  Ins  chief,  very 
coolly  observes,  '-The  truth  is.  that  for  .some 
timepast,  the  Patriarch  has  been  suspected, 
and  indeed  convicted,  of  the  most  abominable 
cowardice.  He  defied  the  old  Parliament  in 
his  youth  with  signal  courage  aixl  intrepidity; 
and  now  he  cringes  to  the  new  one.  and  even 
condescends  to  be  its  paneg-yrist,  from  an  ab- 
surd dread  of  being  persecuted  by  it  on  tlm 
very  brink  of  the  tomb.    '' Ah !  Seigneur  Pat- 


is  so  unmercifully  rated  by  M.  Grimm.  We  do 
not  know  many  quartains  in  French  poetry  more 
beautiful  than  the  following,  which  the  Patriarch 
indited  impromptu,  one  fine  summer  evening — 

"Tons  ceB  vaBtos  pays  d'Azur  et  de  Liimicre, 
Tir^  du  sein  du  vide,  et  f(irm68  sanH  matiere, 
ArrondiB  sans  cornpas,  et  tournanB  Bans  pivot, 
Ont  it  peine  coul6  la  depense  d'un  mot !" 


132 


LITERATITRE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


riarche  !"  he  concludes,  in  the  trae  Parisian 
accent,  "  Horace  was  much  more  excusable  for 
flattering  Augustus,  who  had  honoured  him, 
though  he  destroyed  the  republic,  than  you 
are,  for  justifying,  without  any  intelligible  mo- 
tive, a  proceeding  so  utterly  detestable,  and 
upon  which,  if  you  had  not  courage  to  speak 
as  became  yon,  you  were  not  called  upon  to 
say  any  thing."  It  must  be  a  comfort  to  the 
reatler  to  learn,  that  immediately  after  this  sen- 
tence, a  M.  Vanrobais,  an  oiil  and  most  re- 
spectable gentleman,  was  chivalrous  enough, 
at  the  age  of  seventy,  to  marry  the  deserted 
widow,  and  to  place  her  in  a  situation  every 
way  more  respectable  than  that  of  which  she 
had  been  so  basely  defrauded. 

There  is  a  great  deal,  in  the  first  of  these 
volumes,  about  the  statue  that  was  voted  to 
Voltaire  by  his  disciples  in  1770. — Pigalle  the 
sculptor  was  despatched  to  Ferney  to  model 
him,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  he  affects  to 
make  in  a  letter  to  Madame  Necker.  in  which 
he  very  reasonably  observes,  that  in  order  to 
be  modelled,  a  man  ought  to  have  a  face — 
but  that  age  and  sickness  have  so  reduced 
him,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  point  out  where- 
abouts his  had  been  :  that  his  eyes  are  sunk 
into  pits  three  inches  deep,  and  the  small 
remnant  of  his  teeth  recently  deserted  :  that 
his  skin  is  like  old  parchment  wrinkled  over 
dry  bones,  and  his  legs  and  arms  like  dry 
spindles  ; — in  short,  ■•'  (ju'on  ira  jamais  sculpte 
un  pauvre  homme  dans  cet  etat.'"  Phidias 
Pi^alle,  however,  as  he  calls  him.  goes  upon 
his  errand,  notwithstanding  ail  these  discour- 
agements: and  finds  him.  accordina:  to  M. 
Grimm,  in  a  state  of  great  vivacity.  "He 
skips  up  stairs,"  he  assures  me.  '-more  nimbly 
than  all  his  subscribers  put  together,  and  is 
as  quick  as  lightning  in  running  to  shut  doors, 
and  open  windows :  but,  with  all  this,  he  is 
very  anxious  to  pass  for  a  poor  man  in  the 
last  extremities :  and  would  take  it  much 
amiss  if  he  thought  that  any  body  had  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  his  health  and  vigour."' 
Some  awkward  person,  indeed,  it  appears,  has 
been  complimenting  him  upon  the  occasion  ; 
for  he  writes  me  as  follows: — ••  My  dear 
friend — though  Phidi.as  Pigalle  is  the  most 
virtuous  of  mortals,  he  calumniates  me  cruel- 
ly ;  T  understand  he  goes  about  saying  that  T 
am  (juite  well,  and  as  sleek  as  a  monk! — 
Such  is  the  ungrateful  return  he  makes  for 
the  pains  I  took  to  force  my  spirits  for  his 
amn^;Rment.  and  to  puff  up  my  bnccinatory 
mnsoles,  in  order  to  look  well  iii  his  eyes ! — 
Jean  Jacques,  to  be  sure,  is  far  morp  puffed 
up  than  I  am ;  but  it  is  with  conceit — from 
which  I  am  free."'  In  another  letter  he  says. 
— •'  When  the  peasants  in  my  village  saw  Pi- 
galle laying  out  .some  of  the  instruments  of 
his  art,  they  flocked  round  us  with  great  glee, 
and  said,  Ah  !  he  is  going  to  dissect  him — 
how  droll ! — so  one  spectacle  you  see  is  just 
as  good  for  some  people  as  another."' 

The  account  which  Pi<ralle  himself  gives 
of  his  mission,  is  extremely  characteristic. 
For  the  first  eight  days,  he  could  make  noth- 
ing of  his  patient. — he  was  so  restless  and 
full  of  grimaces,  starts,  and  gesticulations. 


He  promised  every  night,  indeed,  to  give  him 
a  long  sitting  ne.xt  day,  and  always  kept  his 
word : — but  then,  he  could  no  more  sit  still, 
than  a  child  of  three  years  old.  He  dictated 
letters  all  the  time  to  his  secretary :  and,  in 
the  mean  time,  kept  blowing  peas  in  the  air, 
making  pirouettes  round  his  chamber,  or  in-' 
dulging  m  other  feats  of  activity,  equally  fatal 
to  the  views  of  the  artist.  Poor  Phidias  wa? 
about  to  return  to  Paris  in  despair,  without 
having  made  the  slightest  progress  in  his  de-' 
sisn:  when  the  conversation  happening  byi 
good  luck  to  turn  upon  Aaron's  golden  calf.i 
and  Pigalle  having  said  that  he  did  not  thinlij 
such  a  thing  could  possibly  be  modelled  and! 
cast  in  less  than  six  months,  the  Patriarcl 
was  so  pleased  with  him.  that  he  submittei 
to  any  thing  he  thought  proper  all  the  rest  o' 
the  day.  and  the  model  was  completed  tha 
very  evening. 

There  are  a  number  of  other  anecdote; 
extremely  characteristic  of  the  vivacity,  iir 
patience,  and  want  of  restraint  which  distir 
guished  this  extraordinary  person.     One  o 
the  most  amusing  is  that  of  the  conge  whir 
he  gave  to  the  Abbe  Coyer,  who  was  kii 
enough  to  come  to  his  castle  at  Femey,  wii 
the   intention   of  paying  a  long  visit.     Tl^ 
second  morning,  however,  the  Patriarch  ii 
terrupted  him  in  the  middle  of  a  dulhiccoui 
of  his  travels,  with  this  perplexing  (incstio 
"  Do  you  know,  M.  L'Abbe,  in  what  yon  dilf 
entirely   from    Don   Quixotte?"'      The    po 
Abbe  was  unable  to  divine  the  precise  poi 
of  distinction  ;  and  the  philosopher  was  plea  , 
ed  to  add,  '■  Why,  you  know  the  Don  took  i  • 
the  inns  on  his"  road  for  castles. — but  it  a  ; 
pears  to  me  that  you  take  some  castles  i 
iinis."'    The  Abbe  decamped  without  waiti 
for   a   further   reckoning      He  behaved  st 
worse  to  a  M.  de  Bart  he,  whom  he  invited 
come  and  read  a  play  to  him,  and  afterwai 
drove  out  of  the  house,  by  the  yawns  a 
frightful  contortions  with  which  he  amus 
himself,   during  the  whole  of  the   perfor 
ance. 

One  of  his  happiest  repartees  is  said  to  hj 
been  made  to  an  Englishman,  who  had 
cently  been  on  a  visit  to  the  celebrated  K 
ler.  in  whose  praise  Voltaire  erdarginl  v' 
great  warmth,  extolling  him  as  a  great  p( 
a  great  naturalist,  and  a  man  of  nnivei 
attainments.  The  Englishman  answered,  t 
it  was  very  handsome  in  M.  De  Voltaire 
speak  so  well  of  Mr.  Haller,  inasmuch  a 
the  said  Mr.  Haller,  was  by  no  means 
lilteral  to  M.  de  Voltaire.  "Ah!''  said 
Patriarch,  with  an  air  of  philosophic  inc 
irence.  '•  I  dare  say  we  are  both  of  us  v 
much  mistaken." 

On  another  occasion,  a  certain  M.  de 
Ange.  who  valued  himself  on  the  grac 
turn  of  his  compliments,  having  come  to 
him.  took  his  leave  with  this  studied  allu 
to  the  diversity  of  his  talents,  "  My  visit 
day  has  only  been  to  Homer — another  m 
ing  I  shall  pay  my  respects  to  Sophocles 
Euripides — another  to  Tacitus — and  anai 
to  Lucian."-'  "Ah,  Sir!"  replied  the  P, 
arch,  "I  am  wretchedly  old, — could  you- 

I 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


133 


outlive  to  see  all  these  gentlemen  together  V 
L  ^lercier,  who  had  the  same  passion  for 
:ne  speeches,  told  him  one  day,  '-You  outdo 
very  body  so  much  in  their  own  way,  that  I 
m  sure  you  will  beat  Foutenelle  even,  in 
longevity.''  "No,  no.  Sir!"'  answered  the 
patriarch,  '•  Foutenelle  was  a  Norman ;  and, 
ou  may  depend  upon  it,  contrived  to  trick 
iature  out  of  her  rights." 
One  of  the  most  prolific  sources  of  witti- 
isms  that  is  noticed  ui  this  collection,  is  the 
atriarch's  elevation  to  the  dignity  of  temporal 
Lther  of  the  Capuchins  in  bus  district.  The 
eani  of  the  whole,  however,  may  be  found 
the  following  letter  of  his  to  M.  De  Riche- 
eu. 

"  Je  voudrais  bien,  monseigneur,  avoir  le  plaisir 
■  voiis  donner  ma  benediction  avaiu  de  mourir. 
'expression  vous  paraitra  un  peu  forte :  elle  est 
luriant  dans  la  verite.  J'ai  I'honneur  d'etre  ca- 
i.-in.  Notre  general  qui  est  a  Rome,  vient  de 
'eiivDver  mes  patentes ;  mon  titre  est;  F^re 
vntiiel  et  Pere  TempureJ  des  Capiicins.  Man- 
z-iudi  laquelle  lie  vo9  mattresses  vous  voulez  re- 
er  du  purgatoire :  je  vous  jure  sur  ma  barbe 
'elle  ii'y  sera  pas  dans  vingtquatre  heures. 
imine  je  dois  me  detacher  des  biens  de  ce 
:  indt',  j'ai  abandoniie  a  mes  parens  ce  qui  m'est 
1   par  la  succession  de  feu  madame  la  princesse 

I  (iiiise,  et  par  M.  votre  intendant ;  ils  iront  h 
(  siijet  prendre  vos  ordres  qu'ils  regarderont 
imtne  un  bienfait.  Je  vous  doiine  ma  benedic- 
in.      Signe  Voltaire,   Capucm   indigne,  et  qui 

II  pis  encore  eu  de  bonne  fortune  de  capucin." — 
|.  51.  55. 

AVe  have  very  full  details  of  the  last  days 
<  this  distinguished  person.  He  came  to 
J  lis.  as  is  well  known,  after  twenty-seven 
;ars'  absence,  at  the  age  of  eighty-four; 
lil  tlie  very  evening  he  arrived,  he  recited 
Insi'lf  the  whole  of  his  Irene  to  the  players, 
id  passed  all  the  rest  of  the  night  in  cor- 
ning the  piece  for  representation.  A  few 
( ys  after,  he  was  seized  with  a  violent  vornit- 
i  f  of  blood,  and  instantly  called  stoutly  for 
f  priest,  saying,  that  they  should  not  throw 
1)1  out  on  the  dunghill.  A  priest  was  ac- 
c  dill  sly  brought;  and  the  Patriarch  very 
giively  subscribed  a  profession  of  his  faith 
i  the  Christian  religion — of  which  he  was 
aiamed,  and  attempted  to  make  a  jest,  as 
e.in  as  he  recovered.  He  was  received  with 
v?xampled  honours  at  the  Academy,  the 
\,-ole  members  of  which  rose  together,  and 
cne  out  to  the  vestibule  to  e.scort  him  into 
t-  hall ;  while,  on  the  exterior,  all  the  ave- 
n:'s.  windows,  and  roofs  of  houses,  by  which 
b  carriage  had  to  pass,  were  crowded  with 
s  ;ctators,  and  resounded  with  acclamations. 
it  the  great  scene  of  his  glory  was  the  thea- 
ti ;  in  which  he  no  sooner  ai)peared,  than  the 
vole  audience  rose  up,  and  continued  for 
Uvards  of  twenty  minutes  in  thunders  of 
a  ilause  and  shouts  of  acclamation  that  filled 
tl  whole  house  with  dust  and  agitation. 
Vieu  the  piece  was  concluded,  the  curtain 
v^asrain  drawn  up,  and  discovered  the  bust 
o:;heir  idol  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  while 
tl  favourite  actress  placed  a  crown  of  laurel 
01  its  brows,  and  recited  some  verses,  the 
■w  ds  of  which  could  scarcely  be  distin- 
gl^hed  amidst  the  tvmiultuous  shouts  of  the 


spectators.  The  whole  scene,  says  M.  Gkimm, 
reminded  us  of  the  classic  days  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  But  it  becume  more  truly  touching  at 
the  moment  when  its  object  rose  to  retire. 
Weakened  and  agitated  by  the  emotions  he 
had  e.vperienced,  ins  limbs  trembled  beneath 
him ;  and,  bending  almost  to  the  earth,  he 
seemed  reatly  to  expire  under  the  weight  of 
years  and  honours  that  had  been  laid  iijioii 
him.  His  eyes,  tilled  with  tears,  still  sparkled 
with  a  peculiar  fire  in  the  miiist  of  his  jiale 
and  faded  countenance.  All  the  beauty  and 
all  the  rank  of  France  crowilcd  round  him  in 
the  lobbies  and  staircases,  and  literally  bore 
him  in  their  anns  to  the  door  of  his  carriage. 
Here  the  humbler  multitude  took  their  turn  ; 
and,  calling  for  torches  that  all  might  get  a 
sight  of  him,  clustered  round  his  coach,  and 
followed  it  to  the  door  of  his  lodgings,  w^ith 
vehement  shouts  of  admiration  and  triumph. 
This  is  the  heroic  part  of  the  scene; — but  M. 
Grimm  takes  care  also  to  let  us  know,  tliat  the 
Patriarch  appeared  on  this  occasion  in  long 
lace  ruffles,  and  a  fine  coat  of  cut  velvet,  with 
a  grey  periwig  of  a  fashion  forty  years  old, 
which  he  used  to  comb  every  morning  with 
his  own  hands,  and  to  which  nothing  at  all 
parallel  had  been  seen  for  ages — except  oa 
the  head  of  Bachaumont  the  novelist,  who 
was  known  accordingly  among  the  wits  of 
Paris  by  the  name  of  "Voltaire's  wigblock." 
This  brilliant  and  protracted  career,  how- 
ever, was  fast  drawing  to  a  close. — Retaining 
to  the  last,  that  untameable  spirit  of  activity 
and  unpatience  which  had  characterized  all 
his  past  life,  he  assisted  at  rehearsals  and 
meetings  of  the  Academy,  with  the  zeal  and 
enthusiasm  of  early  youth.  At  one  of  the 
latter,  some  objections  were  started  to  his 
magnificent  project,  of  giving  an  improved 
edition  of  their  Dictionary  ; — and  he  resolved 
to  compose  a  discourse  to  obviate  those  ob- 
jections. To  strengthen  himself  for  this  task, 
he  swallowed  a  prodigious  quantity  of  strong 
coffee,  and  then  continued  at  work  for  up- 
wards of  twelve  hours  without  intermission. 
This  imprudent  eflbrt  brought  on  an  inllam- 
mation  in  his  bladder;  and  being  told  by  M. 
De  Richelieu,  that  he  had  been  much  relieved 
in  a  similar  situation,  by  taking,  at  intervals, 
a  few  drops  of  laudanum,  he  provided  him- 
self with  a  large  bottle  of  that  medicine,  and 
with  his  usual  impatience,  swallowed  the 
t  ijreater  part  of  it  in  the  course  of  the  night. 
!  The  consequence  was,  as  might  naturally 
1  have  been  expected,  tliat  he  fell  into  a  sort 
[  of  lethargy,  and  never  recovered  the  use  of 
his  faculties,  except  for  a  few  mhiutes  at  a 
time,  till  the  hour  of  his  death,  which  hap- 
pened three  days  after,  on  the  evening  of  the 
30th  of  May,  1778.  The  priest  to  whom  he 
had  made  his  confession,  and  ;  iiother,  entered 
his  chamber  a  short  time  before  he  breathed 
his  last.  He  recognized  them  with  difficulty, 
and  assured  them  of  his  respects.  One  of 
them  coming  close  up  to  him,  he  threw  his 
arm  round  his  neck,  as  if  to  embrace  him. 
But  when  M.  le  Cure,  taking  advant;iij(,>  of 
this  cordiality,  proceeded  to  urge  him  to  make 
some  sign  or  acknowledgment  of  liis  behef  in 
M 


134 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY". 


the  Christian  faith,  he  gently  pushed  him 
back,  and  said,  "Alas!  let  me  die  in  peace." 
The  priest  turned  to  his  companion,  and  with 
great  moderation  and  presence  of  mind,  ob- 
served aloud,  ''-Yoa  see  his  faculties  are  quite 
gone."  They  then  quietly  left  the  apartment ; 
— and  the  dyini;:  man,  having  testified  his 
gratitude  to  his  khid  and  vigilant  attendants, 
and  named  several  times  the  name  of  his 
favourite  niece  Madame  Denis,  shortly  after 
e.xpired. 

Nothing  can  better  mark  the  character  of 
the  work  before  us.  and  of  its  author,  than  to 
state,  that  the  despatch  which  contains  this 
striking  account  of  the  last  hours  of  his  illus- 
trious patron  and  friend,  terminates  with  an 
obscene  epigram  of  M.  Rulhiere,  and  a  g-ay 
critique  on  the  new  administration  of  the 
opera  BuflTa  !  There  are  various  epitaphs  on 
Voltaire,  scattered  through  the  sequel  of  the 
volume  : — we  prefer  this  very  brief  one,  by  a 
lady  of  Lausanne. 

"Ci-gk  V enfant  gate  du  monde  qii' d  gata." 

Among  the  other  proofs  which  M.  Grimm 
has  recorded  of  the  celebrity  of  this  extra- 
ordinary person,  tlie  incredible  multitude  of 
his  portraits  that  were  circulated,  deserves  to 
be  noticed.  One  ingenious  artist,  in  particular, 
of  the  name  of  Huber,  had  acquired  such  a 
facility  in  forminir  his  countenance,  that  he 
could  not  only  cut  most  striking  likenesses 
of  him  out  of  paper,  with  scissars  held  be- 
hind his  back,  but  could  mould  a  little  bust 
of  him  in  half  a  minute,  out  of  a  bit  of  bread, 
and  at  la.st  used  to  make  his  (/og  manufacture 
most  excellent  profiles,  by  making  him  bite 
off  the  edge  of  a  biscuit  which  he  held  to 
him  in  three  or  four  different  positions ! 

There  is  less  about  Rousseau  in  these 
volumes,  than  we  should  expect  from  their 
author's  early  intimacy  with  that  great  writer. 
What  there  is.  however,  is  candid  and  judi- 
cious. M.  Grimm  agrees  with  Madame  de 
Staei,  that  Rousseau  was  nothing  of  a  French- 
man in  his  character; — and  accordingly  he 
observes,  that  though  the  magic  of  his  style 
and  the  extravagance  of  his  sentiments  pro- 
cured him  some  crazy  disciples,  he  never  had 
any  hearty  partisans  among  the  enli<;htened 
part  of  the  nation.  He  laughs  a  good  deal  at 
his  affectations  and  unpardonable  animosi- 
ties,— but  gives,  at  all  times,  the  h  yhest 
praise  to  his  genius,  and  sets  him  above  all 
his  contemporaries,  for  the  warmth,  the  ele- 
gance, and  the  singular  richness  of  his  style. 
lie  says,  that  the  general  opinion  at  Paris  was, 
that  hi-  had  ])0!S()!icd  himself: — that  his  natu- 
ral disposition  to  melancholy  had  increased  in 
an  alarming degri-e  after  his  retnrn  from  Eng- 
land, and  had  been  atigravated  by  the  sombre 
and  solitary  life  to  which  he  had  condemned 
himself; — that  mind,  he  adds,  at  once  too 
.strong  and  too  weak  to  bear  the  burden  of 
existence  with  trancinillity.  was  perpetually 
prolific  of  monsters  and  of  phantoms,  that 
haunted  all  his  steps,  and  drove  him  to  the 
bonlers  of  distractior .  There  is  no  doubt, 
continups  M.  (Triinni,  that  for  many  months 
before  his  death    he   had  firmly  persuaded 


himself  that  all  the  powers  of  Europe  had 
their  eyes  fixed  upon  him  as  a  most  danger- 
ous and  portentous  being,  whom  they  should 
take  the  first  opportunity  to  destroy.    He  was 
also  satisfied  that  M.  de  Choisenl  had  pro- 
jected and  executed  the  conquest  of  Corsica, 
for  no  other  purpose  but  to  deprive  him  of  the 
honour  of  legislating  for  it :  and  that  Prussia  i 
and  Russia  had  agreed  to   partition   Poland  I 
upon  the  same  jealous   and  unworthy  con- 
sideration.    While  the  potentates  of  Europe  : 
were  thus  busied  in  thwartinir  and  mortifying  f 
him  abroad,   the  philosophers,   he  was  per-  \ 
suaded,  were  entirely  devoted  to  the  same.i: 
project  at  home.     They  had  spies,  he  firmly'  ij 
believed,  posted  round  all  his  steps,  and  were  ■ 
continually  making  eflbrts  to  rouse  the  popu- 
lace to  in.sult  and  murder  him.     At  the  head 
of  this  conspiracy,  of  the  reality  of  which  he  i 
no   more  doubted  than  of  his  existence,  he/ 
had  placed  the  Due  de  Choiseul,  his  physi-i, 
cian  Tronchin,  M.  D'Alembert.  and  our  au- 
thor ! — Hut  we  must  pass  to  characters  less 
known  or  familiar. 

The   gayest,  and  the  most  naturally  gay: 
perhaps  of  all  the  coterie,  was  the  Abbe  Ga-] 
Hani,  a.  Neapolitan,  who  had  residetl  for  many; 
years  in  Paris,  but  had   been  obliged,  very] 
much  against  his  will,  to  return  to  his  o-wn' 
country  about  the  time  that  this  journal  com-' 
menced.     M.  Grimm  inserts  a  variety  of  his. 
letters,  in  all  of  which  the  infantine  petulance; 
and  freedom  of  his  character  are  distinctly!  , 
marked,  as  well  as  the  singular  acuteness  ano^  : 
clearness  of  his  understanding.     The  first  if 
written  immediately  after  his  exile  from  Pari,- 
in  1770. 

"Madame,  je  suis  toiijonrs  iiiponsolable  d'avoi 
quilfe  Paris;  et  encnre  plus  inronsolnbie  de  n'avoi' 
re^u  anciine  nouvelle  ni  de  vons,  ni  du  paresseu;; 
philosophe.  Est-il  possible  que  ce  monsire,  dan' 
son  impassibilitie,  ne  neWe  pas  a  quel  point  moi^ 
honneur.  ma  gloire.  dnnt  je  me  fiche,  mon  piaisi 
et  eelui  de  mes  amis,  dont  je  me  soucie  beaucoup 
sont  interesses  dans  Tafliiire  que  je  ini  ai  confiee,  e' 
cumbion  je  siiis  impatient  d'apprendre  qu'en  fin  I 
pacotille  a  double  le  cap  et  passe  le  terrible  defii 
de  la  revision  :  car,  aprcs  cela,  je  serai  tranquil! 
sur  le  reste. 

"  Mon  voyage  a  ete  trt^s  heureux  siir  la  terre  i^ 
surl'onde;  ila  memeeicd'un  bonheurinconcevabf; 
Je  n'ai  jamais  eu  chaud.  et  loujours  le  vent  en  poup 
sm-  le  Rhone  et  sur  la  mer;  il  p:u;iit  que  tout  ir 
pousse  il  m'eloigiier  de  tout  ce  que  j'aime  an  mond  , 
L'heroisme  sera  done  bien  plus  grand  et  bien  pie 
memorable,  dp  vaincre  lea  olt'mens,  la  nature,  li, 
dieux  coiispire.a,  et  de  retourner  n.  Paris  en  def 
d'pux.  Oui,  Paris  est  ma  patrie  ;  on  aura  bei' 
m'en  exiler.  j'y  rclomberiii.  Atiendcz-vous  doi 
a  me  voir  etabli  dans  la  rue  Fromenieau,  au  quatt' 
erne,  sur  le  derriere,  chez  la  nommt'e  •  •  •  ;  ■_.  fi',' 
j  majeure.  La  demeurera  le  plus  grand  genie  • 
I  notre  age.  en  pension  a  irenie  sous  par  joiir ;  et| 
sera  heureux.  Quel  plaisir  que  do  delirer  !  ^  Adi^ei' 
Je  vnus  prie  d'envoyer  vos  lettres  toujours  a  riioi 
(  de  Tambassadeur. 

"  Grimm  est-il  de  retoiir  de  son  voyage  ?"       j 

I      Another  to  the  Baron  Holbach  is  nearly ; 
the  same  tone. 
"  Quefaiies-vous,  moneherbnron  ?  Vousamusr 

I  vous  ?  La  bnronne  se  porie-i-elle  bien  ?  Comm<i; 
vont  vos  enfHHs?  I, a  philoso;,*iie,  dont  vousfii 
le  premier   maitre   d'hoiel,  1nange-t-elle  loujo', 

I  d'un  aussi  bon  appetit  ? 

i 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


135 


"  Pour  nioi,  je  m'ennuie  mortellement  ici ;  je  ne 
i'ois  persoime,  exceple  deux  ou  trois  Fran5ais.  Je 
juis  le  Gi  lliver  reveim  du  pays  cits  floyinhyims, 
jui  ne  fail  plus  socieie  qu'avec  ses  deux  chevaux. 
le  vais  reuire  des  visites  de  devoir  aux  teinmes 
les  deux  luinistres  d'etat  et  de  rinaiices  ;  et  puis  je 
iors  ou  je  leve.  Quelle  vie  !  Rieu  n'amuse  iii : 
)oint  d'edi;s.  point  de  reductions,  point  do  reieiiues. 
)oint  de  suspensions  de  paicmens  :  la  vie  y  est  d'une 
mii'ormiic  tuante  ;  on  ne  dispute  de  rien,  pas  nienie 
le  religion.  Ah  !  mon  cher  Paris  !  ah  !  que  je  te 
egret  le ! 

"  Donnoi-moi  quelques  nouvelles  litteraires, 
nais  n'en  attendez  pas  en  revanche.  Pour  les 
,rands  evi'iuniens  en  Europe,  je  crois  que  nous  en 
lions  devt-nir  le  bureau.  On  dit,  en  effet,  que  la 
loite  Russe  a  enfin  debarque  a  Patras,  que  touie  In 
VIoree  s'est  revoltee  et  declaree  en  I'aveur  des  de- 
larques,  ei  que  satis  coup  t'erir  ils  s'en  sont  rendus 
laitres,  e.viepte  des  villes  de  Corintlie  et  de  Napoli 
;e  Roniaiue :  cela  meriie  confirmation.  Quelle 
vanture  !  Nous  serons  limitrophes  des  Russes ; 
td'Otranieii  Petersbourg  il  n'y  aura  plus  qu'un 
las,  et  un  petit  trajet  de  mer :  Dux  forinina  Jacti. 
•Jne  femrnc  aura  fait  cela  !  Cela  est  tVop  beau  pour 
■tre  vrai." 

!  The  next  is  not  such  pure  trifling. 

\  'I  Vous  avez  reconnu  Voltaire  dans  son  sermon  ; 
Iioi  je  n'y  rcconnais  que  I'echo  de  feu  M.  de  Vol- 
pire.  Ah  !  \\  rabache  trop  a  present.  Sa  Catherine 
1st  une  niaiiresse  feinnie,  parce  qu'elie  est  iniol- 
Tante  et  ronquerante ;  tous  les  grands  hoinnies 
^nt  ete  iiiiokMans,  et  il  faiit  Telre.  Si  Ton  rencontre 
iir  son  clu  inin  un  prince  sot,  il  faut  Ini  precher  la 
iterance,  afin  qu'il  donne  dans  le  picge,  et  que  le 
arti  ecras'.'  ait  le  temps  de  se  relever  par  la  tolerance 
iu'on  lui  accorde.  et  d'ecriiserson  adversaire  a  son 
)ur.  .-Mnsi  le  sermon  sur  la  tolerance  est  un  ser- 
lon  fait  aux  sots  ou  aux  gens  dupes,  ou  a  des  gens 
ui  n'ont  aucun  interet  dans  la  chose  :  voila  pour- 
uoi,  qnelqnefois,  un  prince  seculier  doit  ecouier  la 
ilcrance  ;  c'est  lorsque  Taffaire  interesse  les  proires 
iinsinlere.'-ser  les  souverains.  Mais  en  Pologne,  les 
yeques  sunt  tout  a  la  fois  pret reset  souverains.  et. 
lis  le  peavent,  ils  feront  fort  bien  de  chasser  les 
lusses,  et  d'envoyer  au  diable  tous  les  Dissidens; 
jt  Catherii:e  fera  fort  bien  d'ecraser  les  evcques  si 
j2la  lui  reussii.  Moi  je  n'en  crois  rien  ;  je  crois  que 
(s  Russe';  ccraseront  les  Tures  par  contre-coup, 
•  ne  fero'it  qu'agrandir  et  reveiller  les  Polonais, 
jnime  Pliilippe  H.  et  la  mnison  d'Autriche  ecra- 
'•rpiit  rAllemngne  et  I'lialie,  en  voulant  Iroubler 
J.  I'rancc  qii'ils  ne  firent  qu'ennoblir  :  voila.  mes 
ropheiies  " 

I  "  Voire  lettre  du  8  juin  n'est  point  gaie  ;  il  s'en 
ut  meme  beaticoup  :  vous  avouez  vous-mcme  que 
)us  n'avez  que  quelques  Incurs  de  gaieie  ;  je  crains 
lecela  ne  lienne  ai\  physique,  et  que  vous  nevous 
)riiez  pas  hien  :  voila  ce  qui  me  fache.  Pour  moi, 
;  fwis  tou!  ce  que  je  puis  pour  vous  egayer,  et  ce 
jest  pas  un  petit  effort  pour  moi:  car  je  suis  si 
pnuye  de  ;:ion  existence  ici,  qu'en  veriie  je  deviens 
prnnie  d':iffaires  et  homme  grave  de  jour  en  jour 
Bvantage.  t-t  je  finirai  par  devenir  N^politain,  tout 
umtne  un  .mire." 

i  Another  contains  some  admirable  remarks 
[i  the  cbuacter  of  Cicero,  introduced  in  the 
^nie  style  of  perfect  ease  and  familiarity. 

i'^On  pent  regarder  Cineron  comme  liiiprateiir, 
pmmephi'osoplie  et  comnie  homme  d'etat.  II  a 
e  un  des  plus  trrands  li'ieraieurs  qui  aient  jamais 
c;  il  savait  lout  ce  qu'on  savait  de  son  temps, 
tcppie  la  j"oMictrie  et  ant  res  sciences  de  ce  genie, 
letait  mediocre  philosophe :  car  il  savait  tout  ce 
lie  les  Gr?' -s  avaient  pense,  et  le  rendait  avec  une 

Eirie  adni  la'ole,  tnai-i  il  ne  pensait  rien  et  n'avait 
5  la  forip  de  rien  imaginer.  Comme  homme 
|etat.  Cii  iVon.  eiant  d'une  basse  extraction,  ei 
fulanf  parvenir,  auraii  du  se  jcter  dans  le  parti  de 
•pposuioii,  ue  la  chambre  basse  ou  du  peuple,  si 


vous  voulez.  Cela  lui  etait  d'autant  plus  aise,  (jue 
Marius,  fondateur  de  ce  parti,  etait  de  son  pays.  II 
en  fut  meme  tente,  cur  il  del)Uta  par  aitaqucr  Sylla 
et  par  se  lier  avec  les  gens  du  pnrti  de  I'opposiiion, 
a  la  tele  desqiiels.  aprcs  la  mort  de  Marius,  eiaient 
Claudius.Caiilnia,  Ci'sur.  Mais  le  parti  des  grands 
avait  besoin  d'un  jurisconsulte  et  d'un  savant;  car 
les  grands  seigneurs,  en  general,  ne  savent  ni  lire 
ni  ocrire  ;  il  sentit  done  qu'on  aurait  plus  besoin  de 
lui  dans  le  parti  des  grands,  ei  qu'il  y  jouerait  un 
role  plus  brillant.  11  s'y  jeta,  et  des-lors  on  vit  un 
homme  iiouveau,  un  parvenu  inele  avec  les  patri- 
rieiis.  Fiuurez-voiis  en  Angleterre  un  avocat  dont 
la  cour  ;i  liesuin  pour  fuire  un  chancelier,  et  qui  suit 
par  consequent  le  parii  du  ministere.  Ciceron  brilla 
done  a  cGie  de  Pompee,  etc.,  loutes  les  fois  qu'il 
etait  quesiion  de  choses  de  jurisprudence;  mais  il 
lui  nianquait  la  naissance,  les  richesses  ;  et  surtout 
n'ctant  pas  homnic  de  guerre,  il  jouaii  de  ce  cole-la 
un  role  subalternc.  D'ailleurs,  par  inclinalioii 
naturelle.  il  aiinait  le  parti  de  Cesar,  et  il  elait 
fatig\ie  de  la  morgue  des  grands  qui  lui  faisaieiU 
seniir  sonveni  le  prix  des  bienfaiis  dont  on  I'avait 
comble.  II  n'ctaii  pas  pusillanime,  il  etait  incertain  ; 
il  ne  defendaii  pas  des  scelerats.  il  defendaii  les  gens 
de  son  parti  qui  ne  valaient  gucre  mieux  que  ceux 
du  parti  coniraire." 

We  shall  add  only  the  following. 

"  Le  dialogue  des  tableaux  du  Louvre  interesse 
pen  a  cinq  cents  lieues  de  Paris  ;  le  baron  de  Glei- 
chen  et  moi,  nous  en  avons  ri :  personnes  ne  nous 
aurait  entendus.  Au  resie,  a  propos  des  tableaux, 
je  remarque  que  le  caraciure  dominant  des  Fran9ais 
perce  toiijours ;  ils  sont  causeurs,  rai>onneurs.  badins 
par  essence.  Un  mauvais  tableau  enlanie  une 
bonne  brochure  ;  ainsi  vous  par  lerez  niicux  des  arts 
que  vous  ne  les  culiiverez  jamais.  II  se  trouvera 
au  bout  du  compte,  dans  quelques  siccles,  que  vo,is 
auroz  le  mieux  raisonne,  le  mieux  discute  ce  que 
loutes  les  autres  nations  auront  fait  de  mieux. 
Cherissez  done  Timprimerie,  c'est  voire  lot  dans  ce 
has  monde.  Mais  vous  avez  mis  un  impot  sur  le 
papier.  Quelle  soitise!  Plaisanterie  a  part,  un 
impot  sur  le  papier  est  la  faute  en  politique  la  plus 
forie  que  se  soil  comniise  en  France  depuis  un  siecle. 
II  valait  mieux  faire  la  banquerouie  univcrselle,  et 
laisser  au  Fran^ais  le  plaisir  de  parlcr  a  I'Europe  a 
peu  dc  frais.  Vous  avez  plus  conquis  de  pays  par 
les  livres  que  par  les  amies.  Vous  ne  devez  la 
ijloire  de  la  nation  qu'a  vos  ouvrages,  et  vous  voulez 
vous  forcer  a  vous  taire  !" 

"  Ma  belle  dame,  s'il  servait  a  quclque  chose  de 
pleurer  les  morts.  je  viendrais  pleurer  avec  vous  la 
perie  de  notre  Helveiius ;  mais  la  mort  n'est  autre 
chose  que  le  regret  des  vivans  ;  si  nous  ne  le  regret- 
ions  pas,  il  n'esi  pas  mort :  tout  comme  si  nous  ne 
I'avions  jamais  ni  connu  ni  aiine,  il  ne  serait  pas  ne. 
Tout  ce  qui  exisie.  existe  en  nous  par  rapport  a 
nous.  Souvenez-vous  que  le  petit  prophutc  faisait 
de  la  meiaphysique  lorsqu'il  etait  triste  ;  i'en  fais  de 
meme  a  present.  Mais  enfin  le  mal  de  la  perle 
d' Helveiius  est  le  vide  qu'il  laisse  dans  la  ligne  du 
ba'aillon.  Serrons  done  les  lignes,  aimons-nous 
davantage,  nous  qui  resions,  et  il  n'y  paraitra  pas. 
Moi  qui  suis  le  major  de  ce  malheureux  regiment, 
je  vous  crie  a  tous  :  scrrcz  les  lignes,  avanccz,  leu  ! 
On  ne  s'apercevra  pas  de  notre  perte.  Ses  enfans 
n'ont  perdu  ni  jeunesse  ni  beaute  par  la  mort  de 
leur  pcre  ;  elles  out  gagne  la  qnalile  d'horiiieres  ; 
pourquoi  diable  allez-vous  pleurer  sur  leur  sort? 
Flics  se  marieront,  n'en  doutez  pas:  cet  oracle  est 
plus  xiirque  celui  de  Calclias.  Sa  femme  est  plus  a 
p'aindre,  a  moins  qu'elie  ne  rencontre  un  gendre 
aussi  raisnnnable  que  son  mari,  ce  qui  n'est  pas 
bien  aise,  rnais  plus  ais6  a  Paris  qu'aillcurs.  II  y  a 
encore  bien  des  moaurs,  des  vert  us,  de  I'heroVsme 
dans  voire  Paris;  il  y  en  a  plus  qu'ailleurs,  croyez- 
inoi :  c'est  ce  qui  me  le  fait  regretter,  et  me  le  lera 
pent-eire  revoir  un  jour." 

The  notice  of  the  death  of  Helvctais,  con- 
tained in  this  last  extract,  leads  us  iialuiully 


m 


LITERATURE  X^D  BIOGRAPHY. 


to  turn  to  the  passage  in  M.  Grimm  in  which 
this  event  is  commemorated;  and  we  there 
find  a  very  full  and  curious  account  of  this 
zealous  pliilosopher.  Helvetius  was  of  Dutch 
extraction  ;  anil  his  father  having  been  chief 
physician  to  the  Queen,  the  son  was  speedily 
appointed  to  the  very  lucrative  situation  of 
Fanner-general  of  the  Finances.  He  was  re- 
markably good  tempered,  benevolent,  and 
liberal ;  and  passed  his  youth  in  idle  and  vo- 
luptuous indulgence,  keeping  a  sort  of  seraglio 
as  a  part  of  his  establishment,  and  exercising 
himself  with  universal  applause  in  the  noble 
science  of  dancuig,  in  which  he  attained  such 
eminence,  that  he  is  said  to  have  several 
times  supplied  the  place  of  the  famous  Dupre 
in  the  ballets  at  the  opera.  An  unhappy  pas- 
sion for  literary  glory  came,  however,  to  dis- 
turb this  easy  life.  The  paradoxes  and  ef- 
frontery of  Maupertuis  had  brought  science 
into  fashion ;  and  for  a  season,  no  supper  was 
thought  complete  at  Paris  without  a  mathe- 
matician. Helvetius,  therefore,  betook  him- 
self immediately  to  the  study  of  geometry  : 
But  he  could  make  no  hand  of  it ;  and  for- 
tunately the  rage  passed  away  before  he  had 
time  to  expose  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  in- 
itiated. Next  came  the  poetical  glory  of  Vol- 
taire;— and  Helvetius  instantly  resolved  to  be 
a  poet — and  did  with  great  labour  produce  a 
long  poem  on  happiness,  which  was  not  pub- 
lished however  till  after  his  death,  and  has 
not  improved  his  chance  for  immortalitv.  But 
it  was  the  success  of  the  President  Montes- 
quieu's celebrated  Esprit  des  Loix,  that  fnial- 
ly  decided  the  literary  vocation  of  Helvetius. 
That  work  appeared  in  1749;  and  in  1750  the 
Farmer-general  actually  resigned  his  office ; 
married,  retired  into  the  country,  spent  ten 
long  years  in  digesting  his  own  book  De 
r Esprit,  by  which  he  fondly  expected  to  rival 
the  fame  of  his  illustrious  predecessor.  In 
this,  however,  he  was  wofully  disappointed. 
The  book  appeared  to  philosophers  to  be 
nothing  but  a  paradoxical  and  laborious  repe- 
tition of  truths  and  difficulties  with  which  all 
good  thinkers  liad  long  been  familiar ;  and  it 
probably  would  have  fallen  into  utter  obhvion, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  injudicious  clamour 
which  was  raised  against  it  by  the  bigots  and 
devotees  of  the  court.  Poor  Helvetius.  who 
had  meant  nothing  more  than  to  make  him- 
self remarkable,  was  as  much  surprised  at 
the  outcries  of  the  godly,  as  at  the  silence 
of  the  philosophers;  and  never  perfectly  re- 
covered the  shock  of  this  double  disappoint- 
ment. He  still  continued,  however,  his  habits 
of  kindness  and  lihf'ialit)- — gave  dinners  to 
the  men  of  letters  when  at  Paris,  and  hunted 
and  compiled  philosophy  with  great  perse- 
verance in  the  country.  His  temper  was  so 
good,  that  his  society  could  not  fail  to  be 
agreeable ;  but  his  conversation,  it  seems,  was 
not  very  captivating;  he  loved  to  push  everv 
matter  of  discussion  to  its  very  last  results ;  and 
reasoned  at  times  so  very  loosely  and  largely, 
as  to  be  in  danger  of  beinc:  taken  for  a  person 
very  much  overtaken  with  liquor.  He  died  of 
gout  in  his  stomach,  at  the  age  of  lifty-six; 
and;  as  an  author;  is  now  completely  forgotten.  | 


Nobody  knows  a  better  or  a  more  amiable 
figure  in  this  Ijook,  than  Madame  Geoffrin. 
Active,  reasonable,  indulgent,  and  munificent 
beyond  example  for  a  woman  in  private  life, 
she  laid  a  sure  claim  to  popularity  by  taking 
for  her  maxim  the  duty  of  "  giving  and  for- 
giving;" and  showed  herself  so  gentle  in  her 
deportment  to  children  and  servants,  that  if 
she  had  not  been  overcome  with  an  unlucky 
passion  for  intrigue  aud  notoriety,  she  might 
have  aflbrded  one  exception  at  least  to  the 
general  heartlessness  of  the  society  to  which 
she   belonged.     Some   of  the   repartees   re- 
corded  of  her   in    these  volumt^«,  are  very 
remarkable.     M.  de  Rulhiere  threatened  to 
make  public,  certain  very  indiscrei  i  remarks 
on  the  court  of  Russia,  from  the  sale  of  which 
he  expected  great  profits.    Madame  Geoffrin, 
who  thought  he  would  get  into  djll,i  ulties  by 
taking  such  a  step,  offered  him  a  v  ly  hand- 
some sum  to  put  his  manuscript  i;.  the  fire 
He  answered  her  with  many  lolty  and  ani- 
mated observations  on  the  meaniurs  and  un-l 
worthiness  of  taking  money  to  suj^i  >  ss  truth. 
To  all  which  the  lady  listened  with  i  lie  utmos 
complacency;    and  merely  repli(i!.   "Weill 
say  yourself  how  much  more  you  n.i  st  have.'l 
Another  mot  of  hers  became  an  (  -'ablishcH 
canon  at  all  the  tables  of  Paris.     Tae  Comtii 
de  Coigny  was  wearying   her   on.'    eveninj,' 
with  some  interminable   story,   wL-n,  upo)! 
somebody  sending  for  a  part  of  'Iil   dish  bel 
fore  him,  he  took  a  little  knife    ;  it  of  hi 
pocket,  and  began  to  carve,  talk:   _r  all  th 
time  as  before.     " Monsieur  le  Oivte.'"  sai 
Madame  Goeffrin,  a   little  out  o;    patimet 
'•at  table  there  should  only  be  l;.:_e  knivt 
and   short  stories.     In  her  old  age  .-^he  w£ 
seized   with   apoplexy;    and    hei    ilaughte 
during  her  illness,  refused  access  ;•    ihe  fh 
losophers.     When  she  recovered  a  ];ttk'.  si 
laughed   at   the   precaution,   and    ^i  ade   hi 
daughter's   apolog)- — by   saying.     ■  ;^he    ha 
done  like  Godfrey  of  Bouillon — di  '^  j;ded  h 
tomb  from  the  Iniidels."'     The   i,"  a  of  h^ 
ending  in  devotion,  however,  occa.<i(..:ied  mu(     i 
merriment  and  some  scandal  among  her  pi 
losophicai  associates.  I 

The  name  of  3Iarmontel  occurs  \cry  ofti. 
in  this  collection;  but  it  is  not  af-  iided  wi' 
any  distinguished  honours.  ]\I.  -1.  imra  a 
cuses  him  of  want  of  force  or  ja--  on  in  l 
style,  and  of  poverty  of  inventiui'  ;ii:d  littl' 
ness  of  genius.  He  says  somethii.:;,  howevc 
of  more  importance  on  occasion  c!  the  li:. 
representation  of  that  writer's  fjoiish  liti. 
piece,  entitled,  "Sj/ram."  The  iv  .iiiersa 
.sticklers  for  rank,  he  observe.**,  a!'  , ntend; 
to  be  mightily  alarmed  at  the  tei:ii-  :ii  of  tl 
little  opera  in  one  act :  and  the  Di^  '■  Xonill- 
took  the  trouble  to  say,  that  its  ,  ir,  obj» 
was  to  show  that  a  gentleman  cr-i;  i  do  noi' 
ing  so  amiable  as  to  marry  his  v.  n!  serva; 
and  let  his  cottagers  kill  his  g;  ..  .■  at  thi 
pleasure.  It  is  really  amusing.  (•>  'inues!- 
Grimm,  to  obsen'e,  how  positive  ■  i  ;  iv  peo]" 
are,  that  all  this  is  the  result  oi  ■:  deep  p'. 
on  the  part  of  the  Encyclopedi^^  ~  anil  tl.. 
this  silly  farce  is  the  fruit  of  a  -  ;-'inn  c; 
spiracy  against  the  privileged  oil  i  is,  andi 


BAROi\  DE  GRIMM. 


137 


support  of  the  horrible  doctrine  of  universal 
equahty.  If  they  would  only,  condescend  to 
consult  me,  howeven  he  concludes,  I  could 
oblige  them  with  a  much  simpler,  though  less 
magnificent  solution  of  the  mystery ;  the  truth 
being,  that  the  extravagance  of  M.  Marmon- 
tel's  little  plot  proceeds  neither  from  his  love 
of  equality,  nor  from  the  commands  of  an  anti- 
social conspiracy,  but  purely  from  the  poverty 
of  his  imagination,  and  his  want  of  talent  for 
dramatic  composition.  It  is  always  much 
more  easy  to  astonish  by  extravagance,  than 
to  interest  by  natural  representations;  and 
those  commonplaces,  of  love  triumphing  over 
pride  of  birtli,  and  benevolence  getting  the 
better  of  feudal  prejudices,  are  among  the 
:most  vulgar  resources  of  those  who  are  inca- 
pable of  devising  incidents  at  once  probable 
and  pathetic. 

This  was  written  in  the  year  1770; — and 
while  it  serves  to  show  us,  that  the  imputa- 
tion of  conspiracies  against  the  throne  and 
the  altar,  of  which  succeeding  times  were 
doomed  to  hear  so  much,  were  by  no  means 
■an  original  invention  of  the  age  which  gave 
them  the  greatest  encouragement,  it  may 
help  also  to  show  upon  what  slight  founda- 
tion such  imputations  are  usually  hazarded. 
Great  national  changes,  indeed,  are  never  the 
result  of  conspiracies — but  of  causes  laid  deep 
and  wide  in  the  structure  and  condition  of  so- 
ciety.— and  which  necessarily  produce  those 
combinations  of  individuals,  who  seem  to  be 
the  authors  of  the  revolution  when  it  happens 
(to  be  ultimately  brought  about  by  their  in- 
istrumentality.  The  Holy  Church  Philosophic 
'of  Paris,  however,  was  certainly  quite  inno- 
;centof  any  such  intention  ;  and,  we  verily  be- 
lieve, had"  at  no  time  any  deeper  views  in  its 
councils  than  are  expressed  in  the  following 
iextract  from  its  registers. 

I  "  Comme  11  est  d'usage,  dans  notre  saintc  Eglise 
iphilosophique,  de  nous  reunir  qiielquefois  pour  don- 
tner  au.x  fidt'les  de  salutnires  et  utiles  instructions 
sur  I'eiat  actuel  de  la  foi,  les  progres  ei  bonnes 
CEuvres  de  nos  freres,  j'ai  I'honneur  de  vous  adres- 
jSer  les  annoiices  et  bans  qui  ont  eu  lieu  a  la  suite  de 
'notre  dernier  sermon." 

:  "Frere  Thomas  fait  savoir  qu'il  a  compose  un 
•Exsai  sur  les  Femm.es,  qui  i'era  un  ouvrage  con- 
siderable. L'Eiilise  estime  la  purete  de  mceurs  et 
lea  vertus  de  irere  Thomas;  elle  craint  qu'il  ne 
jconnaisse  pas  encore  assez  les  femmes  ;  elle  iui 
conseille  de  se  lier  plus  intimement,  s'il  se  peut, 
'avec  quelques  unes  des  heroines  qu'il  frequente, 
pour  le  plus  grand  hien  de  son  ouvrage  ;  et,  pour 
le  plus  grand  bien  de  son  style,  elle  le  conjure  de 
considerer  combien,  suivant  la  df'couverte  de  notre 
iillusire  pairiarche,  I'adjectif  affaiblit  souvent  le  sub- 
jBianiif,  quoiqu'il  s'y  rapporte  en  cas,  en  nombre  et 
en  genre. 

t    "  Soeur  Necker  fait  savoir  qu'elle  donnera  tou- 
jjonrs  a  diner  les  vendredis  :  I'Eglise  s'y  rendra, 
arce  qu'elle  fait  cas  de  sa  personne  et  de  celle  de 
epoux  ;  elle  voudrait  pouvoir  en  dire  autant  de 
cuisinier. 

Soeur  de  I'Espinasse  fait  savoir  que  sa  fortune 

e  iui  permet  pas  d'offrir  ni  a  diner,  ni  a  souper,  et 

lu'elli;  n'en  a  pa.s  moins  d'envie  de  recevoir  chez 

111'  les  freres  qui  voudrontyvenirdigerer.  L'Eglise 

n'ordonne  de  Iui  dire  qu'elle  s'y  rendra,  et  que, 

iiuand  on  a  autant  d'esprit  et  de  merite,  on  peut  se 

'-    passer  de  beauie  et  de  fortune. 

iiH'  [  "  Mere  Geoffrin  fait  savoir  qu'elle  renouvelle  les 

■^i  pefenses  et  lois  prohibitives  des  annees  precedentes, 

'   ;  18 


et  qu'il  ne  sera  pas  plus  permis  que  par  le  passe  de 
parier  chez  elle  ni  d'aHaires  inieneures,  tn  d'otfuirea 
e.vierieures  ;  ni  d'atlairea  de  la  cour,  ni  d'artaires  de 
la  ville  ;  ni  de  paix,  ni  de  guerre  ;  ni  de  religion, 
in  de  gouvernenient ;  ni  de  iheologie,  iii  de  meia- 
physique  ;  ni  de  gramniaire,  ni  de  mu.sique ;  ni,  en 
general,  d'aucune  maUrro  quelconque  ;  et  qu'elle 
comniei  dom  Burigni,  brntdiciin  de  rolie  courte, 
pour  faire  laire  lout  le  nionde,  a  cause  de  sa  dex- 
teiiie,  connuc,  ot  du  grand  crt'dit  dont  il  jouii,  et 
pour  Otrc  grondc  par  elle.  en  particulicr,  de  louies 
les  contraventions  ii  ces  defenses.  L'Eiilise,  con- 
siderant  que  le  silence,  et  notanimeni  sur  les  ma- 
nures dont  est  question,  n'est  pae  son  tori,  promet 
d'obeir  autant  qu'elle  y  sera  conirainte  par  forme 
de  violence." 

We  hear  a  great  deal,  of  course,  of  Diderot., 
in  a  work  of  which  he  was  partly  the  author; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  deny  him  the  praise 
of  ardour,  originality,  and   great   occasional 
eloquence.     Yet  we  not  only  feel  neither  re- 
spect nor  aflection  for  Diderot — but  can  sel- 
dom read  any  of  his  lighter  pieces  without  a 
certain  degree  of  disgust.    There  is  a  tone  of 
hlackgiianlism — (we  really  can  find  no  other 
word) — both  in  his  indecency  and  his  pro- 
fanity, which  we  tlo  not  recollect  to  have  met 
with  in  any  other  good  writer;  and  which  is 
apt,  we  think,  to  prove  revolting  even  to  those 
who  are  accustomed  to  the  licence  of  this 
fraternity.     They  who  do  not  choose  to  look 
into  his  Rclipeuse  for  the  full  illustration  of 
this  remark — and  we  advise  no  one  to  look 
there  for  any  thing — may  find  it  abundantly, 
though  in  a  less  flagrant  form,  in  a  little  essay 
on  women,  which  is  uiserted  in  these  volumes 
as  a  supplement  or  corrective  to  the  larger 
work  of  M.  Thomas  on  that  subject.     We 
must  say,  however,  that  the  whole  tribe  of 
French  writers  who  have  had  any  pretensions 
to  philosophy  for  the  last  seventy  years,  are 
infected  with  a  species  of  indelicacy  which  is 
peculiar,  we  think,  to  their  nation  :  and  strikes 
us  as  more  shameful  and  ofl'ensive  than  any 
other.     We  do  not  know  very  well  how  to 
describe  it,  otherwise  than  by  saying,  that  it 
consists  in  a  strange  combination  of  physical 
science  with  obscenity,  and   an   attempt  to 
unite  the  pedantic  and  disgusting  details  of 
anatomy  and  physiology,  with  images  of  vo- 
luptuousness  and    sensuality; — an    attempt, 
we   think,   exceedingly  disgusthig    and   de- 
basing, but   not   in   the   least  degree   either 
seductive  or  amusing.     Maupertuis  and  Vol- 
taire, and  Helvetius  and  Diderot,  are  full  of 
this.  Bution  and  d'Alembert  are  by  no  means 
free  of  it ;  and  traces  of  it  may  even  be  dis- 
covered in  the  writings  of  Rousseau  himself. 
We  could  pardon  some  details  in  the  Emile 
— or  the  Confessions ; — but  we  own  it  appears 
to  us  the  most  nauseous  and  unnatural  of  all 
things,  to  find  the  divine  Julie  ht'rself  inform- 
ing her  cousin,  with  much  complacency,  that 
she  had  at  last  discovered,  that  ''(juoicjue  son 
canir  trop  tendre  avoit  besoin   d"amour,  ses 
sens  n'avoient  plus  besoin  d'un  amant." 

The  following  epigram  is  a  little  in  the 
taste  we  have  been  condemning; — but  it  has 
the  merit  of  being  excessively  clever.  Ma- 
dame du  Chatelet  had  long  lived  .'^.•parate 
from  her  husband,  and  was  understood  to  re- 
ceive the  homage  of  two  lovers— Voltaire  and 
M  2 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


M.  de  St.  Lambert.  She  died  in  childbirth; 
atid  the  following  dramatic  elegy  was  circu- 
lated all  over  Paris  the  week  after  that  catas- 
trophe. 

"  .J/,  de  Cliatdet. — Ah  !  ce  ii'est  pas  ma 
laute  J 

••  M.  de  Voltaire.— 3e  Tavais  predit ! 

'^  M.  de  St.  Lambert.— EWe  l"a  voulu  !" 

Crtbdlon  the  younger  is  naturally  brought 
to  our  recollection  by  the  mention  of  wit  and 
indecfiicy.  We  have  an  account  of  his  death, 
and  a  just  and  candid  estimate  of  his  merits, 
in  one  of  the  volumes  before  us.  However 
frivolous  aiid  fantastic  the  style  of  his  novels 
may  ajipear,  he  had  still  the  merit  of  invent- 
ijig  that  style,  and  of  adorning  it  with  much 
ingenuity,  wit,  and  character.  The  taste  for 
his  writings,  it  seems,  passed  away  very  ra- 
pidly and  completely  in  France;  and  long 
before  his  death,  the  author  of  the  Sopha,  and 
Les  E'larcmens  du  Caur  et  de  VEsprit,  had 
the  mortification  to  be  utterly  forgotten  by 
the  public.  M.  Grimm  thinks  this  reverse  of 
fortune  rather  unmerited  ;  and  observes,  that 
in  foreign  countries  he  was  still  held  in  esti- 
matio;i,  and  that  few  French  productions  had 
had  such  currency  m  London  as  the  Sopha. 
The  reason  perhaps  may  be,  that  the  manners 
and  characters  which  the  French  at  once 
knew  to  be  unnatural,  might  be  mistaken  by 
u.s  for  true  copies  of  French  originals.  It  is  a 
little  more  difficult,  however,  to  account  for 
the  fiiet.  that  the  perusal  of  his  works  inspired 
a  young  lady  of  good  family  in  this  country 
with  such  a  passion  for  the  author,  that  she 
ran  away  from  her  friends,  came  to  Paris, 
married  him,  and  nursed  and  attended  him 
with  exemplary  tenderness  and  affection  to 
his  dying  day.  "But  there  is  nothing  but  luck, 
good  or  bad — as  M.  Grimm  sagely  observes — 
in  this  world.  The  author  of  a  licentious 
novel  inspires  a  romantic  passion  in  a  lady  of 
rank  and  fortune,  who  crosses  seas,  and 
abandons  her  family  and  her  native  country 
for  his  sake ; — while  the  author  of  the  Nouvelle 
Heloixc.  the  most  delicate  and  passionate  of 
all  lovers  that  ever  existed,  is  obliged  to  clap 
up  a  match  with  his  singularly  stupid  cham- 
bermaid ! 

Of  all  the  loves,  however,  that  are  recorded 
in  this  chronicle,  the  loves  of  INIadame  du 
DefTant  and  M.  de  Ponte-de-Vesle,  are  the 
most  <-xernpIary  ;  for  they  lasted  upwards  of 
fifty  years  without  quarrel  or  intermission. 
The  secret  of  this  wontlerful  constancy  is,  at 
all  events,  worth  knowing  :  and  we  give  it  in 
the  worils  of  an  authentic  dialogue  between 
this  venerable  Acme  and  Septimius. 

"  Pont-de- Veslp  ? — Madame  ? — Oil  r-tes>-voiis  ? 
— An  f'oin  clt!  voire  cheininee. —  (^oiirho  les  pieds 
siir  les  chenets,  conime  on  est  chez  ses  amis  ? — 
•  •ui,  M;iij;itiie. — II  fiiut  cnnveiiir  qii'ii  est  pen  de 
liai.fons  aiissl  nnciermes  quo  In  noire. — Celii  est 
vrai.— II  y  a  rimiuaiiie  ans — Oiii.  cinqiiante  ans 
pris.Sf's^ — Rt  dans  ce  loni;  iniervalle  aucun  nuage, 
pas  m<'me  I'appareTipe  d'une  bronilleric. — C'esi  re 
que  j':ii  ic>iijciur.s  admire. — Male,  Pont-de- Vesle, 
cela  lie  viendrai'-il  point  de  ce  qu'aii  fond  nous 
avons  loijjoiira  "to  tort  inditfi'rens  I'lin  a  I'autru  ? — 
Cela  .51^  piiiirrail   hifri.  Madaine  " 

The  evening  this  veteran  admirer  died,  she 


came  rather  late  to  a  great  supper  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  and  as  it  was  known  that  she  made 
it  a  point  of  honour  to  attend  on  him,  the 
catastrophe  was  generally  suspected.  She 
mentioned  it,  however,  herself,  immediately 
on  coming  in  ; — adding,  that  it  was  lucky  he 
had  gone  off  so  early  in  the  evening,  as  she 
might  otherwise  have  been  prevented  from 
appearuig.  She  then  sate  down  to  table,  and 
made  a  very  hearty  and  merry  meal  of  it ! 

Besides  Pont-de-Vesle,  however,  this  cele- 
brated lady  had  a  lover  ahno.-t  as  ancient,  in 
the  President  Henault — whini  also  she  had 
the  misfortune  to  survive ;  though  he  had  the 
complaisance,  as  well  as  his  predecessor,  to 
live  to  near  ninety  years  ibr  her  sake.     The 
poor  president,  however,  fell  into  dotage,  be- 
fore his  death;  and  one  day.  when   in  that 
state,  Madame  du  Defiant  having  happened 
to  ask  him,  whether  he  liked  her  or  IVladame 
de  Castelmoron  the  best.  he.  quite  unconscious 
of  the  person  to  v\  hom  he  was  speaking,  not 
oidy  declared  his  preference  of  the   absent 
lady,  but  proceeded  to  justify  it  by  a  most 
feeling  and  accurate  enumeration  of  the  vice? 
and  defects  of  liis  hearer,  in  which  he  gre^\ 
so  warm  and  eloquent,  that  it  was  quite  im- 
possible either  to  stop  him,  or  to  prevent  al 
who  were  present  from  piohting  by  the  com 
munication.  When  Madame  de  Chatek  t  died 
Madame  du  Detfant  testified  he  r  grief  for  th. 
most  intimate  of  her  female  accjuaintance,  h] 
circulating  all  over  Paris,  the  very  next  morn 
ing,  the  most  libellous  and  venomous  attacl 
on  her  person,  her   understanding,  and   he 
morals.    When  she  came  to  die  herself,  how 
ever,  she  met  with  just  about  as  much  sym 
pathy  as  she  deserved.     Three  of  her  dearee 
friends  used  to  come  and  play  cards  ever 
evening  by  the  side  of  her  couch — and  as  sh 
chose  to  die  in  the  middle  of  a  very  interes 
ing  g'ame,   they  quietly  played    it    out — an 
settled  their  accounts  before  leaving  the  a}:ar 
meiit.     We  hope  these  little  traits  go  near  1 
justify  what  we  ventured  to  say  in  the  oulse 
of  the  tendency  of  large  and  agreeable  societ 
to  fortify  the  heart; — at  all  events,  they  giA 
us  a   pretty  lively  idea  of  the  /?h?.som.s  thi 
united  kindred  souls  at  Paris.  We  might  ad. 
to  the  number  several  anecdotes  of  the  Pref 
dent   Henault — and  of  the  Baron  d'Holbac 
who  told  Ilelvetius.  a  little  time  before  tl 
death  of  the  latter,  that  though  he  had  live 
all  his  life  with  irritable  and  indigent  men «. 
letters,  he   could  not   recollect  that  he  hi 
either  quarrelled  with,  or  done  the  smallt 
service  to,  any  one  among  them. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  admirable  criticit; 
in  this  work,  upon  the  writings  and  genius 
almost  all  the  author's  contemporaries — Dor- 
Piron,  Millot,  Bernard.  Mirabeau,  INlonc) 
Colardean,  and  many  others,  more  or  h' 
generally  known  in  this  country;  nor  do 'j 
know  any  publication,  indeed,  so  well  cal(, 
lated  to  give  a  stranger  a  just  and  compreht' 
sive  view  of  the  recent  literature  of  Franf. 
The  little  we  can  afford  to  extract,  howev. 
must  be  hung  upon  names  more  notorious. 

The  publication  of  a  stupid  journal  of  Mi- 
taigne's  Travels  in  Italy  gives  M.  Grinmi  i 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


139 


I  opportunity  of  saying  something  of  the  Essays 
i  of  that  most  agreeable  veteran.  Nothing  can 
!  be  more  just  than  the  greater  part  of  the  fol- 
i  lowing  observations. 

I  "  Quoi-qu'il  y  ait  dans  ses  Essais  une  infinite  (ie 
fails  (I'aneciJoies  et  de  ciiaiions,  11  nVsl  pas  dillicile 
de  s'appercevoir  que  ses  eludes  n'etaient  ni  vasies 
j  ni  profoiides.  II  n'avait  giieie  lu  que  quelques  po- 
I  etes  latins,  quelques  livres  de  voyage,  et  sou  Sene(iue 
;  et  sou  Pluiarque." 

"  De  tuns  les  auieurs  qui  nous  restent  de  Tan- 
tiqiiite.  Fhitarque  est,  sans  contredit,  celui  qui  a 
reuueilli  Ie  plus  de  verites  de  fait  et  de  speculation. 
Ses  oBUvres  sont  une  mine  inepuisable  de  luiuiorea 
et  de  coniiaissances:  c'est  vraiment  rEiicyelopedie 
•  des  anciens.  IMontaigne  nons  en  a  donne  la  fleur, 
et  ii  y  a  ajouie  les  reflexions  les  plus  fines,  et  sur- 
tout  les  resultats  les  plus  secrets  de  sa  propre  ex- 
perience. II  me  semhle  done  que  si  j'avais  a  donner 
une  iJpe  de  ses  Essais,  je  dirais  en  deux  mots  que 
c'est  un  cominentaire  que  Montaigne  fit  sur  lui- 
nieine  en  niediiant  les  ecrits  de  Plutarque.  .  .Je 
.  pense  encore  que  je  dirais  mal:  ce  serait  iui  preter 
un  projet.  .  .Montaigne  n'en  avait  aucun.  En  niet- 
.  tant  la  plume  a  la  main,  il  parait  n'avoir  songe  qu'au 
,  plaisir  de  causer  familiereiiient  avec  son  iecteur.  II 
Iui  rend  compte  de  ses  lectures,  de  ses  pensees,  de 
■  ses  reflexions,  sans  suite,  sans  dessein  :  il  vent  avoir 
[  Ie  plaisT  de  penser  tout  haut,  et  il  en  jouit  a  son 
.  aise.  11^  ci:e  souvent  Plutarque,  parce  que  Plu- 
,  tarqiie  etait  son  livre  favori.  La  seule  loi  qu'il 
'semhle  s'etre  prescrite,  c'est  de  ne  jamais  parler 
;qtie  de  le  qui  I'interessait  vivement:  de  la  renernie 
f  et  la  vivacite  de  ses  expressions,  la  grace  et  I'origi- 
Inalite  de  son  langage.  Son  esprit  a  cette  assurance 
|et  cette  Iranchise  aimable  que  Ton  ne  trouve  que 
[dans  ces  etifans  bien  nes,  dont  la  conirainie  du 
,  nionde  et  de  I'l'ducation  ne  gena  point  encore  les 
mouvemens  faciles  et  naturels." 

'  \  After  a  still  farther  encomium  on  the  sound 
1  1  sense  of  this  favourite  writer,  M.  Grimm  cou- 
:  i  eludes — 

Personne  n'a-t-il  done  pense  plus  que    Mon- 
taigne ?     .Ie  I'ignore.     Mais  ce  que  je  crois  bien 


Waij 


)savoir,  c  est  que  personne  n'a  dit  avec  plusde  sim- 
.plicite  ce  qu'il  a  semi,  ce  qu'il  a  pense.  On  ne  pent 
rien  ajou'er  il  I'eloge  qu'il  a  fait  Ini-meme  de  son 
.oiivrage  ;  c'  est  ici  un  livre  de  honne  foi.     Cela  est  [ 
;divin.  et  cela  est  exact."  | 
'•  Qu'est-ce  que   touies   les   connaissances    hn-  j 
imaines?  le  cercle  en  est  si  borne  !  .  .  .  .  Et  depuis  | 
iqnatre   mille   ans,    qu'a-t-on    fait    pour  retendre?| 
:  .^Ionlesq'lien  adit  quelque  part,  qu'il  travaiUail  i)  , 
|K«  livre  de  doiize  pagen,  qui  contiendrail  tout  re  que 
nouf  Savons  sur  la  Metaphysique,  la  Politique  et  la 
Morale,  et  tout  re  que  de  grands  auteurs  ont  ouhlie 
dafis  les  volumes  quils  ont  donnes  sur  res  sciences- 
la ,Te  suis  tres  serieusement  persuade  qu'il  I 

ne  tenait  qu'a  Iui  d'accomplir  ce  grand  projet." 

Montesquieu,  Buffon.  and  Raynal  are  the 
*  [only  authors,  we  think,  of  whom  M.  Grimm  ! 
'  speaks  with  serious  rpspect  and  admiration. 
Great   praise   is   lavished    upon   Robert.soii"s 

■  [Charles  v.— Young's  Night  Thoughts  are  said. 

■  and  with  justice,  to  be  rather  intrenious  than 
'pathetic  :  and  to  show  more  of  a  szloomy  im-  ; 

■  !<i2rination  than  a  feeling  heart. — Thomson's 
jSea.sons  are  less  happily  stigmatized  as  e.\-  - 
[oess'vely  ornate   and  artificial,  and   said    to 

I  tefand  in  the  same  relation  to  the  Georgics, 
flhat  the  T.ady  of  Loretto.  with  all  her  tawdry 
'fiiierv.  hears  to  the  naked  graces  of  the  Venus 

'  \<]f  Medici. — Johnson's  Life  of  Savage  is  ex- 
tolled   ns    e\ceediiigly    entertaining — though 

'  'the  authir  is  laughed  at.  in  the  true  Parisian 
[taste,  tor  -JOt  having  made  a  jest  of  his  hero. 


— Hawkesworth's  Voyages  are  also  very  much 
cominended  ;  and  Sir  VVilliam  Jones'  letter  to 
Anquttil  (lit.  Perron^  is  said  to  be  capable,  with 
a  few  retrenchments,  of  being  made  worthy 
of  the  pen  of  the  Patriarch  liimself. — Mrs. 
Montagu's  Essay  on  Sliakespeare  is  also  ap- 
plauded to  the  full  e.vtent  of  its  merits;  and, 
iiideeil,  a  very  laudable  tlegree  of  candour  and 
moderation  is  observed  as  to  our  national  taste 
in  the  drama. — Shakespeare,  he  observes,  is 
fit  for  us,  and  Racini?  for  them ;  anil  each 
should  be  satisfied  with  his  lot.  and  would  do 
well  to  keep  to  his  own  national  manner. 
When  we  attempt  to  be  regiUar  and  dignilied, 
we  are  merely  cold  aiul  slid;  anil  when  they 
aim  at  freedom  and  energy,  they  become  ab- 
surd and  e.vtravag-ant.  The  celebrity  of  Gar- 
rick  seems  to  have  been  scarcely  less  at  Paris 
than  in  London. — their  greatest  actor  being 
familiarly  designated  '•  Le  Garrick  Francois."' 
His  powers  of  pantomime,  indeed,  were  uni- 
versally intelligible,  and  seem  to  have  made 
a  prodigious  impression  upon  the  theatrical 
critics  of  France.  But  his  authority  is  quoted 
by  M.  Grimm,  for  the  observation,  that  there 
is  not  the  smallest  aHinity  in  the  tragic  dec- 
lamation of  the  two  countries  : — so  that  an 
actor  who  could  give  the  most  astonishing  ef- 
fect to  a  passage  of  Shakespeare,  would  not, 
though  perfectly  master  of  French,  be  able  to 
guess  how  a  single  line  of  Racine  should  be 
spoken  on  the  stage. 

We  cannot  leave  the  subject  of  the  drama, 
however,  without  observing,  with  what  an 
agreeable  surprise  we  discovered  in  M.  Grimm, 
an  auxiliary  in  that  battle  which  we  have  for 
some  time  waged,  though  not  without  trepida- 
tion, against  the  theatrical  standards  of  France, 
and  in  defence  of  our  own  more  free  and  irreg- 
ular drama.  While  a  considerable  part  of  our 
own  men  of  letters,  carried  away  by  the  author- 
ity and  supposed  unanimity  of  the  continental 
judges,  were  disposed  to  desert  the  cause  of 
Shakespeare  and  Nature,  and  to  recognize 
Racine  and  Voltaire,  as  the  only  true  models 
of  dramatic  excellence,  it  turns  out  that  the 
greatest  Parisian  critic,  of  that  best  age  of 
criticism,  was  of  opinion  that  the  very  idea 
of  dramatic  excellence  had  never  been  de- 
veloped in  France;  and  that,  from  the  very 
causes  which  we  have  formerlv  specified, 
there  was  neither  powerful  pas,sioii  nor  real 
nature  on  their  stage.  After  giving  some  ac- 
count of  a  play  of  La  Harpe's,  he  observes, 
"I  am  more  and  more  confirmed  in  the 
opinion,  that  true  tra'^edij.  xncli  as  has  never 
yet  existed  in  France,  must,  after  all.  be  writ- 
ten in  prose ;  or  at  least  can  never  accommo- 
date itself  to  the  pompous  and  ihetorical  tune 
of  our  stately  versification.  The  ceremonious 
and  affected  dignity  which  belongs  to  such 
compositions,  is  <]uite  inconsistent  with  the 
just  imitation  of  nature,  and  destructive  of  all 
true  pathos.  It  may  be  very  fijie  and  very  po- 
etical;  but  it  is  not  diamatic  : — and  accord- 
ingly I  have  no  hesitation  in  maintaining,  that 
all  our  celebrated  tra^edie.'^  belong  to  the  epic 
and  not  to  the  drnmulv,  division  of  poetry. 
The  Greeks  and  Romans  had  a  dramatic 
verse,  which  did  not  iiiterfere  with  simplicity 


140 


LITERATLTRE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


or  familiarity  of  diction  ;  but  as  we  have  none, 
we  must  make  up  our  minds  to  compose  our 
tragedies  in  prose,  if  we  ever  expect  to  have 
any  that  may  deserve  the  name.  What  then  V' 
he  continues;  =' must  we  throw  our  Racines 
and  Voltaires  in  the  fire? — by  no  means: — 
on  the  contrary,  we  must  keep  them,  and 
study  and  admire  them  more  tnan  ever; — 
but  with  right  conceptions  of  their  true  nature 
and  merit — as  masterpieces  of  poetry,  and 
reasoning,  and  description  ; — as  the  first  works 
of  the  first  geniuses  that  ever  adorned  any 
nation  under  heaven : — But  not  as  tragedies, 
— not  as  pieces  intended  to  exhibit  natural 
characters  and  passions  speaking  their  own 
language,  and  to  produce  that  terrible  impres- 
sion which  such  pieces  alone  can  produce. 
Considered  in  that  light,  their  coldness  and 
childishness  will  be  immediately  apparent ; — 
and  though  the  talents  of  the  artist  will  al- 
ways be  conspicuous,  their  misapplication 
and  failure  will  not  be  le?s  so.  With  the 
prospect  that  lies  before  us,  the  be.st  thing, 
perhaps,  that  we  can  do  is  to  go  on,  boasting 
of  the  unparalleled  excellence  we  have  at- 
tained. But  how  speedily  should  our  boastings 
be  silenced  if  the  present  race  of  children 
should  be  succeeded  by  a  generation  of  men ! 
Here  is  a  theory,"  concludes  the  worthy  Baron, 
a  little  alarmed  it  would  seem  at  his  own  te- 
merity, "which  it  would  be  easy  to  confirm 
and  illustiate  much  more  completely — if  a 
man  had  a  desire  to  be  stoned  to  death  before 
the  door  of  the  Theatre  Francois!  But.  in  the 
mean  time,  till  I  am  better  prepared  for  the 
honours  of  martyrdom,  I  must  entreat  you  to 
keep  the  secret  of  my  infidelity  to  yourself." 

Diderot  holds  very  nearly  the  same  lan- 
guage. After  a  long  dissertation  upon  the 
diflference  between  real  and  artificial  dignity, 
he  proceeds, — ■•  What  follows,  then,  from  all 
this — but  that  tragedy  is  still  to  be  invented 
in  France  ;  and  that  the  ancients,  with  all  their 
faults,  were  probably  much  nearer  inventing 
it  than  we  have  been  ? — Noble  actions  and 
sentiments,  with  simple  and  familiar  language, 
are  among  its  first  elements  ; — and  I  strongly 
suspect,  that  for  these  two  hundred  years,  we 
have  mistaken  the  stateline.ss  of  Mailrid  for 
the  heroism  of  Rome.  If  once  a  man  of  ge- 
nius shall  venture  to  give  to  his  characters 
and  to  his  diction  the  simplicity  of  ancient 
dignity,  plays  and  players  will  be  very  differ- 
ent things  from  what  they  are  now.  But  how 
much  of  this,"  he  adds  also  in  a  fit  of  sympa- 
thetic terror,  '-could  I  venture  to  say  to  any 
body  but  you  !  I  should  be  pelted  in  the 
streets,  if  I  were  but  suspected  of  the  blas- 
phemies I  have  just  uttered." 

With  the  assistance  of  two  such  allies,  we 
shall  renew  the  combat  against  the  Continental 
dramatists  with  fresh  spirits  and  confidence  ; 
and  shall  probably  find  an  early  opportunity 
to  brave  the  field,  upon  that  important  theme. 
In  the  mean  time  we  shall  only  remark,  that 
we  suspect  there  is  something  more  than  an 
analogy  between  the  government  and  political 
constilution  of  the  two  countries,  and  the  char- 
acter of  their  drama.  The  tragedy  of  the 
Continent  is  conceived  in  the  very  genius  and 


spirit  of  absolute  monarchy — the  same  ariiii- 
cial  staleliness — the  same  slow  moving  of  few 
persons — the  same  suppression  of  ordinary 
emotions,  and  ostentatious  display  of  lofty 
sentiments,  and.  finally,  the  same  jealousy  of 
the  interference  of  lower  agents,  and  the  same 
horror  of  vulgarity  and  tumiUt.  When  we 
consider  too.  that  in  the  countries  where  this 
form  of  the  drama  has  been  established,  the 
Court  is  the  chief  patron  of  the  theatre,  and 
courtiers  almost  its  only  supporters,  we  shall 
probably  be  inclined  to  thnik  that  this  uni- 
formity of  character  is  not  a  mere  accidental 
coincidence,  but  that  the  same  causes  which 
have  stamped  those  attributes  on  the  serious 
hours  of  its  rulers,  have  extended  them  to 
those  mimic  representations  which  were  orig- 
inally devised  for  their  amusement.  In  Eng- 
land, again,  our  drama  has  all  along  partaken 
of  the  mixed  nature  of  our  government. — 
persons  of  all  degrees  take  a  share  in  both, 
each  in  his  own  peculiar  character  and  fashion: 
and  the  result  has  been,  in  both,  a  much 
greater  activity,  ^^riety.  and  vigour,  than  was 
ever  exhibited  under  a  more  exclusive  system. 
In  England,  too.  the  stage  has  in  general  been 
dependent  on  the  nation  at  large,  and  not  on 
the  favour  of  the  Court ; — and  it  is  natural  to 
suppose  that  the  character  of  its  exhibitions 
has  been  affected  by  a  due  consideration  of 
that  of  the  miscellaneous  patron  whose  feel- 
ings it  was  its  business  to  gratify  and  refiect. 
After  having  said  so  much  about  the  stage, 
we  cannot  afford  room  either  for  the  quarrels 
or  witticisms  of  the  actors,  which  are  report- 
ed at  great  length  in  these  volumes — or  for 
the  absurdities,  however  ludicrous,  of  the 
"  Diou  de  Dam^c'''  as  old  Vestris  ycleped  him- 
self— or  even  the  famous  '•  affaire  du  Mcnuct'^ 
which  distracted  the  whole  court  of  France 
at  the  marriage  of  the  late  King.  We  can 
allow  only  a  sentence  indeed  to  the  elaborate 
dissertation  in  which  Diderot  endeavours  to 
prove  that  an  actor  is  all  the  worse  for  having 
any  feeling  of  the  passions  he  represents,  and 
is  never  so  sure  to  agitate  the  souls  of  his 
hearers  as  when  his  own  is  perfectly  at  ease. 
We  are  persuaded  that  this  is  not  correctly 
true; — though  it  might  take  more  distinctions 
than  the  subject  is  worth,  to  fix  precisely 
where  the  truth  lies.  It  is  plain  we  think, 
however,  that  a  good  actor  must  have  a  capa- . 
city,  at  least,  of  all  the  passions  whose  lan- 
guage he  mimics, — and  we  are  rather  inclined 
to  think,  that  he  must  also  have  a  transient, 
feeling  of  them,  whenever  his  mimicry  is 
very  successful.  That  the  emotion  should  be 
very  short-lived,  and  should  eive  way  to  tri- 
vial or  comic  sensation.s,  with  very  little  in- 
terval, affords  but  a  slender  presumption 
against  its  reality,  when  we  consider  how, 
rapidly  such  contradictory  feelings  succeed 
each  other,  in  light  minds,  in  the  real  busiiies&i 
of  life.  That  real  passion,  again,  never  would: 
be  so  graceful  and  dignified  as  the  counter-, 
feited  passion  of  the  stage,  is  either  an  im-; 
peachment  of  the  accuracy  of  the  copy,  or  a 
contradiction  in  tei-ms.  The  real  passion  of  s 
noble  and  dignified  character  must  always  be, 
dignified  and  graceful, — and  if  Csesar,  wher. 


BARON  DE  GRIMM. 


141 


actually  bleeding  In  the  Senate-house,  folded 
his  robe  around  him,  that  he  might  fall  with 
decorum  at  the  feet  of  his  assassins,  why 
should  we  say  that  it  is  out  of  nature  for  a 
player,  both  to  sympathise  with  the  passions 
of  his  hero,  and  to  think  of  the  figure  he 
makes  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectators  ?  Strouy; 
conception  is,  perhaps  in  every  case,  attended 
with  a  temporary  belief  of  the  reality  of  its 
objects; — and  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to 
copy  with  tolerable  success  the  symptoms  of 
a  powerful  emotion,  without  a  very  lively  ap- 
prehension and  recollection  of  its  actual  pre- 
sence. We  have  no  idea,  we  own.  that  the 
copy  can  ever  be  given  without  some  partici- 
pation in  the  emotion  itself — or  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  repeat  pathetic  words,  and  with  the 
true  tone  and  gestures  of  passion,  with  the 
same  indifference  with  which  a  schoolboy  re- 
peats his  task,  or  a  juggler  his  deceptions. 
The  feeling,  we  believe,  is  often  very  mo- 
mentary; and  it  is  this  which  has  misled 
those  who  have  doubted  of  its  existence. 
But  there  are  many  strong  feelings  equally 
fleeting  and  undeniable  The  feelings  of  the 
spectators,  in  the  theatre,  though  fretjuently 
more  keen  than  they  experience  anywhere 
else,  are  in  general  infinitely  less  durable  than 
those  e.vcited  by  real  transactions ;  and  a  lu- 
dicrous incident  or  blunder  in  the  perform- 
ance, will  carry  the  whole  house,  in  an  instant, 
from  sobbing  to  ungovernable  laughter  :  Ami 
even  in  real  life,  we  have  everyday  occasion 
to  observe,  how  quickly  the  busy,  the  dissi- 
pated, the  frivolous,  and  the  very  youthful. 
can  pass  from  one  powerful  and  engrossing 
emotion  to  another.  The  daily  life  of  Vol- 
taire, we  think,  might  have  furnished  Diderot 
with  as  many  and  as  striking  instances  of  the 
actual  succession  of  incongruous  emotions,  as 
he  has  collected  from  the  theatrical  life  of 
Sophie  Arnoud,  to  prove  that  one  part  of  the 
succession  must  necessarily  have  been  ficti- 
tious. 

There  are  various  traits  of  the  oppressions 
and  abuses  of  the  government,  incidentally 
noticed  in  this  work,  which  maintains,  on  the 
whole,  a  very  aristocratical  tone  of  politics. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  relates  to  no  less 
a  person  than  the  Marechal  de  Saxe.  This 
great  warrior,  who  is  known  never  to  have 
taken  the  field  without  a  small  travelling  se- 
raglio in  his  suite,  had  engaged  a  certain 
Mad  lie.  Chantilly  to  attend  him  in  one  of  his 
cam,pai2:ns.  The  lady  could  not  prudently 
decline  the  honour  of  the  invitation,  because 
she  was  very  poor :  but  her  heart  and  soul 
were  devoted  to  a  young  pastry  cook  of  the 
name  of  Favart,  for  whose  sake  she  at  last 
broke  out  of  the  Marshal's  camp,  and  look 
refuge  in  the  arms  of  her  lover  ;  who  reward- 
ed her  heroism  by  immediately  making  her 
his  wife.  The  history  of  the  Marshal's  la- 
mentation oil  fi.'iding  himself  dt^si^rted.  is 
purely  ridiculous,  and  is  very  well  told  ;  but 
our  feelings  take  a  very  different  character.  | 
when,  upon  reading  a  little  farther,  we  finil  i 
that  this  illustrioas  person  had  the  baseness  I 
and  brutality  to  apply  to  his  sovereign  for  a  I 
lettre  de  cachet  to  force  this  unfortunate  womati  | 


from  the  arms  of  her  lawful  husband,  and  to 
compel  her  to  submit  again  to  hisembraces, — 
and  that  the  court  was  actually  guilty  of  the 
incredible  atrocity  of  granting  such  an  order! 
It  was  not  only  granted,  M.  (irimm  assures 
us,  but  executed, — and  this  poor  creature  was 
dragged  from  the  house  of  her  husband,  and 
coiiducteil  by  a  fili»  oi  grenadiers  totheijuar- 
ters  of  his  highness,  where  she  remained  till 
his  death,  the  unwilling  and  disgusted  victim 
of  his  sensuality !  It  is  scarcely  possible  to 
regret  the  subversion  of  a  form  of  govern- 
ment, that  admitted,  if  but  once  in  a  century, 
of  abuses  so  enormous  as  this:  But  the  tone 
ill  which  IM.  Grimin  notices  it.  as  a  mere/o(- 
blcssc  on  the  part  of  le  Graud  Maurice,  gives 
us  reason  to  think  that  it  was  by  no  means 
without  a  parallel  in  the  contemporary  history. 
In  England,  we  verily  believe,  there  never 
was  a  time  in  which  it  would  not  have  pro- 
duced insurrection  or  assassination. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  passages  in 
this  philosophical  journal,  is  that  which  con- 
tains the  author's  estimate  of  the  advantages 
and  disadvantages  of  philosophy.  Not  being 
much  more  of  an  optimist  than  ourselves,  IVl. 
Grimm  thinks  that  good  and  evil  are  pretty 
fairly  distributed  to  the  difierent  generations 
of  men;  and  that,  if  an  age  of  philosophy  be 
happier  in  some  respects  than  one  of  ignor 
ance  and  prejudice,  there  are  particulars  in 
which  it  is  not  so  fortunate.  Philosophy,  he 
thinks,  is  the  necessary  fruit  of  a  certain  ex- 
perience and  a  certain  maturity  ;  and  implies, 
in  nations  as  well  as  individuals,  the  extinc- 
tion of  some  of  the  pleasures  as  well  as  the 
follies  of  early  life.  All  nations,  he  observes, 
have  begun  with  poetry,  and  ended  with  phi- 
losophy— or,  rather,  have  passed  through  the 
region  of  philosophy  in  their  way  to  that  of 
stupidity  and  dotage.  They  lose  the  poetical 
passion,  therefore,  before  they  acquire  the 
taste  for  speculation  :  and.  with  it.  they  lose 
all  faith  in  those  allusions,  and  all  interest  in 
those  trifles  which  make  the  happiness  of  the 
brightest  portion  of  our  existence.  If,  in  this 
advanced  stase  of  society,  men  are  less  brutal, 
they  are  also  less  enthusiastic: — if  they  are 
more  habitually  beneficent,  they  have  less 
warmth  of  affection.  They  are  delivered  in- 
deeil  from  the  yoke  of  many  prejudices;  but 
at  the  same  time  deprived  of  many  motives 
of  action.  They  are  more  prudent,  but  more 
anxious — are  more  affected  with  the  general 
interests  of  mankind,  but  feel  less  for  their 
neighbours;  and,  while  curiosity  takes  the 
place  of  admiration,  are  more  enlightened,  but 
far  less  delighted  with  the  universe  in  which 
they  are  placed. 

The  effect  of  this  philosophical  .spirit  on  the 
arts,  is  evidently  unfavourable  on  the  whole. 
Their  end  and  object  is  delight,  and  that  of 
philosophy  is  truth:  and  the  talent  that  seeks 
to  instruct,  will  rarely  condescend  to  aim 
merely  at  })leasiM<r.  Ivacine  and  Moliore,  and 
HoileaU;  were  stitislied  with  furnishing  amuse- 
ment to  such  men  as  Louis  XI\"..  aiul  Colbert, 
and  Turenne;  but  the  geniuses  of  ihe  pres- 
ent day  pretend  to  nothing  less  than  enlight- 
ening their  rulers  :  and  the  same  young  men 


142 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY 


who  would  formerly  have  made  their  debut 
with  a  pastoral  or  a  tra^redy,  now  generally 
leave  college  with  a  new  system  of  philoso- 
phy and  government  in  their  portfolios.  The 
very  metaphysical,  prying,  and  exjrounding 
turn  of  mind  tliat  is  nonrished  by  the  spirit 
of  philosophy,  unquestionably  deadens  our 
sensibility  to  those  enjoyments  which  it  con- 
verts into  subjects  of  speculation.  It  busies 
itself  in  endeavouring  to  understand  those 
emotions  wiiich  a  simpler  age  was  contented 
with  eiijoyiiiir:— and  seeking,  hke  Psyche,  to 
have  a  tlistinct  view  of  the  sources  of  our 
pleasures,  is  punished,  like  her.  by  their  in- 
stant annihilation. 

Religion,  too,  continues  M.  Grimm,  consid- 
ered as  a  source  of  enjoyment  or  consolation 
in  this  world,  has  suffered  from  the  progress 
of  philosophy,  exactly  as  the  tine  arts  and  af- 
fections have  done.  It  has  no  doubt  become 
infinitely  more  rational,  and  less  liable  to 
atrocious  perversions ;  but  then  it  has  also 
become  much  less  enchanting  and  ecstatic — 
much  less  prolific  of  sublime  raptures,  bea- 
tific visions,  and  lofty  enthusiasm.  It  has 
suffered,  in  short,  in  the  common  disenchant- 
ment ;  and  the  same  cold  spirit  which  has 
chased  so  many  lovely  illusions  from  the  earth, 
has  dispeopled  heaven  of  half  its  marvels  and 
its  splendours. 

We  could  enlarge  with  pleasure  upon  these 
just  and  interesting  speculations;  but  it  is 
tim.e  we  should  think  of  drawing  this  article 
to  a  close  ;  and  we  must  take  notice  of  a  very 
extraordinary  transaetion  which  M.  Grimm 
has  recorded  with  regard  to  the  final  publica- 
tion of  the  celebrated  Encyclopedic.  The  re- 
daction of  this  great  work,  it  is  known,  was 
ultimately  confided  to  Diderot ;  who  thought 
it  best,  after  the  disturbances  that  had  been 
excited  by  the  separate  publication  of  some 
of  the  earlier  vohimeS;  to  keep  up  the  whole 
of  the  last  ten  till  the  printing  was  finished: 
and  then  to  put  forth  the  complete  work  at 
once.  A  bookseller  of  the  name  of  Breton. 
who  was  a  joint  proprietor  of  the  work,  had 
the  charge  of  the  mechanical  part  of  the  con- 
cern ;  but,  being  wholly  illiterate,  and  indeed 
without  pretensions  to  literature,  had  of 
course  no  concern  with  the  correction,  or  even 
the  perusal  of  the  text.  This  person,  how- 
ever, who  had  heard  of  the  clamours  and 
threatened  prosecutions  which  were  excited 
by  the  freedom  of  some  articles  in  the  earlier 
volumes,  took  it  into  his  head,  that  the  value 
and  security  of  the  property  might  be  improv- 
ed, by  a  prudent  castJg-ation  of  the  remaining 
parts;  and  accordingly,  after  receiving  from 
Diderot  the  last  jiroofs  arid  revises  of  the  dif- 
ferent articles,  took  tliem  home,  and,  with  the 
assistance  of  another  tradesman,  scored  out, 
altered,  and  suppressed,  at  their  own  discre- 
tion, all  the  passages  which  th(;yin  their  wis- 
dom apprehended  might  give  offence  to  the 
court,  or  the  church,  or  any  other  persons  in 
authority — giving  themselves,  for  the  most 
part,  no  sort  of  trouble  to  connect  the  disjoint- 
ed passages  that  wore  left  after  these  mutila- 
tions— and  sometimes  soldering  them  together 
with  masses  of  their  own  stupid  vulgarity. 


After  these  precious  ameliorations  were  com- 
pleted, they  threw  of  the  full  impression; 
and.  to  make  all  sure  and  irremediable,  con- 
signed both  the  manuscript  and  the  original 
proofs  to  the  tiames  !  Such,  says  M.  Gnmm, 
is  the  true  explanation  of  that  mass  of  im- 
pertinences, contradictions,  and  incoherences, 
with  which  all  the  world  has  been  stiuck.  in 
the  last  ten  volumes  of  this  great  compilation. 
It  was  not  discovered  till  the  very  eve  of  the 
publication  :  when  Diderot  having  a  desire  to 
look  back  to  one  of  his  own  articles,  printed 
some  years  before,  with  difficulty  obtained  a 
copy  of  the  sheets  containing  it  from  the 
warehouse  of  M.  Breton — ancl  founil,  to  his 
horror  and  consternation,  that  it  had  been  gar- 
bled and  mutilated,  in  the  manner  we  have 
just  stated.  His  rage  and  vexation  on  the 
discovery,  are  well  expressed  in  a  long  letter 
to  Breton,  which  M.  Grimm  has  engrossed  in 
his  register.  The  mi.schief  however  was  ir- 
remediable, without  an  intolerable  delay  and 
expense;  and  as  it  was  impossible,  for  the 
editor  to  take  any  steps  to  bring  Breton  to 
punishment  for  this  '-horrible  forfait,""  with- 
out openly  avowing  the  intended  publication 
of  a  work  which  the  court  only  tolerated  by 
affecting  ignorance  of  its  existence,  it  was  at 
last  resolved,  with  many  tears  of  rage  and 
vexation,  to  keep  the  abomination  secret — at 
least  till  it  was  proclaimed  by  the  ip.tlignant 
denunciations  of  the  respective  authors  whose 
works  had  been  subjected  to  such  cmel  mu- 
tilation. The  most  surprising  part  of  the 
stoi-)-  however  is,  that  none  of  these  authors 
ever  made  any  complaint  about  the  matter 
Whether  the  number  of  years  that  hail  elaps- 
ed since  the  time  when  most  of  them  haci 
furnished  their  papers,  had  made  them  in-' 
sensible  of  the  alterations — whether  they  be- 
lieved the  change  effected  by  the  lase  ham 
of  Breton  to  have  originated  with  Diderot 
their  legal  censor — or  that,  in  fact,  the  altera 
tions  were  chiefly  in  the  articles  of  the  saii 
Diderot  himself,  we  cannot  pretend  to  say 
but  M.  Grimm  assures  us,  that,  to  his  asloii 
ishment  and  that  of  Diderot,  the  muiilatei 
publication,  when  it  at  last  made  its  ajijieai 
ance,  was  very  quietly  received  by  the  in 
jured  authors  as  their  authentic  produclioi 
and  apologies  humbly  made,  by  some  of  then 
for  imperfertions  that  had  been  created  b; 
the  beast  of  a  publisher. 

There  are  many  curious  and  original  ane<' 
I  dotes  of  the  Empress  of  Russia  in  this  book 
,  and  as  she  always  appeared  to  adviintag 
I  where  munificence  and  clemency  to  individi 
i  als  were  concerned,  they  are  certainly  calci 
I  lated  to  give  us  a  very  favourable  irnpressic 
of  that  extraordinary  woman.  We  can  oa' 
j  afford  room  now  for  one,  which  characterisii 
j  the  nation  as  well  as  its  sovereign.  A  pop' 
I  lar  poet,  of  the  name  of  Sumarokoff.  tit' 
quarrelled  with  the  leading  actress  at  Moscow' 
and  protestetl  that  she  should  never  aga' 
have  the  honour  to  perform  in  any  of  his  tr 
gedies.  The  Governor  of  Moscow,  howeve 
not  being  aware  of  this  theatrical  feu 
thought  lit  to  order  one  of  Sumarokoff  s  ti-ag' 
dies  for  representation,  and  also  to  commaj 


LIFE  AND  \TOITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIKKI. 


143 


the  services  of  the  offending  actress  on  the 
tfccasion.     Sumarokoff  did  not  venture  to  take 
j  any  step  against  his  Excellency  the  Gover- 
!  nor;  but  when  the  heroine  advanced  in  full 
:  Muscovite  costume  on  the  stage,  the  indig- 
nant poet    ru.-;hed   forward  from   behind  the 
scenes,  seized  her  reluctantly  by  the  collar 
and  waist,  and  tossed  her  furiously  fiom  the 
boards.    He  then  went  home,  and  indited  two 
querulous  and  sublime  epistles  to  the  Em- 
press.   Catherine,  in  the  midst  of  her  gigantic 
schemes  of  conquest  and  improvement,  had 
the  patience  to  sit  down  and  address  the  fol- 
;  lowing  good-humoured  and  sensible  exhorta- 
tion to  the  disorderetl  bard. 

1  "  Monsieur  Sumarokoff,  j'ai  cte  fort  cionnee  de 
I  votre  Jettre  dn  28  Janvier,  el  encore  plus  dc  celie 
j  du  premier  t'evrier.  Toutes  deu.v  coniienncnt,  :i 
CO  qu'il  me  semble,  dcs  plaintes  centre  la  Belmoii- 
tia  qui  pourtatit  n'a  fait  que  suivre  les  ordres  du 
comte  tfoltikoff.  Le  feld-marechal  a  desire  de  voir 
represenier  voire  iragcdie;  cela  vous  tait  honneur. 
II  eiait  conveiiable  de  vous  conformer  audesirde  la 
premiere  personiie  en  autorite  a  Moscou ;  mais  si 
elle  a  juge  a  propos  d'ordonner  que  cette  piece  ful 
representee,  ii  fallait  e.xecuicr  sa  volonte  sans  con- 
i  testation.  Je  crois  que  vous  savez  mieux  que  per- 
sonne  combien  de  respect  incriient  des  luimmes  qui 
out  scrvi  avec  gloire,  et  dont  la  tele  est  couverte  de 
cheveux  biaucs ;  c'est  pourquoi  je  vous  conseille 
d'eviier  de  pareilles  disputes  a  I'avenir.  Par  ce 
:moyenvous  conserverez  la  tranquiliite  d'ame  qui 
'est  necessaire  pour  vos  ouvrages,  et  il  me  sera  tou- 
jours  plus  agreable  de  voir  les  passions  representees 
dans  vos  dramas  quede  les  lire  dans  vos  leitres. 

"Au  surplus,  je  suis  votre  affectionnee. 
I  Signi  Catheri.ne." 

!  "  Je  conseille,"  adds  M.  Grimm,  "a  tout  min- 
isire  charge  du  deparienient  dcs  lettres  de  cachet, 
i  [d'enregisirer  ce  formulaire  a  son  sreffe,  et  a  tout 
[hasard  de  n'en  jamais  delivrer  d'autres  aux  poeles 
I  let  fi  tout  ce  qui  a  droit  d'eire  du  genre  irritable, 
'  Ic'est-a-dire  enfant  et  fou  par  ctat.  Apres  celle 
'  lleirre  qui  nierite  peui-etre  autant  Timmortalite  que 
;  lies  minnmcns  de  la  sagps.=e  et  de  la  gloire  du  regne 
t  iactuel  de  la  Russie,  je  meurs  de  peur  de  m'afformir 
(  jdans  la  pensee  heretique  que  I'esprit  ne  gate  jamais 
,  irien,  meme  sur  le  trone." 

!i  i  But  it  is  at  last  necessary  to  close  these  en- 
1  teHaining  volumes. — though  we  have  not 
ti  been  able  to  furnish  our  readers  with  any 
3  jthiiTg  Uke  a  fair  spepimen  of  their  various  and 
i 
t 


[  miscellaneous  contents.  Whoever  \\islies  to 
,  see  the  economist  wittily  abused — to  read  a 
full  and  picturesque  account  ot  the  tragical 
rejoicings  that  tilled  Paris  with  mourning  at 
the  marriage  of  the  late  King — to  Irani  how 
Pan]  Jones  was  a  writer  of  j)astorals  and  love 
songs — or  how  they  made  carriages  of  leather, 
and  evaj)orated  diamonds  in  1772 — to  trace 
the  debCd  of  Matlame  de  Staiil  as  an  aullior  at 
the  age  of  twelve,  in  the  year ! — to  un- 
derstand ]\I.  Grimm's  notions  on  suicide  and 
happiness — to  know  in  what  the  vnnpie  charm 
of  IMadlle.  Thcvcnvi  consisted — and  in  what 
manner  the  disiiute  between  the  patrons  of 
the  French  and  the  Italian  music  was  con- 
ducted— will  do  well  to  peruse  the  (ive  thick 
volumes,  in  which  ihe.'^e,  and  innumerable 
other  matters  of  eijual  importance  are  dis- 
cussed, Avith  the  talent  a.nd  vivacity  with 
which  the  reaihn-  miist  have  been  struck,  in 
the  least  of  the  foregoing  extracts. 

We  add  but  one  trivial  remark,  which  is 
forced  upon  us.  indeed,  at  almost  every  page 
of  this  correspondence.  The  jirofession  of  lit- 
erature must  be  much  wholcsomer  in  France 
than  in  any  other  country: — for  though  the 
volumes  before  us  may  be  regarded  as  a  great 
literary  obituary,  and  record  the  deaths,  we 
suppose,  of  more  than  an  hundred  per.sons  of 
some  note  in  the  world  of  letters,  we  scarcely 
meet  with  an  individual  who  is  less  than 
seventy  or  eighty  years  of  age — and  no  very 
small  proportion  actually  last  till  near  ninety 
or  an  himdred — although  the  greater  part  of 
them  seem  neither  to  have  lodged  so  high, 
nor  lived  so  ]o\\.  as  their  more  active  and  ab- 
stemious brethren  in  other  cities.  ]\I.  Grimm 
observes  that,  by  a  remarkable  fatality,  Eu- 
rope was  deprived,  in  the  course  of  little  move 
than  six  months,  of  the  splendid  and  com- 
manding talents  of  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Haller, 
j  Linnaeus,  Heidegger,  Lord  Chatham,  and  Le 
:  Kain — a  constellation  of  genius,  he  adds,  that 
I  when  it  set  to  us,  must  liave  carried  a  dazzling 
t  light  into  the  domains  of  the  King  of  Terrors, 
and  excited  no  small  alarm  in  his  ministers — 
if  they  bear  any  resemblance  to  the  ministers 
!  of  other  sovereigns. 


(lanuanj,  1810.) 

Me'mjoirs  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Victor  Alfikri.     Written  by  Himscll.     2  vols.  8vo. 
pp.  614.     London:  1810. 

great  leading  features  in  the  mind  of  Alficri. 
Strengthened;  and  in  some  degree  produced, 
by  a  loose  and  injudicious  education,  those 
traits  were  still  further  developed  by  the  pre- 
mature a)id  protracted  indulgences  of  a  very 
dissipated  youth;  and  when,  at  last,  they  arf- 
mitted  of  an  application  to  study,  imparted 
their  own  character  of  impetuosity  to  those 
more  meritorious  exertions: — converted  a 
taste  into  a  passion ;  and  left  him.  for  a  great 
part  of  his  life,  under  the  ii:flH(  ice  of  a  M;<; 
and   irresistible  inspiraticn.     Every  thing  i:i 


This  book  contains  the  delineation  of  an 
f'Xtraordinary  and  not  very  engaging  charac- 
ter; and  an  imperfect  sketch  of  the  rise  and 
progress  of  a  great  poetical  genius.  It  is  de- 
erving  of  notice  in  both  capacities — but 
I'hiefly  in  the  first;  as  there  probably  never 
was  an  instance  in  which  the  work.s  of  an 
author  were  more  likely  to  be  influenced  by 
fciis  personal  peculiarities.  Pride  and  enthu- 
siasm— irrepressiVjle  vehemence  and  ambition 
nd  an  arrogant,  fastidious,  and  sorinewhat 
narrow  system  of  taste  and  opinions,  were  the 


144 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


him,  indeed,  appears  to  have  been  passion  and 
uugovenied  impulse;  and.  while  he  was 
raised  above  the  common  level  of  his  degene- 
rate countrymen  by  a  stern  and  self-willed 
hauglitiiiess,  that  might  have  become  an  an- 
cient Roman,  he  was  chiefly  distinguished 
from  other  erect  spirits  by  the  vehemence 
which  formed  the  basis  of  his  character,  and 
by  the  uncontrolled  dominion  which  he  al- 
lowed to  his  various  and  successive  propensi- 
ties. So  constantly  and  entirely,  indeed,  was 
he  under  the  influence  of  these  domineering 
attachments,  that  his  whole  life  and  character 
might  be  summed  up  by  describing  him  as 
the  victim,  successively,  of  a  passion  for 
horses — a  passion  for  travelling — a  passion  for 
literature — and  a  passion  for  what  he  called 
independence. 

The  memoirs  of  such  a  life,  and  the  con- 
fessions of  such  a  man,  seem  to  hold  out  a 
promise  of  no  common  interest  and  amuse- 
ment. Yet,  though  they  are  here  presented 
to  us  with  considerable  fulness  and  apparent 
fidelity,  we  cannot  say  that  we  have  been 
much  amu.sed  or  interested  by  the  perusal. 
There  is  a  proud  coldness  in  the  narrative, 
which  neither  invites  sympathy,  nor  kindles 
the  imagination.  The  author  seems  to  dis- 
dain giving  himself  en  spectacle  to  his  readers; 
and  chronicles  his  various  acts  of  extrava- 
gance and  fits  of  passion,  with  a  sober  and 
languid  gravity,  to  which  we  can  recollect  no 
parallel.  In  this  review  of  the  events  and 
feelings  of  a  life  of  adventure  and  agitation, 
he  is  never  once  J)etrayed  into  the  genuine 
language  of  emotion  :  but  dwells  on  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood  without  tenderness,  and  on 
the  struggles  and  tumults  of  his  riper  years 
without  any  sort  of  animation.  We  look  in 
vain  through  the  whole  narrative  for  one 
gleam  of  that  magical  elo(}uence  by  which 
Rou.sseau  transports  us  into  the  scenes  he  de- 
scribes, and  into  the  heart  which  responded 
to  those  scenes, — or  even.for  a  trait  of  that 
social  garrulity  which  has  enabled  Marmontel 
and  Cumberland  to  give  a  grace  to  obsolete 
anecdote,  and  to  people  the  whole  space 
around  them  with  living  pictures  of  the  beings 
among  whom  they  existed.  There  is  not  one 
character  attempted,  from  beginning  to  end 
of  this  biography  ; — which  is  neither  livelj',  in 
short,  nor  elocjuent — neither  playful,  impas- 
sioned, nor  sarcastic.  Neither  is  it  a  mere 
unassuming  outline  of  the  author's  history  and 
publications,  like  the  short  notices  of  Hume 
or  Smith.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  pretty  co- 
pious and  minute  narrative  of  all  his  feelings 
and  adventures;  and  contains,  as  we  should 
suppose,  a  tolerably  accurate  enumeration  of 
his  migrations,  prejudices,  and  antipathies.  It 
i.s  not  that  he  does  not  condescend  to  talk 
about  trilling  things,  but  that  he  will  not  talk 
about  them  in  a  lively  or  interesting  manner: 
and  .systematically  declines  investing  any  part 
of  his  statement  with  those  pictures(|ue  de- 
tails, and  that  warm  colouring,  by  which  alone 
the  story  of  an  individual  can  oftcMi  excite 
much  interest  among  strangers.  Though  we 
have  not  been  able  to  .see  the  original  of  the.se 
Memoirs,  we  will  venture  to  add,   that  they 


are  by  no  means  well  written ;  and  that  they 
will  form  no  exception  to  the  general  obser- 
vation, that  almost  all  Italian  prose  is  feeble 
and  deficient  in  precision.  There  is  some- 
thing, indeed,  quite  remarkable  in  the  wordi- 
ness of  most  of  the  modern  writers  in  this 
langxiage, — the  very  copiousness  and  smooth- 
ness of  which  seems  to  form  an  apology  for 
the  want  of  force  or  exactness — and  to  hide, 
with  its  sweet  and  uniform  flow,  both  from 
the  writer  and  the  reader,  that  penury  of 
thought,  and  loo.^eness  of  reasoning,  which 
are  so  easily  detected  when  it  is  rendered  into 
a  harsher  dialect.  Unsatisfactory,  hovever, 
as  they  are  in  many  particulars,  it  is  still  im- 
possible to  peruse  the  memoirs  of  such  a  man 
as  Alileri  without  interest  and  gratihcation. 
The  traits  of  ardour  and  originality  that  are 
disclosed  through  all  the  reserve  and  gravity 
of  the  style,  beget  a  continual  expectation  and 
curiosity;  and  even  those  parts  of  the  story 
which  seem  to  belong  rather  to  his  youth, 
rank,  and  education,  than  to  his  genius  or  pe- 
culiar character,  acquire  a  degree  of  imjiort- 
ance,  from  considering  how  far  those  very 
circumstances  may  have  assisted  the  forma- 
tion, and  obstructed  the  development  of  that 
character  and  genius;  and  in  what  respect* 
its  peculiarities  may  be  referred  to  the  obsta- 
cles it  had  to  encounter,  in  misguidance, 
passion,  and  prejudice. 

Alfieri  was  born  at  Asti.  in  Piedmont,  of 
noble  and  rich,  but  illiterate  parents,  in  Janu 
ary  1749.  The  history  ot  his  childhood 
which  fills  five  chapters,  contains  iiothinL 
very  remarkable.  The  earliest  thing  he  re 
members,  is  being  fed  with  sweetmeats  b} 
an  old  uncle  with  square-toed  shoes.  He  wa 
educated  at  home  by  a  good-natured,  slupii 
priest;  and  having  no  brother  of  his  own  agr 
was  without  any  friend  or  companion  for  th 
greater  part  of  his  childhood.  When  abou 
seven  years  old,  he  falls  in  love  with  th 
smooth  faces  of  some  male  novice^  in  a  iieigl 
bouring  church;  and  is  obliged  to  walk  abo; 
with  a  green  net  on  his  hair,  as  a  punishinei 
for  libbing.  To  the  agony  which  he  endure 
from  this  infliction,  he  ascribes  his  scrupiiloi: 
adherence  to  truth  through  the  rest  of  h;s  life 
— all  this  notwithstanding,  he  is  tempti  d  t 
steal  a  fan  from  an  old  lady  in  the  fainil; 
and  grows  silent,  melancholy,  and  reservec 
— at  last,  when  about  ten  years  of  age.  he  ' 
sent  to  the  academy  at  Turin. 

This  migration  atldsbut  little  to  the  intere 
of  the  narrative,  or  the  improvement  of  tl 
writer.  The  academy  was  a  great,  ill-reg 
lated  establishment ;  in  one  quarter  of  whi( 
the  pages  of  the  court,  and  foreigners  of  tli 
tinction,  were  indulged  in  everv  sort  of  dis: 
pation — while  the  younger  pupils  were  stowt 
into  filthy  cells,  ill  fed,  and  worse  educate 
There  he  learned  a  little  Latin,  and  tried, 
vain,  to  acquire  the  elements  ot  mathematic 
for,  after  the  painful  application  of  sevei 
month.s,  he  was  never  able  to  comprehei 
the  fourth  j)roposition  of  Euclid  ;  and  four 
he  says,  all  his  life  after,  that  he  had  '=a  coi 
pleteiv  anti-geometrical  head."  From  t^ 
bad  diet,  and  preposterously  early  hours 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  MCTOR  ALFIERI. 


145 


the  academy,  he  soon  fell  into  wretched  | 
health,  and,  growing  more  melancholy  and 
solitary  than  ever,  became  covered  over  with 
sores  and  ulcers.  Even  in  this  situation, 
however,  a  little  glimmering  of  literary  ambi- 
tion became  visible.  He  procured  a  copy  of 
Anosto  from  a  voracious  schoolfellow,  by  giv- 
ing up  to  him  his  share  of  the  chickens  which 
fonned  their  Sunday  regale  ;  and  read  Metas- 
tasio  and  Gil  Bias  with  great  ardour  and  de- 
light. The  inflammability  of  his  imagination, 
however,  was  more  strikingly  manifested  in 
ifhe  etfects  of  the  first  opera  to  which  he  was 
admitted,  when  he  was  only  about  twelve 
years  of  age. 

"  This  varied  and  enchanting  music,"  he    ob- 
serves, sunk  deep  into  my  soul,  and  made  the  most 
astinishing  impression  on  my  imaginaiion  ; — it  agi- 
t.ited   the  inmost  recesses  of  my  heart   to  such  a 
degree,  that  for  several  weeks  I  e.\perienced  the 
most  profound  melancholy,  which  was  not,  how- 
ever, wholly  unattended  with  pleasure.     I  became 
tired  and  disgusted  with  my  studies,  while  at  the 
same  time  the  most  wild  and  whimsical  ideas  took 
such  possession  of  my  mind,  as  would  have  led  me 
So  portray  them  in  the  most  impassioned  verses, 
had  I  not  been  wholly  unacquaiined  with  the  true 
lature  of  my  own  feelings.     It  was  the  first  time 
Tiusic  had  produced  such  a  poweriul  effect  on  my 
Tiind.     I  had  never  experienced  any  thing  similar, 
and  it  long  remained  engraven  on   my  memory. 
When  I  recollect  the  feelings  excited  by  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  grand  operas,  at  which  I  was  pre- 
sent  during  several  carnivals,  and  compare  tiiein 
ivith  I  hose  which  I  now  e.xperience,  on  reiuriiins 
iom  the  performance  of  a  piece  I  have   not  wii- 
iessed  for  some   time,  I  am   fully  convinced   that 
-  ^•■"■:ig  acts  so  powerfully  on  my  mind  as  all  spe- 
{  music,  and  particularly  the  sound  of  female 
-    and  o{  cimtro-atto.     Nothing  e.xcites  more 
i^  or  terrific  sensations  in  my  mind.     'I'hns 
•s  of  the  greatest  number  of  my  tia  edics 
■uher  formed  while  listening  to  music,  or  a 
ars  afterwards. " — p.  71 — 73. 

'■■'v'  th  this  tragic  and  Italian  passion  for 
:  -^ic.  he  had  a  sovereign  contempt  and  ab- 
iice  for  Dancing.  His  owni  account  of 
;  igin  of  this  antipathy,  and  of  the  first 
)i  those  national  prejudices,  which  he 
i  jifterwards  made  any  effort  to  over- 
is  among  the  most  strikuigand  charac- 
■.r.  passages  in  the   earlier  part   of  the 


0  the  natural   hatred  I  had  to  dancing,  was 

1  in  invinciiile  antipathy  towards  my  master 
Trench  man   newly  arrived  from   Paris.      He 

s-ed  a  certain  air  of  polite  assurance,  which. 

1   to   his  ridicidous   motions  and  absurd  dis- 

-  '.  greatly  increased  the  innate  aversion  I  felt 

is  this  frivolous  art.     So  unconquerable  was 

lursion,  that,   after   leaving  school,   I  could 

be  prevailed  on  to  join  in  any  dance  whai- 

The  very   name   of  this   amusement    still 

'..'ilies  me  shudder,  and   laugh  at  the  same  time — 

-   [circumstance  by  no  means  unusual  with  me.     I 

;;'   Ittribute.  also,  in  a  great  measure,  to  this  dancing- 

II*   [laster  the  unfavourable,  and  perhaps  erroneous, 

.f   jpinion  T  have  formed  of  the  French  people!  who, 

[evertheless,  it  must  be  confessed,  possess  many 

jreeable  and  estimable  qualities.     But  it  is  difTi- 

ilt  to  weaken  or  efface  impressions  received  in 

'  rly  youth.     Two  other  causes  also  contributed  to 

nder  me   from   my  infancy  disgusted  with   the 

rench  character.     The  first  was  the  impression 

ade  on  my  mind  by  the  sight  of  the  ladies  who 

'cotnpanied  the  Duchess  of  Parma  in  her  journey 

19 


to  Asti,  and  were  all  bedaubed  with  rouge — the 
use  of  which  was  then  exclusively  confined  to  the 
French.  I  have  frequently  mentioned  tiiis  circum- 
stance several  years  afterwards,  not  being  able  to 
account  for  such  an  absurd  and  ridiculous  practice, 
which  is  wholly  at  variance  with  nature  ;  tor  when 
mm.  to  disguise  the  effects  of  sickness,  or  other 
calamities,  besmear  themselves  with  this  detestable 
rouge, — ihey  carefully  conceal  it  ;  well  knowmg 
that,  when  discovered,  it  onlv  excites  the  laughter 
or  pity  of  the  beholders.  The.se  painted  French 
figures  left  a  deeo  and  lasting  impression  on  my 
mind,  and  inspirea  me  with  a  certain  feeling  of  dis- 
gust towards  the  temales  of  this  nation. 

"  From  my  geographical  studies  resulted  another 
cause  of  antipathy  to  that  nation.  Having  seen  on 
the  chart  the  gieat  difl'erence  in  extent  and  popula- 
tion between  England  or  Prus.sia  and  France  ;  and 
hearing,  every  time  news  arrived  from  the  armies, 
that  the  French  had  been  beaten  by  sea  and  land  ; 
— recalling  to  mind  the  first  ideas  ot  my  infancy, 
during  which  I  was  told  tliat  the  French  had  fre- 
quently been  in  possession  of  .Asii ;  and  thai  during 
the  last  lime,  they  had  suffered  themselves  to  be 
taken  prisoners  to  the  number  of  six  or  seven 
thousand,  without  resistance,  after  conducting  them- 
selves, while  they  remained  in  possession  of  the 
place,  with  the  greatest  insolence  and  tyranny  ; — 
all  the.se  different  circumstances,  fceVng  amtociated 
with  the  idea  of  the  ridiculous  dancinff-tnnster.'  tend- 
ed more  and  more  to  rivet  in  my  mind  an  aversion 
to  the  French  nation." — pp.  83 — 86. 

At  the  early  age  of  fourteen,  Alfieri  was 
put  in  possession  of  a  considerable  part  of  his 
fortune ;  and  launched  immediately  into  every 
sort  of  fashionable  folly  and  e.\travagance. 
His  passion  for  horses,  from  which  he  was 
never  entirely  emancipated,  now  took  entire 
possession  of  his  soul ;  and  his  days  were 
spent  in  galloping  up  and  down  the  environs 
of  Turin,  in  company  chiefly  with  the  young 
English  who  were  resident  in  that  capital. 
From  this  society,  and  these  exercises,  he 
soon  derived  such  improvement,  that  in  a 
short  time  he  became  by  far  the  most  skilful 
jockey,  farrier,  and  coachman,  that  modern 
Italy  could  boast  of  producing. 

For  ten  or  twelve  years  after  this  period, 
the  life  of  Allieri  presents  a  most  humiliating, 
but  instructive  picture  of  idleness,  dissipation, 
and  ennui.  It  is  the  finest  and  most  flattering 
illustration  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  admirable 
tale  of  Lord  Glenthorn ;  and,  indeed,  rather 
outgoes,  than  falls  .short  of  that  high-coloured 
and  apparently  e.xaggerated  representation. — 
Such,  indeed,  is  the  coincidence  between  the 
traits  of  the  fictitious  and  the  real  character, 
that  if  these  Memoirs  had  been  published  when 
Miss  Edgeworth's  story  was  written,  it  would 
have  been  impossible  not  to  suppose  that  she 
had  derived  from  them  every  thing  that  is  strik- 
ing and  e.xtraordinary  in  her  narrative.  For 
two  or  three  years,  Alfieri  contented  himself 
with  rutming,  restless  and  discontented,  over 
the  difl^erent  .states  and  cities  of  Italy :  almo.st 
ignorant  of  its  language,  and  utterly  indifler- 
ent  both  to  its  literature  and  its  arts.  Con- 
sumed, at  every  moment  of  inaction,  with  the 
most  oppressive  discontent  and  uiihappiness, 
he  had  no  relief  but  in  the  velocity  of  his 
movements  and  the  rapidity  of  his  transitions. 
Disappointed  with  every  thing,  and  believing 
himself  incapable  of  application  or  reflection, 
he  passed  his  days  in  a  perpetual  fever  of 
N 


146 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


impatience  and  dissipation  : — apparently  pur- 
suing enjoyment  with  an  eagerness  wliich 
was  in  reality  inspired  by  the  vain  hope  of 
escapinj;  from  misery.  There  is  much  gene- 
ral truth,  as  well  as  peculiar  character,  in  the 
following  simple  confession. 

"In  spile,  however,  of  this  constant  whirl  of 
dissipatior),  my  being  master  of  my  own  aciioiis ; 
iiotwiihstanding  I  had  plenty  of  money,  was  in  the 
heyday  of  youth,  and  posses.scd  a  prepossessing 
figure;  I  vet  felt  every  where  satiety,  ennui,  and 
distrust.  .My  greatest  pleasure  consisted  in  attend- 
ing the  opera  Ijufla,  though  the  gay  and  lively 
music  left  a  deep  and  melancholy  impression  in  my 
mind.  A  thousand  gloomy  and  mournful  ideas 
assailed  my  imagination,  in  which  I  delighted  to 
indulge  by  wandering  alone  on  the  shores  near  the 
Ghiaja  and  Portici." — Vol.  i.  p.  128. 

When  he  gets  to  Venice,  things  are,  if  pos- 
sible, still  worse, — though  like  other  hypo- 
chondriacs, he  is  disposed  to  lay  the  blame 
on  the  \vinds  and  the  weather.  The  tumult 
of  the  carnival  kept  him  alive,  it  seems,  for  a 
few  days. 

"  But  no  sooner  was  the  novelty  over,  than  my 
habitual  melancholy  and  ennui  returned.  I  passed 
several  days  together  in  coiuplete  solitude,  never 
leaving  the  house  nor  stirring  from  the  window, 
whence  I  made  signs  to  a  young  lady  who  lodged 
opposite,  and  with  whoiii  I  occasionally  exchanged 
a  few  words.  During  the  rest  of  the  day,  which 
hung  very  heavy  on  my  haiids,  I  passed  my  time 
either  in  sleeping  or  in  dreaming,  I  knew  not  which, 
and  frequently  in  weeping  without  any  apparent 
motive.  I  hod  lost  mv  tranquilliiy.  and  1  was  unable 
even  to  divine  what  had  deprived  me  of  it.  A  few 
years  afterwards,  on  investigating  the  cause  of  this 
occurrence,  I  discovered  that  it  proceeded  from  a 
malady  which  attacked  ine  every  spring,  some- 
times in  April,  and  sometimes  in  .Tune  :  its  dura- 
tion was  longer  or  shorter,  and  its  violence  very 
different,  according  as  my  mind  was  occupied. 

"  I  likewise  experienced  that  my  intellectual 
faculties  resembled  a  barometer,  and  that  I  pos- 
sessed more  or  less  talent  for  composition,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere.  During  the 
frevalence  of  the  solstitial  and  equinoctial  .winds, 
was  always  remarkably  stupid,  and  uniformly 
evinced  less  penetration  in  the  evening  than  the 
morning.  I  likewise  perceived  that  the  force  of 
my  imagination,  the  ardour  of  enthusiasm,  and  ca- 
pability of  invention,  were  possessed  by  me  in  a 
higher  degree  in  the  middle  of  winter,  or  in  the 
middle  of  summer,  than  during  the  intermediate 
periods.  This  materiality,  which  I  believe  to  be 
common  to  all  men  of  a  delicate  nervous  system. 
has  greatly  contributed  to  lessen  the  pride  with 
which  the  good  I  have  done  might  have  inspired 
ifne,  in  like  manner  as  it  has  tended  to  diminish 
the  shame  I  mi^ht  have  felt  for  the  errors  I  have 
committed,  particularly  in  my  own  art." — Vol.  i. 
pp.  140—112. 

In  his  nineteenth  year,  he  extends  his 
travels  to  France,  and  stops  a  few  weeks  at 
Marseilles,  where  he  passed  his  evenings 
exactly  as  Lord  Glenthorn  is  represented  to 
have  done  his  at  his  Irish  castle.  To  help 
away  the  hours,  he  went  every  night  to  the 
play,  although  his  Italian  ears  were  disgusted 
with  the  poverty  of  the  recitation ;  and, 

— "after  the  performance  was  over,  it  was  my 
regular  practice  to  bathe  every  evening  in  the  sea. 
1  was  induced  to  indulge  myself  in  this  luxury,  in 
ronsequencp  of  finding  a  very  agreeable  spot,  on  a 
ion:tur  of  hind  lying  to  the  right  of  the  harbour, 
•where,  seated  on  the  eand,  with  my  back  leaning 


against  a  rock,  I  could  behold  the  sea  and  akj 
without  interruption.  In  the  contemplation  of  these 
objects,  embellished  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
I  passed  my  time  dreaming  ot  future  delights." — 
Vol.  i.  pp.  150,  151. 

In  a  verj'  short  time,  however,  these  reve- 
ries became  intolerable  ;  and  he  very  nearly 
killed  himself  and  his  horses  in  rushing,  with 
incredible  velocity,  to  Paris.  This  is  his  own 
account  of  the  impression  which  was  made 
upon  him  by  his  first  sight  of  this  brilliant 
metropolis. 

"It  was  on  a  cold,  cloudy,  and  rainy  morning, 
between   the    lath   and   20th    of   August,    that   I 
entered  Paris,  by  the  wretched  suburb  of  St.  Mar- 
ceau.     Accustomed  to  the  clear  and  serene  sky  of 
Italy  and  Provence,  I  felt  much  surprised  at  the 
thick  fog  which  enveloped  the  city,  especially  at 
this  season.     Never  in  my   life   did  I  experience 
more  disagreeable  feelings  than   on    entering  the 
damp  and   dirty  suburb  of  St.  Germ.ain,  where  I 
was  to  take  up  my  lodging.     What  inconsiderate 
haste,  what   mad  folly  had  led  me  into  this  sink 
of  lilih  and  nastiness  1     On  entering  the  inn,  I  fell 
myself  thoroughly  undeceived  ;  and  I  should  cer- 
tainly have  set  off  again  immediately,  bad  not  shame 
and  fatigue  withheld  me.     My  illusions  were  still; 
further  dissipated  when  I  began  to  ramble  through j 
Paris.      The  mean   and    wretched  buildings;  the; 
contemptible  ostentation  displayed  in  a  few  houses', 
dignified  with  the  pompous   appellation  of  hotels; 
and  palaces  ;  the  filthiness  of  the  Gothic  churches;' 
the    truly  vandal-like   construction  of  the    pnblici! 
theatres  at  that  time,  besides   innumerable   othei" 
disagreeable  objects,  of  which  not  the  least  dis-' 
gusting    to    me   was    the    plastered   countenance? 
of  many  very  ugly  women,  far  outweighed  in  m^ 
mind  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  public  walk; 
and  gardens,  the  infinite  variety  of  fine  carriages 
the  lofty  fa5ade  of  the  Louvre,  as  well  as  the  num 
her   of   spectacles    and    entertainments   of    even 
kind."— Vol.  i.  pp.  153,  154. 

There,  then,  as  was  naturally  to  be  ex 
pected,  he  again  found  himself  tonnente( 
"by  the  demon  of  melancholy;"  and,  afte 
trying  in  vain  the  boasted  stimulant  of  pla} 
he  speedily  grew  wearied  of  the  place  an^ 
all  its  amusements,  and  resolved  to  set  of 
without  delay,  for  England.  To  Eng)an( 
accordingly,  he  goes,  at  midwinter ;  and  wit 
such  a  characteristic  and  compassionable  cr.' 
ving  for  all  sorts  of  powerful  sensations,  th: 
"  he  rejoiced  exceedingly  at  the  extreme  colt 
which  actually  froze  the  wine  and  bread  in  h 
carriage  during  a  part  of  the  journey. •■  Pn 
pared,  as  he  was,  for  disappointment,  by  tl* 
continual  extravag-ance  of  his  expectatioi 
Alfieri  was  delighted  with  England.  "Tl. 
roads,  the  inns,  the  horses,  and.  above  all,  tl 
incessant  bustle  in  the  suburbs,  as  well  as 
the  capital,  all  conspired  to  fill  my  mind  wi 
delight."  He  passed  a  part  of  the  winter 
good  society,  in  London  ;  but  soon  -  becomi!' 
disgusted  with  assemblies  and  ronts,  det( 
mined  no  longer  to  play  the  lord  in  t' 
drawing-room,  but  the  coachman  at  the  g^le  ; 
and  accordingly  contrived  to  get  throu.. 
three  laborious  months,  by  being  •''  five 
six  hours  every  morning  on  horseback,  a 
being  sealed  on  the  coachbox  for  two  or  th' 
hours  every  evening,  whtitever  was  the  sti-: 
of  the  v/eather.-'  Even  these  great  a^ 
meritorious    exertions,   however,   could    ! 


LIFE  AND  VVRITLNGS  OF  VICTOK  ALFIERI. 


147 


long  keep  down  his  inveterate  malady,  nor 
quell  the  evil  spirit  that  possessed  him  ;  and 
he  was  driven  to  make  a  hasty  tour  through 
the  west  of  England,  which  appears  to  have 
afforded  him  very  considerable  relief. 

••  'I'lie  country  then  so  much  enchanted  me  that 
I  determined  to  s^ettle  in  it;  not  that  I  was  much 
attached  lo  anj'  individual,  but  because  I  was  de- 
ht;hted  with  the  scenery,  the  simple  manners  ot  the 
inhabiiaiits,  the  modesty  and  beauty  of  the  women, 
and,  above  all.  with  the  enjoyment  of  political  hb- 
erty, — all  which  made  me  overlook  its  mutable 
climate,  the  inehuicholy  almost  insejiarable  Irom  it. 
and  the  e.xorbitant  price  of  all  the  necessaries  of 
i  life."— Vol.  i.  pp   169.  163. 

'■     Scarcely;  however,  was  this  bold  resolution 
of  settling  adopted,  when  the  author  is  again 
"seized  with  the  mania  of  travelling j"  and 
skims  over  to  Hollatid  in  the  begimiing  of 
summer.     And  here  he  is  still  more  eflec- 
liially  diverted  than  ever,  by  falling  in  love 
'with  a  young  married  lady  at  the  Hague,  who 
was  obliging  enough  to  return  his  affection. 
'Circumstances,  however,  at  last  compel  the 
,fair  one  to   rejoin  her  husband  in  Switzer- 
land; and  the  impetuous  Italian  is  aflected 
.   I  with  such  violent  despair,  that  he  makes  a 
-   'desperate  attempt  on  his  life,  by  taking  off 
'   'the  bandages  after  being  let  blood  ;  and  re- 
,   ,tums  sullenly  to  Italy,   without  stopping  to 
Si   ilook  at  any  thing,  or  uUering  a  single  word  to 
11  jhis  servant  during  the  whole  course  of  the 

•  [journey. 

^  I  This  violent  fit  of  depression,  however,  and 
,'  ithe  seclusion  by  which  it  was  followed,  led 
'".  Ihim.  for  the  first  time,  to  look  into  his  books : 
5  land  the  perusal  of  the  Lives  of  Plutarch  seems 
■f.  to  have  made  such  an  impression  on  his  ardent 
and  susceptible  spirit,  that  a  passion  for  liberty 
land  independence  now  took  the  lead  of  every 
'I  jOther  in  his  soul,  and  he  became  for  life  an 
"!  emulator  of  the  ancient  republicans.  He  read 
\  me  story  of  Timoleon,  Brutus.  &c.,  he  assures 
■'  ins,  with  floods  of  tears,  and  agonies  of  admi- 
''  {ration.  -I  was  like  one  beside  himself:  and 
*;;  shed  tears  of  mingled  grief  and  rage  at  having 
"  [been  bom  at  Piedmont ;  and  at  a  period,  and 
\\  under  a  government,  where  it  was  impossible 
"'  m  conceive  or  execute  any  great  design." 
■:'  The  same  sentiment,  indeed,  seems  to  have 
I"  Tiaunted  him  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life; 
'''  and  is  expressed  in  many  passages  of  these 
^'   Memoirs  besides  the  following. 

.:,    1    "  Havinc;  lived  two  or  three  years  almo.«t  wholly 

imong  the  Rntrlish  ;  havintr  heard  their  power  and 

•iches  everywhere  celebrated  ;  having  contemplated 

heir  great  political  influence,  and  on  the  other  hand 

!ii    inewing  Italy  wholly  degraded  irom  her  rank  as  a 

jiii    |iatJon,  and  the  Italians  divided,  weak,  and  enslaved, 

„,,    j[  was  ashamed  of  being  an  Italian,  and  wished  not 

"    repossess  any  thing  in  common  with  this  nation." — 

*  f^ol.  i.  p.  121. 

S*  I  "  I  was  naturally  attached  to  a  domestic  life  ;  but 
ifter  havin?  visi'ed  Ensrland  at  nineteen,  and  read 
F'lutarch  with  the  greatest  interest  at  twenty  years 
il  age,  I  experienced  the  most  in8ufl"erable  repug- 
nance at  marrying  and  having  my  children  born  at 


'*    tTurin."— Vol.  1.  p.  17.5. 
;   j    The  time,   however. 


was  not   yet   come 
vhen  study  was  to  ballast  and  anchor  this 
igitated  spirit.     Plutarch  was  soon  thrown 
.^    jiside;  and  the  patriot  and  his  horses  gallop 


off  to  Vienna.  The  state  of  his  mnid,  both 
as  to  idleness  and  politics,  is  strikingly  repre- 
sented in  the  following  short  passage. 

■'  I  might  easily,  during  my  slay  at  Vienna,  have 
been  introduced  lo  Ilie  celebrated  poet  Meiasiasio, 
at  whose  house  our  minister,  the  old  and  respecta- 
l)le  Count  Canale,  passed  his  evenings  in  u  select 
company  of  nuMi  ol  letters,  whose  chiel  amusement 
consisted  in  reading  portions  from  the  Greek,  La- 
tin, and  Italian  classics.  Having  taken  an  aflcc- 
tion  for  me,  he  wished,  out  of  pity  to  my  idleness, 
to  conduct  me  thither.  But  1  declined  accompany- 
ing him.  either  from  my  usual  awkwardness,  or 
trom  the  contempt  which  the  constatil  habit  of 
reading  French  works  had  given  me  for  Italian  pro- 
ductions. Hence  I  concluded,  that  this  iissemblage 
of  men  of  letters,  with  their  classics,  could  be  only 
a  dismal  company  of  pedants.  Besides,  1  had  seen 
.Metastasio,  in  the  gardens  of  Schoenbruim.  perforrji 
the  customary  genullexion  to  .Alaria  Theresa  in 
such  a  servile  and  adulatory  manner,  that  I,  who 
had  my  head  stuffed  with  Plutarch,  and  who  exag- 
gerated every  thing  I  conceived,  could  not  think  of 
binding  myself,  either  by  the  ties  of  familiuiity  or 
friendship,  with  a  poet  who  had  sold  himself  to  a 
despotism  which  I  so  cordially  detested." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  18-2,  lR^. 

From  Vienna  he  flew  to  Prussia,  which,  he 
s.ays.  looked  all  like  one  great  guardhouse ; 
and  where  he  could  not  repress  "the  horror 
and  indignation  he  felt  at  beholding  oppres- 
sion and  despotism  assuming  the  mask  of 
virtue."  From  Prussia  he  passed  on  to  Den- 
mark  ;  where  his  health  was  seriously  affect- 
ed by  the  profligacy  in  which  he  indulged ; 
and  where  the  only  amusement  he  could  rel- 
ish, coasisted  in  "driving  a  sledge  with  in- 
conceivable velocity  over  the  snow."'  In  this 
way  he  wandered  on  through  Sweden  and 
Finland  to  Russia  :  and  experienced,  as  usual, 
a  miserable  disappointment  on  arriving  at  St. 
Petersburg. 

'•  Alas!  no  sooner  had  I  reached  th^s  Asiatic  as- 
semblage of  wooden  huts,  than  Rome,  Genoa,  Ve- 
nice, and  Florence  rose  to  my  recollection;  and  I 
could  not  refrain  from  laughing.  What  I  after- 
wards saw  ol  this  country  tended  still  more  strongly 
lo  confirm  my  first  impression,  that  it  merited  not 
to  be  seen.  Every  thing,  except  their  beards  and 
their  horses,  disgusted  me  so  much,  that,  during  six 
weeks  I  remained  among  these  savages,  I  deter- 
mined not  to  become  acquainted  with  any  one  ;  nor 
even  to  see  the  two  or  three  youths  with  whom  I 
had  associated  at  Turin,  and  who  were  descended 
from  the  first  families  of  the  country.  I  took  no 
measure  to  be  presented  to  the  celebrated  Aulo- 
crairix  Catherine  II.  ;  nor  did  I  even  behold  the 
counienancre  of  a  sovereign  who  in  our  days  has 
outstripped  fame.  On  investigating,  at  a  future  pe- 
riod, the  rea.son  of  such  e.xtraordinary  conduct,  I 
became  convinced  that  it  proceeded  from  a  certain 
intolerance  of  character,  and  a  haired  to  every  spe- 
cies of  lyraimy,  and  which  in  this  particular  instance 
attached  itself  to  a  person  suspexted  of  the  most 
horrible  crime — the  murdf^r  of  a  defenceless  hus- 
band."— Vol.  i.  pp.  l'J4,  l*.)r>. 

This  rage  for  liberty  continued  to  pos.sess 
him  in  his  return  through  Prussia,  and  really 
seems  to  have  reached  its  acme  when  it  dic- 
tated the  following  most  preposterous  pas- 
sage,— which,  we  cannot  help  suspecting,  is 
indebted  for  part  of  its  absurdity  to  the  trans- 
lator. 

"  I  visited  Zorndorff,  a  spot  rendered  famous  by 
the  sanguinary  battle  fought  between  the  Russians 
and  Prussians,  where  tbousandu  of  men  on  both 


148 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


sides  were  immolated  on  the  altar  of  despotism, 
and  thus  escaped  from  the  galling  yoke  which  op- 
pressed them.  The  place  of  their  interment  was 
easily  recognised  by  its  greater  verdure,  and  by 
yielding  more  abundant  crops  ihaii  the  t)arrfn  and 
improduciive  soil  in  its  immediate  vicinity.  On  this 
oreanioti,  I  refiecled.  with  forrow,  that  slavef  seem 
ever>/irkere  only  hnni  to  fertilize  the  foil  on  which 
theif' vegetate."— Vol.  i.  pp-  1%,  1^7. 

After  this  he  meets  with  a  beautiful  ass  at 
Gottingeii;  and  rearret?  that  his  indolence  pre- 
vented hinn  from  availing  himself  of  this 
excellent  opportunity  for  writing  some  im- 
measurably facetious  verses  "upon  this  ren- 
counter of  a  German  and  an  Italian  ass.  in  so 
celebrated  an  university  !"'  After  a  hasty  e.\- 
pedition  to  Spa,  he  again  traverses  Germany 
and  Holland,  and  returns  to  England  in  the 
twcr.ty-third  year  of  his  age ;  where  he  is 
speedily  involved  in  some  very  distressing 
and  discreditable  adventures.  He  engages  in 
an  intrigue  with  an  English  lady  of  rank,  and 
is  challenged,  and  sliahtly  wounded  by  lier 
husband.  After  this  eclat,  he  consoles  him- 
self with  the  thouL;ht  of  marrying  the  frail 
fair,  with  whom  he  is.  as  usual,  most  heroic- 
ally in  love  :  when  he  discovers,  to  his  infi- 
nite horror  and  consternation,  that,  pievious 
to  her  connection  with  him.  she  had  been 
equally  lavish  of  her  favours  to  her  husband's 
crooin!  whose  jealous  resentment  had  led 
iFiim  to  watch  and  e.vpose  this  new  infidelity. 
Alter  many  struggles  between  shame,  resent- 
me-:t.  and  imconquerable  love,  he  at  last  tears 
him-:elf  from  this  sad  sample  of  English  vir- 
tue, and  makes  his  way  to  Holland,  bursting 
with  grief  and  indignation  :  but  without 
seeming  to  think  that  there  was  the  slightest 
occasion  for  any  des-ree  of  contrition  or  self- 
co.^.demnation.  From  Hollaml  he  2oes  to 
France,  and  from  France  to  Spain — as  idle, 
and.  more  t)ppressed  with  himself  than  ever 
— buying  and  caressing  Andalusian  horses, 
and  constantly  ready  to  sink  under  the  heavy 
burden  of  existence.  At  IMadrid  Iv-"  has  set 
down  an  extraordinary  trait  of  the  dangerous 
impetuosity  of  his  temper.  His  faithful  ser- 
vant, i;i  combing  his  hair  one  day.  happened 
accidentally  to  aive  him  pain  by  stretching 
one  hair  a  little  more  than  the  rest,  upon 
which,  without  savins  a  word,  he  first  seized 
a  candlestick,  and  felled  hiin  to  ihe  jrround 
with  a  huffe  wound  on  his  temple,  and  then 
drew  his  sword  to  despatch  him.  upon  his 
offering  to  make  some  resistance.  •  The  sequel 
of  the  story  Is  somewhat  more  creditable  to 
his  inagnanimitj-,  than  this  part  of  it  is  to  his 
self-command. 

"  1  was  shocked  at  the  brutal  excess  of  passion 
into  whii'h  I  had  fallen.  Though  Elias  was  sotne- 
what  calmed,  he  siill  appeared  to  retain  a  certain 
degree  ot  resentment ;  yet  I  was  not  disposed  to 
display  towards  him  the  smallest  distrust.  Two 
hours  aft'-r  his  wound  was  dressed  I  went  to  bed, 
leaving  the  door  open,  as  usual,  between  my  apart- 
ment and  the  chamber  in  which  he  slept :  notwith- 
standing the  remonstrance  of  the  Spaniards,  who 
pointed  out  to  me  the  absurdity  of  putting  ven- 
geance in  the  power  of  a  man  whom  I  had  so  much 
irritated.  I  said  even  aloud  to  Elias,  who  was  al- 
ready in  bed,  that  he  might  kill  me.  if  he  was  so 
inclined,  during  the  night ;  and  that  I  justly  merited 
such  a  fate.    But  this  brave  man.  who  possessed  as 


much  elevation  of  soul  as  myself,  took  no  other  re- 
venge for  my  outrageous  conduct,  except  preserv- 
ing for  several  years  two  handkerchiete  stained  with 
blood  which  had  been  bound  round  his  head,  and 
which  he  occasionally  displayed  to  my  view.  It  is 
necessary  to  be  fully  acqtiainted  with  the  character 
and  manners  of  the  Piedmontese,  in  order  to  com- 
prehend the  mi.xture  of  ferocity  and  generosity  dis- 
played on  both  sides  in  this  atlair. 

"  When  at  a  more  mature  age,  I  endeavoured  to 
discover  the  cause  of  this  violent  transport  ot  rage. 
I  became  convinced  that  the  trivial  circumstance 
which  gave  rise  to  it,  was,  so  to  speak,  like  the  last 
drop  poured  into  a  vessel  ready  to  run  over.  My 
irascible  temper,  which  must  have  been  rendered 
still  more  irritable  by  solitude  and  perpetual  idle- 
ness, required  only  the  slightest  impulse  to  cause  it 
to  burst  forth.  Besides,  I  never  lifted  a  hand 
against  a  domestic,  as  that  would  have  been  putting 
them  on  a  level  with  myself.  Neither  did  1  ever 
employ  a  cane,  nor  any  kind  of  weapon  in  order  to 
chastise  them,  thouirh  I  frequently  threw  at  them 
any  moveable  that  fell  iii  my  way,  as  inany  young 
people  do,  during  the  first  ebullitions  of  anger ;  yet 
I  dare  to  affirm  that  I  wotild  have  approved,  and 
even  esteemed  the  domestic  who  sh(uild  on  such 
occasions  have  rendered  me  back  the  treat  rncnt  he 
received,  since  I  never  punished  them  as  a  master, 
but  only  contended  with  them  as  one  man  with 
another." — Vol.  i.  pp.  244 — 246. 

At  Lisbon  he  forms  an  acquaintance  with  a 
literary  coiuitr^TTian  of  his  own,  and  feels,  for 
the  first  time  of  his  life,  a  glow  of  admiration 
on  perusing  some  passages  of  Italian  poetry. 
From   this   he    returns   to   Spain,  and,   after 
lounging  over  the  whole  of  that  kingdom,  re- 
turns through  Fiance  to  Italy,  and  arrives  at 
Turin  in  1773.     Here  he  endeavours  to  main- 
tain the  same  unequal  contest  of  dissipatior 
agjiinst  ennui  and  conscious  folly,  and  tallt 
furiously  in  love,  for  the  third  time,  with  i 
woman  of  more  than  doubtful  reputation,  ter 
years   older  than   himself.     Neither  the  in 
toxication  of  this  passion,  however,  nor  tht 
daily  exhibition   of  his  twelve   fine  horses 
could    repress   the    shame    and    indignatioi 
which  he  felt  at  thus  wasting  his  days  in  in 
glorious  licentiousness  :  and  his  health  was  a 
last  seriously  affected  by  those  compunctiou 
visitings  of  his  conscience.     In   1774,  whil 
watching  by  his  unworthy  mistress  in  a  fit  c 
sickness,  he  sketched  out  a  few  scenes  of 
dramatic  work  in  Italian,  which  was  throw 
aside  and  forgotten  immediately  on  her  n 
covery ;.  and  it  was  not  till    the  year  afte 
that,  after  many  struggles,  he  formed  the  re& 
lution  of  detaching'  himself  from  this  degrar 
ing  connection.     The  efforts  which  this  co 
him,  and  the  means  he  adopted  to  ensure  h 
own  adherence  to  his  resolution,  appear  i 
together  wild  and  extravagant  to  our  northe 
imaginations.     In  the  first  place,  he  had  hii 
self  lashed  with  strong  cords  to  his  elbc 
chair,  to  prevent  him  from  rushing  into  t 

Rresence  of  the  syren  :  and,  in  the  next  plat 
e  entirely  cut  off  his  hair,  in  order  to  raa' 
it  impossible  for  him  to  appear  with  decen 
in  any  society  !  The  first  fifteen  days,  ■ 
assures  u.s,  he  spent  entirely  "  in  uttering  t 
most  frightful  groans  and  lamentations,"'  a 
the  noxt  \n  riding  furiously  through  all  " 
solitary  places  in  the  neigh j.)ourhood.  Atkj 
however,  this  frenzy  of  grief  began  to  s  ; 
side;  and,  most  fortunately  for  the  world  <' 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


14; 


the  author,  gave  place  to  a  passion  for  litera- 
ture, which  absorbed  the  powers  of  this  fiery- 
spirit  during-  the  greater  part  of  his  future  ex- 
istence. The  perusal  of  a  wretched  tragedy 
on  the  story  of  Cleopatra,  and  the  striking  re- 
semblance he  thought  he  discovered  between 
his  own  case  and  that  of  Antony,  first  inspired 
him  with  the  resolution  of  attempting  a  dra- 
matic piece  on  the  same  subject;  and,  after 
encountering  the  most  extreme  difficulty  from 
his  utter  ignorance  of  poetical  diction,  and  of 
pure  Italian,  he  at  last  nammered  out  a  trage- 
dy, which  was  represented  with  tolerable 
success  in  1775.  From  this  moment  his  whole 
heart  was  devoted  to  dramatic  poetry ;  and 
literary  glory  became  the  idol  of  his  imagi- 
nation. 

In  entering  upon  this  new  and  arduous  ca- 
reer, he  soon  discovered  that  greater  sacrifices 
were  required  of  him  than  he  had  hitherto 
offered  to  any  of  the  former  objects  of  his 
idolatry.     The  defects  of  his  education,  and 
liis  long  habits  of  indolence  and  inattention  to 
every  thins  connected  with  letters,  imposed 
'upou  him  far  more  than  the  ordinary  labour 
of  a  literary  apprenticeship.      Having  never 
;\)een  accustomed  to  the  use  of  the  pure  Tus- 
i^an,  and  being  obliged  to  speak  French  durmg 
so  many  years  of  ti-avelling.  he  found  himself 
shamefully  deficient  in  the  knowledge  of  that 
oeautiful  language,  in  which  he  proposed  to 
(?nter  his  claims  to  immortality ;  and  began, 
ilherefore,  a  course  of  the  most  careful  and 
Critical  reading  of  the  great  authors  who  had 
adorned  it.      Dante  and   Petrarca  were   his 
Jireat  models  of  purity  ;  and,  next  to  them, 
Ariosto  and  Tasso ;  in  which  four  writers,  he 
i^ives  it  as  his  opinion,  that  there  is  to  be 
I'ound  the  perfection  of   every  style,  except 
,hat  fitted  for  dramatic  poetry — of  which,  he 
inore  than  insinuates,  that  his  own  writings 
•.re  the  only  existing  example.     In  order  to 
^cquire  a  perfect  knowledge  and  conxmand 
^f  their  divine  language,  he  not  only  made 
nany  long  visits  to  Tuscany,  but  absolutely 
Interdicted  himself   the  use  of  every  other 
jort  of   reading,  and  abjured  for   ever  that 
^M-ench   literature  which  he  seems  to  have 
dvvays  regarded  with  a  mixture  of  envy  and 
.isdain.     To  make  amends  for  this,  he  went 
esolutely  back  to  the  rudiments  of  his  Latin ; 
.  ind  read  over  all  the  classics  in  that  language 
■  i.'hh  a  most  patient  and  laborious  attention. 
,  jle  likewise  committed  to  memory  many  thou- 
;  find  lines  from  tlie  authors  he  proposed  to 
.  Initate ;  and  sought,  with  the  greatest  assi- 
;  juity,  the  acquaintance  of  all  the  scholars  and 
I  jritics  that  came  in  his  way, — pestering  them 
'  Hth  continual  queries,  and  with  requesting 
;ieir  opinion  upon  the  infinite  quantity  of  bad 
jerses  which  he  continued  to  compose  by  way 
J  f  exercise.     His  two  or  three  first  tragedies 
g  e  composed  entirely  in  French  prose ;  and 
..'  perwards  translated,  with  infinite  labour,  into 
!   alian  verse. 

"In  this  manner,  without  any  other  judge  than 
i  \y  own  feelings,  I  have  only  finished  those,  the 
{  ketches  of  which  I  had  written  with  energy  and 
,  jithusiasm ;  or,  if  I  have  finished  any  other,  I 
'■;  tve  at  least  never  taken  the  trouble  to  clothe  them 


in  verse.  This  was  the  case  with  Charles  I.,  which 
I  began  to  write  in  French  prose,  immediately  alter 
finishing  Phihppe.  When  I  had  reached  to  about 
the  middle  of  the  third  act,  my  heart  and  my  hand 
be(^anie  so  benumbed,  that  I  found  it  impossible  10 
hold  my  piMi.  The  same  thing  happened  in  regard 
10  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  whole  of  which  I  nearly 
expanded,  ihou"h  with  much  labour  to  myself,  and 
at  long  intervals.  On  rcperusiiig  this  skelcli,  I 
found  my  enthusiasm  so  mucli  lowered,  tliat,  traiis- 
poried  with  rage  against  myself,  I  could  proceed  no 
ftiriher,  but  threw  my  work  into  the  fire." — Vol.  ii. 
pp.  48—51. 

Two  or  three  years  were  passed  in  these 
bewitching  studies;    and,  during  this   time, 
I  nine  or  ten  tragedies,  at  least,  were  in  a  con- 
I  siderable  state  of  forwardness.     In  1778,  the 
study  of  !Machiavel  revived  all  that  early  zeal 
for  liberty  which  he  had   imbibed  from  the 
perusal  of  Plutarch;  and  he  composed  with 
j  great  rapidity  his  two  books  of  "La  Tirauide  ;" ' 
I — perhaps  the  most  nervous  and  elotjuent  of 
all  his  prose  compositions.     About  the  same 
period;  his  poetical  studies  e.xperienced  a  still 
more  serious  interruption,  from  the  commence- 
ment of  his  attachment  to  the  Countess  of 
Albany,  the  wife  of  the  late  Pretender; — an 
j  attachment  that  continued   to   soothe  or   to 
j  agitate  all  the  remaining  part  of  his  existence. 
;  This  lady,  who  was  by  birth  a  princess  of  the 
i  house  of  Slolberg,  was  then  in  her  twenty- 
j  fifth  year,  and  resided  with  her  ill-matched 
I  husband  at  Florence.     Her  beauty  and  ac- 
'  complishments  made,  from  the  first,*  a  pow- 
!  erful  impression  on  the  inflammable  heart  of 
I  Alfieri,  guarded  as  it  now  was  with  the  love 
I  of  glory  and  of  literature ;  and  the  loftiness 
I  of  his  character,  and  the  ardour  of  his  admi- 
1  ration,  soon  excited  corresponding  sentiments 
{  in  her,  who  had  suffered  for  some  time  from 
the  ill  temper  and  gross  vices  of  her  super- 
I  animated  husband.     Though  the  author  takes 
j  the  trouble  to  assure  us  that  "  their  intimacy 
;  never  exceeded  the  strictest  limits  of  honour,'' 
I  it  is  not  difficult  to  understand,  that  it  should 
I  have  aiigiavaled  the  ill-humour  of   the  old 
!  husband;  which  increased,  it  seems,  so  much, 
j  that  the  lady  was  at  last  forced  to  abandon 
his  society,  and  to  take  refuge  with  his  brother, 
the  Cardinal  York,  at  Rome.     To  this  place 
Alfieri  speedily  followed  her;  and  remained 
there,  divided  between  love  and  study,  for 
upwards  of  two  years ;  when  her  holy  guar- 
dian beoomina'  scandalized  at  their  intimacy, 
it  was  thought  necessiiry  for  her  reputation^ 
that  they  should  separate.     The  eflects  of 
this  separation  he  has  himself  described  in 
the  following  short,  but  eloquent  passage. 

"For  two  years  I  remained  incapable  of  any 
kind  of  study  whatever,  so  different  was  my  pres- 

*  His  first  introduction  to  her,  we  have  been  in- 
formed, was  in  the  <;reat  gallery  of  Florence; — a 
circumstance  which  led  him  to  signalize  his  admira- 
tion by  an  extraordinary  act  of  gallantry.  A.s  iliey 
slopped  to  e.xamine  the  picture  of  Charles  XII.  of 
Sweden,  the  Countess  observed,  that  the  singular 
uniform  in  which  that  prince  is  usually  painted,  ap- 
peared to  her  extremely  becoming.  Nothing  more 
was  said  at  the  time ;  but,  in  two  days  after,  Alfieri 
appeared  m  the  streets  in  the  e.xact  costume  ol  that 
warlike  sovereign, — to  the  utter  consternation  of 
all  the  peaceful  inhabitants. 
n2 


150 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


ent  forlorn  state  from  the  happiness  I  enjoyed 
during  my  late  residence  in  Rome  : — there  the  Villa 
Slrozzi  near  to  the  warm  baihs  of  Dioclesian,  af- 
forded me  a  delighrful  retreat,  where  I  passed  my 
mornings  in  siudy.  only  riding  for  an  hour  or  two 
through  tiie  vast  solitudes  which,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood ot  Rome,  invite  to  melancholy,  meditation, 
and  poetry.  In  the  evening,  I  proceeded  to  the 
city,  and  tound  a  relaxation  trom  study  in  the  so- 
ciety of  her  who  constituted  the  charm  of  my  ex- 
istence; and,  contented  and  happy,  1  returned  to 
my  solitude,  never  at  a  laier  hi)ur  than  eleven 
o'clock.  It  was  impossible  to  find,  in  the  circuit 
of  a  great  city,  an  abode  more  cheerful,  more  re- 
tired,— or  better  suited  to  my  taste,  my  character, 
and  my  pursuits.  Delightful  spot ! — the  remem- 
brance of  which  I  shall  ever  cherish,  and  which 
through  life  I  shall  long  to  revisit." — Vol.  ii.  pp. 
121,  122. 

Previously  to  this  time,  his  extreme  love  of 
independence,  and  his  desire  to  be  constantly 
with  the  mistress  of  his  affections,  had  in- 
duced him  to  take  the  very  romantic  step  of 
resigning  his  whole  property  to  his  sister : 
reserving  to  himself  merely  an  annuity  of 
14,000  livres,  or  little  more  than  500/.  As 
this  transference  was  made  with  the  sanction 
of  the  King,  who  was  very  well  pleased,  on 
the  whole,  to  get  rid  of  so  republican  a  sub- 
ject, it  was  understood,  upon  both  sides,  as  a 
tacit  compact  of  expatriation ;  so  that,  upon 
his  removal  from  Rome,  he  had  no  house  or 
fixed  residence  to  repair  to.  In  this  desolate 
and  unsettled  state,  his  passion  for  horses  re- 
vived with  additional  fury  ;  and  he  undertook 
a  voyage  to  England,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
purchasing  a  number  of  those  noble  animals ; 
and  devoted  eight  months  "  to  the  study  of 
noble  heads,  tine  necks,  and  well-turned  but- 
tocks, without  once  opening  a  book  or  pursuing 
any  literary  avocation.""  In  London,  he  pur- 
chased fourteen  horses, — in  relation  to  the 
number  of  his  tragedies  ! — and  this  whimsical 
relation  frequently  presenting  itself  to  his 
imagination,  he  would  say  to  himself  with  a 
smile — '•  Thou  hast  gained  a  horse  by  each 
tragedy  !"' — Truly  the  noble  author  must  have 
been  far  gone  in  love,  when  he  gave  way  to 
such  innocent  deliration. — He  conducted  his 
fourteen  friends,  however,  with  much  judg- 
ment acrovss  the  Alps ;  and  gained  great  glory 
and  notoriety  at  Sieima,  from  their  daily  pro- 
cession tlirough  the  streets,  and  the  feats  of 
dexterity  he  exhibited  in  riding  and  driving 
them. 

In  the  mean  time,  lie  had  printed  twelve 
of  his  tragedies:  and  imbibed  a  sovereign 
contempt  for  such  of  his  countrymen  as  pre- 
tended to  find  them  harsh,  obscure,  or  affect- 
edly sententious.  In  1784,  after  an  absence 
of  more  than  two  years,  he  rejoined  his  mis- 
tress at  Baden  in  Alsace  ;  and,  during  a  stay 
of  two  months  with  her.  sketched  out  three 
new  tragedies.  On  his  return  to  Italy,  he 
took  up  his  abodi'  for  a  short  time  at  Pisa, — 
where,  in  a  lit  of  indignation  at  the  faults  of 
Phny's  Panegyric  on  Trajan,  he  composed  in 
five  days  thtit  animated  and  eloquent  piece 
of  the  same  name,  which  alone,  of  all  his 
works  have  fallen  into  our  hands,  has  left  on 
our  minds  the  impression  of  ardent  and  flow- 
ing eloquence.     His  rage  for  liberty  likewise 


prompted  him  to  compose  several  odes  on  the 
subject  of  American  independence,  and  seve- 
ral miscellaneous  productions  of  a  similar 
character: — at  last,  in  1786,  he  is  permitted 
to  take  up  his  permanent  abode  with  his  mis- 
tress, whom  he  rejoins  at  Alsace,  and  never . 
afterwards  abandons.  In  the  course  of  the 
follow  ing  year,  they  make  a  journey  to  Paris, 
with  which  he  is  nearly  as  much  dissatisfied 
as  on  his  former  visij, — and  makes  arrange- 
ments with  Didot  for  printing  his  tragedies  in 
a  superb  form.  In  1788.  however,  he  resolves 
upon  making  a  complete  edition  of  his  whole 
works  at  Kehl ;  and  submits,  for  the  accom-- 
modation  of  his  fair  friend,  to  take  up  his' 
residence  at  Paris.  There  they  receive  in- 
telligence of  the  death  of  her  husband, 
which  seems,  however,  to  make  no  change  in 
their  way  of  lite; — and  there  he  continue- 
busily  emplo}ed  in  correcting  his  variuur 
w orks  for  publication,  till  the  year  1790,  whei 
the  first  part  of  these  memoirs  closes  witi, 
anticipations  of  misery  from  the  progress  oi' 
the  revolution,  and  professions  of  devoted  at 
tachment  to  the  companion  whom  time  hac 
only  rendered  more  dear  and  respected. 

The  supplementary  part  bears  date  in  ]\Ia; 
1803 — but  a  few  months  prior  to  the  death  o 
the  author, — and   brings   down   his   historj 
though  in  a  more  summary  manner,  to  ths 
period.     He  .seems  to  have  lived  in  much  ur 
easiness   and   fear  in  Paris,  after   the   con 
mencernent  of  the  revolution ;  from  all  appn^ 
bation,    or   even    toleration   of  which   trag 
farce,  as  he  terms  it,  he  exculpates  himse' 
with  much  earnestness  and  solemnity ;  bu 
having  vested  the  greater  part  of  his  fortui 
in   that  country,  he   could  not  convenient 
abandon  it.     In  1791,  he  and  his  companit 
made  a  short  visit  to  England,  with  which  1 
was  less  pleased  than  on  any  former  occasio 
— the  damp  giving  him  a  disposition  to  got 
and  the  late  hours  interfering  with  his  hab 
of  study.     The  most  remarkable  incident 
this  journey,  occurred  at  its  teiniination.     . 
he  was  passing  along  the  quay  at  Dover, 
his   way   to   the   packet-boat,    he   caimht 
glimpse  of  the  bewitching  woman  on  w he 
account  he  had  suffered  so  much,  in  his  f ! 
mer  visit  to  this  country  nearly  twenty  yei 
before  !    She  still  looked  beautiful,  he  sa 
and  bestowed  on  him  one  of  those  enchanti;; 
smiles  whicli  convinced  him  that  he  was  ■ 
cognised.     Unable  to  control  his  emotion,  '■ 
rui^hed  instantly  aboard — hid  himself  bel ' 
— and  did  not  venture  to  look  up  till  he  \  > 
landed  on  the  opposite  shore.     From  Cals 
he  addressed  a  letter  to  her  of  kind  inqu  , 
and  oflersof  set  vice  ;  and  ri'ceived  an  ansv/, 
which,  on  account  of  the  singular  tone  of  c  ■ 
dour  and  magnanimity  \\hich  it  exhibits,!? 
has   subjoined   in   the   ajipendix.     It  is    r 
doubtedly  a  very  remarkable  production,  -.'i 
sliows  both  a  strength  of  mind  aiid  a  kindr !« 
of  disposition  whicli  seem  worthy  of  a  nap'if 
fortune. 

In  the  end  of  1792,  the  increasing  furif 
the  revolution  rendered  Paris  no  longer  a  p;  * 
of  safety  for  foreigners  of  high  biith:  'd 
Alfieri  and  his  counti-ss  with  some  diflic.V 


LIFE  AND  WTRITIXGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIERI. 


151 


effected  their  escape  from  it,  and  established 
themselves,  with  a  diminished  income,  at  his 
beloved  Florence.     Here,  with  his  usual  im- 
petuosity- he  gave  vent  to  his  anti-revolution- 
ary feelings,  by  composing  an   apology  for 
Louis  XVI..  and  a  short  satirical  view  of  the 
French   e.vcesses,   which   he   entitled   ••  The 
Anligallican."     He   then   took   to  acting  his 
own  plays;  and.  for  two  or  three  years,  this 
new  passion  seduced  him  in  a  good  degree 
from  literature.     In  1795,  however,  he  tried 
his  hand  in  some  satirical  productions :  and 
began,  with  much  zeal,  to  reperuse  and  trans- 
late various  passages  from  the  Latin  classics. 
Latin  naturally  led   to   Greek :  and,    in    the 
forty-ninth  year  of  his  age,  he  set  seriously  to 
i  the  study  of  this  language.  Two  whole  years 
!  did  this  ardent  genius   dedicate   to   solitary 
'  drudgery,  without  being  able  to  master  the 
subject  he  had  undertaken.     At  last,  by  dint 
of  perseverance  and  incredible  labour,  he  be- 
gan to  understand  a  little  of  the  easier  authors  ; 
;  and,  by  the  time  he  had  completed  his  fiftieth 
!  year,  succeeded  in  interpreting  a  considerable 
part  of  Herodotus,  Thucydides,  and  Homer. 
The  perusal  of  Sophocle.s,   in  the  following 
^  year,  impelled  him  to  compose  his  last  trage- 
|dy  of  Alceste  in   1798.     In  the  end  of  this 
1  year,  the  progress  of  the  French  armies  threat- 
[ened  to  violate  the  tranquillity  of  his  Tuscan 
I  retreat!    and,  in  the  spring  following,  upon 
'  the  occupation  of  Florence,  he  and  his  friend 
'  retired  to  a  small  habitation  in  the  country. 
From  this  asylum,  however,  they  returned  so 
precipitately  on  the   retreat  of  the   enemy, 
,'that  they  were  surprised  by  them  on  their 
I  second  invasion  of  Tuscany  in  1800;  but  had 
more  to  sutler,  it  appears,  from  the  importu- 
nate civility,  than  from  the  outrages  of  the 
'conquerors.     The  French  general,  it  seems, 
'was  a  man  of  letters,  and  made  several  at- 
tempts to  be  uitroduced   to  Alfieri.     When 
evasion  became  impossible,  the  latter  made 
the  following  haughty  but  gxiarded  reply  to 
his  warlike  admirer: — 

•'  If  the  general,  in  his  official  capacity,  com- 
mands his  presence.  Victor  Alfieri.  who  never  re- 
sists constiiiued  auihorityof  any  kind,  will  imme- 
diately hasten  to  obey  the  order;  but  if,  on  the 
jcontrary.  he  requests  an  interview  only  as  a  private 
jindividual,  .Alfieri  begs  leave  to  observe,  that  be- 
ing of  a  very  retired  turn  of  mind,  he  wishes  not  to 
Iforin  anv  new  acquaintance;  and  therefore  entreats 
I  the  French  general  to  hold  him  excused." — Vol.  ii. 
I  pp.  286,  287. 

!     Under  these  disastrous  circumstances,  he 
was  suddenly  seized  with  the  desire  of  sig-  ] 
nalizing  himself  in  a  new  field  of  exertion  ;  | 
and  sketched  out  no  fewer  than  six  comedies  j 
at  once,  which  were  nearly  finished  before 
the  end  of  1802.  His  fiealth,"  during  this  year, 
was  considerably  weakened  by  repeated  at-  j 
tacks  of  irregular  gout  and  inflammatory  af- 
fections: and  the  memoir  concludes  with  the 
(ii'scriptioii  of  a  collar  and  medal  which  he, 
had  invented,  as  the  badge  of  ''  the  order  of 
iHomer,"  which,  in  his  late  sprung  ardour  for  [ 
Greek    literature,   he    had    founded    and  en- 
'dowed.     Annexed  to  this  record  is  a  sort  of 
postscript,  addressed,  by  his  friend  the  Abbe  i 
Caluso,  to  the  Countess  of  Albany ;  from  which  ) 


it  appears,  that  he  was  carried  off  by  an  in- 
flammatory or  gouty  attack  in  his  bowels, 
which  put  a  period  to  his  existence  after  a 
few  days'  illness,  in  tlie  month  of  October 
1803.  We  have  since  learned,  that  the  pub- 
liciition  of  his  posthumous  works,  which  had 
been  begun  by  the  Countess  ol  Albany  at 
Mikui,  has  betui  stopped  by  the  French  gov- 
ernment ;  and  that  several  of  the  manuscripts 
have,  by  the  siune  authority,  been  committed 
to  the  flames. 

We  have  not  a  great  deal  to  add  to  this 
copious  and  extraordinary  narrative.  Many 
of  the  peculiarities  of  Alfieri  may  be  safely 
referred  to  the  ticcident  of  his  birth,  and  the 
eriors  of  his  education.  His  ennui,  arrogance, 
and  dissipation,  are  not  very  unlike  those  of 
many  spoiled  youths  of  condition  ;  nor  is  there 
any  thing  very  extraordinary  in  his  subse- 
quent application  to  study,  or  the  turn  of  his 
first  political  opinions.  The  peculiar  nature  of 
his  pursuits,  and  the  character  of  his  literary 
])roductions,  aflbrd  more  curious  matter  for 
speculation. 

In  reflecting  on  the  peculiar  misery  which 
Altieri  and  some  other  eminent  persons  are 
recorded  to  have  endured,  while  their  minds 
were  withheld  fiom  any  worthy  occupation, 
we  have  sometimes  been  tempted  to  con- 
clude, that  to  suffer  deej)ly  from  emiui  is  an 
indication  of  superior  intellect ;  and  that  it  is 
only  to  minds  destined  for  higher  attainments 
that  the  want  of  an  object  is  a  source  of  real 
affliction.  Upon  a  little  reflection,  however, 
we  are  disposed  to  doubt  of  the  .soundness  of 
this  opinion ;  and  really  cannot  permit  all  the 
shallow  coxcombs  who  languish  under  the 
but  den  of  existence,  to  take  themselves,  on 
our  authority,  for  spell-bound  geniuses.  The 
most  powerful  stream,  indeed,  will  stagnate 
the  most  deepl)-,  and  will  burst  out  to  more 
w  ild  devastation  when  obstructed  in  its  peace- 
ful course;  but  the  weakly  current  is,  upon 
the  whole,  most  liable  to  obstruction  ;  and  will 
mantle  and  rot  at  least  as  dismally  as  its  bet- 
ters. The  innumerable  blockheads,  in  short, 
who  betake  themselves  to  suicide,  dram- 
drinking,  or  dozing  in  dirty  nightcaps,  will  not 
allow  us  to  suppose  that  there  is  any  real 
connection  between  ennui  and  talent;  or  that 
fellows  who  are  fit  for  nothing  but  mending 
shoes,  may  not  be  very  miserable  if  they  are 
unfortunately  raised  above  their  proper  occu- 
pation. 

If  it  does  frequently  happen  that  extraor- 
dinary and  vigorous  exertions  are  found  to 
follow  this  heavy  slumber  of  the  faculties, 
the  phenomenon,  we  think,  maybe  explainea 
without  giving  any  countenance  to  the  sup- 
position, that  vigorous  faculties  are  most  liable 
to  such  an  obscuration.  In  the  first  place,  the 
lelief  and  delight  of  exertion  must  act  with 
more  than  u.sual  force  upon  a  mind  which  has 
.^nil'ereil  from  the  want  of  it;  and  will  be  apt 
to  be  pushed  further  than  in  cases  where  the 
exertion  has  been  more  regular.  The  chief 
cause,  however,  of  the  signal  success  which 
has  sometimes  attended  those  who  Iiave  been 
rescued  from  ennui,  we  really  believe  to  be 
their  ignorance  of  the  diflicuities  they  have 


158 


LITERATURE  Ai\D  BIOGRAPHY. 


to  encounter,  and   that  inexperience  which 
makes  them  venture  on  undertakings  which 
more  prudent  calculators  would  decline.   We 
have   already  noticed,  more  than  once,  the 
effect  of  early  study  and  familiarity  with  the 
best  models  in  repressin*^  emulation  by  de- 
spair: and  have  endeavoured,  upon  this  prin- 
ciple, to  explain  why  so  many  original  authors 
iiave  been  in  a  great  degree  without  educa- 
lion.     Now,  a  youth  spent  in  lassitude  and 
dissipation  leads  necessarily  to  a  manhood  of 
ignorance  and  inexperience;  and  has  all  the 
Advantages,  as  well  as  the  inconveniences,  of 
buch  a  situation.     If  any  inward  feeling  of 
strength,  ambition,  or  other  extraordinary  im- 
pulse, therefore,  piompt  such  a  person  "to  at- 
tempt any  thing  arduous,  it  is  likely  that  he 
will  go  about  it  with  all  that  rash  and  vehe- 
ment courage  which  results  from  unconscious- 
ness of  the  obstacles  that  are  to  be  overcome ; 
and  it  is  needless  to  say  how  often  success  is 
ensured  by  this  confident  and  fortunate  auda- 
city. Thus  Alfieri,  in  the  outset  of  his  literary 
career,  ran  his  head  against  dramatic  poetry, 
almost  before  he  knew  what  w^as  meant  either 
by  poetry  or  the  drama ;  and  dashed  out  a 
tragedy   wliile    but    imperfectly-   acquainted 
with  the  language  in  which  he  was  writing, 
and  utterly  ignorant  either  of  the  rules  that 
had  been  delivered,  or  the  models  which  had 
been  created  by  the  genius  of  his  great  prede- 
cessors.    Had  he  been  trained  up  from  his 
early  youth  in  fearful  veneration  for  these 
rules  and  these  models,  it  is  certain  that  he 
would  have  resisted  the  impulse  which  led 
him  to  place  himself,  with  so  little  prepara- 
tion, within  their  danger ;  and  most  probable 
that  he  would  never  have  thought  himself 
qualified  to  answer  the  test  they  required  of 
him.     In  giving  way,  however,  to  this  pro- 
pensity, with  all  the  thoughtless  freedom  and 
vehemence  which  had  characterised  his  other 
indulgences,  he  found  himself  suddenly  em- 
barked in  an  unexpected  undertaking,  and  in 
sight  of  unexpected  distinction.    The  success 
he  had  obtained  with  so  little  knowledge  of 
the  subject,  tempted  him  to  acquire  what  was 
wanting  to  deserve  it;  and  justified  hopes  and 
stimulated  exertions  which  earlier  reflection 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  for  ever  pre- 
vented. 

The  morality  of  Alfieri  seems  to  have  been 
at  least  as  relaxed  as  that  of  the  degeneiate 
nobles,  whom  in  all  other  things  he  professed 
to  reprobate  and  despise.  He  confesses,  avith- 
cut  the  slightest  appearance  of  contrition,  that 
his  general  intercourse  with  women  was  pro- 
fligate in  the  extreme;  and  has  detailed  ihp 
particulars  of  three  several  intrigues  with 
married  women,  without  once  appearing  to 
imagine  that  they  could  require  any  apology 
or  expiation.  On  the  contrary,  while  recortl- 
ing  the  deplorable  consequences  of  one  of 
them,  he  observes,  with  great  composure, 
that  it  was  distressing  to  him  to  contemplate 
a  degradation,  of  which  he  had,  "  though  in- 
nocently," been  the  occasion.  The  general 
arrogance  of  his  maimers,  too,  and  the  occa- 
sional brutality  of  his  conduct  towards  his 
inferiors,  are  far  from  giving  us  an  amiable 


impression  of  his  general  character ;  nor  have 
we  been  able  to  find,  in  the  whole  of  these 
confessions,  a  single  trait  of  kindness  of  heart, 
or  generous  philanthropy,  to  place  in  the  bal- 
ance against  so  many  indications  of  selfish- 
ness and  violence.  There  are  proofs  enough, 
indeed,  of  a  firm,  elevated,  and  manly  spirit; 
but  small  appearance  of  any  thing  gentle,  or 
even,  in  a  moral  sense,  of  any  thing  very  re- 
spectable. In  his  admiration,  in  short,  oi  the 
worthies  of  antiquity,  he  appears  to  have 
copied  their  harshness  and  indelicacy  at  least 
as  faithfully  as  their  loftiness  of  character  r 
and.  at  the  same  time,  to  have  combined  with 
it  all  the  licentiousness  and  presumption  of  a 
modern  Italian  noble. 

We  have  been  somewhat  perplexed  with 
his  politics.    After  speaking  as  we  have  seen, 
of  the  mild  government  of  the  kings  of  Sar-. 
dinia, — after  adding  that,  -when  he  had  rea^i 
Plutarch  and  visited  England,  he  felt  the  mos' 
unsurmountable  repugnance  at  marrying,  oi 
havhig  his  children  born  at  Turin,-' — after  re- 
cording that  a  monarch  is  a  master,  and  i 
subject  a  slave. — and  -that  he  shed  tears  ol 
mingled  grief  and  rage  at  having  been  bon; 
in  such  a  state  as  Piedmont;'" — after  all  thii' 
— after  giving  up  his  estates  to  escape  fron, 
this  bondage,  and  after  writing  his  books  on 
the  Tiranide,  and  his  odes  on  American  lib,' 
erty, — we  really  were  prepared  to  find  hin. 
taking  the  popular  side,  at  the  outset  at  leasi 
of  the  French  Revolution,  and  exuhing  in  tb 
downfal  of  one  of  those  hateful  despotisms 
against  the  whole  system  of  which  he  hai 
previously  inveighed  with  no  extiaordinar; 
moderation.     Instead   of  this,  hi)wever,  w 
find  him  abusing  the  revolutionists,  ard  ex 
tolling  their  opponents  with  all  the-  zeal  of 
professed  antijacobin. — writing  an  eulogiur 
on  the  dethroned  monarch  like  Mr.  P^bu^ 
and   an   Antigallican   like   Peter   Poicupint 
Now,  we  are  certainly  very  far  from  sayinj 
that  a  true  friend  of  liberty  might  not  ext 
crate  the  proceedings  of  the   French  rcvoli 
tionists:    but   a   professed   hater  of    loyalt 
might  have  felt  more  indulgence  for  the  ne^ 
republic;  such  a  crazy  zealot  for  liberty,  s 
Alfieri  showed  himself  in  Italy,  both  by  h.> 
writings  and  his  (tonduct,  might  well  hav 
been  carried  away  by  that  promisi'  of  emaif 
cipation  to  France,  which  deluded  souuc 

ids  than  his  in  all  the  countries  of  Euroi 


i 


h 

There  are  two  keys,  we  think,  ii;  the  woi 
before  us.  lo  this  apparent  inconsistenc;, 
Alfieri,  with  all  his  abhorrence  of  tyrant' 
was,  in  his  heart,  a  great  lover  of  a;  isiocracv 
and;  he  had  a  great  spite  and  antipathy  :; 
the  French  nation,  collectively  and  indivif 
ually.  i 

Though  professedly  a  republican,  it  is  easi 
to  see,  that  the  republic  he  wante<l  Avas  or' 
on  the  Roman  model. — where  tliere  WK^;- 
Patricians  as' well  as  Plebeians,  and  where  ^ 
man  of  great  talents  liad  even  a  good  chaD«;4 
of  being  one  day  appointed  Dictator.  He  d{| 
not  admire  kings  indeed, — because  he  did  nf| 
happen  to  be  boni  one,  and  bee  tuse  th^' 
were  the  only  beings  to  whom  he  was  bo 
inferior :  but  he  had  the  utmost  veneratii . 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  VICTOR  ALFIKKI. 


'53 


or  nobles. — because  fortune  had  placed  him 
H  that  Older,  and  because  the  poAver  and  dis- 
inction  which  belonged  to  it  were  agreeable 
0  him,  and,  he  thought,  would  be  exercised 
or  the  good  of  his  inferiors.  When  he  heard 
hat  Vohaire  had  written  a  tragedy  on  the 
tory  of  Brutus,  he  fell  into  a  great  passion, 
,nd  e.xclainifd,  that  the  subject  was  too  lofty 
:or  "a  French  plebeian,  who,  during  twenty 
^•ears,  had  subscribed  himself  gentleman  in 
ndinary  to  the  King!"' 

This  love  of  aristocracy,  however,  will  not 
•xplain  the  defence  of  monarchy  and  the  abuse 
'f  republics,  which  formed  the  substance  of  his 
'Uitigallican.  But  the  truth  is,  that  he  was 
iitigallican  from  his  youth  up:  and  would 
ever  have  forgiven  that  nation,  if  they  had 
ucceeded  in  establishing  a  free  government, 

■  '-especially  while  Italy  was  in  bondage. 
'  hhe  contempt  which  Voltaire  had  expressed 
-  br  Italian  literature,  and  the  general  degra- 
'  lation  into  which  the  national  character  had 
*  alien,  had  sunk  deep  into  his  fierce  and 
'    aughty   spirit,   and    inspired   him   with   an 

■  ntipathy  towards  that  people  by  whom  his 
•\vn  countrymen  had  been  subtlued,  ridiculed, 

'■'■  ind  outshone.    This  paltry  and  vindictive  feel- 

'■  ns  leads  him,  throughout  this  whole  work, 

»|  0  speak  of  them  in  the  most  unjust  and  un- 

indid  terms.     There  may  be  some  truth  in 

is  remarks  on  the  mean  and  meagre  articu- 

riion  of  their  language,  and  on  their  "horri- 

i'^  lie  u,  with  their  thin  lips  drawn  in  to  pro- 

«  Dunce  it,  as  if  they  were  blowing  hot  soup." 

•-  'av.  we  could  even  excuse  the  nationality 

h'lch  leads  him  to  declare,  that  '-he  would 

ther  be  the  author  of  ten  good  Italian  verses, 

ii:  jian  of  volumes  written  in  £»ig/is/i  or  French, 

ii  ■  any  such  harsh  and  unharmonious  jargon, — 

ai  kough  their  cannon  and  their  armies  should 

)kt  pntinue  to  render  these  languages  fashion- 

if*  )le,"     But  we  cannot  believe  in  the  sinceri- 

of  an  amorous  Italian,  who  declares,  that 

never  could  get  through  the  first  volume 

Rousseau^s  Heloise  :  or  of  a  modern  author 

regular  dramas,  who  professes  to  see  nothing 

all  admirable  in  the  tragedies  of  Racine  or 

rlt|i  Ibltaire.     It  is  evident  to  us,  that  he  grudged 

great  writers  the  glory  that  was  due  to 

em,  out  of  a  vindictive  feeling  of  national 

sentment :  and   that,  for  the  same  reason, 

!  grudged  the  French  nation  the  freedom,  in 

hioh  he  would  otherwise  have  been  among 

e  first  to  believe  and  to  exult. 

It  only  remains  to  say  a  word  or  two  of  the 

erary  productions  of  this  extraordinary  per- 

theme,  however  interesting  and  at- 

ictive.  upon  which  we  can  scarcely  pretend 

enter  on  the  present  occasion.     We  have 

I  ret  been  able  to  procure  a  complete  copy 
le  works  of  Alfieri :  and,  even  of  tho.se 
sh  have  been  lately  transmitted  to  us,  we 
confess  that  a  considerable  portion  re- 
18  to  be  perused.  We  have  seen  enough, 
ever,  to  satisfy  us  that  they  are  deserving 
careful  analysis,  and  that  a  free  and  en- 
;ened  estimate  oif  their  merit  may  be  ren- 
d  both  interesting  and  instructive  to  the 
ter  part  of  our  readers.  We  hope  soon  to 
a  a  condition  to  attempt  this  task;  and 
20 


shall,  in  the  mean  time,  confine  oufseives  to 
a  very  few  observations  suggested  by  the 
style  and  character  of  the  tragedies  with 
which  we  have  been  for  some  time  ac- 
qnaintetl. 

Thesi-  jiieces  approach  much  nearer  to  the 
ancient  Grecian  model,  than  any  otiier  mod- 
ern production  with  wliich  we  are  ac(]uaint- 
ed  ;  in  the  simplicity  of  the  plot,  the  lewnest* 
of  the  iK'rsons,  the  directness  of  the  action, 
and  the  unifoimily  and  elaborate  gravity  of^ 
the  composition.  Infinitely  le.ss  declamatory 
than  the  French  tragedies,  they  have  less 
brilliancy  and  variety,  and  a  deeper  tone  of 
dignity  and  nature.  As  they  have  not  adopt- 
ed the  choral  songs  of  the  (J  reek  stage,  how- 
ever, they  are.  on  the  whole,  less  poetical 
than  those  ancient  compositions;  although 
they  are  worked  throughout  with  a  line  and 
careful  hand,  and  diligently  lunitied  from 
every  thing  ignoble  or  feeble  in  the  expres- 
sion. The  author's  anxiety  to  keep  clear  of 
figures  of  mere  ostentation,  and  to  exclude  all 
showpieces  of  fine  writing  in  a  dialogue  of 
deep  interest  or  impetuous  passion,  lias  be- 
trayed him,  on  some  occasions,  into  too  sen- 
tentious and  strained  a  diction,  and  given  an 
air  of  labour  and  heaviness  to  many  parts  of 
his  composition.  He  has  felt,  perhaps  a  little 
too  constantly,  that  the  cardinal  virtue  of  a 
dramatic  writer  is  to  keep  his  personages  to 
the  business  and  the  concerns  that  lie  before 
them ;  and  by  no  means  to  let  them  turn  to 
moral  philosophers,  or  rhetorical  de.scribers  of 
their  own  emotions.  But,  in  his  zealous  ad- 
herence to  this  good  maxim,  he  seems  some- 
times to  have  forgotten,  that  certain  passions 
are  declamatory  in  nature  as  well  as  on  the 
stage;  and  that,  at  any  rate,  they  do  not  all 
vent  them-selves  in  concise  and  pithy  sayings, 
but  run  occasionally  into  hyperbole  and  am- 
plification. As  it  IS  the  great  excellence,  so 
it  is  occasionally  the  chief  fault  of  Alfieri's 
dialogue,  that  every  w-ord  is  honestly  em- 
ployed to  help  forAvard  the  action  of  the  play, 
by  serious  argument,  necessary  narrative,  or 
the  direct  expression  of  natural  emotion. 
There  are  no  excursions  or  digressions, — no 
episodical  conversations, — and  none  but  the 
most  brief  moralizings.  This  gives  a  certain 
air  of  solidity  to  the  whole  structure  of  the 
piece,  that  is  apt  to  prove  oppressive  to  an  or- 
dinary reader,  and  reduces  the  entire  drama 
to  too  great  uniformity. 

We  make  these  remarks  chiefly  with  a  ref- 
erence to  French  tragedy.  For  our  own 
part,  we  believe  that  those  who  are  d\\]y  sen- 
sible of  the  merits  of  Shakespeare,  will  never 
be  much  struck  with  any  other  dramatical 
compositions.  There  are  no  other  play,-*,  in- 
deed, that  paint  human  nature,— that  strike 
off  the  characters  of  men  with  all  the  fresh- 
ness and  sharpness  of  the  original, — and 
speak  the  language  of  all  the  passions,  not 
like  a  mimic,  but  an  echo — neither  softer  nor 
louder,  nor  differently  modulated  iidin  the 
spontaneous  utterance  of  the  heart.  In  these 
respects  he  di,sdairis  all  com])arisoM  with  Al- 
fieri, or  with  any  other  mortal :  nor  is  it  fair, 
perhaps,  to  suggest  a  comparison,  where  no 


154 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY, 


rivalry  can  be  imagined.  Alfieri.  like  all  the 
continental  dramatists,  considers  a  tragedy  as 
a  poem.  In  England,  we  look  upon  it  rather 
as  a  representation  of  character  and  passion. 
With  them,  of  course,  the  style  and  diction, 
and  the  cougruity  and  proportion.s  of  the 
piece,  are  the  main  objects: — with  us,  the 
truth  and  the  force  of  the  imitation.  It  is  suf- 
ficient for  them,  if  there  be  character  and 
action  enougii  to  prevent  the  composition  from 
languishing,  and  to  give  spirit  and  propriety 
to  the  polished  dialogue  of  which  it  consists; 
— we  are  satisfied,  if  there  be  management 
enough  ia  the  story  not  to  shock  credibility 
entirely,  and  beauty  and  polish  enough  in  the 
diction  to  exclude  disgust  or  derision.  In  his 
own  way,  Allieri,  we  think,  is  excellent.  His 
fables  are  all  admirably  contrived  and  com- 
pletely developed  ;  his  dialogue  is  copious  and 
progressive;  and  his  characters  all  deliver 
natural  sentiments  whh  great  beauty,  and 
often  with  great  force  of  expression.  •  In  our 
eyes,  however,  it  is  a  fault  that  the  fable  is  too 
simple,  and  the  incidents  too  scanty;  and  that 
all  the  characters  express  themselves  with 
equal  feiicit}-.  and  urge  their  opposite  views 
and  pretensions  with  equal  skill  and  plausi- 
bility. We  see  at  once,  that  an  ingenious 
author  has  versified  the  sum  of  a  dialogue ; 
and  never,  for  a  moment,  imagine  that  we 
hear  the  real  persons  contending.  There  may 
be  more  eloquence  and  dignity  in  this  style 
of  dramatising; — there  is  infinitely  more  de- 
ception in  ours. 

With  regard  to  the  diction  of  these  pieces, 
it  is  not  for  tramontane  critics  to  presume  to 


offer  any  opinion.     They  are  considered,  in 
Italy,  we  believe,  as  the  purest  specimens  of 
the  favella  Toscana  that  late  ages  have  pro- 
duced.    To  us  they  certainly  seem  to  want 
something  of  that  tiow  and  sweetness  to  which 
!  we  liave  been  accustomed  in  Italian  poetry, 
'  and  to  be  formed  rather  upon  the  model  of 
j  Dante  than  of  Petrarca.     At  all  events,  it  is 
}  obvious  that  the  style  is  highly  elaborate  and 
j  artificial ;  and  that  the  author  is  constaiitlj 
I  striving  to  give  it  a  sort  of  factitious  force  and 
'  enfergy,  by  the  use  of  condensed   and  em 
phatic  expressions,  interrogatories,  antitheses 
and   short   and    uiverted   sentences.     In   al 
\  these  respect.s,  as  well  as  in   the  chastisec 
gravity  of  the  sentiments,  and  the  temperanct 
and  propriety  of  all  the  delhieations  of  pas 
sion,  these  pieces  are  exactly  the  reverse  o 
what  we  should  have  expected  from  the  fierj, 
fickle,  and  impatient  character  of  the  authoi' 
From  all  that  Alfieri  has  told  us  of  himsel; 
;  we  should  have  e.vi^ected  to  find  in  his  play 
,  great  vehemence  and  irregular  eloquence- 
sublime    and    extravagant    sentiments — pa; 
sions   rising  to  frenzy — and  poetry  swellin 
into  bombast.    Instead  of  this,  we  have  a  sul 
^  dued  and  concise  representation  of  energet 
I  discourses — passions,  not  louil  but  deep — an 
j  a  style  so  severely  correct  and  sciupulousl 
I  pure,  as  to  indicate,  even  to  unskillul  eye 
the  great  labour  which  must  have  been  h 
stowed  on  its  purification.    No  characters  CJ 
I  be  more  different  than  that  w  hich  we  shou 
j  infer  from  reading  the  tragedies  of  Alfieri,  ai 
that  \\  hich  he  has  assigned  to  himself  in  the^ 
I  authentic  memoirs. 


(april,    1803.) 

The  Life  and  Posthumous  Writings  of  William  Cowper,  Esq.  With  an  Introductory  Let 
to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Cowper.  By  William  Hayley.  Esq.  2  vols.  4to.  C 
Chester:   1803. 


This  book  is  too  long;  but  it  is  comf)Osed  i 
on  a  plan  that  makes  prolixity  unavoidable.  ; 
Instead  of  an  ac<"Ount  of  the  poet"s  life,  and  a  : 
view  of  his  character  and  performances,  the  ' 
biographer  has  laid  before  the  public  a  large  j 
selection  from  his  private  correspondence,  and 
merely  inserted  as  much  narrative  between  I 
each  series  of  letters,  as  was  necessarj'  to  pre-  | 
serve  their  connection,  and  make  the  subject  < 
of  them  intelligible. 

This  scheme  of  biography,  which  was  first 
introduced,  we  believe,  by  Mason,  in  his  life 
of  Gray,  has  many  evident  advantages  in  { 
point  of  liveliness  of  colouring,  and  fidelity 
of  representation.  It  is  something  intermediate 
between  the  egotism  of  confessicms,  and  the 
questionable  narrative  of  a  surviving  friend, 
who  must  be  partial,  and  may  be  mistaken  : 
It  enables  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself, 
from  materials  that  were  not  provided  for  the 
purpose  of  determining  his  judijiTient ;  and 
holds  up  to  him,  instead  of  a  llatleriiig  or  un- 
faithful portrait,  the  living  hneameuts  and 


features  of  the  person  it  iutemis  to  commer 
rate.  It  is  a  plan,  however,  that  recjuires 
much  room  for  its  e.xecution.  and  consecjueii 
so  much  money  and  so  much  leisure  in  th 
who  wish  to  be  masters  of  it.  that  it  ough' 
be  reserved,  we  conceive,  for  those  great ; 
eminent  characters  that  are  likely  to  ex( 
an  hiterest  among  all  orders  and  generafi 
of  mankind.  While  the  biography  of  Sha 
speare  and  Bacon  shrinks  into  the  coinei 
an  octavo,  we  can  scarcely  help  wondei 
that  the  history  of  the  sequestered  life  ■ 
solitary  studies  of  Cowper  should  have 
tended  into  two  quarto  volumes. 

The  little  IVIr.  Hayley  writes  in  these  ' 
umes  is  by  no  means  well  wiitten;  tho  j 
certahily  distinguished  by  a  very  ami:' 
gentleness  of  temper,  and  the  strongest  • 
pearance  of  sincere  veneration  and  afl'ec  i 
for  the  departed  friend  to  whose  memory  * 
consecrated.  It  will  be  very  hard,  too,  if  I) 
do  not  become  popular  :  as  Mr.  Hayley  se,' 
to  have  exerted  himself  to  conciliate  rea  ' 


lai 


HA'i'LEV'S  L[FE  OF  COWPER. 


155 


every  description,  not  only  by  the  most 
avish  and  indiscriminate  praise  of  every  in- 
lividual  he  has  occasion  to  mention,  but  by  a 
reneral  spirit  of  ftpprobatiou  and  indulgence 
owards  every  practice  and  opinion  which  he 
las  i'ouud  it  necessary  to  speak  of.  Among 
he  other  symptoms  of  book  ma/cing  which  this 
nibiicatioii  contains,  we  can  scarcely  forbear 
pckoning  the  expressions  of  this  too  obsequ  ioUs 
ml  unoffending  philanthropy. 

Tlie  constitutional  shyness  and  diffidence 
I  Cowper  appeared  in  his  earliest  childhooil, 
ml  was  not  subdued  in  any  degree  by  the 
'ustle  and  contention  of  a  Westminster  edu- 
ation  ;  where,  though  he  acquired  a  consid- 
lable  portion  of  classical  learning,  he  has 
inT^elf  declared,  that  "  he  was  never  able  to 
:xi> '  his  eye  above  the  shoe-buckles  of  the 
Ider  boys,  who  tyrannized  over  him."'"  From 
'lis  seminary,  he  seems  to  have  passed,  with- 
ut  any  academical  preparation,  into  the  So- 
iety  of  the  Inner  Temple,  where  he  continued 
.)  reside  to  the  age  of  thirty-three.  Neither 
is  biographer  nor  his  letters  give  any  satis- 
ictory  account  of  the  way  in  which  this  large 
lit  I  most  important  part  of  his  life  was  spent. 
Jthongh  Lord  Thurlow  was  one  of  his  most 
itimate  associates,  it  is  certain  that  he  never 
lade  any  proficiency  in  the  study  of  the  law; 
ikI  the  few  slight  pieces  of  composition,  in 
■hich  he  appears  to  have  been  engaged  in 
lis  interval,  are  but  a  scanty  produce  for  rif- 
»en  years  of  literary  leisure.  That  a  part  of 
lose  years  was  very  idly  spent,  indeed,  ap- 
ears  from  his  own  account  of  them.  In  a 
•tter  to  his  cousin,  in  1786,  he  says, 

'■  I  did  artiiaily  live  three  years  with  Mr.  Chap- 
laii.  a  solicitor ;  that  is  to  say,  I  slept  three  years 
I  his  hou-;e  ;  but  I  lived,  that  is  to  say,  I  spent  my 
lys  ifi  Southampton  Row,  as  you  very  well  re- 
lember.  There  was  I,  and  the  future  Lord  Chan- 
>IKir,  constantly  employed,  from  morning  tonight, 

niHghns.  and  making  giggle,  instead  oi  studying 
:  '  law." — V-'ol.  i.  p.  178. 

Aid  in  a  more  serious  letter  to  Mr.  Rose, 
-'   nakes  the  following  just  observations. 

"  Th^  colour  of  our  whole  life  is  generally  such 
;  ilie  three  or  four  first  years,  in  which  we  are  our 
■VM  masters,  make  it.  Then  it  ia  that  we  may  l>e 
li  1  to  sh  ipe  our  own  destiny,  and  to  treasure  up 
r  ourselves  a  series  of  future  successes  or  disap- 
lintment!^.  Had  I  employed  my  time  as  wisely  as 
"3U,  in  a  siuaiion  very  similar  to  yours,  I  had  never 
len  a  poet  perhaps,  but  I  might  by  this  lime  have 
•quired  a  character  of  more  importance  in  s 


dence,  if  we  rightly  understand  his  biographer, 
that  was  the  immediate  cause  of  the  unfor- 
tunate derangement  that  overclouded  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  In  his  thirty-first  year, 
his  friemis  procured  for  him  the  office  of 
reading-clerk  to  the  House  of  Lords  ;  but  the 
idea  of  reading  in  public,  was  the  source  of 
^uch  torture  and  apprehension  to  him.  that  he 
very  soon  resigned  that  place,  and  had  interest 
enough  to  exchange  it  for  that  of  clerk  of  the 
journals,  which  was  supposed  to  require  no 
personal  attendance.  An  unlucky  dispute  iti 
Parliament,  however,  made  it  neces.sary  for 
him  to  appear  in  his  place  ;  and  the  conse- 
quences of  this  requisition  are  stated  by  Mr. 
Hayley.  in  the  following,  not  very  lucid,  ac- 
count. 

"  His  terrors  on  this  occasion  arose  to  such  an 
astonishing  height,  that  they  utterly  overwhelmed 
his  reason  :  for  although  he  had  endeavoured  to 
prepare  himself  for  his  public  duty,  by  ailending 
closely  al  the  office  for  several  monihs,  to  examine 
the  parliamentary  journals,  his  application  was  ren- 
dered useless  by  that  excess  of  diffidence,  which 
made  him  conceive,  that  whatever  knowledge  he 
might  previously  acquire,  it  would  all  forsake  hmi 
at  the  bar  of  the  flouse.  This  distressing  appre- 
hension increased  to  such  a  degree,  as  the  lime  for 
his  appearance  approached,  that  when  the  day  so 
anxiously  dreaded  arrived,  he  was  unable  to  make 
the  experiment.  The  very  friends,  who  called  on 
him  for  the  purpose  of  attending  him  to  the  House 
of  Lords,  acquiesced  in  the  cruel  necessity  of  relin- 
quishing the  prospect  of  a  siaiion  so  severely  for- 
midable to  a  frame  of  such  singular  sensil)ili!y" 

"  The  conflict  between  the  wishes  of  just  aflTec- 
lionaie  ambition,  and  the  terrors  of  diffidence,  so 
entirely  overwhelmed  his  health  and  faculiies,  that 
after  two  learned  and  benevolent  divines  (Mr.  John 
Cowper,  his  brother,  and  the  celebrated  Mr.  Mar- 
tin Madan,  his  first  cousin)  had  vainly  endeavoured 
to  establish  a  lasting  tranquillity  in  his  mind,  by 
friendly  and  religious  conversation,  it  was  found 
necessary  to  remove  him  to  St.  Alban's,  where  he 
resided  a  considerable  time,  under  the  care  of  that 
cinineni  physician  Dr.  Cotton,  a  scholar  and  a  poet, 
who  added  to  many  accomplishments  a  peculiar 
sweetness  of  manners,  in  very  advanced  life,  when 
[  h.id  the  pleasure  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with 
him." — Vol.  i.  pp.  2r>,  26. 


In  this  melancholy  state  he  continued  for 
upwards  of  a  year,  when  his  mind  began 
slowly  to  emerge  from  the  depression  under 
which  it  had  laboured,  and  to  seek  for  coii- 
.solation  in  the  study  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
other  religious  occupations.  In  the  city  of 
Huntingdon,  to  which  he  had  been  removed 
a  situation  in  which  my  friends  would  have  |  in  his  illnes.s,  he  now  formed  an  acquaintance 
n  better  pleased  to  see  me.     But  three  years  |  with  the  family  of  the  JJeverend  Mr.  Unwi 


isspent   in  an  aiiorney's  office,  were  almost   of  ,  ^.jth  whose  widow  the  greater  part  ot  his  after 

'Tn-ffr^T.    I'^^'Z'rLZlZnVfl  ZITT.  '  ' i<"«  "''^•'^  P^sse^I •     The  scries  of  letters,  which 
the   temple:  and  the  consequence  has  been,  as 


passed 
Mr.  Hayley  has  introduced  in  this  i)lace,  are 
altogether  of  a  devotional  cast,  and  bear  evi- 
hers,  when  occasion  may  j  dent  symptoms  of  continuing  depression  and 
anxiety.     He  talks  a  great  deal  of  his  conver- 
sion,   of  the   levity   and    worldlincss  of   his 
former  life,  and  of  the  srace  which  had  at  last 
been  vouchsafed  to  him  ;  and  seems  so  entirely 
the  gaiety  in  which  it  appears  to  have  i  and  constantly  absorbed  in  those  awful  medi- 
■n  wasted,  had  corrected  that  radical  def(>ct  !  tations,  as  to  consider  not  only  the  occupations 
lis  constitution,  by  which  he  was  di.sabled  !  of  his  earlier  days,  but  all  temporal  bysiness 

or  amusement,  as  utterly  unworthy  of  his  at- 
tention. We  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  make 


e  Italian  epitaph  says,  "  Stoqui'' — The  only  use 
can  make  of  myself  now,  at  least  the  best,  is  to 
■rve  in  lerrorem  to 

'ippen  to  offer,  that  they  may  escape  (so  far 
ltnonitio..s  can  have  any  weight  wiih  them)  my  | 
lly  and  my  fate."— Vol.  i.  pp.  3;«,  334.  I 

\"ither  the  idleness  of  this  period,  however. 


om  making  any  public  display  of  his  acqui 
tious ;  and  it  was  the  excess  of  this  diffi 


156 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


any  extract  from  this  part  of  the  publication ;  j 
and  perhaps  Mr.  Hayley  might  have  spared  j 
some  of  the  methodistical  raptures  and  dissert-  | 
ations  that  are  contained  in  those  letters,  i 
without  any  injury  either  to  the  memory  of  j 
his  friend,  or  the  reputation  of  his  own  per-  , 
formance. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin,  he  retired  | 
wiih  his  widow  to  the  village  of  Olney  in 
1768.  where  he  continued  in  the  same  pious 
and  sequestered  habits  of  life  till  the  year 
1772,   when  a  second  and  more   protracted  I 
visitation  of  the  same  tremendous  malady  ob-  | 
scured  his  faculties  for  a  melancholy  period  | 
of  eight  years ;  during  which  he  was  attended  i 
by  Mrs.  Unwin  with  a  constancy  and  tender- 
ness of  affection,  which  it  \^s  the  great  busi-  | 
ness  of  his  after  life  to  repay.     In  1780,  he  j 
began  gradually  to  recover ;  and  in  a  letter  | 
of  that  year  to  his  cousin,  describes  himself 
in  this  manner : 

"You  see  me  sixteen  years  older,  at  the  least. 
than  when  I  saw  you  last ;  but  the  effects  of  liine 
seem  to  have  taken  place  rather  on  the  outside  of 
my  head  than  within  it.  What  was  brown  is  be- 
come grey,  but  what  was  foolish  remains  foolish 
still.  Green  fruit  must  rot  before  it  ripens,  if  the 
season  is  such  as  to  affjrd  it  nothing  but  cold  winds 
and  dark  clouds,  that  interrupt  every  ray  of  sunshine. 
My  days  steal  away  silently,  and  march  on  (as  poor 
mad  King  Lear  would  have  made  his  soldiers 
march)  as  if  they  were  shod  with  felt !  Not  so 
silently  but  that  I  hear  them  ;  yet  were  it  not  that  I 
am  always  listening  to  their  flight,  having  no  in- 
firmity that  I  had  not  when  I  was  much  younger,  I 
should  deceive  myself  with  an  imagination  that  I 
am  still  young." — Vol.  i.  pp.  96,  97. 

One  of  the  first  applications  of  his  returning 
powers  was  to  the  taming  and  education  of 
the  three  young  hares,  which  he  has  since 
celebrated  in  his  poetry :  and,  very  soon  after, 
the  solicitations  of  his  "affectionate  companion 
first  inducecj  him  to  prepare  some  moral  pieces 
for  publication,  in  the  hope  of  giving  a  salu- 
tary employment  to  his  mind.  At  the  age  of 
fiftv,  therefore,  and  at  a  distance  from  all  the 
excitements  that  emulation  and  ambition  usu- 
ally hold  out  to  a  poet,  Cowper  beg-an  to  write 
for  the  public,  with  the  view  of  diverting  his 
own  melancholy,  and  doing  service  to  the 
cause  of  morality.  Whatever  efl'ect  his  pub- 
lications had  on'  the  world,  the  composition 
of  them  certainly  had  a  most  beneficial  one 
on  himself.     In  a  letter  to  his  cousin  he  says, 

"  Dejection  of  spirits,  which  I  suppose  may  have 
prevented  many  a  man  from  becoming  an  author, 
made  me  one.  I  find  con.=!lant  employment  neces- 
sary, and  therefore  take  care  to  be  constantly  em- 
ployed.— Manual  occupations  do  not  engaae  the 
mind  suflficiently,  as  I  know  by  experience,  having 
tried  many.  B\it  composition,  especially  of  verse, 
absorbs  it  wholly.  I  write,  therefore,  generally 
three  hours  in  a  morning,  and  in  an  evening  I 
transcribe.  I  read  also,  but  less  than  I  write." — 
Vol.  i.  p.  147. 

There  is  another  passage  in  which  he  talks 
of  his  performance  in  so  light  and  ea,sy  a 
manner,  and  assumes  so  much  of  the  pleasing, 
though  antiquated  language  of  Pope  and  Ad- 
dison, that  we  cannot  resist  extracting  it. 

"My  labours  are  principally  the  production  of 
last  winter  ;  all  indeed,  except  a  few  of  the  minor 


pieces.  When  I  can  find  no  other  occupation,  I 
think ;  and  when  I  think,  I  am  very  apt  to  do  it  in 
rhyme.  Hence  it  comes  to  pass,  that  the  season 
of  the  year  which  generally  pinches  oft' the  flowers 
of  poetry,  unfolds  mine,  such  as  they  are,  and 
crowns  me  with  a  winter  garland.  In  this  respect, 
therefore,  I  and  my  contemporary  bards  are  by  no 
means  upon  a  par.  They  write  when  the  di  lighiful 
influence  of  fine  weather,  fine  prospects,  and  a  brisk 
nwtion  of  the  animal  spirits,  make  poetry  almost  the 
language  of  nature  ;  and  I,  when  icicles  depend  trom 
all  the  leaves  of  the  Parnassian  laurel,  and  when  a 
reasonable  man  would  as  httle  expect  to  succeed  in 
verse,  as  to  hear  a  blackbird  whistle.  This  must 
be  my  apology  to  you  for  whatever  want  of  fire  and 
animation  you  may  observe  in  what  you  will  siionly 
have  the  perusal  of.  As  to  the  public,  if  they  like 
mc  not,  there  is  no  remedy-" — Vol.  i.  pp.  105,  106. 

The  success  of  his  first  volume,  which  ap- 
peared ill  the  end  of  the  year  1781.  was  by 
no  means  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  proceed 
to  a  second :  and,  indeed,  it  seem?  now  to  be 
admitted  by  every  body  but  Mr.  Hayley,  that 
it  was  not  well  calculated  for  becoming  popu- 
lar. Too  serious  for  the  general  reader,  ii 
had  too  much  satire,  wit.  and  criticism,  to  bt 
a  favourite  with  the  devout  and  enthusiastic 
the  principal  poems  were  also  too  long  am 
desultory,  and  the  versification  throughout  was 
more  harsh  and  negligent,  than  the  public  hat, 
yet  been  accustomed  to.  The  book  therefonj 
was  very  little  read,  till  the  increasing  fami 
of  the  author  brought  all  his  works  into  notice 
and  then,  indeed,  it  was  discovered,  that  i 
contained  many  traits  of  strong  and  origina 
genius,  and  a  richness  of  idiomatical  phrase 
ology,  that  has  been  but  seldom  equalled  i 
our  language. 

In  the  end  of  this  year,  Cowper  formed  a 
accidental  acquaintance  with  the  widow  of  S 
Thomas  Austen,  which,  in  spite  of  his  iiisupe: 
able  shyness,  ripened  gradually  into  a  mutut 
and  cordial  friendship,  and  was  the  immediat 
source  of  some  of  his  happiest  hours,  an 
most  celebrated  productions. — The  facetioi 
history  of  -'John  Gilpin"'  arose  from  a  suj 
aestioii  of  that  lady,  in  circumstances  and  i 
a  way  that  marks  the  perilous  and  mood 
state  of  Cowper's  understandhig  more  stril 
ingly  perhaps  than  any  general  description. 

■"It  happened  one  afternoon,  in  those  year 
when  his  accom[)lished  friend  Lady  Austen  made 
part  of  his  little  evening  circle,  that  she  observ' 
him  sinking  into  increasing  dejection ;  it  was  h 
custom,  on  these  occasions,  to  try  all  the  resourc 
of  her  sprightly  powers  for  his  immediate  reli' 
She  told  him  the  story  of  John  Gilpin  (which  h 
been  treasured  in  her  memory  from  her  childhood) 
dissipate  the  gloom  of  the  passing  hour.  Its  efl^et 
on  the  fancy  of  Cowper  had  the  air  of  enchant  mei 
He  informed  her  the  next  morning,  that  convul.iio 
of  lauisliler.  brought  on  by  his  recollection  of  h 
siory,  had  kept  him  waking  during  the  greatest  pi, 
of  the  night !  and  that  he  had  turned  it  into  a  balk 
— So  arose  the  pleasant  poem  of  John  Gilpin.", 
Vol.  i.  pp.  128,  129. 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1783,  howevr' 
Lady  Austen  was  fortunate  enough  to  dire 
the  poet  to  a  work  of  much  greater  importanc 
and  to  engage  him,  from  a  very  accidenv 
circumstance,  in  the  composition  of  '-T 
Task,"  by  far  the  best  and  the  most  popui 
of  all  his  performances.  The  anecdote,  whi' 
is  such  as  the  introduction  of  that  poem  ll_^ 


HAYLEYS  LIFE  OF  COVVPER. 


157 


1  probably  suggested  to  most  readers,  is  givei; 
in  this  manner  by  Mr.  Hayley. 

"  This  lady  happened,  as  an  admirer  of  Milton, 
to  be  partial  to  blank  verse,  and  often  soliciied  her 
poetical  friend  to  try  his  powers  in  that  species  of 
composition.  After  repeated  solicitation,  he  pro- 
mised her,  if  she  would  furnish  the  subject,  to  com- 
ply with  her  request.  '  Oh  !'  she  replied,  '  you  can 
never  be  in  want  of  a  subject , — you  can  write  upon 
any — write  upon  this  sola!"  The  poet  obeyed  her 
command:  and,  from  the  lively  repartee  of  tamiliar 
conversation,  arose  apoem  of  many  thousand  verses, 
unexampled,  perhaps,  both  in  its  origin  and  excel- 
ilence." — Vol.  i.  p.  135. 

\       This  extraordinary  production  was  finished 

,  fin  less  than  a  year,  and  became  extremely 

■  popular  from  the  very  first  month  of  its  publica- 

'    tion.  Thecharmof  reputation,  however,  could 

not  draw  Cowper  from  his  seclusion;  and  his 

solitude  became  still  more  dreary  about  this 

period,  by  the  cessation  of  his   intercourse 

-  'with  Lady  Austen,  with  whom  certain  little 

"i^  fjealousies  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Unwin  (which 

',  Ithe  biographer  might  as  well  have  passed 

"'  'over  in  silence)  obliged  him  to  renounce  any 

*'    farther   connection.     Besides   the   Task  and 

■John  Gilpin,  he  appears  to  have  composed 

' '    several  smaller  poems  for  this  lady,  which  are 

published,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  work  now 

before  us.     We  were  particularly  struck  with 

'■  a  ballad  on  the  unfortunate  loss  of  the  Royal 

'    George,  of  which  the  following  stanzas  may 

serve  as  a  specimen. 

"  Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  seafight  is  fought  ; 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

'!'  It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

"  His  sword  was  in  its  sheath  ; 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down. 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Vol.  i.  p.  1-27. 

The  same  year  that  saw  the  conclusion  of 
The  Task,"  found  Cowper  engaged  in  tlie 
)»  Iranslation  of  Homer.  This  laborious  under- 
j,„  jaking-,  is  said,  by  Mr.  Hayley,  to  have  been 


irst  suggested  to  him  by  Lady  Austen  also : 
hough  there  is  nothing  in  the  correspondence 
«'*'  )ie  has  published,  that  seems  to  countenance 
hat  idea.  The  work  was  pretty  far  advanced 
ii'fore  he  appears  to  have  confided  the  secret 
f  it  to  any  one.  In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hill,  he 
xplains  his  design  in  this  manner : 

Knowing  it  to  have  been  universally  the  opinion 

f  the  literati,  ever  since  they  have  allowed  ihem- 

slves  to  consider  the  matter  coolly,  that  a  transla- 

on,  properly  so  called,  of  Homer,  is,  notwithsrand- 

ig  what    Pope   has   done,   a  desideratum    in    the 

English  language,  it  struck  me,  that  an  attempt  to 

jupply  the  deficiency  would  be  an  honourable  one  ; 

lijjft  ind  having  made  myself,  in  former  years,  some- 

ij  b^hnt  critically  a  nia=ter  of  the  original,  I  was.  by 

,  pis  double  translation,  indued  to  make  the  atieinpt 

[*'*  CJyself.     I  am   now  nanslaiing   into   blank  verse 

iCC*  be  last  book  of  the  Iliad,  and  mean  to  publish  by 

o["t  ubscripiion."— Vol.  i.  p.  1.^1. 

t  i*f*  I  Some  observations  that  were  made  by  Dr. 
ite,»  -laty  and   others,  upon  a  specimen   of  his 


translation,  about  this  time,  seem  to  have 
drawn  from  him  the  following  curious  and 
unafi'ected  delineation  of  his  own  thoughts  arid 

feelings. 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess,  that  having  roni- 
metued  an  author,  I  am  most  ainindanily  desirous 
to  succeed  as  such.  7  /lavc  (what  perhaps  i/oii  little 
SKupecl  vie  of)  In  mij  valurr,  an  hifinite  nharr  of  am- 
Intion.  But  with  it,  I  have  at  the  same  tniie,  as 
you  well  know,  an  erjual  share  of  diffidence.  To 
tliis  combination  of  opposite  qualities  it  has  been 
owing,  that,  till  lately,  I  stole  through  life  without 
undertaking  any  thing,  yet  always  wishing  to  dis- 
tinguish myself  .\\  last  I  ventured  :  ventured,  too. 
in  the  only  path  that,  at  so  late  a  period,  was  yet 
open  to  me ;  and  I  am  determined,  il  God  hath  not 
determined  otherwise,  to  work  my  way  through 
the  obscurity  that  hath  been  so  long  my  portion, 
into  notice." — Vol.  i.  p.  1<J0. 

As  he  advanced  in  his  work,  however,  he 
i'eems  to  have  become  better  plea.sed  with 
the  e.xecution  of  it;  and  in  the  year  ITyo, 
addresses  to  his  cousin  the  folJovv'inir  candid 
and  interesting  observations :  though  we  can- 
not but  regret  that  we  have  not  some  speci- 
mens at  least  of  what  he  calls  the  quaint  and 
antiquated  style  of  our  earlier  poets:  and  are 
not  without  our  suspicions  that  we  should 
have  liked  it  better  than  that  which  he  ulti- 
mately adopted. 

"  To  say  the  truth,  1  have  now  no  fears  about 
the  success  of  my  translation,  though  in  time  past 
I  have  had  many.  I  knew  there  was  a  style  some- 
where, could  I  but  find  it,  in  which  Hoiiier  ought 
to  be  rendered,  and  which  alone  would  suit  him. 
Long  time  I  blundered  about  it,  ere  I  could  attain 
to  any  decided  judgment  on  the  matter.  At  first  I 
was  betrayed,  by  a  desire  of  accommodating  my 
language  to  the  simplicity  of  his,  into  much  of  the 
quaintness  that  belonged  to  our  writers  of  the  fif- 
teenth century.  In  the  course  of  many  revi.«als.  I 
have  delivered  myself  from  this  evil,  I  believe,  en- 
tirely :  but  I  have  done  it  slowly,  and  as  a  man 
separates  himself  from  his  mistress,  when  he  is 
going  to  marry.  I  had  so  strong  a  predileciion  in 
favour  of  this  style,  at  first,  that  I  w^as  crazed  to 
find  that  others  were  not  as  much  enamoured  with 
it  as  myself.  At  every  passage  ot  that  sort,  which 
I  oblite'rated,  I  groaned  bitterly,  and  said  to  myself 
I  am  spoiling  my  work  to  please  those  who  have 
no  taste  lor  the  simple  graces  of  antiquity.  But  in 
measure,  as  I  adopted  a  more  modern  phi-aseology, 
I  became  a  convert  to  their  opinion  :  and  in  the  last 
revisal.  which  I  am  now  making,  am  not  sensible 
of  having  spared  a  single  e.xpression  of  the  obsolete 
kind.  I  see  my  work  so  much  improved  by  this 
alteration,  that  I  am  filled  with  wonder  at  m>  own 
backwardness  to  assent  to  the  necessity  of  it ;  and 
the  more,  wlien  I  consider,  that  Milton,  with 
whose  manner  I  account  myself  intimately  ac- 
quainted, is  never  quaint,  never  twangs  through  the 
nose,  but  is  every  where  grand  and  elegant,  without 
resorting  to  musty  antiquity  for  his  beauties.  On 
the  contrary,  he  took  a  long  stride  forward,  left  the 
language  of  his  own  day  far  behind  him.  and  antic- 
ipated the  expressions  of  a  century  yet  to  come." 
—Vol.  i.  pp.  360,  361. 

The  translation  was  finished  in  the  year 
1791.  and  published  by  subscription  imme- 
diately after.  Several  applictifioiis  were  made 
I  to  the  University  of  Oxford  or  the  hoi. our  of 
their  subscription,  but  without  success.  Their 
I  aiLSwer  was,  '-That  ihey  subscribed  to  noth- 
ling." — "  It  seems  not  a  little  extiaoidaiarv," 
C .says the  offei^ded  poet  on  this  occasion,  "that 
0 


158 


LITEEATURE  AiND  EIOGRAPHY, 


persons  so  nobly  patronised  themselves  on  the 
score  of  literature,  should  resolve  to  give  no 
encouragement  to  it  in  return.'"  We  think 
so  too. 

The  period  that  elapsed  from  the  publica- 
tion ol  his  first  volume  in  1781,  to  that  of  his 
Homer  in  1791,  seems  to  have  been  by  far 
the  happiest  and  most  brilliant  part  of  Covv- 
per's  existence.  It  was  not  only  animated  by 
the  vigorous  and  successful  exertions  in  which 
he  was  enga<red.  but  enlivened,  in  a  very 
pleasing  manner,  by  the  correspondence  and 
societyof  his  cousin.  Lady  Hesketh,  who  re- 
newed, about  this  time,  an  intimacy  that 
seems  to  have  endeared  the  earlier  days  of 
their  childhood.  In  his  letters  to  this  lad\\ 
we  have  found  the  most  interesting  traits  ot 
his  simple  and  affectionate  character,  com- 
bined with  an  innocent  playfulness,  and  viva- 
city; that  charms  the  more,  when  contrasted 
wjth  the  gloom  and  horror  to  which  it  suc- 
ceeded, and  by  which  it  was  unfortunately 
replaced.  Our  limits  will  not  allow  us  to 
make  many  extracts  from  this  part  of  the 
publication.  We  insert,  however,  the  follow- 
ing delightful  letter,  in  answer  to  one  from 
Lady  Hesketh,  promising  to  pay  him  a  visit 
during  the  summer. 

'■  I  shall  see  you  again  ! — I  shall  hear  your  voice — 
wp  shall  take  walks  together:  I  will  show  you  my 
prospects,  the  hovel,  the  alcove,  the  Ouse,  and  its 
banks,  every  thing  that  I  have  described.  I  antici- 
pate the  pleasure  of  those  days  not  very  far  distant, 
and  feel  a  part  of  it  at  this  moment.  Talk  not  o< 
an  inn ;  mention  it  not  for  your  life.  We  have 
never  had  so  many  visitors,  but  we  could  easily  ac- 
comrnoda'e  them  all,  though  we  have  received 
Unwin,  and  his  wife,  and  his  sister,  and  his  son, 
al!  at  once.  My  dear,  I  will  not  let  you  come  till 
the  end  of  May,  or  beginning  of  June,  because  be- 
fore that  time  my  green-house  will  not  be  ready  to 
receive  us :  and  it  is  the  only  pleasant  room  be- 
longing 10  us.  When  the  plants  go  out,  we  go  in. 
I  line  It  with  mats,  and  spread  the  floor  with  mats, 
and  there  you  shall  sit  with  a  bed  of  mignonette  at 
your  side,  and  a  hedge  of  honeysuckles,  roses,  and 
jesmine:  and  I  will  make  you  a  bouquet  of  myrtle 
every  day.  .Sooner  than  the  time  I  mention,  the 
country  will  not  be  in  complete  beauty.  And  I 
will  tell  you  what  you  shall  find  at  your  first  en- 
trance. Jmprunis,  As  soon  as  you  have  entered 
the  vestibule,  if  you  cast  a  look  on  either  side  of 
you,  you  .-^hall  see  on  the  right  hand  a  box  of  my 
making.  It  is  the  bo.x  in  which  have  been  lodged 
all  my  hares,  and  in  which  lodges  puss  at  present. 
But  he,  poor  fellow,  is  worn  out  with  age,  and  pro- 
mises to  die  before  you  can  see  him.  On  the  right 
hand  stands  a  cupboard,  the  work  of  the  same 
author.  It  was  once  a  dove-cage,  but  I  transform 
ed  it.  Opposite  to  you  stands  a  table,  which  I  also 
made;  but  a  merciless  servant  having  scrubbed  it 
until  it  became  paralytic,  it  serves  no  purpose  now 
but  of  ornament ;  and  all  my  clean  shoes  stand 
under  it.  On  the  left  hand,  at  the  farther  end  of 
this  superb  vestibule,  you  will  find  the  door  of  the 
parlour  into  which  I  shall  conduct  you,  and  where 
I  will  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Unwin  (unless  we 
should  meet  her  before), — and  where  we  will  be  as 
happy  ae  the  day  is  long  I  Order  yourself,  my 
cousin,  to  the  Swan  at  Newport,  and  there  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  conduct  you  to  OIney. 

"My  dear,  I  have  told  Homer  what  you  say 
about  casks  and  urns:  and  have  asked  him  whether 
he  is  sure  that  it  is  a  cask  in  which  Jupiter  keeps 
his  wine.  He  swears  that  it  is  a  cask,  and  that  it 
will  never  be  any  thing  belter  than  a  cask  to  eternity. 
So  if  the  god  is  content  with  it,  we  must  even 


wonder  at  his  taste,  and  be  so  too.' — Vol.  i.  pp. 
161—163. 

The  following  is  very  much  i:i  the  same 
style. 

"  This  house,  accordingly,  since  it  has  been  oc- 
cupied by  us  and  our  3Ieubles,  is  as  much  superior 
to  what  It  was  when  you  saw  it  as  you  can  imagine. 
The  parlour  is  even  elegant.  When  I  say  that  the 
parlour  is  elegant,  I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that 
the  study  is  not  so.  It  is  neat,  warm,  and  silent, 
and  a  much  better  study  than  I  deserve,  it  I  do  not 
produce  in  it  an  incomparable  translation  of  Homer. 
I  think  every  day  of  those  lines  ot  Milton,  and  con- 
gratulate myselt  on  having  obtained,  before  I  am 
quite  superannuated,  what  be  seems  not  to  have 
hoped  for  sooner. 

'  And  may  at  length  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage.' 
For  il  it  is  not  a  hermitage,  at  least  it  is  a  much 
better  thing;  and  you  must  always  understand, 
my  dear,  tliat  when  poets  talk  of  cottages,  hermit- 
ages, and  such  like  things,  they  mean  a  house  with 
six  sashes  in  front,  two  comfortable  parlours,  a 
smart  staircase,  and  three  bedchambers  of  conve- 
nient dimensions ;  in  short,  exactly  such  a  housa 
as  this."— Vol.  i.  pp.  227,  228. 

In  another  letter,  in  a  graver  humour,  he 
says — 

"  1  am  almost  the  only  person  at  Weston,  known 
to  you,  who  have  enjoyed  tolerable  health  this 
winter.  In  your  next  letter  give  us  some  account ' 
of  your  own  state  of  health,  for  I  have  had  my 
anxieties  about  you.  The  winter  has  been  mild ; 
but  our  winters  are  in  general  such,  that,  when  a 
friend  leaves  us  in  the  beginning  of  that  season,  1 
always  feel  in  my  heart  a  perhaps,  imijortiiig  that 
we  have  possibly  met  for  the  last  time,  and  that  the 
robins  may  whistle  on  the  grave  of  one  of  us  before 
the  return  of  summer. 

"  Many  thanks  for  the  cuckow,  whicli  arrived 
perfectly  safe,  and  goes  well,  to  the  arniisemeni 
and  amazement  of  all  who  hear  it.  Hannah  lief 
awake  to  hear  it ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  we  havtl 
not  others  in  the  house  that  admire  his  music  at 
much  as  she." — Vol.  i.  p.  331. 

In  the  following  passage,  we  have  all  the 
calmness  of  a  sequestered  and  good-naturei' 
man,  and  we  doubt  whether  there  was  aiiolhe 
educated  and  reflecting  individual  to  be  fount 
in  the  kingdom,  who  could  think  and  speal 
so  dispassionately  of  the  events  which  wer 
passuig  in  1792. 

"  The  French,  who,  like  all  lively  folks,  are  ej. 
treme  in  every   thing,  are   such   in  their  zeal  f( 
freedom  ;  and  if  it  were  possible  to  make  so  nob 
a  cause  ridiculous,  their  manner  of  promoting 
could  not  fail  to  do  so.     Princes  and  peers  reduct' 
to  plain  gentlemanship,  and  gentles  reduced  to  ' 
level  with  their  own  lackeys,  are  excesses  of  whi< 
they  will  repent  hereafter.     Difterence  of  rank  ai 
subordination  are,  I  believe,  of  God's  appointmer 
and,  consequently,  essential  to  the  well-being  ■ 
society:  but  what  we  mean  by  fanaticism  in  re 
I  gion,  is  exactly  that  which  anitnaies  their  politic 
'  and,  unless  time   should   sober   them,  they  wi 
after  all,  be  an  unhappy  people.     Perhaps  it  d 
serves  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  at  ih ' 
first   escape  from  tyrannic   shackles,   they  shoi 
act  extravagantly,  and  treat  their  kings  as  they  ho 
sometimes  treated  their  idols.    To  these,  howev 
they  are  reconciled  in  due  time  again  ;  but  ih 
respect  for  monarchy  is  at  an  end.     They  wi 
nothing  now  but  a  little  English  sobriety,  and  i 
they  want  extremely.     I  heartily  wish  them  so 
wit  in  their  anger;  for  it  were  great  pity  that 
many  milUons  should  be  miserable  for  want  of  J. 
—Vol.  i.  p.  379. 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


159 


Homer  was  scarcely  finished,  when  a  pio- 
lopal  was  made  to  the  iudefatiguble  translator, 
o  rniiage  in  a  magnificent  edition  of  Milton, 
'  or  which  he  was  to  furnish  a  version  of  his 
^atin  and  Italian  poetry,  and  a  critical  com- 
nentary  upon  his  whole  works.  Mr.  Hayley 
lad,  at  this  time,  undertaken  to  write  a  life 
■  [if  iSlilton  :  and  some  groundless  reports,  as 
:  iO  an  intended  rivalry  between  him  and  Cow- 
I  )er,  led  to  a  friendly  explanation,  and  to  a 
'ery  cordial  and  affectionate  intimacy.  In 
:he  year  1792,  Mr.  Hayley  paid  a  visit  to  his 
lewly  acquired  friend  at  Weston ;  and  hap- 
'  iiened  to  be  providentially  present  with  him 
1  jv'heu  the  agony  which  he  experienced  from 
he  sight  of  a  paralytic  attack  upon  Mrs.  Un- 
yin.  had  very  nearly  affected  his  understand- 
,ig.  The  anxious  attention  of  his  friend,  and 
ifie  gradual  recovery  of  the  unfortunate  pa- 
)i!ent,  prevented  any  very  calamitous  effect 
rom  this  unhappy  occurrence  :  But  his  spirits 
ippear  never  to  have  recovered  the  shock ; 
lud  the  solicitude  and  apprehension  which  he 
lOnstantly  felt  for  his  long  tried  and  affection- 
le  companion,  suspended  his  literary  exer- 
|ons.  aggravated  the  depression  to  which  he 
jad  always  been  occasionally  liable,  and  ren- 
jered  the  remainder  of  his  life  a  very  preca- 
joas  struggle  against  that  overwhelming  mal- 
ily  by  which  it  was  at  last  obscured.  In  the 
lid  of  s 


ummer,  he  returned  Mr.  Hayley's  visit 
Eartham ;  but  came  back  again  to  Weston, 


ith  spirits  as  nmch  depressed  and  forebod 
gs  as  gloomy  as  ever.  His  constant  and 
inder  attention  to  Mrs  Unwin,  was  one  cause 
his  neglect  of  every  thing  else.  "  I  cannot 
t."  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  "with  my 
an  in  my  hand,  and  my  books  before  me,  while 
ke  is,  in  effect,  in  solitude — silent,  and  look- 
e  in  the  fire."  A  still  more  powerful  cause 
las,  the  constant  and  oppressive  dejection 
spirits  that  now  began  again  to  overwhelm 
jm.  '-'It  is  in  vain,"'  he  says,  "that  I  have 
ade  several  attempts  to  write  since  I  came 
)m  Sussex.  Unless  more  comfortable  days 
rive,  than  I  have  now  the  confidence  to  look 
r,  there  is  an  end  of  all  writing  with  me  ! 
lave  no  spirits.  When  Rose  came,  I  was 
'  liged  to  prepare  for  his  coming,  by  a  nightly 
'  se  of  laudanum."' 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1793,  he  seems 
I  have  done  little  but  revise  his  translation 
<  Homer,  of  which  he  meditated  an  im- 
]3ved  edition.  Mr.  Hayley  came  to  see  him 
•  second  time  at  Weston,  in  the  month  of 
j)vember;  and  gives  this  affecting  and  pro- 
lietic  account  of  his  situation — 
^'  He  pos.sessed  completely  at  this  period  all  the 
iJTiirabie  fa'^uhies  of  his  mind,  and  all  the  native 
lidernpss  of  his  heart  ;  but  there  was  .soinethiiii; 
ilescriSable  in  his  appearance,  which  led  mc  to 
iprehend.  that,  without  some  signal  event  in  his 
'our,  10  re-animate  his  spirits,  they  would  gradu- 
'  -ink  into  hopeless  dejection.  I'he  state  ofhis 
I  infirm  companion,  afforded  additional  ground 
ij  iiiereasing  solicitude.  Her  cheerful  and  hencfi- 
'<it  spirit  could  hardly  resist  her  own  accumulated 
Jiladies,  so  tar  a.s  to  preserve  ability  sufficient  to 
ych  over  the  tender  health  of  him  whom  she  had 
Htched  and  guarded  so  long.  Imbecility  of  body 
a|l  mind  must  gradually  render  this  tender  and 
r'oic  woman  unfit  for  the  charge  which  she  had 
s  laudably  sustained.    The  signs  of  such  imbe- 


cility were  beginning  to  be  puinfully  visible  ;  nor 
can  nature  present  a  spectacle  more  truly  pitiable, 
than  imbecility  in  such  a  shape,  eiigerly  grasping 
lor  dominion,  whicii  it  knows  not  eiihtr  how  to 
retain,  or  how  to  relinquish." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  Itil,  162. 

From  a  part  of  these  evils,  however,  the 
poet  was  relieveil,  by  the  genoious  compas- 
sion of  Lady  Hesketli,  who  nobly  took  upon 
herself  the  task  of  superintending  tliisuieian- 
choly  household.  We  will  not  withhold  from 
our  readeis  the  encomium  she  has  so  well 
earned  from  the  biographer. 

"  Those  only,  who  have  lived  with  ihe  super- 
annuated aiid  melancholy,  can  propi  rly  appreciate 
the  value  of  such  niagnaniinoua  fricnd.ship  ;  or  per- 
fectly apprehend,  wliat  personal  suflcriaga  it  must 
cost  the  mortal  who  e.xeris  it,  if  that  mortal  has 
received  from  nature  a  frame  of  compassionate 
sensibility.  The  lady,  to  whom  I  allude,  has  felt 
but  too  severely,  in  her  own  health,  the  heavy  tax 
that  mortality  is  forced  to  pay  for  a  retoluie  perse- 
verance in  such  painful  duty." — Vol.  ii.  p.  177. 

It  was  impossible,  however,  for  any  care  or 
attention  to  arrest  the  progress  of  that  dread- 
ful dejiression,  by  which  the  faculties  of  this 
excellent  man  were  destined  to  be  extin- 
guished. In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1794, 
he  became  utterly  incapable  of  any  sort  of 
exertion,  and  ceased  to  receive  pleasure  from 
the  company  or  conversation  of  his  friends. 
Neither  a  visit  from  Mr.  Hayley,  nor  his 
Majesty's  order  for  a  pension  300/.  a-year, 
was  able  to  rouse  him  from  that  laugTiid  and 
melancholy  state  into  which  he  hat!  oradually 
been  sinking;  and,  at  length,  it  was  thought 
necessary  to  remove  him  from  the  village  of 
Weston  to  Tuddenham  in  Norfolk,  where  he 
could  be  under  the  immediate  superintend- 
ence of  his  kinsman,  the  Reverend  Mr.  John- 
son. After  a  long  cessation  of  all  c'orrespond- 
ence,  he  addressed  the  following  very  moving 
lines  to  the  clergyman  of  the  favourite  vil- 
lage,  to  which  he  was  no  more  to  return : 

"  I  will  forget,  for  a  moment,  that  to  whomso- 
ever I  may  address  myself,  a  letter  from  me  can  no 
otherwise  be  welcome,  than  as  a  curiosity.  To 
you,  sir,  I  address  this,  urged  by  e.xircme  penury 
ot  employment,  and  the  desire  I  feel  to  barn  some- 
thing of  what  is  doing,  and  has  been  done,  at 
VS'esion  (my  beloved  Weston!)  since  I  left  il  ? 
No  situation,  at  least  when  the  weather  is  clear 
and  bright,  can  be  pleasantcr  than  what  we  have 
here;  which  you  will  easily  credit,  when  1  add, 
that  it  imparts  something  a  little  resembling  plea- 
sure even  to  me. — Gratify  me  with  news  of  Wes- 
ton ! — If  Mr.  Gregson  and  the  Courincy's  are 
there,  mention  me  to  them  in  such  terms  as  you 
see  good.  Tell  me  if  my  poor  birds  are  living  I 
I  never  see  the  herbs  I  used  to  give  ihem,  without 
a  recollection  of  them,  and  sometimes  am  ready  to 
gather  them,  forgetting  that  I  am  not  at  home. — 
Pardon  this  intrusion." 

In  summer  1796,  there  were  some  faint 
glimmerings  of  returning  vigour,  and  he  again 
a])j)]ied  himself,  for  some  time,  to  the  revisal 
of  his  translation  of  Homer.  In  December, 
Mrs.  Unwin  died  ;  and  such  was  the  severe 
depression  under  which  her  comjianion  then 
laboured,  that  he  seems  to  have  sufiered  but 
little  on  the  occasion.  He  never  afterwards 
menlioned  her  name!  At  intervttis,  in  the 
summer,  he  continued  to  wnik  at  tlii;  revisal 
of  his  Homer,  which  he  at  Icnglh  fiiii.'^hed  in 
1799 ;   and    afterwards  translated   some  of 


160 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


Gay's  Fables  into  Latin  verse,  and  made 
English  translations  of  several  Greek  and 
Latin  Epio:rams.  This  languid  exercise  of 
his  once-vigorous  powers  was  continued  till 
the  month  of  January  1800,  when  symptoms 
of  dropsy  became  visible  in  his  person,  and 
soon  assumed  a  very  formidable  appearance. 
After  a  very  rapid  but  gradual  decline,  which 
did  not  seem  to  affect  the  general  state  of  his 
spirits,  he  expired,  without  struggle  or  agita- 
tion, on  the  25th  of  April,  1800. 

Of  the  volumes  now  before  us,  we  have 
little  more  to  say.     The  biography  of  Cowper 
naturally  terminates  with  this  account  of  his 
death ;  and  the  posthumous  works  that  are 
now  given  to  the  public,   require  very  few 
observations.     They  consist  chiefly  of  short 
and  occasional  poems,  that  do  not  seem  to 
have  been  very  carefully  finished,  and  will 
not   add   much   to    the    reputation  of    their 
author.     The  longest  is  a  sort  of  ode  upon 
Friendship,  in  which  the  languasje  seems  to 
be  studiously  plain  and  familiar,  and  to  which 
Mr.  Hayley  certainly  has  not  given  the  highest 
poetical  praise,  by  saying  that  it  "contains  the 
essence  of  every  thing  that  has  been  said  on 
the  subject,  by  the  best  writers  of  different 
countries."      Some  of  the  occasional   songs 
and   sonnets  are  good;  and  the  translations 
from  the  anthologia.  which  were  the  employ- 
ment of  his   last    melancholy  days,  have  a 
remarkable  closeness  and  facility  of  expres- 
sion.    There  are  two  or  three  little  poetical 
pieces,  written  by  him  in  the  careless  days 
of  his  youth,  while  he  resided  in  the  Temple, 
that  are,  upon  the  whole,  extremely  poor  and 
unpromising.    It  is  almost  inconceivable,  that 
the  author  of  The  Task  should  ever  have  been 
guilty  of  such  verses  as  the  following : 
"  'Tis  not  with  either  of  these  views, 
That  I  presume  to  address  the  Muse  ; 
But  to  divert  a  fierce  baiiditii, 
(.Sworn  foes  to  every  thing  that's  witty  !) 
That,  with  a  black  infernal  train, 
Make  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain. 
And  daily  threaten  to  drive  thence 
My  little  garrison  of  sense  : 
The  fierce  banditti  which  I  mean, 
Are  gloomy  thoughts,  led  on  by  spleen. 
Then  there's  anoiher  reason  yet, 
Which  is,  that  I  may  fairly  quit 
The  debt  which  justly  became  due 
The  moment  when  I  heard  from  you  : 
And  yon  might  irrumble.  crony  mine. 
If  paid  in  any  other  coin."  —  Vol.  i.  p.  1.5. 
It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  his  prose 
was  at  this  time  uncommonly  easy  and  ele- 
gant.    Mr.  Hayley  has  preserved  three  num- 
bers of  the  Coniiois-seur,  which  were  written 
by  him  in   1796.  and  which  exhibit  a  great 
deal  of  that  point  and  politeness,  which  has 
been  aimed  at  by  the  best  of  our  periodical 
essayists  since  the  days  of  Addison. 

The  persona!  character  of  Cowper  is  easily 
estimated,  from  tlie  writings  he  has  left,  and 
the  anecdotes  contained  in  this  publication. 
He  seems  to  have  l>een  chiefly  remarkable 
for  a  certain  feminine  gentleness,  and  deli- 
cacy of  nature,  that  shrunk  back  from  all 
that  was  boisterous,  jiresumptuous,  or  rude 
His  secluded  life,  and  awful  impressions  of 
religion,  concurred   in  fixing  upon  his  man- 


ners, something  of  a  saintly  purity  and  de 
corum,  and  in  cherishing  that  pensive  ani 
contemplative  turn  of  muid,  by  which  he  wa 
so  much  di-stiriguished.  His  temper  appear 
to  have  been  yielding  and  benevolent :  aiK 
though  sufficiently  steady  and  confident  ii 
the  opinions  he  had  adopted,  he  v.as  ver 
little  inclined,  in  general,  to  force  them  upoi 
the  conviction  of  others.  The  warmth  of  hi 
religious  zeal  made  an  occasional  e.xception 
but  the  habitual  temper  of  his  mind  wa 
toleration  and  indulgence ;  and  it  would  b 
dilficult,  perhaps,  to  name  a  satirical  aiK 
popular  author  so  entirely  free  from  jealous- 
and  fastidiousness,  or  so  much  disposed  t' 
make  the  most  liberal  and  impartial  estimat 
of  the  merit  of  others,  in  literature,  in  pol: 
tics,  and  in  the  virtues  and  accomplishment 
of  social  life.  No  angry  or  uneasy  passiom 
indeed,  seem  at  any  time  to  have  found 
place  in  his  bosom :  and,  being  incapable  o 
malevolence  himself,  he  probably  passe 
through  life,  without  having  once  excite 
that  feeling  in  the  breast  of  another. 

As  the  whole  of  Cowper's  works  are  no 
before  the  public,  and  as  dt-ath  has  linaf: 
closed  the  account  of  his  defects  and  exce' 
lencies,  the  public  voice  may  soon  he  expec' 
ed  to  proclaim  the  balance  :  and  to  pronoun*, 
that  impartial  and  irrevocable  sentence  whic 
is  to  assigii  him  his  just  rank  and  station  in  tl 
poetical  commonwealth,  and  to  ascertain  I. 
value  and  extent  of  his  future  reputation.  J 
the  success  of  his  works  has,  in  a  great  me! 
sure,  anticipated  this  sentence,  it  is  the  less  pi' 
sumptuous  in  us  to  offer  our  opinion  of  the 

The  great  merit  of  this  writer  appears 
us  to  consist  in  the  boldness  ar:d  original 
of  his  composition,  and  in  the  fortunate  < 
dacity  with  which  he  has  carried  the  i 
minion  of  poetry  into  regions  that  had  bf 
considered  ys  inaccessible  to  her  anibiti 
The  gradual  refinement  of  taste  had.  Jor  nea 
a  century,  been  weakening  the  foiee  of  or 
nal  genius.  Our  poets  had  become  timid  i 
fastidious,  and  circumscribed  themselves  h  i 
in  the  choice  and  the  management  of  tl  ■ 
subjects,  by  the  observance  of  a  limitJ^d  m  ■ 
ber  of  models,  who  were  thought  to  have  ,•  , 
hausted  all  the  legitimate  resonicesol  the 
Cowper  was  one  of  the  first  who  cros^ed  } 
enchanted  circle ;  who  reclaimed  the  nati  1 
liberty  of  invention,  and  walked  abroitd  in  iJ 
open  field  of  observation  as  freely  as  thosey 
whom  it  was  originally  trodden.  He  pasi 
from  the  imitation  of  poets,  to  the  imita'n 
of  nature,  and  ventured  boldly  upon  the  > 
resentation  of  objects  that  had  not  been  s;> 
tified  by  the  description  of  any  of  his  pr<''- 
cessors.  In  the  ordinary  occupations  d 
duties  of  domestic  life,  and  the  conse(iuei  'f 
of  modern  manners,  in  the  common  seer)' 
of  a  rustic  situation,  and  the  obvious  cont> 
plafion  of  our  public  institntio;  ,-.  he  has  fc.'d 
a  multitude  of  subjects  for  ridicule  ands- 
liection,  for  pathetic  and  picturesque  desip- 
tion,  for  moral  declamation,  and  devoti  al 
rapture,  that  wouki  have  been  look-'d  i)n 
with  disdain,  or  with  despair,  by  most  of  ut 
poetical  adventurers.      He   took   as  wifH 


HAYLEY'S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


161 


range  in  lansniage   too,  as  in  matter:   and. 
shakinjr  off  the  tawdry  incumbrance  of  that 
poetical  diction  which   had    nearly  reduced 
the  art  to  the  skilful   collocation  of  a  set  of 
conventional  phrases,  he  made  no  scruple  to 
'  set  down  in  verse  every  expression  that  would 
have  been  admitted  in  prose,  and  to  take  ad- 
'  vantaire  of  all  the  varieties  with  which  our 
■  lan<ruaire  could  supply  him. 
I      But  while,  by  the  use  of  this  double  licence. 
he  e.vtetided  the  sphere  of  poetical  composi- 
;  lion,  and  communicated  a  singular  character 
I  of  freedom,  force,  and  originality  to  his  own 
,  jwrformanceS;  it  must  not  be  dissembled,  that 
the  presumption  M'hich  belongs  to  most  inno- 
vators, has  betrayed  him  into  many  defects. 
In  disdaining  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  others, 
he  has  frequently  mistaken  the  way.  and  has 
'  been  e.vasperated.  by  their  blunders,  to  rush 
\  into  opposite  extremes.     In  his  contempt  for 
]  their  scrupulous  selection  of  topics,  he  has 
,  introduced  some  that  are  unquestionably  low 
'and  uninteresting:  and  in  his  zeal  to  strip  off 
.  the  tinsel  and  embroidery  of  their  language, 
the  has  sometimes  torn  it  (like  Jack's  coat  in 
I  the-  Tale  of  a  Tub)  into  terrible  rents  and 
beggarly  tatters.     He  is  a  great  master  of 
i  English,  and  evidently  values  himself  upon 
his  skill  and  facility  in  the  application  of  its 
rich  and  diversified  idioms :  but  he  has  in- 
dulged himself  in   this  e.vercise  a  little  too 
fondly,  and  has  degraded    some  grave   and 
animated  passages  by  the  unlucky  introduc- 
tion of  expressions  unquestionably  too  collo- 
quial and  familiar.    His  impatience  of  control. 
.iiul  his  desire  to  have  a  great  scope  and  va- 
'.  lety  in  his  compositions,  have  led  him  not 
mily  to  disregard  all  order  and  method  so  en- 
tirely in  their  construction,  as  to  have  made 
t\ifh  of  his  larger  poems  professedly  a  com- 
plete miscellany,  but  also  to  introduce  into 
fhem  a  number  of  subjects,  that  prove  not  to 
tie  very  susceptible   of  poetical   discussion. 
There  are  specimens  of  argument,  and  dia- 
joirue,  and  declamation,   in  his  works,   that 
partake  very  little  of  the  poetical  character, 
and  make  rather  an  awkward  appearance  in 
metrical   production,   though   they   might 
have  had  a  lively  and  brilliant  effect  in  an 
essay  or  a  sermon.     The  structure  of  his  sen- 
tences, in  like  manner,  has  frequently  much 
more  of  the    copiousness   and    looseness   of 
oratory,    than   the   brilliant   compactness   of 
poetry;  ami  he  heaps  up  phrases  and  circum- 
stances upon  each  other,  with  a  profusion  that 
IS  frequently  dazzling,  but  which  reminds  us  as 
often  of  the  exuberance  of  a  practised  speaker, 
as  of  the  holy  inspiration  of  a  poet.\ 

Mr.  Hayley  has  pronounced  a  warm  eulo- 
ium  on  the  satiricnl  talents  of  his  friend  : 
but  it  does  not  appear  to  us,  either  that  this 
was  the  style  in  which  he  was  qualified  to 
excel,  or  that  he  has  made  a  judicious  selec- 
tion of  subjects  on  which  to  exercise  it. — 
There  is  somethinir  too  keen  and  vehement 
in  his  invective,  and  an  excess  of  austerity  in 
ftts  doctrines,  that  is  not  atoned  for  by  the 


liX'^'J:   (ruth  or  the  beauty  of  his  descriptions.     Fop- 
pery and  affectation  are  not  such  hateful  and 
ri;ra::tic  vices,  as  to  des(  rve  all  the  anathemas 
21 


that  are  bestowed  upon  ihem ;  nor  can  we 
believe  that  soldiersnip,  or  Simday  music, 
have  produced  all  the  terrible  effects  which 
he  ascribes  to  them  :  There  is  something  very 
undignified,  too,  to  say  no  worse  of  them,  in 
the  protracted  parodies  and  mock-heroic  pas- 
sages with  which  he  seeks  to  etdiven  some 
of  his  aravest  productions.  The  Sofa  (for 
instance,  in  the  Task)  is  but  a  feeble  imita- 
tion of  -'The  Splendid  Shilling;  the  Monitor 
is  a  copy  of  something  still  lower:  and  the 
tedious  directions  (or  raining:  cucumbers,  which 
begin  with  calling  a  hotbed  "a  stercorarious 
heap,"'  seem  to  have  been  intended  as  a 
counterpart  to  the  tragedy  of  Tom  Thumb. 
All  his  serious  pieces  contain  some  fine  devo- 
tional passages:  hut  they  are  not  without  a 
taint  of  that  enthusiastic  intolerance  which 
religious  zeal  seems  but  too  often  to  produce. 
it  is  impo.ssible  to  say  any  thing  of  the  de- 
fects of  Cowper's  writings,  without  taking 
notice  of  the  occasional  harshness  and  inele- 
gance of  his  versification.  From  his  corre- 
spondence, however,  it  appears  that  this  was 
not  with  him  the  effect  of  negligence  merely, 
but  that  he  really  imagined  that  a  roueh  and 
incorrect  line  now  and  then  had  a  very  agree- 
able effect  in  a  composition  of  any  length. 
This  prejudice,  we  believe,  is  as  old  as  Cow- 
ley among  Eriglish  writers  :  but  we  do  not 
know  that  it  has  of  late  received  the  sanction 
j  of  any  one  poet  of  eminence.  In  truth,  it 
I  does  not  appear  to  us  to  be  at  all  capable  of 
i  defence.  The  very  essence  of  versification 
I  is  uniformity  :  and  while  anything  like  versi- 
fication is  preserved,  it  must  be  evident  tliat 
uniformity  continues  to  be  aimed  at.  What 
pleasure  is  to  be  derived  from  an  occasional 
failure  in  this  aim,  we  cannot  exactly  under- 
stand. It  must  afford  the  same  gratification, 
we  should  imagine,  to  have  one  of  the  but- 
tons on  a  coat  a  little  larger  than  the  rest,  or 
one  or  two  of  the  pillars  in  a  colonnade  a  little 
I  out  of  the  perpendicular.  If  variety  is  want- 
i  ed.  let  it  be  variety  of  e.xcellence,  and  not  a 
relief  of  imperfection  :  let  the  writer  alter  the 
I  measure  of  his  piece,  if  he  thinks  its  uni- 
foi-mity  disagreeable  ;  or  let  him  interchange 
it  every  now  and  then,  if  he  thinks  proper, 
I  with  passages  of  plain  and  professed  prose ; 
!  but  do  not  let  him  torture  an  intractable  scrap 
'  of  prose  into  the  appearance  of  verse,  nor  slip 
I  in  an  illeaitimate  line  or  two  among  the 
irennine  currency  of  his  poem. 

There   is  another  view  of  the  matter,  no 

:  doubt,  that  has  a  little  more  reason  in  it.     A 

'  smooth  and  harmonious  verse  is  not  so  easily 

'  written,  as  a  harsh  and  clumsy  one;  and,  in 

'  order  to  make   it  smooth  and   elegant,  the 

strength  and   force  of  the   expression   must 

often  be  sacrificed.    This  seems  to  have  been 

Cowj^er's  view  of  the  subject,  at  least  in  one 

!  passage.     -Give  me,"  says  he,  in  a  letter  to 

his  ]niblisher.  "a  manly  rough  line,  with  a 

deal  of  meaning  in  it,  rather  than  a  whole 

poem  full  of  musical  jieriods.  that  have  noth- 

■  inc' but  their  smoofhiiessto  recommend  them."' 

I  It  is  obvious,  however,  that  this  is  not  a  de- 

\  fence  of  harsh  versification,  but  a  confession 

'  of  jnabilt)  to  write  smoothly.     Why  should 

o  2 


162 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


not  harmony  and  meaning  go  together  ?  It  is 
difficult,  to  be  sure  ;  and  so  it  is,  to  make 
meaning  and  veise  of  any  kind  go  together : 
But  it  is  the  business  of  a  poet  to  overcome 
tlieae  dilficulties.  and  if  he  do  not  overcome 
them  botli,  he  is  plainly  deficient  in  an  ac- 
complishment that  others  have  attained.  To 
those  who  find  it  impossible  to  pay  due  at- 
tention both  to  the  sound  and  the  sense,  we 
vrould  not  only  aildross  the  preceding  exhort- 
ation of  Cowper,  but  should  have  no  scruple 
to  exclaim,  "Give  us  a  sentence  of  plain 
prose,  full  of  spirit  and  meaning,  rather  than 
a  poem  of  any  kind  that  has  nothuig  but  its 
versification  to  recommend  it." 

Thou^ih  it  be  impossible,  therefore,  to  read 
the  productions  of  Cowper,  without  being  de- 
lighted with  his  force,  his  originality,  and  his 
variety;  and  although  the  enchantment  of 
his  moral  enthusiasm  frequently  carries  us 
insensibly  ihrouah  all  the  mazes  of  his  digres- 
sions, it  is  equally  true,  that  we  can  scarcely 
read  a  single  page  with  attention,  without 
being  offended  at  some  coarseness  or  lowness 
of  expression,  or  disappointed  by  some  ••  most 
lame  and  impotent  conclusion."  The  dignity 
of  his  rhetorical  periods  is  often  violated  by 
the  intrusion  of  some  vulgar  and  colloquial 
idiom,  and  the  full  and  transparent  stream  of 
his  diction  bioken  upon  some  obstreperous 
verse,  or  lost  in  the  dull  stagnation  of  a  piece 
of  absolute  prose.  The  etiect  of  his  ridicule 
Ls  sometimes  impaired  by  the  acrhnony  with 
which  it  is  attended  ;  and  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  his  moral  painting  and  religious 
views,  is  injured  in  a  still  greater  dt^gree  by 
the  darkness  of  the  shades  which  his  enthu- 
siasm and  austerity  liave  occasionally  thrown 
upon  the  canvas.  With  all  these  defects, 
however,  Cowper  will  probably  very  lona'  ve-' 
tain  his  popularity  with  tlie  readers  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  The  great  variety  and  truth  of 
his  descriptions;  the  minute  and  correct 
painting  of  those  home  scenes,  and  private 
feelings  with  which  every  one  is  internally  fa- 
miliar; the  sterling  weight  and  sense  of  most 
of  his  observations,  and,  above  all,  the  great 
appearance  of  facility  with  which  every  thing 
is  executed,  and  llie  happy  use  he  has  so 
often  made  of  the  most  common  and  ordinary 
language  ;  all  concur  to  stamp  upon  his  poems 
the  character  of  original  genius,  and  remind 
us  of  the  merits  t?iat  have  secured  immor- 
tality to  Shakespeare. 

After  having  said  so  much  upon  the  original 
■writings  of  Cowper,  we  cannot  take  our  leave 
of  him  without  adding  a  few  words  upon  the 
merits  of  the  translation  with  which  we  have 
found  him  engaged  for  so  considerable  a  por- 
tion of  his  life.  Th(>  views  with  which  it  was 
unrlertaken  have  already  been  very  fully  ex- 
])lained  in  the  extracts  we  have  given  from 
his  correspondence  ;  and  it  is  impossible  to 
deny,  that  his  chief  object  has  been  attained 
in  a  very  considerable  degree.  That  the 
translation  is  a  preatdeal  more  close  and  lite- 
ral than  any  that  had  previously  been  at- 
tempted in  Euiilish  verse,  probably  will  not 
be  disputed  by  those  who  are  tlu^  lea.'^t  dis- 
jwsed  lo  admire  it;  that  the  style  into  which 


it  is  translated,  is  a  true  English  style,  though 
not  perhaps  a  very  elegant  or  poetical  one, 
may  also  be  assumed ;  but  we  are  not  sure 
that  a  rigid  and  candid  criticism  will  go  far- 
ther in  its  commendation.  The  langnaage  is 
often  very  tame,  and  even  vulgar ;  and  there 
is  by  far  too  great  a  profusion  of  antiquated 
and  colloquial  forms  of  expression.  In  the 
dialogue  part,  the  idiomatical  and  familiar 
turn  of  the  language  has  often  an  animated 
and  happy  effect;  but  in  orations  of  dignity, 
this  dramatical  licence  is  frequently  abused, 
and  the  translation  approaches  to  a  parody. 
In  the  course  of  one  page,  we  observe  that 
Nestor  undertakes  '•  to  entreat  Achilles  to  a 
calmJ^  Agamemnon  calls  him,  ••  this  wrangler 
here."  And  the  godlike  Achilles  himself 
complains  of  being  treated  "  like  a  fellow  of 
no  worth.'' 

"  Ye  critica  soy, 
How  poor  to  this  was  Homer's  style  !" 
In  translating  a  poetical  writer,  there  are 
two  khids  of  fidelity  to  be  aimed  at.   Fidelity 
to  the  mailer^  and  fidelity  to  the  manner  oi  the 
original.     The  best  translation  would  be  that, 
certainly,  v  hich  preserved  both.    But,  as  this 
is  generally  impracticable,  some  concessions 
'must be  made  upon  both  sides;  and  the  largest 
upon  that  which  will  be  least  regretted  by 
the  common  readers  of  the  translation.    Now, 
though  antiquaries  and  moral  philosophers, 
may  take  great  delight  in  contemplating  the 
state  of  manners,  opinions,  and  civilization, 
that  prevailed  in  the  age  of  Homer,  and  be 
offended,  of  course,  at  any  disguise  or  modem 
embellishment  that  may  be  thrown  over  his 
representations,  still,  this  Mill  be  but  a  second- 
ary consideration  with  most  readers  of  poet- 
ry; and  if  the  smoothness  of  the  verse,  thej 
perspicuity  of  the  expression,  or  the  vigour; 
of  the  sentiment,  must  be  sacrificed  to  the! 
observance  of  this   rigid   fidelity,  they  willj 
generally  be  of  opinion,  that  it  ought  ratheri 
to  have  been  sacrificed  to  them  ;  and  that  the 
poetical   beauty  of    the    original   was    better 
worth  preserving  than  the  litcial   import  of 
the  expressions.    The  splendour  and  magnifi- 
cence of  the  Homeric  diction  and  versification 
is  altogether  as  essential  a  part  of  his  conipo-' 
sition,  as  the  sense  and  the  meaning  which 
they  convey.    His  poetical  reputation  depend? 
quite  as  much  on  the  one  as  on  the  other ;  ant. 
a  translator  must  give  but  a  very  imperfect  anc' 
unfaithful  copy  of  his  original,  if  he  leave  ou  ' 
half  of  those  qualities  in  which  the  excellencf 
of  the  original  consisted.    It  is  an  indispensa 
ble  part  of  his  duty,  therefore,  to  imitate  th« 
harmony  and  elevation  of  his  author's  Ian 
Cfuage.  as  well  as  to  express  his  meaning ;  an( 
he  is  equally  unjust   and    unfaithful   to  hi! 
original,  in  passing  over  the  beauties  of  hi, 
diction,  as  in  omitting  or  disguising  his  sen 
timents.    In  Cowper's  elaborate  version,  ther" 
are  certainly  some  striking  and  vigorous  pas' 
sages,  and  the  closeness  of  the  tianslatio 
continually  recals  the  original  to  the  memor ; 
of  a  classical  reader;  but  he  will  look  in  vai 
for  the  melodious  and  elevated  hu;gi;rii2e  o 
Homer  m   ihn   unpolisluul  verses  and   i;olk, 
quial  phiaseology  of  his  trauslator, 

i 


HAYLEYS  LIFE  OF  COWPER 


163 


(Juln,     ISO''!.) 

The  Life  and  Posthumous  Writings  of  Wir.r.iAM  Cowpkr,  Rsi]. 
to  the  Right  Honourable  Earl  Cowper.  Bv  Wimjam  Hav 
416.     Johnson.  London  :   1804. 


If'uh  an  Introductory  Lrttrr 
,KY,  Esq.     Vol  III.     4 to.  pp. 


I  This  is  the  continuation  of  a  work  of  which  I  public;  and  having  livetl  in  a  state  of  entire 
■we  recently  submitted  a  very  ample  account  seclusion  from  the  world,  there  were  no  aiiec- 
and  a  very  full  character  to  our  readers:  (In  |  dotes  of  his  conversation,  his  habits  or  onin- 
ithat  qcca.sion.  we  took  the  liberty  of  observ-  '  ions,  in  circulation  arnoni;  his  admirers.  The 
ing;  thai  two  quarto  volumes  seemed  to  be  publication  of  his  corres[)ondence  has  in  a 
almost  a.s  much  as  the  bioirraphy  of  a  .seclud-  j  great  measure  supplied  this  deticiency ;  and 
pd  scholar  was  entitled  to  occupy;  and,  with  we  now  know  almost  as  nuu-h  of  Cowper  as 
1  little  judicious  compression,  we  are  still  of  we  do  of  tho,se  authors  who  have  spent  their 
Dpinion  that  the  lite  and  correspondence  of  days  in  the  centre  and  glare  of  literary  or 
Cowper  might  be  advantageously  included  in  fashionable  notoriety.  The^se  letters,  however, 
fomewhat  narrower  limits.  We  are  by  no  will  continue  to  be  read,  long  after  the  curi- 
fneans  disposed,  however,  to  quarrel  with  this  osity  is  gratified  to  which  perhajts  they  owe.! 
•hird  volume,  wh^ch  is  more  interesting,  if  their  first  celebrity:  for  the  character  with 
xissible,  than  either  of  the  two  former,  and  which  they  make  us  acquuinted,  will  always 
vvill  be  read,  we  h.ive  uo  doubt,  with  general  j  attract  by  its  rarity,  ancl  engage  by  its  ele- 
ulmjration  and  delight.  |  gance.     The  feminine  delicacy  and  purity  of 

Though  h  still  bears  the  title  of  the  life  of  Cowper's  manners  and  disposition,  the  ro- 
Ik)\\7)er.  this  volume  contains  no  further  par-  I  mantic  and  unbroken  retirement  in  which  h's 
.iculars  of  his  history;  but  is  entirelj- made  j  innocent  life  was  passed,  and  the  singular 
|jp  of  a  collection  of.  his  letters,  introduced  by  \  gentleness  and  modesty  of  his  whole  charac- 
i  long,  rambling  dissertation  on  letter-writing  ter,  disarm  him  of  those  terrors  that  so  often 
in  general,  from  the  pen  of  his  biographer,  shed  an  atmosphere  of  repulsion  around  the 
{rhis  prologue,  we  think,  possesses  no  pecu-  persons  of  celebrated  writers,  and  make  us 
iar  merit.  The  writer  has  no  vigour,  and  I  more  indulgent  to  his  weaknesses,  and  xnori' 
ery  little  vivacity :  his  mind  seems  to  be  I  delighted  with  his  excellences,  than  if  lie  had 
■uliivated.  but  not  at  all  fertile  ;  and.  while  j  been  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  wits,  or  the  om- 
1-!  always  keeps  at  a  safe  distance  from  ex-  cle  of  a  literary  confederacy.  The  inteu^sl 
ravagance  or  absurvlit}-.  he  does  not  seem  to    of  this  picture  is  still  further  heightened  by 


"«  |>e  uniformly  capable  of  distinguishing  afTect 
s!  ftion  from  elegance,  or  dulness  from  good 
'1  ladgment.  This  discourse  upon  letter-writ- 
n  mg.  in  short,  contains  nothing  that  might  not 
i^  pve  been  omitte^l  with  considerable  advan- 


the  recollection  of  that  tremeud»us  malady, 
to  the  visitations  of  which  he  was  subject,  and 
by  the  spectacle  of  that  perpetual  conflict 
which  was  maintained,  through  the  greater 
part  of  his  life,  between  the  depression  of  t' 


It  jage  to  the  publication  :  and  we  are  rather  I  constitutional  horrors,  and  the  g-aietythat 
if  inclined  to  think,  that  those  who  are  amhi- 


I«  uous  of  being  introduced  to  the  presence  of 
M  pwper.  will  do  well  not  to  linger  very  long 
it«  ki  the  antichamber  with  Mr.  Hayley. 
f  Of  the  letters  themselves,  we  may  safely 
In  Issert,  that  we  have  rarely  met  with  any 
d  jimilar  collection,  of  superior  interest  or 
;Ji  keauty.  Though  the  inciilents  to  which  they 
115  elate  be  of  no  public  magnitude  or  moment. 
f((  ind  the  remarks  -^vhich  they  contain  are  not 
le*  niformJy  profound  or  original,  yet  there  is 
ets  bmething  in  the  sweetness  and  facility  of  the 
lei  iction,  and  more,  perhaps,  in  the  glimpses 
i lii  ney  afford  of  a  pure  and  benevolent  mind, 
[:ii  pat  diffuses  a  charm  over  the  whole  collec- 
lol  [on,  and  communicates  an  interest  that  is  not 
cik  sten  commanded  by  performances  of  greater 
iS  ignity  and  pretension.  This  interest  was 
,ili«  Ifomoted  and  assisted,  no  doubt,  in  a  consid- 
j![i  ^•able  degree,  by  that  curiosity  which  always 
jlaK  peks  to  penetrate  into  the  privacy  of  celebrat- 
,0  u  men,  and  which  had  been  almost  entirely 
uiu  histrated  in  the  instance  of  Cowper,  till  the 
3«ti  bpearancR  of  this  publication.  Though  his 
I'ci  rritings  had  long  been  extremely  popular. 
he  author  himself  was  scarcely  known  to  the 


suited  from  a  playful  imagination,  and  a  heart 
animated  by  the  mildest  affections. 

In  the  letters  now  before  us,  Cowper  dis- 
plays a  great  deal  of  all  those  peculiarities  by 
which  his  character  was  adorned  or  distin- 
guished: he  is  frequently  the  subject  of  his 
own  observations,  and  often  delineates  the 
finer  features  of  his  understanding  with  all  the 
industry  and  impartiality  of  a  stranger.  But 
the  most  interesting  traits  are  those  which  are 
unintentionally  discovered,  and  which  the 
reader  collects  from  expressions  that  wore  em- 
ployed for  very  different  purposes.  Among 
the  most  obvious,  perhaps,  as  well  as  the  most 
important  of  these,  is  that  extraordinary  com- 
bination of  shyness  and  ambition,  to  which 
we  are  probably  indebted  for  the  very  exist- 
ence of  his  poetry.  Being  distiualified,  liy 
the  former,  from  vindicating  his  proper  j^uce 
in  the  ordinary  scenes  either  of  bitsiness  ot  of 
society,  he  was  excited,  by  the  latter,  to  at- 
tempt the  only  other  avenue  to  reputation  that 
appeared  to  be  open,  and  to  assort  the  real 
dignity  of  the  talents  with  which  he  felt  lh:it 
he  was  gifted.  If  he  could  only  have  mus- 
tered courage  enough  to  read  the  journals  o? 


164 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


the  House  of  Lords,  or  been  able  to  get  over 
the  diffidence  which  fettered  his  utterance  in 
general  society,  his  irenius  would  probably 
have  evaporated  in  conversation,  or  been  con- 
tented with  the  humbler  L'lory  of  contributing 
to  the  Rolliad  or  the  Connoisseur. 

As  the  present  collection  relates  to  no  par- 
ticular set  of  subjects  or  occurrences,,  but 
exhibits  a  view  of  the  author's  miscellaneous 
correspondence  with  the  few  intimate  friends 
he  had  retained;  it  i.-  impossible  to  give  any 
abstract  of  hs  contents,  or  to  observe  any 
order  in  the  extracts  that  may  be  made  from 
it.  We  shall  endeavour,  however,  to  intro- 
duce as  irreat  a  variety  as  possible. 

Though  living  altogether  in  retirement, 
Cowper  appears  to  have  retained  a  very  nice 
perception  of  the  proprieties  of  conduct  and 
manners,  and  to  have  exercised  a  great  deal 
of  acuteness  and  sagacity  upon  the  few  sub- 
jects of  practical  importance  which  he  had 
occasion  to  consider.  The  following  sketch 
IS  by  a  fine  and  ma«ter]y  hand  ;  and  proves 
how  much  a  bashful  recluse  may  excel  a  gen- 
tleman from  the  grand  tour  in  delicacy  of  ob- 
servation and  just  notions  of  politeness. 

"  Since  I  wrote  lasi,  we  had  a  visit  from .    I 

did  not  feel  myself  vehemently  dispo.spd  lo  receive 
him  with  that  comt)laisani-e,  from  which  a  Ptranger 
generally  infers  that  he  is  welcome.  By  his  man- 
ner, which  was  rather  hold  than  easy,  I  judged  that 
there  was  no  occasion  for  it ;  and  that  it  was  a  triflp 
which,  if  he  did  not  meet  with,  neither  would  he 
feel  the  want  of  He  has  the  air  of  a  travelled  man. 
but  njt  of  a  travelled  gentleman  ;  is  quite  delivercii 
from  that  reserve,  which  i.s  so  common  an  ingre- 
dient in  tiie  English  character,  yet  does  not  open 
himself  gently  and  Hradnally.  as  men  of  polite  he- 
haviour  do,  but  bursts  upon  yon  all  at  once  He 
talks  very  loud  ;  and  when  our  poor  little  robins 
hear  a  great  npise,  they  are  inimediaiely  seized  with 
an  ambition  to  surpass  it — the  increase  of  their  vo- 
ciferation occasioned  an  increa.se  of  his  ;  and  his.  in 
return,  acted  as  a  stimulus  upon  theirs — neither  side 
entertained  a  thousrht  ol"  giving  up  the  contest,  w  hi<h 
became  continually  more  interesting  to  our  ears 
during  the  whole  visit.  The  birds,  however,  sur- 
vived it, — and  .so  did  we.  They  perhaps  flatter 
themselves  they  gained  a  complete  victory,  but  I 

believe  Mr. would  have   killed  ihe.in  both  in 

another  hour." — pp.  17,  18. 

Cowper's  antipathy  to  public  schools  is  well 
known  to  all  the  readers  of  his  poetry.  There 
are  many  excellent  remarks  on  that  .'subject 
in  these  letters.  VVe  can  only  find  room  for 
the  following. 

■'  A  public  education  is  ol'en  recomntecded  as  the 
most  effectual  remedy  tor  that  bashful  and  awkward 
restraiiU,  so  efiidemical  among  the  youth  of  our 
country.  But  T  verily  believe,  that,  instead  of  being 
a  cure,  it  is  otten  the  cause  of  it.  For  seven  or 
eight  years  of  his  life,  the  boy  has  hardly  seen  or 
conversed  with  a  man.  or  a  woman,  except  the 
maids  at  his  boarding  house.  A  gentleman  or  a 
lady,  are  consequently  such  novelties  to  him,  that 
he  is  perfectly  at  a  loss  to  know  what  sort  of  beha- 
viour he  should  preserve  before  them.  lie  plays 
with  his  buttons,  or  the  strings  of  his  hat,  he  blows 
his  rft)se,  and  hangs  down  his  head,  is  conscious  of 
his  own  di:ficicncy  to  a  degree  that  makes  him  quite 
unhappy,  and  trembles  lest  any  one  should  speak  to 
him,  because  that  would  quite  overwhelm  him.  Is 
not  all  thi-*  miserable  shyness  the  effect  of  his  edu- 
cation ?  To  me  it  appears  to  lie  so.  If  he  saw  good 
company  every  day,  he  would  never  be  terrified  at 
the  sight  of  it,  and  a  room  full  ef  ladies  and  genilc- 


I  men,  would  alarm  him  no  more  than  the  chairs  they 
I  sit  on.     Such  is  the  effect  of  custom." — p.  60. 

I  There  is  much  acuteness  in  the  following 
^  examination  of  Dr.  Paley's  argument  in  favour 
j  of  the  Enghsh  hierarchy. 

I  '"*  He  says  first,  that  the  appointment  of  various  |l 
j  orders  in  the  church,  is  attended  with  this  gooff  I 
1  consequence,  that  each  class  of  people  is  supplied  l| 
:  with  a  clergy  of  their  own  level  and  description, 
with  whom  they  may  live  and  associate  on  ternra  !f 
of  equality.  But  in  order  to  effect  this  good  pur- 
pose, there  ought  to  be  at  least  three  parsons  in 
every  parish  ;  one  for  the  gentry,  one  tor  the  traders 
and  mechanics,  and  <me  tor  the  lowest  of  the  vul- 
gar. Neither  is  it  easy  to  find  many  parishes, 
where  the  laity  at  large  have  any  society  with  their 
minister  at  all :  this  therefore  is  ianciful,  and  a  mere 
invention.  In  the  next  place,  he  says 'it  gives  a 
dignity  to  the  mitiisiry  itselt ;  and  the  clergy  share 
in  the  respect  paid  to  their  superiors.  Much  good 
may  such  participation  do  tliem  !  They  themselves 
know  how  little  it  amounts  to.  The  dignity  a  cu- 
rate derives  from  the  lawn  sleeves  and  square  cap 
of  his  diocesan,  will  never  endanger  his  humility. 
Again — "  Rich  and  splendid  situations  in  the  (  hurch, 
have  been  justly  regarded  as  prizes,  held  out  to  in- 
vite persons  of  good  hopes  and  ingeniou.s  aiiain- 
nienis.'  Agreed.  But  the  prize  held  out  in  the 
Scripture,  is  of  a  very  different  kind;  and  our  ec- 
clesiastical baits  are  too  often  snapped  by  the  worth- 
less, and  persons  of  no  attainments  at  all.  They 
are  indeed  incentives  to  avarice  and  ambition,  but 
tiot  to  those  acqtiirenients.  by  which  only  the  min- 
isterial fmiciion  can  be  adorned,  zeal  for  the  .salva- 
tion of  men.  humility,  and  self-denial.  Mr.  Paley 
and  I  therefore  cannot  agree," — pp.  17'2,  173, 

One  of  the  mo,>t  remarkable  things  in  this 
volume,  is  the  great  profusion  of  witty  and 
humorous  pass;\ges  which  it  contains:  though 
they  are  usually  so  short.  ;ind  stand  so  much 
connected  with  mote  iii<litl"erent  matter,  that 
it  is  not  easy  to  give  any  tolerable  notion  of 
them  by  an  extract.  His  style  of  narrative  ii 
particularly  gay  and  pleasing,  though  the  in 
cidents  are  generally  too  trifling  to  bear  i 
separation  from  the  whole  tissue  of  the  cor 
respondence.  \Ve  venture  on  the  foUowinf 
account  of  an  election  visit. 

"  As  when  the  sea  is  uncommonly  ^italed,  th 
water  finds  its  way  into  creeks  and  holes  of  rock? 
which  in  its  calmer  state  it  never  reaches,  in  lik 
manner  the  effect  of  these  turbuletit  times  is  fel 
even  at  Orchard-side,  where  in  general  we  live  a, 
undisturbed  by  the  political  element,  as  sliriiDps  c. 
cockles  that  have  been  accidcntly  deposited  in  som 
hollow  beyond  the  water-mark,  by  the  usual  dash 
ing  of  the  waves.  We  were  silting  yesterday  aftf 
dinner,  the  two  ladit-Siind  mys«-lf.  very  composed!}' 
and  without  the  least  apprehension  of  any  mch  if 
tnision,  in  our  snug  parlour,  one  lady  knitiitig,  th 
.other  netting,  and  the  g<=nilemnn  winding  worslei 
when,  to  our  unspeakable  surprise,  a  mob  appcart 
before  the  window,  a  smart  rnp  was  heard  at  tl 
door,  the  boys  halloo'd,  and  the  maid  announcf 

.Mr.  G .    Puss*  was  unlortunately  let  out  of  h' 

box.  so  that  the  candidate,  with  all  his  good  frieni 
at  his  heels,  was  refused  admittance  at  the  gran 
entrv,  and  referred  to  the  back  door,  as  the  oil' 
possible  way  of  approach. 

'•  Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  susceptib' 
of  affronts,  and  wotild  rather.  I  suppose,  climb  ' 
at  the  window  than  be  ab.«olulelv  excluded.  In 
minute,  the  yard,  the  kitchen,  atid  the  parlour  we 

filled.     Mr.  G ,  advancing  toward   me,  she 

me  by  the  hand  with  a  degree  of  cordiality  that  w 
extremely  seducing.     As  soon  as  he,  and  as  mof' 


His  tame  hare. 


HAVLEYS  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


165 


as  could  find  chairs  were  seated,  he  begnn  to  open 
the  intent  of  his  visit.  I  told  him  I  had  no  vole,  tor 
which  he  readily  gave  me  credit.  I  assurt-d  him  I 
had  no  influence,  which  he  was  not  equally  inclined 

to  believe,  and  the  less  no  doubt  because  Mr.  (1 , 

addressing  himself  to  me  at  that  moment,  informed 
me  [hat  I  had  a  great  deal.  Supposing  that  I  could 
not  be  possessed  of  such  a  treasure  without  knowing 
it,  I  ventured  to  confirm  my  first  assertion,  by  say- 
ing, that  if  1  had  any,  I  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
imagine  where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it  consisted. 

Thus  ended  the  conference.     Mr.  G squeezed 

me  by  the  hand  asain,  kissed  the  ladii^s.  and  with- 
drew. He  kissed  likewise  the  maid  in  the  kiicheii ; 
and  seemed  upon  the  wliole  a  most  loving,  kissing, 
kind-hearted  gentleman.  He  is  very  young,  gen- 
teel, and  handsome.  He  has  a  pair  of  very  good 
eyes  in  his  head,  whicii  not  being  sufficient  as  it 
should  seem  for  the  many  nice  and  difficult  purposes 
of  a  senator,  he  had  a  third  also,  which  he  wore 
suspended  by  a  riliand  from  his  button-hole.  The 
boys  halloo'd.  the  dogs  barked,  puss  scampered  ; 
the  hero,  with  his  lon^  train  of  obsequious  follower.s, 
withdrew.  We  made  ourselves  very  merry  with 
the  adventure,  and  in  a  short  time  settled  into  our 
former  tranquillity,  never  probal)ly  to  be  thus  inter- 
rupted more.  I  thought  myselt.  however,  happy 
in  being  able  to  affirm  truly,  that  I  had  not  that  in- 
fluence for  which  he  sued,  and  for  which,  had  I 
been  possessed  of  it,  with  my  present  views  of  the 
dispute  between  llie  Crown  and  the  Commons.  I 
must  have  refused  him,  for  he  is  on  the  side  of  the 
former.  It  is  comfortable  to  be  of  no  consequence 
in  a  vvorld  where  one  cannot  exercise  any  without 
disobliging  somebody." — pp.  242 — 244. 

'     Melancholy  and  dejected  men  often  amuse 

themselves  with  pursuits  that  seem  to  indicate 

the  greatest  levity.     Swift  wrote  all  sorts  of 

Idoggrel  and  absurdity  while  tormented  with 

ispleen,  giddiness,  and  misanthropy.     Cowper 

composed  John  Gilpin  during  a  season  of  most 

,  deplorable  depre.ssion,  and  probably  indited 

;  ^he  rhyming  letter  which  appears  in  this  col- 

l^ection,  in  a  moment  equally  gloomy.     For 

;  ;:he  amusement  of  our  readers,  we  annex  the 

poncluding  paragraph,  containing  a  simile,  of 

J  jivhich  we  think  they  must  immediately  feel 

I  the  propriety. 

j  "  I  have  heard  before  of  a  room,  with  a  floor  laid 
;  ^pon  springs,  and  such  like  things,  with  so  much 
^j  iirt,  in  every  part,  that  when  you  went  in,  you  was 
I  (breed  to  begin  a  minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a 
I  jrrace,  swimming  about,  now  in  and  now  out,  with 
j'  f  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  without  pipe  or 
!^  tring,  or  any  such  thing  ;  and  now  I  have  writ,  in 
,,,  f  rhyming  fit,  what  will  make  you  dance,  and  as 
'^^  I'ou  advance,  will  keep  you  still,  though  against 
^.  ,'our  will,  dancing  away,  alert  and  gay,  till  you 
1  jome  to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penn'd  ;  which  that 
li  Jou  may  do,  ere  madam  and  you.  are  quite  worn 
1^,  tut,  with  jiggling  about.  I  take  my  leave  ;  and  here 
°;,J  lOu  receive  a  bow  profound,  down  to  the  ground, 
''  u-om  your  humble  me — W.  C." — p.  89. 
ji;  I  As  a  contrast  to  this  ridiculous  efTusion,  we 
ii'<  idd  the  following  brief  statement,  which,  not- 
«lj  kith-standing  its  humble  simplicity,  appears 
'*  p  us  to  be  an  example  of  the  true  pathetic. 
ijj      "You  never  said  a  belter  thing  in  your  life,  than 

/hen  you  assured  Mr. of  the  expedience  of  a 

J  fift  of  bedding  to  the  poor  of  (31ney.  There  is  no 
g  ne  article  of  this  world's  comiorts  with  which,  as 
[  'alstaflf  says,  ihey  are  so  heinously  unprovided. 
,,:  Vhen  a  poor  woman,  whom  we  know  well,  carried 
',1^,  ome  two  pair  of  blankets,  a  pair  for  herself  and 
y,  usband.  and  a  pair  for  her  six  children,  as  soon  as 
^^ij  lie  children  saw  them,  they  jumped  out  of  tlicir 
'"^  traw.  caught  them  in  their  arms,  kissed  them, 
llessed  them  and  danced  for  joy.    Another  old 


woman,  a  very  old  one,  the  first  night  that  she 
found  iierself  so  comfortably  covered,  could  not 
sleep  a  wink,  being  kept  awake  by  tlie  conirory 
emotions,  of  transport  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  tear 
of  not  being  thankful  enough  on  the  other." 

pp.  347,  348. 
The  oorrespondence  of  a  poet  may  be  ex- 
pected to  abound  in  iwetical  ima^^ery  and 
sentiments.  They  do  not  form  the  mopt 
prominent  parts  of  this  collection,  but  they 
occur  in  sufficient  profusion ;  and  we  have 
been  agreeably  sin-prised  to  find  in  these  let- 
ters the  germs  of  many  of  the  finest  pa.ssitgea 
in  the  '-Task."  There  is  all  the  ardour  of 
poetry  and  devotion  in  the  following  passages. 

"  Oh  I  I  could  spend  whole  days,  and  moon-light 
night.'i,  in  ti'cding  upon  a  lovely  (irospect !  My  eyes 
drink  the  rivers  as  they  flow.  If  every  himian  be- 
ing upon  earth  could  think  for  one  quarter  of  an 
hour,  iis  I  have  done  for  many  years,  there  might 
perhaps  be  many  miserable  men  among  them,  but 
not  an  unawakened  one  could  be  found,  from  the 
arctic  to  the  antarctic  circle.  At  present,  the  dif- 
ference between  them  and  me  is  greatly  to  their 
advantage.  I  delight  in  baubles,  and  know  iliern  to 
be  so;  for,  rested  in,  and  viewed  without  a  refer- 
ence to  their  Author,  what  is  the  earth,  what  are 
the  planets,  what  is  the  sun  itself,  but  a  bauble? 
Better  for  a  man  never  to  have  seen  them,  or  to  see 
tliem  with  the  eyes  of  a  brute,  stupid  and  uncon- 
scious of  what  he  beholds,  than  not  to  be  able  to 
say,  '  The-Maker  of  all  these  wonders  is  my  friend  !' 
Their  eyes  have  never  been  opened,  to  see  that 
they  are  trifles;  mine  have  been,  and  will  be,  till 
they  are  closed  for  ever.  They  thiidi  a  fine  estate, 
a  large  conservatory,  a  hot-house  rich  as  a  West  In- 
dian garden,  things  of  consequence;  visit  them 
with  pleasure,  and  n)use  upon  them  with  ten  times 
more.  J  am  pleased  with  a  frame  of  four  lights, 
doubtful  whether  the  few  pines  it  contains  will  ever 
be  worth  a  farthing;  amuse  myself  with  a  green- 
house, which  Lord  Bute's  gardener  could  take  upon 
his  back,  and  walk  away  with;  and  when  I  have 
paid  it  the  accustomed  visit,  and  watered  i«,  and 
given  it  air,  I  say  to  myself — This  is  not  mine,  'tis 
a  plaything  lent  me  for  the  present,  I  must  leave  it 
soon." — pp.  19,  20. 

"  We  keep  no  bees  ;  but  if  I  lived  in  a  hive,  I 
should  hardly  hear  more  of  their  music.  All  the 
bees  in  the  neighbourhood  resort  to  a  bed  of  mig- 
nonette, opposite  to  the  window,  and  pay  me  for 
the  honey  they  get  out  of  it,  by  a  hum,  which, 
though  rather  monotonous,  is  as  agreeable  to  my 
ear,  as  the  whistling  ot  my  linnets.  All  the  sounds 
that  nature  utters  are  delightful,  at  least  in  this 
country.  I  should  not  perhaps  find  the  roaring  of 
lions  in  Africa,  or  of  bears  in  Russia,  very  pleasing; 
but  I  know  no  beast  in  England  whose  voice  I  do  not 
account  musical,  save  and  except  always  the  braying 
of  an  ass.  The  notes  of  all  our  birds  and  fowls 
please  me,  without  one  exception.  I  should  not  in- 
deed think  of  keeping  a  goose  in  a  cage,  that  I  might 
hang  him  up  in  the  parluur.  for  the  sake  of  his  mel- 
ody ;  but  a  ffoose  upon  a  common,  or  in  a  farm 
yard,  is  no  bad  performer.  And  as  to  insects,  if  the 
iilack  beetle,  and  beetles  indeed  of  all  hues,  will 
keep  out  ot  my  way,  I  have  no  objection  to  any  of 
the  rest ;  on  the  contrary,  in  whatever  key  they 
sing,  from  the  knai's  fine  treble  to  the  bass  of  the 
hinnble  bee,  I  admire  ihctn  all.  Seriously,  how- 
ever, it  strikes  me  as  a  very  observable  instance  of 
providential  kindness  to  man,  that  such  an  exact 
accord  has  been  contrived  between  his  ear  and  the 
sounds  with  which,  at  least  in  a  rural  situation,  it  ia 
almost  every  moment  visited.  All  the  world  ia 
sensible  of  the  uncomfortable  effect  that  certain 
sounds  have  upon  the  nerves,  and  consequently 
upon  the  spirits;  and  if  a  sinful  world  had  hoi-n 
filled  with  such  as  would  have  curdled  the  blood, 
and  have  made  the  sense  of  hearing  a  perpetual  in- 


LITERATURE  AND  BIOGRAPHY. 


convenience,  I  do  not  know  that  we  should  have 
had  a  right  to  complain. — There  is  somewhere  in  in- 
finite space,  a  world  that  does  not  roll  within  the 
precincts  of  mercy  ;  and  as  it  is  reasonable,  and  even 
scriptural,  to  suppose  that  there  is  music  in  heaven, 
in  those  dismal  reiiions  perhaps  ihe  reverse  of  it  is 
found.  Tones  so  dismal,  as  to  make  woe  itself 
more  insupporiahle,  and  to  acuminate  even  despair. 
But  my  paper  admonishes  me  in  good  time  to  draw 
the  reins,  and  to  check  the  descent  of  my  fancy 
into  deeps  with  which  she  is  but  too  familiar. 

pp.  287—289. 

The  following  short  sketches,  though  not 
marked  with  so  much  enthusiasm,  are  con- 
ceived with  the  .same  vigour  and  distinctness. 

"  When  we  look  back  upon  our  forefliihers,  we 
seem  to  lock  back  upon  the  people  of  another  na- 
tion, almost  upon  creatures  of  another  species. 
Their  vast  rambling  maiiBiona,  spacious  halls,  and 
painted  casements,  their  Gothic  porches  smothered 
with  honeysuckle.9.  their  little  gardens  and  high 
walls,  their  box-cdaings,  balls  ol  holly,  and  yew. 
tree  statues,  are  become  so  entirely  unfashionable 
now,  that  we  can  hardly  believe  it  possible  that  a 
people  who  resembled  us  so  little  in  their  taste, 
should  resemble  us  in  any  thing  else.  But  in  every 
thing  else,  I  suppose.  th(>y  were  our  counterparts 
exactly  ;  and  time,  that  has  sewed  up  the  slashed 
sleeve,  and  reduced  the  laree  trunk-hose  to  a  neat 
pair  of  silk  stockings,  has  left  human  nature  just 
where  it  found  it.  The  inside  ot  the  man,  at  lisast, 
has  undergone  no  change.  His  passions,  appetites, 
and  aims  are  just  what  they  ever  were.  '^'Iiey  wear 
perhaps  a  handsomer  disguise  than  they  did  in  days 
of  yore  ;  for  philnsoiiliy  and  literature  will  have  their 
effect  upon  the  exterior  ;  but  in  every  other  respect 
a  modern  is  only  an  ancient  in  a  different  dress." 
p.  48. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  voyages, 
which  I  received,  and  began  to  read  last  night.  My 
imagination  is  so  captivated  upon  these  oc-casions, 
that  I  seem  to  partake  with  the  navigators  in  all  the 
dangers  they  encountered.  I  lose  my  anchor;  my 
main-sail  is  rent  into  shreds  ;  1  kill  a  shark,  and  by 
signs  converse  with  a  Patagonian, — and  all  this 
without  moving  from  the  fire-aide.  The  principal 
fruits  of  these  circuits  that  have  been  made  around 
the  globe,  seem  likely  to  be  the  amusement  of  those 
that  staid  at  home.  Discoveries  have  been  made, 
but  such  discoveries  as  will  hardly  satisfy  the  ex- 
pense of  such  undertakings.  We  brought  away  an 
Indian,  and,  having  debauched  hirn,  we  sent  him 
home  again  to  communicate  the  infection  to  his 
country — fine  sports  to  be  sure,  hut  such  as  will 
not  defray  the  cost.  Nations  that  live  upon  bmad- 
fruit,  and  have  no  mines  to  nvike  thetn  worthy  of 
our  acquaintance,  will  he  but  little  v'sitcd  for  the 
future.  So  much  the  better  for  them  ;  their  poverty 
ie  indeed  their  mercy." — pp.  201,  202. 

Cowper's  religious  impressions  occupied  too 
great  a  portion  of  his  thoughts,  and  e.\ercised 
too  great  an  iuHuence  on  his  character,  not  to 
make  a  proiniiiftit  figure  in  his  correspond- 
ence. They  form  the  subject  of  many  elo- 
quent and  irlowiiiir  pussiges  ;  and  have  some- 
times suiruested  sentiments  and  expressions 
that  cannot  be  perused  without  compassion 
and  regret.  The  following  jjassage,  however, 
is  liberal  and  important. 

"  No  man  was  ever  scolded  out  of  his  sins.  The 
heart,  corrupt  as  it  is,  atid  becanse  it  is  so,  grows 
anwry  if  it  be  not  treated  with  some  manajrement 
ana  good  manners,  and  scolds  ai^ain.  A  surly  mas- 
tiff will  bear  perhaps  to  be  stroked,  ihouiih  he  will 
growl  even  under  that  operation  ;  but  if  you  touch 
him  roughly,  he  will  bite.  There  is  no  grace  that 
the  spirit  of  self  can  counterfeit  with  more  success 
than  a  religious  zeal.     A  inao  thinks  he  is  fighting 


for  Christ,  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  own  notions. 
He  thinks  that  he  is  skilfully  searching  the  hearts 
of  others,  while  he  is  only  gratifying  the  malignity 
of  his  own ;  and  charitably  supposes  his  hearers 
destitute  of  all  grace,  that  he  may  shine  the  more 
in  his  own  eyes  by  comparison." — pp.  17'J,  180. 

The  following,  too,  is  in  a  fine  style  of 
eloquence. 

"  We  have  exchanged  a  zeal  that  was  no  better 
than  madness,  for  an  indifference  equally  pitiable 
and  absurd.  The  holy  sepulchre  has  lost  iis  im- 
portance in  the  eyes  of  nations  called  Christian; 
not  because  the  light  of  true  wisdom  had  delivered 
them  from  a  superstitious  aiiachmeni  to  tiie  spot, 
but  because  he  that  was  buried  in  it  is  no  longer 
regarded  liy  them  as  the  -Saviour  of  the  world. 
The  exercise  of  reason,  enlightened  by  philosophy, 
has  cured  them  indeed  of  the  misery  ot  an  abused 
understanding;  but,  together  with  the  delusion, 
they  have  lost  the  substance,  and,  for  the  sake  of 
the  lies  that  were  grafted  upon  it,  have  qunrrellec 
with  the  truth  itself  Here,  then,  we  see  the  n< 
plus  ultra  of  human  wisdom,  at  least  in  affairs  o^ 
religion.  It  enlightens  the  mind  with  respect  t< 
non-essentials ;  but,  with  respect  to  that  in  whicli 
the  essence  of  Christianity  consists,  leaves  ii  perj 
fcctly  in  the  dark.  It  can  discover  many  errora 
that  in  different  ages  have  dis<;raced  the  fai;h  ;  btt! 
i  it  is  only  to  make  way  for  the  admission  of  oni, 
more  fatal  than  them  all.  which  represents  thaj 
faiih  itself  as  a  delusion.  Why  those  evils  hav>j  . 
j  been  permitted,  shall  be  known  hereafter.  Om 
,  thing  in  the  meatiiime  is  certain  ;  that  ihe  folly  an' 
I  frenzy  of  the  professed  disciples  i>f  ihe  gospel  hav 
been  more  dangerous  to  iis  interest  than  ail  ih 
avowed  hostiliiies  of  its  adversaries." — pp.  2(X),  20 

There  are  many  passages  that  breathe  th 
very  spirit  of  Christian  gentleness  and  sobe 
judgment.  But  when  he  talks  of  his  frJen 
Mr.  Newton's  prophetic  intimations  (p.  35. 
and  maintains  that  a  great  proportion  of  th 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  amuse  themselv( 
with  dancing  at  Briirhthelmstone,  must  nc 
essarily  be  damned  (p.  100. ),  we  cannot  fe 
the  same  respect  for  his  understanding,  ar 
are  repelled  by  the  austerity  of  his  fait 
The  most  remarkable  passage  of  this  kin 
j  however,  is  that  in  which  he  supposes  tl 
death  of  the  celebratetl  Captain  Cook  to  ha' 
been  a  jiulg:ment  on  him  for  having  aJlowi 
himself  to  be  worshipped  at  Owhyhee.  IV! 
Hayley  assures  us,  in  a  note,  that  Cuwp, 
proceeded  altogether  on  a  misapprehension  . 
the  fact.  The  passage,  however,  is  curioi 
am!  shows  with  what  eagerness  his  powerl 
mind  followed  that  train  of  superstition  ir;  I 
which  his  devotion  was  sometimes  so  unforf 
nately  betrayed. 

"  The  reading  of  those  volumes  affords  d 
much  amusement,  and  I  hope  some  insinicii 
No  observalion,  however,  forced  it.-;elf  upon  ■ 
With  more  violence  than  one.  that  I  could  not  h" 
making,  on  the  death  of  Captain  Cook.  God  it 
jealous  God  ;  and  at  Owhyhee  the  poor  man  \\ 
conieni  to  be  worshipped!  From  that  niom{,f 
the  remarkable  interposiiion  of  Providence  in  I 
favour,  was  converted  into  an  opposition  t:t 
thwarted  all  his  purposes.  He  left  ihe  sceiii>  of.» 
deiticniion,  but  was  driven  back  to  it  by  a  ir  t 
violent  storm,  in  which  he  suffered  more  that  I 
any  that  had  preceded  it.  When  he  depaned.J 
left  his  worshippers  still  infatuated  with  an  idetl 
his  godshiii.  consequently  well  disposed  to  se8 
hill).  At  his  relnrn.  he  fmind  them  snUcn,  * 
rnistfiil,  and  mysterious.  A  trifling  ihcft  was  ci'* 
mit;ed,  which,  by  a  blunder  of  his  own  in  pursi  I 


r 


ILVYLEi''S  LIFE  OF  COWPER. 


167 


the  thief  after  the  property  had  been  restored,  was 

magnified  to  an  affair  of  the  last  importance.     One 

of  their  favourite  chiefs  was  killed,  too,  by  a  bhni- 

'  der.     Nothing,  in  short,  but  blunder  and  mistake 

attended  him,  till  ho  fell  breathless  into  the  water 

— atid  then  all  was  smooth  again  I     The  world  m- 

i  deed  will  not  take  notice,  or  see  that  the  dispensa- 

;  lion  l)ore  evident  marks  of  divine  displeasure  ;   but 

!  a  mind,  I  think,  in  any   deuree  s|)iriiual,   cannol 

(  overlook  them." — pp.  2^)3,  29-1. 

'!  Fiom  tlie*;e  extiacts.  our  reatlers  will  now 
,  be  al>le  to  form  a  pretty  accurate  notion  of 
i  the  contents  ami  composition  of  this  volume. 

Its  chief  merit  consists  in  the  singular  ease. 

eleg-ance.  and  familiarity  with  which  every 

thing  is  expressetl.  and  in  the  simplicity  anil 
;  sincerity  in  wh.ch  every  thiii^-  appearsto  be 
I  conceived,  lis  chief  fault,  perhaps,  is  tlie  loo 
j  frequent  recurrence  of  those  apologies  for  ilnil 
'  letters,  and  complaints  of  the  want  of  sub- 
)  jects,  that  .seem  occasionally  to  bring  it  down 
I  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  corresj)ondence, 
'and  to  represent  Cowper  as  one  of  those  who 

make  every  letter  its  own  subject,  and  cor- 
'respond  with  their  friends  by  talking  about 
'their  corre.spondence. 

I  Besiiles  the  subjects,  of  which  we  have 
(exhibited  .some  specimens,  it  contains  a  good 
ideal  of  occasional  criticism,  of  which  we  do 
•  not  think  very  highly.  It  is  not  easy,  indeed, 
{to  say  to  what  tlegree  the  judgments  of  those 
iwho  live  in  the  Avorid  are  biassetl  by  the 
opinions  that  prevail  in  it;  but.  in  matters  of 
'this  kind,  the  general  prevalence  of  an  opinion 
(is  almost  the  only  test  we  can  have  of  its 
[truth  ;  -ind  the  judgment  of  a  secludeil  man 
[is  almost  as  justly  convicted  of  error,  when  it 
Iruiis  counter  to  that  opinion,  as  it  is  extolletl 
Ifor  sagacity,  when  it  happens  to  coincide  wilh 
jit.  The  critical  remarks  of  Cowper  furnish 
us  with  instances  of  both  sorts;  but  perhaps 
with  most  of  the  former.  His  admiration  of 
Mr.s.  Macanlay's  History,  and  the  rapture 
with  which  he  speaks  of  the  Heiny  and 
Emma  of  Prior,  and  the  compositions  of 
Churciiill;  will  not.  we  should  imagine,  at- 
ict  the  sympathy  of  many  reader.^,  or  .sti.s- 
peiid  the  sentence  which  time  appears  lo  be 
mas.sing  on  those  performances.  As  there  is  j 
Scarcely  any  thing  of  love  in  the  poetry  of 
Cowper.  it  is  not  very  wonderful  that  lliere  ' 
phonid  be  nothing  of  it  in  his  corresjiondence.  j 
iTIiere  is  somelhiiiir  very  tender  and  amiable 
Sii  his  affection  for  his  cousin  Lady  Heskelh: 
ibiit  we  do  not  remember  any  passage  where 
llie  approaches  to  the  language  of  gallantry. 
lf)r:i])pears  to  have  indiiliied  in  the  seiilimenls 

fh.it  might  have  led  to  its  employment,  it  is  | 
ilso  somewhat  remarkable,  that  during  the  \ 
vliole  course  of  his  retirement,  thongli  a  good  . 
Meal  embarrassed  in  his  circumstances,  and  : 
p"re(|iiently  very  much  distressed  for  want  of  | 
km|)l(iynieiii.  he  never  seems  lo  have  had  an  I 
(idea  of  betakiiiLr  himself  to  a  jiroft-ssion.  The  ' 
^olntion  of  this  difficulty  is  probably  to  be  i 
fo\\\u\  in  the  infirmity  of  his  mental  health:; 
put  there  were  ten  or  twelve  years  of  his  life. 
kheii  he  seems  lo  have;  been  fit  for  any  exer-  I 
MOii  that  did  not  require  a  public  appearance, 
knd  to  liave  suffered  very  much  from  the  I 
want  of  all  occupation.  I 


This  volume  closes  witli  a  fmgrnent  of  a 
poem  by  Cowper,  which  Mr.  Haj  ley  %\as  for- 
tuiiiite  enough  to  discover  by  accident  among 
some  loose  papers  which  had  been  found  in 
the  poet's  study.  It  consists  of  somelhing 
less  thiin  two  hundred  Ihie.s.  and  is  atldressed 
to  a  very  ancient  and  decajetl  o;ik  iii  the 
vicinity  of  Weston.  We  do  not  think  quite 
so  highly  of  this  production  as  the  editor  ap- 
pears to  do;  at  the  .same  time  that  wt;  con- 
fess it  to  be  impressed  with  all  the  maiks 
of  Cowper's  most  vigorous  hand  :  we  do  not 
know  any  of  his  compositions,  indeed,  that 
alfords  a  more  striking  exemplification  of 
most  of  the  excellences  and  defects  of  his 
pecnliar  style,  or  might  be  more  fairly  quoted 
as  a  specimen  of  his  vuinncr.  It  is  full  of  the 
conceptions  of  a  vigorous  ami  poetical  fancy, 
expres.sed  in  nervous  and  familiar  language; 
but  it  is  rendered  harsh  by  unneces.sary  in- 
versions, and  deba.^ed  in  several  places  by 
the  use  of  anti<iualed  and  vulgar  phrases. 
The  following  are  about  the  best  lines  which 
it  conlJiins. 

'•  Thou  wast  a  bauble  once  ;  a  cup  and  ball. 
Which  babefi  might  play  whh ;  and  the  iliieviah 

jny 
Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin'd 
The  auburn  nui  that  held  diee.  swallowing  down 
Thy  yet  dose-folded  latitude  of  boughs. 
And  all  thine  embryo  vastness,  as  a  gulp! 
I^ut  tate  thy  growih  decreed;  autumnal  rains, 
Beneath  iliy  parent  tree,  mellow'd  the  sod 
Design'd  thy  cradle,  and  a  skipping  deer. 
With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  ihe  glebe,  prepar'd 
The  soft  receptacle,  in  which  secure 
Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through." 

"Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast — King  of  the 
woods  I 
And  lime  haili  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in  !    Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhiing  the  champaign,  and  ihe  numerous  flock 
That  gra/,'d  it,  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
L'ncrowded,  yet  safe-sheltered  from  the  storm  ! 
No  flock  fre(|ucnis  thee  now  ;  thou  hast  ouiliv'd 
Thy  popiilariiy  ;  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  ihee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth!" 

"  One  man  alone,  ihe  father  of  us  all. 
Drew  not  his  life  (roni  woman;  never  gaz'd, 
Willi  mule  uneoiiscioiisness  of  what  he  saw, 
On  ail  aruiiiid  him  ;   learn'd  not  by  degrees, 
NorowM  iiriicnlaiion  to  his  ear; 
But  moulded  by  his  .Maker  into  man 
Ai  once,  npstood  intelligent;  survey'd 
All  creatures;  with  precision  understood 
Their  purport,  uses,  properiies;  assign'd 
To  each  his  name  signiricant,  and,  fill'd 
VViih  love  and  wisdom,  rendered  back  to  heaven, 
In  praise  harmoninus,  ihe  first  air  he  drew ! 
He  was  csciis'd  the  penalties  of  dull 
.Minority  ;  no  tiiior  charg'd  his  hand 
With  the  thought-tracing  quill,  or  task'd  his  mind 
Wiih  problems;  History,  not  wanted  yet, 
Lcan'd  on  her  elbow,  watching  time,  whose  cause 
Kvenlful,  should  supply  her  with  a  theme." 

pp.  415,  4u;. 

On  the  whole,  though  we  complain  a  little 
of  the  size  and  the  price  of  the  volumes  now 
before  us,  we  take  our  leave  of  them  with 
relnctance;  and  lay  down  our  i)en  with  no 
little  regret,  to  think  that  we  shall  review  no 
more  of  this  author's  productions. 


HISTORY 


AND 


HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS 


(©ctobcr,  1S03.) 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Coi.onei,  Hutchinson,  Governor  of  Nottinixham  Castle  and  Tov:n. 
Representative  of  the  County  of  Nottingham  in  the  Long  Parliament,  and  of  the  Town  of 
Nottingham  in  the  First  Parliament  of  Charles  11.  ifc.  :  with  Original  Anecdotes  of  many  of 
the  most  distinguished  of  his  Contemporaries,  and  a  summary  Review  of  Public  Affairs: 
Written  by  his  Widow,  Lucy,  daughter  of  Sir  Allen  Apsley,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tov'-er,  Ife. 
Now  first  published  from  the  Ori<i;iiial  Manu.script,  by  the  Rev.  Julius  Hutchinson,  &c. 
&c.  To  which  is  prefixed,  the  Life  of  Mus.  Hutchinson,  written  by  Herself,  a  Fragment, 
pp.  446.  4to.     London,  Longman  and  Co. :   1806. 

We  have  not  often  met  with  any  thing  more 
interesting  and  curious  than  this  volume.  Li- 
dependent  of  its  being  a  contemporary  nar- 
rative of  by  far  the  most  animating  and  im- 
portant part  of  our  history,  it  challenges  our 
attention  as  containing  an  accurate  and  lu- 
m.inous  account  of  military  and  political  affairs 
from  the  hand  of  a  woman  ;  as  exhibiting  the 
most  liberal  and  enlightened  sentiments  in 
the  person  of  a  puritan ;  and  sustaining  a  high  ! 
tone  of  aristocratical  dignity  and  pretension,  | 
though  the  work  of  a  decided  republican. 
The  views  which  it  ojjons  into  the  character  of 
the  writer,  and  the  manners  of  the  age,  will 
be  to  many  a  still  more  powerful  attraction. 

Of  the  times  to  which  this  narrative  be- 
longs— times  to  which  England  owes  all  her 
freedom  and  all  her  irlory — we  can  never  hear 
too  much,  or  too  often  :  and  though  their  story 
has  been  transmitted  to  us,  both  with  more 
fulness  of  detail  and  more  vivacity  of  colour- 
ing than  any  other  portion  of  our  annals,  every 
reflecting  reader  must  be  aware  that  our  in- 
formation is  still  extremely  defective,  and 
exposes  us  to  the  hazard  of  great  misconcep- 
tion. The  work  before  us,  we  think,  is  cal-  j 
culated  in  a  good  degree  to  supply  these  de-  | 
ficiencies,  and  to  rectify  these  errors. 

By  far  the  most  important  part  of  history,  ' 
as  we  have  foinierly  endeavoured  to  explain, 
is  that  which  makes  us  accjuainted  with  the  | 
character,   dispositions,  and  opinions  of  the  i 
great  and  efficient  jiopulation  by  whose  mo- 
tion or  consent  all  things  are  ultimately  gov- 
erned.    After  a  nation  has  attained  to  any 
degree  of  intelligence,  every  other  principle 
of  action  becomes  subordinate;  and,  with  re- 
lation to  our  own  country  in  particular,  it  may 
bo  said  with  safety,  that  we  can  know  njjthing 
of  its  past  history,  or  of  the  applications  of 
168 


that  history  to  more  recent  transactions,  if  we 
have  not  a  tolerably  correct  notion  of  the 
character  of  the  people  of  England  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  L,  and  the  momentous  pe- 
riods which  ensued.  This  character  depended 
very  much  on  that  of  the  landed  proprietors 
and  resident  gentry ;  and  iVIrs.  Hutchinson's 
memoirs  are  chiefiy  valuable,  as  containing  a 
pictyre  of  that  class  of  the  conimunit)'. 

Agriculture  was  at  this  period  still  the 
chief  occupation  of  the  people  ;  and  the  truly 
governing  part  of  society  was  con.seiiueiitly 
the  ru.stic  aristocracy.  The  country  gentle- 
men— who  have  since  been  woni  down  by 
luxury  and  taxation,  superseded  by  the  ac- 
tivity of  otiice.  and  eclipsed  by  the  opulence 
of  trade — were  then  all  and  all  in  England; 
and  the  nation  at  large  derived  from  them  its 
habits,  prejudices,  and  opinions.  Educated 
almost  entirely  at  home,  their  manners  were 
not  yet  accommodated  to  a  ^'eneral  European 
standard,  but  retained  all  those  n;rtiona]  pecu- 
liarities which  united  and  endeared  them  to 
the  rest  of  their  countrymen.  Con.stitutionally 
serious,  and  living  much  with  their  families, 
they  had  in  general  more  solid  l(^arninij-.  and 
more  steady  morality  than  the  gentry  of  other 
countries.  E.xercised  in  local  magistracies, 
and  frequently  assembled  for  ]nn]joses  of 
national  cooperation,  they  became  conscious 
of  their  power,  and  jealous  of  their  privi!r;:es: 
and  having  been  trained  up  in  a  dread  and 
detestation  of  that  popery  which  had  beeu 
the  recent  cause  of  so  many  wars  and  perse- 
cutions, their  religious  sentiments  had  con- 
tracted somewhat  of  an  austere  and  ])olemical 
character,  and  had  not  yet  settled  from  the 
ferment  of  reformation  hito  tranquil  and  regu- 
lated piety.  It  was  upon  this  side,  accord- 
ingly, that  they  were  most  liable  to  error: 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHINSON. 


169 


id  the  extravagances  into  which  a  part  of 
em  was  actually  betrayed,  has  been  the 
lief  cause  of  the  misrepresentations  to  which 
ey  were  then  exposed,  and  of  the  miscon- 
.ption  whit-h  still  prevails  as  to  their  char- 
;ter  and  principles  of  action. 
In  the  midiUe  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  al- 
i33t  the  whole  nation  was  serious  and  devout, 
.ly  licence  and  excess  which  existed  was 
Dstly  encouraged  and  patronised  by  the 
]iyalists;  who  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to 
(fide  the  sanctity  and  rigid  morality  of  their 
cponents;  and  they  again  exaggerated,  out 
(  party  hatred,  the  peculiarities  by  which 
l?y  were  most  obviously  distinguisKed  from 
t?ir  antagonists.  Thus  mutually  receding 
Im  each  other,  from  feelings  of  general 
htility,  they  were  gradually  led  to  realize 
t;  imputations  of  which  they  were  recipro- 
c  ly  the  subjects.  The  cavaliers  gave  way 
ta  certain  degree  of  licentiousness ;  and  the 
alierents  of  the  parliamei*'  became,  for  the 
rist  part,  really  morose  and  enthusiastic.  At 
t'  Restoration,  the  cavaliers  obtained  a  com- 
f  te  and  tinal  triumph  over  their  sanctimo- 

I  us  opponents;  and  the  exiled  monarch 
al  his  nobles  imported  from  the  Continent  a 
t  te  for  dissipation,  and  a  toleration  for  de- 
tichery,  far  exceeding  any  thing  that  had 
piviously  been  known  in  England.  It  is 
f  m  the  wits  of  that  court,  however,  and  the 
viters  of  that  party,  that  the  succeeding  and 
t  present  age  have  derived  their  notions  of 
i.  Puritans.  In  reducing  these  notions  to 
C  standard  of  truth,  it  is  not  easy  to  deter- 
nie  how  large  an  allowance  ought  to  be 
nde  for  the  exaggerations  of  party  hatred, 

II  perversions  of  witty  malice,  and  the  illu- 
sis  of  habitual  superiority.  It  is  certain, 
hvever,  that  ridicule,  toleration,  and  luxury 
g  dually  annihilated  the  Puritans  in  the 
h  her  ranks  of  society :  and  after-times,  seeing 
tlir  practices  and  principles  exemplified  only 
a  o!ig  the  lowest  and  most  illiterate  of  man- 
kl,  ri'adily  caught  the  tone  of  contempt 
v.;ch  had  been  assumed  by  their  triumphant 
e  mies;  and  found  no  absurdity  in  believing 
tl|t  the  base  and  contemptible  beings  who 
w,:e  described  under  the  name  of  Puritans 
bjthe  courtiers  of  Charles  II.,  were  true 
rt^resentatives  of  that  valiant  and  conscien- 
tils  party  which  once  numbered  half  the 
g'|try  of  England  among  its  votaries  and 
a(.erents. 

j'hat  the  popular  conceptions  of  the  auster- 
ity and  absurdities  of  the  old  Roundheads 
ai  Presbyterians  are  greatly  exaggerated, 
W;  probably  be  allow^ed  by  every  one  at  all 
ccyer.saut  with  the  subject ;  but  we  know 
oi  othing  so  well  calculated  to  dissipate  the 
ev-tiuir  prejudices  on  the  subject,  as  this 
b'k  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson.  Instead  of  a  set 
ot,:loomy  bigots  waging  war  with  all  the 
elj^ancies  and  iraieties  of  life,  we  find,  in  this 
CJininiated  order,  ladies  of  the  first  birth 
ai  lashion,  at  once  converting  their  husbands 
to  jiabaptism,  and  instructing  their  children 
hi^iusic  and  dancing, — valiant  Presbyterian 
cc  nels  refuting  the  errors  of  Arminius,  col- 
lelng  pictures,  and  practising,  with  great 
22 


applause,  on  the  violin. — .stout  os(]uires.  at 
the  same  time,  praying  and  ijuafiiiig  October 
with  their  godly  tenants. — and  noble  lords 
disputing  with  their  chaplauis  on  points  of 
theology  in  the  evening,  and  taking  them  out 
a-huntmg  in  the  morning.  There  is  nothing, 
in  short,  more  curious  and  instructive,  than 
the  glimpses  which  we  here  catch  of  the  old 
hospitable  and  orderly  life  of  the  country 
gentlemen  of  England,  in  those  days  when 
the  national  character  was  so  high  and  so 
peculiar. — when  civilization  had  produced  all 
its  effects,  but  that  of  corruption, — and  when 
serious  studies  and  dignitied  pursuits  had  not 
yet  been  abandoned  to  a  paltry  and  effeminate 
derision.  I^udoubtedly.  in  reviewing  the  an- 
nals of  those  times,  we  are  struck  with  a 
loftier  air  of  manhood  than  presents  itself  in 
any  after  era;  and  recognize  the  same  char- 
acters of  deep  thought  and  steady  enthusiasm, 
and  the  same  principles  of  fidelity  and  self- 
command,  which  ennobled  the  better  days  of 
the  Roman  Republic,  and  have  made  every 
thing  else  appear  childish  and  frivolous  in 
the  comparison. 

One  of  the  most  striking  and  valuable 
things  in  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  performance,  is 
the  information  which  it  affords  us  as  to  the 
manners  and  condition  of  women  in  the  period 
with  which  she  is  occupied.  This  is  a  point 
in  which  all  histories  of  public  events  are 
almost  necessarily  defective  ;  though  it  is  evi- 
dent that,  without  attending  to  it,  our  notions 
of  the  state  and  character  of  any  people  must 
be  extremely  imperfect  and  erroneous.  Mrs. 
Hutchinson,  however,  enters  into  no  formal 
disquisition  upon  this  subject.  What  we 
learn  from  her  in  relation  to  it,  is  learnt  inci- 
dentally— partly  on  occasion  of  some  anec- 
dotes which  it  falls  in  her  way  to  recite — but 
chiefly  from  what  she  is  led  to  narrate  or  dis- 
close as  to  her  own  education,  conduct,  or 
opinions.  If  it  were  allowable  to  take  the 
portrait  which  she  has  thus  indirectly  given 
of  herself,  as  a  just  representation  of  her  fair 
contemporaries,  we  should  form  a  most  e.xalt- 
ed  notion  of  the  republican  matrons  of  Eng- 
land. Making  a  slight  deduction  for  a  few 
traits  of  austerity,  borrowed  from  the  bigotry 
of  the  age,  we  do  not  know  where  to  look  for 
a  more  noble  and  engaging  character  than 
that  under  which  this  lady  presents  herself  to 
her  readers  ;  nor  do  we  believe  that  any  age 
of  the  world  has  produced  so  worthy  a  coun- 
terpart to  the  Valerias  and  Portias  of  antitjuity. 
With  a  hish-minded  feelingof  patriotism  and 
public  honour,  she  seems  to  have  been  pos- 
sessed by  the  most  dutiful  and  devoted  at- 
tachment to  her  husband  ;  and  to  have  com- 
bined a  taste  for  learning  and  the  arts  with 
the  most  active  kindness  and  munificent  hos- 
pitality to  all  who  came  within  the  sphere  of 
her  bounty.  To  a  quick  perception  of  char- 
acter, she  appears  to  have  united  a  masculine 
force  of  understandins,  and  a  singular  capacity 
for  affairs ;  and  to  have  possessed  and  exer- 
cised all  those  talents,  without  affecting  any 
superiority  over  the  rest  of  her  sex,  or  aban- 
doning for  a  single  instant  the  delicacy  and 
reserve  which  were  then  its  most  indispensa- 


170 


fflSTORY  AND  fflSTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


ble  ornaments.  Education,  certainly,  is  far 
more  {generally  diffused  in  our  days,  and  ac- 
complishments infinitely  more  common  ;  But 
the  perusiil  of  this  volume  has  taught  us  to 
doubt,  whether  the  better  sort  of  women  were  , 
not  fashioned  of  old  by  a  better  and  more  ex-  I 
alted  standard,  and  whether  the  most  eminent 
female  of  the  present  clay  would  not  appear 
to  disiidvantaye  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Hutchin- 
son. There  is,  for  the  most  part,  something 
intriguing  and  profligate  and  theatrical  in  the 
clever  womiMi  of  this  generation  ;  and  if  we 
are  dazzled  by  their  brilliancy,  and  delighted 
with  their  tal.nit,  we  can  scarcely  ever  guard 
against  some  distrust  of  their  judgment  or 
some  suspicion  of  their  purity.  There  is 
something,  in  short,  in  the  domestic  virtue, 
and  the  calm  and  commanding  mind  of  our 
English  matron,  that  makes  the  Corinnes  and 
Heloises  appear  small  and  insignificant. 

The  admirers  of  modern  talent  will  not  ac- 
cuse us  of  choosing  an  ignoble  competitor,  if 
we  desire  them  to  weigh  the  merits  of  JNIrs. 
Hutchinson  against  those  of  Madame  Roland. 
The  English  revolutionist  did  not  indeed 
compose  weekly  pamphlets  and  addresses  to 
the  municipalities : — because  it  was  not  the 
fashion,  in  her  days,  to  prmt  every  thing  that 
entered  into  the  heads  of  politicians.  But  she 
shut  herself  up  with  her  husband  in  the  gar- 
rison with  which  he  was  intrusted,  and  shared 
his  counsels  as  well  as  his  hazards.  She  en- 
couraged the  troops  by  her  cheerfulness  and 
Jieroism — ministered  to  the  sick — and  dressed 
w  ith  her  own  hands  the  wounds  of  the  cap- 
tives, as  well  as  of  their  victors.  When  her 
husband  was  imprisoned  on  groundless  sus- 
picions, she  laboured,  without  ceasing,  for  his 
deliverance — confounded  his  oppressors  by 
her  eloquence  and  aiiiuments — tended  him 
with  unshaken  fortitude  in  sickness  and  soli- 
tude— and,  after  his  decease,  dedicated  her- 
self to  form  his  children  to  the  example  of  his 
virtues;  and  drew  up  the  memorial  which  is 
now  before  us,  of  his  worth  and  her  own 
genius  and  affection.  All  this,  too,  she  did 
without  stepping  beyond  the  province  of  a 
private!  woman — without  hunting  after  com- 
pliments to  her  own  genius  or  beauty — with- 
out sneering  at  the  dulness.  or  murmuring  at 
the  coldness  of  her  husband — without  hazard- 
ing the  fate  of  her  country  on  the  dictates  of 
her  own  enthusiasm,  or  fancying  for  a  moment 
that  she  was  born  with  talents  to  enchant  and 
regenerate  the  world.  With  ecjual  power  of 
discriminating  character,  with  equal  candour 
and  elo(|uence  and  zeal  for  the  general  good, 
fhe  is  elevated  beyond  her  French  competitor 
by  superior  pmdence  and  modesty,  and  by  a 
certain  simplicity  and  purity  of  character,  of 
which,  it  appears  to  us,  that  the  other  was 
unable  to  form  a  conception. 

After  detaining  the  reader  so  long  with 
these  general  observations,  we  shall  only  w-ith- 
hold  him  from  the  quotations  which  we  mean 
to  lay  before  him.  while  we  announce,  that 
Mrs.  Hutchinson  writes  in  a  sort  of  lofty, 
classical,  translated  style;  which  is  occasion- 
ally diffuse  and  pedantic,  but  often  attains  to 
great  dignity  and  vigour,  and  still  more  fre- 


quently charms  us  by  a  sort  of  antique  si; 
plicity  and  sweetness,  admirably  in  ui.i; 
with  the  sentiments  and  manners  it  is  e 
ployed  to  represent. 

The  fragment  of  her  own  history,  w 
which  the  volume  opens,  is  not  the  leas*, 
teresting,  and  perhaps  the  most  character!- 
part  of  its  contents.  The  following  brief  . 
count  of  her  nativity,  will  at  once  make  • 
reader  acquahited  with  the  pitch  of  this  ladi 
sentiments  and  expressions. 

"  It  was  one  the29iliday  of  JaiuM:  y.  in  the  y« ; 
of  our  Lord  Ibj^,  that  in  ilie    lo-.vtr  of  Lone, 
the  principall  cine  of  the  Englisli  Isle.  1  was  aU 
4  of  the  clock  in  the  morning  brought  t'lrih  to  •• 
hold  the  ensuing  light.     My  lather  wa.s  .Sr.  A  i 
Apslcy,  leifienant  of  the  Tower  of  London  : 
mother,  his  third  wife,   was  Lucy,   the   youi 
daughter  of  Sr.  John  St.  John.  otLidiard  'I  re 
in  Wiltshire,   hy  his  second  wife.     My  father  j 
then  living  a  sonne  and  a  daugliier  by  his  for  r 
wives,  and  by  my  mother  three  sonns.  I  being  r 
eldest  daughter.     The  land  was  then  att  peace  it 
being  towards  the  latter  end  ot  the  reit;ne  of  ]| 
James),  if  that  quiettnesse  may  be  call'd  a  pe !, 
which  was  rather  like  the  caline  and  smooth  sui « 
of  the  sea.  whose  darke  womb  is  allready  in:] 
nated  ot  a  horrid  tempest." — pp.  2,  3. 

She  then  draws  the  character  of  botli 
parents  in  a  very  graceful  and  engaging  i 
tier,  but  on  a  scale  somewhat  too  Ian 
admit  of  their  being  transferred  entire 
our  pages.  We  give  the  following  as  a  s] 
men  of  the  style  and  execution. 

"  He  was  a  most  indulgent  husband,  and  no  « 
kind  to  his  children;  a  most  nol)le  master;  » 
thought   it   not   enoush  to   mainiaiiie    his  scr    - 
honourably  while  they  were  with  him.  tint,  i 
that  di'.serv'd  it.  provided  offices  or  seitlemei; 
for  children.     He  was  a  father  to  all  his  pris(^ 
sweeining  with  such  compassionate  kindnesst- 
restraint,  that  the  afliciion  of  a  prison  was  m 
in  his  dayps.     He  had  a  singular  kindm  sse  f 
persons   that  were  eminent  either  in    loarni 
armes  ;  and  when,  through  the  ingratitude  an 
of  that  age.  many  of  the  wives  and  chilldr 
Queene  Elizabeth's  glorious  captaines  were  rt 
to  poverty,  his  purse  was  their  common   tre; 
and  they  knew  not    the  inconvenience  of  dt 
fortunes  till   he  wa.^s  dead:  many  of  those  v: 
seamen  he  maintain'd  in  prison  ;  many  he  redi 
out  of  prison  and   cherishi   with  an  e.xtraon 
bounty.     He  was  severe  in   the  '••^gulaiing    i- 
tamely  ;  especially  would  not  enoure  ilie  lea  n; 
modest  behaviour  or  dressc  in   any  woman    i 
his  roofe.     There  was  nothing  he  hated  mori  i»'- 
an   insignificant  gallant,  that  could   oiilv  ma}" 
lecf;"  end  prime  hinmelf.  and  court  a  Indy.  bi  i'" 
not  l)raines  to  employ  himselle  in  things  more  Ht 
able  to  man's  nobler' sex.    Fidelity  in  his  irus  ou 
and  loyalty  to  his  piince,  were  not  the  least   li-' 
vertiies,  but  those  wherein  he  was  not   cxcei  1> 
any  of  his  owne  or  succeeding  times,     lb  tr-?  n;' 
mother  a  noblf  allowance  of  300/.  a  v, ne    hf 
owne  private  ex-pence,  and  had  given   I-  r  ;  ii*' 
owne  portion   to  dispose   ot    how  she    iliri'    y 
soone  as  she  was  married  ;  which  she  sulii  r'd  f- 
crease  in  her  friend's  hands ;  and  wlm    my  b'' 
allowed  her  she  spent  not  in  vanities,  nl  Iimi 
had  what  was  rich  and  requisite  upon  oi(  n-in 
she  Inv'd  most  of  it  out  in  pious  and  ch.nriM  - 
8r.  Wain  rRawIeigh  and  Mr.  Rut  bin  bi        ■  r 
in  the  Tower,  and  addicting  ihemselvi  - 
trie,  she  siifler'd  ihcm  to   make  their  < 
men;s  at  her  cost,  partly  to  comfort  :ii 
poorc  prisoners,  and  partly  to  gniiie  'In 
of  their  e.xpetimenis.  and  the  medici: 
such  poore  people  as  were  not  able  to  f'-.>.  ;     , 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHLNSON. 


171 


[sitians.  By  these  means  she  acquir'd  a  greate  deale 
[of  skill,  which  was  very  profitable  to  many  all  her 
jlife.  She  was  not  only  to  these,  but  to  all  the  other 
;prisoners  that  came  into  the  Tower,  as  a  niotlier. 
All  the  time  she  dwelt  in  the  Tower,  if  any  were 
<ick  she  made  them  broths  and  restoratives  with  her 
iwiic  hands,  visited  and  look  care  of  them,  and 
■  rovidod  them  all  necessaries:  If  any  were  aflicled 
A)v  loniforicd  them,  so  that  they  felt  not  the  inron- 
icnu-MKe  of  a  prison  who  svere  in  that  place.  She 
.vas  not  Icsse  bountifull  to  many  poore  widdowes 
md  orphans,  whom  oflicers  of  higher  and  lower 
rank  iiad  left  behiiui  them  as  objects  of  charily. 
jHer  owne  house  was  fiU'd  with  distressed  i'aniilies 

[if  her  relations,  whom  she  supplied  and  maintained 
II  a  noble  way." — pp.  12 — 15. 
For  herself,  being  her  mother's  first  daugh- 
ler,  unusual  pains  were  bestowed  on  her  cdu- 
(.•alioii ;  so  that,  when  she  was  seven  years  of 
iige.  she  was  attended,  she  informs  us,  by  no 
ewt-r  than  eight  several  tutors.  In  conse- 
,ueiice  of  all  this,  she  became  very  grave  and 
huuuhtful ;  and  withal  very  pious.  But  her 
ally  attainments  in  religion  seem  to  have 
een  by  no  means  answerable  to  the  notions 
iif  sanctity  which  she  imbibed  ni  her  maturer 
•ears.  There  is  something  very  innocent  and 
atuval  m  the  Puritanism  of  "the  following 
lassage. 

It  pleas'd  God  thai  ihro'  the  good  instructions 
f  my  mother,  and  the  sermons  she  carried  me  to, 

was  convinc'd  that  the  Unowledjje  of  God  was 
tie  most  excellent  study  ;  and  accoixlingly  applied 
lyselfe  to  it,  and  to  practise  as  I  was  ttiuglit.  I 
s'd  to  e.vhort  my  mother's  maides  much,  atid  to 
irne  their  idle  discourses  to  good  subjects  ;  but  I 
lought,  when  I  had  done  this  on  the  Lord's  day, 
nd  every  day  perform'd  my  due  taskes  of  reading 
nd  praying,  that  then  I  was  free  to  anie  thing  that 
'as  not  sin  ;  lor  I  was  not  at  that  time  convinc'd  of 
le  vanity  of  conversation  which  was  not  scandal- 
usly  wicked  ;  [  thought  it  no  sin  to  learne  or  heare 
'itlie  sonos  and  amorous  sonnets  or  poems,  and 
venty  ihmss  of  that  kind  ;  wherein  I  was  so  apt 
lai  I   became   the  coiilident  in  all  the  loves  that 

ere  managed  among  my  mother's  young  women  : 
nd  there  was  none  of  them  but  had  many  lovers 
nd  some  particular  friends  belov'd  aiiove  the  rest ; 
[iiong  these  I  have ." — p.  17,  18. 

Here  the  same  spirit  of  austerity  which 
ictated  the  preceding  passage,  had  moved 
le  fair  writer,  as  the  editor  informs  us,  to 
;ar  away  many  pages  immediately  following 
16  words  with  which  it  concludes— and  thus 

defraud  the  reader  of  the  only  love  story 
^ith  which  he  had  any  chance  of  being 
galed  in  the  course  of  this  narrative. 
Ithough  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  abhorrence  of 
ly  thiny;  like  earthly  or  uusanctified  love, 
as  withheld  her  on  all  occasions  from  the 
rsertioii  of  any  thing  that  related  to  such 
ielings,  yet  it  is  not  difficult,  we  think,  to 
erceive  that  she  was  oriq-inally  constiluted 
th  an  extraordinary  sensibility  to  all  power- 
J  emotions ;  and  that  the  suppression  of 
Jose  deep  and  natural  impre.ssioiis  has  given 
singular  warmth  and  animation  to  her  des- 
•iptions  of  romantic  and  conjugal  aflection. 

illustration  of  this,  we  may  refer  to  the 
•llowing  story  of  her  husband's  grandfather 
id  gratidmother,  which  she  recounts  with 
.uch  feeling  and  credulity.  After  a  very 
nple  account  of  their  mutual  love  and  love- 
11688,  she  proceeds—  J 


"But  while  the  incomparable  mother  shin'd  in 
all  the  humane  glorie  she  wishi,  and  had  the  crowne 
of  all  outward  telicity  to  the  full,  in  the  enjoyment 
of  the  mutuall  love  of  her  most  beloved  husband, 
God  in  one  moment  tooke  it  away,  and  ahcnaled 
j  her  most  excellent  understanding  in  a  dilljculi  child- 
birth, wherein  slio  brought  lorth  two  daughters 
which  iiv'd  to  be  married,  and  one  more  that  died, 
I  think  assoone  or  belore  it  was  borne.  But  after 
that,  all  the  art  of  the  best  physitians  in  Hngland 
could  never  restore  her  understanding.  Yet  she 
was  not  franiick,  but  had  such  a  pretty  deliiaiion, 
that  her  ravings  were  more  delightl'ul  than  other 
weomen's  most  rationall  conversations.  Upon  this 
occasion  her  husband  gave  liimselfe  up  to  live  re- 
tired with  her,  as  became  her  condition.  The 
daughters  and  the  rest  of  the  children  as  soon  as 
they  grew  up  were  married  and  disperst.  I  liiink 
I  have  heard  she  liad  some  children  after  that 
childbirth  which  distemper'd  her;  and  then  my 
lady  Hutchinson  must  have  bene  one  of  them.  I 
have  hoard  her  servants  say,  that  even  alter  her 
marriage,  she  would  stcale  many  melancholy  lioures 
to  silt  and  weepe  in  remembrance  other.  Meane- 
while  her  parents  were  driving  on  their  age,  in  no 
lesse  constancy  of  love  to  each  other,  when  even 
that  distemper  which  had  esiiung'd  lier  mind  in  ail 
things  elce.  had  left  her  love  and  obedience  entire 
to  her  husband,  and  he  ret«  iii'd  the  same  lond- 
nesse  and  respect  for  her,  after  she  was  distemper'd, 
as  when  she  was  the  glory  of  her  age  !  He  had 
two  beds  in  one  chamber,  and  she  being  a  little  sick, 
two  weomen  watcht  by  her,  some  time  belore  she 
died.  It  was  his  cusiome,  as  soon  as  ever  he  un- 
clos'd  his  eies,  to  aske  how  she  did  ;  but  one  night, 
he  being  as  they  thought  in  a  dcepe  sleepe,  she 
quietly  departed  towards  the  morning.  He  was 
that  day  to  have  gone  a  hunting,  his  usuall  exercise 
for  his  health;  and  it  was  his  cusiome  to  have  his 
chaplaine  pray  with  him  before  he  went  out:  the 
weomen,  fearfuU  to  surprise  him  with  iJie  ill 
newes,  knowing  his  deare  affection  to  her,  had 
stoUen  out  and  acquainted  the  chaplaine,  desirin» 
him  to  informe  him  of  it.  Sr.  John  waking,  did 
not  that  day,  its  was  his  cusiome,  ask  lor  her  ;  but 
call'd  the  chaplaine  to  prayers,  and  ioyning  with 
him,  in  the  middst  of  the  prayer,  expir'd  ! — and 
both  of  them  were  buried  together  in  the  same 
grave.  Whether  he  perceiv'd  her  death  and 
would  not  take  notice,  or  whether  some  strange 
sympaihy  in  love  or  nature  tied  up  their  lives  in 
one,  or  wheihcr  God  was  pleased  to  exercise  an 
unusuall  providence  lowards  them,  preventing 
them  both  Iroin  iliat  hitler  sorrow  which  sucn 
separations  cause,  it  can  l<e  but  conjectur'd,"  &,c. 
—p.  2G—28. 

The  same  romantic  and  suppressed  sensi- 
bility is  discernible,  we  think,  in  her  whole 
account  of  the  origin  and  progress  of  her 
husband"s  attachment  to  her.  As  the  story 
is  in  many  respects  e.\tremely  characleri.stic 
of  the  times  as  well  as  the  persons  to  which 
it  relates,  we  shall  make  a  pretty  lartre  extract 
from  it.  Mr.  Hutchin.son  hud  learned,  it 
seems,  to  -dance  and  vault"  with  great 
agility,  and  also  attained  to  ''great  mastery 
on  the  violl "  at  the  University;  ami,  upon 
his  return  to  Nottingham,  in  the  twentieth 
year  of  his  age.  spent  much  of  his  time  with 
a  licentious  but  most  accomplished  gentle- 
man, a  witty  br.t  profane  physician,  and  a 
pleasJint  but  cynical  old  schoolmaster.  In 
spite  of  the.se  world  I}-  as.^^ociations,  however, 
we  are  assured  that  he  was  a  most  godly 
and  incorruptible  per.son ,  and,  in  particular, 
proof  against  all  the  allurements  of  the  fair 
se.Y,  whom  he  frecjuently  "reproved,  liut  in  a 
liandsome  way  of  raillery,  for  their  pride  and 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


172 

vanity  "  In  this  hopeful  frame  of  mind,  it 
was  proposed  to  him  to  spend  a  few  summer 
months  at  Richmond,  where  the  young  prmces 
then  held  their  court. 

••Mr.  Hutchinson  considering  iliis,  resolv'd  to 
accept  his  offer  ;  and  that  day  telling  a  gent  enian 
of  the  house  whither  he  was  going,  the  gentleman 
bid  hitn  take  heed  of  the  place,  tor  it  was  so  lataii 
f  )r  love,  that  never  any  young  disengag  d  person 
went  thither,  who  return'd  again  free.  Mr. 
Hutchinson  laughi  at  him ;  bui  he,  to  conhrme 
it  told  him  a  very  true  story  ot  a  gentleman, 
who  not  long  before  had  come  lor  some  time  to 
lodcre  there,  and  found  all  the  peop  e  he  came  in 
cot^panv  with,  bewailing  the  death  of  a  gentle- 
woman 'that  had  lived  there.  Hearing  her  so  much 
deplor'd,  he  made  enquiry  after  her,  and  grew  so 
in  love  with  the  description,  that  no  other  discourse 
could  at  first  please  him,  nor  could  he  at  last  endure 
any  other;  he  srew  desperately  mehmcholly,  and 
would  goe  to  a  mount  where  the  print  of  her  foote 
was  cutt,  and  lie  there  pining  and  kissmg  of  it  all 
the  day  long,  till  att  length  death  in  some  months 
space  concluded  his  languishment.  This  story  was 
very  true;  but  Mr.  Huichinson  was  i.eiiher  easie 
to  believe  it.  nor  frighted  at  the  e.xample  ;  thinking 
himselfe  not  likely  to  make  another,    —p.  J  < ,  ^». 

He  ^'oes  accordinjjly  to  Richmond,  and 
boards  "with  his  music-master;  m  whose 
house  a  younger  sister  of  his  future  wi  e 
happened  then  to  be  placed,— she  herselt 
having  gone  into  Wiltshire  with  her  mother, 
with  some  expectations  of  being  married  be- 
fore her  return. 

"  This  gentlewoman,  that  was  left  in  the  house 
nth  Mr.  Hutchinson,  was  a  very  child,  her  elder 


sister  being  at  that  lime  scarcely   past  it;  but 
child  of  such  pleasantnesse  and  vivacity  of  spirit t, 
and  ingenuity  in  the  quallity  she  practis  d,  that  Mr. 
Hutchinson  tooke  pleasure  in  hearing  her  piaciise, 
and  would  fall  in  discourse  with  her.     She  having 
the  keyes  other  moiher's  house,  so'ne  halle  a  mile 
distant,  would  some  times  aske  Mr.  Hutchinson, 
when  she  went  over,  to  walk  along  with  her :  one 
day   when  he  was  there,   looking  upon    an  odde 
byshelf    in   her  sister's   closett.  he   found    a  few 
Latinc  bookes ;  asking  whose  they  were,  he  was 
told  thev  were  her  elder  sister's;  whereupon,  en- 
quiring 'more  afier  her,  he  began   first  to  be  some 
she  was  gone,  before  he  had  seene  her   and  gone 
upon  such  an  account,  that  he  was  not  likely  to  see 
her;  then  he  grew  to  love  to  heare  mention  of 
her;  and  the  other  aenileweomen  who  ha.l  he„e 
her  companions,  used  to  talke  much  to  him  of  her 
teUinf  him  how  reserv'd  and  studious  she  was.  and 
other'thincrs  which   thev  esteem'd  no  advantage  ; 
but  it  so  much  inflam'd  Mr.  Hutchinson  s  desireot 
seeing  her,  that  he  began  to  wonder  at  himsHle, 
that  his  heart,  which  had  ever  had  such  an  indiffer- 
encv  for  the  most  excellent  of  weomenkind,  should 
have   so   strong  impulses    towards  a   stranger   he 
never  saw."— "  While  he  was  exercis  d  in    this, 
many  days  past  not,  but  a  foote-boy  of  my  lady 
her  mothers  came  to  young  Mrs.  Apsley  as  tfiey 
were  at   dinner,  bringing  newes   that  her  mother 
and  sister  would  in  few  dayea  return  ;  and  when 
they  enquir'd  of  him,  whether  Mrs.   Apsley  was 
married,  having  before    bene   instructed  .to  make 
them  believe  it,  he  smiled,  and  pull  d  out   sorne 
bride  laces,  which  w.-re  given  at  a  wedding  in  the 
house  where  she  was,  and  gave  them  to  ihe  youne 
gentlewoman  and  the  gentleman's  daushter  of  the 
house,  and  told  them   Mrs.  Apsley  bade  him  tell 
no  news,  but  give  them  those  tokens,  and  carried 
the  matter  so,  that  all  the  companie  behev  d  she 
had  bene  married.     Mr.    Huichinson  immediately 
turned  pale  as  ashes,  and  felt  a  fainting  to  seize 
his    Bpiriits,  in    that   extraordinary    manner,    that 
fmding  himselfe  ready  to  sinke  att  table,  he  was 


faine  to  pretend  somethins  had  offended  his  sto-   • 
mach,  and  to  retire  from  the  table  into  the  garden, 
where  the  gentleman  of  the  house  goin^  with  him, 
it  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  feigne  sickness,  for 
the  distemper  of  his  mind  had  infected  his  body  with 
a  cold  sweate  and  such  a  dispersion  of  spiriit,  that 
all  the  courage  he  could  at  present  reco  lect  was 
•iitle  enough   to  keep  him   allive.     While  she  so 
ran  in  his  thoughts,  meeting  the  boy  agame,  he 
found  out,   upon   a   little   stricter  examination  of  ■ 
him,  that  she  was  not  married,  and  pleas  d  him. 
selfe  in  the  hopes  of  her    speedy   returne,   when 
one  day,  having  bene  invited  by  one  of  the  ladies 
of  that    neighbourhood,  to   a   noble  treatment  at 
Sion  Garden,  which  a  courtier,  that  was  her  ser- 
vant, had  made  for  her  and  whom  she  ^vould  brin^, 
Mr   Huichinson,  Mrs.  Apsley,  and  Mr.  Coleman  s 
daughter  were  of  the  pariie,  and  having  spent  the 
day  in  severall  pleasant  divertisements,  att  evening 
they  were  att  supper,  when  a  messenger  came  to 
tell    Mrs.    Apsley  her   mother   was  come.      bhe 
would  immediately  have  gone;  but  Mr.  Huichin- 
son,  pretending  civility  to  conduct  her  home   made 
her  stay  'till  the  supper  was  ended,  of  which  he 
eaie   n6  more,   now  only  longmg  for  that   sight, 
which  he  had  wiih  such  perplexity  expected.     1  his 
at  lenath  he  obteined ;  but  his  heart  being  prepos- 
sessi  with  his  owne  fancy,  was  not  free   to   dis- 
cenie    how    little  there   was  in  her  to  answer  so 
greate  an   expectation.      She  was  not  ugly— in  a 
carelesse  riding-habitt,  she  had  a  melanchoUy  ne^h- 
gence  both  of  herselfe  and  others,  as  if  she  neither 
effected  to  please  others,  nor  tooke  notice  ot  ante 
ihii.a  before  her;  yet  spite  of  all  her  indifferency, 
she  was  surprised  with  some  unusual  hkins  >'i  her 
soule,  when  she  saw  this  gentleman  who  had  haire.. 
eies,  shape,  and  countenance  enough  to  begeit  love 
in  any  one  at   the  first,  and  these  sett  off  %viih  a 
eracefuU  and  a  senerous  mine,  which  promis  d  an 
extraordinary  person.      Although  he   had    but  an 
evening  sight  of  her  he  had  so  long  desir  d,  and 
that  at  disadvantage  enough  for  her,  yeti  the  pre- 
vailing sympathie  of  his  soule.  made  him  thinke  al 
his  payn.s  well  pay'd,  and  this  first  (lid  whett  hu 
desire  to  a  second  sight,  which  he  had  by  acc.den 
the  next  day,  and  to  his  ioy  found  she  was  who.lj 
diseneaged'from   that   ireaty  which   he   so  mud 
fear'd'had  been  accomplisht ;  he  found  withall.  tha 
though  she  was  modest,  she  was  accostable,  an. 
willing  to  entertaine  his  acquaintance.     1  his  soon. 
past  into  a  mutuall  friendship  betweene  them,  an. 
ihou2h  she  innocently  thought  nothing  of  love,  ye 
was  she  triad  to  have  acquir'd  such  a  friend,  wh 
had  wisedome  and  venue  enough  to  be    trusie 
witli  her  councells.     Mr.  Hutchinson,  on  the  othe; 
side,  having  bene  told,  and  seeing  how  she  shiinn  . 
all  oth.r  men,  and  how  civilly  she  entertain  d  hinr 
believd  thai  a  secret  power  had  wrought  a  mutua 
inclination  betweene  them,  and  dayly  frequente 
her  moiher's  house,  and  had  the  opportunine  < 
eonver-^ing   with    her  in  those    pleasant    walke 
which,  at  that  sweete  season  of  the  spring,  inviit 
all   the   neighbouring   inhabuants    to   seeke   the 
ioys;  where,  though  they   were  never  alone,  y 
thev  had  everv  day  opportunry  for  converse  vm 
each  other,  which  the  rest    shar  d  tmt  m,   whi 
everyone  minded  iheir  own  dehghts.    — -pp.  J^    ■* 

Here  the  ladv  breaks  off  her  account  of  th 
romantic  courtship,  as  of  "matters  that  a 
to  be  forgotten  as  the  vanities  of  youth,  at 
not  worthy  mention  among  the  greater  trai. 
actions  of  their  lives.''  The  consent 
paT*-iits  having  been  obtained  on  both  siclt 
f<he  was  married  at  the  age  of  eighteen. 


"  That  day  that  the  friends  on  both  sides  met 
conclude  the  marriage,  she  fell  sick  of  the  sma 
nox  wliich  was  many  ways  a  greate  ina  1  up 
|,im  ;  first  her  life  wns  allmost  in  desperate  haza 
and  then  the  di.-ease,  for  the  prese^nt  made  her  > 
most  deformed  person  that  could  be  seene,  to 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHINSON. 


173 


^reate  vhile  after  she  recover'd;  yett  he  was  noth- 
n~  troul)Ied  ai  it,  but  married  her  assoone  as  she 
ivas  able  to  quitt  the  chamber,  when  the  priest  and 
ill  that  saw  her  were  affrighted  to  looke  oti  her! 
lut  Liod  recompenc'd  his  iusiice  and  constancy,  by 
estoring  her,  though  she  was  longer  than  ordinary 
jefore  she  recover'd,  as  well  as  before." — pp.  -15,  46. 

There  is  a  ijood  deal  more  of  this  affectioii- 
ite  and  romantic  style  of  writiiij^  throuixhout 
he  book:  but  the  Shade  of  Mrs.  Huti-hiiison 
vould  not  forgive  us.  if  we  were  to  detain  tlie 
eader  longer  with  these  '•  vanities  of  her 
•outh."  We  proceed;  therefore,  to  graver 
natters. 

We  might  cull  many  striking  specimetis  of 
loqnence  from  her  summary  account  of  the 
'English  Constitution  and  of  the  Reformation  ; 
lUt  the  following  view  of  the  changes  which 
lok  place  on  the  accession  of  James  and  of 
"harles.  are  more  characteristic  of  the  ;ige 
jid  of  the  party  to  which  she  belongs. 


j  "Tlie  honor,  wealth,   and  glory  of  the  nation, 

.'herein  Qiieene  Elizabeth  left  it,  were  soone  pro- 

igally  wasted  by  this  thrifilesse  heire,  the  nobility 

Itlie  land  utterly  debas'd  by  setting  honors  to  puli- 

pk  sale,  and  conferring  them  on  persons  that  had 

either  blood  nor  meriit  fitt  to  weare,  nor  estates  to 

pare  up  their  titles,  but  were  faine  to  invent  pro- 

icts  to  pill*  the  people,  and  pick  their  purses  for 

16  maintenance  of  vice  and  lewdnessc.    The  gene- 

,.llity  of  the  gentry  of  the  land  soone  learnt   the 

)urt  fashion,  and  every  greate  house  in  the  country 

i'came  a  sty  of  uncleannesse.     To  keepe  the  peo- 

|e  in  their  deplorable  security,  till  vengeance  over- 

joke  them,   they   were  entertairi'd   with   masks. 

jige  playes,  and  sorts  of  ruder  sports.     Then  be- 

»n  murther,  incest,  adultery,  drunkennesse,  swear- 

,  Ig,  fornication,  and  all  sorts  of  ribaldry,  to  be  no 

.  jnceal'd  but   countenanc'd  vices ;    because    they 

:    'Id  such  conformity  with  the  court  example." — 

And  now  the  ready  way  to  preferment  there,  was 

declare  an  opposition  to  the  power  of  godlinesse, 

;  ;der  that  name  ;  so  that  their  pulpitis  might  iustiy 

,  j  called  the  sc.orner's  chair,  those  sermons  only 

(  i^asinH  that  flatier'd  them  in  their  vices,  and  told 

,    fi  poore  king  that  he  was  Sdlomon  ! — that  his  sloth 

.   ,d  cowardize,  by  which  he  betrey'd  the  cause  of 

,)d  and  honour  of  the  nation,  was  gospell  meeke- 

j  i,s?e  and  peaceablenesse,  for  which  ihey  rays'd  him 

„  '.  above  the  heavens,  while  he  lay  wallowing  like 

j.  ijwine  in  the  mire  of  his  lusts.     He  had  a  little 

jj,  li.rning, — and  this  they  call'd  the  spiriit  of  wise- 

ll(  time,  and  so  magnified  him,  so  falsely  flattcr'd  him. 

„.  I'^t  he  could  not  endure  the  words  of  truth  and 

,,  Mndnesse,  but  rewarded  these  base,  wicked,  un- 

t  btull   fawners  with  rich  preferments,   attetidcd 

^  h  pomps  and  titles,  which  heav'd  them  up  above 

:  nmane  heighth :     With  their  pride  their  envie 

^  jfjell'd  against  the  people  of  God,  whom  thev  be- 

■jj,a)  to  proiect  how  they  might  roote  out  of  the  land  ; 

,j,^l  when  they  had  once  given  them  a  name,  what- 

",.eJ!r  was  odious  or  dreadfull  to  the  king,  that  they 

jj,!)  upon  the  Puritane,  which,  according  to  their 

Ciiracter,  was  nothing  but  a  factious  hypocri'e." 
;oi:  \  pp.  .59— fil. 

Ijjii  j*  The  face  of  the  court  was  mtich  chang'd  in  the 
A.cLnge  of  the  king;  for  King  Charles  was  temper- 
' , oL  chast,  and  serious;  so  that  the  fooles  and 
■''"wds,  mimicks  and  catamites  of  the  former  court 
Sfii'glw  out  of  fashion;  and  the  nobilitv  and  courtiers, 
lllJ^  did  not  quite  abandon  ;h>-ir  debo.-liciif-s.  bad 
gu  yl  that  reverence  to  the  king,  to  retire  into  corners 

ttliraclise  them:  JMen  of  learning  and  ingenuity 
•sf'akrls  were  in  rsteeme,  and   receiv'd  encourag-e 
tifS^npt  from   the  king;   who  was  a  most  excellent 
iMige  and  a  greate   lover  of  paintings,   caivings 
lit 


iekS 


•  Pill— pillage,  plunder.' 


gravings,  and  many  oilier  ingenuities,  less  offensive 
then  the  prophane  abusive  witt.  which  was  the  only 
e.xcrcisc  of  the  other  court." — p.  b.*). 

The  characters  of  this  king's  counsellors 
are  drawn,  in  general,  with  great  force  and 
liveliness;  aiitl  with  a  deuree  of  candour 
scarcely  to  have  been  expected  in  the  widow 
of  a  regicide.  We  give  that  of  Lord  Stratliud 
as  an  example. 

'■  But  there  were  two  above  all  ilie  rest,  who  lid 
the  van  ot  the  king's  evill  councellors,  and  these 
were  Laud,  archbisliop  of  Canterbury,  a  Icllow  of 
meane  extraction  and  arrogant  prido,  and  the  earl 
of  Stratford,  who  as  much  outstript  all  the  rest  in 
tavour  as  he  did  in  abilities,  being  a  man  of  deep 
policy,  Sterne  resolution,  and  ambitious  zeale  to 
keepe  up  the  glory  of  his  own  greatnesse.  In  the 
begininng  of  this  king's  reitjne.  tins  man  had  bene 
a  s;rong  as.serior  of  the  liberties  of  the  people, 
among  whom  he  had  gain'd  himselfe  an  honorable 
reputation,  and  was  (Ireadfiill  to  die  court  party, 
who  thereupon  strew'd  snares  in  his  way,  and  when 
tiiey  found  a  breach  at  his  nmbinon,  his  soule  was 
that  way  enter'd  and  capiivan  d.  He  was  ad- 
vanc'd  first  to  be  lord  president  of  the  councell  in 
the  north,  to  be  a  baron,  after  an  carle,  then  deputy 
of  Ireland  ;  the  inoresi  to  a  favourite  ol  any  man 
since  the  death  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  who 
was  rays'd  by  his  first  master,  and  kept  up  by  the 
second,  upon  no  account  of  personall  worth  or  any 
deserving  abilities  in  him,  but  only  upon  violent  and 
private  inclinations  of  the  princes  ;  but  die  earle  of 
Strafford  wanted  not  ;uiy  arcomplishment  that 
could  bf^  desir'd  in  the  most  scrvireahle  minister  of 
state:  besides,  he  having  made  himselfe  odious  to 
the  people,  by  his  revolt  from  their  interest  to  that 
of  the  oppressive  court,  he  was  now  oblig'd  to  keep 
up  his  owne  interest  with  his  new  party,  by  all  the 
malliiious  practises  that  pride  and  revenge  could  in- 
spire him  with." — pp.  68,  69. 

One  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson's  great  talents,  in- 
deed, is  the  delineation  of  characters;  and 
though  her  aflections  are  apt  to  throw  rather 
too  glowhig  or  too  dark  a  tint  over  the  canvas, 
yet  Ihis  very  warmth  carries  with  it  an  im- 
pression of  sincerity,  which  adds  not  a  little 
to  the  interest  of  her  pictures.  We  pass  by 
her  short  sketches, — of  the  Earl  of  Newcas- 
tle, who  was  -a  prince  in  his  own  country, 
till  a  foolish  ambition  of  glorious  slavery 
canied  hiin  to  court;" — the  Earl  of  Kingston, 
"whose  covetousiiess  made  him  divide  his 
sons  between  the  two  parties,  till  his  fate 
drew  him  over  to  the  king's  side,  where  he 
behaved  himself  honourably,  and  died  re- 
markably,'' — the  Earl  of  Clare,  "who  was 
very  often  of  both  parties,  and,  I  think,  never 
advantaged  either."' — and  a  great  number  <it 
other  persons,  who  are  despatched  with  equal 
brevity;  and  venture  to  put  her  talents  to  a 
severe"r  test,  by  trying  whtMher  they  can  inter- 
est the  reader  in  a  description  of  the  burghers 
and  private  seiitleinen  of  Nottingham,  at  the 
breaking  out  of  these  great  disturbances. 

"There  were  seven  aidiirmen  in  the  townc,  and 
of  these  only  alderman  James,  then  mayor,  own'd 
the  parliament.  He  wtis  a  very  honest,  bold  man, 
but  li.nd  no  more  but  a  burshfr's  discreiion  ;  lie  was 
veil  very  well  assisted  by  his  wife,  a  weoiiian  ol 
greate  zciil  and  coiiraije,  and  more  undersiimdirig 
than  weonien  of  her  ranke  usually  have.  All  the 
devout  peoole  ol  the  lowne  were  very  vi<_'or<Mis  and 
ready  to  offer  their  lives  and  famelir's,  bin  ih<  re  was 
not  hnlte  the  halfe  of  tlie  lowne  that  consiNted  of 
these.     The   ordinary  civill  sort   of  people   coidiy 


174 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


adher'd  to  the  belter;  but  all  the  debosht,  and  such 
as  had  hv'd  upon  the  bishops  persecuting  courts, 
and  bene  the  lacqueys  ot  protectors  and  monopo- 
lizers, and  the  like,  they  were  all  bitterly  malig- 
nant. Yett  God  awed  them,  that  they  could  not  at 
that  time  hinder  his  people,  whom  he  overrul'd 
some  of  their  greatest  enemies  to  a-ssist,  such  as 
were  one  Chadwick  and  Plumptre,  two  who,  at 
the  first,  put  themselves  most  forward  into  the 
businesse. 

'■  Plumptre  was  a  doctor  of  pliisick,  an  inhabitant 
of  Nottingham,  who  had  learning,  naiurall  parts, 
and  understanding  enonah  to  discorne  betweene 
natiirall  civill  ritihteousnesse  and  iniusiice,  but  he 
was  a  horrible  atheist,  and  had  such  an  intollerable 
pride,  that  he  brook'd  no  superiours.  and  having 
some  wilt,  tooke  the  holdnesse  to  exercise  it,  in  the 
abuse  of  all  the  gentlemen  wlierever  he  came." — 
"  This  man  had  sence  enough  to  approove  the  par- 
liament's cause,  in  poynt  of  civill  right,  and  pride 
enougii  to  desire  to  breake  the  bonds  of  slavery, 
whereby  the  king  endeavour'd  to  cliaine  up  a  Iree 
people  :  and  upon  these  scores,  appearing  high  for 
tlie  parliament's  interest,  he  was  admitted  into  the 
consultations  of  those  who  were  then  putting  the 
country  into  a  posture  of  defence. 

■•  Chadwick  was  a  fellow  of  a  most  pragmaticall 
temper,  and.  to  say  truth,  had  strangely  wrought 
himselfe  into  a  station  tinfitt  for  him.  He  wa.s  at 
firsi  a  hoy  that  scraped  trenchers  in  the  house  of  one 
of  ihe  poorest  iustices  in  the  county,  but  yet  such  a 
one  as  had  a  greaie  deale  of  formallity  and  under- 
standing of  the  statute  law,  from  whom  this  boy 
pick'd  such  ends  of  law,  that  he  became  first  the 
iustice's,  then  a  lawyer's  clearke.  Then,  I  know 
not  how,  gott  to  be  a  parcell-iudge  in  Ireland,  and 
came  over  to  his  owne  country  swell'd  with  the 
reputation  of  it,  and  sett  on  foots  a  base,  absolute, 
arbitrary  court  there,  which  the  Conqueror  of  old 
had  given  to  one  Peverel  his  bastard,"  &c. — 
"  When  the  king  was  in  towne  a  little  before,  this 
man  so  insinuated  into  the  court  that,  comming  to 
kisse  the  king's  hand,  the  king  told  him  he  was  a 
very  honest  man  ;  yet  by  flatteries  and  dissimula- 
tions he  kept  up  his  crediit  with  the  godly,  cutting 
his  haire,  and  tukins  up  a  forme  of  godlinesse,  the 
better  to  deceive.  In  some  of  the  corrupt  times  he 
had  purchas'd  the  honor  of  a  barrister,  though  he 
had  neither  law  nor  learning,  but  he  had  a  voluble 
tongue,  and  v/as  craf'y  ;  and  it  is  ailmost  incredible 
that  one  of  his  meane  education  and  poverty  should 
arrive  to  such  things  as  he  reacht.  This  baseness 
he  had,  that  all  the  iust  reproaches  in  the  world 
could  not  moove  him,  but  he  would  fawne  upon  any 
man  that  told  him  of  his  villanies  to  his  face,  even 
at  the  very  time.  Never  was  a  truer  Judas,  since 
Iscariott's  time,  than  he ;  for  he  would  kisse  the 
man  he  had  in  his  heart  to  kill ;  he  naturally  de- 
lighted in  mischiefe  and  treachery,  and  was  so  ex- 
quisite a  villaine.  that  he  destroy'd  those  designee 
he  might  have  thriven  by,  with  overlaying  them 
■with  fresh  knaveries." — pp.  110 — 113. 

We  have  not  room  for  many  of  the  more 
favourable  delineations  with  which  these  are 
contrasted;  but  we  give  the  following  short 
pketch  of  Mr.  Thornhagh,  who  seems  to  have 
been  a  great  favourite  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson's. 

"  Mr.  Francis  Thornhagh,  the  eldest  sonne  of 
Sr.  Francis  Thornhagh.  was  a  man  of  a  most  up- 
right faithfull  heart  to  God  and  God's  people,  and 
to  his  counirie's  true  interest,  comprehended  in  the 
parliament's  cause;  a  man  of  greater  vallour  or 
more  noble  daring  fought  not  for  them  ;  nor  indeed 
ever  drew  sword  in  any  cause  ;  he  was  of  a  most 
excellent  good  nature  to  all  men,  and  zealous  for 
his  friend;  he  wanted  counccll  and  deliberation, 
and  was  sometimes  too  facile  to  flatterers,  but  had 
iudgment  enouah  (o  discerne  his  errors  when  they 
were  represented  to  him,  and  worth  enough  not  to 
pcrc^ist  in  an  iitiurious  mistake  because  he  had  once 
entertained  it.  ' — p.  114. 


This  gallant  gentleman  afterwards  fell  at 
the  battle  of  Preston.  Mrs.  Hutchinson  has 
given  the  following  animated  description  of 
his  fate. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  this  battle,  the  valliant  Coll. 
Thornhagh  was  wounded  to  death.  Being  at  the 
beginning  of  the  charge  on  a  horse  as  courageous 
as  became  such  a  master,  he  made  such  furious 
speed,  to  sett  upon  a  company  of  Scotch  lanciers, 
that  he  was  singly  engaged  and  mortally  wounded, 
before  it  was  possible  tor  his  regiment,  though  as 
brave  men  as  ever  drew  sword,  and  too  afectionatc 
to  their  collonell  to  be  slack  in  loUowing  him,  ic 
come  time  enough  to  breake  the  furie  of  that  oody, 
which  shamed  not  to  unite  all  their  force  against 
one  man.  His  soule  was  hovering  to  take  her  flight 
out  of  his  body,  but  that  an  eager  desire  to  know 
the  successe  of  that  battle  kept  it  within,  till  ihe 
end  of  the  day,  when  the  newes  being  broutrht  him, 
he  ck-ar'd  his  dying  countenance,  and  say'd.  'I 
now  reioyce  to  die,  since  God  hath  lett  me  see  the 
overthrow  of  this  perfidious  enemy  ;  I  could  no:  lose 
my  life  in  a  better  cause,  and  I  have  the  favour  from 
GoJ  10  see  my  blood  aveng'd.'  So  he  died  ;  wiih 
a  large  testimony  of  love  to  his  souldiers,  but  more 
to  the  cause,  and  was  by  mercy  remoov'd,  that  the 
temptations  of  future  times  might  not  prcv.aile  to 
corrupt  his  pure  soule.  A  man  of  greater  courage 
and  integritie  fell  not  nor  fought  not  in  this  glorious 
cause  :  he  had  also  an  excellent  good  nature,  but 
easie  to  be  wrought  upon  by  flatterers,  yeit  as  flexi- 
ble to  the  admonitions  of  his  friends  ;  and  this  virtue  i 
he  had,  that  if  sometimes  a  cunning  insinuation  ' 
prevail'd  upon  his  easie  faith,  when  his  error  was  ' 
made  known  to  him,  notwithstanding  all  his  greate  ' 
courage  he  was  readier  to  acknowledge  and  repaire,  I 
then  to  pursue  his  mistake." — pp.  289,  290.  I 

The  most  conspicuous  person  by  far,  of  the- 
age  to  which  Mrs.  Hutchinson  belongs,  was' 
Cromwell;  and  there  is  no  character,  accord-* 
ingly,  which  she  appears  to  have  studied 
more,  or  better  comprehended.  Her  work 
contains  a  great  number  of  original  anecdotes 
with  regard  to  him;  and  with  all  the  advan- 
tages which  later  times  have  derived  from  the 
collation  of  various  authorities,  and  from  con- 
sidering, at  a  dispassionate  distance,  the  vari- 
ous turns  of  his  policy,  we  doubt  whether  anj^ 
historian  has  yet  given  a  more  just  or  satis-' 
factory  account  of  this  extraordinary  personage 
than  this  woman,  who  saw  him  only  in  thf 
course  of  his  obliquities,  and  through  tht 
varying  medium  of  her  own  hopes  and  appre . 
hensions.  The  profound  duplicity  and  grea 
ambition  of  his  nature,  appear  to  have  beer 
very  early  detected  by  Colonel  Hutchinson; 
whose  biographer  gives  this  account  of  hi^ 
demeanour  to  the  Levellers  and  Prcsbyte 
rians,  who  were  then  at  the  height  of  thei' 
rivalry.  i 

"These  were  they,"  says  she,  speaking  of  ihj 
former,  "  who  first  began  to  discover  the  ambilio 
of  Lieftenant-general  Cromwell  and  his  idolater!, 
and  to  suspect  and  dislike  it.     About  this  tinie,  h- 
was  sent  downe,  after  his  victory  in  Wales,  toer, 
counter  Hamilton  in  the   nortli.     When  "he  wet 
downe,  the  chiefe  of  these  levellers  following  hit; 
out  of  the  towne,  to  take  their  leaves  of  him,  n; 
cciv'd  such  professions  from  him,  of  a  spiritt  be; 
to  pursue  the  same  iust  and  honest  things  that  \\i( 
de.sir'd,  as  they  went  away  with  greate  satisfaction,-! 
'till   they  heard   that   a  coachfull  of  Presbyterit 
priestK  comming   after   them,  went  away  no  le 
pleas'd;  by  which  it  was  apparent  he  dissenibk 
with  one  or  the   other,  and  by  £o  doing  lost  b 
creditt  with  both.  i  I 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCHINSON. 


175 


"When  he  came  to  Nottingham,  CdII.  Iluicliin- 
11  went  t.)  soe  him,  whom  he  embrac'd  wiih  all 
■e  exprt'-sions  ol'  kiiidnesse  thai  one  friend  t:ould 
Ink?  10  aiioth.T,  find  then  retiring  with  him,  [irest 
r.ri  to  tell  him  what  thoughts  his  friends,  the 
<,'ellers,  liad  of  him.  The  collonell,  who  was  the 
Vesi  man  in  the  world  from  coneealing  truth  from 
Ji  friend,  esp.cially  when  it  w.is  requir'd  of  him 
iiove  and  plaiiuiesse,  not  only  told  him  what  otiieis 
|)ught  of  liim,  but  what  he  himselie  conceiv'd,  and 
Jw  much  it  would  darken  all  his  glories,  if  he 
jjuld  berome  a  slave  to  his  owne  ambition,  and 
I  guilty  of  what  he  gave  the  world  iust  cause  to 
fipect,  and.  therefore  begg'd  of  liim  to  weare  his 
lirt  in  his  face,  and  to  scorne  to  delude  his  enemies, 
I.  to  make  use  of  his  noble  courage,  to  maintaine 
vat  he  believ'd  iust,  against  all  grcate  oposers. 
(jinwcU  made  mighty  professions  of  a  sincere 
hut  to  him.  but  it  is  certeine  that  for  this  and  such 
li"  plaine  dealing  with  him,  he  dreaded  the  collonell, 
a'  iiiadr-  it  his  particular  bnsint-sse  to  keepe  him 
0  of  the  armie  ;  but  the  collonell,  never  desirinir 
C  inland,  to  serve  himselfe,  but  his  country,  would 
1).  use  that  art  he  detested  in  others,  to  procure 
hliselfe  any  advan  age." — pp.  285 — 287. 

\n  after  scene  is  still  more  remarkable,  and 
n're  characteristic  of  both  the  actors.  After 
C'mwell  had  possessed  himself  of  the  seve- 
re;';!) t)',  Colonel  Hutchinson  came  accidentally 
trhe  knowledge  of  a  plot  which  had  been  laid 
fchis  assassination:  and  was  moved,  by  the 
ni'leness  of  his  own  nature,  and  his  regard 
fcthe  Protector's  great  qualities — though  he 
h;:  operdy  testified  against  his  usurpation. 
ai|  avoided  his  presence  since  the  time  of 
it; to  give  such  warning  of  it  to  Fleetwood, 
aspight  enable  him  to  escape  that  hazard, 
bij  at  the  same  time  without  betraying  the 
iiaiies  of  any  of  the  conspirators. 

:Afier  Collonell  Hutchinson  had  given  Fleet- 
wed  that  caution,  he  was  going  into  the  country. 
wl/i  the  protector  sent  to  search  him  out  with  all 
ih'sarnestnesse  and  haste  that  could  possibly  be, 
apiihe  collonell  went  to  him  ;  who  mett  him  in  one 
of  le  galleries,  and  receiv'd  him  with  open  arines 
an'tlie  kindest  embraces  that  could  be  given,  and 
iCO.jilain'd  that  the  collonell  should  be  so  unkind 
.asfver  to  give  him  a  visitt,  professing  how  well- 
i^Offi  he  should   have   bene,  the   most  wcllcome 
V'|>'i  in  'he  '^nd  ;  and  with  these  smooth  insinu- 
'ilit  led  him  allong  to  a  private  place,  giving  him 
lha;es  for  the  advertisement  he  had  receiv'd  from 
jFI<;wood,  and  using  all  his  art  to  sen  out  of  the 
j-:»!iiell  the  knowledge  of  the  persons  engag'd  in 
i.heoiispiracy  against  him.     But  none  of  his  cun- 
'lin   nor  promises,   nor  flatteries,  could  prevaile 
'vvil  (he  collonell  to  informe  him  more  than  he 
iihoVht  necessary  to  prevent  the  execution  of  the 
'"■"•';  which  when  the  protector  perceiv'd.  he 
n   most  infinite  thankes  for  what   he   had 
I.  and  acknowledg'd  it  open'd  to  him  some 
-  ...  i  that  had  perplext  him,  and  agreed  so  with 
'ili|  intelligence  he  had.  that  he  must  owe   his 
,,,>re|-vation  to  him  :  '  But.'  says  he,  '  deare  collo- 
ieliivhv  will  nor  you  come  in  and  act  among  us  ?' 
inell  told  him  plainly,  because  he  liked  not 
.  -;  waves  since  he  broke  the  parliament,  as 
xo  which  led  to  certeine  and  unavoydable 
ri,  not  only  of  ihemselves,  but  of  the  whole 
lit  par'v  and  cause,  and  thereupon  tooke 
.  with  his  usual]  freedom,  to  tell  him  into 
"ad   ha7.ard  all  things  were  put,  and  iiow 
•  a  way  was  made  for  the  resiituiion  of  all 
vranny  and  bondage.     Cromwell  seem'd 
■  ■■  this  honest  plainnesse  with  ihe  greatest 
'hat  could  be.  and  acknowlcds'd  his  pre- 
sse  in  some  things,  and  with  teares  com- 
i  how  Lambert  had  put  him  upon  all  those 
«»>  toUt  actions,  for  which  he  now  accus'd  him  and 


sought  his  ruine.  He  e.\prcsst  an  earnest  de.xire  to 
restore  the  people's  liberties,  and  to  lake  and  pursue 
more  safe  and  sober  rouiirells,  and  wound  up  all 
with  a  very  lair  courtship  ol  the  collonell  lo  engage 
with  him,  olli-ring  him  any  thing  he  would  account 
worthy  of  him.  The  collonell  told  him,  he  could 
not  be  forward  to  make  liis  owne  ndvantage,  by 
serving  to  the  enslaving  of  his  country.  'I'lio  other 
told  him,  he  intended  nothinp  more  then  the  re- 
storing and  confirming  the  liberties  of  the  good 
people,  in  order  to  which  he  would  employ  such 
men  of  honor  and  interest  as  the  people  should  re- 
joyce,  and  he  should  not  refuse  to  be  one  of  them. 
And  after,  with  all  iiis  arts,  lie  had  endcavour'd  to 
e.\cuse  his  publique  actions,  and  lo  draw  in  the 
collonell.  he  dismist  him  with  such  expressions  as 
were  publickely  taken  notice  of  by  all  his  little 
courtiers  tlien  about  him  ;  when  he  went  to  the  end 
of  the  gallery  with  the  collonell,  and  there,  embrac- 
ing him,  sayil  allowd  to  him,  '  Well,  collonell,  satis- 
fied or  dissatisfied,  you  shall  be  one  of  us.  for  wee 
can  no  longer  exempt  a  per.-on  so  able  and  faiihfull 
from  the  publique  service,  and  you  shall  be  satisfied 
in  all  honest  things.'  The  collonell  left  him  with 
that  respect  that  became  the  place  he  was  in  ;  when 
immediately  the  same  courtiers,  who  had  some 
of  them  past  him  by  without  knowing  him  when 
he  came  in,  although  they  had  bene  once  of  his 
familiar  acquaintance  ;  and  the  rest,  who  had  look'd 
upon  him  with  such  disdainfull  neglect  as  those 
little  people  use  to  those  who  are  not  of  their  fac- 
tion, now  flockt  about  him,  striving  who  should 
expresse  most  respect,  and,  by  an  extraordinary 
officiousnesse,  redeeme  their  late  slighlings.  Some 
of  them  desir'd  he  would  command  their  service  in 
any  bnsinesse  he  had  with  their  lord,  and  a  thou- 
sand such  frivolous  compliments,  which  the  collonell 
smiled  ati,  and,  quitting  himselfe  of  them  as  soone 
as  he  could,  made  haste  to  returne  into  the  country. 
There  he  had  not  long  bene  but  that  he  was  in- 
form'd,  notwithstanding  all  these  faire  shewes,  the 
protector,  finding  him  too  constant  to  be  wrought 
upon  to  serve  his  tirannie.  had  resolv'd  to  secure 
his  person,  least  he  should  head  the  people,  who 
now  grew  very  weary  of  his  bondage.  But  though 
it  was  certainly  confirm'd  to  the  coUoriell  how  much 
he  was  afraid  of  his  honesty  and  freedome.  and 
that  he  was  resolv'd  not  to  let  him  longer  be  att 
liberty,  yet,  before  his  guards  apprehended  the 
collonell,  death  itnprison'd  himselte,  and  confin'd 
all  his  vast  ambition,  and  all  his  cruell  desi^nes  into 
the  narrow  coinpasse  of  a  grave." — pp.  340 — 342. 

Two  other  anecdotes,  one  very  discreditable 
to  Cromwell,  the  other  affording  a  striking 
proof  of  his  bravery  and  knowledge  of  man- 
kind, may  be  found  at  p.  308.  and  316.  But 
we  dismiss  the  subject  of  this  ''great  bad 
man,"  with  the  following  eloquent  representa- 
tion of  his  government  after  he  had  attained 
the  height  of  his  ambition  ; — a  representation 
in  which  the  keen  regrets  of  disappointed 
patriotism  are  finely  mingled  with  an  indig- 
nant contempt  for  those  who  submitted  to 
tyranny,  and  a  generous  admission  of  the  tal- 
ents and  magnanimity  of  the  tyrant. 

"In  the  interim  Cromwell  and  his  armie  grew 
wanton  with  their  power,  and  invented  a  thousand 
tricks  of  government,  which,  when  nobody  oppos'd, 
they  themselves  fell  to  dislike  and  vary  every  day. 
First  he  calls  a'parliament  out  of  his  owne  pockett, 
himselfe  naming  a  sort  of  godly  men  for  every 
county,  who  meeting  and  not  agreeing,  a  part  of 
them,  in  the  name  ot  the  people,  give  up  the  sove- 
reigniv  to  him.  .Sliortly  after,  he  makes  up  seve- 
ralf  sorts  of  mock  parliaments,  but  not  finding  one 
cif  iliein  nbsoluiely  for  his  turne,  turn'd  them  off 
againe.  He  soone'quitied  himselfe  of  his  triumvirs, 
and  first  thrust  out  Harri-son,  then  tooke  away 
Lambert's  commission,  and  would  have  bene  king 


176 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


He  weed-  I  the  nation,  there  is  something  in  this  account' 
ed,  in  a  few  months'  time,  above  a  hundred  and 


but  for  feare  of  quilting  his  generallship. 


fifty  godly  officers  out  ot    the  arinie,  with  whom 
..laiiy  of  the  religious  souldiers  went  off.  and  in  their 
roome  abundance  of  the  king's  dissolute  souldiers 
were  enteriain'd,  and  the  arniie  was  almost  chang'd 
from  thai  godly  religious  armie,  whose  vallour  God 
had  crown'd  with  triumph,  into  the  dissolute  armie 
they  had  beaten,  bearing  yett  a  better  name.     His 
wife  and  children  too.  were  setting  up  tor  princi- 
pality, which  suited  no  better  with  any  of  them  than 
Scarlett  on  the  ape ;  only,  to  speak,  the  truth  ot  him- 
selfe,  he  had  much  naturall  greaiiiesse,  and  well 
became  the  place  he  had  usurp'd.     His  daughter 
Fleetewood  was  humbled,  and  not  e.xalted,  with 
these  things;    but  the  rest  were  insolent    fooles. 
Cleypoole,  who  married  his  daughter,  and  his  son 
Heiiry,    were    two   debauch'd    ungodly   cavaliers. 
Richard  was  a  peasant  in  his  nature  ;  yet  gentle  and 
vertuous ;  but  became  not  greatnesse.     His  court 
was  full  of  siiine  and  vanity,  and  the  more  abomi- 
nable, because  they  had  not  yett  quite  cast  away 
the  name  of  God,  but  prophan'd  it  by  taking  it  in 
vaine  upon  them.     True  religion  was  now  almost 
lost,  even  among  the  religious  party,  and  hipocrisie 
became  an  epideniicall  disease,  to  the  sad  griete  ol 
CoUonell  Hutchinson,  and  all  true-hearted  Chris- 
tians and  Englishmen.     Almost  all  the  ministers 
rvery  where  tell   in   nnd  worshipt   this  beast,  and 
courted  and  made  addresses  to  him.     So  did  the 
r.ity  of  London,  and  many  of  the  degenerate  lords 
of  the  land,  with  the  poore  spirited  gentry.     The 
cavaliers,  m  pollicy,  who  saw  that  while  Cromwell 
reduc'd  all  the  exercise  of  tirannicall  power  under 
another  name,  there  was  a  doore  opeii'd  for  the  re- 
storing of  their  party,  f>'ll  much  in  with  Cromwell, 
and  heighten'd  all  his  disorders.     He  at  last  ex- 
ercis'd   such  an   arbitrary  power,  that   the  whole 
land  grew  weary  ol  him,  while  he  sett  up  a  com- 
pnnie  of  silly  meane  fellows,  call'd  maior-generalls, 
as  governors  in  every  county.      I'hese  rul'd.  accord- 
ing to  their  wills,  by  no  law  but  what  seem'd  good 
in  their  owne  eies ;  imprisoning  men,  obstructing 
the  course  of  iustice  beiweene  man  and  man.  per- 
verting right  through  partialliiy,  acquining  some 
that  were  guilty,  and  punishing  some  that   were 
innocent  as   guilty.     Then    he   exercised   another 
proiect  to  rayse  niony,  by  decimation  ol  the  estates 
of  all  the  king's  party,  ot  which  actions  'tis  said 
Lambert   was    the  instigator.     At    last    he    tooke 
upon  him  to  make  lords  and  knights;  and  wanted 
not  many  fooles,  both  of  the  armie  and  gentry,  to 
accept  of  and  struii  in  his  mock  titles.     Then  the 
Earle  of  Warwick's  grandchild  and  the  Lord  Fal- 
conbridge  married  his  two  daughters  ;  such  pittifuU 
slaves  were  the  nobles  oi   those  dayes.     Ait  last 
Lambert,  perceiving  himselfc  to  have  bene  all  tliis 
while  deluded  with  hopes  and  promises  of  succes- 
sion, and  seeing  that  Cromwell  now  intt;nded  to 
confimie  the  government  in  his  own  lamely,  fell 
off  from  him,  but  behav'd  himselfe  very  pittifully 
and  nieanely,  was  turn'd  out  of  all  his  places,  and 
return'd  againe  to  ploti  new  vengeance  at  his  house 
at  Wimbledon,  where  he  fell  to  drcsse  his  flowers 
in  his  garden,  and  worke  at  the  needle  with  his 
wife  and  his  maides  I   while  he  was  watching  an 
oppertunity  to  serve  againe  his  ambition,  which  had 
this  difference  from  the  protector's:  the  one  was 
gallant  and  greate,   the  other  had  noihing  but  an 
unworthy  pride,  most  insolent  in  prosperity,  and  as 
abiect  and  base  in  adversity." — p.  335 — 338. 

In  makiiip  the^^e  miscellaneous  extracts,  for 
the  amusement  of  our  readers,  we  are  afraid 
tliat  we  have  too  far  lost  siirhl  of  the  worthy 
colonel,  for  whose  honour  the  whole  record 
was  designed;  and  thondi  the  biography  of  a 
private  person,  however  eminent,  is  seldom 
of  much  consequciK-e  to  the  general  reader, 
e.xcipl  where  it  illustrates  the  manners  of  the 
times,  01  connects  with  the  pviblic  history  of 


of  Colonel  Hutchinson  Avhich  appears  to  us 
deserving  of  notice  with  reference  to  both 
these  particulars. 

Soon  after  his  marriage,  he  retired  to  his 

house  at  Ow^horpC;  wheiv  he  took  to  the  studyi 

of  divinity;  and  having  his  attention  roused 

to  the  state  of  public  all'airs.  by  the  dreadfu 

massacres   of  Ireland,  in    1641.  set  himselii 

diligently  to  read  and  consider  all  the  dispute) 

which  were  then  begun  between  the  Kini 

and  Parliament ;  the  result  of  which  was,  ; 

steady  conviction  of  the  justice  of  the  pre 

tensions   maintained   by   the   latter,   with  *: 

strong  an.\iety  for  the  preservation  of  jieace' 

His  first  achievement  (we  are  sorry  to  say 

was,  to  persuade  the  parson  of  his  parish  t 

deface  the  images,  and    break    the  painte, 

glass  in  the  windows  of  his  church,  in  obf 

dience  to  an  injunction  of  the  parliament 

his  next,  to  resist  Lord  Newark  in  an  illegj 

attempt  to  carry  otT  the  ammunition  belonginj 

to  the  county,  for  the  use  of  the  King.    H' 

deportment  upon  this  last  occasion,  when  I 

was  only  twenty-tive  jears  of  age,  affordsl 

very  singular  pioof  of  temper  and  firmness,-^ 

perfect  good  breeding,  and  great  powers  t' 

reasoning.  ! 

When  the  King  set  up  his  standard  at  N(? 

tingham.  Mr.  Hutchinson  repaired  to  the  canf 

of  Essex,  the  parliamentary  general:  but  "dj 

not  then  fuid  a  clear  call  from  the  Lord  to  jc 

with  him."     His  irresolution,  however,  v 

speedily  dissipated,  by  the  persecutions  of  t 

Royalists,  who  made  various  efibrts  to  sel 

him  as  a  disaffected  person.     He  accoidin; 

began  to  con.sult  with  others  in  the  same  p 

dicament :  and  havnig  resolved  to  try  to  dele 

the  town  and  castle  of  Nottingham  against  i 

assaults  of  the  enemy,  he  was  first  elec 

governor   by  his  associates,  and  alterwa 

had  his  norninatioii  confirmed  by  Fairfax  f 

by  the  Parliament.     A  great  deal  too  mi 

of  the  book  is  occupied  with  an  account  of 

petty  enterprises  in  which  this  little  gaivi 

was  engaged:  the  various  feuds  and  diss 

sions  which  arose  among  the  different  offii  • 

and  the  committees  who  were  appointed,- 

their  council :  the  occasional  desertion   •! 

treachery  of  various  individuals,  and  the  m  i 

contrivances,  and  saciilices.  and  exertions >' 

which  Colonel  Hutchin.'^on   wa.-<   enabledo 

maintain  his  post  till  the  Ihial  d i scorn fi'ur«,f 

the  Roval  party.     This  narrative  containso 

doubt,   many  splendid   examples  of  coui  e 

and  fidelity  on  both  sides  :  and,  for  the  var  y 

of  intrigues,  cabals,  and  successful  and  f 

successful  attempts  at   corruption   whic  it 

exhibits,  may  be  considered  as  a  comjf  ? 

miniature  of  a  greater  hi-story.     Hut  the  ii  ',■ 

nificance  of  the  events,  and  the  obscurit  'i 

the  persons,  take  away  all  interest  liom  le 

story:  and  our  admiration  of  Coloicl  Hi  i- 

inson's   lirmness.   ai.d    disinterestednrss  nl 

valour,  is  scarcely  sufficient  to  keep  ouran- 

tion  alive  through  the  langnishiig  narnVf 

of  the  obscure  v,-arfaie  in  \\lii<h  he  v.a^  »• 

ployed.  ,    , 

It  has  often  been  remarkeil.  and  JoriiP 
honour  of  our  country  can  nevt^r  be  too  if" 


^ 


LIFE  OF  COLONEL  HUTCxHINSON. 


177 

lepeated,  that  history  affords  no  example  of  a  I  late  King.  Such  were  the  liberal  nursuiiH 
,,ivil  contest  carried  on  for  years  at  the  point  and  elegant  recreations  of  one  whom  all  cir 
j-f  the  sword,  ami  yet  producing  so  little  fero-    recent  histories  would  lead  us  to  consider  as 

a  gloomy  fanatic,  and  bjirbarous  biirot  ! 


ty  in  the  body  of  the  people,  and  so  few 
instances  of  particular  violence  or  cruelty. 
yo  proscriptions — no  executions — no  sacking 
,rf  cities,  or  laying  waste  of  provinces — no 

engeance  wreaked,  and  uideed  scarcclvany 
everity  iaiiicted,  upon  those  who  were  "noto- 
riously hostile,  unless  found  actually  in  arms, 
rome  passages  in  the  wars  of  Henry  IV..  as 
•arrated  by  Sully,  approach  to  this  character; 
jPUt  the  horrible  massacres  with  which  that 
ontest  was  at  other  stages  attended,  exclude 
.;  fram  all  parallel  with  the  generous  hostility 
f  England.  This  book  is  full  of  instances.  no"t 
lerely  of  mutual  toleration,  but  of  the  most 
ordial  friendship  subsisting  between  indi- 
jduals  actually  engaged  in  the  opposite  par- 
ies. In  jiaiticular.  Sir  Allan  Apsley.  Mrs. 
Jutchin-soifs  brother,  who  cormiianded  a  troop 
f  hoi-se  for  the  King,  and  was  frequently 
Employed  in  the  same  part  of  the  country 
ihere  Colonel  Hutchinson  eonmianded  for 
lie  Parliament,  is  represented  throughout  as 
Iving  on  a  footing  of  the  greatest  fri^endship 
|nd  cordiality  with  this  valiant  relative.  Un- 
ier  the  protection  of  mutual  passes,  they  pay 
jequent  visits  to  each  other,  and  exchange 
jarious  civilities  and  pieces  of  service,  with- 
jit  any  attempt  on  either  side  to  seduce  the 
j:her  from  the  cause  to  which  his  conscience 
id  attached  him.  In  the  same  way,  the 
auses  and  families  of  various  royalists  are 
■ft  unmolested  in  the  district  commanded  by 
olonel  Hutchinson's  forces;  and  officers  con- 
JCting  troops  to  the  siege  of  the  castle,  are 
[peatedly  invited  to  partake  of  entertain- 
i.ents  with  the  garrison.  It  is  no  less  curious 
Jul  unique  to  find  Mrs.  Hutchinson  officiating 
surgeon  to  the  wounded  ;  and  the  Colonel 
Iministerin«-  spiritual  consolation  to  some 
'  the  captives  who  had  been  mortally  hurt  I 
■;  the  men  whom  he  had  led  into  action.        I 


Upon  the  death  of  the  Protector,  hi-  again 
took  his  .>*pat  in  Parliament,  for  the  countv  of 
Nottingham;  and  was  an  indignant  spectator 
of  the  base  iiroceedingn  of  Monk,  and  the 
headlong  ami  improvident  zeal  of  the  ])eoj)le 
in  the  matter  of  the  restoration.  In  the  course 
of  the  debate  on  the  treatment  to  be  dealt  to 
the  regicides,  such  of  them  as  were  members 
of  the  House  rose  in  their  places,  and  made 
such  a  defence  of  their  conduct  as  they  re- 
spectively thought  it  admitted  of.  'I'he  fol- 
lowing p;issage  is  very  curious,  and  gives  us 
a  high  idea  of  the  readiness  and  address  of 
Colonel  Hutchinson  in  a  situation  of  extraor- 
dinary difficulty. 

"  When  it  came  to  In^lcpbics  lurnc,  he.  with 
many  learex,  profest  his  repentance  for  iliai  niuriiicr  ; 
and  lold  a  liilse  lale,  how  Cromwell  liuid  ins  hand, 
and  forc'd  liim  to  sul)siTi!)e  the  sentence  I  and  made 
a  most  whining  recantation;  after  whicli  he  reiir'd, 
and  another  had  almost  ended,  when  C'ollonell 
Hutchinson,  who  was  not  there  at  the  hctjinning, 
came  in,  and  was  told  what  they  were  about,  and 
that  it  would  he  expected  he  should  say  someiliing. 
He  was  surpriz'd  with  a  thing  he  expected  not  ;  yet 
neither  then,  nor  in  any  the  like  occa.'iion,  did  he 
ever  faile  himselfe,  but  told  them,  'That  tor  hi.s 
actings  in  those  dnyes,  if  he  had  err'd,  it  was  the 
inexperience  of  his  age,  and  the  defect  of  lii.>;  nidge- 
ment,  and  not  the  malice  of  his  heart,  wiiich  had 
ever  prompted  him  to  persue  the  generall  advantage 
of  his  country  more  then  his  owne  ;  and  if  the  sacri- 
fice of  him  might  conduce  to  the  publick  peace  and 
settlement,  he  should  fret^ly  submit  his  lite  and  tor- 
tunes  to  their  dispose  ;  thai  the  vain  expence  ol  his 
age,  and  the  greate  debts  his  publick  employments 
had  runne  him  into,  as  they  were  testimonies  that 
neither  avarice  nor  any  other  interest  had  carried 
him  on,  so  they  yielded  him  iust  cause  to  repent 
that  he  ever  forsooke  his  owne  blessed  (jiiieti,  to 
enibarque  in  such  a  troubled  sea,  where  he  had 
made  shipwrack  of  all  things  but  a  good  conscience ; 
and  OS  to  that  particular  action  of  the  king,  he  de- 
r'd  th<m  to  believe  he  had  that  sence  of  it  that  be- 


After  the  termination  of  the  war.  Colonel  Jilted  an  En-rlishman,  a  Christian,  and  a  gentle 
lUchinson  was  returned  to  Parliament  i'ov\  man.'  Assoone  as  the  collonell  had  spoken,  he 
wn  which  he  had  so  resolutely  defended,  ^(^^ir'd  into  a  roome,  where  Inglesbie  was,  with  his 
b  was  appointed  a  member  of  the  High  ^'"^^JT.' '■'^'*A ".'•'' ''^^'^  ^"''''^"'' " '''•/f^i''''''/,'' ^"c- 
..,-»  „i-  T     .•        J-      ii       1      1     r  .1      T'-  ceed  his  winnings,  and  embracing  Lolloncll  Hut- 

H  rt  of  Justice,  for  the  trial  of  the  king;-  ,  ^,,,i„son.  '  O  collonell,'  sav'dhe,  '^id  I  ever  imagine 
d  after  long  hesitation,  and  frequent  prayer  |  wee  could  be  brought  to  this  ?  Could  I  have  sus- 
God  to  diiect  him  aright  in  an  affair  of  .so  i  pccted  it.  when  I  l)rought  them  Lambert  in  tlie 
uch  moment,  he  deliberately  concurred  hi  j  <"her  dnv,  this  sword  should  have  rtdeem'd  ns  from 

being  dealt  with  ns  crimiiialls,  by  that  people,  tor 
"hnm  we  had  so  gloriously  e.vposed  ourselves.' 
The  collonell  told  him,  he  had  foreseene,  ever  since 
those  usurpers  thrust  out  the  lawlull  authority  of 
the  land,  to  enthrone  them.ielves,  it  could  end  in 
noihiiiff  else  ;  but  the  inlegriiy  of  his  heart,  in  all 
lie   had  done,  made  him  as  chcarefully  ready  to 


e  sentence  which  was  pronounced  b}  it  : — 
rs.  Hutchinson  proudly  disclaimine;  for  him 
e  apology,  afterwards  so  familiar  in  the 
auihs  of  his  associates,  of  havhig  been  over- 
ed  by  Cioniwell.  His  opinion  of  the  Pro- 
!3tor,  and  of  his  ijovernment,  has  been  pretty 


1  lyexplained  in  the  extractswe  have  already 
I'en.     Duriuir  that  usurpation,  he  lived  in 

nost   unbroken   retirement,   at   Owthorpe ; 

lere  he  occupied  himself  in  superintending 
';  education  of  his  children,  whom  he  him- 

f  inetructed    in  music  and  other  elegant 

•omplishments ;   in  the  embellishment  of 


suffer  as  10  triumph  in  a  good  cause.  The  result 
of  I  he  house  that  day  was  to  suspend  Collonell 
Hiiichinson  and  the  rest  Irom  sitting  in  the  house. 
Monke,  alter  all  his  greaie  professions,  now  sate 
still,  and  had  not  one  word  to  interpose  for  any  per- 
son, but  was  as  forward  to  sett  vengeance  on  foot 
as  any  man." — pp.  367 — 369. 

He  was  afterwards  comprehended   in  the 


comprehended 
residence  by  buildinir  and  planting;  in  j  act  of  amnesty,  ami  with  some  difficulty  oL- 
ministering  justice  to  his  neighboursj"  and  tained  his  pardon;  upon  which  he  retired  to 
making  a  very  choice  collection  of  painting  I  the  country;  but  was  soon  after  brought  to 
1  sculpture,  for  which  he  had  purchased  a  j  town,  in  order  to  see  if  he  could  not  be  pre- 
mber  of  articles  out  of  the  cabinet  of  the  1  vailed  on  to  give  evidence  ngainst  .sucho;  the 
23 


r78 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


regicides  as  it  was  resolved  to  bring  to  trial. 
The  Iriglesby  who  is  commemorated  in  the 
precedmg  extract,  is  known  to  have  been  the 
chief  informer  on  that  occasion  ;  and  Colonel 
Hutchinson  understood,  that  it  was  by  his  in- 
stigation that  he  also  had  been  called  as  a 
witness.  His  deportment,  when  privately  ex- 
amined by  the  Attorney-General,  is  extremely 
characteristic,  and  includes  a  very  line  and 
bitter  piece  of  irony  on  his  base  associate; 
who  did  not  disdain  to  save  himself  by  false- 
hood ami  treachery.  When  pressed  to  specify 
some  overt  acts  against  the  prisoners,. 

— "the  collonell  answered  him,  that  in  a  busi- 
nesse  transacted  so  many  years  agoe,  wherein  life 
was  concern'd.  he  durst  not  beare  a  testimony  ; 
having  at  ihat  time  bene  so  little  an  observer,  that 
he  could  nat  remember  the  least  title  of  that  most 
eminent  circumstance,  of  Cromwell's  forcing  Collo- 
nell Inglefhy  to  sett  to  his  unwilling  hand,  which,  if 
his  life  had  depended  on  that  circumstance,  he  could 
7!ot  have  affirmed.'  '  And  then,  sir,'  sayd  he.  '  if  I 
have  lost  so  great  a  thin?  as  that,  it  cannot  be  e.x- 
pected  lease  eminent  passages  remaine  with  me.'  " 
p.  379. 

It  was  not  thought  proper  to  examine  him 
on  the  trial :  and  he  was  allowed,  for  about  a 
year,  to  pursue  his  innocent  occupations  in 
the  retirement  of  a  country  life.  At  last  he 
was  seized,  upon  suspicion  of  being  concern- 
ed in  some  treasonable  conspiracy ;  and. 
though  no  formal  accusation  was  ever  exhib- 
ited against  him.  and  no  sort  of  evidence  spe- 
cified as  the  ground  of  his  detention,  was 
conveyed  to  London,  and  committed  a  close 
prisoner  to  the  Tower.  In  this  situation,  he 
was  treated  with  the  most  brutal  harshness: 
all  which  he  bore  with  great  meekness  of 
spirit,  and  consoled  himself  in  the  constant 
study  of  the  Scriptures,  and  the  society  of 
his  magnanimous  consort,  who,  by  the  power- 
ful intercession  of  her  brother,  was  at  last  ad- 
mitted to  his  presence.  After  an  imprison- 
ment of  ten  months,  during  which  the  most 
urgent  solicitations  could  neither  obtain  his 
deliverance,  nor  the  specification  of  the  charges 
against  him,  he  was  suddenly  ordered  down 
to  Sandown  castle  in  Kent,  and  found,  upon 
his  arrival,  that  he  was  to  be  closely  cotilined 
in  a  damp  and  unwholesome  apartment,  in 
which  another  prisoner,  of  the  meanest  rank 
and  most  brutal  manners,  was  ahead)-  estab- 
lished. This  aggravated  oppression  and  in- 
dignity, however,  he  endured  with  a  cheerful 
magnanimity;  and  conversed  with  his  wife 
and  daughter,  as  she  expresses  it,  "  with  as 
pleasant  and  contented  a  spirit  as  ever  in  his 
whole  life.  Sir  Allen  Apsley  at  last  procured 
an  order  for  permitting  him  "to  walk  a  certain 


time  every  day  on  the  beach :  but  this  mitiga 
tion  came  too  late.  A  sort  of  aguish  ftve; 
brought  on  by  damp  and  contuiement,  ha^ 
settled  on  his  constitution  ;  and,  ui  little  mor 
than  a  month  after  his  removal  from  th 
Tower,  he  was  delivered  by  death  from  th 
mean  and  cowardly  oppression  of  those  whor 
he  had  always  disdanied  either  to  flatter  ( 
betray. 

England   should   be  proud,  we  think,  o 

having  given  birth  to  Mrs.  Hutchinson  an 

her  husband  ;  and  chiefly  because  their  cha 

acteis  are  truly  and  peculiarly  English:  a^ 

cording  to  the  standard  of  those  times  in  whic 

national  characters  were  most  distinguishabl 

Not  exempt,  certainly,  from  errors  and  defect 

they  yet  seem  to  us  to  hold  out  a  lofty  examp 

of  substantial  dignity  and  virtue :  and  to  posse 

most  of  those  talents  and  principles  by  whii 

I  public  life  is  made  honourable,  and  privac 

I  delightful.     Bigotry  must  at  all  times  debas 

j  and  civil  dissension  embitter  our  existenc 

j  but,  m  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  we  m 

I  safely  venture  to  assert,  that  a  nation  whi 

produces  many  such  wives  and  mothers 

I  Mrs.  Lucy  Hutchinson,  must  be  both  gr< 

' and  happy. 

I  For  the  Reverend  Julius  Hutchinson.  ! 
j  editor  of  these  IMemoirs,  it  is  easy  to  .see  ll 
he  is  considerably  perplexed  and  distract' , 
!  between  a  natural  desire  to  extol  those  ill.- 
j  trious  ancestors,  and  a  fear  of  being  hims' 
mistaken  for  a  republican.  So  he  gives '» 
I  alternate  notes  in  laud  of  the  English  levelh', 
I  and  in  vituperation  of  the  atheists  and  ja  - 
!  bins  of  France.  From  all  this,  our  chai/ 
!  leads  us  to  infer,  that  the  said  Reverend  Jul  8 
!  Hutchinson  has  not  yet  obtained  that  pre:  :- 
i  ment  in  the  church  which  it  would  be  conv 
i  nient  for  him  to  possess:  and  that,  whene 
\  is  promoted  according  to  his  merits,  he  '11 
j  speak  more  unifonnly  in  a  manner  becon:g 
j  his  descent.  In  the  mean  time,  we  are  v  y 
(  much  obliged  to  him  for  this  book,  and  for  e 
I  pains  he  has  taken  to  satisfy  us  of  itsautl  i- 
ticity.  and  of  the  accuracy  of  its  publical  i. 
We  do  not  object  to  the  old  spelling,  wl  h 
\  occasions  no  perplexit}' :  but  when  the  v  k 
I  comes  to  another  edition,  we  A^ould  reci- 
raend  it  to  him  to  add  a  few  dates  on  ie 
I  margin,  to  break  his  pages  hito  more  p  a- 
;  graphs,  and  to  revise  his  punctuation,  ie 
I  would  make  the  book  infinitely  more  saleje, 
;  too,  if,  without  making  the  slightest  varir  mi 
'  in  what  is  retained,  he  would  omit  about  fo 
^  hundred  pages  of  the  siege  of  NottingI  n, 
j  and  other  parish  business;  especially  as le 
I  whole  is  now  put  beyond  the  reach  of  lo  oi 
I  corruption  by  the  present  full  publicatiot , 

) 


f\ 


MEMOIRS  OF  LADV  FANSHAWE. 


Itf 


I  i 


(©ctobcv,  1829. 


Memoirs  of  I.Airr  Fasshawk.  Wife  of  the  Right  Homvirablc  Sir  Richard  Fanshavr,  Baroiict, 
Ambassador  Jrom  Charles  the  Second  to  the  Cotat  of  Madrid  in  1665.  Wrilfcn  by  herscH. 
To  which  are  added.  Extracts  from  the  Correspondence  of  Sir  Richard  Fanshawe.  8vo.  pp 
360.     London:   1829. 

There  is  not  much  in   thi^^  hook,  either  of    voted  atlaelimont.  and    participated  not   un- 

individual  character,  or  public  story.     It  is,    worthily  in  all  his  fortunes  and  designs,  was, 

'i  jiiideed.  but  a  small  atl'air — anyway;  but  yet    consei]uenJly,  in  continual  contact  with  the 

'■     pleasing,  and  not  altogether  without  interest  movements  "which  then  agitated  society;  and 

*  'or  instruction.  Though  it  presents  us  with  no  had  her  full  share  of  the  troubles  and  triumphs 
'°^' I  traits  of  historical  importance,  and  but  few  of  which  belonged  to  .«ueh  an  existence.  Her 
"'?  I  personal  passion  or  adventure,  it  still  gives  us  ;  memoirs  ought,  therefore,  to  have  formed  an 

a  peep  at  a  scene  of  surpassing-  interest  froHi  '.  interesting  couiiterptirt  to  those  of  Mrs.  Hutch- 

™  fa  new  quarter :   and  at  all  events  adds  one  •  inson  ;  and  to  have  recalled  to  us.  w  ilh  equal 

lother  item  to  the  great  and  growing  store  of    force  and  vivacity,  the  aspect   linder  which 

'^^  I  those  contemporary  notices  which  are  every    those  great  events  presented  themselves  to  a 

'^?  [day  familiarizing  us  more  and  more  with  the    female  spectatress  and  sufferer,  of  the  oppo- 

I  living  character  of  by-gone  ages  ;  and  without  '  site  faction.    But,  though  the  title  of  the  book. 

which  we  begin,  at  last,  to  be  sensible,  that  we  I  and  the  announcements  of   the  editor,  holtl 

can  neither  enter  into  their  spirit",  nor  even  un-  j  out  this  promise,  we  must  say  that  the  body  of 

derstand  their  public  transactions.     Writings  i  it  falls  far  short  of  performance  :  and,  whether 

not  meant  for    publication,   nor  prepared  for    it  be  that  her  side  of  the  question  did  not  admit 

purposes  of  vanity  or  contention,  are  the  only  i  of  the  same  force  of  delineation  or  loftiness  of 

memorials  in  which  the  true  "  form  and  pres-  j  sentiment ;  or.  that  the  individual  chronicler 

sure"  of  the  ages  which  produce  them  are    has  been  less  fortunately  selected,  it  is  ccrtahi 

ever  completely  preserved  :  and.  indeed,  the  i  that^  in  pohit  both  of  interest  and  instruction; 

:"°  only  documents  from  which  the  great  events  '  in  traits  of  character,  wamnth  of  colouring,  or 

™  which  are  blazoned  on  their  records  can  ever  j  exaltation  of  feeling,  there  is  no  sort  of  com- 

"Y  be   satisfactorily   explained.      It  is  in  such  i  parison  between  these  gossiping,  and,  though 

*  writmgs  alone, — confidential  letters — private  affectionate,  yet  relatively  cold  and  feeble, 
mJi^  diaries — family  anecdotes — and  personal  re-  memoranda,  and  the  earnest,  eloquent,  ana 
''P*  monstrances,  apologies,  or  explanations. — that  j  graphic  representations  of  the  puritan  heroine 
'f™  the  true  springs  of  action  are  disclosed — as  |  Nor  should  it  be  forgotten,  even  in  hinting  at 
™  ivell  as  the  obstructions  and  impediments.  |  such  a  parallel,  that,  in  one  important  respect, 
':''"  whether  in  the  scruples  of  individuals  or  the  !  the  royalist  cause  also  must  be  allowed  to 
itm  Teiieral  temper  of  society,  by  which  their  '  have  been  singularly  happy  in  its  female  rep- 
»K'  jperdtion  is  so  capriciously,  and.  but  for  these  resentative.  Since,  if  it  may  be  said  with 
aii'"  revelations,  so  unaccountably  controlled. —  |  some  show  of  reason,  that  Lucy  Hutchinson 
Isaiili  rhey  are  the  true  key  to  the  cipher  in  which  '  and  her  husband  had  too  many  eleg-ant  tastes 
ibli*  lublic  annals  are  almost  necessarily  written  ;  |  and  accomplishments  to  be  taken  as  fair  .speci- 
K;''  uid  their  disclosure,  after  long  intervals  of  j  mens  of  the  austere  and  godly  republicans; 
Af'  irae,  is  almost  as  good  as  the  revocation  of  <  it  certainly  may  be  retorted,  witfiat  least  equal 
iili"  heir  writers  from  the  dead — to  abide  our  in-  !  justice,  that  the  chaste  and  decorous  Lady 

errogatorieS;  and  to  act  over  again,  before  us,  1  Fanshawe,  and  her  sober  diplomatic  lord, 
n  the  very  dress  and  accents  of  the  time,  a  !  shadow  out  rather  too  favourably  the  general 

lioii    wrtion  of  the  scenes  which  they  once  guided  ;  manners  and  morals  of  the  cavaliers. 

eal»  )r  adorned.  It  is  not  a  very  striking  portion,  After  all,  perhaps,  the  true  secret  of  her 
)erhap6,  that  is  thus  recalled  by  the  publica-  inferiority,  in  all  at  least  that  relates  to  politi- 
ion  before  us:  but  whatever  interest  it  pos-  cal  interest,  may  be  I'ound  in  the  fact,  that  the 
leases  is  mainly  of  this  character.  It  belongs  |  fair  writer,  though  born  and  bred  a  royalist, 
0  an  era,  to  which,  of  all  others  in  our  history,  |  and  faithfully  adhering  to  her  husband  in  his 
uriosity  will  always  be  most  eagerly  directed;  k'fforts  and  sufferings  in  the  cau,se;  was  not 
:nd  it  constantly  rivets  our  attention,  by  ex-  'naturally,  or  of  herself,  particularly  studious 


BOtep 


iting  expectations  which  it  ought,  in  truth, 
0  have  fulfilled :  and  suggesting  how  much 
nore  interesting  and  instructive  it  might  so 
asily  have  been  made. 


of  such  matters ;  or  dispo-sed  to  occupy  her- 
self more  than  was  necessary  with  any  public 
concern.  She  seems  to  have  followed,  like  a 
good  wife  and  daughter,  where  her  parents  or 


Lady  Fanshau'e  was,  as  is  generally  known,  ■  her  husband  led  her;  and  to  have  adopted 
he  wife  of  a  distinguished  cavalier,  in  the  j  their  opinions  with  a  dutiful  and  implicit  con- 
leroic  Age  of  the  civil  wars  and  the  Protec-  j  fidence,  but  without  being  very  deeply  moved 
orate;  and  survived  till  long  after  the  Res-  by  the  principles  or  passions  which  actuated 
iralion.  Her  husband  was  a  person  of  no  ]  those  from  whom  they  were  derived  ;  while 
lean  figure  in  those  great  transactions;  and  Lucy  Hutchinson  not  only  threw  her  whole 
he,  who  adhered  to  him  with  the  most  de- 1  heart  and  soul  into  the  cause  of  her  party 


180 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  .MEMOIRS. 


but,  like  Lady  Macbeth  or  Madame  Roland, 
imparted  her  own  fire  to  her  more  phlegmatic 
helpmate. —  -chastised  him,"  when  neces- 
sary, "'with  the  valour  of  her  tongue.-'  and 
ctieered  him  on.  by  the  encouragement  of  her 
high  example,  to  all  the  ventures  and  sacri- 
lices,  the  triumphs  or  the  martyrdoms,  that 
lay  visibly  acio.ss  her  daring  and  lofty  course,  j 
The  Lady  Fanshawe,  we  take  it,  was  of  a  less 
passionate  temperament ;  and  her  book,  ac-  | 
cordingly.  is  more  like  that  of  an  ordinary 
woman,  though  living  in  e.\traordinary  times. 
She  begins,  no  doubt,  with  a  good  deal  of  love 
and  domestic  devotion,  and  even  echoes,  from 
that  sanctuary;  certain  notes  of  loyalty;  but, 
in  very  truth,  is  chiefly  occupied,  for  the  best 
part  of  her  life,  with  the  sage  and  serious 
business  of  some  nineteen  or  twenty  accouchc- 
mens,  which  are  happily  accomplished  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  Europe  ;  and  seems,  at  last,  to 
be  wholly  engrossed  in  the  ceremonial  of 
diplomatic  presentations. — the  description  of 
court  dresses,  state  coaches,  liveries,  and 
jewellery, — the  solemnity  of  processions,  and 
receptions  by  sovereign  princes. — and  the  due 
interchange  of  presents  and  compliments  with 
persons  of  worship  and  dignity.  Fully  one- 
third  of  her  book  is  taken  up  with  such  goodly 
matter  :  and  nearly  as  much  with  the  geneal- 
ogy of  her  kindred,  and  a  laithful  record  of 
their  marriages,  deaths,  and  burials.  From 
the  remainder,  however,  some  curious  things 
may  be  gathered ;  and  we  shall  try  to  extract 
what  strikes  u.s  as  most  characteristic.  We 
may  begin  with  something  that  preceded  her 
own  recollection.  The  following  singiilar  le- 
gend relates  to  her  mother ;  and  is  given,  it 
will  be  observed,  on  very  venerable  author- 
ity: 

"  Dr.  Howlsvvorih  preached  lior  fmicrnl  sermon, 
in  which,  upon  his  own  knowledije,  he  told,  before 
many  Imndrcds  of  ptople,  this  accident  following: 
That  my  mother,  bfinc  sick  to  death  of  a  lever  three 
months  alter  I  wns  born,  whi'-ii  \v:i?  ihe  occasion 
.she  frave  me  snck  no  longer,  her  iriends  and  ser- 
vants thougiu.  10  all  oniward  appearance,  that  she 
was  dead,  and  .so  lay  almost  two  days  and  a  night ; 
but  Dr.  Winston,  coming  to  comfort  my  father, 
went  into  my  motiier's  room,  and  looking  earnest- 
ly on  her  face,  said  she  was  so  handsome,  and  now 
look?  ?o  lovely,  I  cannot  think  siie  is  dead  ;  and 
suddenly  took  a  lancet  out  of  his  pockef.  and  w  iih 
it  cut  the  sole  <>i  her  foot,  uhich  bled.  I'pfin  this. 
he  immediately  caused  her  to  be  laid  upon  the  bed 
again,  and  to  be  rubbed,  and  such  means,  as  she 
came  to  life,  and  opening  her  eye.s.  saw  iwo  of  her 
kinswomen  stand  by  her,  my  Lady  Knollys  aild 
my  Lady  Russell,  both  wish  great  wide  sleeves, 
as  the  frishion  then  was,  and  said.  Did  not  you 
promise  me  fifieen  years,  and  are  you  come  again 
already  ?  which  they  not  undersianding.  per>uaded 
her  to  keep  her  .spirits  quiet  in  that  great  weakness 
wherein  sin-  then  was;  but,  some  hours  after,  she 
desired  my  father  and  Dr.  Howlsworih  might  be 
left  alone  with  her.  to  whom  she  snid,  I  will  ac- 
quaint you,  that,  during  the  time  of  my  irance.  I 
wa.s  in  great  quiet.  l)ut  in  a  place  I  could  neither 
distinguish  nor  describe  ;  but  the  sense  ol  leaving 
my  girl,  who  is  dearer  to  me  ihan  all  mv  children, 
remained  a  trouble  upon  my  spirits,  i^uddenly  I 
saw  two  l>y  me,  cloathcd  in  long  white  garments. 
and  meti)on<;ht  I  fell  down  wiih  my  face  in  the 
dust ;  and  they  asked  me  why  1  was  troubled  in  so 
great  happiness.  I  replied,  O  let  me  have  the  same 
grant  given  to  Hezekiah,  ihui   I    may   live  (ir;een 


years,  to  see  my  daughter  a  woman :  to  which  they 
answered,  Ii  is  done:  and  then,  at  that  instant,  I 
awoke  out  of  my  trance;  and  Dr.  Howlsworth 
did  there  affirm,  that  that  day  she  died  made  just 
fifieen  years  from  that  time." — pp.  26 — 28. 

This  eift  of  dreaming  dreams,  or  dceins 
visions,  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  heredi^ 
tary  in  the  family;  for  the  following  is  given  on 
the  credit  of  the  fair  writer's  own  experience. 
When  she  and  her  husband  went  to  Ireland, 
on  their  way  to  Portugal,  they  were  honour- 
.'ibly  entertained  by  all  the  distinguished  royal-  ■ 
ists  who  came  in  their  way.  Among  others, 
she  has  recorded  that, 

"  We  went  to  the  Lady  Honor  O'Brien's,  a  lady 
that  went  for  a  maid,  but  few  believed  it  !     She  • 
was  the  youngest  daughter  ol  il>e  Earl  of  Tliomond.  I, 
There  we  siaid  three  nights.     The  first  of  \\  l-.ich  I   '■ 
was  surprised  by  being  laid  in  a  chamber,  where,  ■( 
about   one  o'clock,  I  heard  a  voice  that  wakened  (,' 
me.     I  drew  the  curtain,  and.  in  the  casement  of  i^ 
the  window,  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  a  i 
woman  leaning  into  the  window,  ihrougli  the  case-  'j 
nient,  in  white,  with  red  hair,  and  pale  and  ghastly  j 
complexion.     She  spoke  loud,  and  in  a  tone  I  had  ; 
never  heard,  thrice,  '  A  horse  I'  and  then,  with  a  ' 
sigh  more  like  the  wind  than  breath,  she  vai\ished,  ; 
and,  to  me,  ber  body  looked  more  like  a  liiick  cloudu 
than  substance.     1  was  so  much  frightened,  thati) 
my  hair  siood  on  end,  and  my  night-cloihes  tell  off  ij 
I  pulled  and  pinched  your  father,  who  never  woke ' 
during  the  disorder  I  was  in ;  but  at  last  was  much' 
surprised  to  see  me  in  this  fright,  and  more  so  when' 
I  related  the  si  cry  and  showed   him   the  window' 
opened.     Neiiber  of  us  slept  any  more  that  night,, 
but  he  entertained  me  with  lelling  me  how  mucbi 
more  these  apparitions  were  usual  in  this  country, 
than  in  England!  and  we  concluded  the  cause  to! 
be  the  sreat  superstition  of  the  Irish,  and  the  wantl 
of  iliat  knowing  faith,  which  siiould  defend  themi 
from  the  power  of  the  devil,  whicii  he  exercises 
among  them  very  much." 

Ingenious  and  orthodox  as  this  solution  ol 
the  mystery  mu.st  be  allowed  to  be,  we  cent 
fess  we  should  have  been  inclined  to  prefet] 
that  of  the  fair  sleeper  having  had  a  fit  o:; 
nightmare  :  had  it  not  been  for  the  conclusiv' 
testimony  of  the  putative  virgin  of  the  hous 
of  Tliomond.  who  supplies  the  following  as 
tonishing  confirmation  ;  and  leads  us  rathe 
to  suspect  that  the  whole  might  have  been 
trick,  to  rid  herself  the  sooner  of  their  sen, 
pulous  and  decorous  company. 

■'  Ai)out    live   o'clock,"    continues   Lady    Fai 
shawe,  ''the  lady  of  the  house   c;iine   to  see  u, 
saying  she  had  not  been  in  bed  all  night,  bccau  • 
a  cousin    O'Brien  of  hers,   whose    ancestors  hi, 
owned  that  house,  had  desired  her  to  stay  wi 
him  in  his  chamber,  and  ihat  he  died  at  two  o'cloc ' 
and  she  said,  '  I  wish   you  lo  have  had   no  d; 
lurbam-e.   for  'tis  the   custom   of    ihe  place,  thi 
when  any  of  the  family  are  dying,  the  shape  ol 
woman  appears  in  the  window  every  night  lill  th 
be  (lend.     'I'his  woman  was  many  ages  ago  j; 
with  child  by  the  owner  of  this  place,  who  mt 
dercd  her  in  his  garden,  and  Hung  her  into  the  li'i 
under   the  window,  hut   truly  1  thought  not  ol 
when  I  lodged  you  liere,  it  being  the  best  room; 
the  house."'   We  made  little  reply  lo  her  spee^: 
bill  disposed  ourselves  to  be  gone  suddenly." 

We  shall  close  this  chapter,  of  the  sup; 
natural,  with  the  following  ratiier  remarka..' 
ghost  story,  which  is  calculated,  we  tlilnk.' 
make  a  strong  impression  on  the  imaginatii- 
Our  Mdigent  chromcler  picked  it  up,  it  seei; 


MEMOIRS  OF  LADY  FANSHAWE. 


\fM 


on  her  way  througJi  Canterbury  in   the   year 
1663  ;  and  it  is  thus  honourably  attested  : 

•'And  here  I  c:innot  omit  lelniing  ilie  entiuinp 
siory,  confimipd  by  Sir  Thon\ai?  Batten,  Sir  Arnola 
Bre.iiTies.  the  Dean  ot  Canterbury,  witli  many  wore 
gentlemen  and  persons  of  tliis  town. 

•'  There  lives  not  tar  from  Canterbury  a  gentle- 
man, called  Colonel  Colopeper.  whose  mother 
was  widow  unto  the  Lord  Stransford  :  this  gentle- 
man had  a  sister,  who  lived  with  him,  as  the  world 
said,  in  too  much  love.  She  married  Mr.  Porter. 
This  brother  and  sister  being  both  atheists  and 
living  a  life  according  to  their  profession,  went  in 
a  t'rolick  into  a  vault  of  their  ancestors,  where,  be- 
fore thoy  returned,  they  pulled  some  of  their  father's 
and  mother's  hairs  !  U'ithiii  a  very  few  days  after, 
Mrs.  Porter  fell  sick  and  died.  Her  brother  kept 
her  body  in  a  coffin  sot  up  in  his  buttery,  saying  it 
would  not  be  lonsr  before  he  died,  and  then  they 
would  be  both  buried  together  ;  but  from  the  night 
after  her  death,  until  the  time  tliat  wc  were  told  the 
story,  which  was  three  months,  they  say  that  a  head, 
as  cold  as  death,  with  curled  hair  like  his  sister's, 
did  ever  lie  by  him  wherever  he  slept,  notwith- 
standing he  removed  to  several  places  and  countries 
to  avoid  it;  and  several  persons  told  us  they  also 
had  felt  this  apparition." 

We  may  now  go  back  a  little  to  the  atiairs  of 

this  world.  Deep  and  devoted  attachments  are 

■more  frequently  conceived  in  circumstances 

of  distress  and   danger  than   in  any  other : 

'and.  accordingly,  the  love  and  marriage  of 

Sir  JRichard  Fanshawe  and  his  lady  befel  dur- 

:    ling  their  anxious  and  perilous  residence  with 

,    ;the  court  at  Oxford,  in  1644.     The  following 

'little  sketch  of  the  life  they  passed  there  is 

■    icurious  and  interesting  : 

n  I  "  My  father  commanded  my  sister  and  myself  to 
Bi  come  to  him  to  O.vford,  where  the  Court  then  was ; 
•E  but  we,  that  had  till  that  hour  lived  in  great  plenty 
and  great  order,  found  ourselves  like  fishes  out  of 
.;he  water,  and  the  scene  so  changed,  that  we  knew 
'"■  not  at  all  how  to  act  any  part  but  obedience  ;  for, 
ti  rrom  as  good  a  house  as  any  gentleman  of  England 
f.  pad,  we  came  to  a  baker's  house  in  an  obscure 
j'j  fetreet;  and  from  rooms  well  furnished,  to  lie  in  a 
jl,,.  |/ery  bad  bed  in  a  garret,  to  one  dish  of  meat,  and 
r  jhat  not  the  best  ordered,  no  money,  for  \re  were 
^'  Is  poor  as  Job.  nor  clothes  more  than  a  man  or  two 
*'  brought  in  their  cloak  bags:  we  had  the  perpetual 
sri  liscourse  ot  losing  and  gaining  towns  and  men  :  at 
f':^,  Ihe  windows  the  sad  spectacle  of  war.  sometimes 
^;.;  jilagues,  sometimes  sicknesses  of  other  kind,  by 
'  ;eason  of  so  many  people  being  packed  together, 
!s,  I  believe,  there  never  was  before  of  that  quality  ; 
,j,i  Iways  in  want,  yet  I  must  needs  say,  that  most 
uijf  lore  it  with  a  martyr-like  cheerfulness.  Jb'or  my 
^ii(,,  iwn  part,  I  began  to  think  we  should  all,  like 
„i„K  Abraham,  live  in  tents  all  the  days  of  our  lives. 
he  king  sent  my  faihera  warrant  for  a  btironet, 
lUt  he  returned  it  with  thanks,  saving  he  had  too 
nch  honour  of  his  knighthood,  which  his  majesty 
d  honoured  him  with  some  years  before,  for  the 
riune  he  now  possessed." — pp.  3.'> — 37. 

They  were  married  very  privately  the  year 
ter;  and  certainly  entered  upon  life  with  lit- 
but  their  mutual  love  to  cheer  and  support 
uff,   iiemj  but  it  seems  to  have  been  sufficient. 

be"*  j"Both  his  fortune  and  my  promised  portion, 
ot*'*  [hich  was  made  10,000?  ,  were  both  at  that  time  in 
jleil!  jipectaiion  ;  and  we  miglii  irvily  be  called  merchant 
, ,  J  |venturers,  for  the  stock  we  set  up  our  trading 
i  "*  J  fith  did  not  amount  to  twenty  pounds  betwi.xt  us  ; 
list*'!  y,  however,  it  was  to  us  as  a  little  piece  of  armour 
[against  a  bullet,  which,  if  it  be  right  placed, 
s^^GT  than  a  shilling,  serves  as  well  as 
armour;  so  our  stock  bought  pen, 


]:^^    jougb  no  bigge 
'  |ij   kvhole  suit  of  ! 


ink,  atul  paper,  which  w.ns  your  father's  trade,  and 
by  it,  I  assure  you,  we  lived  better  than  those  who 
were  born  to  2000/.  a  year,  as  long  as  he  had  hii 
liberty." — pp  37,  38. 

The  ne.vt  scene  presents  both  of  them  in  m) 
amiable  and  respectable  a  light,  that  v\'e  think 
it  but  ju.stice  to  extract  it,  though  rather  long, 
without  any  abridgment.  It  is.  indeed,  one 
of  the  most  pleasing  and  interesting  passages 
in  the  book.  They  had  now  gone  to  Bristol, 
in  1645. 

"  My  husband  hiid  provided  very  good  lodging.s 
for  us,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  come  home  from 
the  council,  where  he  was  at  my  arrival,  he  with 
all  expressions  of  joy  received  me  in  his  arms,  and 
gave  me  a  hundred  pieces  of  gold,  saying,  '  I  know 
thou  that  keeps  my  heart  so  well,  will  keep  my 
fortune,  which  from  this  time  I  will  ever  put  into 
thy  hands  as  God  shall  bless  me  with  increase;* 
and  now  I  thought  myself  a  perfect  queen,  and 
my  husband  so  glorious  a  crown,  that  I  more  valued 
mvself  to  be  called  by  his  name  than  born  a 
princess;  for  I  knew  him  very  wise  and  very  good, 
and  his  soul  doaied  on  me, — upon  which  confidence 
I  will  tell  you  what  happened.  My  Lady  Rivers, 
a  brave  woman,  and  one  that  had  suffered  many 
thousand  pounds  loss  for  the  king,  and  whom  I  had 
a  great  reverence  for,  and  she  a  kindness  for  me  as 
a  kinswoman,  in  discourse  she  tacitly  commended 
the  knowledge  of  state  alTairs ;  and  that  some 
women  were  very  happy  in  a  good  understanding 
thereof,  as  my  Lady  Auliigny,  Lady  Isabel  Thynne, 
and  divers  others,  and  yet  none  was  at  first  more 
capable  than  I ;  that  in  the  night  she  knew  there 
came  a  post  from  Paris  from  the  queen,  and  that 
she  would  be  extremely  glad  to  hear  what  the 
queen  commanded  the  king  in  order  to  his  aflairs ; 
saying,  if  I  would  ask  my  husband  privately,  he 
would  tell  nte  what  he  found  in  the  packet,  and  I 
might  tell  her.  I,  that  was  young  and  innocent,  and 
to  that  day  had  never  in  my  mouth  '  What  news?' 
began  to  think  there  was  more  in  inquiring  into 
public  aff.iirs  than  I  thought  of;  and  that  it  being  a 
fashionable  thing  would  make  me  more  beloved  of 
mv  husband,  it  that  had  been  possible,  than  I  was. 
When  my  husband  returned  home  from  council, 
after  welcoming  him.  a?  his  custom  ever  was,  he 
went  with  his  handful  of  papers  into  his  study  for  an 
hour  or  more  ;  I  followed  him  ;  he  turned  hastily,  and 
said,  'What  wouldst  thou  have,  my  life?'  1  told 
him,  I  heard  the  prince  had  received  a  packet  from 
the  queen,  and  I  guessed  it  was  that  in  his  hand,  and 
I  desired  to  know  what  was  in  it  ;  he  smilingly  re- 
plied, '  My  love,  I  will  immediately  come  to  tnee  ; 
pray  thee  go,  for  I  am  very  busy  :'  when  he  came 
out  of  his  closet  I  revived  my  suit ;  he  kissed  me. 
and  talked  of  other  things.  At  supper  I  would  eat 
nothing  ;  he  as  usual  sat  by  me.  and  drank  often  to 
me,  which  was  his  custom,  and  was  lull  of  discourse 
to  company  that  was  at  table.  Going  to  bed  I  asked 
again  ;  and  said  I  could  not  believe  he  loved  me  if 
he  refiised  to  tell  me  all  he  knew ;  but  he  answer- 
ed nothing,  but  stopped  my  mouth  with  kisses.  So 
we  went  to  bed;  I  cried,  and  he  went  to  sleep! 
Next  morning  early,  as  his  custom  was,  he  called 
to  rise,  but  began  to  discourse  with  me  first,  to 
which  I  made  no  reply  ;  he  rose,  came  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bed  and  kissed  me,  and  drew  the  cur- 
tains softlv,  and  went  to  court.  When  he  came 
home  to  dinner,  he  presently  came  to  me  as  was 
usual,  and  when  I  had  him  by  the  hand,  I  said, 
'  Thou  dost  not  care  to  see  me  troubled  ;'  to  which 
he,  taking  mc  in  his  arms,  answered,  '  My  dearest 
soul,  nothing  upon  earth  can  afflict  me  like  that: 
But  wbe'i  yon  n«ked  ine  of  my  business,  it  was 
wholly  out  of  my  power  to  satisfy  thee  ;  for  my  life 
and  fortune  shall  be  thine,  and  every  thought  of 
my  heart  in  which  the  trust  I  am  in  may  not  be 
revealed:  But  my  honour  is  my  own;  which  I 
cannot  preserve  if  I   communicate   the   prince's 


182 


HISTORY  AND  fflSTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


affairs ;  and,  pray  thee,  with  this  answer  rest  satis- 
fied.' So  great  was  his  reason  and  goodness,  that, 
upon  consiaeration,  it  made  my  folly  appear  to  me 
so  vile,  that  from  that  d;iy  until  the  day  ol  his 
death,  I  never  thought  fit  to  ask  him  any  business, 
but  what  he  communicated  freely  to  me,  in  order 
to  his  estate  or  family." 

After  the  ill  success  of  the  royal  arms  had 
made  it  necessary  for  the  Prince  to  retire  be- 
yond seas,  Lady  JFanshawe  and  her  husband 
attended  him  to  the  Scilly  Islands.  We  give 
this  natui-dl  and  simple  picture  of  their  dis- 
comforts on  that  expedition : — 

"  The  next  day,  after  having  been  pillaged,  and 
extremely  sick  and  big  with  child,  I  was  set  on 
shore,  almost  dead,  in  the  island  of  Scillv  ;  when 
we  had  got  lo  our  quarters  near  the  casile,  where 
the  prince  lay,  I  went  immediately  to  bed,  which 
was  so  vile  that  my  iooiman  ever  lay  in  a  bciier, 
and  we  had  but  three  in  the  whole  house,  which 
consisted  of  four  rooms,  or  rather  partitions,  two 
low  rooms,  and  two  little  lofis,  wiih  a  ladder  to  go 
up:  in  one  of  these  they  kept  dried  fish,  which  was 
his  trade,  and  in  this  my  husband's  two  clerks  lay  ; 
one  there  was  for  my  sister,  and  one  for  myself, 
and  one  amongst  the  rest  of  the  servants ;  but 
when  1  waked  in  the  morning,  I  was  so  cold  I 
knew  not  what  to  do:  but  the  daylight  discovered 
that  my  bed  was  near  swimming  with  the  sea, 
which  the  owner  told  us  afterwards  it  never  did — 
but  at  spring  tides.^' 

We  must  not  omit  her  last  interview  with 
her  unfortunate  Sovereign,  which  took  place 
at  Hampton  Court,  when  his  star  was  hastening 
to  its  setting!  It  is  the  only  interview  with 
that  unhappy  Prince  of  which  she  has  left 
any  notice  ;  and  is,  undoubtedly,  very  touch- 
ing and  amiable . 

"  During  his  stay  at  Hampton  Court,  my  hus- 
band was  with  him  ;  to  whom  he  was  pleased  to 
talk  much  of  his  concerns,  and  gave  him  three 
credentials  for  Spain,  with  private  instructions,  and 
letters  for  his  service:  But  God.  for  our  sins,  dis- 
posed his  Majesty's  affairs  otherwise.  I  went  three 
times  to  pay  my  duty  to  him,  hoih  as  1  was  the 
daughter  of  his  servant,  and  wife  of  his  servant. 
The  last  time  I  ever  saw  him,  when  I  took  my 
leave,  I  could  not  refrain  from  weeping.  When  he 
had  saluted  me,  I  prayed  to  God  lo  preserve  his 
majesty  with  long  life  and  happy  years;  he  stroked 
me  on  the  cheek,  and  said,  '  Child,  if  God  pleaseih 
it  shall  be  so  !  both  you  and  I  must  submit  to  God's 
will,  and  you  know  in  what  hands  I  am  in  ;'  then 
turning  to  your  father,  he  said.  '  Be  sure,  Dick,  to 
tell  my  son  all  that  I  have  said,  and  deliver  those 
letters  to  my  wile;  pray  God  bless  her!  I  hope  I 
shall  do  well;'  and  taking  him  in  his  arm?,  said, 
'  Thou  hast  ever  been  an  honest  man,  and  I  hope 
God  will  bless  thee,  and  make  thee  a  happy  ser- 
vant to  rny  son.  whom  I  have  charged  in  my  letter 
to  continue  his  love,  and  trust  to  you  ;'  adding,  •  J 
do  promise  you.  that  if  ever  I  am  restored  to  my 
dignity,  I  will  bountifully  reward  you  for  both  your 
service  and  suflR^rinirs.'  Thus  did  we  part  from 
that  glorious  sun,  that  within  a  few  months  after 
was  murdered,  to  the  grief  of  all  Christians  that 
were  not  forsaken  by  God." 

These  are  almost  suflRcient  specimens  of 
the  work  before  us ;  for  it  would  not  be  fair  to 
extract  the  whole  substance  of  it.  However, 
we  must  add  the  following  striking  trait  of 
heroism  and  duvoted  affect  ion,  especially  as 
we  have  sjwken  rather  too  ilisparaginglv  of 
the  fair  writer's  endowment  of  those  qualities. 
In  point  of  courage  and  love  lo  her  husband 
it  is  quite  on  a  level,  perhaps  with  any  of  the 


darings  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson, — though  we  can- 
not say  that  the  occasion  called  so  clearly  foi 
their  display.  During  their  voyage  to  Portu- 
gal, and — 

•'  When  we  had  just  passed  the  Straits,  we  saw 
cominLT  towards  us,  with  full  sails,  a  Turkish  galley 
well  manned,  and  we  believed  we  should  be  al 
carried  away  slaves,  for  this  man  had  so  laden  hii 
ship  svitli  goods  for  Spain,  that  his  guns  were  use 
less,  though  the  ship  carried  si.xty  guns.  Hecallec 
for  brandy,  and  alter  he  had  well  drunken,  and  al 
his  men,  which  were  near  two  hundred,  he  callec 
for  arms,  and  cleared  the  deck  as  well  as  he  could 
resolving  to  fight  rather  than  lose  his  ship,  whicl 
was  worth  30,000Z.  This  was  sad  for  us  passengers 
but  my  husband  bid  us  be  sure  to  keep  in  the  cabin 
and  not  appear,  the  women,  which  wcpuld  make  th' 
Turks  think  that  we  were  a  man-of-war,  but  i 
they  saw  women,  they  would  take  us  tor  merchants 
and  board  us.  He  went  upon  the  deck,  and  took 
gun  and  bandoliers,  and  sword,  and,  with  the  ret 
of  the  ship's  company,  stood  upon  deck  expectin 
the  arrival  of  the  Turkish  man-of-war.  This  beas 
the  captain,  had  locked  me  up  in  the  cabin ;  I  knocl- 
ed  and  called  long  to  no  purpose,  until  at  length  tl 
cabin-boy  caine  and  opened  the  door.  1,  all  i 
tears,  desired  him  to  be  so  aond  as  to  give  me  h 
blue  thrum  cap  he  wore,  and  his  tarred  coat,  whi( 
he  did,  and  I  gave  him  half-a-crown.  and  puttii 
them  on,  and  flinging  away  my  night-clothes, 
crept  up  softly  and  stood  upon  the  deck  by  n 
husband's  side,  as  free  from  si<kntss  and  fear  as 
confess,  from  discretion  ;  but  it  wms  the  effect 
that  passion  w  hich  I  could  never  master. 

"  By  this  lime  the  two  vessels  were  engaged 
parley,  and  so  well  satisfied  with  speech  and  si|^ 
of  each  other's  forces,  that  the  Turks'  man-of-v^ 
tacked  about,  and  we  coniinued  our  course,  f 
when  your  father  saw  it  convenient  to  retreat,  loi 
ing  upon  me.  he  blessed  himself,  and  snatched 
up  in  his  arms,  saying,  '  Good  God,  that  love  i 
make  this  change  I'  and  though  he  seemingly  c  i 
me,  he  would  laugh  at  it  as  often  as  he  remembe  I 
that  voyage." 

What  follows  is  almost  as  strong  a  proof': 
that  '-'love  which  casteth  out  fear;"  whiH 
is  more  unexceptionable  on  the  score  of  p  • 
dence.  Sir  Richard,  being  in  arms  for  i 
King  at  the  fatal  battle  of  Worcester,  was  - 
terwards  taken  prisoner,  and  brought  to  I  - 
don;  to  which  place  his  faithful  consort  - 
mediately  repaired,  where,  in  the  midst  f 
her  anxieties, 

"  1  met  a  messenger  from   him  with  a  le  r, 

which  advised  me  of  his  condition,  and  told  m  e 

was  very  civilly  used,  and  said  little  more,  but  M 

I  should  be  in  some  rootn  at  Ci  aring  Cross,  w  re 

he  had  promise  from  his  keeper  that  he  should  8t 

there  in   my   company  at  dmncr-iime  ;    this  as 

meant  to  him   as  a  great  favour.     I  e.xpet^ed  ui 

with  impatience,  and  on  the  day  appointed  pro^  ;d 

a  dinner  and  room,  as  ordered,  in  which  I  was  iJi 

my  father  and  some  more  of  our  friends,  wl  e, 

alxnit  eleven  of  the  clock,  we  saw  hundred  of 

poor  soldiers,  both  English  and  Scotch,  man  all 

naked  on  foot,  and  jntmy  with  your  fa: her,  ho 

was  very  cheerful  in  appearance  ;  who.  after  h  'sd 

spoken  and  saluted  me  and  his  friends  there,  id, 

!  '  Pray  let  us   not   lose  time,  for  I  know  not  JW 

j  little  I  have  to  spare;  this  is  the  chance  of  ffl 

I  noihing  venture,  nothing  have;   so  let  us  sit   wa 

and  be  merry  whilst   we  may;'  then   takinjliy 

hand  in  his,  and  kissing  me.  'Cease  weepiti  no 

j  other  thing  upon  earth  can  move  nie ;  remtJer 

;  we  are  all  at  God's  disposal.' 

j      '■  During  the  time  of  his  imprisonment,  T   M 

j  not  constantly  to  go,  when  the  clock  struck  i  tM] 

I  the  morning,  with  a  dark  lantern  in  my  ha  »!• 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  TEPYS. 


183 


j  alone  and  on  foot,  from   my  lodging  in   Clinncery  I  coarh,  the  snldirrs  stood  to  tlipir  nrms,   nnd   tlio 

I  Lane,  at  my  cousin  Young's,  to  Whiieiuill.  in  at  |  lieuiennnt  ihai  hrld  tho  col.iurs  displnyinji  ihcm, 
the  entry  that  went  out  of  King  Street  mio  tho  <  which  is  nover  done  to  any  one  hut  km;;!*,  or  such 
bowling-green.  There  1  would  iroundor  his  window  i  as  represent  iluir  por.Hona:  I  stond  still  ull  the 
and  solily  call  him  ;  he,  after  the  first  lime  except-  i  while,  then  lu   ihu  iDweriiig  of  the  olours  lo  the 

I  ed,  never  failed  to  put  out  his  head  at  the  first  call ;  |  giound,  they  receivt'd  for  them  a  low  courtesy  from 
thus  we  talked  together,  and  sometimes  1  was  so  '  me,  and  for  himself  a  liow  ;  then  taking  coach,  with 

jWet  with  the  rain,  that  it  went  in  at  my  neck  and  |  very  many  persona,  hoih  in  conches  and  on  foot,  I 
oul  at  my  heels.     He  direcied  how  I  should  make  I  went  to  iho  diiko's  palace,  where  I  was  iigain  re- 


!my  addresses,  which  I  did  ever  to  their  general, 
ICrOmwell.  who  had  a  great  respect  for  your  father, 
and  would  have  bought  him  off  to  his  service,  upon 
any  terms. 

!  "  Being  one  day  to  solicit  for  my  husband's 
'liberty  for  a  time,  he  bid  me  bring,  the  next  day.  a 
<  crtificate  from  a  physician  that  he  was  really  ill. 
liiiiiiediaiely  1  went  to  Dr.  Katters,  that  was  by 
chiiiice  boih  pliysiciai)  to  Cromwell  and  to  our 
liniily,  who  gave  me  one  very  favourable  in  mv 
husband's  behalf.  I  di'livered  it  at  the  Council 
Chamber,  at  three  of  the  clock  that  afiernoon,  as  j  right  h; 
ihe  commanded  me.  and  he  himself  moved,  that  court 
neeing  they  could  make  no  use  of  his  imprisonment, 
whereby  to  lighten  them  in  their  business,  that  he 
might  have  his  liberty  upon  4000Z.  bail,  to  take  a 
':our.<e  of  phy.'-ic,  he  being  dangerou.sly  ill.  Many 
spake  ag.iiMSt  it ;  but  most  Sir  Henry  Vane,  who 
[said  he  would  be  as  instrumental,  for  ought  he 
knew,  to  hang  them  all  that  sat  there,  if  ever  he 
had  opportunity  ;  but  if  he  had  libeny  for  a  time, 
hat  he  mi^ht  take  the  engagement  before  he  went 
jut;  upoM  whi.-li  Cromwell  said.  'I  never  knew 
;hat  ihe  entraiiement  was  a  medicine  for  the  scor- 
butic !'  They,  hearing  iheir  general  say  so,  thought 
t  obliged  him,  and  so  ordered  him  his  lil)erty  upon 


tail. 


ceived  by  n  guard  of  hia  excellency's,  with  the 
same  ceremony  of  the  king's  colours  as  before. 
Then  I  was  received  by  the  duke's  brother  and 
near  a  hundred  persons  of  ipialiiy.  I  laid  my  hand 
upon  the  wrist  of  his  excellency's  right  hand;  he 
putting  his  cloak  thereupon,  ns  the  Spanish  fashion 
IS,  went  up  the  stairs,  upon  the  lop  of  which  stood 
the  duchess  ami  her  daughter,  who  received  me  with 
great  civiliiy,  pulling  me  into  every  door,  and  all 
my  children,  till  we  came  lo  sit  down  in  her  excel- 
lency's chamber,  where  she  placed  me  upon  her 
d,  u|ion  cushions,  as  ihe  fashion  of  this 
being  very  rich,  and  laid  upon  Persian 
carpets." 

"  The  two  dukes  embraced  my  husband  with 
great  kindness,  welcoming  him  to  the  place,  and 
the  Duke  of  Medina  Cell  hd  me  to  my  coach,  an 
honour  ihat  he  had  never  done  any  but  once,  when 
he  waited  on  your  queen  to  help  her  on  the  like 
occasion.  The  Duke  d'Ahala  led  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, and  the  younger  led  my  second,  and  the  (Jov- 
ernor  of  Cadiz,  hon  Anionio  de  Pimeniel,  led  the 
third.     Mrs.  Kestian  carried  Betty  iii  her  arms." 

There  is  great  chaice  of  this  sort  for  those 
who  like  it;  and  not  a  little  of  thn  more 
solemn  and  still  duller  discussion  of  diplomatic 
etitjuette  and  precedence.  But,  iiide])eii(lent 
of  these,  and  of  the  geiiealoiries  and  obitua- 
rie.s,  which  are  not  altogether  without  interest, 


These  are  specimens  of  what  we  think  nest 
the  work :  but.  as  there  may  be  readers 

1  1.^  11.1         '         .,  1-11  •    .■        I  lie's,  wiiicji  ftrc^  iiui  ctiioiifiiiKr  wiinuui 

vho  would  take  an  interest  iii  her  description  i  .u    '    •  u  j    .v,    7  u       .         i 

r         .  .1*11.'  there  IS  enough  both  ot  heart,  and  s 

»f  court  ceremonies,  or,  at  least,  like  to  see      ,  ,■        ■     .u  •  '     . 

1  ',     '  ,'  ,1  1    ,      observation,  in  these  memoirs,  at  oi 

low  she  manages  them,  we  shall  conclude  '  ' 

nth  a  little  fragTTient  of  such  a  description. 


sense,  and 
ice  to  re- 
pay gentle   and    intelligent   readers   for  the 
trouble  of  perusing   them,  and   to    stamj)  a 
This  afiernoon  I  went  to  pay  my  visit  to  the  j  character  of  amiableriess  and    respectability 
)uchess  of  Albuquerque.     When  1  came  to  take  i  on  the  memory  of  their  author. 


(INTorfmbcr  1S25.) 


lemoirs  of  S.\muel  Pepys.  Esq.  F.R.S.,  Secretary  to  the  Ailmiraltij  in  the  Rcign  of  Charles 
II.  and  James  II.,  comprisins  hi.f  Diary  from  1659  to  1()G9,  deciphered  bij  the  Rev.  John 
Smith,  A.  5.,  of  St.  Johih  College,  Cambridge,  from  the  oriiiincd  Shorthand  MS.  m  the 
Pepysian  Library,  and  a  Selection  from  /t/.s  Private  Correspondence.  Edited  by  Kiciiard 
Lord  Br.wbrooke.     2  vols.  4to.     London:  1825. 


We  have  a  great  indulgence,  we  confess, 
•r  the  taste,  or  curiosity,  or  whatever  it  may 
2  called,  that  gives  its  value  to  such  publica- 
ons  as  this;  and  are  inclined  to  think  the 
;sire  of  knowing,  pretty  minutely,  the  man- 
ors and  htibits  of  former  times. — of  undcr- 
aiiding.  in  all  their  detaiks,  the  character  and 
(Unary  way  of  life  and  conversation  of  our 
refathers — a  very  liberal  and  laudable  de- 
re  ;  and  by  no  means  to  be  confounded  with 
at  hankering  after  contemporary  slander, 
ith  which  this  age  is  so  miserably  infested, 
id  80  justly  reproached.  It  is  not  only  curi- 
is  to  see  from  what  beginnings,  and  by  what 
sps.  we  have  come  to  be  what  we  are  : — 
It  It  is  most  important,  for  the  future  and 
I  'he  present,  to  ascertain  what  practices, 


I  and  tastes,  and  principles,  have  been  com- 
monly found  associated  or  disunhed  :  And 
as,  in  uncultivated  lands,  we  can  often  judge 

I  of  their  inherent  fertility  by  the  quality  of  the 
weeds  they   spontaneously  produce  —  so  we 

'may  icani.  by  such  an  inspection  of  the  moral 
LTi'owths  of  a  country,  comptired  with  its  sub- 
sequent history,  what  prevailing  manners  are 
indicative  of  vice  or  of  virtue — what  existing 
follies   foretell   approaching  wistlom  —  what 

j  forms  of  licentiou.sness  give  promise  of  com- 

jing  purity,  and  what  of  deeper  degradation — 
what  uncertain  lights,  in  short,  announce  the 
rising,  and  what  the  setting  sun  !  While,  in 
like  manner,  we  may  trace  in  the  same  re<-ord8 
the  connection  of  public  and  private  morality, 
and  the  mutual  action  and  reaction  of  govern- 


184 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


mpnt  and  manners ; — and  discover  what  indi- 
vidual corruptions  spring  from  political  dis- 
honour—  what  domestic  profligacy  leads  to 
the  sixcritice  of  freedom — and  what  national 
virtues  are  most  likely  to  resist  the  oppres- 
sions, or  vield  to  the  seductions  of  courts. 

Of  all  these  things  History  tells  us  little — 
and  yet  they  are  the  most  important  that  she 
could  have  been  employed  in  recording.  She 
has  been  contented,  however,  for  the  most 
part,  with  detailing  merely  the  broad  and  ap- 
parent results — the  great  public  events  and 
transactions,  in  which  the  true  working  prin- 
ciples of  its  destiny  have  their  end  and  con- 
summation ;  antl  points  only  to  the  wrecks  or 
tJie  triumphs  that  float  down  the  tide  of  human 
aflairs,  without  giving  us  any  light  as  to  those 
ground  currents  by  which  its  central  masses 
are  governed,  and  of  which  those  superficial 
appearances  are.  in  most  cases,  the  necessary 
though  unsuspected  eff"ects. 

Every  one  feels,  we  think,  how  necessary 
this  information  is,  if  we  wish  to  understand 
what  antiquity  really  was,  and  what  manner 
of  men  existed  in  former  generations.  How 
vague  and  un.satisfactory,  without  it,  are  all 
public  annals  and  records  of  dynasties  and 
battles — of  how  little  interest  to  private  indi- 
viduals— of  how  little  use  even  to  philosophers 
and  statesmen  !  Before  we  can  apply  any 
example  in  history,  or  even  comprehend  its 
fictual  import,  we  must  know  somethmg  of 
the  character,  both  of  the  age  and  of  the  per- 
sons to  which  it  belongs — and  understand  a 
good  deal  of  the  temper,  tastes,  and  occupa- 
tions, both  of  the  actors  and  the  sufferers. — 
Good  and  evil,  in  truth,  change  natures,  with 
a  change  of  those  circumstances  ;  and  we 
may  be  lamenting  as  the  most  intolemble  of 
calamities,  what  was  scarcely  felt  as  an  inflic- 
tion, by  those  on  whom  it  fell.  Without  this 
knowledge,  therefore,  the  most  striking  and 
imjwrtant  events  are  mere  wonders,  to  be 
stared  at — altogether  barren  of  instruction — 
and  probably  leading  us  astray,  even  as  occa- 
sions of  sympathy  or  moral  emotion.  Those 
minute  details,  hi  short,  which  History  has  so 
often  rejected  as  below  her  dignity,  are  indis- 
pensable to  give  life,  certainty,  or  reality  to 
her  delineations ;  and  we  should  have  little 
hesitation  in  asserting,  that  no  history  is  really 
worth  any  thing,  unless  it  relate  to  a  people 
and  an  age  of  which  we  have  also  those  hum- 
bler and  more  private  memorials.  It  is  not  in 
the  irrand  tragedy,  or  rather  the  epic  fictions, 
of  History,  that  we  learn  the  true  condition  of 
former  ages — the  real  character  of  past  gene- 
rations, or  even  the  actual  etrects  that  were 
produced  on  society  or  individuals  at  the  time, 
by  the  great  events  that  are  there  so  solemnly 
recorded.  If  we  have  not  some  remnants  or 
some  infusion  of  the  Comedy  of  middle  life, 
we  neither  have  any  idea  of  the  state  and 
Cfjlour  of  the  general  existence,  nor  any  just 
understanding  of  the  transactions  about  which 
we  are  reading. 

For  what  we  know  of  the  ancient  Greeks 
for  e.vample — for  all  that  enables  us  to  ima- 
gine what  sort  of  tbing  it  would  have  been  to 
have  lived  among  them,  or  even  what  effects 


were  produced   on  the  society  of  Athens  or 
Sparta  by  the  battles  of  Marathon  or  Salaruis 
we  are  indebted  not  so  much  to  the  histories 
of  Herodotus.  Xenophon,  or  Thucydides,  aj 
to  the  Deipnosophists  of  Athenaeus — the  anec 
dotes  of  Plutarch — the  introductory  and  iuci 
dental  passages  of  the  Platonic  dialogues— 
the  details  of  some  of  the  private  orations— 
and  partsof  the  plays  of  Plautus  and  Terence 
apparently  copied  from  the  Greek  comedies 
For  our  personal  knowledge  of  the  Romans 
ag-ain,  we  do  not  look  to  Livy.  or  Dionysius-i 
or  even  to  Cssar,  Sallust,  or  Tacitus;  but  t<. 
Horace,    Petronius,   Juvenal,    and    the   othe 
satirists — to  incidental  notices  in  the  Oration'! 
and  Dialogues  of  Cicero — and  above  all  to  Jii! 
invaluable  letters, — followed  up  by  those  O; 
Pliny, — to  intimations  in  Plutarch,  and  Senecfi 
and  Lucian — to  the  books  of  the  Civil  lav,-' 
and   the   biographies   and   anecdotes  of  th 
Empire,  from  Suetonius  to  Procopiur..    Of  tli 
feudal  times — the  heroic  age  of  modern  Et 
rope — we  have  fortunately  more  abundant  an; 
minute  information,  both  in  the  Romances  ci 
chivalry,  which   embody  all    the   details  c, 
upper  life;  and  in  the  memoirs  and  chronich; 
of  such  writers  as  Commines  and  Froissai; 
which  are  filled  with  so  many  individual  pit) 
turesand  redujidant  particularities,  as  to  leati 
us  scarcely  any  thing  more  to  learn  or  to  wifi 
for,  as  to  the  manners  and  character,  the  let, 
per  and   habits,  and   even  the  daily  life  ai! 
conversation  of  the  predominating  classes  i 
society,  who  then   stood   for  every  thing 
those  countries:    And,  even  with  regard 
their   serfs   and   A-assals,  we  are  not  with* 
most  distinct  and  intelligible  lights — both! 
scattered  pas.sages  of  the  works  we  have  il 
ready  referred   to,  in  various  ancient  ballal 
and  legends  relating  to  their  condition,  mid] 
such  invaluable  records  as  the  humorous  a| 
more  familiar  tales  of  our  immortal  Chanc] 
For  the   character   and   ordinary  life  of  c! 
more  immediate  ancestry,  we  mav  be  said 
owe  our  chief  knowledge  of  it  to  Sliakcspea 
and  the  comic  dramatists  by  whom  he  v 
succeeded — reinforced  and  supported  by  1 
infinite  quantity  of  obscure  and  insignific; 
matter  which  the  industry  of  his  comineii 
tors  has  brought  back  to  light  for  his  elucii 
tion — and  which  the  matchless  charm  of  • 
popularity  has  again  rendered  both  interest.' 
and  familiar.    The  manners  and  habits  of  si 
later  times  are  known  to  us.  not  byanymeis 
by  our  public  histories,  but  by  the  writers' 
farces  and  comedies,  polite  essays.  libel?.:  I 
satires — by  collections  of  private  letters.  I ; 
those  of   Gray,   Swift,  Arbnthiiof,  and  LI 
Orford — by  private  memoirs  or  jmiriials,  s'  i 
as  those  of  Mrs.  Lucy  Hulchiiisoi',    Swi^ 
Journal   to  Stella,  and   Doddiniiton's  Diar- 
and.  in  still  later  times,  by  the  best  of  our  \' 
and  -satirical  novels — by  caricature  print.s-y 
the  better  newsjiapeis  and  ma<ra zincs, —  I 
by  various  minute  accounts  (in  the  marine  f 
Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson)  of  the  private  e 
and  conversation  of  distinguished  individu*. 
The  work  before  us  relates  to  a  perioc  f 
which   we   have   already  very  considered 
memorials.     But  it   is,   notwithstanding,  f 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMl'KL  PEPVS 


185 


very  great   interest  and   curiosity.     A  good  I 
.  ileal  ot  what  it  contains  derives,  no  doubt,  its  ] 
I  chief  interest  from  having  happened  one  hun-  | 
i  dred  and  eighty  years  agv:  But  there  is  little 
of  it  that  does  not.  for  that  very  reason,  throw 
valuable  lights  on  our  intermediate  history. 
It  consists,  as  the  title  shows,  of  a  very  minute 
and  copious  Diary,  continued  from  the  year 
1659  to   1669 — and  a  correspondence,  much 
:  less  perfect  and  continuous,  down  nearly  to 
I  the  death  of  the  author  in  1703.    Fortunately 
ifor  the  public  part  of  the  story,  the  autho'r 
was,  from  the  very  beginning,  in  immediate 
(contact  with  persons  in  high  orfice  and  about 
icourt — and,  still  more  fortunately  for  the  pri- 
vate part,  seems  to  have  been  possessed  of 
the  most  extraordinary  activity,  and  the  most 
:indi5crimhiating.  insatiable,  and  miscellane- 
ous curiosity,   that   ever   prompted    the   re- 
isearches,   or   supplieil   the   pen,    of  a   daily 
chronicler.     Although   excessively  busy  and 
idiUgent  in  liis  attendance  at   his  olRce,  he 
ifinds  time  to  go  to  every  play,  to  every  exe- 
cution, to  every  procession,  tire,  concert,  riot, 
trial,  review,  city  feast,  public  dissection,  or 
ipicture  gallery  that  he  can  hear  of.     Nay, 
there  seems  scarcely  to  have  been  a  school 
examination,  a  wedding,  christening,  charity 
isermon,  bull-baiting,  philosophical  meeting, 
|0r  private  merry-making  in   his   neighbour- 
hood, at  which  he  was  not  sure  to  make  his 
lappearance,  and   mindful   to  record   all   the 
[particulars.     He  is  the  lirst  to  hear  all  the 
.court  scandal,  and  all  the  public   news — to 
iobserve   the   changes   of   fashions,   and   the 
jdownfal  of  parties — to  pick  up  family  gossip, 
land   to   retail   philosophical   intelligence — to 
criticise  every  new  house  or  carriage  that  is 
jbuilt — every  new  book  or   new  beauty  that 
iappears — every   measure    the    King  adopts, 
land  every  mistress  he  discards. 
j    For  the  rest  of  his  character,  he  appears  to 
[have  been  an  easy  tempered,  compassionate, 
land  kind  man  :  combining  an  extraordinary 
|:liiigence  and  regularity  in  his  otiicial  busi- 
kiess  and  domestic  economy,  with  a  singular 
|love  of  gossip,  amusement,  and  all  kinds  of 
miscellaneous  infonnation — a  devoted  attach- 
jment,  and  almost  ludicrous  admiration  of  his 
kife,  with  a  wonderful  devotion  to  the  King's 
nistresses,  and  the  fair  sex  in  general,  and 
■ather  a  suspicious  familiarity  with  various 
pretty  actresses  and  suigers :  and,  above  all, 
I  practical  sag-acity  and  cunning  in  the  man- 
igement  of  aflairs.  with  so  much  occasional 
sredulity,  puerility,  and  folly,  as  would  often 
empt  us  to  set  him  down   for   a  driveller. 
Though  born  with  good  blood   in  his  veins. 
md  a  kinsman,  indeed,  of  his  great  patron, 
he  first  Earl  of  Sandwich,  he  had  nothing  to 
wast  of  in  his  immediate'  progenitors,  being 
)orn  the  son  of  a  tailor  in  London,  and  enter- 
ng  on  life  in  a  state  of  the  utmo.st  poverty.  It 
vas  probably  from  this  ignoble  vocation  of  his 
ather,  that  he  derived  that  hereditary  taste 
or  dress  which  makes  such  a  conspicuous 
re  in  his  Diary.     The  critical  and  affec- 
lOnate  notices  of  doublets,  cloaks,  beavers, 
riwigs,  and  sword-belt-s,  actually  outnum- 
ring,  we  think,  all  the  entries  on  any  other 
24 


subject  whatever,  and  plainly  engrossing,  even 
in  the  most  agitating  circumstances,  no  small 
share  of  the  authors  attention.  Perhaps  it  is 
to  the  s;ime  blot  m  hi.s  scutcheon,  that  we 
should  trace  a  certain  want  of  manliness  in 
his  w  hole  ehanicter  and  ileporlment.  Certain 
it  is  at  lea?t,  that  there  is  room  for  such  an 
imputation.  He  appears  beiore  us.  from  lirst 
to  last,  with  the  true  temper,  habits,  and  man- 
ners of  an  Umh  rling — obsecpiious  to  his  supe- 
riors— civil  and  .smooth  to  all  men — lavish  in 
attentions  to  persons  of  influence  whom  he 
dislikes — and  afraid  and  ashametl  of  being 
seen  with  his  best  friends  and  benefactors, 
when  they  are  supposed  to  be  out  of  favour 
— most  solicitous  to  keep  out  of  (juarrels  ol 
sorts — and  ensuring  his  own  safety,  not 
only  by  too  humble  and  pacific  a  bearing  in 
scenes  of  contention,  but  by  such  stretches  of 
simulation  and  dissimulation  as  we  cannot 
easily  reconcile  to  onr  notion  of  a  brave  and 
honourable  man. 

To  such  an  extent,  indeed,  is  this  carried, 
that,  though  living  in  times  of  great  actual, 
and  greater  apprehended  changes,  it  is  with 
difficulty  that  we  can  gues.s,  even  from  this 
most  copious  and  unreserved  record  of  his  in- 
most thoughts,  what  were  really  his  political 
opinions,  or  whether  he  ever  had  any.  We 
learn,  indeed,  from  one  passage,  that  in  his 
early  jouth  he  had  been  an  ardent  Round- 
head, and  had  in  that  capacity  attended  with 
exultation  the  execution  of  the  King — observ- 
ing to  one  of  his  companions  at  the  time,  that 
if  he  had  been  to  make  a  sermon  on  the  occa- 
sion, he  would  have  chosen  for  his  text  the 
words,  "The  memory  of  the  wicked  shall 
rot."  This,  to  be  sure,  was  when  he  was 
only  in  his  eighteenth  year — but  he  seems 
afterwards  to  have  acci'pted  of  a  small  ofhce 
in  the  Republican  Court  of  Exchequer,  of 
which  he  is  in  po.«session  for  some  time  after 
the  commencement  of  his  Diary.  That  w  ork 
beirins  in  January  1659.  while  ^lonk  was  on 
his  march  from  Scotland ;  and  yet,  not  only 
does  he  continue  to  frequent  the  society  of 
Harrington,  Hazlerigge,  and  other  staunch 
republicans,  but  never  once  expresses  any 
wish  of  his  own.  either  for  the  restoration  of 
the  Royalty,  or  the  continuance  of  the  Pro- 
tectorate, till  after  he  is  actually  at  sea  with 
Lord  Sandwich,  with  the  ships  that  brought 
Charles  back  from  Breda  !  After  the  Restora- 
tion is  consolidated,  indeed,  and  he  has  got  a 
good  otiice  in  the  Admiralty,  he  has  recorded, 
amply  enough,  his  anxiety  for  the  permanency 
of  the  ancient  djniasty — though  he  cannot 
help,  every  now  and  then,  reprobating  the 
profligacy,  wastefulness,  and  neglect  of  the 
new  government,  and  contrasting  them  disad- 
vant.'igeously  with  the  economy,  energy,  and 
popularity,  of  most  of  the  measures  ot  the 
Usurper.  While  we  give  him  credit,  therc- 
fore,  for  great  candour  and  impartiality  in  the 
privalc  judgments  which  he  has  here  record- 
ed, we  can  scarcely  pay  him  the  compliment 
of  saying  that  he  Has  a'ny  political  pnnciplea 
wluitever — or  an)-,  at  least,  for  which  he 
would  ever  have  dreamed  of  hazarding  his 
own  worldly  prosperity. 
<l2 


186 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


Another  indication  of  the  same  low  and 
ignoble  turn  of  mind  is  to  be  found,  we  think, 
in  his  penurious  anxiety  about  his  money — 
the  intense  satisfaction  with  which  he  watches 
its  increase,  and  the  soiclid  and  vulgar  cares 
to  which  he  condescends,  to  check  its  ex- 
penditure. Even  after  he  is  in  possession  of 
a  great  income,  he  goes  and  sits  by  the  tailor 
till  he  sees  him  sew  all  the  buttons  on  his 
doublet — and  spends  four  or  five  hours,  of  a 
very  busy  day,  in  watching  the  coach-maker 
laying  on  the  coats  of  varnish  on  the  body  of 
his  coach!  When  he  givi'S a  dinner,  he  knows 
exactly  what  every  dish  has  co.st  him — and 
tells  a  long  story  of  his  paddling  half  the 
night  with  his  fingers  ia  the  ilirt.  digging  up 
some  money  he  had  buiied  in  a  garden,  and 
conveying  it  with  his  own  hands,  with  many 
fears  and  contrivances,  safely  back  to  his 
house.  With  all  this,  however,  he  is  charit- 
able to  the  poor,  kind  to  his  servants  and  de- 
pendents, and  very  indulgent  to  all  the  mem- 
bers of  his  family — though  we  find  him  chron- 
icling his  own  munificence  ni  helping  to  fit 
out  his  wife's  brother,  when  he  goes  abroad 
to  push  his  fortune,  by  presenting  him  with 
"  ten  shillmgs— and  a  coat  that  I  had  by  me 
— a  close-bodied,  light-coloured,  cloth  coat — 
with  a  gold  edging  on  each  seam — that  was 
the  lace  of  my  wife's  best  petticoat,  when  I 
married  her!'' 

As  we  conceive,  a  good  ileal,  not  only  of 
the  interest,  but  of  the  authority  and  just 
construction  of  the  information  contahied  in 
the  work,  depends  on  the  reader  having  a 
correct  knowledge  of  the  individual  by  whom 
it  is  furnished,  we  think  we  cannot  do  better 
than  begin  our  extracts  with  a  few  citations 
illustrative  of  the  author's  own  character, 
habits,  and  condition,  as  we  have  already  at- 
tempted to  sketch  them.  The  very  first  entry 
exhibits  some  of  his  peculiarities.  He  was 
then  oidy  twenty-seven  years  of  age — and 
had  been  received,  though  not  with  much 
honour,  into  the  house  of  his  kinsman  Sir  Ed- 
ward Montague,  afterwards  Earl  of  Sandwich. 
This  is  his  condition  in  the  beginnhigof  1659. 

"Jan.  1st  (Lord's  day).  This  morning,  (we 
living  lately  in  the  srtirrel.)  I  rose,  put  on  my  suit 
with  great  skirls,  having  not  lately  worn  any  other 
cloihes  but  them.  Went  10  Mr  (jiinning's  chapel 
at  Exeter  House,  <fc.c.  Dined  at  home  in  the  garret, 
where  my  wiliR  dressed  the  remains  of  a  turkey, 
and  in  the  doin<r  of  it  she  burned  her  hand.  I  staid 
at  home  the  whole  aficrnoon.  looking  over  my  ac- 
counts ;  then  went  wiih  my  wjte  to  my  father's,  &,c. 
— 2d.  From  the  Hall  I  called  ai  home,  and  so  went 
to  Mr.  Crewe's  (my  wife  she  was  to  go  to  her 
father's),  and  Mr  Moore  and  land  another  gentle- 
man went  out  and  drank  a  cup  of  ale  loirelher  in  the 
new  market,  and  there  I  eat  some  bread  and  cheese 
for  my  dinner." 

His  passion  for  dress  breaks  out  in  every 
page  almost ;  but  we  shall  insert  only  one  or 
two  of  the  early  entries,  to  give  the  reader  a 
notion  of  the  style  of  it. 

"  10th.  This  day  I  put  on  my  new  silk  suit,  the 
first  lliat  ever  I  wore  in  mv  life. — l'2th.  Home,  and 
called  my  wife,  and  ti'ok  her  to  Clodins'  to  a  great 
wedding  of  Nan  Harllil>  (o  Mynheer  Roder,  which 
was  kept  at  Goring  Hou.sc  "  ith  very  great  stale, 
cost,   atid  noble   company.     But    among  all  liie 


beauties  there,  my  wife  was  thought  the  greatest.— 
13th.  Up  early,  the  first  day  that  I  put  on  my  blacf 
camlett  coat  wiih  silver  buttons.  To  Mr.  Spong 
whom  I  found  in  his  night-gown,  &.c. — 14th.  Ti 
the  Privy  Seale,  and  thence  to  my  Lord's,  when 
Mr.  Pirn  the  tailor  and  I  agreed  upon  making  me  ; 
velvet  coat. — 25th.  This  night  W.  Hewer  brough 
me  home  from  Mr.  Pirn's  my  velvet  coal  and  cap 
the  first  that  ever  I  had.  This  the  first  day  tha 
ever  I  saw  my  wife  wear  black  paulies  since  w 
were  married. — My  wife  seemed  very  pretty  to-day 
it  being  the  first  time  I  had  given  her  leave  to  wear 
a  black  patch. — 22d.  This  morning,  hearing  that  ih 
Queene  grows  worse  again,  I  sent  lo  stop  ilic  mak 
ing  of  my  velvet  cloak,  till  I  see  wheihtr  she  live 
or  dies. — 30ih.  To  my  great  sorrow  find  mysel 
43Z.  worse  than  I  was  the  last  monih,  which  w:i 
then  760^.,  and  now  it  is  but  717L  But  it  hat 
chiefly  arisen  from  my  layings  out  in  clothes  f( 
myself  and  wife;  viz.  for  her  about  127.  and  ii 
myself  55/..  or  thereabouis  ;  having  made  mysell 
velvet  cloak,  two  new  cloth  skirts,  black,  pla: 
both  ;  a  new  shag  gown,  trimmed  with  gold  bu 
Ions  and  twist,  wiih  a  new  hat,  and  silk  tops  !orm 
legs,  and  many  other  things,  being  resolved  lienc( 
forward  lo  go  like  myself.  And  also  two  perriwigg 
one  whereof  costs  me  3/.  and  the  other  40."!.  1  ha> 
worn  neither  yet,  but  will  begin  next  week,  Gi 
willing. — 29ih.  Lord's  day.  This  mormng  I  p, 
on  my  best  black  eloih  suit,  trimmed  with  scarlei 
ribbon,  \ery  neat,  with  my  cloak  lined  wiih  velvelj 
and  a  new  l)eaver,  which  altogeiher  is  very  nobL 
with  my  black  silk  knit  canons  1  bought  a  men 
ago. — 30ih.  Up,  and  put  on  a  new  smnmer  blac 
l)ombazin  suit;  and  beine  come  now  to  an  agre, 
merit  with  my  barber  to  keep  my  perriwig  in  got, 
order  at  20.«.  a  year,  I  am  like  to  gi)  very  sprucj 
more  than  I  used  to  do. — 31si.  This  day  1  gol, 
little  rent  in  my  new  fine  camlett  c'loak  with  t 
latch  ol  8irG.  Carteret's  door;  l)Ut  it  is  darned 
at  my  tailor's,  that  ii  will  be  no  great  blemish  io 
but  it  troubled  me." 

This,  we  suppose,  is  enough — though  the 
are  more  than  five  hundred  such  notices  att., 
service  of  any  curious  reader.    It  may  be  smj 
posed  what  a  treat  a  Coronation  would  be  » 
such  a  fancier  of  line  clothes  :  and  according' 
we  have  a  most  rapturous  description  of  it, 
all  its  glory.    The  King  and  the  Duke  of  Yc 
in  their  morning  dresses  were,  it  seems,  ''t 
very  plain  men  ;"  but.  when  attired  in  th 
"most  rich  embroidered  suits  and  cloaks,  th 
looked  mo.st  noble."  Indeed,  after  some  tin 
he  assures  us,  that  "  the  show  was  so  gloric 
with  gold  and  silver,  that  we  are  not  able 
look  at  it  any  longer,  our  eyes  being  so  ran 
overcome  !" 

Asa  specimen  of  the  credulity  and  tircul 
which  constitutes  another  of  the  slajiles 
this  collection,  the  reader  may  take  the  1 
lowing. 

"  19ih.  Waked  wiih  a  very  high  wind,  and  s 
to  my  wife,  '  I  pray  God  I  hear  not  ol  ihc  death 
any  great  person, — Tins  wind  is  so  high  !'  fear 
that  the  Queene  might  be  dead.  So  up  ;  and  go 
by  coach  with  Sir  W.  Batten  and  Sir  .1.  Minncs 
.'Si.  Jnmes',  they  tell  me  thai  Sir  W.  Compion,  v  ' 
it  is  true  had  been  a  little  sickly  for  a  week  or  fc 
night,  but  was  very  well  upon  Friday  night  last  ■• 
the  Tangier  Committee  with  us.  was  dead. — djl 
yesterday:  at  which  I  was  inost  exrefdiiigly  s} 
prised. — he  being,  and  ."O  all  the  world  saying  t'| 
he  was,  one  of  the  worihyest  nuti  a7td  bent  oj}icert\ 
State  now  in  Enalund  I 

"23d.  To  Westminster  Abbey,  and  there  ;l 
see  all  the  tombs  very  finely  ;  having  one  with  ;> 
alone  (there  being  no  oiher  company  this  day  to  '5 
the  tombs,  it  being  Shrove- Tuesday):  and  here  J 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


187 


'did  see,  by  particular  favour,  the  body  of  Queen 
IKatherine  of  Valois  ; — and  I  had  the  upper  part  of 
jherbody  in  my  hands, — and  I  did  kiss  her  niouih  ! 
j — reflecting  upon  it  that  I  did  kiss  a  quceno,  and 
■that  this  was  my  birth  day, — thirty-six  years  old! 
— that  I  did  kiss  a  qneene  !  But  here  this  man,  who 
seems  to  understand  well,  tolls  nie  that  tlie  saying 
,is  not  true  that  she  was  never  buried, — for  she  was 
.buried. — Only  when  Henry  the  Seventh  built  his 
chapel,  she  was  taken  up  and  laid  in  this  wooden 
coffin ;  but  I  did  there  see  that  in  it  the  body  was 
buried  in  a  leaden  one,  which  remains  under  ilie 
body  to  this  day,  «Slc.  &c. — 29th.  We  sal  under  the 
iboxes,  and  saw  the  fine  ladies ;  among  others,  my 
•Lady  Kcrneguy,  who  is  most  devilishly  painted. 
And  so  homt — it  being  mighty  pleasure  to  go  alone 
with  my  poor  wile  in  a  coach  of  our  own  to  a  plav  I 
and  ma'kes  us  appear  mighty  great,  I  think,  in  the 
w.uld;  at  least,  greater  than  ever  I  could,  or  my 
fririiils  for  me,  have  once  expected;  or,  I  think, 
than  ever  any  of  my  family  ever  yet  lived  in  mv 
imenidry — but  my  cosen  Pepys  in  Salisbury  Court.'' 

Or    the    following    memorandums  of   his 
I  travels. 

I  "  A  mighty  cold  and  windy,  but  clear  day  ;  and 
ihRd  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  Medway  running 
twMuiing  up  and  down  mightily, — and  a  very  fine 
'country  :  and  I  went  a  little  out  of  the  way  to  have 
vjitcd  .Sir  John  Bankes.  but  he  at  I/ondon  ;  but  here 
I  had  a  sight  ot  his  seat  and  house,  the  outside,  which 
is  an  old  abbey  just  like  Hinchingbroke.  and  as 
fgood  at  least,  and  mightily  finely  placed  by  the 
'river;  and  he  keeps  the  grounds  about  it.  and 
walks  and  the  house,  very  handsome  :  I  was  might- 
ily pleased  with  the  sight  of  it.  Thence  to  Mnyd- 
stone.  which  I  had  a  mighty  mind  to  see.  having 
never  been  there;  and  walked  all  up  and  down  the 
■'town, — and  up  to  the  top  of  the  steeple — and  bad  a 
noble  view,  and  then  down  again  :  and  in  the  town 
did  see  an  old  man  beating  of  flax  !  and  did  step 
into  the  barn  and  give  him  money,  and  savv  that 
ipiece  of  husbandry,  which  I  never  saw ;  and  it  is 
|very  pretty  !  In  the  street  also  I  did  buy  and  send 
|io  our  iinie  the  Bell,  a  dish  of  fresh  fish.  And  so 
ihaving  walked  all  round  the  town,  and  found  it  very 
jpretty  as  most  towns  I  ever  saw,  though  not  very 
big.  and  people  of  good  fashion  in  it,  we  to  our  inne 
and  had  a  good  dinner  ;  and  a  barber  came  to  me 
and  there  triutmed  me.  that  I  might  be  clean  against 
night  to  BO  to  Mrs.  Allen.  &c. 

"  So  all  over  the  plain  by  the  sight  of  the  steeple 
kthe  plain  luL'h  and  low)  to  Salisbury  by  night ;  but 
before  I  came  to  the  town,  I  saw  a  great  fortifica- 
tion, and  there  light,  and  to  it  and  in  it !  and  find  it 
prodigious  !  so  as  to  fright  me  to  be  in  it  all  alone. 
at  that  time  of  night — it  being  dark.     I  uiidersiand 
since  it  lo  be  that  that  is  called  Old  Sarum.    C<me 
to  ihe  George  Inne,  where  lay  in  a  silk  bed  ;  and 
very  good  diet,  &,c.  &c. — 2-2d.  So  the  three  women 
lli'hind  W.  Hewer.  Murford,  and  our  guide,  and  I 
finirie  to  Stonehenge,  over  the  plain,  and  some  s^renl 
hilh.  even  to  frlrrht  us!    Come  thither,  and  find 
■them  as  prodigious  an  any  tales  I  ever  heard  of 
liheni,  and  worth  going  this  journey  to  see.     Cod 
knosvs  what  their  use  was:  they  are  hard  to  tell, 
nil  yet  may  be  told. — 12th.   Friday.     Up,  finding 
beds  good,  but  lousy;  which  made  us  merry  ! 
'th.     Up,  and  got  ready,  and  eat  our  breakfast ; 
nd  then   took  coach  :  and  the  poor,  as  they  did 
esterday,  did  stand  at  the  coach  to  have  something 
iven  them,  as  they  do  to  all  great  persons;  and  1 
d  give  them  somethirg!  and  the  town  ninsic  did 

tiso  come  and  play;  but.  Lord!  what  s;id  rnii-ic 
-hey  made  !  So  through  the  town,  and  observed  at 
pur  College  of  Magdalene  the  posts  unn  paittted  ! 
and  under-tand  that  the  Vice-Chancellor  is  there 
[this  year." 

L  Though  a  great  playgoer,  we  cannot  say 
uch  for  his  taste  in  plays,  or  indeed  in  litera- 
fi  ure  in  generah    Of  the  Midsummer's  Dream. 


he  says,  "it  is  the  most  insipid,  ridiculous 
play  I  ever  saw  in  my  life."  And  he  is  al- 
most equally  dis.«Htisfied  with  the  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,  and  Henry  lite  IV.  To  make 
amends,  however,  for  these  misjudgments,  he 
is  often  much  inoveil  bv  the  concord  of  sweet 
soundti;  and  lia.><,  in  the  following  passage, 
described  the  i-llects  they  protluced  on  him, 
in  a  way  that  mu.st  be  admitted  to  be  original 
The  Virgin  Maityr  (of  Massingcr),  he  says, 
w.'i-s  "miglity  jjleasant !  Not  that  the  jday  is 
wortli  much,  but  it  is  finely  acted  by  Reck 
Marsliall.  But  that  wliich  did  please  Ine  be- 
yond any  thing  in  the  wliole  world,  was  the 
wind-musicjue  when  the  angel  comes  down  : 
which  is  so  sweet  that  it  ravit^hed  me,  and 
indeed,  in  a  word,  did  wrap  up  my  soul,  so 
that  it  made  me  rcaJh]  sic): ! — just  as  /  have 
formerly  been  vhrn  in  tore  u-ith  my  vife  !'' 

Though  -'mighty  merry"  upon  all  occa- 
sions, and,  like  gentle  dulness,  ever  loving  a 
joke,  we  are  afraid  he  had  not  much  relish  for 
wit.  His  perplexity  at  the  success  of  Hudibras 
is  exceedingly  ludicrous.  This  is  his  own 
account  of  his  first  attempt  on  him — 

"Hither  come  Mr.  Baitersby;  and  we  falling 
into  discourse  of  a  iifvi  hook  of  droUiry  in  use, 
called  Hudehrrts.  I  would  needs  go  find  it  f>ut,  and 
met  with  it  at  the  Temple:  cost  me  2.1.  6fi.  But 
when  I  <^ome  to  read  it,  it  is  so  silly  aji  abuse  of 
the  Presbyter  Ki  ighi  going  to  the  warrs,  that  1  am 
asliamcd  of  it;  and  by  and  by  meeting  at  Mr. 
Townsetid's  at  dinner,  J  sold  it  to  him  for  18<f.'" 

The  second  is  not  much  more  successful. 

"To  Paul's  Church  Yard,  and  there  looked 
upon  the  second  part  of  Hudilmis — which  I  Iniytiot, 
but  horrnw  to  read, — to  see  if  it  he  as  good  as  the 
first,  which  the  world  cried  so  mifjhtily  up;  though 
it  hath  not  a  good  liking  in  me,  though  I  had  tried 
twice  or  three  times  reading,  to  bring  myself  to 
think  it  wilty." 

The  following  is  a  ludicrous  instance  of  his 
parsimony  and  household  meanness. 

"29ih.  (King's  birth-day.)  Rose  early,  and  put 
six  spoons  and  a  porringer  of  silver  in  my  porket,  to 
sive  away  lo-day.  Back  to  dinner  at  ."^ir  William 
Batten's;  and  then,  alter  a  walk  in  the  fine  gar- 
dens, we  went  to  Mrs.  Browne's,  where  Sir  W. 
Pen  and  I  were  godfathers,  and  Mrs.  Jordan  and 
Shipnian  godmothers  to  her  boy.  And  there,  be- 
iore  and  alter  the  christening,  we  were  with  the 
woman  above  in  her  chamber;  but  whether  we  car- 
ried ourselves  well  or  ill.  I  know  not  ;  but  I  was 
directed  by  ynuns;  Mrs.  Batten.  One  passaee,  of 
a  lady  that  rate  wafers  with  htr  doff.  did  a  little  dis- 
please me,  I  did  give  the  midwife  10s.,  and  the  nurse 
.'i.f.,  and  the  maid  of  the  house  2s.  But,  for  as 
much  as  I  expected  t"  L'ive  ibe  name  to  the  childe, 
but  did  not  (it  being  called  John),  1  furrhore  thin  lo 
give  my  plate." 

On  another  occasion,  when  he  had,  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  sent  a  jiieceof 
plate,  on  a  holiday,  to  his  oflicial  superior,  he 
records  with  great  joy, 

"  .After dinner  Will,  comes  to  tell  me  that  he  had 
pre.senied  my  piece  of  \\\\\\<i  i<>  Mr.  Coventry,  who 
lakes  it  very  kindly,  tind  sends  me  a  very  kind  let- 
ter, and  Ihe  plate  hack  again. — of  which  my  hvart  is 
very  glad  " 

Throughout  the  whole  work,  indeed,  he  is 
mainly  occupied  with  reckoning  up  and  se- 
curing  his   srains— turning    them   into   good 


18S 


HISTORV  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


gold — and  bageinir  and  hiding  them  in  holes 
and  corners.  His  prosperity,  indeed,  is  mar- 
vellous: and  shows  us  how  good  a  thing  it 
was  to  be  in  olHce.  even  in  the  year  1660. 
When  he  goes  with  Lord  Sandwieh  to  bring 
over  the  King,  he  is  overjoyed  with  his  Ma- 
jesty's bounty  of  a  month's  pay  to  all  the 
ships"  officers— and  exultingly  counts  up  his 
share,  and  '■  finding  himself  to  be  worth  very 
ncarhj  lOU/.,  blesses  Almighty  God  for  it — not 
having  been  worth  2.5/.  clear  when  he  left  his 
home.'"  And  yet.  having  got  the  office  of 
Clerk  of  the  Ac"ts  in  the  Admiralty,  and  a  few 
others,  he  thrives  with  such  prodigious  ra- 
pidity, that  before  the  end  of  1666,  this  is  his 
own  account  of  his  condition. 

"To  my  accounts,  wherein  at  last  I  find  them 
clear  and  right ;  liut  to  my  sreat  discontent  do  find 
that  my  gettings  this  year  have  been  573Z.  less  than 
my  last:  ii  being  this  year  in  all  but  2986/.;  where- 
as, the  last,  I  <rot  3560/. !  And  then  asjain  my 
spendings  this  year  have  exceeded  my  spending.^ 
the  last,  by  644/. :  my  whole  spendings  last  year 
being  but  509/. ;  whereas  this  year  it  appears  I  have 
spent  1154/.. — whicli  is  a  sum  not  fit  to  be  saiil  that 
ever  I  should  spend  in  one  year,  bctore  I  am  mas- 
ter of  a  better  estate  than  lam.  Yet,  iilessed  be 
God  !  and  I  pray  God  make  me  thankful  for  it.  I 
do  find  mvself  worth  in  money,  all  ^ond,  above 
6200/. ;  which  is  above  1800/.  more  than  I  was  the 
last  year." 

We  have  hinted,  how^ever,  at  a  worse  mean- 
ness than  the  care  of  money,  and  sordid  house- 
hold economy.  When  his  friends  and  patrons 
seem  falling  into  disgrace,  this  is  the  way  he 
takes  to  countenance  them. 

"I  found  my  Lord  Sandwich  there,  poor  man! 
I  see  with  a  melanc.lioly  face,  and  suffers  his  beard 
to  grow  on  his  upper  lip  more  than  usual.  I  took 
him  a  little  aside  to  know  when  I  should  wait  on 
him,  and  where:  he  told  me,  thai  it  would  be  best 
to  meet  at  his  lodgings,  vithoi/t  heins  srpv.  to  walk 
together.  Which  I  liked  very  well ;  and,  Lord  1 
to  see  in  what  difficulty  Island,  that  I  dure  not  walk 
with  Sir  W.  Coventry,  for  fear  my  Lord  or  Sir  G. 
Carteret  should  see  me;  nor  with  either  of  them, 
for  fear  Sir  W.  Coventry  should  !  &,c. 

"  To  Sir  VV.  Coventry's — after  much  discourse 
with  him,  I  walked  out  with  him  into  James' 
Park  ;  where,  behif;  afraid  to  he  seen  viith  him  (he 
having  not  yet  leave  to  kiss  the  King's  hand,  but 
notice  taken,  as  I  hear,  of  all  that  go  lo  him).  I  did 
take  the  pretence  of  my  attending  the  Tangier  Con\- 
mittee  to  take  my  leave  of  him. 

It  is  but  a  small  matter,  after  this,  to  find, 
that  when  the  office  is  besieged  by  poor  sail- 
ors' wives,  clamouring  for  their  arrears  of  pay, 
he  and  Mrs.  Pepys  are  dreadfully  '-'afraid  to 
send  a  venison  pasty,  that  we  are  to  have  for 
supper  to-night,  to  the  cook  to  be  baked — for 
fear  of  their  ofTering  violence  to  it." 

Notwithstanding  his  great  admiration  of  his 
wife  and  her  beauty,  :ind  his  uin-eruitting  at- 
tention to  business  and  money,  he  has  a  great 
detd  of  iiniocent(?)  dalliance  with  various 
pretty  acli-esses  at  the  playhou.ses,  and  passes 
a  large  part  of  his  time  in  very  profiig-ate  so- 
ciety. Here  is  a  touch  of  his  ordinary  life, 
which  meets  us  by  accident  as  we  turn  over 
the  leaves. 

"To  the  King's  iiouse  ;  and  there  going  in  met 
with  Knipp,  and  she  took  us  up  into  the  lireing- 
roonis  ;  and  to  the  women's  shift, — where  Nell  (that 


is,  Nell  Gwyn)— was  dressing  herself,  and  was  a!!, 
unready,  and  is  very  pretty,  prettier  than  I  tlioughr. 
.And  into  the  scene-room,  and  there  sat  down;  and 
she  gave  us  fruit :  and  here  I  read  the  qucsiioiis  lo 
Knipp,  while  she  answered  me,  through  all  tier  part 
of  ■  Flora's  Figary's,'  which  was  acn  d  to-day. 
But,  Lord!  to  see  how  they  were  both  painter!, 
would  make  a  man  mad,  and  did  make  me  lo;i:h 
them !  and  what  base  company  of  men  conii's 
among  them,  and  how  lewdly  they  talk  !  And 
how  poor  the  men  are  in  cloihes,  and  yei  wh  it  a 
shew  they  make  on  the  stage  by  candle-light  is  very 
observable.  But  to  see  how  Nell  cuised,— lor 
having  so  few  people  in  the  pit,  was  strange." 

Now,  whether  it  was  strange  or  not,  it  was 
certainly  very  WM'ong  in  Nell  to  curse  so  un-j 
mercifully,  even  at  a  thin  house.  But  we 
must  say,  that  it  was  neither  so  wrong  nor  so 
strange,  as  for  this  grave  man  of  office,  to 
curse  deliberately  to  himself  in  this  his  pri- 
vate Diary.  And  yet  but  a  few  pages  alter, 
we  find  this  emphatic  entry. — "  in  fear  oi 
nothing  but  this  damned  business  of  the  prizes. 
I  fear  my  lord  will  receive  a  cursed  deal  oi 
trouble  by  it." 

The  following  affords  a  still  stronger  picturt 
of  the  profligacy  of  the  times. 

"  To  Fox  Hall,  and  there  fell  into  the  coinpaii) 
of  Harry  Killigrew,  a  rogue  newly  come  back  on 
of  France,  but  still  in  disgrace  at  our  Court,  aii( 
voung  Newport  and  others  ;  as  very  rogues  as  anj 
in  the  town,  who  were  ready  to  take  hold  of  ever} 
woman  that  come  by  them.  And  so  to  supper  iii 
an  arbour :  but.  Lord  !  their  mad  talk  did  make  mi 
heart  ake  !  And  here  I  first  understood  by  their  tall 
the  meaning  of  the  company  that  lately  were  calle( 
Bailers  ;  Harris  telling  how  it  was  by  a  meeting  o 
some  young  blades,  where  he  was  among  them 
and  my  Lady  Bennet  and  her  ladies ;  and  iher 
daticing  naked!  and  all  the  roguish  things  in  lli' 
world.  But,  Lord  !  what  loose  company  was  thi 
that  T  was  in  to-night !  though  full  of  wit ;  anr 
worth  a  man's  being  in  for  once, — to  know  the  na 
ture  of  it,  and  their  manner  of  talk  and  lives." 

These  however,  vi-e  have  no  doubt,  wer 
all  veiy  blameless  and  accidental  association 
on  his  part.  But  there  is  one  little  liaison  o 
which  W"e  discover  some  indications  in  th 
journal,  as  to  which  we  do  not  feel  so  we' 
assured,  unreserved  as  his  confessions  ui 
doubtedly  are,  that  he  has  intrusted  the  whol 
truth  even  to  his  short-hand  cipher.  We  a 
lude  to  a  certain  Mrs.  Mercer,  his  wife's  mai 
and  occasional  companion,  of  whom  he  make 
frequent  and  very  particular  mention.  Th. 
following  entry,  it  will  be  allowed,  is  a  littl, 
suspicious,  as  well  as  exceedingly  characte 
istic. 

" 'l"hence  home — and  lo  sing  with  my  wife  ar 
Mercer  in  the  garden  :  and  coming  in,  I  find  m 
wife  plainlv  dissatisfied  with  me,  that  1  can  sper 
so  mu-.-h  lime  with  Mercer,  teaching  her  to  sin; 
and  could  never  take  the  pains  wiih  her.  U  hich 
acknowledge  ;  but  it  is  because  the  girl  do  lal" 
music  mighty  readily,  and  she  do  not, — and  mus 
is  the  ihii'g  of  the  worhl  that  I  love  most,  and  o' 
the  pliasnre  almost  that  I  carl  now  take.  So  to  l)e( 
in  some  Uttle  discontent, — but  7io  words  from  me! 

We  trace  the  effect  of  this  jealousy  vei 
curiously,  in  a  little  incident  chronicled  wit 
great  simplicity  a  few  days  after,  where  1 
mentions  that  being  out  at  supper,  the  pari 
returned  '•  in  two  coaches, — Mr.  Batelier  ar 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


189 


lis  sister  Mary,  and  my  wife  and  I.  in  one, — 
'tiid  Mercer  alone  in  the  other." 

We  are  sorry  to  observe,  however,  that  he 
;,eems  very  soon  to  have  tired  of  this  t-antion 
md  forbearance-  as  the  following,  ratlicrout- 
ag-eous  merry-making,  whioli  takes  place  on 
he  fourth  day  after,  may  testify. 

"  After  dinner  with  my  wife  and  Mrn-rr  to  the 
■Jeare-garden ;  where  I  have  not  been.  1  ihink,  nt 
^lany  years,  and  saw  some  good  sport  of  tiie  hull'.s 
jssing  of  the  dogs  :  one  into  tlie  very  boxes.  Bm 
';  is  a  very  rude  and  nasty  pleasure.  We  had  a 
reat  many  hectors  in  the  same  bo.x  with  ns.  (and 
;ne,  very  fine,  went  into  the  pit,  and  played  hisdos 
)r  a  wager,  which  was  a  strange  sport  for  a  gen- 
eman.)  wiiere  they  drank  wine,  and  drank  Mei- 
-.rst  health  first;  which  I  pledged  trith  my  hat  ojf.' 
Ve  supped  at  home,  and  very  merry.  And  ihfm 
bout  nine  o'clock  to  Mrs.  ^iercer's  gate,  whnre 
ie  fire  and  boys  expected  us,  and  her  son  had  pro- 
ided  abundance  ot  serpents  and  rockets  :  and  ihrre 
)ighty  merry,  (my  Lady  Pen  and  Pesg  iroing 
lilher  with  us,  and  Nan  Wright,)  till  abounwelve 
;;  night,  flinging  our  fireworks,  and  burning  one 
Hiother  and  the  people  over  the  way.  And  at  last 
iur  businesses  being  most  spent,  we  into  Mrs.  Mer- 
3r's,  and  there  mighty  merry,  smutting  one  another 
ith  candle-grease  and  soot,  till  most  of  us  «ere 
ke  devils  I  And  that  being  done,  then  we  broke 
jp,  and  to  my  house  ;  and  there  I  made  them  drink, 
pd  up  stairs  we  went,  and  then  fell  into  dancing. 
|.V.  Batelier  dancing  well.)  and  dressing  him  and  I 
jid  one  Mr.  Bannister  (who  with  my  wife  come 
fCT  also  with  us)  like  women  ;  and  fiercer  put  on 
[suit  of  Tom's,  like  a  hoy.  and  mighty  minh  we 
id — and  Mercer  danced  a  jigg!  and  Nim  Wright, 
id  my  wife,  and  Pegg  Pen  put  on  perriwigs. 
i'.us.  we  spent  till  three  or  four  in  the  morning — 
^ighiy  merry  !"— Vol.  i.  p.  438,  439. 

I  After  all  this,  we  confess,  we  are  not  very 
jiuch  surprised,  though  no  doubt  a  little 
locked,  to  find  the  matter  come  to  the  fol- 
wing  natural  and  domestic,  though  not  very 
■  giiified  catastrophe. 

!"This  day,  Mercer  being  not  at  home,  but. 
f:ainsl  her  mistress'  order,  gone  to  her  mother's, 
'id  my  wife,  going  thither  to  speak  with  W.  Hewer, 
'at  her  there  !  ! — and  was  angry  ;  and  her  mother 
ying  that  she  was  not  a  prentice  girl,  to  ask  leave 
ery  time  she  goes  abroad,  my  wife  with  good 
lason  was  angry,  and  when  she  come  home  hid 
\r  be  gone  again.  And  so  she  went  away  !  wliich 
oubled  me, — but  yet  less  than  it  would,  because 
j  the  condition  we  are  in,  in  fear  of  coining  in  a 
ille  lime  to  be  less  able  to  keep  one  in  her  quality." 

Matters,  however,  we  are  happy  to  say, 
em  to  have  been  wonderfully  soon  made  up 
■ain — for  we  find  her  attendiiiii  Mrs.  P..  as 
.ual,  in  about  si.x  weeks  after  :  and  there  are 
i.rious  subsequent,  though  very  brief  and 
screet  notices  of  her.  to  the  end  of  the  Diary, 
lit  is  scarcely  fair,  we  confess,  thus  to  drag 
light  the  frailties  of  this  worthy  defimct 
cretary :  But  we  really  cannot  we'll  help  it 
rhe  has  laid  the  temptation  so  directly  in 
|t  way.  If  a  man  will  leave  .such  things  on 
rord,  people  will  read  and  laugh  at  ihem. 
mough  he  should  Ions' before  be  laid  snni:- 
i  his  grave.  After  whr/i  we  have  just  ev- 
jicted.  the  reader  will  not  be  surprised  at 
e  following  ingenious  conft'.ssion. 

I 'The  truth  is,  I  do  indulge  myself  o  li'tle  the 
J-re  in  pleasure,  knowirig  that  ihis  is  ilie  propi  r 
V"  of  my  life  to  do  ii :  and  out  of  my  obseTvatron. 
^t  most  men  that  do  ihnve  in  the  world  do  for- 


I  set  to  take  pleasure  during  the  time  tlint  ihcy  arc 
getting  their  csrale,  but  reserve  that  til!  they  Ivwe 
got  one,  and  then  it  is  too  laie  tor  them  to  enjiiy  it." 

One  of  the  most  characteristic,  and  at  the 
same  time  most  creditabk'  pieces  of  nnircli 
that  we  meet  with  in  the  book,  is  in  the  ac- 
count he  gives  of  the  intinite  snecess  of  a 
speech  which  he  delivered  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  of  Conmioiis.  in  1667,  in  e.xplanalioii 
and  defence  of  certain  alleged  misinana;fe- 
ments  in  the  navy,  then  niiiler  discussion  in 
that  assembly.  The  honourable  Houst^  pro- 
bably knew  but  little  about  the  business  :  ami 
nobody,  we  can  well  believe,  knew  so  much 
about  it  as  our  autiior. — ami  this,  we  have  no 
doubt,  was  the  great  merit  of  his  discourse, 
and  the  secret  of  his  success : — For  though 
we  are  disposed  to  give  him  every  creilit  lor 
iiidu.-?trv,  clearness,  and  practical  judgment, 
we  think  it  is  no  less  plain  from  his  manner 
of  writing,  than  from  the  fact  of  his  subse- 
quent obscurity  in  parliament,  that  he  eonld 
never  have  had  any  pretensions  to  the  char- 
acter of  an  orator.  "  Be  that  as  it  may.  how- 
ever, this  speech  seems  to  have  madea  great 
impression  at  the  time  :  ami  certainly  L'ave 
singular  satisfaction  to  its  worthy  rnaker^  It 
would  be  unjust  to  withliold  from  our  readers 
his  own  account  of  this  bright  pas,snge  in  his 
existence.  In  the  morning,  when  he  came 
down  to  W<>>tniiiister.  he  had  some  natural 
qualms. 

"  And  to  comfort  myself  did  go  to  the  Dog  and 
drink  half  a  pint  of  niullod  sack,— and  in  the  hall 
did  drink  a  dram  of  brandy  at  .VIre.  Hewlett's  !  and 
with  the  warmth  of  this  did  tind  myself  in  belter 
order  as  to  courage,  truly." 

He  spoke  three  hours  and  a  half  ■'•  as  com- 
fortably as  if  I  had  been  at  my  own  table," 
and  ended  soon  after  three  in  the  afternoon  : 
but  it  was  not  tliought  (it  to  put  the  vote  that 
day,  •'many  members  having  gone  out  to 
dinner,  and  come  in  agiiin  half  drunk. ■-  Ne.\t 
morning  his  glory  opens  on  him. 

"  6:h.  Up  betimes,  and  wiili  .Sir  D.  (Jauden  lo 
Sir  W.  Coventry's  chamber ;  where  the  first  word 
hf  said  to  me  was,  '  Good-morrow,  Mr.  Pepys, 
that  must  be  Speaker  of  the  Parliament  House:' 
and  did  protest  I  had  got  honour  lor  ever  in  Parlia- 
ment. He  said  that  his  brother,  that  sal  by  him. 
admires  me;  and  another  gentleman  said  that  I 
could  not  get  less  than  1000/.  a  year,  if  I  would jim^ 
on  a  giiwii  and  plead  at  the  Chancerti-liar.  But, 
what  pleases  me  most,  he  lells  me  thiit  the  Solici- 
tor-generall  did  protest  that  he  thought  I  spoke  the 
best  of  oni/  7nan  in  England.  My  Lord  Baikt-ley 
did  cry  me  up  for  what  ihey  had  heard  of  it  ;  and 
otiiers.  Parliament-inen  there  about  the  King,  did 
say  that  Ihiy  veier  heard  such  a  speech  in  their  liver, 
delivered  in  that  manner.  From  thence  I  went  to 
Westmi'  s'er  Hall ;  wiiere  I  met  with  .Mr.  (!.  Mon- 
tagu, who  came  to  me  imd  kissed  me,  and  told  me 
tiiat  he  had  often  lieretotMre  kissed  my  hands,  but 
now  he  would  kiss  mi/  lips:  protesting  that  /  uas 
another  Cict.ro!  m  d  .said  all  ihf  world  raid  the  same 
ot  me.  Mr.  (Jiidolphiii  ;  .Mr.  Sands,  who  swore  he 
would  g'>  iwi>tity  miles  at  hi'v  time  to  hear  ilie  like 
again,  and  tlini  he  never  saw  so  many  sil  lour  hfi'irs 
loge  her  to  he.-ir  aiiv  man  m  his  lilc  as  tliere  did  to 
h»ar  me.  Mr.  Clii'-hly,  .Sir  John  Duncomb,  and 
<-veiV  l>ody  do  r^ay  that  tin  kingdom  iiill  rine  of  my 
iih  lilies,  and  that  1  have  doii«  myself  riijht  I.t  my 
wlioie  lift'  ;  and  so  ("apai  i  t  .<)k«-  and  irlicr*  oi  ii,^ 
.'rieiids  say  thai   ?tu  man   luiii  t  v«  [  «utti  an  oppor- 


]90 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


tunity  of  making  hLs  abilities  known.  And  that  I 
may  cite  all  at  once,  Mr.  Lieutenant  of  rh«  Tovver 
did  tell  ine  that  Mc.  Vaughan  did  protest  to  him, 
and  that  in  his  hearing  said  so  to  the  Duke  ot  Al- 
bertnarie.  and  afterwards  lo  Sir  \V.  Ct»vciitry,  that 
he  liad  sat  twenty-six  years  in  Parlianieiit  and  never 
heard  sitcli  a  speecft  thf.re  before  !  for  which  the  Lord 
God  make  mc  thankful  !  atid  that  I  m.iy  make  use 
of  it.  i:o;  to  pride  and  vainglory,  but  that,  now  I 
have  this  es:eem,  I  may  do  nothing  that  may 
lesson  it  1" 

There  is  a  great  deal  more  of  this — but  we 
have  priven  rather  too  much  space  already  to 
Mr.  IVpys"  individual  coucenis :  and  must 
turu  now  to  something  of  mote  public  interest. 
Before  taking  leave  of  private  life,  however, 
we  may  notice  one  or  two  things,  that  we 
collect  incidentally,  as  to  the  maimers  and 
habits  of  the  times.  The  playhouses,  of  which 
there  seem  to  have  been  at  least  three,  opened 
apparently  soon  after  noon — though  the  en- 
tertainments often  lasted  till  late  in  the  night 
— but  we  caimot  make  out  whether  they  were 
ever  exhibited  by  daylight.  The  pit,  in  some 
of  them  at  least,  must  have  been  uncovered  ; 
for  our  author  speaks  repeatedly  of  being  an- 
noyed in  that  place  by  rain  and  hail.  For 
several  years  after  the  Restoration,  women's 
parts  were  done  by  boys, — though  there  seem 
always  to  have  been  female  singers.  The 
hour  of  dinner  was  almost  always  twelve ;  and 
men  seem  generally  to  have  sat  at  table  with 
their  hats  on.  The  wines  mostly  in  use  ap- 
pear to  have  been  the  Spanish  white  wines 
— both  sweet  and  dry — some  clarets — but  no 
port.  It  seems  still  to  have  been  a  custom  to 
go  down  to  drink  in  the  cellar.  The  Houses 
of  Parliament  met,  like  the  courts  of  law,  at 
nine,  and  generally  adjourned  at  noon.  The 
style  of  dress  seems  to  have  been  very  vari- 
able, and  very  costly — periwigs  appear  not  to 
have  been  introduced,  even  at  court,  till  1663 
— and  the  still  greater  abomination  of  hair 
powder  not  to  have  been  yet  dreamed  of. 
Much  of  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  the 
greater  part  of  Westminster,  were  not  paved 
— and  the  police  seems  to  have  been  very 
deficient,  as  the  author  frequently  speaks  of 
the  danger  of  returning  from  Whitehall  and 
that  neighbourhood  to  the  city  early  in  the 
evening  —  no  lamps  in  the  streets.  Some 
curious  notices  of  prices  might  be  collected 
out  of  these  vohunes — but  we  have  noted  but 
a  few.  Coaches  seem  to  have  been  common, 
and  very  cheap — our  author  gets  a  very  hand- 
some one  for  32/.  On  the  other  hand,  he  pays 
Al.  10s.  for  a  beaver,  and  as  much  for  a  wig. 
Pictures  too  seem  to  have  brought  large  prices, 
considering  the  value  of  money  and  the  .small 
proportion  of  the  people  who  could  then  have 
any  knowledire  of  the  art.  He  pays  25/.  for 
a  portrait  of  his  wife,  and  30/.  for  a  miniature, 
besides  eight  guineas  for  the  setting — and 
mentions  a  flower-piece  for  which  the  jxiinter 
refused  70/.  We  may  take  leave  of  him  ami 
his  housekeeping,  by  inserting  his  account  of 
two  gratid  dinners  he  seems  to  have  given — 
both  which  he  apjiears  to  have  regarded  as 
matters  of  very  weighty  concernment.  As  to 
the  first  he  says — 

"  My  head  being  full  of  to-morrow's  dinner, 


went  to  my  Lord  Crewe's,  there  to  invite  Sir 
Thomas,  &.c.  Thence  home  :  and  there  find  one 
laying  of  my  napkins  against  to-morrow  in  figures 
ot  all  sorts  ;  which  is  mighty  pretty  ;  and  it  seems 
it  is  his  trade,  and  he  gets  much  money  l)y  it.  14il). 
Up  very  l)eiimes.  and  with  Jane  to  Leveti's,  there 
to  conclude  upon  our  dinner;  and  thence  to  the 
pewterer's  to  buy  a  pewter  sesterne,  which  1  linve 
ever  hiihcrio  been  without,  .^non  conies  my  com- 
pany, VIZ.  niy  Lord  Hincliingbroke  and  his  lady, 
8ir  Philip  Carteret  and  his  lady,  Godolphin  and  my 
cosen  Roger,  and  Creed:  and  mighty  merry;  aid 
by  and  by  to  dinner,  which  was  very  good  and 
pleniitul  (and  I  should  have  said,  and  5lr.  Gtoii:e 
.MoiJiagu,  who  came  at  a  very  little  warning,  which 
was  exceeding  kind  of  him).  And  there,  among 
other  things,  iny  lord  had  Sir  Samuel  .Morland's 
la'e  invention  ibr  casting  up  of  sums  of  JC  s.  d.; 
which  is  very  pretty,  but  not  very  useful.  .Most 
of  our  discourse  was  of  my  Lord  Sandwicii  and  his 
family,  as  being  all  of  us  of  ihe  family.  .And  wiih 
e.xtraordinary  jileasure  all  the  afternoon .  thus  to- 
jzether,  eating  and  looking  over  my  closet." 

The  next'  seems  to  have  been  still  more 
solemn  and  successful. 

"23d.  To  the  office  till  noon,  when  \\.  rJ 
brougiii  me  that  my  Lord  Sandwicii  wascuinv  .  mj 
1  presently  rose,  and  there  I  linuui  niv  Lord.- .  ,  i 
wich,  Peierhorou<;h,  and  ."^ir  Charles  Harbord  ,  .  d 
presently  after  them  comes  my  Lord  Ilinr  i  ^- 
broke,  Mr.  Sidney,  and  Sir  \\  illiiim  Gociolihiu. 
.\nd  after  areeiing  them  and  some  time  sp'  .  in 
talk,  dinner  was  brought  up,  one  dish  alter  ai:..  ^  i. 
but  a  dish  at  a  time  ;  but  all  so  good  !  Biti.  i^  <>\e 
all  tliiiiffs,  the  variety  of  \\  ines  and  excelleiM  ■!  ..  :r 
kind  I  liad  tor  iheni.  and  all  in  so  good  ore;,  i ,  na 
they  were  mightily  pleased,  and  myself  full  ui  .U;. 
tent  at  it:  and  indeed  it  was.  of  a  dinner  ol  ,  .mt 
six  or  eight  dishes,  as  noble  as  any  man  in  ■  i  lo 
have,  I  think;  at  least,  all  was  done  in  the  n  ■:  e>! 
manner  that  ever  I  had  any.  and  1  have  ran  I .  ■  >  , 
in  my  life  better  any  where  else,  even  a:  ih(  (  \,in. 
-After  dinner  my  lords  to  cards,  and  the  rest  ol  us 
sitting  about  ihem  and  talking,  and  looking  on  my 
books  and  pictures,  and  my  wile's  drawings,  which 
ihey  lommeiided  mighiily  :  and  mighiy  inerrynil 
day  long,  with  exceeding  great  content,  and  so  tili 
seven  at  night;  and  so  took  their  leaves,  it  bting! 
dark  and  f.ni!  weather.  Thus  was  this  en!eri;iiii 
mem  over — the  best  of  its  kind  and  the  fiilb  ,-:  nt 
honour  and  content  to  me  that  ever  I  had  ii  m\ 
lite  ;  and  1  shall  not  easily  have  so  good  aETim." 

On   turning   to   the   political   or   historioa 
parts   of  this   record,    we   are  rather   ilisap 
pointed  in  finding  so  little  that  is  curious  o 
interesting  in  that  earliest  portion  of  it  whici 
carries  us   through  the  whole    work  of  th 
Restoration.     Though  there  are  almo.st  dail  1 
entries   from   the   1st  of  January   1659.  aii' 
though  the  author  was  constantly  in  conimi; 
nication  with  persons  in  public  situations- 
was  personally  introduced  lo  the  King  at  th 
Hague,  and   came   home   in  the  same  shi 
with  him,  it  is  wonderful  how  few  parliculai 
of  any  moment  he  has  been  enabled  to  pt 
down;  and  how  little  the  tone  of  his  jouri:; 
exhibits  of  that  hiterest  and  anxiety  whic, 
we  are  apt  to  imagine  must  have  been  un 
vcrsal  durhig  the  liepcndence  of  so  monien 
ous  a  revolution.    Even  this  barrennes.s,  ho\ 
ever,  is  not  without  instiucliou — and  ilhistral' 
by  a  new  example,  how  insensible  the  cO; 
temporaries  of  great  transactions  often  are  < 
their  importance,  and  how  much  more  jv 
terity  sees  of  their  character  than  those  wl 
were  parties  to  them.     We  have  already  o 


MEMOIIIS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


191 


;erved  that  the  author's  own  political  predi- 
sctions  are  scarcelj-  distingaiishable  till  he 
3  embarked  in  the  lleet  to  briuij  home  the 
ling — and   the   greater   part   ot"  those   with 
fhom  he  converses  seem  to  have  been  nearly 
s  undecided.     ]Monk  is  spoken  of  through- 
out with  considerable  contempt  and  aversion; 
|ad  among  many  instances  of  his  duplicity, 
;  is  recorded  that  upon  the  21st  day  of  Feb- 
aary  1660;  he  came  to  Whitehall,  "and  there 
lade  a  speech  to  them,  recommending  to 
lem  a  Commonwealth^  and  agains't   Charles 
tuart."      The  feeling  of  the  city  is  repre- 
tited,  no  doubt,  as  extremely  hostile  to  the 
arliament  (here  uniformly  called  the  Rump); 
ut  their  aspinitioiis  are  not  said  to  be  directed 
royalty,  but  merely  to  a  free  Parliament 
id  the  dissolution  of  the  existing  junto.     So 
te  as  tlie  month  of  March  our  author  ob- 
rves,  ■■'great  is  the  talk  of  a  single  person, 
tiarles,  George,  or  Richard  again.     For  the 
f  of  which  ray  Lord  St.  John  is  said  to 
!ak  very  high.     Great  also  is  the  dispute 
the  House,  in  whose  name  the  writs  shall 
iue  for  the  new  Parliament."     It  is  a  com- 
rt  however  to  lind,  in  a  season  of  such  uni- 
rsal  dereliction    of  principle,    that   signal 
rfidy,  even  to  the  cause  of  the  republic, 
visited  with  general  scorn.     A  person  of 
B  name  of   Morland,  who   had  been  em- 
lyed  under  the  Protector  in  the  Secretary 
State's  office,  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
1  fraying  his  trust,  and  communicating  pri- 
•"tely  with  the  exiled  monarch — and,  upon 
iw  resorting  to  him,  had  been  graced  with 
t?  honour  of  knighthood.     Even  our  cold- 
larted  chronicler  speaks  thus  of  this  deserter. 

•  ?ilr.  Morland,  now  Sir  Samuel,  was  here  on 

b:ii  :  liiit  I  do  not  find  that  my  lord  or  any  body 

■  .    him  any  respect — he  being  looked  upon 

and  all  men   as  a  knave.     Among  others 

ved  Sir  Rich.  Willis  that  married  Dr.  F. 

^  '  ~    (laughter,  who  had  paid  him   lOOOZ.  at  one 

t  ^  In'  the  Protector's  and  Secretary  Thurloe's 

oer.  for  intelligence  that  he  sent  concerning  the 

■*.;ul  there  is  afterwards  a  similar  expres- 
g  '1  of  honest  indignation  against  "  that  per- 
tiious  rogue  Sir  G.  Downing,'"  who,  though 
ii'  had  served  in  the  Parliamentary  army 
uier  Okey,  yet  now  volunteered  to  go  after 
hH  and  Corbet,  with  the  King's  warrant,  to 
K;land,  and  succeeded  in  bringing  them 
b'k  as  prisoners,  to  their  death — and  had 

-tl|  impudence,  w-hen  there,  to  make  a  speech 
to-  the  Lords  States  of  Holland,  telling  them 
tc!h»ir  faces  that  he  observed  that  he  was 
n*' received  with  the  respect  and  observance 
Mit'.  that  he  was  when  he  came  from  the 
tt'Jor  and  rcbcll  Cromu-ell !  by  whom,  I  am 
mK  he  halh  got  all  he  hath  in  the  world, — 
at'  they  know  it  too." 
IV^hen  our  author  is  presented  to  the  King, 

•  htvsry  simply  puts  down,  that  "he  seems 
*o!)e  a  very  sober  man!"  This,  however, 
prt>ably  referred  only  to  his  dress  and  equip- 
mjit;  which,  from  the  following  extract, 
se'ns  to  have  been  homely  enough,  even  for 
*  ipublic. 

:<     JThis  afternoon  Mr.  Edward  Pickering  told  me 

K^inlhat  a  sad,  poor  condition  (or  clothes  and  money 


the  king  was,  and  all  his  attendants,  when  he  r:iine 
lo  him  first  from  my  lord  ;  their  cioilies  «o; /(fiw^ 
uwrth  forty  shillinirs — the  best  of  ihoni.  And  how 
overJDved  the  KiiiE;  was  when  Sir  J.  Greenville 
hrougiii  him  some  money  ;  so  joyful,  that  he  culled 
the  Princess  Royal  and  Duke  of  York  to  look 
upon  it,  ns  it  lay  m  the  portmanteau  before  it  waa 
taken  out." 

On  the  voyage  home  the  names  of  the 
ships  are  changed — and  to  be  sure  the  Rich- 
ard, the  Nasebij,  and  the  Dunbar,  wc^re  not 
very  fit  to  bear  the  royal  flag — nor  oven  the 
Speaker  or  the  Lambert.  There  is  a  long  ac- 
count of  the  landing,  and  a  still  longer,  of 
Lord  Sandwich's  investment  with  the  Order 
of  the  Garter — but  we  do  not  find  any  thing 
of  moment  recorded,  till  we  come  to  the 
condemnation  and  execution  of  the  regicides 
— a  pitiful  and  disgusting  departure  from  the 
broad  principle  of  amnesty,  upon  the  basis 
of  which  alone  any  peaceful  restoration  could 
be  contemplated,  after  so  long  and  so  une- 
quivocally national  a  suspension  of  royalty. 
It  is  disgusting  to  find,  that  Monk  sate  on  the 
bench,  while  his  companions  in  anns,  Harri- 
son, Hacker,  and  Axtell,  were  arraigned  for 
the  treasons  in  which  he  and  they  had  been 
associated.  Our  author  records  the  whole 
transactions  with  the  most  perfect  indiflfer- 
ence,  and  with  .scarcely  a  remark — for  ex- 
ample, 

"  13th.  I  went  out  to  Charing  Cross,  to  see 
Major-General  Harrison  hanged,  drawn,  and  quar- 
tered ;  which  was  done  there  ;  he  looking  as  cheer- 
fid  .'  as  any  man  could  do  in  that  condition. — ISih. 
This  mnrtiing,  it  being  expected  that  Colonel 
Hacker  and  A.xtell  should  die,  I  went  to  Newgale, 
but  found  they  were  reprieved  till  to-morrow. — 
19th.  This  morning  my  dining-room  was  finished 
with  greene  serge  hanging  and  gilt  lenihcr.  which 
is  very  handsome.  1  his  morning  Hacker  and 
A.xtell  were  hanged  and  quartered,  as  the  rest 
are." 

He  is,  to  be  sure,  a  little  troubled,  as  he 
expresses  it,  at  the  disinterring  and  gibbet- 
ting  of  Cromwell's  dead  and  festering  body — 
thinking  it  unfit  that  "a  man  of  so  great 
courage  as  he  was,  should  have  that  dis- 
honour— though  otherwise  he  might  deserve 
it — enough!"  He  does  not  fail,  however,  to 
attend  the  rest  of  the  executions,  and  to  des- 
cribe them  as  spectacles  of  ordinary  occur- 
rence— thus, 

"  10th.  This  morning,  before  we  sat,  I  went  to 
Aldgaie;  and  at  the  corner  shop,  a  draper's,  I 
stood,  and  did  see  Barkestead,  Okey,  and  Corbet, 
drawne  towards  the  gallows  at  Tiburnc;  and  there 
they  were  hanged  and  quartered.  T/ity  all  looked 
veri/  chtirful !  but  1  hear  they  all  die  defending 
what  they  did  to  the  King  to  be  just;  which  is 
very  strange !" 

"  14ih.  About  eleven  o'clock,  having  a  room  got 
ready  for  us,  we  all  went  out  to  the  Tower  Hill ; 
and  there,  over  again.st  the  scafTold,  made  on  pur- 
pose this  day,  saw  Sir  Henry  Vane  brought.  A 
very  great  press  of  people.  He  made  a  long 
.>^p<  cell,  many  times  inierrupied  by  the  shcrifle  ana 
others  there;  and  they  would  have  taken  his  paper 
out  of  his  hand,  but  lie  would  not  let  it  go.  But 
they  caused  all  the  books  of  iho.se  that  writ  after 
him  lobe  Hiven  to  the  sherifTe ;  and  the  trumpets 
were  hrnught  under  the  scaffold  that  he  might 
not  be  heard.  Then  he  prnyed.  ;ird  &o  fii'ed  him- 
self, and  received  the  blow  ;  but  the  pcaffi.ld  w.is 
so  crowded  liiai  we  could  not  see  it  done.     He 


192 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


fear  him  ;  while  here  a  prince,  come  in  with  al!  thq  A 
love  and  prayers  and  good  liking  of  his  people,  who  n 
have  given  greater  signs  of  loyally  and  willingness  ■ 
to  serve  him  with  their  estates  tlian  ever  was  done 
by  any  people,  hat/i  losl  all  so  soon,   that  it   is  a 
miracle  that  a  man  could  devise  to  lose  so  much  in 
so  little  time." 

The  following  particulars  of  the  condition 
of  the  Protector's  family  are  curious,  and 
probably  authentic.  The  conversation  is  in 
the  end"  of  1664. 

"  In  my  way  to  Brampton  in  this  day's  journey 
I  met  with  .Mr.  While,  Cromwell's  chaplain  that 
was,  and  had  a  great  deal  of  discourse  wiih  him. 
Among  others,  he  tells  me  that  Richard  is,  and  hath 
long  been,  in  France,  and  is  now  going  into  Italy. 
He  owns  pubhckly,  that  he  do  correspond,  and  re- 
uirn  him  all  his  money.  That  Richard  haih  been 
in  some  straits  in  the  beginning;  but  relieved  by 
his  friends.  That  he  goes  by  another  name  but 
do  not  disguise  himselT,  iior  deny  himself  lo  any 
man  that  challenges  him.  He  tells  nte,  for  certain, 
that  offers  had  been  made  to  tlfold  rnmi.  of  marriage 
between  the  ki/ii;  and  his  daui^hler,  to  have  obliged 
him — but  he  would  not.  He  tiiinks  ■with  nie;  ihat 
it  never  was  in  his  power  to  bring  in  the  King  M-iih 
the  consent  of  any  of  his  officers  about  him  ;  and 
that  he  scorned  to  bring  him  in,  as  JSlonh  did.  to 
secure  himself  and  deliver  every  hodtj  else.  When 
I  told  him  o"f  what  I  found  writ  ni  a  French  book' 
of  one  Monsieur  Sorbiere.  that  gives  an  account  of  I 
his  observations  here  in  England  ;  among  otheij 
things  he  sap,  that  it  is  reported  that  CroinweDi 
did,  in  his  lifetime,  transpose  many  of  the  bodJeti 
of  the  kings  of  England  tmm  one  grave  to  another 
■  ■  1  and  that  by  that  means  it  is  not  known  cenaiiilyt 
'"  whether  the  head  that  is  now  set  upon  a  post  be  tha 
of  Cromwell,  or  of  one  o(  the  kings  :  Mr.  Whi'eiell; 
me  that  he  believes  he  never  had  so  poor  a  lov 
thought  in  him,  to  irouiile  iiiinself  about  it.  He  sayi; 
the  hand  of  God  is  mucli  to  be  seen  ;  and  that  all  hi 
children  are  in  good  condition  enough  as  to  estate^ 
and  that  their  relations  that  betrayed  ihcir  family  ar 
all  now  either  hanged  or  very  nnserablc." 

The  most  frequent  and  prolific  topic  in  th 
lowing  striking  picture  of  the  different  temper  :  ^^.j^^j^  ^^^^^  „gxt  perhaps  to  that  ot  dress,  i 
and  moral  character  of  the  old  Republican  i  ,j^^  Ai^aey  of  the  couit^)r  what  may  fair! 
f^oUliers.  as  contrasted  with  those  of  the  Roy-  ^^  .lenominated  court  scandal.  It  would  b 
alists— of  the  former  he  reports—  j  ei^jiegg.  and  not  very  edifying,  to  attempt  an 

'•  Let  the  King  think  what  he  will,  it  is  them  that  thing  like  an  abstract  of  the  shameful  iinmo 
must  help  him  in  the  d.-.y  ot  warr.  p-or  generallv  j  ^]i^\^^  ^vhich  this  loyal  author  has  record* 
'^^:^:S^fS:t:Z^L^::t.:t  of  the  two  royal  brothers..and  , he  greater  i^ 
Lord  Sandwich,  among  other  things,  that  of  all  the 
old  army  now  you  cannot  see  a  man  hegpina  about 
the  streets;  but  what?  you  shall  have  this  capiain 
turned  a  shoemaker;  this  lieutenant  a  baker;  this  a 


had  a  blister,  or  issue,  upon  his  neck,  which  he 
desired  them  not  to  kurt  .'  He  changed  not  his 
colour  or  speech  to  the  last,  but  died  justifying 
himself  and  the  cause  he  had  stood  lor ;  and 
spoke  verv  confidently  of  his  being  presently  at 
the  riffhi  hand  of  Christ;  and  m  all  things  ap- 
peared the  most  resolved  man  that  ever  died  in 
that  manner." 

In  spite  of  those  rigorous  measures,  the 
author  very  soon  gets  disgusted  with  "the 
lewdness,  beggary,  and  wastefulness,"  of  the 
new  coverimient — and  after  sagaciously  re- 
marking, that  ••  I  doubt  our  new  Lords  of  the 
Councif  do  not  mind  things  as  the  late  ■powers 
did — but  their  pleasure  or  profit  more,--  he 
proceeds  to  make  the  following  striking  re- 
marks on  the  ruinous  policy,  adopted  on  this, 
and  many  other  restorations,  of  excluding  the 
only  men  really  acquainted  with  business,  on 
the"  score  of  their  former  opposition  to  the 
party  in  power. 

"  From  that  we  discoursed  of  the  evil  of  put- 
ting out  men  of  experience  in  business,  and  ot  the 
coiidiiion  of  the  King's  party  at  present,  who,  as 
the  Papists,  though  otherwise  fine  persons,  yet 
being  by  law  kept  Tor  these  four-score  years  out  of 
eirtplovment,  they  are  now  witolly  imcapable  ot 
business  ;  and  so  the  Cavaliers,  for  twenty  years, 
who  for  the  most  part  have  eiilicr  given  themselves 
over  to  look  after  country  and  family  business,  and 
those  the  best  of  them^  and  the  rest  to  debau- 
chery, &c. ;  and  that  was  it  that  hath  made  him 
hieh  a^inst  the  late  hill  brought  into  the  House 
for  making  all  men  incapable  of  employment  that  ! 
had  served  against  the  King.  People,  says 
the  sea-service,  it  is  impossible  to  do  any  thing 
without  them,  there  being  not  more  than  three 
men  of  the  whole  King's  side  that  are  fit  to  com- 
mand almost ;  and  there  were  Capin.  Allen.  Smith, 
and  Beech  ;  and  it  may  be  Holmes,  and  Utber  ;  and 
Batts  might  do  someihing." 

In  his  account  of  another  conversation  with 
the  same  shrewd  observer,  he  gives  the  fol- 


brewer;  that  a  haberdasher ;  this  common  soldier 
a  porter  :  and  every  man  in  his  apron  and  frock,  &.c. 
as  if  ihey  never  had  done  any  thing  elsr  :  Whereas 
the  oihe'r  go  with  their  belts  and  swords,  swearing 
and  cursing,  and  sleali/ig;  running  into  people's 
houses,  by  force  olientimes,  to  carry  tway  some- 
thing ;  ani  this  is  the  difference  between  the  temper 
(>f  one  and  the  other;  and  concludes  (and  I  liiink 
with  some  reason),  that  the  spirits  of  the  old  Par- 
liament soldiers  are  so  quie:  and  contented  wiih 
riod's  providence,  that  the  King  is  safer  from  any 
evil  meant  him  by  them,  one  thousand  times  more 
than  from  his  own  discontented  Cavaliers.  And 
then  10  the  publick  manaoiement  of  business  ;  it  is 
done,  as  he  i>b.«crves,  so  loosely  and  so  carelessly, 
that  ihe  kinirdom  can  never  be  happv  with  it,  every 
man  looking  alter  hiniseh'.  and  li  s  own  lusl  and 
luxury." 

The  following  is  also  vf  ry  rt-markable. 

"  Ii  is  strange  bnw  pverv  boilv  now-a-days  do 
nflict  ujHtn  Oliver,  and  roiuiuciuJ  tiiw  ;  what  brave 
tliiii^^s  he  did,  and  made  all  the  inighl>our  princes 


of  their  favourites — at  the  same  time,  th; 
they  occupy  so  great  a  part  of  thi-  work,  tli; 
we  cannot  well  give  an  account  of  it  withoi 
some  notice  of  them.  The  reader  will  pr 
bably  be  satisfied  with  the  following  speC: 
mens,  taken  almost  at  random. 

•'  In  the  Privy  Garden  saw  the  tinesi  smocks  a' 
linen  petticoats  of  my  Lady  Ctisiloniaine's,  laci 
with  rich  lace  at  the  bottom,  that  ever  I  saw  ;  a' 
did  me  good  lo  look  at  them.  Sarah  told  me  how  I ' 
King  dined  at  my  Lady  Casilemaine's,  and  .-iuppii 
every  day  and  night  the  last  week  ;  and  that  i' 
night  that  the  bonfires  were  made  lor  joy  ot  r] 
Quernc's  arrivall,  the  King  was  there.  But  ihi 
was  no  fire  at  her  door,  though  at  all  the  rest  ofl, 
doors  almost  in  the  street  ;  which  was  much  t 
served  :  and  that  the  King  and  she  did  send  foj 
pair  of  scales,  and  velghed  one  rnoiher:  and  s!j 
beins  with  child,  was  said  to  be  heaviest" 

•'.Mr.  Pickering  telis  nie  the  .^^^ry  is  very  t> 
of  a  child  being  dropped  at  •lie  ball  at  Cnnri ;  J 
that  the  King  had  it  in  his  closet  a  wt-ek  al'er.  t 
did  dissect  i\;  and  making  L'rcni  sjwri  "1  it.  sa'd  i 
in  his  opinion  it  must  have  been  a  inoiiih  and  tli ' 
hourcs  old;  and  that,  wlui'evtr  odiers  ihiiik.' 
hath  the  greaicst  loss  ^it  being  a  boy.  as  be  w;. 


MEMOIRS  OF  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


193 


that  hath  lost  a  subject  by  the  business."" — '  He 
told  me  also  how  loose  the  Court  is,  nobody  look- 
ing after  business,  hut  every  man  his  lust  and 
gain;  and  how  the  King  is  now  become  so  besotted 
upon  ."Mrs.  Stewart,  that  he  gets  into  corners,  and 
will  be  with  her  half  an  hour  to£;eihcr  kissing  her 
10  the  observation  of  all  the  world  ;  and  she  now 
stays  by  herself  and  e.xpects  it  as  my  Lady  Castle- 
maine  did  use  to  do ;  to  whom  the  King,  he  says, 
is  still  kind."  &.c. 

"  Coming  to  St.  James,  I  hear  that  the  Queene 
did  sleep  live  hours  pretty  well  to-night.  The  King 
they  all  say,  is  most  fondly  disconsolate  for  her, 
tind  weeps  by  her,  which  makes  her  weep ;  which 
jne  this  day  told  nie  he  reckons  a  good  sign,  for 
:hai  it  carries  away  some  rheum  from  the  head ! 
She  tells  us  that  the  Queenc's  sickness  is  the  spotted 
ever  ;  that  she  was  as  full  of  the  spots  as  a  leopard  : 
.vhicli  is  very  strange  that  it  should  be  no  more 
;no%vn;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  so.  And  that  the 
\ing  do  seem  to  take  it  much  to  heart,  for  that  he 
lath  wept  before  her;  but  for  all  that,  he  hath  7iot 
uissed  one  iii^kt,  since  she  was  sick,  ol  supping 
■viih  my  Lady  Castleinaine !  which  I  believe  is 
lue,  for  she  says  that  her  husband  hath  dressed  the 
suppers  every  night;  and  I  confess  I  saw  him  my- 
self coming  through  the  street  dressing  up  a  great 
•upper  to-night,  which  Sarah  says  is  also  for  the 
ving  and  her;  whicii  is  a  very  strange  thing." 
■  "  Pierce  do  tell  me,  among  other  news,  the  late 
irolick  and  debauchery  of  Sir  Charles  Sedley  and 
:5uckhurst  running  up  and  down  all  the  night,  al- 
uost  naked,  through  the  streets ;  and  at  last  fight- 
ig,  and  being  beat  by  the  watch  and  clapped  up 
11  night ;  and  how  the  King  takes  their  parts  ;  and 
ly  Lord  Chief  Justice  Ke<'Iing  linth  laid  the  con- 
table  by  the  luels  to  answer  it  ne.xt  sessidiis; 
..  hich  is  a  horrid  shame.  Also  how  the  King  and 
lese  gentlemen  did  make  the  tiddlers  of  ThetforH, 
iiis  last  progress,  to  sing  them  all  the  obscene 
ifpgs  they  could  think  of.  That  the  King  was 
irunk  at  Saxam  with  Sedley,  Buckhurst,  iScc.  the 
jght  that  my  L<u-d  Arlington  came  thither,  and 
rould  not  give  him  audience,  or  could  not:  which  is 
ue,_for  it  was  the  night  that  I  was  there,  and  saw 
je  King  go  up  to  his  chamber,  and  was  told  that 
lie  King  had  been  drinking." — '•  He  tells  me  that 
16  King  and  my  Lady  Castlemaine  are  quite  broke 
iT.  and  she  is  gone  away,  and  is  with  child,  and 
ivears  the  King  shall  own  it  :  and  she  will  have  ir 
liristened  in  the  chapel  at  White  Hall  so,  and 
vned  for  the  Kirig"s  as  other  kings  have  done  ;  or 
|ie  will  bring  it  into  White  Hall  gallery,  and  dash 
le  brains  of  il  out  before  the  King  $  face. '  He  tells 
'e  that  the  King  and  court  were  never  in  the  world 

I'  bad  as  they  are  now,  for  gaming,  swearing, 
)men,  and  drinking,  and  the  most  abominable 
:es  that  ever  were  in  the  world  ;  so  that  all  must 
me  to  nought." 
"They  came  to  .Sir  (J.  Carteret's  house  at  Cran- 
urne,  and  there  were  entertained,  and  all  made 
\unk;  and,  being  all  drunk,  .\rmprer  did  come  to 
B  King,  and  swore  to  hiin  by  God,  '  Sir.'  says 
,  'you  are  not  so  kind  to  the  Duke  of  York  of 
e  as  you  used  to  be.' — '  Not  I  I'  says  the  King. 
Vhy  so?' — •  Why,'  says  he.  'if  you  are,  let  us 
nk  his  health.' — •  Why  let  us,'  says  the  King. 
len  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  drank  it ;  and  having 
ijiie,  the  King  began  to  drink  it.  '  Nay,  sir,'  says 
fmerer.  '  by  fJ.id  you  must  do  it  on  your  knees!' 
»  he  did.  and  then  all  the  company:  and  having 
yie  it,  all  feU  a  crying  for  joy.  /.c/wg  nil  vvnidlin 
'W  kiffin<j  one  another!  the  King  the  Duke  of 
prk,  and  the  Duke  of  York  the  King!  and  in 
vh  a  maudlin  pickle  as  never  people  were:  and 
passed  the  day  1" 

It  affords  us  no  pleasure,  howeven  to  e.xpose 

se  degrading  traits — even  in  departed  roy- 

y;  but  it  is  of  more  consequence  to  mark 

political  vices  to  which  they  so  naturally 

iho  King's  ad- 


The  tbllowing  entry,  on 
25 


jouining  the  Parliament  in  1667,  gives  such  a 
picture  of  the  court  jwlicy,  as  nuikes  ojje 
wonder  how  the  Revolution  could  have  been 
so  long  deferred. 

"  Thus  they  are  dismissed  again,  to  their  general 
great  distaste,  i  believe  the  greatest  that  ever  Par- 
hainent  was,  to  see  themselves  so  fooled,  and  the 
nation  in  certain  condition  of  ruin,  while  tlie  King, 
they  see,  is  only  governed  by  his  lust,  and  women, 
and  rogues  about  him.  They  do  all  give  up  the 
kingdom  for  lost,  that  I  speak  to;  and  do  hear  whtit 
the  K'niff  says,  how  he  and  the  Duke  of  York  do 

DO  \VH.\r  TIIEY  CA.N  TO  UET  IP  AN  ARMY,  THAT  TlIi;V 
MAY    .\EED    NO    .MORE    PARLIAMENTS:    and    how    my 

Lady  Castlemaine  hath,  before  the  late  breach  be- 
tween her  and  the  King,  said  to  the  King,  that  he 
must  rule  by  an  army,  or  all  uould  be  lost  .'  I  am 
told  that  many  petitions  were  provided  for  the  Par- 
liament, complaining  of  the  wrongs  they  have  rc- 
ceivefl  from  the  court  and  courtiers,  in  city  and 
country,  if  the  Parliament  had  but  sat:  and  I  do 
perceive  they  all  do  resolve  to  have  a  good  account 
of  the  money  spent,  before  ever  they  give  a  larthing 
more;  and  the  whole  kingdom  is  every  where  sen^ 
sible  of  their  being  abused,"  &,c. 

The  following  confirmation  of  these  specu- 
lations is  still  more  characteristic,  both  of  the 
parties  and  their  chronicler. 

"  And  so  she  (Lady  Castlemaine)  is  come  to-day, 
when  one  would  think  his  mind  should  be  full  ol 
some  other  cares,  having  but  this  morning  broken 
up  such  a  Parliament  with  so  much  discontent  and 
so  many  wants  upon  him,  and  but  yesterday  heard 
such  a  sermon  against  adultery  .'  But  it  seems  she 
hath  told  the  King,  that  whoever  did  get  it,  he 
should  own  it.  And  the  bottom  of  the  quarrel  is 
this  : — She  is  fallen  in  love  with  youn^  Jermin,  who 
hath  of  late  been  with  her  oftener  tnan  the  King, 
and  is  now  going  to  marry  my  Lady  Falmouth  ; 
the  King  is  mad  at  her  entertaining  Jermin,  and 
she  is  mad  at  Jermin's  going  to  marry  from  her :  so 
they  are  all  mad  ! — and  thus  the  kingdom  is  gov- 
erned I  But  he  tells  me  tor  certain  that  nothing 
is  more  sure  than  that  the  King,  and  Duke  of  York. 
and  the  Chancellor,  are  desirous  and  labouring  all 
they  can  to  get  an  army,  whatever  the  King  says  to 
the  Parliament ;  and  he  believes  that  they  are  at 
last  resolved  to  stand  and  fall  all  three  together." 

A  little  after  we  find  traces  of  another  pro- 
ject of  the  same  traly  legitimate  school. 

•'The  great  discourse  now  is.  that  the  Parlia- 
ment shall  be  dis.solved  and  another  called,  which 
shall  uive  the  King  the  deaii  and  chapter  lands; 
and  that  will  put  him  out  of  debt,  .^nd  it  is  said 
that  Buckingham  do  knowingly  meet  daily  with 
Wildrnan  and  other  Commonwealth-men  ;  and  that 
when  he  is  with  them  he  makes  the  King  believe 
that  he  is  with  his  wenches." 

The  ne.xt  notice  of  this  is  in  the  form  of  a 
confidential  conversation  with  a  person  of 
great  intelligence. 

".\iid  he  told  me,  upon  my  several  inquiries  to  that 
purpose,  that  he  did  believe  it  was  not  yet  resolved 
wlieiher  the  Parliament  should  ever  meet  more  or  no, 
the  three  great  rulers  of  things  now  standing  thus : 
— The  Duke  of  Buckinsrham  \s  absolutely  against 
their  meeting,  as  moved  thereto  by  his  people  that 
he  advi-es  with,  the  people  of  the  late  times,  who 
do  never  expect  to  have  any  thing  done  by  ih.H 
Parliament  tor  their  religion,  and  who  do  propose 
that.,  by  the  sale  of  the  church  lands,  they  shall  be 
able  to  put  the  King  out  of  debt,  &iv.  He  tells  me 
that  he  is  really  persuaded  that  the  design  of  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham  is  to  bring  the  state  into 
such  a  condition  as,  it  the  King  do  die  without 
issue.  It  shall,  upon  his  death,  break  into  purr^ 
again;  and  so  put  by  the  Vuhi  of  York, — whom 
R 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


194 

thev  have  disobliged  they  know  '« '1^' f^Ts 
to  despair  of  his  pardo,.  He  'ell^'ne;hal_diere  is 
no  wav  to  rule  ihe  king  bu;  by  ''.'■''''^"^ff^'-^.^ 

^  the   fme  of  the  Chancellor,  endeavour  with  the 
Chanc!'iu'r?o  hang  Inm  at  that  tirae.  when  he  waa 
proclaimed  against.' 
And  agiiiii — 

"Tlie  talk  which  these  people  about  our  King 
have,  is  to  tell  h.m  how  neither  pnv.  ege  ^  Parha- 
S  nor  c.tv  is  any  thing ;  but  that  /us  xvill  is  all 
Zlou,h,  10  be  so:  and  the.r  ^.^course  "  seen  s 
when  they  are  alone,  is  so  base  and  sordid,  that  it 
raakes  the  eares  of  the  very  gen.len.eti  ot  the  back 
«tairs  (I  think  he  called  them)  to  tingle  lo  hear  it 
'spoke  in  the  King's  hearing  ;  and  that  must  be  very 
lad  indctd." 


The  following  is  not  so  material  as  to  doc- 
trine—though we  think  it  very  curious. 

"  \t'ter  the  bills  passed,  the  King,  sitting  oti  his 
throne,  with  his  speech  vvrii  in  a  paper  ^vh.cli  he 
held  in  his  lap,  and  scarce  looked  off  ot  it  all  tne 
time  he  made  his  speech  to  them  g'^^'S  jhem 
thanks  for  their  subsidys,  of  which,  had  he  not 
need,  he  would  not  have  asked  or  received  them ; 
and  that  need,  not  from  any  extravagancys  ot  his 
he  was  sure,  in  any  thing '.-but  the  disorders  of 
the  times.  His  speech  was  very  plain  ;  nothm^  at 
all  of  spirit  m  ir,  nor  spoke  with  any;  but  rather 
on  the  contrary  imperfectly,  repeating  many  time 
Z  words,  though  he  read  all :  which  1  am  sorry  to 
see  It  having  not  been  hard  for  him  to  have  got  all 
the  speech  wi.ho.it  booke."-And  upon  another 
occasion,  '•  I  crowded  in  and  heard  the  King  s 
speech  to  them  ;  but  he  speaks  the  worst  that  ever  I 
heard  a  man  in  m,/  life:  worse  than  if  he  read  it 
all,  and  he  had  it  in  writing  m  his  hand. 

It  is  observed  soon  after— viz.  in  1664— as 
a  =in<nilar  thins,  that  there  should  be  but  two 
seamen  in  Parliament— and  not  above  twenty 
or  thirty  merchants:  And  yet  from  various 
intimations  we  oather  that  the  deportment  ot 
this  aristocratical  assembly  was  by  no  means 
very  decorous.  We  have  already  had  the 
incidental  notice  of  many  members  coming 
in  from  dinner  half  drunk,  on  the  daj- of  the 
author's  great  ovation— and  some  ot  them 
appear  now  and  then  to  have  gone  a  little 
farther,— early  as  the  hours  of  business  then 
were. 

"  He  did  tell  me.  and  so  did  Sir  W.  Batten,  how 
Sir  Allen  Broderi.ke  and  Sir  Al  en  Apsley  did 
come  drunh  the  other  day  into  the  House;  and  did 
both  speak  for  half  an  hour,  together,  and  could  no 
be  ehher  laughed,  or  pulled,  or  bid  to  sit  down  and 
hold  their  peace,— to  the  great  contempt  ot  King  s 
servants  and  cause ;  which  I  am  grieved  at  with 
all  my  heart." 

The  mingled  extravagance  and  penury  of 
this  disorderly  court  is  strikingly  lUustrated 
by  two  entries,  not  far  from  each  other,  m  the 
year  1667— in  one  of  which  is  recorded  the 
royal  wardrobemnn-s  pathetic  lamentation 
over  the  King's  necessities— representing  that 
his  Majesty  has  '•  actually  no  handkerchiefs, 
and  but  three  bands  to  his  neck"— and  that 
he  does  not  know  where  to  take  up  a  ynrd  ol 
linen  for  his  service  !-and  the  o|her  setting 
forth,  that  his  said  Majesty  had  lost  25,000J, 


in  one  night  at  play  with  Lady  Castlemame--, 
and  staked  1000/.  and  1500/.  on  a  cast  It 
is  a  far  worse  trait,  however,  m  his  char- 
acter that  he  was  bv  no  means  scrupulous  as 
to  the  pretexts  upon  which  he  obtained  money 
from  his  people— these  memons  conlamin{i 
repeated  notices  of  accounts  deliberately 
falsified  for  this  purpose— and  not  a  few  ir 
particular,  m  wliich  the  expenses  of  the  navy 
are  exaggerated- we  are  afraid,  not  withou 
our  author's  co-operation— to  cover  the  mis 
application  of  the  money  voted  for  that  mos 
popular  branch  of  the  service,  to  very  dilferen 
,  purposes.  In  another  royal  imposture,  ovi, 
author  now  appears  to  have  been  also  impli 
cated,  though  in  a  manner  far  less  derogator 
I  to  his  personal  honour,— we  mean  in  pro 
I  curincr  for  the  Duke  of  York,  the  credit  whic! 
'  he  has  obtained  with  almost  all  our  hisioriam' 
for  his  great  skill  in  maritime  aflairs;  and  th 
extraordmarv  labour  which  he  bestowed  i 
improving  the  condition  of  the  navy.  On  thi, 
subject  we  need  do  little  more  than  transcnb; 
the  decisive  statement  of  the  noble  Kditw,!. 
whose  care  we  are  indebted  for  the  pubhcj 
tion  before  us ;  and  who,  m  the  summary  c 
Mr.  Pepys'  life  which  he  has  prehxed  to  i 
observes — 


"  Mr.  Stanier  Clarke,"  in  particular,  actual 
dwells  upon  the  essential  and  lasting  beneht  whi. 
that  monarch  conferred  on  lus  country,  by  6uii 
ivg  up  and  regenerating  the  naval  power;  ^na^ 
sens  as  a  proof  of  the  King's  great  olnlUy,  ^h 
the  resulathms  still  enforced  under  the  orders  oft 
admiralty  are  nearly  the  same  as  those  ongina, 
drawn  up  by  him.  It  becomes  due  therefore  o  J 
Pepvs  to  eiplain,  that  lor  these  improvements, 
value  of  which  no  person  can  doubt,  we  are  inde. 
ed  to  him,  and  not  to  his  royal  master.  1  o  ests 
l,sh  this  fact,  it  is  only  necessary  to  refer  to  t 
MSS.  connected  with  the  subject  in  the  bodlc 
and  Pepysian  hbraries.  by  which  the  extent  of  -> 
Pepvs'  official  labours  can  alone  be  appreciate 
and  we  even  find  in  the  Diary,  as  early  us  lb. 
that  a  long  letter  of  regulation,  produced  Letore 
commissioners  of  the  navy  by  the  Duke  of  \o 
as  his  oxon  composition,  was  entirely  wriiieii  by  . 
clerk  of  the  acts."— (I.  xxx.) 

We  do  not  know  whether  the  citations 
1  have  now  made  from  these  curious  and  m 
miscellaneous  volumes,  will  enable  otrr  read , 
'  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  their  value.    J^^ 
we  fear  that,  at  all  events,  we  cannot  now^ 
dul"-e  them  in  any  considerable  addition ' 
then  number.     There  is  a  long  account 
the  "-reat  lire,  and  the  great  sickntss  in  U 
and  a  still  loiiger  one  of  the  insultirg  adv. 
of  the  Dutch  fleet  to  Chatham  ni    166.  - 
well  as  of  our  ab>uid  settlement  at  Tang, 
and  of  various  naval  actions  during  the  pc-i  i 
to  which  the  Diary  extends.     But,  thougW 
these  contain  much  curious  matter  we  e 
not  ttmpted  to  make  any  extracts :  Both  .•■ 
cause  the  accounts,  being  given  in  the^bro  a 
and  minute  way  which  belongs  to  the  Ln 
of  a  Diarv.  do  not  aflord  many  ^trikinf'r 
summary 'passages,  and  because  ^hat  is  i^ 
in  them,  is  not  for  the  most  part  ot  any  g '« 
iinportance.     The  public  besides  has     n 
latelv  prettvmuch  satiated  with  detail,  n 
mcst-of  tho-.e  subjects   iir  the  cor.tcrnpo.y 
work  of  Evelyn,— of  which  we  shall  only  li 


MEMOIRS  OF  SA:\1UEL  PEI  i'S. 


»95 


that  though  its  av\thor  was  indisputably  more 
of  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a  man  of  taste 
than  our  actuary,  it  is  far  inferior  both  in  in- 
terest, curiosity,  and  substantial  instruction, 
to  that  which  we  are  now  considt>ring.  The 
two  authors,  however,  we  are  happy  to  lind, 
were  great  friends  :  and  no  name  is  mentioneu 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  Diary  with  more  uni- 
form respect  and  aflection  than  that  of  Kvelyn 
— though  it  is  very  edifying  to  see  how  the 
shrewd;  practical  sagucity  of  the  man  of  busi- 
ness; revenges  itself  on  the  assumed  supe- 
riority of  the  philosopher  and  man  of  letters. 
In  tills  respect  we  think  there  is  a  fine  keep- 
ing of  character  iu  iiie  sincerity  of  the  fol- 
lowing passage — 

"  By  water  ti)  Deptford,  aiul  there  »iad(>  u  visit 
to  Mr.  Evelyn,  wlio.  ainon;;  otlier  thini'.'!,  showed 
me  most  excellem  paiiiiins:  in  little  ;  in  di,«iempcr, 
Indian  iiicUe,  water  colours:  graveing;  and  above 
all.  the  whole  niezzo-tinio,  and  the  manner  of  it, 
which  is  very  pretty,  and  sjood  tilings  done  with  it. 
,  He  read  to  me  very  much  also  ot'  his  discourse,  he 
hath  been  many  years  and  now  is  about,  about 
Gardenase ;  which  is  a  most  noble  and  pleasant 
■  piece.  He  read  me  part  of  a  play  or  two  of  his 
I  own  making — veri/  good,  hut.  not  as  he  conceifs 
them.  I  think,  to  be.  He  showed  me  his  flortus 
Hyemalis  ;  leaves  laid  up  in  a  book  of  several  plants 
kept  dry.  which  preserve  colour,  however,  and 
ilook  very  finely,  better  than  an  herball.  In  fine  a 
iniost  excellent  person  he  is, — and  rniist  be  allowed 
(rt  little  for  a  little  eonceitcdnexs.;  but  he  may  well 
ibe  so,  being  a  man  so  much  above  others.  He  read 
bne,  though  with  too  much  gu!<to.  some  little  poems 
]0f  his  own  that  v-ere  not  Iransrendfint ;  yet  one  or 
|fwo  very  pretty  epigrams  ;  among  others,  of  a  lady 
jlooking  in  at  a  grate,  and  being  pecked  at  by  an 
[eagle  that  was  there."' 

And  a  little  after  he  chuckles  not  a  little 
pver  his  learned  friend's  failure,  in  a  specula- 
tion about  making  bricks — concluding  very 
sagely,  "so  that  I  see  the  most  ingenious 
men  may  sometimes  be  mistaken  !" 

We  m.eet  with  the  names  of  many  distin- 
,Tiished  men  in  these  pages,  and  some  char- 
icteristic  anecdotes. — but  few  bold  characters. 
1e  has  a  remarkable  interview  with  Claren- 
lon — in  which  the  cautious  and  artful  de- 
neanour  of  that  veteran  politician  is  finely 
llsplayed,  though  on  a  very  trivial  occasion. 
The  Navy  Board  had  marked  some  trees  for 
;utting  in  Clarendon  Park  without  his  leave — 
.t  which  he  had  expressed  great  indignation; 
.nd  our  author  went,  in  a  prodigions  friirht.  to 
tacify  him.  He  found  him  busy  hearing 
auses  in  his  chambers,  and  was  obliged  to  wait. 

"  After  all  done,  he  himself  called.  '  Come,  Mr. 
^epys.  you  and  I  will  lake  a  turn  in  the  garden.' 
0  he  was  led  down  stairs,  having  the  goute,  and 
lere  walked  with  me,  I  think  at)ove  an  hour,  lalk- 
gmoit  friendlj/.  hut  cunninsh/.' — He  told  me  he 
ould  not  direct  me  in  any  thing,  that  it  might  not 
said  that  the  Lord  Chancellor  did  labour  to  abuse 
le  King ;  or  (as  I  offered)  direct  the  suspending  the 
port  of  the  purveyors:  hut  I  nee  what  he  means, 
i  will  make  it  my  work  to  do  him  service  in  it. 
ut  Lord !  to  see  how  we  poor  wretches  dare  not 
the  King  good  service,  for  fear  of  the  greatness 
these  men!" 

There  is  no  literary  intelligence  of  any  value 

be  gained  from  this  work.     Play  collectors 

ill  probably  find  the  names  of  many  lost 

Sieces— but  of  our  classical  authors  there  are 


no  notices  worlli  naming — a  bare  intimation 
of  the  deaths  of  Waller,  Cowley,  and  Daven- 
ant.  and  a  few  words  of  Dryden — Milton,  we 
think,  not  once  mentioned.  There  is  more 
of  the  natural  philosophers  of  tJre.sham  Col- 
lege, but  not  much  that  is  valuable — .some 
curious  calculations  and  speculations  about 
money  and  coinages — and  this  o<ld  but  au- 
thentic notice  of  Sir  W.  Petty's  intended  will. 

"Sir  William  Petty  did  lell  me  that  in  gooJ 
earnest  lie  haili  in  his  will  left  some  purls  ol  his 
es:ate  to  hiiu  that  could  invent  siuli  and  such 
things.  As  among  oihi'rs,  that  could  discover  truly 
the  way  of  milk  coming  into  the  i)rensis  of  a  wo- 
man !  and  he  that  could  invent  proper  characlers  to 
e.\press  to  another  the  mixture  of  relishes  and 
tastes.  And  says,  that  to  him  that  invents  gold,  he 
gives  nothing  for  the  philosopher's  stone;  lor  (says 
he)  they  that  find  out  thai,  will  be  able  to  pay  iliem- 
sclves.  But,  says  he,  by  this  means  it  is  better 
than  to  go  to  a  lecture  ;  tor  here  my  executors,  that 
must  part  with  this,  will  be  sure  to  be  well  con- 
vinced d"  the  invention  before  they  do  port  with 
their  money." 

The  Appendix,  which  seems  very  judicious- 
ly selected,  contains  some  valuable  fragments 
of  historical  information :  but  we  have  not  now 
left  ourselves  rootn  for  any  account  of  them; 
and  are  tempted  to  give  all  we  can  yet  .spare 
to  a  few  c.vtracts  from  a  very  curious  corres- 
pondence between  Mr.  Pepys  and  Lord  Reay- 
and  Lord  Tarbut  in  1699,  on  the  subject  of 
the  Second  {Sight  amons  our  Hisfhlanders. 
Lord  Reay  seems  to  have  been  a  firm  believer 
in  this  gift  or  faculty — but  Lord  Tarbut  had 
been  a  decided  sceptic,  and  was  only  con- 
verted by  the  proofs  of  its  reality,  which  oc- 
curred to  himself  while  in  the  Highlands,  in 
the  year  16.52  and  afterwards.  Some  of  the 
stories  he  tells  are  not  a  little  remarkable. 
For  e.vample,  he  says,  that  one  night  when 
one  of  his  Celtic  attendants  was  entering  a 
house  where  they  had  proposed  to  sleep,  he 
suddenly  started  back  with  a  scream,  and  fell 
down  in  an  agony. 

"  I  asked  what  the  matter  was,  for  he  seemed  to 
me  to  be  very  much  frighted:  he  told  me  very  seri- 
ously that  I  should  not  lodge  in  that  house,  because 
shortly  a  dead  coffin  would  be  carried  out  of  it.  for 
many  Were  carrying  it  when  he  was  heard  cry  !  I 
neglecting  his  words  and  staying  there,  he  said  to 
others  of  the  servants  he  was  very  sorry  for  it,  and 
that  what  he  saw  would  surely  come  to  pa.ss:  and 
though  no  sick  person  was  then  tliere,  yet  the  land- 
lord, a  healthy  Highlander,  died  of  an  apoplectic  fit 
before  1  left  tile  house." 

Another  occurred  in  16.53,  when,  in  a  very 
merged  part  of  the  country,  he  fell  in  with  a 
mari  who  was  stariui,'  into  the  air  with  marks 
of  great  agitation.  Opon  asking  what  it  was 
that  disturbed  him.  he  answered, 

"  Lsee  atroopof  Knglishmcn  leading  their  horses 

down  that  hill — and  some  of  them  arc  already  in  the 

plain,  eating  ihe  l)arley  which  is  growing  in  the 

field  near  to  the  hill.'     This  was  on  the  4ih  of  May 

(for  I  noted  the  day),  and  it  was  four  or  five  days 

before  any  barley  was  smim  in  the  field  he  spoke  ot 

Ale.xander  .Monro  asked  him  how  he  knew  they 

were  Englishmen  :  he  answered,  because  they  were 

leading  horses,  and  had  on  hats  and  boots,  which 

I  he  knfw  no  Scotchmen  would  have  on  iImtc.    Wc 

I  took  little  notice  of  the  whole  story  as  other  than  a 

1  foolish  vision,  but  wished  that  an  English  parly  were 

I  there,  we  being  ihen  at  war  with  them,  and  the 


196 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


place  almost  inaccessible  for  horsemen.  But  the 
beginning  of  August  thenafter.  the  Earl  of  Middle- 
ton,  then  lieutenant  for  the  King  in  the  Highlands. 
having  occasion  to  marc!)  a  party  of  his  towards  the 
South  Islands,  sent  his  loot  ihrongli  a  place  called 
Inveriacwell.and  the  forepart,  which  was  first  down 
the  hill,  did  tail  lo  eating  the  barley  which  was  on 
the  liiiie  plain  under  it."' 

Another  of  his  lordship's  experiences  was 
as  follows.  Ill  January  1682,  he  was  sitting 
with  two  frieikls  in  a  hou.se  in  Ross-shire, 
when  a  man  trom  the  islands 

"Desired  me  to  rise  Irom  that  cliair,  for  it  was 
an  unlucky  one.  I  asked  "  Why  V  He  answered. 
'  Because  tiiere  was  a  dead  man  in  tiie  chair  ne.xt 
to  it.' — '  Well."  said  I.  'if  it  be  but  in  the  ne,\r.  I 
may  safely  sit  here  :  but  wliar  is  the  Ii;\eness  of  the 
man  V  He  said  he  was  a  tall  man  with  a  long  grey 
coat,  booted,  and  one  of  his  legs  han<iing  over  the 
chair,  and  his  head  hanging  down  to  the  other  side, 
and  his  arm  backward,  as  it  were  broken.  There 
were  then  some  English  troops  quartered  near  the 
place,  and  there  being  at  that  time  a  great  frosi 
after  a  thaw,  the  country  was  wholly  covered  over 
with  ice.  Four  or  five  Englishmen  riding  hy  this 
house,  not  two  hours  after  the  vision,  where  we 
were  sitting  by  the  fire,  we  heard  a  great  noise, 
which  proved  to  be  these  troopers,  with  the  help  of 
other  servants,  carrying  in  one  of  their  nunil)er  who 
had  got  a  very  mischievous  fall  and  had  his  arm 
broke;  and  falling  frequently  into  swooning  tits, 
they  brought  him  to  the  hall,  and  set  \\\m  in  thf. 
very  chair  and  in  the  very  posture  which  the  seer 
had  proposed:  hiU  the  man  did  not  die,  though  he 


he  had  been  seen  with  a  dagger  run  into  his 
breast — and  though  nothing  ever  happened  tc 
him,  one  of  his  servants,  to  whom  he  had 
given  the  doublet  which  he  wore  at  the  time 
of  this  intimation,  was  stabbed  through  it,  in 
the  very  place  where,  the  dagger  had  been 
seen.  Lord  Reay  adds  the  lollowing  addi- 
tional instance,  of  this  glancing,  as  it  were,  of 
the  prophecy  on  the  outer  gariiient. 

".Tohn  Macky,  of  Dilril.  having  put  on  a  new 
suit  of  clothes,  was  told  by  a  seer  that  he  did  see 
the  gallows  upon  his  coat,  which  he  never  nii;iced; 
but  some  time  alter  gace  liin  rout  to  his  servant, 
William  Forbess,  to  whose  lionesiy  there  could  be 
nothing  said  at  tliat  time  ;  but  he  was  shortly  after 
hanged  lor  iheit,  with  the  same  coat  about  him:  my 
informer  being  an  eye-witness  of  his  execution,  and 
one  who  had  heard  what  the  seer  said  bi  fore." 

His  lordship  also  mentions,  that  these 
visions  were  seen  by  blind  people,  as  v  ell  as 
those  who  had  si;fiht. — and  adds,  that  there 
was  a  blind  woman  in  his  time  who  had  the 
faculty  in  great  perfection  :  and  foretold  many 
things  that  afterwards  happened,  as  hmidrede 
of  living  witnesses  could  attest.  We  have  nc 
time  now  to  speculate  on  these  singular  le- 
gends— but,  as  curious  mementos  ot  the  lubri- 
city of  human  testimony,  we  think  it  righ' 
they  should  be  once  more  biouoht  into  notice 

And  now  we  have  done  with  Mr.  Pepys 
There  is  trash  enough  no  doubt  in  his  journal 
— trifling  facts,  and  silly  observations  r\. 
abundance.  But  we  can  scarcely  .say  tha' 
we  wish  it  a  page  shorter:  and  are  of  opir! 
ion,  that  there  is  very  little  of  it  which  doe,' 
not  help  us  to  understand  the  character  of  hji 
times,  and    his   contemporaries,   better   tha.! 


revived  with  great  difiicnliy-  ' 

These  instances  are  chiefly  remarkable  as 
beiirg  given  upon  the  personal  knowledge  of 
an  individual  of  great  judgment,  acuteness. 
and  firmness  of  character.     The  followincf  is 

from  a  still  hisher  quarter :  since  the  reporter  I  -  , 

was  not  even  a  Scotchman,  and  indeed  no  less  I  ^^'^^  should  ever  have  done  without  it ;  ait 
a  person  than  Lord  Clarendon.  In  a  letter  to  j  "^^^e  us  feel  more  assured  that  we  compn 
Mr.  Pepys  in  1701.  he  informs  him.  that,  in  I  ^end  the  great  historical  events  of  {he ^ 
1661,  upon  a  Scottish  irenlleinaii  being  in  his  |  ^"d  ^^e  people  who  bore  a  part  in  then, 
presence  introduced  to  Lady  Cornburv.  he  Independent  of  instruction  altogether  to 
was  observed  to  ga/e  upon  her  with  a  singu-  'here  is  no  denying,  that  it  is  very  entertai); 
lar  expression  of  melancholv;  and  upon  one  1  '"S  t^us  to  be  transported  into  llie  very  hea 
of  the  company  asking  the  reason,  he  replied.  |  ^^  ^  ^mie  so  long  gone  by  :  and  to  be  admittt 
■■■\!^eehev  mbUmiy  She  was  at  that  thiie  '"^o  the  domestic  mlimacv.  as  well  as  tl 
in  perfect  health,  and  remained  so  for  near  a  I  P"bhc  councils,  of  a  man  of  great  activity  ai 
month,  when  she  fell  ill  of  small-pox :  And 


"Upon  the  ninth  day  af'er  ihe  small-pox  ap- 
peared, in  the  m.irning.  she  hied  ai  the  nose,  u  hii-h 
(|uick!y  stopt  ;  but  in  the  aficrnoon  tlie  blood  burst 
out  again  with  great  violence  at  her  nose  and 
mouth,  and  about  eleven  of  the  clock  that  night 
she  dyed,  almost  n-tllcring  in  her  hlood  .'" 

There  is  a  great  number  of  similar  stories, 
reported  on  tiie  most  imposing  testimony — 
though,  ill  some  iiistauccs,  the  seer,  we  must 
nay,  is  somewhat  put  to  it  to  support  his 
credit,  ami  make  out  the  accomplishment  of 
his  vision.  One  rhieftain,  for  instance,  had 
long  been  seen  by  thp  gifted,  with  an  arrow 
sticking  in  his  thigh;  t>om  v.-hich  they  all  in- 
ferred, that  he  was  either  to  die  or  to  suffer 
greatly,  from  a  wound  in  that  place.  To  their 
surprise,  however,  he  died  of  some  other  in- 
Hiction,  and  the  seers  were  getting  out  of  repu- 
tation ;  when  luckily  a  fray  arose  at  the  fune- 
ral, and  an  arrow  was  shot  fairly  through  the 
thigh  of  (lie  dead  man,  in  the  very  spot  where 
the  vision  had  shown  it  !  On  another  occa- 
sion, Lord  Reay'e  gitij.tifathM  was  told  that 


circulation  in  the  re  gn  of  Charles  II.  Rea 
ing  this  book,  in  short,  .seems  to  ns  to  be  ([ui 
as  good  as  living  with  ]\lr.  Samuel  Pepys  ' 
his  proper  person. — and  though  the  coi 
scandal  may  be  detailed  with  more  grace  ai' 
vivacity  in  the  Memoires  de  Giammont,  \j 
have  no  doubt  but  even  this  part  of  his  niul 
farious  subject  is  treated  with  far  great' 
fidelity  and  fairness  in  the  work  before  us- 
while  it  gives  us  more  clear  and  undistortj 
alimpses  into  the  true  English  life  of  t' 
times — for  the  court  was  substantially  foreii 
— than  all  the  other  memorials  of  them  ]; 
toirether,  that  have  come  down  to  our  own  ' 
The  book  is  rather  too  dear  and  magn/ 
cent.  Put  the  editor's  task  we  think  exc- 
lently  performed.  The  ample  text  is  i 
incumbered  with  ostentatious  commentari'. 
But  very  brief  and  useful  notices  are  suppll 
of  almost  all  the  individuals  who  are  m,' 
tioned  ;  and  an  admirable  and  very  min,' 
index  is  subjoined,  which  methodises  the  • 
mense  miscellany — and  places  tlie  vast  chi* 
at  our  disposal.  ; 


FOX"S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


197 


(j?uln.  ISOS 


A  Hiaionj  of  the  early  Part  of  the  /JczVh  of  Jamex  the  f^ecand  :  v'lth  rt?i  Introductory  Chapter. 
Bv  the  Ri^ht  Honourable  Charkks  James  Fox.  To  whiih  is.  aildtxi  an  Appeiulix.  4ti). 
pp.  340.     Miller,  London  :   1808. 


iini 


If  it  be  true  that  high  expectation  is  almost 
always  followed  by  disappointment,  it  is 
scarcely  possible  that  the  reailers  of  Mr.  Fox"s 
history  should  not  be  disappointed.  So  great 
a  statesman  certainly  has  not  appeared  as  an 
author  since  the  time  of  Lord  Clarendon ; 
and.  independent  of  the  great  space  w  hich  he 
fills  in  the  recent  history  of  this  country,  and 
the  admitted  splendour  of  his  general  talents, 
— his  known  zeal  for  liberty,  the  fame  of  his 
eloquence,  and  his  habitual  study  of  every 
thing  relating  to  the  constitution,  concurred  to 
direct  an  extraordinary  degree  of  attention  to 
the  work  upon  which  he  was  known  to  be 
engaged,  and  to  fix  a  standard  of  unattainable 
excellence  for  the  trial  of  his  first  acknowl- 
.edged  production.  The  very  circumstance  of 
his  not  having  published  any  considerable 
work  during  his  life,  and  of  his  having  died 
before  bringing  this  to  a  conclusion,  served  to 
.ncrease  the  general  curiosity:  and  to  accu- 
nulate  upon  this  single  fragment  the  interest 
pf  his  whole  literary  e.vistence. 

No  human  production,  we  suppose,  could 

pear  to  be  tried  by  such  a  test :  and  those  who 

it  down  to  the  perusal  of  the  work  before  us, 

ider  the  influence  of  such  impressions,  are 

.'erj'  likely  to  rise  disappointed.     With  those, 

':    jiowever,  who  are  at  all  on  their  guard  against 

{he  delusive  eflect  of  these  natural  emotions, 

jhe  result,  we  venture  to  predict,  will  be  dif- 

erent :  and  for  ourselves,  we  are  happy  to 

,'    ay,  that  we  have  not  been  disappointed  at 

I    III ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  very  greatly  moved 

^    nd  delighted  with  the  greater  part  of  this 

"    angular  volume. 

':  We  do  not  think  it  has  any  great  value  as  a 
istory :  nor  is  it  very  admirable  as  a  piece 
f  composition.  It  comprehends  too  short  a 
eriod,  and  includes  too  few  events,  to  add 
luch  to  our  knowledge  of  facts  ;  and  abounds 
)0  httle  with  splendid  passages  to  lay  much 
old  on  the  imagination.  The  reflections 
•hich  it  contains,  too,  are  generally  more  re- 
larkable  for  their  truth  and  simplicity,  than 
If  any  great  fineness  or  apparent  profundity 
"  thinking:  and  many  opportunities  are  ne- 
lected,  or  rather  purposely  declined,  of  en- 
ring  into  large  and  general  speculations. 
otvvithstanding  all  this,  the  work,  we  tliink, 
invaluable;  not  onlv  as  a  memorial  of  the 
gh  principles  and  gentle  dispositions  of  its 
lUstrious  author,  but  as  a  record  of  those 
Wiments  of  true  Engli.sh  constitutional  in- 
pendence,  which  seem  to  have  been  nearly 
rgotten  in  the  bitterness  and  hazards  of  our 
ore  recent  contentions.  It  is  delightful  as 
e  picture  of  a  character:  and  most  instruct- 
e  and  oj)portnne  as  a  remembrancer  of  pub- 
;  duties :  And  we  must  be  permitted  to  say 
ord  or  two  upon  each  of  these  subjects. 


To  tho.'ie  who  know  Mr.  Fox  only  by  the 
great  outlines  of  his  public  history, — who 
know  merely  that  he  passed  from  the  dissi- 
I  pations  of  too  gay  a  \oulh  iiUo  the  tumults 
I  and  cabals  of  a  political  life. — and  that  his 
I  days  were  spent  in  contending  about  public 
'  measures,  and  in  guidiniror  averting  the  tem- 
pests of  faction. — the  spirit  of  indulgent  and 
tender  feeling  which  pervades  this  book  must 
j  appear  very  unaccountable.  Those  who  live 
much  in  the  world,  even  in  a  private  station, 
I  commonly  have  their  hearts  a  little  hardened, 
and  their  moral  sensibility  a  little  impaired. 
,  But  statesmen  and  practical  politicians  ar«, 
]  with  justice,  suspected  of  a  still  greater  forget- 
fulness  of  mild  impressions  and  honourable 
scruples.  Coming  necessarily  into  contact 
with  great  vices  and  oireat  suflerin.gs,  they 
must  gradually  lose  some  of  their  horror  for 
the  first,  and  nmch  of  their  compassion  for 
the  last.  Constantly  engaged  in  contention, 
;  they  cease  pretty  generally  to  regard  any  hu- 
i  man  beings  as  objects  of  sympath}-  or  disin- 
terested attachment :  and.  mixing  much  with 
the  most  corrupt  part  of  mankind,  naturall)' 
!  come  to  regard  the  species  itself  with  indif- 
ference, if  not  with  contempt.  All  the  softer 
feelings  are  apt  to  be  v  orn  off  in  the  rough 
conflicts  of  factious  ho.'-tility  :  and  all  the  finer 
moralities  to  he  efl'aced.  by  the  constant  con- 
templation of  expediency,  and  the  necessities 
of  occasional  compliance. 

Such  is  the  common  conception  which  we 
form  of  men  who  have  lived  the  life  of  Mr. 
Fox;  and  such,  in  spile  of  the  testimony  of 
partial  friends,  is  the  impression  which  most 
i-privnte  persons  would  have  retained  of  him, 
if  this  volume  had  not  come  to  convey  a  truer 
and  a  more  engaging  picture  to  the  world  at 
large,  and  to  posterity. 

By  far  the  most  remarkable  thing,  then,  in 
this' book,  is  the  tone  of  indnlirence  and  un- 
feigned philanthropy  which  prevails  in  every 
part  of  it : — a  most  amiable  sensibility  to  all 
the  kind  and  domestic  affections,  and  a  sort 
of  softheartedness  towards  the  sufferings  of 
individuals,  which  seems  hitherto  to  have 
been  thought  incompatible  with  the  stern  dig- 
nity of  historv.  It  cannot  but  strike  us  with 
something  still  more  pleasing  than  surprise, 
to  meet  with  traits  of  almost  feminine  tender- 
ness in  the  sentiments  of  this  veteran  states- 
man ;  and  a  general  character  of  charity 
towards  all  men,  not  only  remote  from  the 
-  rancour  of  vulgar  hostility,  but  purified  in  a 
great  degree  from  the  asperities  of  party  con- 
tention. He  expres.ses  indeed,  throughout,  a 
high-minded  contempt  for  what  is  base,  and 
a  thorough  detestation  for  what  is  cruel :  But 
,  yet  is  constantly  led.  by  a  sort  of  generous 
I  prejudice  in  favour  of  human  nature,  to  admit 
R  2 


198 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


from  their  ancestors  in  the  clays  of  the  Revolu- 
tion.  In  the  same  circumstances,  we  are  per- 


all  possible  palliations  for  the  conduct  of  the 
individual  delinquent,  and  never  attempts  to 
shut  him  out  from  the  benefit  of  those  natural 

fortune  or  situation.     He  nas  <^iven   a 


suaded,  they  would  have  acted  with  the  same 
spirit; — nay,    in   consequence   of    the   more 


new 
character,  we  think,  to  liistory,  by  this  soft 
and  condescending  concern  lor  the  leehngs 
of  individuals ;  and  not  only  left  a  splendid 
record  of  the  gentleness  and  affectionate  sim- 
plicity of  his  own  dispositions,  but  set  an  ex- 
ample by  which  we  hope  that  men  of  genius 


gence,  we  believe  they  would  have  been  still 
more  'zealous  and  more  unanimous  in  tht 
cause  of  liberty.  But  we  have  of  late  been 
e.vposed  to  the  operation  of  various  causes 
which  have  tendetl  to  lull  our  vigilance,  anc 
relax  our  exertions ;  and  which  threaten,  un^ 
less  powerfully  counteracted,  to  bring  on 
o-iadually.  such  a   aeneial   indifference   am; 


structions  more  ,_  _  „ 
Nothing,  we  are  persuaded,  can  be  more 
o-ratifying  to  his  friends,  than  the  impression 
of  his  character  which  this  work  will  carry 
down  to  posterity  ;  nor  is  it  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  the  country,  that  its  most  illustrious 
statesman  should  be  yet  more  distingTiished 
for  the  amiableness  of  his  private  afiections. 

This  softness  of  feeling  is  the  first  remark- 
able thing  in  the  work  before  us.  The  second 
is  perhaps  of  more  general  importance.    It  is, 
that  it  contains  the  only  appeal  to  the  old 
principles  of  English  constitutional  freedom, 
and  the  only  expression  of  those  firm  and 
temperate  sentiments  of  independence,  wliich 
are  the  peculiar  produce,  and  natural  protec- 
tion of  our  mixed  government,  which  we  recol- 
lect to  have  met  with  for  very  many  years. 
The  tone  of  the  work,  in  this  respect,  recalls 
us  to  feelings  which  seem  of  late  to  have 
slumbered  in  the  country  wliich  they  used  to 
inspire.      In  our  indolent  reliance  upon  the 
imperishable  virtue  of  our  constitution,  and 
in  our  busy  pursuit  of  wealth,  we  appeared  to 
be  forgettinc  our  higher  vocation  of  free  citi- 
zens ;  and,  in  our  dread  of  revolution  or  foreign 
invasion,  to  have  lost  sight  of  those  intestine 
dangers  to  which   our   liberties   are   always 
more  immediately  exposed.     The  history  of 
the  Revolution  of  1688,  and  of  the  times  im- 
mediately preceding,  was  eminently  calculated 
to  revive   those   feelings,  and  restore   those 
impressions,  which  so  many  causes  had  in 
our  days  conspired  to  obhterate ;  and,  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Fox,  could  scarcely  have  failed 
to  produce  a  very  powerful  effect.     On  this 
account,  it  must  be  matter  of  the  deepest  re- 
gret that  he  was  not  permitted  to  finish,  or 
fndeed  to  do  more  than  begin,  that  inspiring 
narrative.     Even  in  the  little  which  he  has 
done,  however,  we  discover  the  spirit  of  the 
master:  Even  in  the  broken  prelude  which 
he  has  here  sounded,  the  true  notes  are  struck 
with  such  force  and  distinctness,  and  are  in 
themselves  so  much  in  unison  with  the  natu- 
ral chords  of  every  British  heart,  that  we  think 
no  slight  vibration  will  be  excited  throughout 
the  country  ;  and  would  willingly  lend  our 
assistance  to  propagate  it  into  every  part  of 
the  empire.     In  order  to  explain  more  fully 
the  reasons  for  which  we  .set  so  high  a  value 
upon  the  work  before  us  on  this  particular  ac- 
count, we  must  be  allowed  to  enlarge  a  little 
uixin  the  evil  which  we  think  it  calculated  to 
correct. 

We  do  not   think   the  present  generation 
of  our  couutr>-men  substantially  degenerated 


prepare  the  people  for  any  tolerably  mil«I 
form  of  servitude  which  their  future  ruler' 
may  be  tempted  to  impose  upon  them. 

The  first,  and  the  principal  of  these  causes, 

however  paradoxical  it  may  seem,  is  the  at 

tual  excellence  of  our  laAvs.  and  the  suppose 

inviolability  of  the  constitution.     The  secon 

is.  the  great  increase  of  luxury,  and  the  tnj 

m'endous  patronage  of  the  government.     Th' 

last  is,  the  impression  made  and  mahitaine 

by  the  events  of  the  French  Revolution.    "W; 

shall  say  but  a  word  upon  each  of -these  pr; 

lific  themes  of  speculation.  j 

Because  our  ancestors  stipulated  AA-iselyf, 

the  public  at  the  Revolution,  it  seemed   ' 

have  become  a  common  opinion,  that  nothii 

was  left  to  their  posterity  but  to  puisne  th(j 

private  interest.     The   machine   of  Govei, 

ment  was  then  completed  and  set  agonif , 

and  it  will  go  on  without  their  interferen(|, 

Nobody  talks  now  of  the  divine  right,  or  t!, 

dispensing  power  of  kings,  or  ventures  to  pj, 

pose   to   govern  without   Parliaments,  or  > 

levy  taxes  without  their  authority  ;— the  j) 

fore,  our  liberties  are  secure ;— and  it  is  oi't 

factious  or  ambitious  people  that  affect  ajS 

jealousy  of  the  executive.  Things  go  on  \t^ 

smoothly  as  they  are  _;  and  it  can  never  j>; 

the  interest  of  ariy  party  in  power,  to  attent 

any  thing  very  oppressive  or  injurious  to    ! 

public.  By  such  reasonings,  men  excuse  ft  r 

abandonment  of  all  concern  for  the  comr  • 

nity,  and  find,  in  the  very  excellence  of  1 

constitution,  an  apology  for  exposing  it  to  (f, 

ruption.     It  is  obvious,  however,  that  libe-A 

like  love,  is  as  hard  to  keep  as  to  win;  :| 

that  the  exertions  by  which  it  was  ongin;| 

gained  will  be  worse  than  fruitles.s,  if  thei 

not  followed  up  by  the  assiduities  by  w| 

alone  it  can  be  preserved.     Wherever  Uj 

is  power,  we  may  be  sure  that  there  isj 

will  be,  a  disposition  to  increase  it;  ancf 

there  be  not  a  constant  spirit  of  jealousy 

of  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  people,  evy 

monarchy  will  gradually  harden  into  a   jS- 

potism.  it  will  not,  indeed,  wantonly  proyi 

or  alarm,  by  seeking  again  to  occupy  tlf, 

very  positions  from  which  it  had  once  lj|> 

di.slodged:  but  it  will  extend  itself  in  c{^ 

cpiarttns;  and  march  on   silently,  underilP 

colours  of  a  venal  popularity.  _       i 

This  indolent  reliance  on  the  sufficiency 

the  constitution  for  its  own  preservatioi;.| 

fords  great  facilities,  no  doubt,  to  those  ' 

may  be  tempted  to  project  its   destruc'l 

but  the  efficient  means  are  to  be  found  chn 


FOX'S  BEIGX  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


in  the  prevailing  manners  of  the  people,  and 
,the  monstrous  patroiiaire  of  the  poveniment. 
ilt  can  admit  of  no  doubt,  wc  suppose,  that 
[trade,  which  has  made  us  rich,  has  made  us 
(Still  more  luxurious;  and  that  the  increased 
[necessity  of  expense,  has  in  general  outgone 
jthe  means  of  supplying  it.  Almost  every  in- 
[dividual  now  finds  it  more  difficult  to  live  on 
;a  level  Avith  his  equals,  than  he  ditl  when  all 
were  poorer ;  almost  every  man,  therefore,  is 
needy ;  and  he  who  is  both  needy  and  luxu- 
rious, holds  his  independence  on  a  very  jire- 
Jcarious'  tenure.  Govenunent,  on  the  other 
iiand,  has  the  disposal  of  nearly  twenty  mil- 
lions per  annum,  and  the  power  of  nominating 
io  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  posts  or 
places  of  emolument : — the  whole  population 
[of  the  country  amounting  (1808)  to  less  than 
[five  millions  of  grown  men.  Theconsetinenee 
[is,  that,  beyond  the  rank  of  ravre  labourers. 
[there  is  scarcely  one  man  out  of  three  who 
[does  not  hold  or  hojx?  for  some  appointment 
[or  promotion  from  government,  and  is  not 
Iponsequ'^ntly  disposed  to  go  all  ho7iest  lengths 
in- recommending  himself  to  its  favour.  This, 
lit  must  be  admitted,  is  a  -situation  which 
[justifies  some  alarm  for  the  liberties  of  the 
toeople ;  and,  when  taken  together  with  that 
general  indifference  to  the  ])ublic  which  has 
been  a'ready  noticed,  accounts  sufficiently  for 
:hat  habit  of  presuming  in  favour  of  all  exer- 
"ions  of  authority,  and  ag-ainst  all  popular 
piscontent  or  interference,  w'hich  is  so  re- 
markably the  characteristic  of  the  present 
leiieration.  From  this  passive  desertion  of 
he  people,  it  is  but  one  step  to  abet  and  de- 
end  the  actual  oppressions  of  their  rulers: 
,ind  men,  otherwise  conscientious,  we  are 
fraid.  too  often  impose  upon  themselves  by  j 
0  better  reasonmgs  than  the  followin<r — 
■This  measure,  to  be  sure,  is  bad.  and  some- 
vhat  tyrannical; — but  men  are  not  angels: — 
ill  humian  government  is  imperfect ;  and,  on 
he  whole,  ours  is  much  too  good  to  be  quar- 
elled  with.  Besides,  what  good  purpose 
ould  be  answered  by  my  individual  qtposi- 
ion?  I  might  ruin  my  own  fortunf,  indeed,  i 
.nd  blast  the  prospects  of  my  children  :  but  it 
\'ould  be  too  romantic  to  imagine,  that  the 
ear  of  mv  displeasure  would  produce  an  im- 
naculate  administration — so  I  will  hold  my 
ongue,  and  shift  for  myself  as  well  as  possi- 
le."  When  the  majority  of  those  who  have 
ifluence  in  the  country  reason  in  this  manner, 
surely  cannot  be  unnecessary  to  remind  us, 
,o\v  and  then,  of  the  great  things  that  were 
orte  when  the  people  roused  themselves 
gninst  their  oppressors. 

In  aid  of  these  actual  temptations  of  inler- 
st  and  indolence,  come  certain  speculative 
octrines,  as  to  the  real  value  of  liberty,  and 
i-^:  illusions  by  which  men  are  carried  away 
."ho  fancy  themselves  acting  on  the  principle  '• 
patriotism.  Private  happiness,  it  is  dis- 
overed,  has  but  little  dependence  on  the 
ature  of  the  government.  The  oppressions  , 
f  monarchs  and  demagogues  are  nearly  equal 
"pgree,  though  a  little  different  in  form  ; 
nd  the  only  thing  certain  is,  that  in  flying 
t)m  the  one  we  shall  fall  into  the  other,  and  , 


sulfertn'mendon.ely  in  the  p(>riod  of  transition. 
If  ambition  and  great  activity  therefore  be  not 
necessary  to  our  happiness,  we  shall  do  wisely 
to  occupy  ourselves  with  the  many  innocent 
and  pleasant  pursuits  that  are  allowed  under 
all  governments:  instead  of  spreading  tumult 
and  discontent,  by  endeavonring  to  realize 
some  jiolitical  conceit  of  our  own  iniajgination. 
J\lr.  1-fnme.  we  are  afraid,  is  cliietly  responsi- 
ble for  the  prevalence  of  this  Kpiciuean  and 
ignoble  strain  of  sentiment  in  this  country. — 
an  author  iVom  m  liose  disjiositions  and  under- 
sta'nding.  a  very  ditlerent  doctrine  might  have 
been  anticipated.*  But,  under  whatever  au- 
thority it  is  maintained,  we  have  no  scruple 
in  saying,  that  it  seems  to  us  as  obviously 
false  as  it  is  pernicious.  We  need  not  apj)eal 
to  Turkey  or  to  Russia  to  prove,  that  neither 
liberal  nor  even  g-ainful  pursuits  can  be  car- 
ried on  with  advantage,  where  there  is  no 
political  freedom :  For,  even  laving  out  of 
view  the  utter  impossibilily  of  securing  the 
persons  and  properties  of  individuals  in  any 
other  way,  it  is  certain  that  the  con.sciousness 
of  independence  is  a  great  enjoyment  in  ilself, 
and  that,  without  it." all  the  powers  of  the 
mind,  and  all  the  capacities  of  happiness,  are 
gradually  blunted  and  d(>slroyed.  It  is  like 
the  privation  of  air  and  exercise,  or  the  emas- 
culation of  the  body: — which,  thoueh  they 
may  appear  at  first  to  conduce  to  tranquillity 
and  indolent  enjoyment,  never  fail  to  enfeeble 
the  whole  frame,  and  to  produce  a  state  of 
oppressive  languor  and  debility,  in  com|iari- 
son  with  wliich  even  wounds  and  fatigue 
would  be  delicious. 

To  counteract  all  these  enervating  and  de- 
pressing causes,  we  had.  no  doubt,  the  increas- 
ing opulence  of  the  lower  and  middling  orders 
of  the  people,  naturally  leading  them  to  aspire 
to  greater  independence,  and  improvini:  their 
education  and  general  intelligence.  And  thus, 
public  opinion,  which  is  in  all  countries  the 
great  operating  check  upon  authority,  had 
become  more  extensive  and  more  enlightened; 
and  might  perhaps  have  been  found  a  suffi- 


*  Few  things  seem  more  iinnccoiintable.  and  in- 
deed absurd,  than  that  Hume  should  have  taken 
part  with  iiifrh-churcli  and  hish-monarcliy  men. 
Tlie  perscruiions  which  he  suflured  in  his  youth 
Irom  thp  Presbyterians,  may  perha|)s  have  iiitlu- 
cnced  his  ecclosiasiical  pariialitios.  But  that  he 
should  have  ^^idcd  with  the  Tudors  and  liie  Stuarts 
aL'aiiist  the  people,  seems  fpiiie  inconsisient  with 
ail  ihe  wreat  traits  ot  his  rhararier.  His  unrivalled 
sanacity  nuist  have  looked  wiih  contempt  on  the 
preposterous  arguments  by  which  tlie  jus  divinum 
was  maintained.  His  natural  benevolence  nmst 
have  suggested  the  cruelty  of  sul)jeciing  the  enjoy- 
menls  of  thousands  to  the  caprice  of  one  unfeeling 
individual ;  and  his  own  practical  independence  in 
private  life,  might  have  taught  him  the  value  of 
ihnse  leelings  which  he  has  so  mischievously  de- 
rided. Mr.  Fox  seems  to  have  been  struck  with 
the  same  surprise  at  this  strange  trait  in  the  charac- 
ter of  our  philr)S(ipher.  In  a  Uller  to  Mr.  [-ainrr. 
lie  says,  "  He  was  an  excellent  man,  and  o(  great 
powers  of  mind;  but  his  partiality  to  kmcs  and 
princes  is  intolerable:  nay,  it  is,  in  my  opinion, 
quite  ridiculous;  and  is  more  like  the  foolish  ad- 
miration which  women  and  children  soineiimes 
have  for  kings,  than  the  opinion,  right  or  wrong, 
of  a  philosopher." 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


cient  corrective  of  all  our  other  corruptions, 
had  things  gone  on  around  us  in  their  usual 
and  accustomed  channels.  Unfortmiately, 
however,  the  French  Revolution  came,  to  as- 
tonish and  appal  the  world  ;  and.  originating 
with  the  people,  not  only  subverted  thrones 
and  establishments,  but  made  such  havoc  on 
the  lives  and  properties  and  principles  of  in- 
dividuals, as  very  naturally  to  e.xcite  the  horror 
and  alarm  of  all  whose  condition  was  not  al- 
ready intolerable.  This  alarm,  in  so  far  as  it 
related  to  this  country,  was  always  e.vcessive, 
and  in  a  great  degree  unreasonable  :  Buf  it 
was  impossible  perhaps  altogether  to  escape 
it :  and  the  consequences  have  been  incalcu- 
lably injurious  to  the  interests  of  practical 
liberty.  During  the  raging  of  that  war  which 
Jacobinism  in  its  most  disgusting  form  carried 
on  against  rank  and  royalty,  it  was  natural  for 
those  who  apprehended  the  possibility  of  a 
similar  conflict  at  home,  to  fortify  those  orders 
with  all  that  reason  and  even  prejudice  could 
supply  for  their  security,  and  to  lay  aside  for 
the  time  those  jealousies  and  hereditary 
grudges,  upon  which,  in  better  days,  it  was 
their  duty  to  en<raire  in  contention.  While  a 
raging  fever  of  liberty  was  epidemic  in  the 
neighbourhood,  the  ordinary  diet  of  the  people 
appeared  too  inflammatory  for  their  constitu- 
tion ;  ami  it  was  thought  advisable  to  abstain 
from  articles,  which,  at  all  other  times,  were 
allowed  to  be  neces.sary  for  their  health  and 
vigour.  Thus,  a  sort  of  tacit  convention  was 
entered  into, — to  say  nothing,  for  a  while,  of 
the  foUies  and  vices  of  princes,  the  tyrannv 
of  courts,  or  the  rights  of  the  people.  The 
Revolution  of  1688,  it  was  agreed,  could  not 
be  mentioned  with  praise,  without  giving 
som.e  indirect  encouragement  to  ihe  Revolu- 
tion of  1789 ;  and  it  was  thought  as  well  to 
say  nothing  in  favour  of  Hampden,  or  Russell, 
or  Sydney,  for  fear  it  might  give  spirits  to 
Robespierre,  Danton,  or  Marat.  To  this  strict 
regimen  the  greater  part  of  the  nation  sub- 
mitted of  their  own  accord  ;  and  it  was  forced  | 
upon  the  remainder  by  a  pretty  vigorous  sys- 
tem of  proceeding.  Now,  we  do  not  greatly  I 
blame  either  the  alarm,  or  the  precautions 
which  it  dictated  :  but  we  do  verv  seriously 
lament,  that  the  use  of  those  precautions 
should  have  degenerated  into  a  sort  of  na- 
tional habit ;  and  should  be  continued  and  i 
approved  of  so  very  long  after  the  danger 
which  occasioned  them  has  ceased.  j 

It  is  now  at  least  ten  years  since  Jacobinism  j 
was  prostrated  at  Paris:  and  it  is  still  longer  i 
since  it  ceased  to  be  regarded  with  any  thing  I 
liut  horror  in  this  country.    Yet  the  favourers 
of  power   would  still  take  advantage  of  its  j 
r.ame  to  shield  authority  from  question  :  and 
to  throw  obloquy  on   the   rights  and  services  ' 
ot  the  people.    The  power  of  habit  has  come 
unfortunately  to  their  aid;  and  it  is  still  un-  I 
fashionable,   and,    we    are   afraid,  not    very  i 
popular,  to  talk  of  the  tyranny  of  the  Stuarts, 
and  the  triumph  of   the  Revolution,   in  the  I 
tone  which   was   universal   and   established 
within  the.se  last  twenty  years.  For  our  parts, 
however,  we  see  no  sort  of  reason   for  this 
change ;  and  we  hail,  with  pleasure,  this  work  j 


of  Mr.  Fox"s.  as  likely  to  put  an  end  to  a 
system  of  timidity  so  apt  to  graduate  into' 
servihty :  and  to  familiarize  his  countrymen 
once  more  to  speak  and  to  think  of  Charles, 
of  James,  and  of  Strafford, — and  of  ^Villiam.. 
and  Russell,  and  Sydney, — as  it  becomes 
Englishmen  to  speak  and  to  think  of  such 
characters.  To  talk  with  affected  tenderness 
of  oppres.sors,  may  suit  the  policy  of  those 
who  wish  to  bespeak  the  clemency  of  an 
Imperial  Conqueror;  but  must  appear  pecu- 
liarly base  and  inconsistent  in  all  who  profess 
an  anxiety  to  rouse  the  people  to  great  exer- 
tions in  the  cau.se  of  their  independence. 

The  volume  itself,  which  has  given  occasion! 
to  these  reflections,  and  from  which  we  have' 
withheld  our  readers  too  long.  consi.<ts  of  a 
preface  or  general  introduction  from  the  pen 
of  Lord  Holland ;  an  introductory  chapter/f 
comprising  a  review  of  the  leading  events' 
from  the  year  1640  to  the  death  of  CharleS' 
II. :  two  chapters  of  the  history  of  ihe  reigr^ 
of  James,  which  include  no  more  than  severl 
months  of  the  year  1685.  and  narrate  ven' 
little  but  the  unfortunate  expeditions  of  Af 
gyle  and  of  Monmouth:  and  a  prettv  loijjf 
Appendix,  consisting  chielly  of  the  corre! 
spondence  between  Barillon,  the  French  conj 
fidential  minister  at  the  court  of  England,  anc 
his  master  Louis  XIV.  ■' 

Lord  Holland"s  part  of  the  volume  is  writter 
with  great  judgment,  perspicuity,  and  prol 
priety  ;  and  though  it  contains  less  aiiecdot 
and  minute  information  with  regard  to  li 
illustrious  kinsman  than  every  reader  mu.- 
wish  to  possess,  it  not  only  gives  a  very  sati: 
factory  account  of  the  progress  of  the  wor 
to  whicli  it  is  prefixed,  but  affords  us  soni 
fflimpses  of  the  character  and  opinions  of  i; 
author,  which  are  peculiarly  interesting,  bol 
from  the  authenticity  of  the  source  from  whic 
they  are  derived,  and  from  the  unostentatinv 
simplicity  with  which  they  are  comnimiicale( 
Lord  Holland  has  not  been  able  to  ascerta- 
at  what  period  Mr.  Fox  first  formed  iIk-  di 
sign  of  writing  a  history  ;  but,  from  the  ye< 
1797.  when  he  ceased  to  give  a  regular  atfem 
ance  in  parliament,  he  was  almost  entirel 
occupied  with  literary  schemes  and  avoc;i 
tions.  The  following  little  sketch  of  the  ten' 
per  and  emplo3ments  of  him  who  was  pitie 
by  many  as  a  disappointed  politician,  is  e:. 
tremely  amiable  ;  and,  we  are  now  convince 
by  the  fragment  before  us.  correctly  true,    i 

"  Din-ing  his  retirement,  that  i<>vp  of  liieratur] 
.Tnd  fondness  for  poetry,  which  neiilipr  plea.=iiri' n  ; 
biKsiiiess  hni)  ever  extineiiished.   revivctl  with  .'^ 
ardour.  ?urh  as  few,  in  ihe  eagerness  of  yoiiih  , 
in   pursuit   of  fame   or  advaniHge.  are  rapnhle 
feelinff.     f^nr  some  time,  however,  his  .sriidies  wp< 
not  direeted  to  any  particular  objeel.    ^'uch  wdf  ' 
happy  disposition  of  his  mind,  that  liis  own  ti'C.ci 
tions.  whether  supplied  by  conversation,  desidio 
readin£r,  or  the  common  occurrences  of  a  hf*'  in  1 1 
country,  were  always   sniTicient  to  call    forih  li 
viiTOur  and  exertion  of  his  faculties.     Interconr; 
with  the  world    had   so  little  deadened  in  him  t 
sense  of  the  simplest  enjoyments,  that  even  in  i ' 
hours  of  apparent  leisure  and  inactivity,  he  retain; 
that  keen  relish  of  existence,  which,  after  ihefi' 
impressions  of  life,  is  .so  rarely  excited  but  by  gn, 
interests  and  strong  passions.    Hence  it  was,  tl 


FOXS  REIGN  OF  JAMES  ILK  SECOND. 


201 


1  the  interval  between  his  active  attendance  in  par- 
amenr,  and  the  undenaking  of  his  History,  he 
ever  telt  the  tedium  ot'  a  vacant  day.  A  verse  in 
;Owper,  which  he  frequently  repealed, 

'How  Tarious  his  employments  whom  tlie  world 
I     Calls  idle  :' 

as  an  accurate  description  of  the  hfe  lie  was  then 
ading  ;  and  I  am  persuaded,  that  if  he  had  con- 
ilted  his  own  gratifications  only,  it  would  have 
Hitinued  to  be  so.  The  circumstances  which  led 
m  once  more  to  take  an  aciive  part  in  public  dis- 
issions,  are  foreign  to  tiie  purposes  of  this  preface. 
.  is  sufficient  to  rfinark,  liiat  they  could  not  be 
reseen,  and  that  his  notion  of  engaging;  iu  some 
erary  undertaking  was  adopted  during  his  retwe- 
ent,  and  with  the  prospect  of  long  and  uninter- 
pted  leisure  before  him." — p.  iii.  iv. 

He  seems  to  have  fixed  finally  on  the  his- 
|ry  of  the  Revolution,  about  the  year  1799; 
iit  even  alter  the  \vork  was  bei^un,  he  not 
[ily  dedicated  large  portions  of  his  time  to 
i.e  study  of  Greek  literature,  and  poetry  in 
[siieral.  but  meditated  and  announced  to  his 
iirrespon dents  a  great  variety  of  publications, 
;x)n  a  very  wide  range  of  subjects.  Among 
ese  were,  an  edition  of  Dryden — a  Defence 
i  Racine  and  of  the  French  Stage — an  Essay 
j.  the  Beauties  of  Euripides — a  Disquisition 
|)on  Hume's  History — and  an  Essay  or  Dia- 
[jue  on  Poetry,  History,  and  Oratory.  In 
|;02,  the  greater  part  of  the  work,  as  it  now 
[inds,  was  fijiished ;  but  the  author  wished 
.  consult  the  papers  in  the  Scotch  College, 
;|.d  the  Depot  des  Affaires  ctrangeres  at  Paris, 
;d  took  the  opportunity  of  the  peace  to  paj- 
iivisit  to  that  capital  accordingly.  After  his 
turn,  he  made  some  additions  to  his  chap- 
:r8;  but  being  soon  after  recalled  to  the 
nties  of  public  life,  he  never  afterwards 
md  leisure  to  go  on  with  the  work  to  w  hich 
•  had  dedicated  himself  with  so  much  zeal 
i  d  assiduity.  What  he  did  write  was  finished, 
Iwever,  for  the  most  part,  with  very  great 
tre.  He  wrote  very  slow :  and  was  extremely 

}'tidious  in  the  choice  of  his  expressions; 
Iding  pedantry  and  alTectation,  however,  in 
Ij-  greater  horror  than  carelessness  or  rough- 
ips.  Hecommonly  wrote  detached  sentences 
«  slips  of  paper,  aiid  afterwards  dictated  them 
('  to  Mrs.  Fox,  who  copied  them  into  the 
ijok  from  which  the  present  volume  has  been 
IMited  without  the  alteration  of  a  single  syl- 

jThe  only  other  part  of  Lord  Holland's  state- 
ihit,  to  which  we  think  it  necessary  to  call 
t|i  attention  of  the  reader,  is  that  hi  which 
li  thinks  it  necessary  to  explain  the  peculiar 
litions  which  Mr.  Fox  entertained  on  the 
ject  of  historical  composition,  and  the  very 
id  laws  to  which  he  had  subjected  himself 
!the  execution  of  his  important  task. 

{'  It  is  ilierefcjre  necessary  to  observe,  that  he  had 
fined  his  plan  so  exclusively  on  ihe  model  of  an- 
C|nt  writers,  that  he  not  only  felt  some  repusnunce 
Ifhe  modern  practice  of  notes,  but  he  thouiihi  that 
a, which  an  his  orian  wished  to  say.  should  be  in- 
tlduoed  as  pari  of  a  continued  narration,  and  never 
aVme  the  appearance  of  a  digression,  much  less 
qa  dissertation  annexed  to  it.  From  the  period, 
tirefore,  that  he  closed  his  Introductory  Chapter, 
tdefined  his  duty  as  an  author,  to  consist  in  re- 
cknting  the  facts  as  they  arose ;  or  in  his  simple 
all  forcihle  language,  in  telling  the  story  of  those 


limes.  A  conver.'iation  which  passed  on  the  sub- 
ject  of  the  literature  of  the  age  of  James  the  .Se- 
cond, proves  his  rigid  adherence  to  llieso  ideas; 
and  perhaps  the  substance  of  it  may  serve  to  illus- 
irtiie  and  explain  them.  In  .speakinir  of  liio  writers 
of  (hat  period,  he  lamenled  that  he  had  not  devist'd 
a  meihod  of  iiiierweaving  any  iircounl  ol  them  or 
their  works,  n)uci)  less  any  criiicwm  on  their  style, 
into  his  history.  l)n  my  suggeBiinc  the  example 
of  Hume  and  Voliaim,  who  liad  discussed  such 
topics  at  some  length,  either  at  the  end  of  each 
reign,  or  in  a  separate  chapter,  he  observed,  with 
niucii  commendaiion  ol  their  e.\eciilion  ol  it,  that 
such  a  contrivance  migiit  be  a  good  mode  of  writing 
criiical  essays,  but  that  it  was,  in  his  opinion,  in- 
compatible with  the  nature  of  his  undertaking, 
which,  if  it  ceased  to  be  a  narraiive.  ceased  to  be  a 
history." — p.  xxxvi.  xxxvii. 

Now,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say.  tnat 
this  is  a  view  of  the  nature  of  hi.story,  which, 
in  so  far  as  it  is  intelligible,  appears  to  be 
very  narrow  and  erroneous:  and  which  s«>ems, 
like  all  such  partial  views,  to  havf  been  so 
little  adhered  to  by  the  tiuthor  him.selt".  as 
only  to  exclude  many  excellences,  without  at- 
tainiimthe  praise  even  of  consistency  in  error. 
The  object  of  history,  we  conceive,  is  to  give 
us  a  clear  narrative  of  the  transactions  of  piist 
ages,  with  a  view  of  the  character  and  condi- 
tion of  those  who  were  concerned  in  them, 
and  such  reasonings  and  rellections  as  may 
be  necessary  to  explain  their  connection,  or 
natural  on  reviewing  their  results.  That  some 
account  of  the  authors  of  a  literary  age  should 
have  a  place  in  such  a  composition,  seems  to 
follow  upon  two  considerations  :  first,  because 
it  is  unquestionably  one  object  of  history  to 
give  us  a  distinct  view  of  the  state  and  condition 
of  the  age  and  people  with  whose  affairs  it  is 
occupied  :  and  nothina  can  .serve  so  well  to 
illustrate  their  true  stale  and  condition  as  a 
correct  estimate  and  description  of  the  great 
authors  they  produced  :  and.  secondly,  be- 
cause the  fact  that  such  and  such  authors  did 
flourish  in  such  a  period,  and  were  ingenious 
and  elegant,  or  rude  and  ignorant,  are  facts 
which  are  interesting  in  themselves',  and  may 
be  made  the  object  of  narrative  just  as  pro- 
perly as  that  stich  and  such  princes  or  minis- 
tersdid  flourish  at  the  same  time,  and  were 
ambitious  or  slothful,  tyrannical  or  friends  to 
liberty.  Political  eveiits  are  not  the  only 
events  which  are  recorded  even  in  ancient 
history:  and,  now  when  it  is  generally  ad- 
mitted, that  even  political  events  cannot  be 
fully  understood  or  accounted  for  without 
taking  into  view  the  prectHiing  and  concomi- 
tant changes  in  manners,  liteniture,  com- 
merce, &c.  it  cannot  fail  to  appear  surprising, 
that  an  author  of  such  a  compass  of  mind  as 
beloiiL'ed  to  Mr.  Fox,  should  have  thoui.dit  of 
confining  him.self  to  the  mere  chionicling  of 
wars  or  factions,  and  held  himself  excluded, 
bv  the  laws  of  hisforictd  compo.nilion,  from 
touching  upon  topics  so  iiiiich  more  interest- 
ing. 

Th(!  truth  i.s,  howev(>r,  that  Mr.  Fox  has  by 
no  means  adhered  to  this  plan  of  merely 
"  telling  the  story  of  the  times"  of  which  he 
treats.  On  the  cnjitrary,  he  is  more  full  of 
argument,  and  what  is  i)rn|v»rly  called  rellec- 
tion,  than  most  modern  historians  with  whom 


202 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


we  are  acquainted.  His  argument,  to  be  sure, 
is  chiefly  directed  to  ascertain  the  truth  of 
reputed  facts,  or  the  motives  of  ambiguous 
actions ;  and  his  reflections;  however  just  and 
natural,  may  commonly  be  considered  as  re- 
dundant, with  a  view  to  mere  iiifonuation. 
Of  another  kind  of  reasoning,  indeed,  he  is 
more  sparing ;  though  of  a  kind  far  more  valu- 
able, and,  in  our  apprehension,  far  more  es- 
sential to  the  true  perfection  of  history.  We 
allude  now  to  those  general  views  of  the 
causes. which  influence  iho  character  and  dis- 
position of  the  people  at  laiire  ;  and  which,  as 
they  vary  from  age  to  age,  bring  a  greater  or 
a  smaller  jwrt  of  the  nation  into  contact  with 
its  government,  and  ultimately  produce  the 
success  or  failure  of  every  scheme  of  tyranny 
or  freedom.  The  more  this  subject  is  medi- 
tated, the  more  certain,  we  are  persuaded,  it 
will  appear,  that  all  permanent  and  important 
occurrences  in  the  internal  history  of  a  coun- 
tr}-.  are  the  result  of  those  changes  in  the 
general  character  of  its  population  ;  and  that 
kings  and  ministers  are  neces.sarily  guided  in 
their  projects  by  a  feeling  of  the  tendencies 
of  this  varying  character,  and  fail  or  succeed, 
exactly  as  they  had  judged  correctly  or  erro- 
neously of  its  condition.  To  trace  the  causes 
and  the  modes  of  its  variation,  is  therefore  to 
describe  the  true  sources  of  events :  and. 
merely  to  narrate  the  occurrences  to  which  it 
gave  rise,  is  to  recite  a  history  of  actions  with- 
out intelligible  motives,  and  of  effects  without 
assignable  causes.  It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that 
political  events  operate  in  their  turn  on  that 
national  character  by  which  they  are  previ- 
ously motilded  and  controuled  :  But  they  are 
very  far,  indeed,  from  being  the  chief  agents 
in  its  formation  ;  and  the  history  of  those  very 
events  is  necessarily  imperfect,  as  well  as 
uninstructive,  if  the  consideration  of  those 
other  agents  is  omitted.  They  consist  of 
every  thing  which  affects  the  character  of 
individuals  : — manners,  education,  prevailing 
occupations,  religion,  taste, — and,  above  all. 
the  distribution  of  wealth,  and  the  state  of 
prejudice  and  opinions. 

It  is  the  more  to  be  regretted,  that  such  a 
mind  as  Mr.  Fox's  should  have  been  bound 
up  from  such  a  subject  by  the  shackles  of  an 
idle  theory  ;  because  the  perio<l  of  which  he 
treats  affords  the  finest  of  all  opportunities  for 
prosecuting  such  an  inquiry,  and  does  not,  in- 
deed, admit  of  an  intelligible  or  satisfactory 
history  upon  any  other  conditions.  There  are 
three  great  events,  falling  within  that  period, 
of  which,  it  appears  to  us,  that  "  the  story" 
has  not  yet  been  intelligibly  told,  for  want  of 
some  such  analysis  of  the  national  feelings. 
One  is,  the  universal  joy  and  sincere  conli- 
dence  with  which  Charles  II.  was  received 
back,  without  one  stipulation  for  the  liberties 
of  the  people,  or  one  precaution  against  the 
abuses  of  power.  This  was  done  by  the  very 
people  who  had  waged  war  airainst  a  more 
amiable  Sovereign,  and  quarrelled  with  the 
Protector  for  depriving  them  of  their  freedom. 
It  is  saying  nothing,  to  say  that  Monk  did  this 
by  means  of  the  army.  It  was  not  done 
either  by  Monk  or  the  army,  but  by  the  na- 


tion ;  and  even  if  it  were  not  so.  the  questio 
would  still  be, — by  what  change  in  the  dis 
po-sitions  of  the  army  and  the  nation  Men 
was  able  to  make  them  do  it.     The  secon 
event,  which  must  always  appear  unaccoun 
able  upon  the  mere  narrative  of  the  circurr: 
stances,  is  the  base  and  abject  submission  c' 
the  people  to  the  avowed  tyranny  of  the  ri 
stored  Charles,  when  he  was  pk  iisetl  at  ]&■ 
to  give  up  the  use  of  Parliaments,  and  to  ta 
and  govern  on  his  own  single  authority ,    Th 
happened  when  most  of  thosi'  \i.ufA  have  st! 
been  alive  who  had  seen  \\v  nation  ri.-5e  up: 
arms  against  his  father  •  and  within  five  yea, 
of  the  time  when  it  rose  up  still  more  unac! 
mously  against  his  successor,  and  not  on] 
changed  the  succession  of  the  crown,  but  ve:; 
strictly  defined  and  limited  its  prerogativf' 
The  third,  is  the  Revolution  itself;  an  evei 
which  was  brought  about  by  the  very  im,' 
viduals  who  had  submitted  so  quietly  to  t!; 
ilomination  of  Charles,  and  who,  when  assei. 
bled  in  the  House  of  Commons  under  Jamj 
himself,  had,  of  their  own  accord,  sent  one  | 
their  members  to  the  Tower  for  having  c, 
served,  upon  a  harsh  and  tyrannical  expn' 
sion  of  the  King's,  that  "  he  hoped  they  W6; 
all  Englishmen,  and  not  to  be  frighted  witij 
few  hard  words."     It  is  not  to  give  us  tj 
history  of  these  events,  merely  to  sf^t  dc 
the  time  and  circumstances  of  tire  occnrret;'. 
They  evidently  require  some  explanation, 
order  to  be  comprehended  ;  and  the  narrat 
will  be  altogether  unsatisfactory,  ns  well 
totally  barren  of  instruction,  unless  it  g 
some  account  of  those  changes  in  the  genejl 
temper  and  opinion  of  the  nation,  by  wti 
such  contradictory  actions  became  possiH 
Mr.  Fox's  conception  of  the  limits  of  legji 
mate  history,  restrained   him,  we  are  afnL 
from  entering  into  such  considerations j  ;!l 
they  will   best   estimate  the  amount  of  \i 
error,  who  are  most  aware  of  tin;  importajj 
of  the  information  of  which  it  has  depriji 
us.     Nothing,   in   our  apprehension,  can  ,6 
beyond  the   province   of  legitimate  hist*, 
which  tends  to  give  us  clear  conceptions  I 
the  times  and  characters  with  which  that  jf- 
lory  is  conversant;  nor  can  the  story  of 'V 
time  be  complete  or  valuable,  unless  it   'K 
before  and   after. — to  the  causes  and  co;' 
quences  of  the  events  which  it  detailS; .( 
mark  out  the  period  with  which  it  is  occur!, 
as  part  of  a  greater  series,  as  well  as  an  otCt 
of  separate  consideration. 

In  proceeding  to  the  consideration  of  ,r. 
Fox's  own  part  of  this  volume,  it  ma;)e 
as  well  to  complete  that  general  estiraat;)f 
its  excellence  and  defects  which  we  ve 
been  led  incidentally  to  express  in  a  '}i 
degree  already.  We  shall  then  be  ab^to 
pursue  our  analysis  of  the  successive  c  P" 
ters  with  less  distraction.  I 

The  sentiments,  we  think,  are  almosjall 
just,  and  candid,  and  manly;  but  the  n;"a' 
live  is  too  minute  and  diffusive,  and  ^f 
not  in  general  How  with  much  spirit  i  fa* 
cility.  Inconsiderable  incidents  are  delM 
at  far  loo  great  length  :  and  an  extremejnfi 
painful   anxiety  is  shown   to  ascertaii  h' 


FOXS  REIGN  OF  JAiMES  THE  SECOND. 


203 


■xact  truth  of  doubtful  or  contested  passages, 
nd  the  probable  motives  of  insignificant  ana 
imbiguous  actions.  The  labour  which  is 
■lus  visibly  bestowed  on  the  work,  often  ap- 
'ears,  therefore,  disproportioned  to  the  ini- 
'ortance  of  the  result.  The  history  becomes, 
1  a  certain  degree,  languid  and  heavy  :  and 
bmething  like  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
|iid  impatience  is  generated,  from  the  tardi- 
'ess  and  excessive  caution  with  whii-h  the 
[lory  is  carried  forward.  In  those  constant 
ttempts,  too.  to  verify  the  particulars  which 
ire  narrated,  a  certain  tone  of  debate  is  fre- 
juently  assumed,  which  savours  more  of  the 
btor  than  the  historian  ■  and  though  there 
'•.  nothing  llorid  or  rhetorical  in  the  general 
list  of  the  diction,  yet  those  argumentative 
[assages  are  evidently  more  akin  to  public 
aeaking  than  to  written  composition.  Fre- 
lient  interrogations — short  alternative  propo- 
tions — and  an  occasional  mi.\ture  of  familiar 
aages  and  illustrations, — all  denote  a  certain 
abit  of  personal  altercation,  and  of  keen  and 
[aimated  contention.  Instead,  therefore,  of 
[  work  emulating  the  full  and  flowing  nar- 
itive  of  Liry  or  Herodotus,  we  find  in  Mr. 
ox's  book  rather  a  series  of  critical  remarks 
fi  the  narratives  of  preceding  writers,  min- 
lled  up  with  occasional  details  somewhat 
(lore  copious  and  careful  than  the  magnitude 

ithe  subjects  seemed  to  require.  The  his- 
ry,  in  short,  is  planned  upon  too  broad  a 
ale,  and  the  narrative  too  frequently  inter- 
iipted  by  small  controversies  and  petty  inde- 
[sions.  We  are  aware  that  these  objections 
lay  be  owing  in  a  good  degree  to  the  small- 
less  of  the  fragment  upon  which  we  are  un- 
jirtunately  obliged  to  hazard  them  ;  and  that 
lie  proportions  which  appear  gigjuitic  in  this 
ittle  relic,  might  have  been  no  more  than 
liajestic  in  the  finished  work  ;  but  even  after 
liaking  allowance  for  this  consideration,  we 
[mnot  help  thinking  that  the  details  are  too 
liinute,  and  the  verifications  too  elaborate. 
I  The  introductory  chapter  is  full  of  admi- 
[ible  reasonings  and  just  reflections.  It  be- 
ans with  noticing,  that  there  are  certain 
jeriods  in  the  history  of  every  people,  which 
re  obviously  big  with  impoitant  conseijuen- 
jis.  and  exercise  a  visible  and  decisive  in- 
uence  on  the  times  tliat  come  after.  The 
Bign  of  Henry  VII.  is  one  of  these,  with  re- 
Ition  to  Ens-land  ; — another  is  that  comprised 
ptween  1.588  and  1640: — and  the  most  re- 
liarkable  of  all,  is  that  which  extends  from 
rtela.st  of  these  dates,  to  the  death  of  Charles 
[. — the  era  of  constitutional  principles  and 
ractical  tyranny — of  the  best  laws,  and  the 
lost  corrupt  administration.  It  is  to  the  re- 
iew  of  this  period,  that  the  introductory 
lapter  is  dedicated. 

!  Mr.  Fox  approves  of  the  first  proceedings 
'"the  Commons:  but  censures  without  re- 
PiTe  the  unjustifiable  form  of  the  proceed- 
Ise.  against  Lord  Strafford,  whom  he  qualifies 
ith  the  name  of  a  great  delinquent.  With 
[•card  to  the  causes  of  the  civil  war.  the  most 
p.fficult  (juestion  to  determine  is.  whether  the 
larliament  made  suflicient  eflTorts  to  avoid 
iringing affairs  to  such  a  decision.    That  they 


had  justice  on  their  aide,  he  says,  cannot  be 
reasonably d(nibted, — but  seems  to  think  that 
something  more  might  have  been  done,  to 
bring  nuitters  to  an  accommodation.  .  Witli 
regard  to  the  execution  of  the  King,  he  mak»-s 
the  following  striking  observations,  in  that 
ton(>  of  fearh'ss  integrity  and  natural  mild- 
ness, which  we  have  already  noticetl  us 
characteristic  of  this  performance. 

"The  execution  of  the  King,  ttioiigh  a  Inr  loss 
violent  measure  ihnn  ilmt  ot  Lord  Sirnfl'ord,  is  nn 
event  of  so  siiiguinr  n  niiiure,  iliui  wi;  cannot 
wonder  that  it  slioukl  have  ixeiiid  more  .sfn.-iatiua 
than  any  other  in  the  annals  of  England.  This  e.x- 
eniplary  aet  of  suhsianiia!  justice,  as  it  has  been 
called  hy  some,  of  enormous  wickedness  by  others, 
must  be  considered  in  two  points  of  view.  First, 
was  it  not  in  itself  just  and  necessary  !  Secondly, 
was  the  e.vainple  ol  it  likely  to  be  salu'ary  or  per- 
nicious ?  In  regard  to  the  first  of  liuse  rjueations, 
Mr.  Hume,  not  perhaps  intentionally,  makes  tite 
best  juslifieation  of  it,  liy.inying.  that  while  Charles 
lived,  the  projected  Republic  could  never  be  secure. 
But  to  justify  taking  away  the  life  of  an  individual, 
upon  the  principle  of  self-defence,  tlie  danger  niiis'. 
be,  not  problematical  .and  remote,  but  evident  and 
innnediate.  The  danger  in  this  instance  was  not 
of  such  a  nature;  and  the  imprisonment,  or  even 
banishment  of  Charles,  might  have  given  to  the 
republic  such  a  decree  of  security  as  any  govern- 
ment ought  to  be  contein  wiiii.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed, however,  on  the  other  side,  liiat  if  tiie  re- 
publican govenmient  had  sufiered  the  King  to 
escape,  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  justice  and 
genero.sity  wholly  unexampled  ;  and  to  have 
granted  him  even  his  life,  would  have  been  one 
among  the  more  rare  efforts  of  virtue.  The  siiort 
interval  between  the  deposal  and  death  of  princes 
is  become  proverbial  ;  and  though  there  may  be 
some  few  examples  on  the  oilier  side,  as  far  as 
life  is  concerned,  I  doubt  whether  a  single  in- 
stance can  be  found,  where  liberty  has  been 
granted  to  a  deposed  monarch.  Among  the 
modes  of  destroying  persons  in  such  a  situation, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  but  that  adopted  by 
Cromwell  and  his  adherents  is  the  least  dis- 
honourable. Edward  the  Second,  Richard  the 
Second,  Henry  the  Sixth,  Edward  the  Fifth,  had 
none  of  them  long  survived  their  deposal  ;  but 
this  was  the  firsi  instance,  in  our  history  at  least, 
i  where,  of  such  an  act,  it  could  be  truly  said,  that 
it  was  not  done  in  a  corner. 

"  As  to  the  second  question,  whether  the  advan- 
tnse  to  be  derived  from  the  example  was  such  as 
to  justify  an  act  of  such  violence,  it  appears  to  me 
to  be  a  complete  solution  of  it  to  observe,  that  with 
respect  to  England  (and  I  know  not  upon  what 
ground  we  are  to  set  examples  for  other  nations, 
or.  in  other  words,  to  lake  the  criminal  justice  of 
the  world  into  our  hands),  it  was  wholly  needless, 
aiid  iherHl'ore  unjustifiable.  u>  set  one  lor  kings,  at 
a  time  when  it  was  intended  the  office  of  king 
should  be  abolished,  niul  consequently  that  no  [ler- 
son  should  be  in  the  situation  to  make  it  the  rule 
of  his  conduct.  Besides,  the  miser  es  attendant 
upon  a  deposed  monarch,  seem  to  be  sufTic-ieni  to 
deter  any  prince,  who  thinks  of  eorisequences,  from 
running  the  risk  of  being  placed  in  such  a  situa- 
tion :  or  if  death  be  the  only  evil  that  can  deter 
him,  the  fate  of  former  tyrants  deposed  1)V  their 
subjects,  would  by  no  means  eni-(uirHg''  nim  to 
hope  he  could  avoid  even  thai  caiHsiroi)he.  As 
far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  event,  the  example 
was  certainly  not  verv  rfTectual;  since  both  the 
sons  of  Charles,  though  having  their  father's  fate 
before  their  eyes,  vet  fearer!  tiot  to  violate  the  lib- 
erties of  the  people  even  more  than  ho  had  at- 
tempted to  do. 

"  After  all,  however.  notwiihsiandinK  what  the 
more  rcaeonable  pan  of  mankind  n»ay  think  upon 


204 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


this  question,  it  is  much  to  be  doub'ed  whether 
this  singular  proceeding  has  not.  as  much  as  any 
other  circumstance,  served  to  raise  the  character 
of  the  English  nation  in  the  opinion  of  Europe  in 
general:  He  who  has  read,  and  siill  more  he  who 
has  heard  in  conversation,  discussions  upon  this 
subject,  by  foreigners,  must  have  perceived,  that, 
even  in  the  nunds  ol  those  who  condemn  the  act. 
the  impression  made  by  it  has  been  far  more  that 
of  respect  and  admiration,  than  that  of  disgust  and 
horror.  The  truth  is,  that  the  guilt  of  the  action, 
that  is  to  say,  the  taking  away  the  life  of  the 
King,  is  what  most  men  in  the  place  of  Cromwell 
and  his  associates  would  have  incurred.  What 
there  is  of  splendour  and  of  magnanimity  in  it,  I 
mean  the  publicity  and  solemnity  of  the  act,  is 
what  few  would  be  capable  of  displaying.  It  is  a 
degrading  fact  to  human  nature,  that  even  the 
sending  away  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  was  an 
instance  of  generosity  almost  unexampled  in  the 
history  of  transactions  of  this  nature." — pp.  13 — 17. 

Under  the  Protector,  of  whom  he  speaks 
with  singular  candour,  the  government  was 
absolute — and.  on  his  death,  fell  whollj-  into 
the  hands  of  the  army.  He  speaks  with  con- 
tempt and  severe  censure  of  ^lonk  for  the 
precipitate  and  unconditional  submission  into 
which  he  hurried  the  country  at  the  Restora- 
tion :  and  makes  the  following  candid  reflec- 
tion on  the  subsequent  punishment  of  the 
regicides. 

"  With  respect  to  the  execution  of  those  who 
were  accused  of  having  been  more  immediately  con- 
cerned in  the  King's  death,  that  of  Scrope,  who 
had  come  in  upon  the  proclamation,  and  of  the 
military  ofScers  who  had  attended  the  trial,  was  a 
violation  of  every  principle  of  law  and  justice.  But 
the  fate  of  the  others,  though  highly  dishonourable 
to  Monk,  whose  whole  power  had  arisen  from  his 
zeal  in  their  service,  and  the  favour  and  confidence 
with  which  they  had  rewarded  him,  and  not  per- 
haps very  creditable  to  the  nation,  of  w  hich  many 
had  applauded,  more  had  supported,  and  almost  all 
had  acquiest-ed  in  the  act.  is  not  certainly  to  be  im- 
puted as  a  crime  to  the  King,  or  to  those  ot  his  ad- 
visers who  were  of  the  Cavalier  party.  The  pas-  I 
sion  of  revenge,  though  properly  condemned  both  i 
by  philoso()hy  and  religion,  yet  when  it  is  excited  | 
by  injurious  treatment  of  persons  justly  dear  to  us. 
is  among  the  most  excusable oi  human  Irailiies  ;  and 
if  Charles,  in  his  general  conduct,  bad  shown 
stronger  feelings  of  gratitude  for  services  performed 
to  his  father,  his  character,  in  the  eyes  of  many, 
would  be  rather  raised  than  lowered  by  this  example 
of  severity  against  the  regicides." — pp.  22.  23. 

The  mean  and  unprincipled  submission  of 
Charles  to  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  profligate  pre- 
tences upon  which  he  was  peipetnally  solicit- 
ing an  increase  of  his  disgraceful  stipend,  are 
mentioned  with  becoming  reprobation.  The 
delusion  of  the  Popish  plot  is  noticed  at  ."^ome 
length;  and  some  admirable  remarks  are  in- 
troduced with  reference  to  the  debates  on  the 
expediency  of  passing  a  bill  for  excluding  the 
Duke  of  York  from  the  Crown,  or  of  imposing 
certain  restrictions  on  him  in  the  event  of  his 
succession.  The  following  observations  are 
distinguished  for  their  soundness,  as  well  as 
their  acuteness :  and  are  applicable,  in  prin- 
ciple, to  every  period  of  our  history  in  which 
it  can  be  necessary  to  recur  to  the  true  prin- 
ciples of  the  constitution. 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  upon  what  principles 
even  the  Tories  could  justify  their  support  of  tlie 
restrictions.  Many  among  them,  no  doubt,  saw 
the  provisions  in  the  same  light  in  which  the  Whigs 


represented  them,  as  an  expedient,  admirably  in-. 
deed  adapted  to  the  real  object  of  upholding  the 
present  king's  power,  by  the  defeat  of  ihe  exclu- 
sion, but  never  likely  to  take  effect  for  their  pre- 
tended purpose  of  controuling  that  of  his  successor; 
and  supported  them  for  that  very  reason.     But  such 
a  principle  of  conduct  was  too   fraudulent  to  be 
avowed  ;  nor  ought  it  perhaps,  in  candour,  to  he 
imputed  to  the  majority  of  the  party.     To  those 
who  acted  with  good  faith,  and  meant  that  the  re-- 
strictions  should  really  lake  place,  and  be  effectual;! 
surely  it  ought  to  have  occurred  (and  to  those  whd 
most  prized  the  prerogatives  of  the  crown,  it  ought 
most  forcibly  to  have  occurred),  that,  in  consenting 
to  curtail  the  powers  of  the  crown,  rather  than  tn 
alter  the  succession,  they  were  adopting  the  greater, 
in  order  to  avoid  the  lesser  evil.     The  qiiesiion  of,i 
what  are  to  be  the  powers  of  the  crown  ?  is  surely' 
of  superior  importance  to  that  of,  who  shall  wearitV 
Those,  at  least,  who  consider  the  royal  prerosaiivf 
as  vested  in  the  king,  not  for  his  own  sake,  but  foi 
that  of  his  subjects,  must  consider  the  one  of  these 
questions  as  much  above  the  other  in   dignity,  as 
the  rights  of  the  public  are  more  valuable  than  thos* 
of  an  individual.     In  this  view,  the  prerogatives  oj 
the  crown  arefn  substance  and  effect  the  rights  «/« 
the  people  :  and  these  rights  of  Ihe  people  were  notw 
he  sacrificed  to  the  purpose  of  preserving  the  succe$i 
sio7i  to  the  most  favoured  prince,  much  less  to  on*} 
who.  on  account   of  his  religious  persuasion,  vvai' 
justly  feared  and  suspected.     In  truth,  the  ques' 
tion  between  the  exclusion  and  restrictions  seem 
peculiarly  calculated  to  ascertain  the  diff(?rent  view 
in  which  the  different  parties  in  this  country  havi 
seen,  and  perhaps  ever  will  see,  the  prerogative 
ot  the  crown.     The  Whigs,  who  consider  them  a 
a  trust  for  the  people,  a  doctrine  which  the  Torie 
themselves,  when  pushed  in  argument,  will  some 
times  admit,  naturally  think  it  their  duty  rather  t 
change  the  manager  ot  the  trust,  than  to  impair th 
subject  of  it  :  while  others,  who  consider  them  a 
the  right  or  property  of  the  king,  will  as  naturall 
act  as  they  would  do  in  the  case  of  any  other  prop 
erty,  and  consent  to  the  loss  or  annihilation  of  an 
part  of  it,  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  the  remair 
der  to  him,  whom  they  style  the  rightful  owne 
If  the  people  be  the  sovereign,  and  the   king  th 
delegate,  it  is  better  to  change  the  bailiff"  than  t 
injure  the  farm  ;  but  if  the  king  be  the  proprietoi 
it  is  better  the  farm  should  be  impaired,  nay,  pai 
of  it  destroyed,    than  that  the  whole  should  pa< 
over  to  an  usurjier.     The  royal  prerogative  ough 
according  to  the  Whigs  (not  in  the  case  of  a  Popis 
successor  only,  but  in  all  cases),  to  be  reduced  i 
such  powers  as  are  in   their  exercise  beneficial  i 
the  people  ;  and  of  the  benefit  of  these  they  will  ni 
rashly  sufl^er  tiie  people   to  be  deprived,  whethi 
the  executive  power  be  in  the  hands  of  an  hered 
tary.  or  of  an  elected  king ;  of  a  regent,  or  of  ar 
other  denomination  of  magisirate  ;  while,   on  tl 
other   hand,   they  who  consider  prerogative  wi . 
reference  only  to  royalty,  will,  with  equal  reac 
ness.  consent  either  to  the  extension  or  the  su' 
pension  of  its  exercise,  as  the  occasional  interes. 
of  the  prince  may  seem  to  require." — pp.  37 — 39 

Of  the  reality  of  any  design  to  assassina 
the  King,  by  tho.se  engaged  in  what  was  calh 
the  Rye-IIou.se  Plot,  iNIr.  Fox  appears  to  e 
tertain  considerable  doubt,  partly  on  accou^ 
of  the  improbability  of  many  of  the  circur. 
stances,  and  partly  on  account  of  theunifor 
and  resolute  denial  of  Rumbold.  the  chief  ' 
that  party,  in  circumstances  when  he  had  ! 
conceivable  inducement  to  disguise  the  trut 
Of  the  condemnation  of  Russell  and  Sydne 
he  speaks  with  the  indiimation  which  xnn 
be  felt  by  all  friends  to  liberty  at  the  reci 
lection  of  that  disgraceful  proceeding.  T 
following  passage  is  one  of  the  most  eloque 


FOX'S  REIGN  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


20i 


volume. 
Upon 


andoneof  the  most  characteristic  in  the  whole  I  q\iis  of  Halifax,  for  liaviii?  piven  an  opinion 

in  coiinoil  that  the  North  American  coloni<'s 
should  be  niach'  participant  in  the  benefits  of 
the  Enuiish  constitution,  ijives  occasion  to  the 


vidence  such  as  has  lieen  statrd,  was 
this  great  and  excellent  man  (Sydney)  coiuienined 
to  die.      Pardon   was  not   to  be  e.xpecied.      Mr. 
Hume  says,  that  such  an  intcrUreiioe  on  llie  part 
of  the  King,  though  it  might  have  been  an  act  of 
heroic  generosity,  could  not  he  regarded  as  an  in- 
dispensable duty.     He  might  have  said,  wiih  more 
propriety,  that  it  was  idle  to  expect  that  the  govern- 
ment, alter  having  incurred  so  ninch  guilt  mi  order 
to  obtain  the  sentence,  should,  by  rciniiiing  ii,  re- 
.linquish  the  object  just  when  it  is  within  its  grasp. 
The  same  hisiorian  considers  the  jury  as  highly 
blameable  :  and  so  do  I ;  But  what  was  their  guilt, 
in  comparison  of  that  of  the  court  who  tried,  and 
of  the  government  who  prosecuted,  in  this  infamous 
cause  !     Yet  the  jury,  being  the  only  party  ihat 
can  with  any  colour  be  stated  as  acting  indcpend- 
enily  of  the  government,  is  the  only  one  mentioned 
by  him  as  blameable.     The  prosecutor  is  wholly 
omitted  in  his  censure,  and  so  is  the  court :  this 
jast,  not  from  any  tenderness  for  the  judge  (who, 
10  do  this  author  justice,  is  no  favourite  with  him), 
but  lest  the  odious  coniieclion  between  that  branch 
,    of  the  judicature  and  the  goverinnent  should  strike 
the  reader  loo  foicil)ly  :    l''or  Jefi"eri(s,  in  this  in- 
j    .stance,  ought  to  be  regarded  as  the  mere  tool  and 
,   instrument  (a  fit  one,  no  doubt)  of  the  prince  who 
f   pad  appointed  him  for  the  purpose  of  this  and  simi- 
,   Jar  services.     Lastly,   the  King  is   gravely  intro- 
,    iduced  on  the  question  of  pardon,  as  if  he  had  had 
,    no  prior  concern  in  the  cause,   and  were  now  to 
',   decide  upon  the  propriety  of  extending  mercy  to  a 
5,   jjriminal  condemned    by    a   court   of  judicature  ! 
(J  Nor  are  we  once  reminded  what   that  judicature 
,,    ivas, — by  whom  appointed,  by  whom  influenced, 
,'   iiy  whom   called   upon   to  receive  that  detestable 
„    .'vidence,  the  very  recollection  of  which,  even  at 
1    ihis  distance  of  time,  tires  every  honest  heart  with 
ij   Indignation.     As  well  might  we  palliate  the  mur- 
„   jlers  of  Tiberius  ;  who  seldom  put  to  death  his  vie- 
Jj   Jims  without  a  previous  decree  of  his  senate.     The 
jj   jnoral  of  all  this  seems  to  be,  that   whenever   a 
'^  ^irincecan,  by  intimidation,  corruption,  illegal  evi- 
i,.   jlence,  or  other  such  means,  obtain  a  verdict  against 
r    11  subject  whom  he  dislikes,  he  may  cause  him  to 
„   ue  executed  without  any  breach  of  indispensible 
,  ^   luty  ;  nay,  that  it  is  an  act  of  heroic  generosity,  it  he 
;■    ipares  him.     I  never  reflect  on  Mr.  Hume's  staie- 
neiit  of  this  matter  but  with   the  deepest  regret. 
,     .ViJely  as  I  differ  from  him  upon  many  other  occa- 
'      ions,  this  appears  to  me  to  be  the  most  reprehen- 
jible  passage  of  his  whole  work.     A  spirit  ot  adu- 
'";,  Btion  towards  deceased  princes,  though  in  a  good 
"j;   jneasure   iree   from   the   imputation   of  interested 
'    neanness.  which  is  justly  attached  to  flattery,  when 
Iip'ied  to  living  monarchs  ;  yet,  as  it  is  less  iniel- 
t,'ible  with  respect  to  its  motives  than  the  oiher,  so 
,:  It  in  its  consequences  still  more  pernicious  to  the 
]'     jeneral   interests   of  mankind.     Fear  ot    censure 
I    rom  contemporaries  will  seldom  have  much  efTect 
_■    jpon   men   in    situations   of   unlimited   authority. 
,V'    I  hey   will  too  often  flatter   themselves,  that  the 
ame  power  which  enables  them  to  comniii   the 
jrime,  will  secure  them  from  reproach.     'I'he  dread 
'*'    If  posthumous  infamy,  therefore,  being  the  only 
^^   estraint,  thtir  consciences  excepted,  upon  the  pas- 
jions  of  such  persons,  it  is  lamentable  that  this  last 
fence  (feeble  enough  at  best),  should  in  any  de- 
ee  be  impaired  ;  and  impaired  it  must  be.  if  not 
tally  destroyed,  when  tyrants  can  hope  to  hud  in 
man  like  Hume,  no  less  emineni  for  the  iniegriiy 
[nd  benevolence  of  his  heart,  than  lor  the  depth 
d  soundness  of   his   unders'aniiii.g,   an   ap^jijiji-! 
r  even  their  fouUtst  murders." — pp.  1^^ — ■>(). 


The  uncontrouled  tyranny  of  Charles'  ail- 
linistration  in  his  lattt^r  days,  is  depicted  with 
[inch  force  and  fidelity;  and  the  clamour 
liaed  by  his  other  ministers  against  the  Mar- 


loilowing  natural  reflection. 

"There  is  something  curious  in  discovering, 
that,  even  at  this  early  period,  a  question  relative 
10  North  American  lilieriy,  and  oven  10  North 
American  ta.vaiion,  was  considered  as  the  test  ol 
principles  friendly  or  adverse,  10  arbitary  power  at 
home.  But  the  iruih  is,  thui  among  liie  several 
controversies  which  ^ave  arisen,  there  is  no  other 
wherein  the  natural  rights  ol  nian  on  the  one  hand, 
and  ihe  authority  of  artilicial  institution  on  the  other, 
as  applied  respectively,  by  the  Whiys  and  Tones, 
!o  the  KiiHlish  consiituiion,are  so  fairly  put  in  issue, 
nor  by  which  the  line  ol  separation  briweeu  th>- 
two  parties  is  so  strongly  aiul  distinctly  marked." 

—p.  r.o. 

The  introductory  chapter  is  closed  by  ihe 
followinjr  profound  and  important  remarks, 
which  may  indeed  serve  as  a  key  to  the  whole 
transactions  of  the  ensuing  reign. 

'■  VVhoever  reviews  the  interesiinsr  period  which 
we  have  been  discussing,  upon  the  principle  recom- 
mended in  the  outset  ol  ihix  chapter,  will  find,  tiiat, 
from  the  consideration  of  the  past,  to  prognosiiiaie 
the  future,  would,  at  the  momeiii  of  Charles'  de- 
mise, be  no  easy  task.  Between  two  persons,  one 
of  whom  should  expect  that  the  country  would  re- 
main sunk  in  slavery,  the  oihcr,  that- tin,'  cause  ot 
freedom  would  revive  and  triumph,  it  would  be 
dilliciilt  to  decide,  whose  reasons  were  bei'i-r  sup- 
ported, whose  speculations  the  more  probable.  1 
should  guevs  that  he  wlio  desponded,  had  looked 
more  at  the  state  of  the  public;  while  he  who  was 
sanguine,  had  tixed  his  eyes  more  aiieniively  upon 
the  person  who  was  about  to  mount  the  throne. 
Upon  reviewing  the  two  great  parties  of  the  ntition, 
one  observation  occurs  very  forcibly,  and  that  is, 
that  the  great  strength  of  the  Whigs  consisted  in 
their  being  able  to  brand  their  adversaries  as  lavour- 
ers  of  Popery;  that  of  the  Tories  (as  far  as  their 
strength  depended  upon  opinion,  and  not  merely 
upon  the  power  of  the  crown),  in  their  fiiidiiig  col- 
our to  represent  the  Whigs  as  republicans.  Kroni 
this  observation  we  niay  draw  .-i  further  inference, 
that,  in  proportion  to  the  rasliness  of  the  crown,  in 
avowing  and  pressing  forward  the  Ciuise  of  Popery, 
and  to  the  moderation  And  steadiness  of  the  AVhigs, 
in  adhering  to  the  form  of  monarchy,  would  be  the 
chance  of  the  people  of  England,  for  changing  nil 
ignominious  despotism  lor  glory,  liberty,  and  hap- 
piness.'"— pp.  60,  67. 

James  was  known  to  have  had  so  large  a 
share  in  the  councils  of  his  brother,  that  in> 
one  e.xjiected  any  material  change  of  system 
from  his  accession.  The  Church,  indeed,  it 
was  feared,  might  be  less  safe  umler  a  juo- 
fessed  Catholic;  and  the  severity  of  his  tem- 
per might  inspire  some  dread  of  an  aggravated 
oppressi(ni.  It  seems  to  be  ]\lr.  Fo.v's  great 
obj(;ct.  in  this  first  cliapter.  to  j)i()ve  thai  the 
object  of  his  early  pilicy  was.  not  to  establi>.ii 
the  Catholic  religion,  but  10  nitike  hinisrll 
absolute  and  independent  of  hi.s  Parliameiil. 

The  fact  itself,  he  conceives,  is  coiniilitely 
eslabli.*hed  by  the  manner  in  which  hi>  m-- 
cret  ueL'otiations  with  France  were  carried 
(in  :  in  the  whole  of  which,  he  was  zealiui«i|y 
sf-rvi'd  by  ministers,  no  (ir;e  of  w  horn  liad  the 
sli£rht(>;l"  leanitig  towards  I'oj.ery,  or  coultl 
ever  be  brought  to  countenance  the  llle;l^ureK 
\»hl<-.h  he  iit'ltT wards  puisued  in  its  tuv»ur. 
It  is  mad','  still  more  evident  h\  the  complexion 
S 


206 


HISTORV  AND  HISTORICAL  J.IEMOIRS. 


of  his  proceedings  in  Scotland;  where  the 
test,  which  he  enforced  at  the  p<jiat  of  the 
bayonet;  was  a  Protestant  test, — so  much  so, 
indeed.  tluU  he  himself  could  not  take  it; — and 
the  objects  of  his  persecution,  dissenters  from 
the  Protestant  church  of  England.  We  con- 
sider this  ponit  therefore — and  it  is  one  of  no 
small  importance  in  the  history  of  thLs  period 
— as  now  sulhciently  established. 

It  docs  not  seem  necessary  to  follow  the 
author  into  the  detail  of  that  sordid  and  de- 
grading connexion  which'James  was  so  anxi- 
ous to  establi.sh,  by  becoming,  like  his 
brother,  the  pensioner  of  the  French  mon- 
arch. The  bitter  and  dignified  contempt  with 
which  it  is  treated  by  Mr.  Fox,  may  be 
guessed  at  from  the  following  account  of  the 
first  remittance. 

••  Within  a  very  few  days  from  that  in  which  the 
latter  of  iliem  had  pa.ssed,  he  (the  French  ambassa- 
dor) was  empowered  to  accompany  the  delivery  ot 
a  letter  t'roin  his  master,  with  the  agreeable  news 
of  having  received  from  him  bills  of  exchange  to  the 
amount  of  five  hundred  thousand  livres,  to  he  used 
in  whatever  manner  might  be  convenient  to  the 
King  of  England's  service.  The  account  which 
Barillon  gives  of  the  manner  in  which  this  sum  was 
received,  is  altogether  ridiculous  :  the  King's  eyes 
were  full  of  tears  !  and  three  of  his  ministers,  Ro- 
chesier,  Sunderland,  and  Godolpliin,  came  seve- 
rally to  the  French  ambassador,  to  express  the 
sense  their  master  had  of  the  obligation,  in  terms 
the  most  lavish.  Indeed,  demonstrations  of  grati- 
tude from  the  King  directly,  as  well  as  through  his 
ministers,  for  this  supply,  were  such  as,  if  they  had 
been  used  by  some  unfortunate  individual,  who. 
with  his  whole  family,  had  been  saved,  by  the 
timely  succour  of  some  kind  and  powerful  protector, 
from  a  gaol  and  all  its  horrors,  would  be  deemed 
rather  too  strong  than  too  weak.  Barillon  himself 
seems  surprised  when  he  relates  them  ;  but  imputes 
them  to  what  was  probably  their  real  cause,  to  the 
apprehensions  that  had  been  entertained  (very  un- 
reasonable ones!),  that  the  King  of  France  might 
no  longer  choose  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  Eng- 
land, and,  consequently,  that  his  support  could  not 
be  relied  on  for  the  grand  object  of  assimilating  this 
government  to  his  own." — pp.  83,  84. 

After  this,  Lord  Churchill  is  sent  to  Paris 
on  the  part  of  the  tributary  King. 

"How  little  cotild  Barillon  guess,  that  he  was 
negotiating  with  ope  who  was  destined  to  be  at  the 
head  of  an  admihi^traiion  which,  in  a  few  years, 
would  send  the  same  Lord  Churchill,  not  to  Paris 
to  implore  Lewis  for  succours  towards  enslaving 
England,  or  to  thank  him  for  pensions  to  her  mon- 
arch, but  to  combine  all  Europe  against  him  in  the 
cause  of  liberty  !  to  route  his  armies,  to  take  hi.-; 
towns,  to  humble  his  pride,  and  to  shake  to  the 
foundation  that  fabric  of  power  which  it  had  been 
the  business  of  a  long  life  to  raise,  at  the  expense 
of  every  sentiment  of  tenderness  to  his  subjects, 
and  of  justice  and  good  faith  to  foreign  nations  !  It 
IS  with  difficulty  the  reader  can  persuade  hiinself 
that  the  Godolphin  and  Churchill  here  mentioned, 
are  the  same  persons  who  were  afterwards,  one  in 
the  cabinet,  one  in  the  field,  the  great  conductors 
of  the  war  of  the  Succession.  How  little  do  they 
appear  in  the  one  instance  !  how  great  in  the  other  I 
And  the  investigation  of  the  cause  to  which  this  ex- 
cessive difference  is  principally  owing,  will  produce 
a  most  useful  lesson.  Is  the  difference  to  be  at- 
tributed to  any  superiority  of  genius  in  the  prince 
whom  they  served  in  the  latter  period  of  their  lives  ? 
Queen  .\nne's  capncity  appears  to  have  been  in- 
ferior even  to  her  father's.  Did  they  enjoy,  in  a 
greater  degree,  her  favour  and  confidence  ?    The 


very  reverse  is  the  fact.     But,  in  one  case,  they  ' 
were  the  tools  of  a  king  plotting  against  his  people;  ' 
in  the  other,  the  ministers  of  a  free  government 
acting  upon  enlarged  principles,  and  with  enerijies 
which  no  siate  that  is  not  in  some  degree  repulilican 
can  supply.     How  forcibly  must  the  conteinplaiion 
of  these  men  in  such  opposite  situations  teach  persons 
engaged  in  political  life,  that  a  free  and  popular  gov- 
ernment is  desirable,  not  only  for  the  public  good, 
but  for  iheir  own  greatness  and  consideration,  iu  . 
every  object  of  generous  ambition." — pp.  88,  89. .     ' 

As  James,  in  the  outset  of  hi&  reign,  pR».  i^ 
fessed  a  resolution  to  adhere  to  the  system  of  c 
government  established  by  his  brother,  and' 
made  this  declaration  in  the  first  place,  to  his 
Scottish  Parliament,  Mr.  Fox  thinks  it  neces- 
sary to  lake  a  slight  retrospective  view  of  Xlv 
proceedings  of  Charles  towards  that  unhappy 
country:  and  details,  from  unquestionable  au- 
thorities, such  a  scene  of  intolerant  oppression 
and  atrocious  cruelty,  as   to  justify  him  i: 
saying,  that  the  slate  of  that  kuigdom  \va> 
'•a  state   of  more  absolute  slavery  than  a: 
that   time   subsisted  m  any  part  of  Chris; 
endom."' 

In  both  Parliaments,  the  King's  revenue,; 
was  granted  for  life,  in  terms  of  his  demand,; 
without  discussion  or  hesitation;  and  Mr  I 
Hume  is  censured  with  severity,  and  appa 
rently  with  justice,  for  having  presented  hi: 
readers  with  a  summary  of  the  arguineni 
which  he  would  have  them  believe  wet' 
actually  used  in  the  House  of  Commons  c 
both  sides  of  this  question.  '•'  This  misieprc 
sentation,'"  JNIr.  Fox  observes,  "'  is  of  no  smal 
importance,  inasmuch  as.  by  intimating  tha 
such  a  question  could  be  debated  at  all,  ant; 
much  more,  that  it  was  debated  with  the  erj 
lightened  views  and  bold  topics  of  argumec' 
with  which  his  genius  has  supplied  him,  hj 
gives  us  a  very  false  notion  of  the  chaiactti 
of  the  Parliament,  and  of  the  times  which  b' 
is  describing.  It  is  not  improbable,  that  ii 
the  arguments  had  been  used,  which  this  hi ! 
torian  supposes,  the  utterer  of  them  woul' 
have  been  expelled,  or  sent  to  the  Tower;  at 
it  is  certain  that  he  would  not  have  bet 
heard  with  any  degree  of  attention,  or  evt' 
patience." — p.  142. 

The  last  chapter  is  more  occupied  withna' 
rative,  atid  less  with  argument  and  leflectio' 
than  that  which  precedes  it.  It  contains  tl 
story  of  the  unfortunate  and  desperate  exp. 
d  it  ions  of  Argyle  atid  Monmouth,  and  of  t'' 
condemnation  and  death  of  their  unhapj' 
leaders.  Mr.  Fox,  though  convinced  that  t ; 
misgovernment  was  such  as  fully  to  justi 
resistance  by  arms,  seems  to  admit  that  be 
those  enterprises  were  rash  and  injudicioi 
With  his  usual  candour  and"  openness,  he  ( 
serves,  that  '-the  prudential  reasons  agaii' 
resistance  at  that  time  were  exceedins, 
strong;  and  that  there  is  no  point,  indeed, 
human  concerns,  wherein  the  dictates  I 
virtue  and  of  worldly  prudence  are  so  ideri 
fied,  as  in  this  great  question  of  resistance  : 
force  to  established  governments." 

The  e.xpeditions  of  Monmouth  and  Arg 
had  been  concerted  together,  and  were 
tended  to  take  effect  at   the  same  mome, 
Monmouth,  however,  who  was   reiuctan 


FOX'S  REIGX  OF  JAMES  THE  SECOND. 


20" 


'    upon  thf!  enterprise,  was  not  so  soon 

;  and  Arsyle  landed  in  the  Hifjjhlands 

very  small  force  before  the  Duke  had 

;iorn  Holland.     The  details  of  his  ir- 

,1  ■  councils  and  ineffectual  marches,  are 

ivfii  at  far  too  great  length.     Though  they 

( rive  occasion  to  one  profound  and  important 

i  leniark,   which  we  do  not  recollect  ever  to 

'ave  met  with  before;  but,  of  the  justice  of 

:.hich,  most  of  those  who  have  acted  with 

arties  must  have  had  melancholy  and  fatal 

i.vperience.     It  is  introduced  when  speaking 

,f  the  disunion  that  prevailed  among  A rgyle's 

ff'f'  band  of  followers. 

Aid  to  all  this,"  he  says,  "that  where  spirit 
T-  iiiii  waniiiig,  it  was  accompanied  with  a  degree 
^  I  sMfcies  of  piTveisity  wholly  ine.\plicable,  and 
hi''li  I'aii  hardly  gain  belief  from  any  one  whose 
xpericnce  has  not  made  him  acquainted  with  the 
xtreiiie  difficnliy  of  persuading  men,  who  pride 
lemselves  upon  an  extravagant  love  of  liberiy, 
vher  111  compromise  upon  some  points  with  those 
iao  have,  in  the  main,  the  same  views  with  ihem- 
]?lves,  than  to  give  power  (a  power  which  will  in- 
illibly  lie  used  for  their  own  destruction)  to  an 
iversary,  of  principles  diametrically  opposite ;  in 
[her  words,  rather  to  concede  something  to  a 
bend,  than  every  thing  to  an  enemy." — pp.  187,188. 

j  The  account  of  Argyle's  deportment  from 
jie  time  of  his  capture  to  that  of  his  exe- 
rtion, is  among  the  most  striking  passages  in 
ke  book ;  and  the  mildness  and  magnanimity 

his  resignation,  is  described  with  kindred 
elings  by  his  generous  historian.  The  merits 

this  nobleman  are  perhaps  somewhat  ex- 

fgerated ;  for  lie  certainly  wanted  conduct 

id  decision  for  the  part  he  had  undertaken ; 

id  more  admiration  is  expressed  at  the  equa- 

mity  with  which  he  went  to  death,  than  the 

it  frequency  of  this  species  of  heroism 

''low  us  to  sympathize  with:    But  the 

is  finely  and  feelingly  told ;  and  the  im- 

ieij.-iioii  which  it  leaves  on  the  mind  of  the 

|ader  is  equally  favourable  to  the  author  and 

the  hero  of  it.  We  can  only  make  room 
r  the  concluding  scene  pf  the  tragedy. 

"Before  he  left  the  casile  he  had  his  dinner  at 

?  usual  hour,  at  which   he  discoursed  not  only 

ilmly,  but  even  clieeifully.  with  Mr.  Charteris  and 

•era.  After  dinner  he  retired,  as  was  his  custom. 

his  bed-chamber,  where,  it  is  recorded,  that  he 

pt  quietly  lor  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.    While 

was  in  lied,  one  of  the  members  of  the  council 

ine  and  iniiinated  to  the  attendants  a  desire  to 

ij^ak  with  him  :  upon  being  told  that  the  earl  was 

eep,  and  had  left  orders  not  to  be  distinbed,  the 

nager  disbelieved  the  acco\int,  which  he  consid- 

d  as  a  device  to  avoid  further  questionings.     To 

sfy  him,  the  door  of  the  bed-chamber  was  half 

ned,  and  lie  then  beheld,  enjoying  a  sweet  and 

nquil  slumber,  the   man  who,  by  the  doom  of 

and  iiis  fellows,  was  to  die  within  the  space  of 

'    Ijo  ?hort  hours  !   Siruck  with  the  sight,  he  hurried 

"I    I  of  the  room,  quitted  the  castle  with  the  utmost 

('■    I  nipiiation,  and  hid  himself  in  the  lodciings  of  an 

((    ipiHintance  who  lived  near,  where  he  flung  him- 

^    if  upon  the  first  bod  that  presented  itself,  and  had 

J,,    tpry  appearance  of  a  man  suffering  the  most  e.x- 

''^    «|iciatiiig  torture.     His  friend,  who  had  been  ap- 

■'    Iped  by  the  servant  of  the  state  he  was  in.  and 

io  naturally  concluded  that  he  was  ill,  offered 

li)    m  some  wine.    He  refused,  saying,  '  No,  no,  that 

It    ^1  not   help  me:  I  have  bfen  in  at  Argyle,  and 

jj    ^  him  sleeping  as  pleasantly  as  ever  man  did, 

J.  lihin  an  hour  of  eternity!  But  as  for  me  ' 


The  name  of  the  person  to  whom  this  anecdote  re- 
lates is  tint  mentioned;  and  the  truth  of  it  may 
therefore  be  fairly  considered  as  liable  to  that  degree 
ot  doglit  with  which  men  of  jud.^nient  receive 
every  species  of  traduionul  history.  VVoodrow, 
however,  whose  veracity' is  above  suspicion,  says 
he  had  it  from  the  most  \)ii(]ucsti<>nnl)le  onihoriiy. 
It  is  not  in  itself  imlikely  ;  and  who  is  there  (hat 
would  not  wish  it  true?  What  a  saiistaclory  spec- 
tacle to  a  philosophical  mind,  in  see  the  oppn  sHor, 
in  the  zenith  of  his  power,  envyiiip  his  viciiiii  I 
What  an  acknowledgment  of  the  superiority  ol  vir- 
tue I  What  an  aifccniig  and  forcible  testimony  to 
the  value  of  that  peace  of  mind,  which  innocence 
alone  can  confer  !  We  know  not  who  this  man  was ; 
but  when  we  refleci,  that  the  guilt  whiili  ai:onized 
him  was  probably  incurred  lor  the  sake  of  some 
vain  liile,  or  at  least  of  some  increase  of  wealth, 
•which  he  did  not  want,  and  possibly  knew  not  how 
to  enjoy,  our  disgust  is  turned  into  something  like 
compassion  for  that  very  foolish  class  of  men,  whom 
the  world  calls  wise  in  their  generation." 

pp.  207—209. 
"  On  the  scaffold  he  embraced  his  friends,  jrnvc 
some  tokens  of  remembrance  to  his  son-in-law. 
Lord  Maidand.  for  his  daughter  and  grandchildren  ; 
siript  himself  of  part  of  his  apparel,  ol  which  he 
likewise  made  presents  ;  and  laid  his  head  upon  the 
block.  Having  uttered  a  short  prayer,  he  gave  the 
signal  to  the  executioner;  which  was  instantly 
obeyed,  and  his  head  severed  from  his  body.  Such 
were  the  last  hours,  and  such  the  final  close,  of  this 
great  man's  life.  May  the  like  happy  serenity  in 
such  dreadful  circumstances,  and  a  death  equally 
glorious,  be  the  lot  of  all,  whom  tyranny,  of  what- 
ever denomination  or  description,  shall  in  any  age, 
or  in  any  country,  call  to  expiate  their  virtues  on 
the  scaflbld  !" — p.  211. 

Rumbold,  who  had  accompanied  Argyle  in 
this  expedition,  speedily  shared  his  fate. 
Though  a  man  of  intrepid  coura;ge.  and  fully 
a\^  are  of  the  fate  that  awaited  him,  he  persist- 
ed to  his  last  hour  in  professing  his  innocence 
of  any  design  to  assassinate  King  Charles  at 
the  Ryehouse.  Mr.  Fox  gives  great  import- 
ance to  this  circumstance ;  and  seems  disjioscd 
to  conclude,  on  the  faith  of  it,  that  the  Rye- 
house  plot  itself  was  altogether  a  fabrication 
of  the  court  party,  to  transfer  to  their  adver- 
saries the  odium  which  had  been  thrown  upon 
them  with  as  little  justice,  by  the  prosecutions 
for  the  Popish  {ilot!  It  does  not  appear  to  us, 
however,  that  this  conclusion  is  made  out  in  a 
manner  altoiri'lher  satisfactory. 

The  expedition  of  Monmouth  is  detailed 
with  as  redundant  a  fulness  as  that  of  Argyle ; 
and  the  character  of  its  leader  still  more  over- 
rated. Though  Mr.  Fox  has  a  laudable  jeal- 
ousy of  kings,  indeed,  we  are  ai'raid  he  has 
rather  a  partiality  for  nobles.  Monmouth  ap- 
pears to  have  been  an  idle,  handsome,  pre- 
sumptuous, incapable  youth,  with  none  of  the 
virtues  of  a  patriot,  and  none  of  the  talents 
of  an  usuqier;  and  we  really  cannot  discover 
upon  what  grounds  Mr.  Fox  would  exalt  him 
into  a  hero.  He  was  in  arms,  indeed,  against 
a  tyrant ;  and  that  tyrant,  though  nearly  con- 
nected with  him  by  the  ties  of  blood,  sen- 
ttmced  him  with  unrelenting  cruelty  to  deafh. 
He  was  plunged  at  once  from  the  heights  of 
fortune,  of  youthful  pleasure,  and  of  arribition, 
to  the  most  miserable  condition  of  existence, 
— to  die  dii?giacefully  after  having  stooped  to 
ask  his  life'by  abject  submif-i-'icn  !  l^li"-  Fox 
dwells  a  great  deal  too  long,  we  tliiiik,  bolk 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  ]VIEMOIRS. 


208 

upon  his  waverina  and  unskilful  movements 
V,elore  his  defeat;  and  on  some  ambiguous 
words  in  the  letter  which  he  afterwards  wrote 
to  Kin-r  James  ;  but  the  natural  tenderness  ot 
his  disposition  enables  him  to  interest  us  in 
the  description  of  his  after  sufiermgs  The 
following  extract  we  think,  is  quite  charac- 
teristic of  the  author. 

••  In  the  mean  while,  the  Queen  Dowager  who 
seems  to  have  behaved  with  a  uniformity  of  kind- 
ness towards  h.=r  husband's  son  .hat  does  her  ^'rcat 
nonour.  urgently  pressed  the  King  to  admit  his 
nephew  to  an  audience.  Importuned  therefore  by 
enireaties,  and  instigated  by  the  cunosity  which 
Monmouth's  mysterious  expressions  and  -^heldon  s 
story  had  excited,  he  consented,  though  with  a 
lixed  determinatioM  to  show  no  mercy.  James  was 
not  of  the  number  of  those,  in  whom  the  want  ot 
an  extensive  understanding  is  compensated  by  a 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  or  by  those  right  feehngs 
which  are  often  found  to  be  hetier  guides  lor  the 
conduct,  than  the  most  accurate  reasoning.  His 
nature  did  not  revolt,  his  blood  did  not  run  cold,  at 


him-  and  one  of  them  took  that  opportunity  of  ^ 
forming  him,   that  their  controversial  ahercam 
were  not  yet  at  an  end  ;  and  that  upon  tlie  scaffo 
he  would  again   be  pressed  ior  more  e.xplicu  j 
satisfactory  declarations  of  repentance.     \N  hen 
rived  at  the  bar,  which  had  been  pUt  up  for  the  p 
nose   of   keeping   out   the   multitude,    MonmoM 
descended    from    the   carnage,    and    mounted    | 
scaffold  with  a  firm  step,  attended  by  his  spiritl 
assistants.     The  sheriifs  and  e.xecutioners  were- 
ready  there.     The  concourse  ot  spectators  was  . 
numerable,    and,    if   we   are   to   credit    iraditicl 
accounts,  never  was  the  general  compassion  ni  ■ 
afiectingly  expressed.  The  tears,  sigh.,  and  gro», 
which  the  tirsl  sight  of  this  hcart-rendmg  specif  i 
produced,  were  soon  succeeded  by  an  universal   1 
awful  silence  ;  a  respectful  attention    and  aHocii . 
ate  an.xiety,  to  hear  every  syllable  that  should  f  < 
the  lips  ot  the  suflerer.  The  Duke  began  by  >av  ; 
he  should  speak  little;    he  came  to  die;  and; 
should  die  a  Protestant  of  the  Church  ot  hnglc 
Here  he   was  interrupted  by   the   assistants     i 
told,  that  if  he  was  of  the  Church  ot  England,  s 
must  acknowledge  the  doctrine  of  Non-rosistae 
to  be  true.     In  vain  did  he  reply,  that,  il    lie  • 
knowledged  the  doctrine  of  the  chijrch  in  gene  , 

•ase,  J 


nature  did  not  revon.  ins  uiuu.i  u.u  ...--.  .-. --'  KnowieoKtu  <;^  i,^.......  -  

,he  thoughts  of  beholding  the  son  of  a  brother  whom    .^"^^^Ij^ii  ^  ,i,ev  insisted  he  sh-uld 
he  had  loved,  embracing  bis  knees,  pentioning,  and  ^^^     pariicularlv  wi,h  respect  to  h 

petitioning  in  vain,  tor  lite  I— of  interchanging  words    ao«rii  o  p^ ^^_  .__^  ^^^^.^  ^^^,^ 

and  looks  with  a  nephew  on  whom  he  was  inex- 
orably determined,  within  forty-eight  hours,  to  in- 
flict an  ignominious  death. 

"In  ^acpherson's  extract  from  King  James 
Memoirs,  it  is  confessed  that  the  King  oughi  not  to 
have  seen,  if  he  was  not  disposed  to  pardon  the 
culprit ;  but  whether  the  observation  is  made  by  the 


doctrine  particuian\   "i"  .i^f>--'   '-  •■•■ 
urged  much  more  concerning  their  favourne  po  ; 
upon  which,  however,  '.hey  obtanied  nothing  b  a 
repetition,  in  substance,  ot  former  answers. 
■^  pp.  'J6j,  26 


After  making  a  public  profession  of  his  !- 
,.^..,  ..  ..-   .     .  ■    ,    ,     ..       lachment  to  his  l?eloved  Lady  Harriet  Wt- 

had  made  this  reflection  before  Monmouth  s  c.xe-  jnomins,  confe.ssing  ihe  illegitimacy  ol  is 
cution,  it  must  have  occurred  io  that  monarch,  that  i  .  -^^  declaring  that  the  title  of  King  d 
,f  he  had  inadvertently  done  that  which  he^  oughi  .  )  ^^  ^     j^^^   followers,  n;  h 

Z  l^^:X  ^'^^  ^- "Sat  ^nt^  '  ^^^  own  inclmaiion. 
conduct  which  was  still  in  his  power  ;  and  since  he        _^  however,    said,   thai   there  >9 

could  not  recall  the  interview,  to  grant  the  mirdon.       ^^.^j^'-^'^/^^^P^'^.^  ,l,.H.t'resis,ance  .;  nor,  th.  ,h 
pp.  258,  -59.  ^^^"IJ^^^^^^  qnite'worn  out  with   their  in.por  ,1- 

Being  sentenced  to  die  in  two  days,  he  made  ;  nes.  said  to  o.,e  of  them  ma  '^^',^^'-^;"-  l' 
a  humble  application  to  the  Knig  for  sorne  !  ^  am  -  ^^J^^— ;->„;'>,,S  j,  eoiLtent  j 
little  respite:  but  met  with  a  positive  ^"d  ,  pnpcr  ;v«u.a^^.^^  There  were  only  a  tew  vd, 
^tern  refusal.  The  most  remarkable  thing  in  ;  ^^^^,  ^^^J^^^  ^^  ^,,g  point.  The  substance  o)  n 
the  history  of  his  last  hours,  is  the  persecution  ;  nppii,.aiions  on  one  hand,  and  answers  on  the  o  sr 
which  he  suffered  from  the  bishops  who  had  ;  vvas  repeated,  over  and  over  agam,  m  a  iiu  cr 
be!::^  s!^t  io  comfort  him.  Those  •-e-d  !  that^u^  n^  be  beheved^  i  le  n.^ 
persons,  it  appears  spent  the  greater  part  of  ,  .^^.^-f^^byj  ^'^i,-^  1'^ Duke  m  de'claring  h.s  s.  ..w 
Ihe  time  in  uruing  him  to  profess  the  orthodox  ,  ^«;'^;^^f^,^d  j,  used  the  word  invasion     vr 

doctrines  of  passive  obedience  and  non-resist-    .^  ^^^  ,^^,^  ^.^„^^,  g„id  ,hey.  '  nnd  call  n  rebel  i. 

!":i;i'„7;i.-  «a,„  of  ..epe„.a„ee: ,.  n,„..  i  .jj..pr-pilr;s;ri»--r:'..;S 

never  be   forgotten,  indeed,  as  Mi.  tox  has    "''"";;;,f,he  favour  of  his  Creator.    H.s  real- 
remarked,  if  we  would  understand  the  history    earjvcst  j  ^^.^   ^^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^^^  ^.^^  ,^^  ^^^  ,^  „, 

of  this  period,  "that  the  orthodox  members  '  ^' ■  '  '"• 

of  the  church  regarded  monarchy,  not  as  a 
human,  but  as  a  dirme  institution  ;  and  pas- 
sive obedience  aiul  non-resistance,  not  as  po- 
litical measures,  but  as  articles  of  rehponP 

The  foUowiiiir  lu-count  of  the  dying  scene 
of  this  missuide.l  and  unhappy  youth,  is  very 
<trikiii 
of  san 


dving  ;  he  should  die  like  a  lamb !  '  Mmh  may  ^ 

from  natural  courage,'  was  the  unleelmg  and  ••  P" 

reply   of  one  of  the  assistants.     Monmou.lv  i 

.hLt  modesty  inseparable  from  true  ""vcrv.  d  «i 

that  he  was  in  general  less  tearful  than  other  en 

i  mainiainmg  that  his  present  courage  was  ow    u 

lOWiiiL-  iucwuuL.M   ....   ^,....,  ...^..~    jijg  consciousness  that  Cod  had   forgive.    Ii    n.. 

euide.l  and  unhappy  youth,  is  very  ,  ^^^^  transgressions,  of  all  which  cpnernlly  l  re 

i-l  pathetic  ;  though  a  certain  tone  '  penied,  with  all  his  soul. 

e'V  -o-Zn   towards  the    reverend   assistants        '-At  last  the  reverend   nssistnins  consent  < 

with  the  m..«:  L-nJer  muls  ol  ihe  picture.         ™  J";;',h„,  ,.|..,r2e.  °N..,  .■..i.lic-d  y<<   • 


FOX'S  REIGX  OF  JAMFii  THE  SECOND. 


209 


please ;'  was  the  reply,  '  I  pray  for  him  and  for  all 
men.'  He  now  spoke  to  the  executioner,  desirina; 
lliat  he  niiifht  have  no  cap  over  his  eyea,  and  began 
(Undressing.  One  would  have  thought  that  in  this 
ladt  sad  ceremony,  the  poor  prisoner  mij^iit  have 
,)ecn  unmolested,  and  that  the  divines  would  have 
Seen  saiisfied,  that  prayer  was  liie  only  part  of  their 
"unction  lor  whiih  their  duty  now  called  upon  them. 

They  judiied  ditlerently  ;  and  one  of  them  had  the 
."oriiiude  to  request  the  Duke,  even  in  this  stage  of 

iie  business,  that  he  would  address  himself  to  the 
ioldiers  then  present,  lo  tell  them  he  stood  a  snd 
.waniple  of  rebellion,  and  entreat  the  people  to 
pe  loyal  and  obedient  to  the  Kin".  '  I  have  said  I 
lA-ill  make  no  speeches,'  repeated  Monmouth,  in  a 
jone  more  peremptory  than  he  had  before  been 
iirovoked  to  ;   '  I   will  make  no  speeches  !     I  come 

0  die.'  ■  -Aly  lord,  ten  words  will  be  enough,' 
aid  the  persevering  divine;    to  which  the   Duke 

juade  no  answer,  Init  turning  to  the  executioner, 
xpressed  a  hope  that  he  would  do  his  work  belter 
low  than  in  the  case  of  Lord  Russell.  He  then 
elt  the  axe,  which  he  apprehended  was  not  sharp 
liiough,  but  being  assured  that  it  was  of  proper 
harpness  and  weight,  he  laid  down  his  head.  In 
he  mean  time,  many  fervent  ejaculations  were 
I.eed  by  the  reverend  assistants,  who,  it  must  be 
bserved,  even  in  these  moments  of  horror,  showed 
themselves  not  unmindl'ul  of  ihe  points  upon  which 
.hey  had  been  disputing  ;  praying  God  to  accept  his 
Imperfect  and  general  repentance. 

•' The  executioner  now  struck  the  blow  ;  but  so 
•ehly  or  unskillfully,  that  Monmouth,  being  but 
(lightly  wounded,  lifted  up  his  head,  and  looked 
im  in  the  face  as  if  to  upbraid  him;  but  said  noth- 
lig.  The  two  following  strokes  were  as  iiu'lfecliml 
ji  the  first,  and  the  headsman,  in  a  tit  of  horror, 
[eclared  he  could  not  finish  his  work.  The  sherifts 
lireatened  him  ;  he  was  forced  again  to  make  a 
jiriheririal;  and  in  two  more  strokes  separated 
lie  head  from  the  body." — pp.  267 — 269. 
(  With  the  character  of  Monmouth,  the 
^cond  chapter  of  the  history  closes :  and 
othing  seems  to  have  been  written  for  the 
liird.  but  a  few  detached  observations,  oc- 
bpyiiig  but  two  pages.  The  Appendix  is 
jither  longer  than  was  necessary.  The 
reater  part  of  the  diplomacy  which  it  con- 
|.ins,  had  been  previously  published  by 
j[acpherson  and  Dalrymple ;  and  the  other 
rticles  are  of  little  importance. 

1  We  have  now  only  to  add  a  few  words  as 
\  the  style  and  taste  of  composition  which 
?longs  to  this  work.     We  cannot  say  that 

I  e  vehemently  admire  it.  It  is  a  diffuse. 
jid  somewhat  heavy  style, — clear  and  man- 
K  indeed,  for -the  most  part,  but  sometimes 

'  pficient  in  force,  and  almost  always  in  vi- 
[icity.     In  its  general  structure,  it  resembles 

.  [e  style  of  Ihe  age  of  which  it  treats,  more 
fan  the  balanced  periods  of  the  succeeding 
:itury — thoutrh  the  diction  is  scrupulously 
rifled  from  the  long  and  Latin  words  which 
faced  the  compositions  of  Milton  and  Har- 
igton.  In  his  antipathy  to  every  thing  that 
ight  be  supposed  to  look  like  pedantry  or 
fected  loftiness,  it  appears  to  us,  indeed. 
at  ihe  illustrious  author  has  sometimes 
lien  into  an  opposite  error,  and  arJmitted  a 


27 


variety  of  words  and  phrases  rather  more 
homely  and  familiar  than  shovdil  find  place 
in  a  grave  composition.  Thus,  it  is  s;iid  in 
p.  12.  that  "  the  King  nuule  no  point  of  adher- 
ing to  his  concessions."  In  p.  20.  we  hea/ 
of  men,  ".swcanng  mvay  the  lives"'  of  their 
accomplices  ;  and  are  allerwarda  toKl  of  "  the 
sfylf  ot  thinking""  of  the  country — of  -'the  cry- 
ing injustice^'  of  certain  j)roceedings — and  of 
persons  who  were  '■'fond  of  ill-lnaling  and 
insulting"  other  persons.  The.se,  we  think, 
are  phrases  too  colhxpiial  for  regular  history, 
and  which  the  author  has  probably  been  in- 
duced  to  admit  into  this  comix)sition,  from  his 
long  familiarity  with  siwken,  rather  than  with 

,  written  language.  What  is  merely  lively  and 
natural  in  a  speech,  however,  will  often  ap- 
pear low  and  vapid  in  writing.  The  following 
is  a  still  more  striking  illustration.  In  speak- 
ing of  the  Oxford  Decree,  which  declared  the 
doctrine  of  an  original  contract,  the  Iawftiliie8,s 
of  changing  the  succession,  &c.  to  be  vnpious 
as  well  as  seditious,  and  leading  to  atheism  as 
well  as  rebellion,  Mr.  Fox  is  plea,«ed  to  ob- 
serve— '-If  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  had 
been  published  in  those  days,  the  town-clerk's 
declaration,  that  receiving  a  thousand  tlucats 
for  accusing  the  Lady  Hero  wrongfully,  was 
"y?a/  burglary,'''  might  be  supposed  to  be  a 
satire  upon  this  decree ;  yet  Shakespeare, 
well  as  he  knew  human  nature,  not  only  as 
to  its  general  course,  but  in  all  its  eccentric 
deviations,  could  never  dream  that,  in  the 
person  of  Dogberry,  Verges,  and  their  follow- 
ers, he  was  representing  the  vice-chancellors 
and  doctors  of  our  learned  University."  It 
would  require  all  the  credit  of  a  well-estab- 
lished speaker,  to  have  passed  this  compari- 
son, with  any  8ucce.ss,  uiwn  the  Hou.se  of 
Commons;  but  even  the  nigh  name  of  Mr. 
Fox,  we  believe,  will  be  insufficient  to  con- 
ceal its  impropriety  in  a  serious  passage  of 
a  history,   written  in  imitation  of  Livy  and 

!  Thucydides. 

I      Occupied,  indeed,  as  we  conceive  all  the 

I  readers  of  Mr.  Fox  ought  to  be  with  the  sen- 

'  timents  and  the  facts  which  he  lays  before 

I  them,  we  should  scarcely  have  thought  of 
noticing  thos  •  verbal   blemishes  at  all,   had 

!  we  not  read  ."^o  much  in  the  preface,  of  the 
fastidious  diligence  with  which  the  diction 

:  of  this  work  was  purified,  and  its  style  elabo- 
rated by  the  author.  To  this  praise  we  can- 
not say  we  think  it  entitled  :  but.  to  praise  of 
a  far  higher  description,  its  claim,  we  think, 
is  indisputable.  Independent  of  its  singular 
value  as  a  memorial  of  the  virtues  and  talents 
of  the  great  state.sman  whose  name  it  bears, 
we  have  no  hesitation   in  saying,  that  it  in 

<  written  more  truly  in  the  spirit  of  constitu- 
tional freedom,  and  of  temi)erate  and  practical 
patriotism,    than   any  history  of  which   the 

j  public  is  yet  in  fxtssession. 

sr 


210 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOmS, 


(2pril,    1805.) 

Memoires  d'un  Temoin  de  la  Revolution ;  ou  Journal  des  fails  qui  se  sont  passe  sous  ses  yeux,  el 
qui  ont  prepare  et  fixe  la  Constitution  Fran^aise.  Ouvrage  Posthume  de  Jean  Sylvain 
Bailly,  Premier  President  de  1" Assernblee  Nationale  Coiistituant,  Premier  Maire  de  Paris, 
et  Membre  des  Trois  Academies.     8vo.  3  tomes.     Paris:   1804.* 


Among  the  many  evils  which  the  French 
Revolution  has  inflicted  on  mankind,  the  most 
deplorable,  perhaps,  both  in  point  of  extent 
and  of  probable  duration,  consists  in  the  in- 
jury which  it  has  done  to  the  cause  of  rational 
treedom,  and  the  discredit  in  which  it  has  in- 
volved the  principles  of  political  philosophy. 
The  warnings  which  may  be  derived  Irom 
the  misfortunes  of  that  country,  and  the  les- 
sons which  may  still  be  read  in  the  tragical 
consequences  of  her  temerity,  are  memorable. 
no  doubt,  and  important :  But  they  are  such 
as  are  presented  to  us  by  the  histor}'  of  every 
period  of  the  world ;  and  the  emotions  by 
which  they  have  been  impressed,  are  in  this 
case  too  violent  to  let  their  import  and  appli- 
cation be  properly  distinguished.  From  the 
miscarriage  of  a  scheme  of  frantic  innovation, 
we  have  conceived  an  unreasonable  and  un- 
discriminating  dread  of  all  alteration  or  re- 
form. The  bad  success  of  an  attempt  to  make 
government  perfect,  has  reconciled  us  to  im- 
perfections that  might  easily  be  removed  ;  and 
the  miserable  consequences  of  treating  every 
thing  as  prejudice  and  injustice,  which  coulil 
not  be  reconciled  to  a  system  of  fantastic 
equality,  has  given  strength  to  prejudices, 
and  .sanction  to  abuses,  which  were  gradually 
wearing  away  before  the  progress  of  rea.son 
and  philosophy.  The  French  Revolution,  in 
short,  has  thrown  us  back  half  a  century  in 
the  course  of  political  improvement  :  and 
driven  many  among  us  to  cling  once  more, 
with  superstitious  terror,  to  those  idols  from 
which  we  had  been  nearly  reclaimed  by  the 
lessons  of  a  milder  philosophy.  When  w-e 
look  round  on  the  wreck  and  ruin  which  the 
whirlwind  has  scattered  over  the  prospect 
before  us,  we  tremble  at  the  rising  gale,  and 
shrink  even  from  the  wholesome  air  that  stirs 
the  fig-leaf  on  our  porch.  Terrified  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  brawls  and  midnight  murders 
which  proceed  from  intoxication,  we  are  al- 
most inclined  to  deny  ourselves  the  pleasures 
of  a  generous  hospitality :  and  scarcely  venture 
to  diffuse  the  comforts  of  light  or  of  warmth 
Ml  our  dwellings,  when  we  turn  our  eyes  on 
the  devastation  which  the  ilames  have  com- 
mitted around  us. 

The  same  ciicumst.ances  which  have  thus 
led  UB  to  confound  what  is  salutary  with 
what  is  pernicious  in  our  establishments, 
have  also  perverted  our  judgments  as  to  the 

*  I  have  been  lenipicd  to  let  iliis  be  reprinted 
{though  sensible  enough  of  vices  in  the  style)  to 
show  at  how  early  a  period  those  views  of  the 
character  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  its  first 
efTocis  on  o'her  countries,  were  adopied — wiiich 
Jiave  not  since  received  much  modification. 


;  characters  of  those  who  were  connected  with 
I  those  memorable  occurrences.     The  tide  of 
popular  favour,  which  ran  at  one  time  with  a 
dangerous  and  headlong  violence  to  the  side' 
I  of  innovation  and  political  experiment,  hat 
I  now  set,  perhaps  too  strongly,  m  an  opposite 
j  direction  j  and  the  same  misguiding  passion! 
'  that  placed   factious   and   selfish  men  on  i 
1  level   with    patriots   and    heroes,   has    nov 
[  ranked  the  blameless  and  the  enlightened  ij 
i  the  herd  of  murderers  and  madmen. 
I      There  are  two  classes  of  men.  in  particulail 
to  whom  it  appears  to  us  that  the  Kevolutioi.' 
has  thus  done  injustice  ;  and  who  have  be©' 
J  made  to  share  in  some  mea.sure  the  infam'J 
j  of  its  most  detestable  agents,  in  consequenc! 
[  of  venial  errors,  and  in  spite  of  extiaordinar, 
merits.     There  are  none  indeed  w  ho  made  i 
j  figure  in  its  more  advanced  stages,  that  ma' 
'  not  be  left,  without  any  great  breach  of  charitr 
to  the  vengeance  of  public  opinion:  ami  bof 
i  the  descriptions  of  persons  to  whom  we  ha> 
I  alluded  only  existed,  accordingly,  at  the  peril 
of  its  commencement.     These  were  the  ph 
!  losophers  or  speculative  men  who  inculcate 
!  a  love  of  liberty  and  a  desire  of  reform  \ 
^  their  writings  and  conversation  }  and  the  vi 
tuous  and   moderate,  who  attempted  to  « 
n\)on  these   principles  at  the  outset  of  tl' 
Revolution,  and   countenanced  or   sugrrestf' 
'  those  measures  by  which  the  ancient  fran 
of  the  government  was  eventually  dissolve; 
I  To  confound  either  of  these  classes  of  m«, 
with  the  monsters  by  \\  hom  they  were  sii 
ceeded,  it  would  be  necessary  to  forget  th 
they  were  in  reality  their  most  strenuous  o 
i  ponents — and  their  earliest  victims  !    If  tb 
'  were  instrumental  in  conjuring  up  the  teii 
>  pest,  we  may  at  least  presume  that  their  c 
operation   was  granted    in   ignorance,    sin, 
!  they  were  the  first  to  fall  before  it ;  and  c 
scared}'  be  supposed  to  have  either  forese: 
j  or   intended    those   consequences   in    whi] 
!  their  own  ruin  was  so  inevitably  involv(. 
That  they  are  chargeable  with  impruder 
and  with  presumption,  may  be  aflirmed,  p 
haps,  without  fear  of  contradiction  ;  thouj; 
with  reiinrd  to  many  of  them,  it  would  be 
easy  task,  perhap.'*.  to  point  out  by  what  Cm 
duct  they  could  have  avoided  such  an  im). 
tation ;  and  this  charge,  it  is  manifest,  oui 
at  any  rate  to  be  kept  carefully  separate  frj 
that  of  guilt  or  atrocity.     Benevolent  int;- 
tions,   though   alloyed   by   vanity,  and   n,' 
guided  by  ignorance,  can  never  become  i' 
objects  of  the  highest  moral  reprobation  ;  ;' 
enthusiasm  itself,  though  it  does  the  worl;' 
the  demons,  ought  still  to  be  distinguished  fil 
treachery  or  malice.      The  knightly  adv- 


BAILLY-S  ME?.I01RS. 


211 


irer,  who  broke  the  chains  of  the  calley- 
aves,  purely  that  they  might  enjoy  their  de- 
verance  from  bondage,  will  always  be  re- 
irded  with  other  feelings  than  the  robber 
'ho  freed  them  to  recruit  the  ranks  of  his 
anditti. 

We  have  examined  in  a  former  article  the 
vtent  of  the  participation  which  can  be  fairly 
nputed  to  the  plti{osopkers,m  the  crimes  and 
liseries  of  tire  Revolution,  and  endeavoured 
•  ascertain  in  how  far  they  may  be  saiti  to 
ave  made  themselves  responsible  for  its 
')nseqaences,  or  to  have  deserved  censure  for 
:ieir  exertions:  And,  acquitting  the  greater 
•irt  of  any  mischievous  intention,  we  fou)id 
'lason.  upon  that  occasion,  to  conclude,  that 
'.ere  was  nothing  in  the  conduct  of  the  ma- 
ritv  which  should  expose  them  to  blame,  or 
jprive  them  of  the  credit  which  they  would 
ive  certainly  enjoyed,  but  for  consequences 
hich  they  could  not  foresee.  For  those  who. 
ith  intentions  ecjually  blameless,  attempted 
'  carry  into  execution  the  projects  which  had 
•en  suggested  by  the  others,  and  actually 
'gaged  in  measures  which  could  not  fail  to 
rminate  in  important  changes,  it  will  not  be 
isy,  we  are  afraid,  to  make  so  satisfactory 
;'  apology.  What  is  written  may  be  cor- 
fcted  :  but  what  is  done  cannot  be  recalled  ; 
;-ash  and  injudicious  publication  naturally 
(lis  forth  an  host  of  ansvs-ers ;  and  where  the 
fbject  of  discussion  is  such  as  e.xcites  a  very 
jlwerful  interest,  the  cause  of  truth  is  not 
ifvays  least  efTectually  served  by  her  oppo- 
I'nts.  Bat  the  errors  of  cabinets  and  of  leiris- 
I'ures  have  other  consequences  and  other 
(ifutations.  They  are  answered  by  insur- 
rMions.  and  confuted  by  conspiracies.  A 
jjradox  which  might  have  been  maintained 
t  an  author,  without  any  other  loss  than  that 
c  a  little  leisure,  and  ink  and  paper,  can 
qy  be  supported  by  a  minister  at  the  ex- 
fhse  of  the  lives  and  the  liberties  of  a  na- 
tn.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  pre- 
cjitation  of  a  legislator  can  never  admit  of 
n  same  excuse  with  that  of  a  speculative 
i)  uirer ;  that  the  same  confidence  in  his 
onionSj  which  justifies  the  former  in  main- 
tilling  them  to  the  world,  will  never  justify 
tl|  other  in  suspending  the  happiness  of  his 
c'ntry  on  the  issue  of  their  truth  ;  and  that 
h  in  particular,  subjects  himself  to  a  tre- 
nlndous  responsibility,  who  voluntarily  takes 
ufin  himself  the  new-modelling  of  an  ancient 
ojstitution. 

'Ve  are  very  much  inclined  to  do  justice 
tclthe  virtuous  and  erdightened  men  who 
ajunded  in  the  Constituent  Assembly  of 
Ftnce.  We  believe  that  the  motives  of 
iTJiy  of  them  were  pure,  and  their  patriot- 
i:ip[  unaffected  :  their  talents  are  still  more 
iifsputable  :  But  we  cannot  acquit  them  of 
'bllneable  presumption  and  ine.xcusixble  im- 
pil(!!ice.  There  are  three  points,  it  appears 
lO'S.  in  particular,  in  which  they  were  bound 
jctojiave  foreseen  the  consequences  of  their 
fPibeedings. 

I  |)  the /.»-.<;/  place,  the  spirit  of  exasperation. 
Ifr'fjir.ce.  and  inlirnidation,  with  which  from 
ithl  beginning  they  carried  on  their  opposi- 


tion to  the  schemes  of  the  •«o\irt,  the  clergy 
and  the  nobility,  appears  to  us  to  have  been 
as  impolitic  with  a  view  to  their  ultimate 
success,  as  it  was  .suspicious  perhaps  as  to 
their  immediate  motives.  The  jiarade  wliich 
they  made  of  their  jiojndarity ;  the  support 
wiiich  they  submitted  to  receivi'  from  the 
menaces  and  acclamations  of  the  mob  :  llie 
joy  which  they  testified  at  the  desertion  of 
the  royal  armies;  and  the  anomalous  mili- 
tary force,  of  which  they  patronized  tlie  for- 
mation in  the  city  of  Paris,  were  so  many 
preparations  for  actual  liostility.  and  led  al- 
most inevitably  to  that  app«'a[  to  force,  by 
which  all  prospi-cl  of  establishing  an  equita- 
ble government  was  linally  cut  o(f.  San- 
giiine  as  the  patriots  ot  that  assembly  un- 
doubtedly were,  they  might  still  have  re- 
membered the  most  obvious  and  imp)rtaiil 
lesson  in  the  whole  volume  of  history,  That 
the  nation  which  has  recourse  to  arms  for 
the  settlement  of  its  internal  affairs,  neces- 
sarily falls  under  the  iron  yoke  of  a  military 
government  in  the  end  ;  and  that  nothing 
but  the  most  evident  necessity"  can  justify 
the  lovers  of  freedom  in  forcin:;:  it  from  the 
hands  of  their  yrovernors.  In  France,  there 
certaiidy  was  no  such  necessity.  The  wliole 
weight  and  strength  of  the  nation  was  bent 
upon  political  improvement  and  reform. — 
There  was  no  possibility  of  their  being  ulti- 
mately resisted:  and  the  only  danger  that 
was  to  be  apprehended  was,  that  their  pro- 
gress would  be  too  rapid.  After  the  States- 
General  were  once  fairly  granted,  indeed,  it 
api^ears  to  us  that  the  victory  of  the  friends 
to  liberty  was  certain.  They  could  not  have 
gone  too  slow  afterwards ;,  they  could  not 
have  ])een  satisfied  with  too  little.  The 
grjeat  object,  then,  should  have  been  to  ex- 
clude the  agency  of  force,  and  to  leave  no 
pretext  for  an  appeal  to  violence.  Nothing 
could  have  stood  against  the  force  of  reason, 
which  oui>lit  to  have  given  wa}-;  and  from 
a  monarch  of  the  character  of  Louis  XIV. 
there  was  no  reason  to  apprehend  any  at- 
tempt to  regain,  by  violence,  A;hat  he  Jiad 
yielded  from  princijiles  of  philanlliropy  and 
conviction.  The  Third  Estate  would  have 
groii-n  into  power,  instead  of  usurping  it ; 
and  would  have  gradually  compres.sed  the 
other  orders  into  their  proper  dimensions, 
instead  of  displacing  them  by  a  violence 
that  could  never  be  forgiven.  Even  if  the 
Orders  had  deliberated  separately,  (as  it  ap- 
pears to  us  they  ought  clearly  to  have  done.) 
the  commons  were  sure  of  an  ultimate  pre- 
ponderance, and  the  government  of  a  per- 
manent ana  incalculable  amelioration.  Con- 
vencfl  in  a  leqnslative  assembly,  and  engross- 
ing almost  entirely  tlie  re.'^pect  and  affections 
of  the  nation,  they  would  have  enjoyed  the 
uidimited  liberty  of  jiolitical  (liscu.«sion,  and 
■rradually  impressed  on  the  governmt;nt  the 
character  of  their  peculiar  princi))Ies.  By 
the  restoration  of  the  legislative  furi'^tion  tO 
the  commons  of  the  kingdom,  the  .system 
was  rendered  complete,  and  required  oidy  to 
be  put  into  action  in  order  to  assume  all  thoBC 
improvements  which  necessarily  resulted  from 


il2 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


thfi  increased  wealth  and  intelligence  of  its 
representatives. 

Of  this  fair  chance  of  amelioration,  the 
nation  was  disappointed,  chiefly,  we  are  in- 
clined to  think,  by  the  needless  asperity  and 
injudicious  menaces  of  the  popular  party. 
They  relied  openly  upon  the  strength  of  their 
adherents  among  the  populace.  If  they  did 
not  actually  encourage  them  to  threats  and  to 
acts  of  violence,  they  availed  themselves  at 
least  of  those  which  were  committed,  to  in- 
timidate and  depress  their  opponents  :  for  it 
is  indisputably  certain,  that  the  unconditional 
compliance  of  the  court  with  all  the  demands 
of  the  Constituent  Assembly,  was  the  result 
either  of  actual  force,  or  the  dread  of  its  im- 
mediate application.  This  was  the  inaus- 
picious commencement  of  the  sin?  and  the 
sufferings  of  the  Revolution.  Their  progress 
and  termination  were  natural  and  necessary. 
The  multitude,  once  allowed  to  overawe  the 
old  government  with  threats,  soon  subjected 
the  new  government  to  the  same  degradation  ; 
and,  once  permitted  to  act  in  arms,  came 
speedily  to  dictate  to  those  who  were  assem- 
bled to  deliberate.  As  soon  as  an  appeal  was 
made  to  force,  the  decision  came  to  be  with 
those  by  whom  force  could  at  all  times  be 
commanded.  Reason  and  philosophy  were 
discarded  ;  and  mere  terror  and  brute  vio- 
lence, in  the  various  forms  of  proscriptions, 
insurrections,  massacres,  and  military  execu- 
tions, harassed  and  distracted  the  misguided 
nation,  till,  by  a  natural  consummation,  they 
fell  under  the  despotic  sceptre  of  a  military 
u.surper.  These  consecjaences.  we  conceive, 
v/ere  obvious,  and  might  have  been  easily  for- 
seen.  Nearly  half  a  century  had  elapsed 
since  they  were  pointed  out  in  those  memo- 
rable words  of  the  most  profound  and  philo- 
8t)phical  of  hi.<torians.  ■'  By  recent,  as  well 
as  by  ancient  example,  it  was  become  evi- 
dent, that  illegal  violence,  with  what^^ver 
pretences  it  may  be  covered,  and  whatever 
object  it  may  pursue,  must  inevitably  end  at 
last  in  the  arbitrary  and  despotic  government 
of  a  single  person."* 

The  second  inexcusable  blunder,  of  which 
the  Constituent  Asspinbly  ^^as  iruilty,  \vas 
one  ecjually  obvious,  and  has  been  more  fre- 
quently noticed.  It  was  the  extreme  rest- 
lessness and  precipitation  with  which  tliey 
{)roceeded  to  accomplish,  in  a  few  weeks,  the 
egislative  labours  of  a  century.  Their  con- 
stitntion  was  struck  out  at  a  heat  ;  and  their 
measures  of  reform  proposed  and  adopteil  like 
toasts  at  an  election  dinner.  Within  less 
than  six  months  from  the  period  of  their  first 
convocation,  they  declared  the  illegality  of  all 
the  subsisting  taxes;  they  abolished  the  old 
constitution  of  the  States-General  :  they  set- 
tled the  limits  of  the  Royal  prerogative,  their 
own  inviolability,  and  the  le.ipoiisibility  of 
ministers.  Before  they  put  any  one  of  their 
projects  to  the  test  of  experiment,  they  had 
adopted  such  an  enormous  multitude,  as  en- 
tirely to  innovate  the  condition  of  the  country, 

*  Hume's  History,  chapter  Ix.  at  the  end.  The 
whole  passage  is  deserving  of  the  most  profound 
mrdiiation. 


and  to  e.xjx)se  even  those  which  were  salutary 
to  misapprehension  and  miscarriage.     From 
a  scheme  of  reformation  so   impetuous,  and 
an  impatience  so  puerile,  nothing  permanent 
or  judicious  could  be   reasonably  expected. 
In  legislating  lor  their  country,  they  stem  to 
have  forgotten  that  they  were  operatin.g  on  a 
living  and  sentient  substance,  and  not  on  an. 
inert  and   passive  mass,   which  they  might 
model  and  compound  according  to  their  pjeas-r 
ure  or  their  fancy.     Human  society,  however,i 
is  not  like  a  piece  of  mechanism  which  may; 
be  safely  taken  to  pieces,  and  put  together  by 
the  hands  of  an  ordinary  artist.     It    is  the 
work  of  Nature,  and  not  of  man  :  and  has 
received,  from  the  hands  of  its  Author,  an 
organization  that  cannot  be  destroyed  with- 
out danger  to  its  existence,  and  certain  prop- 
erties and   powers  that  cannot  be  altered  oi 
suspended  by  those  who  may  have  been  en- 
trusted with  its  management.     By  sludyin§ 
those  properties,  and  directing  those  powers 
it  may  be  moditied  and  altered  to  a  very  coUi1 
siderable  extent.     But  they  must  be  alioweo' 
to  develope  themselves  by  their  internal  eui, 
erg)",  and  to  familiarize  themselves  with  theii! 
new  channel  of  exertion.     A  child  cannot  bfj 
stretched  out  by  engines  to  the  stature  of  ^ 
man  ;  or  a  man  compelled,  in  a  moiiiing,  Kj 
excel  in  all  the  exercises  of  an  athlete.   ThOftJ 
into   whose  hands  the   destinies  of  a  greai 
nation  are  committed,  should  bestow  on  ill 
reformation  at  least  as  much  patient  obser¥ 
ance  and  as  much  tender  precaution  asarf 
displaved  by  a  skilful  gardener  in  his  trea-' 
ment  of  a  ".sickly  plant.     He  props  up  tt 
branches  that  are  weak  or  overloaded,  an 
gradually  prunes  and  reduces  those  that  a' 
too  luxuriant  :  he  cuts  away  what  is  absolute 
rotten  and  distempered  :  he  stirs  the  ear: 
I  about  the  root,  and  sprinkles  it  with  wate'   ' 
I  and  waits  for  the  coming  sprhig  !     He  trail! 
the  young  branches  to  the  right  hand  or  totl'   I 
left ;  and  leads  it,  by  a  gradual  and  spent 
neous  progress,  to  expand  or  exalt  itself,  se 
son  after  season,  in   the  direction  which  . 
had  previously  determined  :  and  thus,  in  L| 
course  of  a  few  summers,  he  brings  it,  wiJi^ 
out  injury  or  compulsion,  into  that  forma' 
pro|X)rtion  wliich  could  not  with  safety  ha' 
been  imposed  upon  it  in  a  shorter  time.    T 
I  reformers  of  France  applied  no  such  gen 
solicitations,  and  would  not  wait  for  the  effe' 
I  of  any  such  preparatory  measures,  or  voir 
I  tary  developments.     They  forcibly  broke 
i  lofty   boughs   asunder,  and   endeavoured 
J  straighten  its  crooked  joints  by  violence  :  tl 
1  tortured  it  into  symmetry  in  vain,  and  si 
its  life-blood  on  the  earth,  in  the  middle  of  ■ 
I  scattered  branches. 

I  The  third  great  danger,  against  which  j 
I  think  it  was  the  duty  of  the  intelligent  J'l 
I  virtuous  rart  of  the  Deputies  to  have  providlj 
was  that\vhich  arose  from  the  sudden  trS'- 
ference  of  power  to  the  hands  of  men  v» 
had  previously  no  natural  or  individual  in  • 
ence  in  the  community.  This  was  an  ' 
indeed,  which  arose  necessarily,  in  some.  • 
gree,  from  the  defects  of  the  old  governra.j) 
and  from  the  novelty  of  the  ssituation  in  wl  0 


BATLLY'S  MEMOIRS. 


213 


Ae  country  was  placed  by  the  convooation 
of  the  States-General ;  but   it  was  materially 
iiggravated  by  the  presumption  and  improvi- 
dence of  those  enthusiastic  legislators,  and 
tended  powerfully  to  produce  those  disasters 
by  which  they  were  ultimately  overwhelmed. 
No  representative  legislature,  it  appears  to 
js,  can  ever  be  respectable  or  secure,  unless 
lit  contain  within  itself  a  sireat  projioition  of 
:hose  who  form  the  natural  aristocracv  of  the 
country,  and  are  able,  as  individuals,  to  influ- 
?nce  the  conduct  and  opinions  of  the  <:reater 
lart  of  its  inhabitants.     Unless  the  power  and 
Areight   and   authority  of  the   assembly,    in 
;ihort,  be  really  made  up  of  the  power  and 
.veight  and  authority  of  the  individuals  who 
;ompose  it,  the  factitious  diirnity  they  may 
lerive  from  their  situation  can  never  be  of 
ong  endurance :   and  the   dangerous  power 
vith  wliich  they  may  be  invested,  will  be- 
■ome  the  subject  of  scrambling  and  conten- 
ion  among  the  factions  of  the  metropolis,  and 
le  employed  for  any  purpose  but  the  general 
:ood  of  the  community. 
In  England,  the  House  of  Commons  is  made 
ip  of  the  individuals  who,  by  birth,  by  for- 
me, or  by  talents,  possess  singly  the  greatest 
ifluence  over  the  rest  of  the  people.     The 
lost  certain  and  the  most  permanent  indu- 
nce,  is  that  of  rank  and  of  riches ;  and  these 
.re  the  qualifications,  accordingly,  which  re- 
nn  the  greatest  number  of  members.     Men 
abmit  to  be  governed  by  the  united  will  of 
|X0se,  to  whose  will,  as  individuals,  the  greater 
art  of  them  have  been  previously  accustomed 
^  submit  themselves ;  and  an  act  of  parlia- 
tent  is  reverenced  and  obeyed,  not  because 
,ie  people  are  impressed  with  a  constitutional 
;jneration  for  an  institution  called  a  parlia- 
ment, but  because  it  has  been  passed  by  the 
jithority  of  those  who  are  recognised  as  their 
jitural  superiors,  and  by  whose  influence,  as 
(dividuals,  the  same  measures  might  have 
|5en  enforced  over   the  greater  part  of  the 
jngdom.     Scarcely   any  new   power    is  ac- 
iiired,  therefore,  by  the  combination  of  those 
lirsons  into  a  le<rislature  :     They  carry  each 
.    ieir  share  of  influence  and  authority  into  the 
inate  along  with  them  ;  and  it  is  by  addina' 
•e  items  of  it  together,  that  the  influence 
Jid  authority  of  the  senate  itself  is  made  up. 
,    rora  such  a  senate,  therefore,  it  is  obvious 
;    at  their  power  can  never  be  wrested,  and 
'    |at  it  would  not  even  attach  to  those  who 
'isht  succeed    in   snpplantinjr  them  in  the 
iislature,  by  violence  or  intrigue  :  or  by  any 
iier  means  than  those  by  which  they  them- 
iJveshad  originally  secured  their  nomination. 
t;    I  such  a  state  of  representation,  in  short,  the 
'    ijluence  of  the  representatives  is  not  borrow- 
from  their  office,  but  the  influence  of  the 
is  supported  by  that  which  is  personal 
its  members ;  and   parliament   is  chiefly 
•ded  as   the   great  depository  of  all  the 
hority  which  formerly  existed,  in  a  seat- 
ed state,  among  its  members.  This  a\ithor- 
i|,  therefore,  belonging  to  the  men,  and  not 
'  their  places,  can  neither  be  lost  by  them, 
'  ey  are  forced  from  their  })lace6,  nor  found 
those  who  may  supplant  them.   The  Long 


Parliament,  after  it  was  purgt^d  by  the  Inde- 
penilents,  and  the  assemblies  that  nn-t  under 
that  name,  during  the  Protectorate  of  Crom- 
well, lield  the  ])lace,  and  enjoyed  all  the  form 
of  jiower  that  had  belonged  to  their  predeces- 
sors: But  as  they  no  longer  contained  those 
individuals  who  were  able  to  sway  and  inHn- 
ence  the  opinion  of  the  body  of  the  p('o[)le. 
they  were  without  respect  or  authority,  and 
speedily  came  to  be  the  objects  of  public  deri- 
sion and  contempt. 

As  the  power  and  authority  of  a  legislature 
thus  constituted,  is  perfectly  secure  and  in- 
alienable, on  the  one  hand,  so,  on  the  other,  the 
moderation  of  its  proceedings  is  guaranteed 
by  a  consciousness  of  the  basis  upon  wliich 
this  authority  is  founded.  Kvery  mdividual 
being  aware  of  the  extent  to  which  his  own 
influence  is  likely  to  reach  among  his  con.'^tit- 
uents  and  dependants,  is  anxious  that  the 
mandates  of  the  body  shall  never  jiass  beyond 
that  limit,  within  which  obedience  may  be 
easily  secured.  He  will  not  hazard  the  loss 
of  his  own  power,  therefore,  by  any  attempt 
to  enlarge  that  of  the  legislature  )  and  feel- 
ing, at  every  step,  the  weight  and  resistance 
of  the  people,  the  whole  assembly  proceeds 
with  a  due  regard  to  their  opinions  and  pre- 
judices, and  can  never  do  any  thing  very  in- 
jurious or  very  distasteful  to  the  majority. — 
From  the  very  nature  of  the  authority  with 
which  they  are  invested,  they  are  in  fact  con- 
substantiated  with  the  people  for  whoin  they 
are  to  legislate.  They  do  not  sit  loose  upon 
them,  like  riders  on  inferior  animals)  nor 
speculate  nor  project  experiments  upon  their 
welfare,  like  operators  upon  a  foreign  sub- 
stance. They  are  the  natural  organs,  in  fact, 
of  a  great  living  body ;  and  are  not  only 
warned,  by  their  own  feelings,  of  any  injury 
which  tliey  may  be  tempted  to  inflict  on  it, 
but  would  become  incapable  of  performing 
their  functions,  if  they  were  to  proceed  far  in 
debilitatinir  the  general  system. 

Such,  it  appears  to  us,  though  delivered 
perhaps  in  too  abstract  and  elementary  a  foim, 
is  the  just  conception  of  a  free  representative 
legislature.  Neither  the  Engli-sh  Hou.'^e  of 
Commons,  indeed,  nor  any  assembly  of  any 
other  nation,  ever  realized  it  in  all  its  perfec- 
tion :  But  it  is  in  their  approximation  to  such 
a  standard,  we  conceive,  that  their  excellence 
and  utility  will  be  found  to  consist ;  and  w  here 
the  conditions  upon  which  we  have  insisted 
are  absolutely  wantinir,  the  sudden  institution 
of  a  representative  legislature  will  only  be  a 
step  to  the  most  frightful  disorders.  Where 
it  has  grown  up  in  a  country  in  which  per- 
sonal liberty  and  property  are  tolerably  secure, 
it  naturally  assumes  that  form  wliich  is  most 
favourable  to  its  beneficial  influence,  and  has 
a  tendency  to  perpetual  irn]>idvement,  and  to 
the  constant  amelioration  of  the  condition  of 
the  whole  society.  The  difference  between 
a  free  governnienf  and  a  tyrannical  one,  con- 
sists entirely  in  the  different  proportions  of 
the  people  that  are  influenced  by  their  oj)in- 
lom,  or  subjugated  by  inttmidalioii  or  /orrf . 
In  a  large  society,  opinions  can  only  be  re- 
united by  means  of  representations ;  and  the 


214 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


natural  representative  is  the  individual  whose 
example  and  authority  can  iiiiiuence  the  opin- 
ions of  the  greater  part  of  those  in  whose 
behalf  he  is  delegated.  This  is  the  natural 
ari.stocracv  of  a  civilized  nation  ;  and  its  legi.s- 
lature  is  then  upon  the  best  jxjssible  footing, 
when  it  is  in  the  hands  of  those  who  answer 
to  that  description.  The  whole  people  are 
then  governed  by  the  laws,  exactly  as  each 
clan  or  district  of  them  would  have  been  by 
the  patriarchal  authority  of  an  elective  and 
unarmed  chieftain  ;  and  the  lawgivers  are  not 
only  secure  of  their  places  while  they  can 
maintain  their  individual  influence  over  the 
people,  but  are  withheld  from  any  rash  or 
injurious  measure  by  the  consciousness  and 
feeling  of  their  dej>endence  on  this  voluntary 
deference  and  submission. 

If  this  be  at  all  a  just  representation  of  the 
conditions  upon  which  the  respectability  and 
security  of  a  representative  legislature  must 
always  depend,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  ex- 
plain liow  the  experiment  miscarried  so  com- 
pletely, in  the  case  of  the  French  Constituent 
Assembly.  That  assembly,  which  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  public,  and  the  misconduct  of 
the  privileged  orders,  soon  enabled  to  engross 
the  whole  power  of  the  country,  consisted 
almost  entirely  of  persons  without  name  or 
individual  influence;  who  owed  the  whole  of 
their  consequence  to  the  situation  to  which 
they  had  been  elevated,  and  were  not  abje, 
as  individuals,  to  have  influenced  the  opinions 
of  one-fiftieth  part  of  their  countrymen. — 
There  was  in  France,  indeed,  at  this  time,  no 
legitimate,  wholesome,  or  real  aristocracy. — 
The  noblesse,  who  were  persecuted  for  bear- 
ing that  name,  were  quite  disconnected  from 
the  people.  Their  habits  of  perpetual  resi- 
dence in  the  capital,  and  their  total  independ- 
ence of  the  good  opinion  of  their  vas.sals, 
had  deprived  thernof  any  real  influence  over 
the  minds  of  the  lower  orders  :  and  the  or- 
ganization of  society  had  not  yet  enabled  thp 
rich  manufacturers  or  proprietors  to  assume 
.such  an  inlluence.  The  persons  sent  as  de- 
puties to  the  States-General,  therefore,  were 
those  chiefly  who,  by  intrigue  and  boldness, 
and  by  professions  of  uncommon  zeal  for  what 
were  then  the  great  objects  of  popular  pursuit, 
had  been  enabled  to  carry  the  votes  of  the 
electors.  A  notion  of  talent,  and  an  opinion 
that  tliey  would  be  loud  and  vehement  in 
supporting  those  reque.sts  upon  which  the 
people  had  already  come  to  a  decision,  were 
their  passports  into  that  assembly.  They 
were  sent  there  to  express  the  particular 
demands  of  the  peo])le,  and  not  to  give  a 
general  pledge  of  their  ac(]uieseence  in  what 
might  there  be  enact<>d.  They  were  not  ihe 
hereditary  patrons  of  the  people,  but  their 
hired  advocates  for  a  particular  pleading. — 
They  bid  no  general  trust  or  authority  over 
I  hern,  but  were  chosen  as  their  special  mes- 
sengers, out  of  a  multitude  whose  influence 
and  pretensions  were  equally  powerful. 

When  these  men  found  themselves,  as  it 
were  by  accident,  in  po.ssession  of  the  whole 
power  of  the  .state,  and  inve.sted  with  the 
absolute  government  of   the  greatest  nation 


that  has  existed  in  modern  times,  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at  if  they  forgot  the  slender  ties 
by  which  they  were  bound  to  their  constitu- 
ents.    The  powers  to  which  they  had  suc- 
ceeded were  so  infinitely  beyond  any  thing 
that    they   had    enjoyed    in   their   individual 
capacity,  that  it  is  not  surprising  if  they  never 
thought  of  exerting  them  with  the  same  con- 
sideration and  caution.     Instead  of  the  great, 
bases  of  rank  and  property,  which  cannot  bei 
transferred  by  the  clamours  of  the  factious, 
or  the  caprice  of  the  inconstant,  and  which 
serve  to  ballast  and  steady  the  vessel  of  the 
state    in   all   its  wanderings  and   perils,  the 
assembly  possessed  only  the  basis  of  talent 
or  reputation  ;  qualities  which  depend  upon 
opiifion  and  0])portunity,  and  which  may  b«! 
attributed  in  the  same  jnojjortion  to  an  inconi, 
venient  multitude  at  once.     The  whole  legis'^ 
lature  may  be  considered,  therelbre,  as  com* 
posed  of  adventurers,  who  had  already  attained 
a  situation  incalculably  above  their  oiigiiiai 
pretensions,  and  were  now  temptid  to  pud] 
then'  fortune  by  every  means  that  held  ou^ 
the   promi.se  of  immediate   success.      The\ 
had  nothing;  comparatively  speaking,  to  lo8e| 
but  their  places  in  that  assembly,  or  the  influ- 
ence which  they  possesseil  within  its  walls 
and  as  the   authority  of  the  assembly  itsel 
depended  altogetlier  upon  the  popularity  o 
its  measures,  and   not  upon   the  intrinsic  ai 
thority  of  its  members,  so  it  was  only  to  b 
maintained  by  a  succession  of  brdliant  an 
imposing  resolutions,  and  by  satisfying  orou 
doing  the  extravagant  wishes  and  expectatioi 
of  the  most  extravagant  and  sanguine  populaci 
that  ever  existed.    For  a  man  to  get  a  lead  J 
such  an  assembly,  it  was  by  no  means  neceij 
sary  that  he  should  have  previously  possessef 
any  influence  or  authority  in  the  communit'; 
that  he  should  he  connected  with  powerf' 
families,  or  supported  by  great  and  extensi' 
associations.    If  he  could  dazzle  and  overav, 
in  debate  ;  if  he  could  obtain  the  acclamatio, 
of  the  mob  of  Versailles,  and  make  himse 
familiar  to  the  eyes  and  the  ears  of  the  8 
sembly  and  its  galleries,  he  was  in  a  fairtra 
for  having  a  great  share  in  the  direction  of; 
assembly  exercising  absolute  sovereignty  ov 
thirty  millions  of  men.     The  prize  was  f 
j  tempting  not  to  attract  a  multitude  of  coi 
petitors:  and  the  assembly  for  many  mont 
!  was   iroverned    by  those  who   outvieil   th' 
j  associates  in  the  impracticable  extra vagar^ 
[of  iheir  patriotism,  and  .siicrificed  most  p, 
j  fu.'^ely  the  real  interests  of  the  people  at  t 
shrine  of  a  precarious  popularity.  ' 

i      In  this  way,  the  assembly,  from  the  inherr 
j  vices  of  its  constitution,  ceased  to  he  respe, 
able  or  useful.     The  same  causes  speedij 
put  an  end  to  its  security,  and  converted) 
I  into  an  instrument  of  destruction. 
I      Mere  popularity  was  at  first  the  instrunnij 
by  which  this  unsteady  legislature  was  g>! 
I  erned  :   But  \\  hen   it  became  apj)arent,  tl; 
whoever  could  obtain  the  direction  or  co- 
I  mand  of  it.  must  jjossess  the  whole  author 
'  of  the  state,  parties  became  less  sciupuli' 
I  about  the  means  they  employed  for  that  p; 
I  pose,  and  soon  found  out  that  violence  «' 


BAILLY'S  MEMOIRS. 


215 


'error  were  infinitely  more  effectual  anel  ox- 
leditioLis  than  persuapion  and  eloquence.  The 
)eople  at  large,  who  had  no  attachment  to 
'.ny  families  or  individuals  among  their  dele- 
i;ates,  and  who  contented  themselves  with 
'dolizing  the  assembly  in  general,  so  long  as 
I  passed  decrees  to  their  liking,  were  passive 
nd  indirferent  spectators  of  the  ti-ansference 
f  power  which  was  effected  by  the  pikes  of 
he  Parisian  multitude  :  and  looked  with  equal 
ffection  upon  every  successive  junto  which 
'ssumed  the  management  of  its  deliberations, 
laving  no  natural  representatives,  they  felt 
hemselves  equally  connected  with  all"  who 
Ixercised  the  legislative  function:  and,  being 
'estitute  of  a  real  aristocracy,  were  without 
he  means  of  giving  effectual  support  even  to 
lose  who  might  appear  to  deserve  it.  En- 
iQuraged  by  tins  situation  of  affairs,  the  niost 
'aring,  unprincipled,  and  proiliu-ate,  proceeded 
■)  seize  upon  the  defenceless  legislature,  and, 
riving  all  their  ant;igouists  bi-fore  them  by 
•iolence  or  intimidation,  entered  without  op- 
losition  upon  the  supreme  functions  of  gov- 
himent.  They  soon  found,  however,  that 
(le  arras  by  which  they  had  been  victorious, 
i-ere  capable  of  being  turned  against  them- 
l^lves;  and  those  who  were  envious  of  their 
'recess,  or  ambitious  of  their  distinction,  easily 
lund  means  to  excite  discontent  among  the 
niltitude,  now  inured  to  insurrection,  and  to 
ifiploy  them  in  pulling  down  those  veiy  in- 
'viduals  whom  they  had  so  recently  exalted, 
ihe  disposal  of  the  legislature  thus  became  a 
Hze  to  be  fought  for  in  the  clubs  and  con- 
|)iracies  and  insurrections  of  a  corrupted 
etropolis ;  and  the  institution  of  a  national 
'presentative  had  no  other  effect,  than  that 
■  laying  the  government  open  to  lawless 
;rce  and  flagitious  audacity. 
\  It  is  in  this  manner,  it  appears  to  us.  that 
J3m  the  want  of  a  natural  and  etficient  aris- 
(cracy  to  exercise  the  functions  of  represent- 
live  legislators,  the  National  Assembly  of 
hince  was  betrayed  into  extravagance,  and 
tU  a  prey  to  faction ;  that  the  institution 
jielf  became  a  source  of  public;  misery  and 
[sorder,  and  converted  a  civilized  monarchy, 
jst  into  a  sanguinary  democracy,  and  then 
llo  a  military  despotism. 
|It  would  be  the  excess  of  injustice,  we 
|ve  already  said,  to  impute  those  disastrous 
ijnsequences  to  the  moderate  and  virtuous 
^lividuals  who  sat  in  the  Constituent  A.s- 
jmbly  :  But  if  it  be  admitted  that  they  might 
ve  been  easily  foreseen,  it  will  not  be  easy 
]  exculpate  them  from  the  charge  of  very 
iKmeable  imprudence.  It  would  be  difficult, 
ileed,  to  point  out  any  course  of  conduct  by 
jiich  those  dangers  might  have  been  entirely 
;bided :  But  they  would  undoubtedly  have 
leu  less  formidable,  if  the  enliirhtcned  mem- 
ftrs  of  the  Third  Estate  had  endeavoured  to 
l^m  a  party  with  the  more  liberal  and  popu- 
If  among  the  nobility;  if  they  had  associated 
t  themselves  a  greater  number  of  those  to 
iose  persons  a  certain  degree  of  influence 


was  attached,  from  their  fortune,  their  age,  or 
their  official  station  ;  if,  in  short,  instead  of 
grasping  presuunitnously  at  the  exclusive  di- 
rection of  the  national  council.s,  and  arrogating 
every  thing  on  the  credit  of  their  zealous 
patriotiism  and  inexperienced  abilities,  they 
had  sought  to  strengthen  them.selves  by  an 
alliance  with  what  was  respectable  in  the 
existing  establishments,  and  attached  them- 
.'^elves  at  first  as  disciples  to  those  whom  they 
might  fairly  expect  .•speedily  to  outgrow  and 
eclijise. 

Ui>oii  a  review  of  the  whole  matter,  it 
seems  impossible  to  acquit  tho.se  of  the  revo- 
lutionary patriots,  whose  intentions  are  ad- 
mitted to  be  pure,  of  great  precipitation,  pre- 
sumption, and  imprudence.  Apologies  may 
be  found  for  them,  perhaps,  in  the  inexpe- 
rience which  was  incident  to  their  situation  ; 
in  their  constant  apjirchension  of  being  sepa- 
rated befnre  their  task  was  accom]ilishe<l  :  in 
the  exasperation  which  was  excited  by  the 
insidious  proceedings  of  the  cabinet ;  and  in 
the  intoxication  which  naturally  resulted  from 
the  magnitude  of  their  early  triumph,  and  the 
noise  and  resounding  of  their  popularity.  But 
the  errors  into  which  they  fell  were  inex- 
cusable, we  think,  in  politicians  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  :  and  while  we  pity  their  suf- 
ferings, and  admire  their  genius,  we  cannot 
feel  much  respect  for  their  wisdom,  or  any 
surprise  at  their  miscarriage. 

The  preceding  train  of  reflection  was  irre- 
sistibly suggested  to  us  by  the  title  and  the  con- 
tents of  the  volumes  now  before  us.  Among 
the  virtuous  members  of  the  first  Assembly, 
there  was  no  one  who  stood  higher  than  Bailly. 
As  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  science,  he  had 
long  stood  in  the  very  first  rank  of  celebrity  : 
His  private  morals  were  not  only  irreproach- 
able, but  exemplary:  and  his  character  and 
dispositions  had  always  been  remarkable  for 
gentleness,  moderation,  and  philanthropy. 
Drawn  unconsciously,  if  we  may  believe  liis 
own  account,  into  public  life,  rather  than  im- 
pelled into  it  by  any  movement  of  ambition, 
he  participated  in  the  enthusiasm,  and  in  the 
imprudence,  from  which  no  one  seemed  at 
that  time  to  be  e.xempted  ;  and  in  spite  of  an 
early  retreat,  speedily  suffered  that  fate  by 
which  all  the  well  meaning  were  then  des- 
tined to  expiate  their  errors.  His  popularity 
was  at  one  time  ecjual  to  that  of  any  of  the 
idols  of  the  day ;  and  if  it  was  gained  by 
some  decree  of  blameable  indulgence  and 
unjuslitlable  zeal,  it  was  forfeited  at  last  (and 
along  with  his  life)  by  a  resolute  opposition 
to  disoifier,  and  a  meritorious  perseverance 
in  the  discnarge  of  his  duty. 


The  sequel  of  this  article,  containing  a  full 
[abstract  of  ine  learned  author's  recollections 
I  of  the  first  six  months  only  of  his  mayoralty, 
I  is  now  omitted;  both  as  too  minute  to  retain 
any  interest  at  this  day,  and  as  sui/erseded 
'  by  trie  more  comprehensive  details  which 
,  will  be  found  in  the  succeeding  article. 


216 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(September,   1818.) 


Considerations  stir  les  Principaux  Evenemcns  de  la  Revolution  Frangoise.     Ouvrage  Posth 
de  Madame  la  Baroniie  de  Stael.     Publie  par  M.  le  Due  de  Broglie  et  M.  le  BarojJi 
DE  Stael.     Ell  trois  tomes.     8vo.  pp.  1285.     Londres:   1818. 


No  book  can  possibly  possess  a  higher 
interest  than  this  which  is  now  before  us. 
It  is  the  last,  dying  bequest  of  the  most  bril- 
liant writer  that  has  appeared  in  our  days ; — 
and  it  treats  of  a  period  of  history  which  we 
already  know  to  be  the  most  important  that 
has  occurred  for  centuries ;  and  which  those 
who  look  back  on  it,  after  other  centuries 
have  elapsed,  will  probably  consider  as  still 
more  important. 

We  cannot  stop  now  to  say  all  that  we  think 
of  Madame  de  Stael ; — and  yet  we  must  say, 
that  we  think  her  the  most  powerful  writer 
that  her  country  has  produced  since  the  time 
of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau — and  the  greatest 
writer,  of  a  woman,  that  any  time  or  any 
country  has  produced.  Her  taste,  perhaps, 
is  not  quite  pure;  and  her  style  is  too  irregu- 
lar and  ambitious.  These  faults  may  even 
go  deeper.  Her  passion  for  effect,  and  the 
tone  of  exaggeration  which  it  naturally  pro- 
duces, have  probably  interfered  occasionally 
with  the  soundness  of  her  judgment,  and 
given  a  suspicious  colouring  to  some  of  her 
representations  of  fact.  At  all  events,  they 
have  rendered  her  impatient  of  the  humbler 
task  of  completing  her  explanatory  details, 
or  stating  in  their  order  all  the  premises  of 
her  reasonings.  She  gives  her  history  in 
abstracts,  and  her  theories  in  aphorisms: — 
and  the  greater  part  of  her  works,  instead  of 
presenting  that  systematic  unity  from  ^hich 
the  highest  degrees  of  strength  and  beauty 
and  clearness  must  ever  be  derived,  may  be 
fairly  described  as  a  collection  of  striking 
fragments — in  which  a  great  deal  of  repe- 
tition does  by  no  means  diminish  the  eflect 
of  a  good  deal  of  inconsistency.  In  those 
same  works,  however,  whether  we  consider 
them  as  fragments  or  as  systems,  we  do  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  there  are  more  original 
and  profound  observations — more  new  images 
— greater  sagacity  combined  with  higher  im- 
agination— and  more  of  the  true  philosophy 
of  the  passions,  the  politics,  and  the  literature 
of  her  contemporaries — than  in  any  other 
author  we  can  now  remember.  She  has  great 
eloquence  on  all  subjects;  and  a  singular 
pathos  in  representing  those  bitterest  agonies 
of  the  spirit,  in  which  wretchedness  is  aggra- 
vated by  remorse,  or  by  regrets  that  partake 
of  its  character.  Though  it  is  diflicult  to  re- 
sist her  when  she  is  in  earnest,  we  cannot  sav 
that  we  agree  in  all  her  opinions,  or  approve 
of  all  her  sentiments.  She  overrates  the  im- 
portance of  literature,  either  in  determining 
the  character  or  atfectiny:  the  happiness  of 
mankind ;  and  she  theorises  too  confidently 
on  its  past  and  its  future  history.    On  subjects 


like  this,  we  have  not  yet  facts  enough  fc » 
much   philosophy ;   and  must  be  contei  d 
we  fear,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  to  call  n  v 
things  accidental,  which  it  would   be  r  ii 
satisfactory  to  refer  to  determinate   cai  t! 
In  her  estimate  of  the  happiness,  and  e 
notions  of  the   wisdom  of  private   life,  r 
think   her   both   uni'ortunate  and   erronc « 
She  makes  passions  and  high  sensibilit  i 
great  deal  too  indispensable  ;  and  varn.  .e 
over  all  her  pictures  too  uniformly  wilih 
glare  of  an   extravagant  or  aflt  cl(  d   ei  in 
siasm.     She   represents  men,  in  short,  i ; 
great  deal  more   unhappy,  more   deprifd 
and    more    energetic,    than    they   are—  ni 
seems  to  respect  them  the  more  for  it  h 
her  politics  she  is  far  more  unexception  Je 
She  is  everywhere  the  warm  friend  and  ni 
mated  advocate  of  liberty — and   of  lil 
I  practical,  and    philanthropic  principle.-^, 
those  subjects  we  cannot  blame  her  t- 
I  siasm,  which  has  nothing  in  it  vindicti 
I  provoking;  and  are  far  more  inclined  to 
1  than  to  reprove  that  sanguine  and  bu  ... 
temper  of  mind  which,  after  all  she  ha?  je: 
!  and  sulfered,  still  leads  her  to  ovenate,  i  on 
apprehension,  both  the  merit  of  past  atl( 
at  political  amelioration,  and  the  chain 
their  success  hereafter.    It  is  in  that  fui 
we  fear,  and  in  the  hopes  that  make  \ 
sent,  that   the  lovers  of  mankind   mu^ 
for  a  while,  console  themselves  for  the  i 
pointments  which  still  seem  to  beset 
If  Madame  de  Stael,  however,  predicts 
too   much   conlidence,   it  must  be  adi 
that  her  labours  have  a  powerful  teiide  . 
realize  her  predictions.     Her  writings  ; 
full  of  the  most  animating  views  of  th 
provement  of  our    social  condition,  ai 
means  by  which  it  may  be  effected — tht, 
striking   refutations  of  prevailing   end 
these  great  subjects — and  the  most  pers'J 
expostulations  with  those  who  may  thinJ^ 
interest  or  their  honour  concerned  in 
taining  them.     Even  they  who  are  \hi 
inclined  to  agree  with  her,  must  adm« 
there  is  much  to  be  learned  from  her  wr  1 
and  we  can  give  them  no  higher  jnais 
to  say,  that  their  tendency  is  not  only  '  re- 
mote the  interests  of  philanthropy  an(    (If- 
pendence,  but  to  soften,  rather  than  exas]   it«', 
the  prejudices  to  which  they  are  oppoE 

Of  the  work  before  us,  we  do  not  ow 
very  well  what  to  say.  It  contains  a:  Iti- 
tude  of  admirable  remarks — and  a  still  f-  det 
number  of  curious  details;  for  Mada  de 
Stael  was  not  only  a  contemporary,  but  f  lyf- 
witness  of  much  that  she  describes,  anfcad 
the  very  best  access  to  learn  what  did  :ti^ 


DE  STAELS  FRENCH  REVOLUTION'. 


inder  her  immediate  observation.     Few  per- 
sons certainly  could  be  better  qualified  to  ap- 
Ijreciate  the  relative  importance  ol"  the  sub- 
jects that  fell  uneler  her  review ;  and  no  one, 
!,ve  really  think,  so  little  likely  to  colour  and 
listort  them,  from  any  personal  or  party  feel- 
4  ings.    Willi  all  those  rare  qnaliJications,  how- 
sg  f'ver.  and  inestimable  advantages  for  perform- 
iig  the  task  of  an  historian,  we  cannot  say 
hat  she  has  made  a  good  history.     It  is  too 
i],  nuch  broken  into  fi-agments.     The  narrative 
Kj^s  too  much  hitermpted  by  reflections :  and 
lij|he  reflections  too  much  subdivided,  to  suit 
^he  subdivisions  of  the  narrative.     There  are 
jj.oo  many  events   omitted,  or   but   cursorily 
j  tioticed,  to  give  the  work  the  interest  of  a  full 
f,  |ind   flowing   history  ;   and  a  great  deal  too 
jjfinany  detailed  and  analyzed,  to  let  it  pass  for 
|,j,|tn  essay  on  the  philosophy,  or  greater  results 
[jjltf  these   memorable   transactions.     We  are 
jj  he  most  struck  with  this  last  fault — which 
f^[)erhaps  is  inseparable  from  the  condition  of 
,, iji  contemporary  writer; — for.  though  the  ob- 
.!.,  ■ervation  may  sound  at  first  like  a  paradox, 
.^[ve  are  rather  inclined  to  think  that  the  best 
II  !iistorical   compositions — not   only  the   most 
ileasing  to  read,  but  the  most  just  and  ui- 
tructive  in  themselves — must  be  written  at 
I  very  considerable  distance  from  the  times 
0  which  they  relate.    When  we  read  an  elo- 
quent and  judicious  account  of  great  events 
raiisacted  in  other  ages,  our  first  sentiment 
s  that  of  regret  at  not  being  able  to  learn 
nore  of  them.    We  wish  anxiously  for  a  fuller 
^.  letail  of  particulars — we  envy  those  who  had 
'_,  he  good  fortune  to  live  in  the  time  of  such 
'"  nteresting  occurrences,  and  blame  them  for 
'  laving  left  us  so  brief  and  imperfect  a  me- 
Mnorial  of  them.     But  the  truth  is,  if  we  may 
"' 'judge   from   our   own   experience,  that   the 
'rreater  part  of  those  who  were   present  to 
*|hose  mighty  operations,  were  but  very  im- 
■  )erfectly  aware  of  their  importance,  and  con- 
jectured but  little  of  the  iniiuence  they  were 
0  exert  on  future  generations.     Their  alten- 
ion  was  successively  engaged  by  each  sepa- 
ate  act  of  the  great  drama  that  was  passing 
)efore  them  :  but  did  not  extend  to  the  con- 
'"liected  effect  of  the  whole,  in  which  alone 
'  !)0sterity  was  to  find  the  grandeur  and  inter- 
!'st  of  the  scene.     The  connection  indeed  of 
ihose   different  acts  is  very  often  not  then 
"jjliscemible.     The  series  often  stretches  on, 
'  f)eyond   the  reach  of  the   generation  which 
J'lvitnessed  its  beginning,  and  makes  it  impos- 
'  l.ible  for  them  to  integrate  what  had  not  yet 
''  ittained  its  completion;  while,  from  similar 
'  auses,  many  of  the  terms  that  at  first  ap- 
*  )eared  most  important  are  unavoidably  dis- 
'  parded,  to  bring  the  problem  within  a  manage- 
'*■  'ible  compass.     Time,  in  short,  nerforms  the 
ame  services  to  events,  which  distance  does 
0  visible  objects.     It  obscures  and  giudually 
mnihilates  the  small,  but  renders  those  that 
ire  very  great  much  more  distinct  and  con- 
ceivable.    If  we  would  know  the  true  form 
irid  bearings  of  an  Alpine  ridge,  we  must  not 
grovel  among  the  irregularities  of  its  surface. 
)ut  observe,  from  the  distance  of  leagues,  the 
tlirection  of  its  ranges  and  peaks,  and  the 
28 


;  giant  outline  which  it  traces  on  the  sky.     A 
traveller  who  wamlers  through  a  ruggi-d  and 

Cicturescjue  di.strict,  thoui;h  struck  witli  the 
t'auty  of  every  new  valley,  or  the  grandeur 
of  every  dill  tliat  lie  passes,  has  no  notion  al 
,  all  of  the  general  configuration  of  the  counliy, 
or  even  of  the  relative  situation  ot  the  objects 
he  has  been  admiring;  and  will  undei stand 
all  those  things,  and  his  own  route  among 
j  them,  a  thou.smd  times  b<'tter,  from  a  small 
[  map  on  a  scale  of  half  .ui  inch  to  a  mile, 
I  which  represents  neither  thickets  or  hamlet.';, 
tlian  from  the  most  painful  eflorts  to  combine 
the  indications  of  the  strongest  memory.  The 
case  is  the  same  with  those  who  live  through 
periods  of  great  historical  interest.  They  are 
too  near  the  scene — too  much  niterestcd  in 
each  successive  event — and  Um  much  agi- 
tated with  their  rapid  succession,  to  form  any 
just  estimate  of  the  character  or  result  of  the 
whole.  They  are  like  private  .loldiers  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  battle,  or  rather  of  a  busy 
and  comjilicated  campaign — hardly  knowing 
whether  they  have  lost  or  won,  and  having 
but  the  most  obscure  and  imperfect  concep- 
tion of  the  general  movements  in  which  their 
own  fate  has  been  involved.  The  foreigner 
who  reads  of  them  in  the  Gazette,  or  the 
peasant  who  sees  them  from  the  top  of  a  dis- 
tant hill  or  a  steeple,  has  m  fact  a  far  better 
idea  of  them. 

Of  the  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  names 
that  have  been  connected  in  contemporary 
fame  with  the  great  CA'entsof  the  last  twenty- 
five  years,  how  many  will  go  dowii  to  pos- 
terity? In  all  probahility  not  more  tnan 
twenty:  And  who  shall  yet  venture  to  say 
which  twenty  it  will  be  ?  But  it  is  the  same 
with  the  events  as  with  the  actors.  How 
often,  during  that  period,  have  we  mourned 
or  exulted,  with  exaggerated  emotions,  over  " 
occurrences  that  we  already  discover  to  have 
been  of  no  permanent  importance  ! — how  cer- 
tain is  it,  tnat  the  far  greater  proportion  of 
those  to  which  we  still  attach  an  interest,  will 
be  viewed  with  the  same  indifference  by  the 
very  next  generation  ! — and  how  probable, 
that  the  whole  train  and  tissue  of  the  history 
will  appear,  to  a  remoter  posterity,  under  a 
totally  different  character  and  colour  from  any 
that  the  most  penetrating  observer  of  the  pre- 
sent day  has  thought  of  ascribing  to  it !  Was 
there  any  contemporary,  do  we  think,  of  Ma- 
homet, o'f  Gregory  VII.,  of  Faust,  or  Coluni- 
bus,  who  formed  the  sime  estimate  of  their 
achievements  that  we  do  at  this  day  ?  Were 
the  great  and  wise  men  who  brought  about 
the  Reformation,  as  much  aware  of  its  im- 
jwrtance  as  the  whole  world  is  at  present?  or 
does  any  one  imagine,  that,  even  in  the  later 
and  more  domestic  events  of  the  e.«tablish- 
ment  of  the  English  Commonwealth  in  16-18, 
or  the  English  Revolution  in  lfiR«,  the  laiL-e 
and  energetic  spirits  by  whom  those  irreat 
events  were  conducted  were  fully  sensible  of 
their  true  character  and  bearings,  or  at  ail 
foresaw  the  mighty  con.sequences  of  which 
thev  have  since  been  prolific  ? 

But  though  it  may  thus  require  the  lapse 
of  ages  to  develope  the  true  character  of  a 


218 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


great  transaction,  and  though  its  history  may 
therefore  be  written  with  inost  advantage 
very  long  after  its  occurrence,  it  does  not  fol- 
low that  such  a  history  will  not  be  deficient 
in  many  qualities  which  it  would  be  desira- 
ble for  it  to  possess.  All  we  say  is,'  that  they 
are  qualities  which  will  generally  be  found 
incompatible  with  those  larger  and  sounder 
views,  which  can  hardly  be  matured  while 
the  subjects  of  them  are  recent.  That  this  is 
an  imperfection  in  our  histories  and  histori- 
ans, is  sufficiently  obvious;  but  it  is  au  im- 
perfection to  which  we  must  patiently  xesign 
ourselves,  if  it  appear  to  be  an  unavoidable 
conseciuence  of  the  limitation  of  our  faculties. 
We  cainiot  both  enjoy  the  sublime  effect  of  a 
vast  and  various  landscape,  and  at  the  same 
time  discern  the  form  of  every  leaf  in  the  for- 
est, or  the  movements  of  every  living  crea- 
ture that  breathes  within  its  expanse.  Beings 
of  a  higher  order  may  be  capable  of  this ; — 
and  it  would  be  very  desirable  to  be  so : 
But,  constituted  as  we  are,  it  is  impossible  ; 
and,  in  our  delineation  of  such  a  scene,  all 
that  is  minute  and  detached,  however  inter- 
esting or  important  to  those  who  are  at  hand, 
must  therefore  be  omitted — while  the  general 
effect  is  entrusted  to  masses  in  which  nothing 
but  the  great  outlines  of  gfreat  objects  are  pre- 
served, and  the  details  left  to  be  inferred  from 
the  character  of  their  results,  or  the  larger 
features  of  their  usual  accompaniments. 

It  is  needless  to  apply  this  to  the  case  of 
history;  in  which,  when  it  records  events  of 
permanent  interest,  it  is  equally  impossible  to 
retain  those  particular  details  which  engrossed 
the  attention  of  contemporaries — both  because 
the  memory  of  them  is  necessarily  lost  in  the 
course  of  that  period  which  must  elapse  be- 
fore the  just  value  of  the  whole  can  be 
known — and  because,  even  if  it  were  other- 
wise, no  human  memory  could  retain,  or 
human  judgment  discriminate,  the  infinite 
number  of  particulars  which  must  have  been 
presented  in  such  an  interval.  We  shall  only 
observe,  further,  that  though  that  which  is 
preserved  is  generally  the  most  material  and 
truly  important  part  of  the  story,  it  not  un- 
frequently  happens,  that  too  little  is  pre- 
served to  afford  materials  for  a  satisfactory 
narrative,  or  to  justify  any  general  conclu- 
sion ;  and  that,  in  such  cases,  the  historian 
often  yields  to  the  temptation  of  connecting 
the  scanty  materials  that  have  reached  him 
by  a  sort  of  general  and  theoretical  reasoning, 
which  naturally  takes  its  colour  from  the  pre- 
vailing views  and  opinions  of  the  individual 
writer,  or  of  the  age  to  which  he  belongs.  If 
an  author  of  consummate  judgment,  and  with 
a  thorouii:h  knowledge;  of  the  unchangeable 
principles  of  human  nature,  undertake  this 
task,  it  is  wonderful  indeed  to  see  how  much 
he  may  make  of  a  subject  that  appears  so  un- 
promising— and  it  is  almost  certain  that  the 
view  he  will  give  to  his  readers,  of  such  an 
obscure  period,  will,  at  all  events,  be  at  least 
as  instructive  and  interesting  as  if  he  had  had 
its  entire  annals  before  him.  In  other  hands, 
however,  the  result  is  very  different ;  and,  in- 
stead of  a  masterly  picture  of  rude  or  remote 


ages,  true  at  least  to  the  general  features  < 
such  periods,  we  have  nothing  but  a  tra' 
script  of  the  author's  own  most  recent  fant 
sies  and  follies,  ill  disguised  under  tl 
masquerade  character  of  a  few  tradition', 
names. — It  is  only  necessary  to  call  to  mil 
such  books  as  Zouche's  Life  of  Sir  Phil 
Sydney,  or  Godwin's  Life  of  Chaucer,  to  fe 
this  much  more  strongly  than  we  can  no 
express  it.  These,  no  doubt,  are  extren 
cases; — but  we  suspect  that  our  impressioi, 
of  almost  all  remote  chaiacteis  and  even?, 
and  the  general  notions  we  have  of  the  timcj 
or  societies  which  produced  them,  are  mat; 
more  dependent  on  the  peculiar  temper  ai! 
habits  of  the  popular  writers  in  whom  t;, 
memory  of  them  is  chiefly  preserved,  than. 
is  very  pleasant  to  think  of.  If  we  ever  taJi 
the  trouble  of  looking  for  ourselves  into  t' 
documents  and  materials  out  of  which  the 
histories  are  made,  we  feel  at  once  how  mu 
room  there  is  for  a  very  different  represen 
tion  of  all  those  things  from  that  which 
current  in  the  world  :  And  accordingly  ^ 
occasionally  have  very  opposite  represen 
tions.  Compare  Bossuet's  Universal  Histc 
with  Voltaire's— Rollin  with  INlitford— Hui 
or  Clarendon  with  Ralph  or  Mrs.  MAulii 
and  it  will  be  ditficult  to  believe  that  tht 
different  writers  are  speaking  of  the  sai 
persons  and  things.  ; 

The  work  before  us,  we  have  already  IW'I 
is  singularly  free  from  faults  of  this  descr 
tion.     It  is  written,  we  do  think,  in  the  ti 
spirit   and  temper  of  historical  impartial] 
But  it  has  faults  of  a  different  character;  a 
with  many  of  the  merits,  combines  some 
the  appropriate  defects,  both  of  a  contem 
rary  and  philosophical  history.     Its  details 
too  few  and  too  succinct  for  the  former — tl 
are  too  numerous  and  too  rashly  selected 
the  latter ; — while  the  reasonings  and  spe  ■ 
lations  in  which  perhaps  its  chief  value  c  ■ 
sists,   seem  already  to  be  too  often  thro  f 
away  upon  matters  that  cannot  long  be  11 
in  remembrance.     We  must  take  care  not ) 
get  entangled  too  far  among  the  anecdote.- 
but  the  general  reasoning  cannot  detainj 
very  long.  ' 

It  is  the  scope  of  the  book  to  show  t't 
France  must  have  a  free  governmental 
limited  monarchy — in  express  A^ords,  a  cl- 
stitution  like  that  of  England.  This,  Mada'5 
de  Stael  says,  was  all  that  the  liody  of  '3 
nation  aimed  at  in  1789 — and  this  she  s* 
the  great  majority  of  the  nation  are  resoli 
to  have  still — undeterred  by  the  fatal  miw  • 
riage  of  the  last  experiment,  and  undisgufli 
by  the  revival  of  ancient  pretensions  vYjx 
has  signalised  its  close.  Still,  though  j'B 
maintains  this  to  be  the  prevailing  sentirc^l 
of  the  French  people,  she  thinks  it  not  a  > 
gether  unnecessary  to  combat  this  disci 
agement  and  this  disgust; — and  the  g  ' 
object  of  all  that  is  argumentative  in  ; 
book,  is  to  show  that  there  is  nothing  in  6 
character  or  condition,  or  late  or  early  his;  V 
of  her  countrymen,  to  render  this  reguUiu 
freedom  unattainable  by  them,  or  to  ^ 
qualify  tkem  from  the  enjoyment  of  a  re;)* 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


:i9 


sentative  goverament,  or  the  functions  of  free 
citizens. 

For  this  puijwse  she  takes  a  rapid  and  mas- 
,terly  view  of  the  progress  of  the  ditl'erent 
European  kingdoms,  from  their  primitive  con- 
dition of  feudal  aristocracies,  to  their  present 
state  of  monarchies  Hmited  by  law,  or  niiti- 
igated  by  the  force  of  public  opinion  ;  and  en- 
deavours to  show,  that  the  course  has  been 
:ihe  same  in  all ;  antl  that  its  unavoidable  ter- 
mination is  in  a  balanced  constitution  like  that 
»f  England.  The  tirst  change  was  the  reduc- 
tion of  the  Nobles, — chietly  by  the  aid  which 
;the  Commons,  then  first  pretending  to  wealth 
lor  iutelligence,  atibrded  to  the  Crown — and, 
'on  this  basis,  some  small  states,  in  Italy  and 
iGermany  especially,  erected  a  permanent 
isystem  of  freedom.  But  the  necessities  of 
Iwar.  and  the  substitution  of  hired  forces  for 
(the  feudal  militia,  led  much  more  generally 
Ito  the  establisliiiient  of  an  arbitrary  or  des- 
ipotical  authority;  which  was  accomplished  in 
1  France.  Si>aiu.  and  England,  under  Louis  XI., 
Philip  il..  and  Henry  VIII.  Then  came  the 
iage  of  commerce,  luxury,  and  taxes. — which 
(necessarily  ripened  into  the  age  of  general 
liatelligence.  individual  wealth,  and  a  sense 
iboth  of  right  and  of  power  in  the  people : — 
iaiid  those  led  irresistibly  to  a  lunitation  on 
ithe  powers  of  the  Crown,  by  a  representative 
assembly. 

j  England  having  less  occasion  for  a  land 
jarmy — and  having  been  the  first  in  the  career 
(of  commercial  prosperity,  led  the  way  in  this 
jgreat  amelioration.  But  the  same  general 
jprinciples  have  been  operating  in  all  the  Cou- 
Itinental  kingdoms,  and  must  ultimately  pro- 
iJuce  the  same  eiTects.  The  peculiar  advan- 
Uages  which  she  enjoyed  did  not  prevent 
jEngland  from  being  enslaved  by  the  tyranny 
|of  Henry  VIII..  and  Mary; — and  she  also  ex- 
iperienced  the  hazards,  and  paid  the  penalties 
iwliich  are  perhaps  inseparable  from  the  as- 
isertion  of  popular  rights. — She  also  overthrew 
i|he  monarchy,  and  sacrificed  the  monarch  in 
iner  first  attempt  to  set  limits  to  his  power. 
)The  English  Commonwealth  of  1648.  origi- 
[iiated  in  as  wild  speculations  as  the  French 
;of  1792 — and  ended,  like  it,  in  the  establish- 
Iment  of  a  militar)-  tyranny,  and  a  restoration 
jwhich  seemed  to  confound  all  the  asserters 
jof  liberty  in  the  general  guilt  of  rebellion  : — 
jYet  all  the  world  is  now  agreed  that  this  was 
jbut  the  tirst  explosion  of  a  llame  that  could 
neither  be  extinguished  nor  penmanently  re- 
pres.sed ;  and  that  what  took  place  in  1688. 
was  but  the  sequel  and  necessary  consumma- 
tion of  what  had  been  begnn  forty  years  be- 
fore— and  which  might  and  woukl  have  been 
(accomplished  without  even  the  slightest  shock 
|and  distuibance  that  was  then  ex])erienced, 
[if  the  Court  had  profited  as  much  as  the 
[leaders  of  the  jx-ople  by  the  lessons  of  that  tirst 
|e.\perieiice.  Such  toJ,  Madame  de  Stael  a.-.- 
j.sures  us.  is  the  unalterable  destiny  of  France  : 
I — and  it  is  the  great  purpose  of  her  book  to 
jshow,  that  but  for  circumstances  which  cannot 
recur — mistakes  that  cannot  be  repeated,  and 
[accidents  which  never  happened  twice,  even 
jthe  last  attempt  would  have  led  to  that  blcsaed 


consummation — and  that  every  ihiny  is  now 
in  the  fairest  train  to  secure  it,  without  any 
gieat  eliort  or  ha/anl  of  ilislurbance. 

That  these  views  are  supported  with  iiilinile 
talent,  spirit,  and  eKH|ueni'e,  no  one  \n1io  h.i!* 
I  read  the  book  will  probably  ilispute  ;  and  wu 
should  be  sorry  indeed  to  think  that  they  were 
not  substantially  just.     Vet  we  are  not,  wu 
j  confess,  (juite  so  sanjjuine  as  tiieiliftlingni.shed 
]  writer  before  us;  ami  though  we  ilo  not  iloubt 
I  either  that  her  ])rinciples  are  true,  or  that  her 
:  i^redictions  will  be  uUimalcltj  accomplished,  we 
\  fear  that  the  period  of  iheir  triumph  is  not  yet 
i  at  hand  ;  and  that  it  is  far  more  doubtlid  than 
;  she  will  allow  it  to  be.  whether  that  triumph 
I  will  be  easy,  peaceful,  ami  sicure.     The  ex- 
ample of  England  is  her  great,  indeed  her  only 
authority  ;  but  we  are  atraid  that  she  has  nm 
the  parallel  with  more  boldnc  ss  than  circum- 
spection, and  overlooked  a  variety  of  {larticulars 
ill  our  case,  to  which  she  coiikl  not  ea.sily  fijid 
any  thing  equivalent  in  that  of  her  country.    It 
might  be  invidious  to  dwell  much  on  the  oppo- 
site character  and  temper  of  the  two  nations; 
though  it  is  no  answer  to  siiy,  that  thischaracter 
is  the  work  of  the  government.    But  can  Ma- 
dame de  Stacl  have  forgotten,  that  Englaiul  had 
a  parliament  and  a  representative  legislature 
for  live  hundred  years  before  1648  ;  and  that  it 
was  by  that  organ,  and  the  widely  spread  and 
deeply  founded  rnai-hinery  of  the  eleetionson 
which  it  rested,  that  the  struggle  was  made,  and 
the  victory  won.  which  ultnnaiely  secured /otfs 
the  blessings  of  political  freedom  !    The  least 
reflection  upon  the  nature  of  government,  and 
the  true  foundations  of  all  liberty,  will  show 
what  an  immense  advantage  this  was  in  the 
contest ;  and  with  what  formidable  obstacles 
those  must  have  to  struggle,  who  are  obliged 
to  engage  in  a  similar  conflict  without  it. 

All  political  power,  even  the  most  despotic, 
rests  at  last,  as  was  profoundly  observed  by 
Hume,  upon  Opinion.     A  govenmient  is  Just, 
or  otherwise,  according  as  it  jiromoles,  more 
or  less,  the  true  interests  of  the  peoj)le  who 
live  under  it.     But  it  is  Stable  and  secure,  ex- 
actly as  it  is  directed  by  the  opinion  of  those 
who  really  possess,  and  know  that  they  pos- 
sess, the  power  of  enforcing  it,  and  \}\Min  \\  hose 
opinion,  therefore,   it   constantly  depends; — 
that  is,  in  a  military  despotism,  on  the  opinion 
I  of  the  soldiery: — in   all   rude   and   ignorant 
communities,  on  the   opinion  of   those  m  ho 
I  monopolise  the  intelligence,  the  wealth,  or  the 
i  dis<-ipline  which  constitute  power — the  priest- 
hood— the  landed  proprietot.* — the  armed  and 
i  inured  to  war : — and.  in  civil  sed  societies,  on 
the  opinion  of  that  larger  proportion  of  the 
j  peojjle    who    can    briiiir    their    joint    taleiile, 
I  wealth,  and  streiiirlh,  to  act   in  concert  when 
'  occasion  re(]uires.    A  government  may  indeed 
I  subsist  for  a  time,  although  op|K>scd   to  the 
I  opinion  of  those  classes  of  peisons;  but  its 
existence  mu.st  alwavs  be  precarious,  ami  il 
;  probably  will  not  subsi.st  long.     The  natural 
'■  and  appropriate  Constttutimi.  therefore,  is.  in 
every  case,  that  which  enables  those  who  ac- 
tually administer  the  government,  to  ascertain 
and  confoim  themselves  in  time  to  the  opinion 
of  those  who  have  the  ^wwer  to  overturn  it ; 


m 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


and  no  government  whatever  can  possibly  be 
secure  where  there  are  no  arrangements  for 
this  purpose.  Thus  it  is  plainly  for  want  of  a 
proper  Despotic  ComtiUilion — for  want  of  a 
regular  and  safe  way  of  aettinfr  at  the  opinions 
of  their  armies,  that  the  Sultans  and  other 
Asiatic  sovereigns  are  so  frequently  beheaded 
by  their  janissaries  or  insurgent  soldiery :  and, 
in  like  manner,  it  was  for  want  of  a  proper 
Feudal  Constitution,  that,  in  the  decline  of  that 
system,  the  King  was  so  often  dethroned  by 
his  rebellious  barons,  or  excommunicated  by 
an  usui-ping  priesthood.  In  more  advanced 
times,  there  is  the  same  necessity  of  conform- 
ing to  the  prevailins  opinion  of  those  more 
extended  and  diversified  descriptions  of  per- 
sons in  whom  the  power  of  enforcing  and  re- 
sisting has  come  to  reside  ;  and  the  natural 
and  only  safe  constitution  for  such  societies, 
must  therefore  embrace  a  representative  as- 
sembly. A  government  may  no  doubt  go  on, 
in  opposition  to  the  opinion  of  this  virtual  aris- 
tocracy, for  a  long  time  after  it  has  come  into 
existence.  For  it  is  not  enough  that  there  is 
wealth,  and  intelligence,  and  individual  influ- 
ence enough  in  a  community  to  overbear  all 
pretensions  opposed  to  them.  It  is  necessary 
that  the  possessors  of  this  virtual  power  should 
be  aware  of  their  own  numbers,  and  of  the 
conformity  of  their  sentiments  or  views  :  and 
it  is  very  late  in  the  progress  of  society  before 
the  means  of  communication  are  so  multiplied 
and  improved,  as  to  render  this  practicable  in 
any  tolerable  degree.  Trade  and  the  press, 
however,  have  now  greatly  facilitated  those 
communications;  and  in  all  the  central  coun- 
tries of  Europe,  they  probably  exist  in  a  de- 
gree quite  sufficient  to  give  one  of  the  parties, 
at  least,  very  decided  impressions  both  as  to 
its  interests  and  its  powers. 

In  such  a  situation  of  things,  we  cannot 
hesitate  to  say  that  a  representative  govern- 
ment is  the  natural,  and  will  be  the  ultimate 
remedy ;  but  if  we  find,  that  even  where  such 
an  institution  existed  from  antiquity,  it  was 
possible  so  fatally  to  miscalculate  and  mis- 
judge the  opinions  of  the  nation,  as  proved  to 
be  the  case  in  the  reign  of  our  Kinir  Charles. 
is  it  not  manifest  that  there  must  be  tenfold 
risk  of  such  miscalculation  in  a  country  where 
no  such  constitution  has  been  previously 
known,  and  where,  from  a  thousand  causes, 
the  true  state  of  the  public  mind  is  so  apt  to  be 
oppositely  misconceived  by  the  opposite  par- 
ties, as  it  is  up  to  the  present  hour  in  France  ? 

The  great  and  cardinal  use  of  a  representa- 
tive body  in  the  leirislature  is  to  afford  a  di- 
rect, safe,  and  leaitimate  channel,  by  which 
the  public  opinion  may  be  brought  to  act  on 
the  government :  But.  to  enable  it  to  perform 
this  function  with  success,  it  is  by  no  means 
enough,  that  a  certain  number  of  deputies  are 
sent  into  the  legislature  by  a  certain  number 
of  electors.  Without  a  good  deal  of  previous 
training;  the  public  opinion  itself  can  neither 
be  formed.^  collected,  nor  expressed  in  any  au- 
thentic or  effectual  manner ;  and  the  first 
establishment  of  the  representative  system 
must  be  expected  to  occasion  very  nearly  as 
much  disturbance  as  it  may  ultimately  pre- 


vent.    In  countries  where  there  never  haire; 
been   any  political  elections,  and  feXV  loeai; 
magistracies,  or  occasions  of  provincial  and 
parochial  assemblages  for  public  purposes,  tht 
real  state  of  opinion  must  be  substantial!}' 
unknown  even  to  the  most  observant  lesiden', 
in  each  particular  district ; — and  its  genera 
bearing  all  over  the  country  can  never  possi' 
bly  be  learned  by  the  most  diligent  inquiriesi 
or  even  guessed  at  with  any  reasonable  de' 
gree  of  probability.    The  first  deputies,  there 
lore,   are   necessarily  returned,  without  anr 
firm  or  assured  knowledge  of  the  .sentimenti 
of    their   constituents — and   they  again    C9.tt 
have  nothing  but  the  most  vague  notions  oli 
the  temper  in  which  these  sentiments  are  t. 
be  enforced — while  the  whole  deputies  con»: 
together  without  any  notion  of  the  disposi 
tions,  or  talents,  or  designs  of  each  other,  an/ 
are  left  to  scramble  for  distinction  and  inflti« 
ence,  according  to  the  measure  of  their  indii 
vidual    zeal,    knowledge,    or  assurance.      I.| 
England,  there  were  no  such  novelties  to  b! 
hazarded,  either  in   1640  or  in  1688.      Th 
people  of  this  country  have  had  an  electivi 
parliament  from  the  earliest  period  of  thesl 
history — and,  long  before  either  of  the  period^ 
in  question,  had  been  trained  in  every  hamlti 
to  the  exercises  of  various  political  franchisei! 
and  taught  to  consider  themselves  asconneci 
ed.  by  known  and  honourable  ties,  with  8' 
the  persons  of  influence  and  consideration  i' 
their  neighbourhood,  and.  through  them,  b' 
an  easy  gradation  with  the  political  leade): 
of  the  State  ; — while,  in  Parliament  itself,  ttt 
place  and  pretensions  of  every  man  weii 
pretty  accurately  known,  and  the  strength  C; 
each   party  reasonably   well  ascertained  I; 
long  and  repeated  experiments,  made  undtl 
all  variety  of  circumstances.     The  organiz!' 
tion  and  machinery,  in  short,  for  collectir': 
the  public  opinion,  and  bringing  it  into  coi; 
tact  with  the  administration,  was  perfect,  ai' 
in  daily  operation  among  us,  from  very  a 
cient  times.     The  various  conduits  and  cha 
nels  by  which  it  was  to  be  conveyed  from  i 
first  faint  springs  in  the  villages  and  burgh 
and  conducted  in  gradually  increasing  strean-' 
to  the  central  wheels  of  the  government,  wef 
all   deep   worn   in    the   soil,    and    familiar 
known,  with  all  their  levels  and  connectior; 
to  every  one  Avho  could  be  affected  by  th(i 
condition.     In  France,  when  the  new  sluic 
were  opened,  not  only  were  the  waters  ui' 
versally  foul  and  turbid,  but  the  quantity  ai' 
the  currents  were  all  irregular  and  unknovr'; 
and  some  stagnated  or  trickled  feebly  alor| 
while  others  rushed  and  roared  with  the  v: 
lence  and  the  mischief  of  a  torrent.     But  it 
time  to  leave  these  perplexing  generaliti< 
and  come  a  little  closer  to  the  work  before  i 
If  was  the  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  accordi 
to  Madame  de  Stael,  who  completed  the  d]  \ 
gradation  of  the  French  nobility,  begun   ' 
Louis  XL  ; — and  the  arrogance  and  Spani 
gravity  of  Louis  XIV.,  assumed,  as  .-^he  sa^i 
''pour  eloigner  de  lui  la  familiarite  dcs  juj 
mens."'  fixed   them  in  the  capacity  of  coi 
tiers;  and  put  an  end  to  that  gay  and  ea' 
tone  of  communication,  which,  in  the  days 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


221 


Henri  IV.,  had  maiie  the  task  of  a  courtier 
both  less  wearisome  and  less  deijradiiig.  She 
has  no  partiality,  indeed,  lor  the  memory  of 
that  buckram  hero — and  is  very  uuligiiant  at 
his  being  regarded  as  the  patron  of  literature. 
"  II  persecuta  Port-Uoyal,  dont  Pascal  etoit  le 
chef;  il  fit  mourirde  chagrin  Racine  ;  il  «.\ila 
iFenelon:  il  s"opposa  constamraent  aiix  hon- 
neurs  qu'on  vouloit  rendre  a  La  Fontaine,  et 
;ne  professa  de  Fadmiration  (|ue  pour  Boileau. 
La  litterature.  en  I'exaltant  avee  exees,  a  bien 
plus  fait  pour  lui  qu'il  n 'a  fait  \M3\\r  ellc."' — 
(Vol.  i.  p.  36.)  In  his  own  person,  indeed,  he 
loutlived  his  popularity,  if  not  his  fame.  The 
I  brilliancy  of  his  early  successes  was  lost  in 
his  later  reverses.  The  ctebts  he  ha<l  con- 
itracted  lav  like  a  load  on  the  nation  ;  and  the 
:rigour  and  gloominess  of  his  devotion  was  one 
cau.<!e  of  the  alacrity  with  which  the  nation 
•plunged  into  all  the  excesses  and  proHig-acy  of 
the  regency  and  the  suceeding  reign. 

That  reiirn — the  weakness  of  Louis  XV. — 
the  avowed  and  di.^gusting  influence  of  his 
i    mistresses  and  all  their  relations,  and  the  na- 
:    tional  disasters  which  they  occasioned — lo- 
:   'gether  with  the  general  spread  of  intelligence 
among  the  body  of  the  people,  and  the  bold 
:    and  vigorous  spirit  displayed  in  the  writings 
.   ,of  Montesquieu,  Voltaire,  and  Rousseau,  cre- 
ated a  general  feeling  of  discontent  and  con- 
tempt for  the  government,  and  prepared  the 
way  for  those  more  intrepid  reformei.s  who 
were  so  soon  destined  to  succeed 
:   !     Louis  XVI. ,  says  Madame  de  Stael,  would 
iliave  been  the  mildest  and  most  equitable  of 
r   fdespots.  and  the  most  constitutional  of  consti- 
:    .tutional  kings — had  he  been  born  to  admiuis- 
I    iter  either   an    established    despoti.sm,   or   a 
:   jcoastitutional   monarchy.      But    he  was    not 
]titted  to  fill  the  throne  during  the  difficult  and 
<   itrying  crisis  of  a  transition  from  the  one  state 
,    ito  the  other.     He  was  sincerely  anxious  for 
!the  happiness  and  even  the  rights  of  his  peo- 
iple;  but  he  had  a  hankering  after  the  absolute 
ipower  which  seemed  to  be  his  lawful  inherit- 
■    :ance  ;  and  was  too  easily  persuaded  by  those 
iabout  him  to  cling  to  it  too  long,  for  his  own 
•safety,  or  that  of  the  country.     The  Queen, 
.with  the  same  amiable  dispositions,  had  still 
more  of  those  natural  prejudices.    M.  de  Maii- 
,repa.s,  a  minister  of  the  old  school,  was  com- 
pelled,   by   the    growing    di.sorders    of    the 
ifinances.  to  call  to  his  aid  the  talents  of  Tnr- 
got  and  Necker  about  the  year  1780.     We 
hear  enough,  of  course,  in  this  book,  of  the 
latter:  But  though  we  can  pardon  tlie  filial 
piety  which  has  led  the  author  to  discuss,  at 
,    so  great  length,   the   merit  of  his  plans  of 
finance  and  government,  and  to  flwell  on  the 
nrophfitic  spirit  in  which  he  foresaw  and  fore- 
told all  the  consequences  that  have  (lowed 
ifrom  rejecting  them,  we  have  too  much  re- 
gard for  our  readers  to  oppress  them,  at  this 
time  of  day,  with  an  analysis  of  the  Q)mptP 
[Rendu,  or  the  scheme  for  provincial  assem- 
iblies.     As  an  historical  personage,  be  riio.st 
jtxave  his  due  share  of  notic  ;  and  no  faini' 
J    t_;an  be  purer  than  that  to  which  he  is  entitled. 
,    His  daughter,  we  think,  lias  truly  descnl^ed 
I   [hs  scope  of  his  endeavours,  ;n  his  first  minis- 


try, to  have  lu>en,  ••  to  persuade  the  King  to 
do  of  hims«'lf  that  ju.sticc  to  the  pcopli-,  to 
obtain  which  they  afterwards  insisted  for  rep- 
resentiitivoa."  Such  a  counsellor,  of  course, 
had  no  chance  in  1780;  and,  tJie  year  after, 
IVI.  Necker  was  accordmgly  dismissed.  The 
great  objection  to  him  was,  that  he  pioinKsnl 
innovations — "  et  de  tonics  les  innovations, 
cflle  que  les  courti.s;ii)s  et  les  tuiancicrs  dc- 
te-stent  le  plus,  c"est  I'Kco.no.mik."  Before 
iioing  out,  however,  he  did  a  great  deal  of 
ifood  ;  and  found  n\ean.s.  while  M.  de  Mau- 
rejiiis  had  a  bad  fit  of  gout,  to  get  M.  de  Sar- 
tine  removed  from  the  ministry  of  marine — a 
personage  so  extremely  diliirent  in  the  studies 
belonging  to  his  dcparlment.  that  when  M. 
Necker  went  to  see  him  soon  after  his  appoint- 
ment, he  found  him  in  a  chamber  all  hung 
rounil  with  maps;  and  boasting  with  much 
complacency,  that  "he  could  already  put  his 
haiul  upon  the  largest  of  them,  and  ]x)int,  with 
his  eyes  shut,  to  the  four  quarters  of  the 
world  !" 

Calonne  succeeded — a  frivolous,  presump- 
tuous person, — and  a  financier,  in  so  far  as  we 
can  jutUre,  after  the  fashion  of  our  poet-lau- 
reate :  For  he  too,  it  .seems,  wa.s  used  to  call 
prodigality  '"  a  large  economy  ;"'  aiul  to  assure 
the  King,  that  the  more  lavish  he  and  his 
court  were  in  their  expenses,  so  much  the 
better  would  it  fare  with  the  country.  The 
consequence  was,  that  the  di.'sorder  .soon  be- 
came irremediable  :  and  this  spri^jhtly  minis- 
ter was  forced  at  last  to  ailopt  Tingot's  pro- 
posal of  subjecting  th^  privileged  orders  to 
their  share  of  the  burdens — and  finally  to  ad 
vi.se  the  convocation  of  the  Notables,  in  1787. 

The  Notables,  how  ever,  being  all  privileged 
persons,  refusecl  to  give  up  any  of  their  im 
munities — and  they  and  M.  de  Calonne  were 
dismissed  accordingly.  Then  came  iht;  w  aver- 
ing  and  undecided  admini.stration  of  I\l.  de 
Brienne,  which  ended  with  the  resolution  to 
assemble  the  States-General ; — and  this  was 
the  Revolution  ! 

Hitherto,  says  Madame  de  Stael,  the  nation 
at  large,  and  especially  the  low  er  orders,  had 
taken  no  share  in  tho.se  discu.s.sions.  Th» 
resistance  to  the  Court — the  complaint.s — the 
call  for  reformation,  originated  and  was  con- 
tined  to  the  privileged  ordt>rs — to  the  Parlia- 
ments— the  Nobles  and  the  Clergy.  No  rev- 
olution indeed  can  succeed  in  a  civilised 
country,  which  does  not  begin  at  least  with 
the  higher  orders.  It  was  in  the  parliament 
of  Pajis.  in  which  the  i)eers  of  France  had 
seat,s,  and  which  had  always  been  most  tena- 
cious of  the  privileges  of  its  members  that 
the  suggestion  was  first  made  which  set  fire 
to  the  four  quarters  of  the  kingdom.  In  that 
kiiiL'dom.  indeed,  it  could  hardly  fail,  as  it 
was  made  in  the  form  of  a  ])un  or  ban  mot 
They  were  clamouriii',;  again.st  the  nmiister 
for  not  exhibiting  his  account  of  th<>  public 
exiK'nses,  wlien  the  Abbe  Salwdirr  '•aid — 
••  Vous  demandez.  messieurs.  Irs  rials  ill  rfcrltr 
et  di'  d(;pens<' — et  ce  .^^ont  les  Kto>s-Ge,  fraui 
i|u'il  nou*;  faut  !"— This  wnsetincrly  lejealed 
in  every  order  of  society:  addicf^si  r.  to  that 
effect  were  poured  in,  in  daily  heaps:  snd  at 
1  2 


222 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


last  M.  <le  Briemie  was  obliged  to  promise,  in 
the  King'R  name,  that  the  States-General 
should  assemble  at  the  end  of  five  years. 
This  delay  only  inflamed  the  general  impa- 
tience :  and  the  clergy  having  solemnly  de- 
claimed against  it.  the  King  was  at  last  obliged 
to  announce  that'  they  should  meet  early  in 
the  following  year.  M.  Necker  at  the  same 
time  was  recalled  to  the  ministry. 

The  States-General  were  demanded  by  the 
privileged  orders ;  and,  if  they  really  expect- 
ed to  tind  them  as  they  were  in  1614,  which 
was  their  last  meeting,  (though  it  is  not  very 
conceivable  that  they  should  have  overlooked 
the  difference  of  the  times,)  we  can  under- 
stand that  they  might  have  urged  this  demand 
without  any  design  of  being  very  liberal  to 
the  other  orders  of  the  community.  This  is 
the  edifying  abstract  which  Madame  de  Stael 
has  given  of  the  proceedings  of  that  venerable 
assembly. 

'•  Z/€  Clerge  demands  qu'il  lui  fut  permis  de  lever 
des  dimes  svir  loute  espece  de  fruits  et  de  grains,  et 
qu'oii  dcfendit  de  lui  faire  payer  des  droits  a  Fen- 
tree  des  villes,  ou  de  lui  iinposer  sa  part  des  contri- 
butions pour  ies  chemiiis  ;  ii  reclama  de  nouvelles 
eniraves  a  la  liberie  de  la  presse.  La  Noblesse  de- 
nianda  que  Ics  principaux  emplois  fusseiu  tous 
donnes  c.xclusivement  aux  gentilshommes,  qu'on 
inlerdit  aux  rotiiriersles  arquebuses.  Ies  pistolets,  et 
I'usage  des  chiens,  a  moins  qu'ils  n'eussent  Ies 
jarrets  coupes.  EUe  demanda  de  plus  que  Ies  ro- 
turiers  payassent  de  nouveau.x  droits  seigneuriaux 
aux  gentilshommes  possesseurs  de  fiefs  ;  que  Ton 
supprimat  toutes  Ies  pensions  accordees  aux  mem- 
bres  du  tiers  etat ;  mais  que  Ies  gentilshommes 
fussent  exempts  de  la  contrainie  par  corps,  et  de 
tout  subside  sur  Ies  denrees  de  leurs  terres;  qu'ils 
pussent  prendre  du  sel  dans  Ies  greniers  du  roi  au 
meme  prix  que  ies  marchands ;  enfin  que  le  tiers 
etat  flit  oblige  de  porter  un  habit  different  de  celui 
des  gentilshommes." — Vol.  i.  p.  162. 

The  States-General,  however,  were  decreed  : 
— and,  that  the  whole  blame  of  innovation 
might  still  lie  upon  the  higher  orders,  M.  de 
Brienne,  in  the  name  of  the  King,  invited  all 
and  sundry  to  make  public  iheir  notions  upon 
the  manner  in  which  that  great  body  should 
be  arranged.  By  the  old  form,  the  Nobles,  the 
Clergv",  and  the  Commons,  each  deliberated 
apart — and  each  had  but  one  voice  in  the  enact- 
ment of  laws; — so  that  the  privileged  orders 
were  always  two  to  one  against  the  other — 
and  the  course  of  legislation  had  always  been 
to  extend  the  privileges  of  the  one,  and  in- 
crease the  burdens  of  the  other.  Accordingly, 
the  tiers  etat  had  long  been  defined.  "  la  gent 
corveable  ct  taillable,  a  merci  et  a  misericordc  :'' 
— and  Madame  de  Stael.  in  one  of  those  pas- 
sage? ihat  already  begin  to  be  valuable  to  the 
forgetful  world,  bears  this  striking  testimony 
as  lo  the  effect  on  their  actual  condition. 

"  Les  jeiines  gens  et  Ies  etrangers  qui  n'ont  pas 
connu  la  France  avant  la  revolution,  et  qui  voient 
aujourd'hui  le  pcuple  ciirichi  par  la  division  des 
proprictes  et  la  suppression  des  dimes  et  du  regime 
feodai,  ne  peuvent  avoir  I'idi'e  de  la  situation  de  cc 
pays,  lorsque  la  nation  porioii  le  poids  de  tous  les 
privileges.  Les  partisans  de  i'esclavage.  dans  les 
colonies,  ont  souvent  dit  qu'un  paysan  de  France 
eioit  plus  maiht'ureux  nu'ini  negre.  C'rtoit  un 
argument  pour  soulagcr  les  blancs,  mais  non  pour 
s'endurcir    contra    les  noirs.     La  misere   accroit 


r ignorance,  I'ignorance  accroTt  la  misere  ;  et, 
quand  on  se  demande  pourquoi  le  peuple  fran9<iisa 
ete  si  cruel  dans  la  revolution,  on  ne  peut  en  trouver 
la  cause  que  dans  Tabsence  de  bonheur,  qui  conduit 
a  ['absence  de  moralite." — Vol.  i.  p.  79. 

But  what  made  the  injustice  of  this  strange 
system  of  laying  the  heaviest  pecuniary  bnr- 
dens  on  the  poorest  a  thousand  times  more 
oppressive,  and  ten  thousand  times  more  pro- 
voking, was,  that  the  invidious  right  of  ex- 
emption came  at  last  to  be  claimed,  not  by 
the  true  ancient  noblesse  of  Fi-ance.  which, 
Madame  de  Stael  says,  did  not  extend  to  two 
himdred  families,  but  by  hundredsof  thousands 
of  persons  of  all  descriptions,  who  had  bought 
patents  of  nobility  for  the  very  purpose  of  ob- 
tai.ning  this  exemption.  There  was  iiothiisg 
in  the  structure  of  French  society  that  was 
more  revolting,  or  called  more  loudly  for  re- 
formation, than  the  multitude  and  the  pre- 
tensions of  this  anomalous  race.  They  were 
most  jealously  distuiguished  from  the  true 
original  Noblexse ;  which  guarded  its  purity 
indeed  with  such  extreme  rigour,  that  no  per- 
son was  allowed  to  enter  any  of  the  royal 
carriages  whose  patent  of  nobility  was  not 
certified  by  the  Court  heralds  to  bear  date 
prior  to  the  year  1400 ;  and  yet  they  not  only 
assumed  the  name  and  title  of  nobles,  but 
were  admitted,  as  against  the  people,  into  a 
full  participation  of  all  their  most  ofiVnsive 
privileges.  It  is  with  justice,  therefore,  that 
Madame  de  Stael  reckons  as  one  great  cause 
of  the  Revolution, — 

"  Cette  foule  de  gentilshommes  du  second  ordre, 
anoblis  de  la  veille,  soit  par  les  lettres  de  noblesse 
que  les  rois  donnoient  comme  faisant  suite  a  I'Rf- 
franchissement  des  Gaulois,  soit  par  K-s  charges 
venales  de  secretaire  du  roi.  etc.,  qui  associrieni  de 
nouveaux  individus  aux  droits  et  aux  privileges  des 
anciens  gentilshommes.  La  nation  se  seroit  souniise 
volontiers  a  la  preeminence  des  families  bistoriques; 
et  je  n'exagere  pas  en  affirmant  qu'il  n"y  eii  a  pas 
plus  de  deu.x  cents  en  France.  i\Iais  les  cent  mille 
nobles  et  les  cent  mille  pretres  qui  vouloient  avoir 
des  privileges,  a  I'egal  de  ceux  de  MM.  de  Mont- 
morenci,  de  Grammont,  de  Crillon,  etc.,  revol- 
toicnt  generalement ;  cardesncgocians.  des  honimes 
de  lettres.  des  proprietaires,  des  capitali.«ies,  nt 
pouvoieni  comprendre  la  superioriie  qu'on  voiiloi 
acoorder  a  cette  noble.'se  acquise  a  prix  de  reve- 
rences ou  d'argent,  et  ii  laquelle  vingt-cinq  ans  d( 
date  suffisoient  pour  siegre  dans  la  chanihre  de; 
nobles,  et  pour  jotiir  des  privileges  dont  les  plu; 
honorable?  membres  du  tiers  etat  se  voyoicnt  prives 

"La  chambre  des  pairs  en  Angleierre  est  urn 
magistrature  pairicienne,  fondee  sans  doute  sur  le 
anciens  souvenirs  de  la  chevalerie,  mais  toiit-a-lai 
associee  a  des  institutions  d'une  nature  tres-diffe 
rente.  Un  merite  distingue  dans  le  commerce,  c 
surtout  dans  la  jurisprudence,  en  ouvre  journelle 
ment  I'entree ;  ct  les  droits  representatifs  que  le 
pairs  cxercent  dans  I'etat,  aitestent  ii  la  natioii  qu 
c'est  pour  le  bien  public  que  leurs  rangs  soiit  insti 
lui's.  Mais  quel  avantage  les  Francois  pouvoieni 
ils  trouver  dans  ccs  vicomtes  de  la  Garonne,  c 
dans  ces  marquis  de  la  Loire,  qui  ne  payoient  pa 
seuletnent  leur  part  des  impots  de  reiat,  et  que  I 
roi  lui-menie  ne  recevoit  pas  ii  sa  cour;  pui.^qu' 
falloit  faire  des  preuves  de  plus  de  quatre  sieck 
pour  y  ctre  admis,  et  qu'ils  etoient  .t  peine  anobl 
depuis  cinquanle  ans  ?  La  vaniie  des  gens  de  eel' 
classe  ne  pouvoit  s'cxercer  que  sur  leurs  inferieur 
et  ces  inferieurs.  c'etoicnt  vinet-quatre  millior 
d'hommes."— Vol.  i.  p.  166—168. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  there  was  no  la- 


DE  STAEL'S  FREXCH  UEVOl.rTIOX. 


•  usage  fixinp-  the  number  of  the  deputies  who 
.ight  be  returned;  and  though,  by  the  uSage 
['  1614;  and  some  former  assemblies,  tlie 
jiree  orders  were  allowed  each  but  one  voice 
I  the  legislature,  there  were  earlier  examplcH 
■  the  whole  meeting  and  voting  as  individu- 
5  in  the  same  assembly.  M.  de  Brienne.  as 
e  have  seen,  took  the  sapient  course  of  call- 
g  all  the  pamphleteers  of  the  kingdom  into 
luncil  upon  this  emergency.     It  was  fixed 

la.st,  though  not  without  difficulty,  that  the 
?puties  of  the  people  should  be  equal  in 
imber  to  those  of  the  other  two  classes  to- 
'?ther;  and  it  is  a  trait  worth  mentioning, 
|at  the  only  committee  of  Nobles  who  voted 
T  this  concession,  was  that  over  which  the 
resent  King  of  France  (in  1818)  presided. 
'  it  meant  any  thing,  however,  this  conces- 
Dii  implied  that  the  whole  body  was  to  de- 
"lerate  ui  common,  and  to  vole  individually; 
.'id  yet,  incredible  as  it  now  appears,  the  fact 
ithat  the  King  and  his  ministers  .allowed  the 
fputies  to  be  elected,  and  actually  to  assem- 
<7  without  having  settled  that  great  question, 
('•even  made  any  approach  to  its  settlement ! 

♦  all  the  particular  blunders  that  ensured  or 
;telerated  what  was  probably  inevitable, 
tjis  has  always  aj^peared  to  us  to  be  one  of 
l|3  most  inconceivable.  The  point,  how- 
fer,  though  not  taken  up  by  any  authority, 
is  plentifully  discussed  among  the  talkers 
<!  Paris;  and  Madame  de  Stael  assures  us. 
tkt  the  side  of  the  tiers  etat  was  at  that  time 
t;  most  fashionable  in  good  company,  as 
aI'H  as  the  most  popular  with  the  bulk  of  the 
riion.  '-Tous  ceux  et  toutes  cellesqui,  dans 
1  haute  compagiiie  de  France,  influoient  sur 
Ipinion,  parloient  vivement  en  faveur  de  la 
cuse  de  la  nation.  La  mode  etoit  dans  ce 
pp.  C'etoit  le  resultat  de  tout  le  di.x-huit- 
ijie  siecle:  et  les  vieux  prejuges.  qui  com- 
Ixtoient  encore  pour  les  anciennes  institu- 
tns,  avoient  beaucoup  moins  de  force  alors, 
mis  n'en  ont  eu  a  aucune  epoque  pendant 
]tj  vingt-cinq  annees  suivantes.  Enfin  I'a- 
sjiidant  de  I'esprit  public  etoit  tel,  qu'U 
etraina  le  parlement  lui-meme." — (Vol.  i. 
pj  172;  173.)  The  clamour  that  was  made 
a.inst  them  was  not  at  that  time  by  the  ad- 
vatps  of  the  royal  prerogative,  but  by  in- 
t'  .>ted  individuals  of  the  privileged  classes. 
li  the  contrary.  Madame  de  Stael  asserts 
pitively,  that  the  popular  party  was  then 

:  dposed,  as  of  old.  to  unite  with  the  sovereign 

;  ajinst  the  pretensions  of  those  bodies,  and 

I  tltt  the  sovereign  was  understood  to  partici- 

',  pf  in  their  sentiments.     The  statement  cer- 

t;  ly  seems  to  derive  no  slight  confirmation 

t  II  the  memorable  words  which  were  ut- 

lt;d  at  the  time,  in  a  public  address  by  the 

'  rfjjning  King  of  France,  then  the  first  of  the 

■  Ppces  of  the  blood. — "Unegrande  revolution 

'"'•^  pret.  dit  Monsieur   (aujourd'hui  Louis 

'^!li.)a  la  municii)alite  de  Paris,  en   1789; 

'<■  oi,  par  ses  intentions,  ses  vertus.  et  son 

;  raf^'  supreme,  devoit  en  etre  le  chef!''     We 

'  p«t'ectly  agree  with  Madame  de  Stael — •■'que 

Jirje  la  sagesse  de  la  circonstance  etoit  dans 

'c01Kiroles."' 

[othing.  says  Madame  de  Slael,  can  be 


imagined  more  striking  than  the  first  eight  of 
the  twelve  humlred  deputies  of  France.  ai» 
they  passeil  in  solemn  procession  to  heai 
mass  at  Notre  Dame,  the  day  before  the 
meetmg  of  the  States-General. 

"  Ln  Noblesse  sc  Irouvnnt  drchue  cle  sn  splcn- 
deur.  par  I'esprii  de  couriisaii,  pur  I'lilliage  des 
nnolilis,  et  par  iiiie  longiio  piiix  ;  le  Clerm''  i»e  po8- 
spJaiH  plus  rnsc-endnni  des  iumierus  tiii'ii  nvoil  eu 
dans  les  trnips  liarbares  ;  rimportance  des  dq)uu's 
dii  Tiers  etm  en  eioii  augmeniee.  Leurs  linbiiB  et 
leiirs  inanieaiix  noirs,  leiirs  regards  assures,  leur 
nombre  iinposant.  attiroieiit  raUeniion  sur  eux : 
Des  bommes  de  Icures,  dcs  n6gociaiis,  un  grand 
nonil)re  d'avocats  oompo-soieni  ce  troisirnie  ordre- 
Quelques  nobler  s'eioient  fait  nommer  deputes  du 
tiers,  el  parmi  ce.''  nobles  on  reinnrquoit  sunout  le 
Coniie  de  Mirahran:  l"opinion  qu'on  avoit  de  son 
esprit  etoit  siiisruliCrenient  augmentee  par  la  pour 
que  faisoit  son  inunoraliie ;  et  cependant  c'est  cetle 
immoraliie  ineiiie  qui  a  diininue  I'iutluence  que  see 
eionnantes  laculies  devoieni  lui  valoir.  11  etoit 
diffieile  de  ne  pas  le  rcgarder  long-temps,  uuand  on 
i'avoit  une  lois  aperqu :  Son  inuiien^^e  ciicvelure 
le  distinguoii  entre  tous:  on  cut  dit  que  sa  torce  en 
dependiiii  comme  celle  de  .Samson;  son  visage 
empruiiioit  de  Tcxpression  de  sa  laide^ur  mrme  ;  et 
toute  sa  personne  donnoit  Tidce  d'uue  puissance 
irreguliere,  mais  enfin  d'une  puissance  telle  qu'on 
se  la  representeroit  dans  un  tribun  de  peuple. 

"Aucun  nom  propre,  excepte  le  sien,  n'l'toit 
encore  cclebre  dans  les  six  cents  deputes  du  tiers  ; 
mais  il  y  avoit  beaucoup  d'hommes  honorables,  ti 
beaucoup  d'hommes  a  craindre." — Vol.  i.  pp.  \bh, 
186. 

The  first  day  of  their  meeting,  the  deputies 
of  course  insisted  that  the  whole  three  orders 
should  sit  and  vote  together;  and  the  majority 
of  the  nobles  and  clergy  of  course  resisttxl : — 
And  this  went  on  for  nearly  two  months,  in 
the  face  of  the  mob  of  Paris  and  the  people 
of  France — before  the  King  and  his  Council 
could  make  up  their  own  minds  on  the  mat- 
ter! The  inner  cabinet,  in  which  the  Queen 
and  the  Princes  had  the  chief  sway,  had  noW 
taken  the  alarm,  and  was  for  resisting  the 
])relensions  of  tl^ie  Third  Estate;  while  M, 
Necker,  and  the  ostensible  ministers,  were  lor 
compromising  with  them,  while  their  power 
was  not  yet  provetl  by  experience,  nor  their 
pretensions  raised  by  victory.  The  Ultras  re- 
lied on  the  army,  and  were  for  dismissing  the 

I  Legislature  as  soon  as  they  had  gianled  a  ffw 
taxes.  M.  Necker  plaiidy  tokl  the  King,  that 
he  did  not  think  that  the  army  could  be  relieil 
on ;  and  that  he  ought  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  reign  hereafter  under  a  constitution  like 
that  of  England.  There  were  fierce  disputes, 
and  endless  consultations;  and  at  length, 
within    three   weeks   after   the   States  were 

i  opened,  and  before  the  Commons  had  g-aitied 
any  decided  advantage,  M.  Necker  obtained 

'  the  full  as.sent  both  of  the  King  and  Queen  to 
a  declaration,  in  which  it  was  to  be  announced 

;  to  the  States,  that  they  should  sit  and  vote  as 
one  body  in  all  questions  of  taxation,  and  in 
tiro  chambers  only  in  all  other  (juestions. 
This  arraiifrement.  Madame  de  Slael  as.-;ures 

:  us.  would  have  .satisfied  tlie  Commons  at  the 
time,  and  invested  the  throne  with  the  great 
strciiirfh  of  popularity.     Hut,  after  a  fnll  and 

i  deliberate  consent   had  been   ir'ven   by  1  (i;}i 

!  their  Majesties,  the   party  about  the  Quei  n 


22< 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


found  means  to  put  off  from  day  to  day  the 
publication  of  the  important  instrument ;  and 
a  whole  month  was  unpardonably  wasted  in 
idle  discussions:  during  which,  nearly  one 
half  of  the  nobles  and  clergy  had  joined  the 
deputies  of  the  Commons,  and  taken  the  name 
of  the  National  Assembly.  Their  popularity 
and  confidence  had  been  dangerously  in- 
creased, in  the  mean  time,  by  their  orators 
and  pamphleteers;  and  the  Court  had  become 
the  object  of  suspicion  and  discontent,  both  by 
the  rumour  of  the  approach  of  its  armies  to 
the  capital,  and  by  what  Madame  de  Stael 
calls  the  accidental  e.xclusion  of  the  deputies 
from  their  ordinary  place  of  meeting — which 
gav(?  occasion  to  the  celebrated  and  theatrical 
oath  of  the  Tennis-court.  After  all,  Madame 
de  Stael  says,  much  might  have  been  reg'jiined 
or  saved,  by  issuing  M.  Necker's  declaration. 
But  the  very  night  before  it  was  to  be  deliv- 
ered, the  council  was  adjourned,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  billet  from  the  Queen  : — two  new 
councillors  and  two  princes  of  the  blood  were 
called  to  take  part  in  the  deliberations ;  and 
it  was  suddenly  determined,  that  the  King- 
should  announce  it  as  his  pleasure,  that  the 
Three  Estates  should  meet  and  vote  in  their 
three  separate  chambers,  as  they  had  done 
in  1614! 

M.  Necker,  full  of  fear  and  sorrow,  refused 
to  go  to  the  meeting  at  which  the  King  was 
to  make  this  important  communication.  It 
was  made,  however — and  received  with  mur- 
murs of  deep  displeasure;  and,  when  the 
Chancellor  ordered  the  deputies  to  withdraw 
to  their  separate  chamber,  they  answered, 
that  they  were  the  National  Assembly,  and 
would  stay  where  they  were !  The  whole 
visible  population  seconded  this  resolution, 
with  indications  of  a  terrible  and  irresistible 
violence :  Perseverance,  it  was  immediately 
seen,  would  have  led  to  the  most  dreadful 
cons;'(iuences;  and  the  same  night  the  Queen 
entreated  M.  Necker  to  take  the  management 
of  the  State  upori  himself,  and  solemnly  en- 
gaged to  follow  no  councils  but  his.  The 
minister  complied;  —  and  immediately  the 
obnoxious  order  was  recalled,  and  a  royal 
mandate  was  issued  to  the  Nobles  and  the 
Clergy,  to  join  the  deliberations  of  the  Tiers 
etat. 

If  these  reconciling  measures  had  been  sin- 
cerely followed  out,  the  country  and  the  mon- 
archy might  yet  perhaps  have  been  saved. 
But  the  party  of  the  Ultras — "  qui  parloit  avec 
beaucoup  de  dedain  de  I'autorite  du  roi  d"An- 
gleterre,  et  vouloit  faire  considerercomme  un 
attentat,  la  penseede  reduire  un  roi  de  France 
au  miserable  sort  du  monarque  Britannique" 
— this  misguided  party — had  still  too  much 
weiirht  in  the  royal  councils;  and,  while  they 
took  advantage  of  the  calm  produced  by  M. 
Necker's  measures  and  {xjpularity,  did  not 
cease  secretly  to  hasten  the  maich  of  M.  de 
Broglie  with  his  German  regiments  upon  Paris 
— w:th  the  design,  scarcely  dissembled,  of 
employing  them  to  overawe,  and,  if  neces- 
sary, to  disperse  the  a.ssembly.  Considering 
from  vhom  hsr  information  is  derived,  we 
cau  scarcely  refuse  our  implicit  belief  to  the 


following    important    statement,   which  haj 
never  yet  been  made  on  equal  authority, 

"  M.  Necker  n'ignoroit  pas  le  veriiable  obj) 
pour  Icquel  on  faisoit  avancer  les  troupes,  bie 
qu'on  vouhit  le  lui  cacher.  L'inteniioii  de  la  coi 
eioit  de  reunir  a  Conipiegne  tons  les  membres  d» 
irois  ordrcs  qui  n'avoient  point  favoiise  le  systeir 
des  innovations,  et  la  de  leur  faire  consentir  ii  la  ha 
les  itnpots  et  les  emprunts  dont  elle  avoit  besoii' 
afin  de  leu  renvoyer  ei;suite  !  Comme  un  tel  proj' 
ne  pouvoit  eire  seconde  par  M.  Necker,  on  se  pre 
posoit  de  le  renvoyer  des  que  la  force  militaire  sere 
rasaeniblee.  Cinquanie  avis  par  jour  I'informoie 
de  sa  situation,  et  il  ne  lui  eioit  pas  possible  d'en  doi 
ter ;  mais  il  savoit  aussi  que,  dans  les  ciiconstanci 
oil  Ton  se  trouvoit  alors,  il  ne  pouvoit  quitter  ij 
place  sans  confinner  les  bruits  qui  se  repaiidoiei- 
sur  les  mesures  violentcs  que  I'ou  pr»'paroit  a 
cour.  Le  roi  s'etant  rcsolu  a  ccs  mesures,  ? 
Necker  ne  vouliit  pas  y  prendre  part,  niais  il  : 
vouloit  pas  non  plus  doimer  le  signal  de  s'y  oppose 
et  il  restoit  la  comme  une  sentinelle  qu'on  laissi 
encore  a  son  poste,  pour  Iromper  les  attaquans  s 
la  mancRuvre." — ^'ol.  i.  pp.  231 — 233. 

He  continued,  accordingly,  to  go  every  dij 
to  the  palace,  where  he  was  received  wi' 
cold  civility  ;  and  at  last,   when  the   troo. 
were  all  assembled,  he  received  an  order  j 
the  middle  of  the  night,  commanding  himi; 
stantly  to  quit  France,  and  to  let  no  one  knq 
of  his  departure.   This  was  on  the  night  of  t' 
11th  of  July; — <and  as  soon  as  his  dismis; 
was  known,  all  Paris  rose  in  insurrection- 
army  of  100,000  men  was  arrayed  in  a  nii; 
— and,  on  the  14th,  the  Bastile  was  deni 
ished.  and  the  King  brought  as  a  prisoner 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  to  express  his  approbati 
of  all  that  had  been  done  !     INI.  Necker,  w 
had  got  as  far  as  Bnissels,  was  instantly 
called.    Upwards  of  two  millions  of  men  to 
up  arms  throughout  the  country — and  it  v 
manifest  that  a  great  revolution  w  as  alrea 
consummated !  ' 

There  is  next  a  ser  (  s  of  lively  ai  d  xn. 
terly  sketches  of  the  different  parties  in  h 
Constituent  Assembly, and  their  various  leii 
ers.  Of  these,  the  most  remarkable,  by  1| 
was  Mirabeau;  who  aj'pcared  in  opposite 
to  Necker,  like  the  evil  spirit  of  the  Re 
lution  contending  with  its  better  anj 
Madame  de  Stael  says  of  him,  that  he  v 
"Tribun  par  calcul,  et  Aristocrat  par  goiV 
There  never,  perhaps,  was  an  instance  of 
much  talent  being  accompanied  and  neut 
ized  by  so  much  prolligacy.  Of  all  ■ 
daring  spirits  that  appeared  on  that  troub' 
scene,  no  one,  during  his  life,  ever  dared" 
encounter  him  ;  and  yet,  such  was  his  wi 
of  principle,  that  no  one  party,  and  no  ■! 
individual,  trusted  him  with  their  secni. 
His  fearlessness.  promi)titude.  and  enei , 
overbore  all  competition;  and  his  nmbili 
seemed  to  be.  to  show  how  the  making  or  ' 
marring  of  all  things  depended  upon  hisg  I 
,  pleasure.  Madame  de  Stael  conlivins  wit 
I  has  often  been  said  of  his  occasional  d- 
I  culty  in  extempore  speaking,  and  of  his  • 
1  bitually  employing  his  friends  to  write  s 
I  speeches  and  letteis;  but.  alter  his  de;i, 
I  she  says  none  of  them  could  ever  prode 
for  themselves  any  thing  equal  to  what  t  V 
I  used  to  catch  from  ht»  iDspiratiun.     In  - 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENXH  REVOLUTION. 


225 


i-ate,  lie  was  artful  when  worsted,  and  nier- 
iless  when  successful.  What  he  said  of 
ibbe  Maury,  was  true  of  all  his  opponents — 
iQuand  il  a  raison,  nous  disputous  ;  quand  ii 
j  tort,  yc  I'ecrase !'' 

I  Opposed  to  this,  and  finely  contrasted  with 
I,  is  the  character  of  M.  de  la  Fayette — the 
iurest,  the  most  temperate,  and  therefore  the 
dost  inflexible  friend  of  rational  liberty  in 
[ranee.  Considering  the  times  in  which  he 
^is  lived,  and  the  treatment  he  has  met 
iith,  it  is  a  proud  thini^  for  a  nation  to  be 
ole  to  name  one  of  its  public  chanicters,  to 
>hom  this  high  testimony  can  be  borne, 
ithout  risk  of  contradiction.  "Depuis  le 
^part  de  M.  de  la  Fayette  pour  I'Amerique, 
y  a  quarante  ans,  on  ne  peut  citer  ni  une 
■tion,  ni  une  parole  de  lui  qui  n'ait  ete  dans 
I  meme  ligne,  sans  qu'aucnn  interet  per- 
Hinel  se  soit  jamais  mele  a  sa  condnite." 
he  Abbe  Siej-es  seems  to  us  a  little  like  our 
^ntham.  At  all  events,  this  little  sketch  of 
ira  is  worth  preserving. 

'"II  avoit  mcne  jnsqu'a  quarante  ans  line  vie 
fliiaire,  reflechissant  .sur  les  question.s  poliiiques, 
iporiani  une  grande  forre  d'abstraction  dans  cette 
jide  ;  niais  il  eioit  pen  fait  pour  commnniqueravec 
Ji  autres  hommes.  tant  il  s'irritoit  aisement  de  leurs 
|,vers,  et  tant  11  les  blessoit  par  les  siens.  Touie- 
is.  comme  il  avoit  un  esprit  superieuret  de^s  fa^onv 
I  s'exprimer  laconiques  et  iranrhantes,  c'etoit  la 
i')de  dans  rasseniblee  de  lui  montrer  un  respect 
I'sque  superstitieu.x.  Mirabeau  ne  dematidoit  pas 
iieu.x  que  d'accorder  an  silence  de  I'. Abbe  Sieves 
l;pas  sur  sa  propre  eloquence;  car  ce  genre  de 
rialiie  n'esi  pasredoiitable.  On  croyoit  a  Sieves. 
!;cef  homme  niysterieu.x,  des  secrets  sur  les  con- 
fiuiions,  dont  on  espernit  toujours  des  cfTets  elon- 
ips  quand  il  les  reveleroii.  Quelqiies  jeuncs 
l\\s,  et  meme  des  espriis  d'une  srrande  force,  pro- 
f)soient  la  plus  hau^e  admiration  pour  lui ;  et  Ton 
flccordoii  a  le  louer  au.v  depens  de  tout  autre, 
j:;ce  qu'il  ne  se  faisoit  jamais  juger  en  entier,  dans 
ai'iine  circnnstance.  Ce  qu'on  savoit  avec  cerli- 
t'e.  c'est  qu'il  detestoit  les  distinctions  nobiliaires  ; 
ej-ependant  il  avoit  conserve  de  son  etat  de  prcire 
ijaitachement  an  clerge,  qui  se  manifesta  le  pins 
rirement  du  monde  lors  de  la  sttppre.ssion  des 
diies.  Ih  x^evleiit  Hre  librex,  el  ne  savent  pax  eire 
hfs!  disoit-il  a  ccne  occasion  ;  et  lonies  les 
iilieg  de  Tasseniblee  etoienf  renferinees  dans  ces 
pjoles."— Vol.  i.  pp.  30.5.  30(5. 

iPhe  most  remarkable  party,  pei  haps,  in  the 
.AUembly  was  that  of  the  Aristocrats,  con- 
f  ing  chiefly  of  the  Nobles  and  Clergy,  and 
aiut  thirty  of  the  Commons.  In  the  situa- 
tii  in  which  they  were  placed,  one  would 
he  expected  a  good  deal  of  anxiety,  bit- 
toes.«,  or  enthusiasm,  from  them.  But. 
irFrance,  things  affect  people  difreiently. 
1^  hing  can  be  more  characteristic  than  the 
f(p\ving  powerful  sketch  •' Ce  parti.  (]ui 
a' it  protestc  cotitre  foutes  les  resolutions  de 
I'fiemblce.  n'y  assistoit  cpie  par  prndence. 
Tft  ce  (|U'on  y  faisoit  lui  paroi.ssoit  insolent. 
ms  tres-pen  acrietLV !  tant  il  frouvoit  ridicule 
c«|e  decouverte  du  dix-huitieme  siecle.  une 
ihon! — tandis  qu'on  n'avoit  eu  justju'alors 
*1'  des  nobles,  des  pretres,  et  du  peuple  I" — 
(^1.  i.  p.  298.)  They  had  their  count(!rpart, 
h</ever.  on  the  opposite  side.  The  specu- 
late, refining,  and  philanthropic  reformers, 
we  precisely  a  mat<-h  for  them.  There  is 
29 


;  infinite  talent,  truth,  and  pathos,  in  the  fol- 
I  lowing  hasty  observations. 

"  lis  fjiigiurcnt  de  ra.stcndaiil  dans  I'as8cml)lrr, 
j  en  se  nuKitiam  des  modcn's,  comme  si  la  niodera- 
I  tion  eioit  de  la  foiblcsse,  ci  qu'eux  -seulH  fu.".>'<ni  d*  s 
carociercs  forts.  On  les  voyoit.  dans  les  pallou  ei 
I  sur  les  bancs  des  deputes,  tourner  en  ridicule  qui- 
conque  s'avisoii  de  leur  repre'«'nier  qu'nvaiii  eux 
les  iiommes  avoieni  existe  en  sociciu ;  i)uc  l«  h 
ccrivains  uvoicnl  pense,  et  que  rAngleiurre  i  loi: 
en  possession  de  quel(|ue  liberie.  ()n  eiii  dit  qu'on 
leur  rcpeioit  les  contes  de  leur  nourrioe,  tnni  ils 
ecoutoient  nvcc  impatience,  tant  ils  pronon^oicnt 
ayec  dedain  de  ceriaines  piirases  bien  exagerees  et 
bien  decisives,  sur  I'lmpossibilile  d'admettre  un 
scnat  hcr6diiaire,  un  senni  meme  a  vie,  un  veto  ali- 
solu,  une  condition  de  propru'ic,  enlin  tout  ce  om. 
disoient-ils,  aitentoii  A  la  souverainete  du  peuple  ! 
Ils  portoirnt  la  faliiite  des  rours  dans  In  cause  dema- 
cratiqne;  et  plusieurs  deputes  du  tiers  etoient,  tout 
ii  la  Ibis,  eblouis  par  leurs  belles  manieres  de  jjen- 
tilsliommes,  et  captives  par  leurs  doctrines  demo- 
craiiques. 

"  Ces  chefs  clegans  du  parti  populairc  vouloient 
cntrer  dan.s  le  minislere.  lis  souhaiioient  de  con- 
duire  les  afl'aires  jusqu'au  point  oii  Ton  auroit  besoin 
d'enx  ;  mais,  dans  cette  rapide  descenie,  le  char  ne 
s'arreta  point  a  leurs  relaia  ;  ils  n'eioient  point  con- 
spiratturs,  mais  ils  se  confioient  iropen  leur  pouvoir 
sur  I'assemblee,  et  se  flattoient  de  rcliver  de  trone 
d(^s  qu'ils  I'anroient  fait  arriver  jusqu'.i  leur  portec. 
Mais,  quand  ils  voulurent  de  bonne  foi  rcparer  le 
mal  deja  fait,  il  n'etoit  plus  temps.  On  ne  sauroit 
compter  combien  de  desastrea  auroient  pu  etre 
cpargnes  a  la  France,  si  ce  pani  de  jeuncs  gene  se 
tut  reuiii  avec  les  modercs :  car,  avanl  les  evene- 
niens  du  6  Octobre,  lorsque  le  roi  n'avoit  point  ete 
cnlcvp  de  Versailles,  et  que  I'armee  Tran^oise, 
repandue  dans  les  provinces,  conservoit  encore 
quelqne  respect  pour  le  trone,  les  circonstancee 
etoient  lelles  qu'on  pouvoit  etablir  une  monarcbie 
raisonnable  en  P'rance." — Vol.  i.  pp.  303 — llO.'i. 

It  is  a  curious  proof  of  the  vivaciousness  of 
vulgiir  prejudices,  that  Madame  de  Stael 
should  have  thought  it  necessary,  in  1816.  to 
refute,  in  a  separate  chapter,  the  popular 
opinion  that  the  disorders  in  France  in  1790 
and  1791  were  fomented  by  the  hired  amenta 
of  Ensrland. 

There  is  a  long  and  very  interesting  ac- 
count of  the  outrages  and  horrors  of  the  5th 
of  October  1789,  and  of  the  tumultuous  con- 
veyance of  the  captive  monarch  from  Ver- 
sailles to  Paris,  by  a  murderous  and  infuriated 
mob.  Madame  de  StacI  was  her.seif  a  8pe<'- 
tatress  of  the  whole  scene  in  the  interior  of 
the  palace  :  and  though  there  is  not  much  that 
is  new  in  her  account,  we  cannot  resist  mak- 
ing one  little  extract.  After  the  mob  had 
filled  the  courts  of  the  palace, — 

"  T,a  rrine  parut  alors  dans  le  salon  ;  ses  cheveux 
cioieiit  en  de.sordre,  sa  figure  etoi!  pale,  maisdigne, 
et  tout,  dans  sa  personne,  frappoit  ['imagination :  le 
peuple  demanda  qu'elle  parut  sur  le  balcon  ;  et, 
coninie  louie  la  cnur,  appelee  la  cour  de  marbre, 
I'loit  remplie  d'hommes  qui  tenoient  en  main  dee 
.irmes  a  feu.  on  put  ancrcevoir  dans  la  physionomie 
de  la  reine  ce  qn'elle  redoutoit.  Neanmoins  elU 
s'nvanfn.  sans  hlsiter.  avec  scs  deux  enfnns  qui  Itii 
scrvoicnl  de  sanvegarde. 

"  La  multitude  parut  attendrie.  en  voyant  la  rome 
comme  nirre,  et  les  fureurs  politiques  s'apaiscrcnt 
ii  cct  aspect ;  ceux  qui,  la  niiit  meme,  avoimt,  pcui- 
Cne  voulu  I'assassincr,  portcrent  son  nom  jusqu'au.x 
nues. 

"  La  reine,  en  eortani  du  balcon,  a'approcha  de 
ma  mere,  et  lui  dit,  avec  des  sanglots  ^loufli-.f  :  lit 
font  rwus  forcer,  le  roi  ft  moi,  a  nvut  rendre  a  Pant 


226 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS 


-avec  les  teles  de  no.  gardes  du  ",'T-^  P^^'^ff^.f^; 
..„,,  nous  or.  houi  <^«  '-- f/.^nf  et Te 'roitr. 

^nr^^^^^  co,l^.ras,e,emre  la 
,?;,;  fde  h  na  a  e  et  les  soufirances  nnposees  par 
feTho,le:  "^  se  renouvelle-t-U  pas  dans  le  cours 
''^'''ou?l'  «pecmcle  en  effei  que  cet  ancien  palais  des 

nv^  de  la  tamiUe  royale,  tres-peu  d  "PPartemens 
6,0  n.  Imbitables.  e.  la  reine  avoU  ^'e  obligee  de 
hire  Jre^ser  des  lits  de  ramp  pour  ses  enfans,  dans 
a  chamh^rmeme  oO  elle  recevoi, ;  el  e  ,u,us  en  fi 

;"eUr;f  in^i-reron'r;  ;eut  I'ouElie^-  cuand  on  I'a 
vtie— Vol.  i.  pp.  347-349 


nlus  fiers  de  leur  propre  merite  que  des  privilegei. 
de  leur  c°rps;  et  les  plus  hautes  quesuons  c^uf 
ford'e  so.ial  ait  jamais  tail  nai.re  e-o'en  trauee, 
par  les  espriis  les  plus  capablcs  de  les  entendre  e 

'^'.'Te'^qm  nuit  aux  agremens  de  la  socie.e  en  An-, 
gleterre^e  scut  les  occupations  et  les  '"jeretsd  u, 
I  at  depuis  long-temps  representatit.  Ce  qui  reu 
doi  au  contrairl  la  soc.ete  fran^oise  un  pea  st^er 
fie  elle,  c'e.oient  les  loisirs  de  la  moiiarehie.  Mai 
?out  i  coup  la  force  de  la  liberie  vmt  se  meler  : 
r^le^ance  de  I'ansiocratie ;  dans  aucun  pays  n 
dais^ucun  .emps..l'ar,  de  P-'f  Jf/^.j^  "  " 
formes  n'a  ete  aussi  rcmarquable  que  dans  les  pre, 
miercs  annees  de  la  revolution. 


It  has  always  struck  us  as  a  ^'l^^^^'J^l^t. 
in  all  the  writers  who  have  ^^P^ken  of  those 
Scenes  of  decisive  violence  in  tlie  early  historj 
of  the  French  Revolution  such  as  the  14th  of 
July  and  this  of  the  6th  of  October,  that  they 
do  iot  so  much  as  attempt  to  f  plaja  by  what 
insti^ration  they  were  brought  ^bout-or  by 
whom  the  plan  of  operations  was  formed,  and 
Iherneans  for  carrying  it  -to  execution  pro- 
vided      That  there  was  concert  aiid  piepaia 
ion  in  the  business,  is  f^t^^^/f  ^^^^  ^P^^"^ 
from  the  ma-nitude  and  suddenness  of  the 
a™?mblacre.  and  the  skill  and  systematic  per- 
:  vem^ice  with  which  they  set  about  accom- 
plishing their  purposes.  \  et  we  know  as  1  tie 
a   this  hour,  of  the  plotters  and  authors  of  the 
mischief,  a^  we   do  of  the   Porteous  mob. 
Same  de  Stael  contents  herself  with  sa>.n| 
that  these  dreadful  scenes  signalized     1  ave 
rer^ient  des  Jacobins;"  but  seems  to  excul- 
pate dl  the  known  leaders  of  that  party  trona 
Liy  actual  concern  in  the  transaction  •,-and 
yet  it  was  that  transaction  that  subverted  the 

"Thefcame  the  abolition  of  titles  of  no 
bility-the  institution  of  a  constitutional  cle^- 
jry-iand  the  federation  of  14lh  Juh  17J0. 
In  spite  of  the  storms  and  showers  oi  boo 
'vhi?h  we  have  already  noticed  the  political 
horzon.it  seems,  still  looked  bright  in  the 
eves  of  France.  The  following;  picture  is 
fi^vely-a.Kl  is  among  the  traits  -h.ch  history 
does  not  usually  preserve-and  which,  ^vhat 
she  does  preserve,  certainly  would  not  enable 
future  ages  to  conjecture. 

"  T.es  etrangcrs  ne  sauroient  '^^'l]'.^''J;t' vJIT71 
et  r6clat  tarn  vame  de  la  soc.ete  de  I  anss  Us 
n'ont  vu  la  France  que  dcpuis  vingt  ans  :  Ma]s  on 
Sen  dire  avec  verite,  que  jamais  ceite  soc.cie  n  a 
Iffaussi  brillante  et  aus.i  ser.euse  tout  ensemble 
que  pendant  les  trois  on  quatre  premiere.^^  annees  de 
?a  r6volution.  a  compter  de  1788  jusqu  a  la  fin  de 
1791  Comme  les  affaires  politiqucsetoient  encore 
entre  les  mains dc  la  premiere  classe,  toute  la  v.gueur 
de  la  ibe^e  et  toule  la  cracc  de  la  pol.tesse  ancenne 
ee  re uni.soient  dans  les  memes  personnel.  Les 
hon  mrs  du  ners  eta.,  dis-ingues  par  leurs  luniieres 
et  ieurs  lalens,  se  joignoieni  a  ces  geutilshonnme. 


liercs  annees  de  la  revomuu...  . 

"L'asscmblce  cons.ituante,  comme  je  I  ai  del, 
dit,  ne  suspendit  pas  un  -"'  J°";  ^^f.^J^^.t 
nresse  Ains  ceux  qui  souflroient  de  se  irouvc; 
^onltammJnt  en  mino'nte  dans  ra-emblee  avoier, 
au  moins  la  satisfaction  de  se  n.oquer  de  lou  i 
par"  contraire.  Leurs  journaux  faisoient  de  spm 
ue  s  calembours  snr  les  c.rconstances  les  plus  ,11 
So  antes;  c'eioit  I'histoire  du  monde^changee  e 
c  mnierage  !  Tel  est  partout  le  caraciere  de  1  an> 
ontie  d'es  eours.  ^'est  la  dermere  fo.s  hel« 
one  I'esprit  francoise  se  sou  montre  dans  tout  w 
^  a/;  c^est  la  Lrmere  lois,  et  ^  c^ielques  egar. 
au«'<i  la  premiere,  que  la  societe  de  Fans  ail  , 
donner  I'ldee  de  cette  communication  des  espn 
Srieurs  entre  eux,  la  plus  noble  jouissance  do 
'^la tu re  humaine  soil  capable.,  C'.ux  qt.umt  ve, 
d-ms  ce  temps  ne  sauroient  s'empecher  d  avou 
qu'on  n'aTamais  vu  m  tant  de  vie  n.  tant  d  esp 
nulle  par,  ;  I'on  peut  juger,  par  la  -  «  d  ,om 
de  talens  que  les  circonstances  developp.iK.nt  a  "i 
ce  m  e  scr^,ient  les  Fran5ois  s'ils  e.o.eni  appole^ 
se  ml'ur  des  affaires  publiques  dans  la  r.-ti.  -ra, 
par  une  constitution  sage  et  smcere.  — V  ol.  1.  1 
383—386. 


Very  soon  after  the  federation,  the  King  f 
tered  into  secret  communications  witfi  Mn 
beau,  and  expected  by  his  means,  and  the 
of  M.  Bouille  and  his  army,  to  emauci^. 
himself  from  the  bondage  111  which  lie  v 
held      The  plan  was,  to  retire  to  Compiegi 
and  there,  by  the  help  of  the  army,  to  F" 
the  Assembly,  and  restore  the  roval  author 
Madame  de  Stael  says,  thai  ^"^^beau  ns..! 
for  a  constitution  like  that  ^\}^'f^'±} 
as  an  armed  force  was  avowedly  the  o.gai 
xvhich  he  was  to  act,  one  may  be  peiniit 
to  doubt,  whether  he  could  s.r.ou.l)  exp 
this  to  be  granted.     In  the  mt  an  time,  j 
policy  of  the  King  was  to  apptar  to  agree 
every   thine;    and,  as   this  appeared  to  . 
Necker,  who  was  not  in  the  secret   to  be 
uniustiliable  abandonment  ot  h.mselt  and  > 
comtry,  he  tendered  his  '•e^'^^'""-'^"';  •;;:^];; 
allowe-<l  to  letire-and  then  follou  ed  the  de 
of  Mirabeau.  and  shgrtiy  after  tlie  light  .1 
apprehension,  of    the  King-the  revision  < 
tL  constitution-and  the  dissolution  of  J 
Coustituent  Assembly,  with  a  ^elf-deny.ner 
dinance,  declaring  that  none  of  '»«  "lemH 
should  be  capable  ot  being  elected  into  f 
next  legislature.  ,       i 

There  is  an  admirable  chapter  on  the 
.rration  of  179 1-lhat  emigration,  in  the  61 
of  party  and  of  hon  ton,  which  at  once  exas  f 
a  e'd  and  strengthened  the  party  who  oug  J 
have  been  opposed,  and  irretrievabi)  11  ]ur  a 
cause  which  was  worse  than  deseite  ,  v  J 
foreigners  were  called  in  to  ^uppo  t  ^      J 

dame  de  Stael  i^  c^^^"l"^\>- -^^  S  Je^i'd 
the  Nobles  should  have  staid,  and  resi« 


DE  STAELS  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


>27 


ivhat  was  wrong — or  submitted  to  it.  "  Mais 
Is  ont  trouve  plus  simple  d'invoquer  la  gen- 
iarmerie  Eiiropeeniie,  afln  de  mettie  Paris  ii 
■aison."  The  late  of  their  country,  which 
juixht  to  have  been  their  only  coucern.  was 
ihvays  a  secondary  object,  in  their  eyes,  to 
*he  triumph  of  their  own  opinions — '•  ils  I'oiit 
j^onlu  comme  un  jaloux  sa  maitre.<5$e — tidelle 
I-U  morte." — and  seem  rather  to  have  con- 
idered  themselves  as  allied  to  all  the  other 
nobles  of  Europe,  than  as  a  part  of  the  French 
iiation. 

The  Constituent  Assembly  made  more  Jaws 
\\  two  years  than  the  English  parliament  had 
Lone  in  two  hundred.  The  succeeding  as- 
sembly made  as  many — with  this  difierer.ce. 
hat  while  the  former  aimed,  for  the  most 


les  rangs  en  dosorHro.  il  rovint  s'asspoir  niipn's  do 
In  remc  el  de  ses  entaiis.  l>i  puis  o- jour,  li;  ptuplo 
ne  I'a  plus  revu — que  sur  recliataud  I" 

Vol.  li.  pp.  54,  55. 

Soon  after,  the  allies  entered  France ;  the 
King  refused  to  lake  shelter  in  the  army  ul 
M.  de  la  Fayette  at  Compiegne.  Hi.s  palace 
was  stormed,  and  his  guards  butchered,  on 
the  lOih  of  August,  lie  was  conmiitted  to 
the  Temple,  arraigned,  and  executed  !  and 
the  reign  of  terror,  with  all  its  unspeakable 
atrocities,  ensued. 

We  must  lass  over  much  of  what  is  most 
interesting  in  the  book  before  us;  forwefintl, 
that  the  most  rapid  sketch  we  can  trace,  woulil 
draw  us  into  irreat  lenjith.  Madame  lie  Statl 
thinks  that   the  war  was  ni'arlv  unavoidable 


«rt,  at  general  reformation,  the  last  were  all  I  O"  the  part  of   England;  ami,*  after  a  brief 
ersonaland  vindictive.     The  speculative  re-  '  character  ot  our  Fo.x  and  Pitt,  she  says 


ublicans  were  for  some  time  the  leaders  of  [ 
lis  industrious  body ; — and  Madame  de  Stael. 
il  describing  their  tone  and  temper  while 


"  II  pouvoii  eire  avantagcu.x'toutcfois  a  I'.Angle- 
lerre  que  M.  Pitt  fut  le  diet  de  rpiiu  dnns  i.icrisc  la 
plus  dangcreuse  oii  ce  pays  se  soil  iroiivo  ;  maia  il 


lower,   has  "given  a  picture  of  the   political  l  "c  retoii  pas  moins,  qu'un  espnt  aussi  ciendu  que 

"■  "  ■  '  celui  de  M.  Fox  suiiiiin  les  priiicipes  iiialgre  les 

circonstances;  et  sut  preserver  les  dieu.x  pcnatcs 

des  amis  de  la  liberie,  au  milieu  de  riiiceiidie.     Ce 


•actability  of  her  countrymen,  which  could 
barcely  have  been  endured  from  a  stranger. 

"Aucun  argument,  ancuiie  inquietude  n'eioient 
boutea  par  ses  chefs.  Us  repondoient  aux  obser- 
iitions  de  la  sagesse,  et  de  la  sagesse  desinteressee, 
ir  un  sourire  moqueur,  symptome  de  raridiie  qui 
'suite  de  I'amour-propre :  On  s'epuisoit  a  leur 
ippeler  les  circonstances,  et  a  leur  en  deduire  les 
uises;  on  passoit  lour  iv  tour  de  la  theorie  a  I'ex- 
^rience,  et  de  Texperience  a  la  iheone.  pour  leur 
1  montrer  I'identite;  et.  s'ils  consentoient  a  re- 
,)ndre,  ils  nioient  les  faits  les  plus  autlieniiques, 
i  combattoient  les  observations  les  plus  evidenies, 
|j  y  opposant  quelqiies  niaximes  coninumes,  bieii 
ji'exprimees  avec  eloquence.  lis  se  resardoient 
litre  eux,  comme  s'ils  avoieni  eie  seals  dignes 
k  s'eniendre,  et  s'encourageoient  par  I'idce  que 
lut  etoit  pusillaiiiniite  dans  la  resistance  a  ieur 
laniere  de  voir.     Tels  soiit  les  signes  de  I'esprit 


n  est  point  pour  conientcr  les  deux  partis  que  je  les 
loue  ainsi  tous  les  deux,  quoiqu'ils  aieni  soutenu 
des  opinions  ires-opposees.  Le  fcontraire  en  France 
devroii  peut-etre  avoir  lieu;  les  (actions  diverses  y 
sont  presque  loujours  r'galement  bliiiiiables  :  .Maia 
dans  un  pays  libre,  les  partisans  du  minislere  et 
les  niembres  de  I'opposition  pcuvent  avoir  tous  rai- 
son  a  leur  maniere ;  ct  ils  font  souveiit  chacun  du 
bien  selon  I'epoque.  Ce  qui  importe  seulement, 
c'est  de  ne  pas  prolonger  le  pouvoir  acquis  par 
la  lutte,  apres  que  le  danger  est  passe." 

Vol.  ii.  p.  113. 

There  is  an  excellent  chapter  on  the  ex- 
cesses of  the  parties  and  the  people  of  France 
at  this  period  ;  which  she  refers  to  ihe  sudden 
exasperation  of  those   principles   of  natural 


J!  parii  chez  les  Francois!    Le  dedain  pour  leurs    hostility  by  which  the  high  and  the  low  are 


jiversaires  en  est  la  base,  et  le  dedain  s'oppose 
[ujours  a  la  eoiinoissance  de  la  veriie." — "Mais 
fills  lesdebats  politiques,"  she  adds,  "  oil  la  ma.«se 
June  nation  prend  part,  il  ii'y  a  que  la  voix  des 
{enemens  qui  soil  entendue ;  les  argunu-ns  n'in- 
jirentquele  desir  de  leur  repondre." 

!  The  King,  who  seemed  for  a  time  to  have 
jsigned  himself  to  his  fate,  was  roused  at 
st  to  refuse  his  assent  to  certain  brutal  de- 
ees  ag-ainst  the  recusant  priests — and  his  { 
ilace  and  his  person  were  immediately  in-  | 


always  in  some  degree  actuated,  and  which 
are  only  kept  from  breaking  out  by  the  mu- 
tual conces.sions  v/hich  the  law,  in  ordinary 
times,  exacts  from  both  parties.  The  law  was 
now  annihilated  in  that  country,  and  the  natu- 
ral antipathies  were  called  into  uncontrolled 
activity  ;  the  intolerance  of  one  party  having 

j  no  longer  any  check  but  the  intolerance  of 

j  the  other. 

Les  qiiercilcs  dea  patriciens  et  des  picbeiens. 


.ded  by  a  ferocious  mob— and  he  was  soon  'a  guerre  des  e«^claves,  celle  des  paysans,  cclle  qui 
Iter  compelled  with  all  his  family  to  assist  at 
e  anniversary  of  the  14th  July,  where,  ex- 
Ipt  the  plaudits  of  a  few  children,  every 
ing  was  dark  and  menacing.  The  following 
Iw  lines  appear  to  us  excessively  touching. 


• 


II  falloit  le  caraciere  de  Louis  XVI.,  ce  earac- 
he de  martyr  qu'il  n'a  jamais  dementi,  pour  sup- 
]rier  ainsi  une  pareille  siiuaiion.  Sa  maniere  de 
iiircher,  sa  contenance  avoient  quelque  chose  de 
f'ticulier.  Dans  d'aiiires  occasions,  on  auroii  pu 
lisoiihaiterp'us  de  grandeur;  mais  il  suffisoitdans 
'imoment  de  rester  en  loui  le  mcme,  pour  paroiire 
f|)Iime.  Je  suivis  de  loin  sa  teie  poudrce  au  mi- 
l[ide  ces  tetes  a  cheveux  noirsj  son  habit,  encore 
Ijide  comme  jadis,  ressorloit  a  cole  du  costume 
tj'  gens  du  peuple  qui  se  prcssoient  autour  de  lui. 
%and  il  monta  les  de^res  de  I'autel,  on  crut  voir 
Itictime  sainte,  s'ofiVant  volontairement  en  sacri- 
ft!    II  redescendit;   et,  traversant  de  nouveau 


dure  encore  entre  !cs  nobles  et  les  bcurceois,  touies 
ont  cu  egalement  pour  engine  la  difficulic  de  main- 
tenir  la  socieie  huiiiaino.  sans  df'sordre  et  sans  in- 
justice Les  hoinmes  lie  pourroienl  existcr  aujour- 
d'hui,  nisepares,  ni  rcuiiis,  si  le  respect  de  la  loi  ne 
s'ciablissoit  pas  dans  les  teies:  toua  les  crimes  nai- 
iroient  de  la  socieie  menie  qui  doii  les  prevenir. 
Le  pouvoir  abstrait  des  gouvernemens  represcnta- 
tifs  n'irrite  en  rien  I'orgueil  des  hommes;  et 
c'est  pir  cette  insiiluiion  que  doivem  s'etcindre 
Ifs  flniiibeaux  des  furies.  Ils  se  eont  allumes 
dans  un  pays  oil  lout  ('toil  amour-projire ;  ct 
rainour-propre  irriie,  ciie/  le  peuple,  ne  rcsseniblo 
poit  a  nos  nuances  fugitives;  c'est  le  besoin  do 
donner  la  mort  ! 

"  Des  massacres,  non  moins  affreux  nue  ceux  dc 
la  terreur,  ont  etc  coiiimis  au  nom  dc  la  religion  ; 
la  race  humainc  s'eet  epuiw'e  pendaiu  plusieurs 
siecles  en  efTorts  iiiulilcs  pour  coiiiraindre  lous  les 
hommes  a  la  mOme  croyance.  Un  tcl  but  nc  pou- 
voit  etre  atteint ;  et  I'idee  la  plus  simple,  la  lo\6- 


2U 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


ranee,  telle  que  Guillaume  Penii  I'a  professee,  a  j 
banni  pour  toujours,  du  nord  de  rAmerique,  le 
fanatisme  dont  le  midiaete  I'affreux  ilipaire.  II  en  j 
est  de  meme  du  t'an:<tisnie  politique  ;  la  liberie  seule 
peut  le  calmer.  Apreniiii  certain  temps,  quelques  i 
veritea  ne  seront  plus  contestees ;  et  Ton  parlera  ; 
des  vieilles  iiisiiiutionscomme  des  aniii^nssysienies  i 
de  phvsique,  eniieremeMi  effaces  par  levidmicedes 
laiis."*— Vi.j.  ii.  p.  115—118. 

We  can  afford  to  say  nothing  of  the  Direc- 
tory, or  of  the  successi;sof  the  national  army; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  pass  quite  over  the  18lh  [ 
Fructidor  (4th  September)   1797,   when   the  , 
majoritv  of  the  Directoiy  sent  General  Auge- 
reau  with  an  armed  force  to  disperse  the  legis- 
lative bodies,  and  arrest  certain  of  their  mem-  | 
hers.     This  step  ]Madame  de  Stael  considers  i 
as  the  beginning  of  that  system  of  military  ' 
despotism  which  was  afterwards  carried  so  j 
far ;  and  seems  serionsly  to  believe,  that,  if  ] 
it  had  not  been  then  adopted,  the  reign  of  law  ! 
might  yet  have  been  restored,  and  the  usurpa-  ! 
lion  of  Bonaparte  prevented.    To  ns  it  seems  i 
iiiHnitely  more  probable,  that  the  Bourbons 
would  then  have  been  brought  back  without  j 
any   conditions — or   rather,    perhaps,    that   a 
civil  war.  and  a  scene  of  far  more  sanguinary  j 
violence  would  have  ensued.     She  does  not  i 
dispute  that  the  royalist  party  was  very  strong 
in  both  the  councils :  but  seems  to  think,  that 
an  address  or  declaration  by  the  anny  would 
have  discx)mfited  them  more  becomingly  than 
an  actual  attack.     We  confess  we  are  not  so 
delicate.  [>awand  order  had  been  sufficiently 
trodden  on  already,  by  the  Jacobin  clubs  and 
revolutionary  tribunals  :  and  the  battalions  of 
(General  Augereau  were  just  as  well  entitled 
to  domineer  as  the  armed  sections  and  butch- 
ering mobs  of  Paris.     There  was  no  longer, 
ill  short,  any  sanctity  or  principle  of  civil  right 
acknowledged  ;  and  it  was  time  that  the  force 
and  terror  which  had  substantially  reigned  for 
three   years,  should   appear  in  their   native 
colours.     They  certainly  became  somewhat 
less  atrocious  when  thus  openly  avowetl. 

We  come  at  last  to  Bonaparte — a  name  that 
mil  go  down  to  posterity,  and  of  whom  it  is 
not  yet  clear,  peihaps.  how  posterity  will 
judge.  The  greatest  of  coiupierors,  in  an  age 
when  great  conquests  appeared  no  longer 
possible  —  the  mo.st  splendid  of  usurpers, 
where  usurpation  had  not  been  heard  of  for 
centuries — who  entered  in  trium])h  almost  all 
the  capitals  of  Continental  Europe  ;  and  led. 
at  last,  to  his  bed,  the  daughter  of  her  proud- 
est s(}vereign — who  set  up  kings  and  put  them 
down  at  his  pleasure,  and.  for  sixteen  years, 
defied  alike  the  sword  of  his  foreign  enemies 
and  the  daggers  of  his  domestic  factions ! 
This  is  a  man  on  whom  future  generations 
must  yet  -^it  in  judgment.  But  the  evidence 
by  which  they  are  to  Judge  must  be  trans- 
mitted to  them  by  his  contemporaries.  jMa- 
liame  de  Stael  has  colIecl(;d  a  great  deal  of 
this  evidence ;  and  has  reported  it,  we  think, 
on  the  wliole.  in  a  tone  of  great  impartiality ; 
though  not  without  some  indications  of  per- 
sonal dislike.  Her  whole  talents  seem  to  be 
roused  and  concentrated  when  she  begins  to 
speak  of  this  extraordinary  man ;  and  much 
and  ably  as  his  character  has  been  lately  dis- 


cussed, we  do  think  it  has  never  been  half  so 
well  described  as  in  the  volumes  before  U6. 
We  shall  venture  on  a  pretty  long  e.xlract,  be- 
ginning with  the  account  of  their  hist  inter- 
view ;  for  on  tlus,  as  on  most  other  subjects, 
3Iadame  de  Stael  has  the  unspeakable  ad- 
vantage of  writing  from  her  own  observation 
Alter  mentioning  the  great  popularity  he  hac 
acquired  by  his  victories  in  Italy,  and  tht 
peace  by  which  he  had  secured  ihera  a< 
Campo  Formio,  she  says — 

■•  C'esi  avei;  i-e  sentiment,  du  moins.  que  je  Ic  vij 
pour  la  premiere  fois  a  Paris.     Je  ne  trouyai  pas  dr 
paroles  pour  lui  repondre,  quand  il  vim  ii  nuii  m* 
dirp  qu'il  avoit  cherche  mon  pere  a  Copper,  et  qu'i: 
re;j;reitoii  d'avoir  passe  en  Suisse  sans  le  voir.   .Mais' 
lorsqiie  je  fus  iiii  peu  remise  du  trouble  de  radmi 
ration,  tin  sentiment  de   crainte  tres-pronoiice  lu 
.succeda  I      Bonaparte   alors   n'avoit  aucune  puisi 
sance  ;  on  le  eroyoii  meme  assez  menace  par  \e, 
s  lup^oiis  ombrageux  du  directoire  ;  ainsi,  lacrainti 
qu'il  inspiroii  n  etoit  causee  que  par  le  singulis 
effet  de  sa  per.somie  sur  presque  tous  cenx  qui  Tap 
prochent  I     J'avois  vu  des  hommes  tres-digiies  d 
respect  ;  j'avois  vu  aiissides  hommes  ieroces  :  il  n''; 
avoit  rien  dans  I' impression  que  Bonaparte  iiroduisi' 
sur  moi,  qui  piit  me  rappeler  ni  lesunsni  les  autre/ 
J'aper^u.*  assez  viie,  dans  les  diiferentes  occasiori 
quej'ensde  lerencontrer  pendant  son  sejoura  Parii 
que  son  caraciere  ne  pouvoit  etre  defini  par  les  mo! 
dont  nous  avons  coutume  de  nous  servir  ;  il  n'eto; 
ni    bon,   ni  violent,  ni  dou.x,  ni   cruel,  a  la  tajt' 
des  individus  a  nous  connus.     Un  tel  eire  n'aya 
point  de  pareil,    ne  pouvoit   ni    ressentir,   ni   fai 
eprouver  aucune  sympailiie.     C'etoit  phis  ou  moi 
qu'un  liomme  !     Sa  tournure,  son  esprit,  son  la 
gage  son'  empreinis  d'une  nature  Pirangerc — ava 
tage  de  plus  ponr  siibjuguer  les  Francois,  ainsi  q 
nc)us  I'avons  dit  ailleurs. 

•  Loin  de  me  rassurer  en  voyant  Bonaparte  pl< 
soiivem,  il  m'intiinidoit  toujours  davaniage  !      | 
sentois  confusement  qu'aucune  emotion  de  ccEuri' 
pouvoif  agir  sur  lui.     II  regarde  une  creature  i 
maiiie  romme  un  fait  ou  comme  une  chose,  m, 
non  conime  nn  semblable.     11  ne  hait  pas  plus  qi 
n'aime.     II  n'y  a  (|ue  lui  pour  lui ;  tout  le  re' 
des  creatures  son'  des  chiffres.     La  torce  de  sa'i' 
loiiie  consisie  dans  Timperturbable  calcui  de  r 
ego'i.snie  ;  c'est  un  habile  joueur  d'echecs.  dont 
genre  humain  est  la  pariie  adverse  qu'il  se  prop 
de  taire  tM-bec  et  mat.     Ses  stuces  tiennent  aut 
:nix  ([inli'f's  que  Ini  manqueiit.  tiu'au.x  talens  q 
possodc.     Ni  la  pi'ie,  ni  I'attraii.  ni  la  religion 
I'atia'hement  a  une  idee  quelconque  ne  sauroi 
le  driourner  de  .sa  direction  principale.     II  est  p  ' 
son  inierei,  ce  que  le  juste  doit  etre  pour  la  ve.r| 
si  le  but  eioit  bon,  sa  perseverance  seroit  belle.  • 

"  Chaque  fois  que  je  renieiidois  parler,  j'cii 
frappee  de  sa  superiorite.  Elle  n'avoit  pour  i 
aucun  rapport  avec  celle  des  hommes  instruit  I 
cul'ivi's  par  I'rtude  ou  la  socicte.  tels  que  I'An.,- 
iprre  et  la  France  peuvent  en  offrir  des  exeipp  • 
Mais  scs  discoiirs  indiquoient  le  tact  des  cin  • 
sian(;es.  comnie  le  chasseur  a  cclm  cie  sa  pi  • 
Quclquefois  il  nicontoit  lea  fails  poliiiques  et  t  • 
laircs  d<;  sa  vie  d'une  fa90ii  tres-interessantf  ;1 
avoit  minic.  dans  les  reciis  qui  permettoiont  t  a 
gaic'c.  tin  pen  de  I'imagiiia'ion  iialienne.  Ce  •■ 
dant  rieii  iif  pmivoit  iriompher  de  mon  inviin  •  i 
eloigneniPiit  pour  ce  que  j'apercevois  en  lui.  i*  I 
sentois  d.nns  son  aine  une  epee  froide  et  trancb  • 
qui  gla^oit  en  bicssani !  Je  sentois  dans  son  e  " 
une  ironie  profonde  a  laquelle  rien  de  grand  1 1* 
bean,  fias  mCnte  sa  proprt  gJoire,  ne  pouvoit  ec  )• 
l)er  :  Car  il  meprisoit  la  nation  dont  il  vouloi  •'* 
suffrages,  et  nulle  eiincelle  d'enthousiasme  r »« 
mcloii  ;i  son  bes/iin  d'eionner  I'esptce  humaii 

••  (3e  futdaiiB  I'intervalleentre  le  reioiinle  E  k- 
parie  ei  son  depart  pour  I'Egypie,  c'osi-a-dire,  f 
la  fin  de  1797,  que  je  le  vis  plusieurs  fois  a  F*i    < 


PftC 


DE  STAKF.S  FRFACH  REVOLUTION. 


229 


cf  jamais  la  difficultp  de  respirev  que  j'oprouvoisen 
sa  presence  ne  put  se  dissiper.  JTiiois  un  jdur  a 
table  eiitre  lui  et  I'abbe  Sieves  :  siri^ulitTe  piiuation, 
si  j'avois  pu  prevoir  I'aveniv  I  Pe\;miinois  avee 
atteiilion  la  fiiiure  de  Bonaparte  ;  inuis  eliaiiue  lois 
qu'il  decouvrmt  en  nioi  des  regard*  obsiMvaieur.s, 
il  avoit  I'art  d'oier  a  see  yeux  touie  expression, 
coiiime  s'ils  i'ussent  deveims  de  niarbre.  Son  visage 
rioii  alors  immobile  ;  excepie  unsourire  vague  qu'il 
pla^oit  sur  ses  levres  a  tout  hasard,  pour  derouttr 
quiconque  voudroit  observer  lea  signes  exierieurs 
de  sa  pensee. 

"  Sa  figure,  alors  niaigre  ei  pale,  etoit  asscz 
agreable ;  depuis,  il  est  engraisse,  ce  qui  lui  va 
tres-mal:  car  on  a  besoin  de  eroire  uu  tel  homme 
tourmente  par  son  carai-uVe,  pour  tolerer  un  peu 
que  ce  carauiere  fasse  lelleniem  souffrir  ies  auires. 
Comnie  sa  stature  est  petite,  et  cependant'sa  taille 
fort  longue,  il  etoit  beaucoup  niieu.x  a  chcval  qti'a 
pied  ;  en  tout,  c'est  la  guerre,  et  si'uleinent  la  guerre 
qui  lui  sied.  Sa  tnanirre  d'etre  dans  la  socieie  est 
jenee  sans  timidite.  11  a  quelque  chose  de  dedaig- 
leu.x  qijand  il  seconiient,  el  de  vulgaire,  quand  il 
se  met  a  I'aise.  Le  dedain  lui  vamieux — aussi  ne 
i'en  fait-il  pas  fiiute. 

"  Par  une  vocation  naturelle  pour  I'etat  de  prince, 
1  adressoit  deja  des  questions  insignifiantcs  a  tons 
•eu.\  qu'on  lui  presentoit,  Etes-vous  marie?  de- 
nandoit-il  a  Tun  des  convives.  Combien  avez- 
^ous  d'enfans?  disoit-il  a  I'autre.  Depuis  quand 
■les-vous  arrive  ?  Quand  partez-vous  ?  Et  autres 
flterrogations  de  ce  genre,  qui  elablissent  la  supe- 
ioriie  de  celui  qui  Ies  fait  surcelui  qui  veui  bien  se 
,aisser  questionner  ainsi 


Je 


I  vu  un  jour  s'approcher  d'une  Fran^oise 


jres-connue  par  sa  beaute,  son  esprit  et  la  vivaciie 
,e  ses  opinions ;  il  se  pla^a  tout  droit  devant  elle 
|Omme  le  plus  roide  des  generaux  alleniands,  el 
fjj  dit :  '  J\Jadame,  je  7i  aime  pas  que  Ies  fnnmes  se 
lelent  de  polilique.' — '  Vo7is  avez  raiso7i,  gi'neral.' 
pi  repondit-elle  :  ^  muis  dans  un  pays  oa  on  leur 
\mpe  la  tele,  il  est  nottire.l  qu'elles  aient  envie  de 
tivoir  pourqiioi.'  Bonaparte  alors  ne  repliqua 
(en.  C'est  un  homme  que  la  resistance  veritable 
Ipaise  ;  ceux  qui  ont  souffert  son  despoiisme,  doi- 
lent  en  etre  autant  accuses  que  lui-meme." 
i  Vol.  li.  pp.  H)8— 204. 

j  The  following  little  anecdote  is  every  way 
kavacteristic. 

Un  soir  il  parloit  avec  Barras  de  son  ascendant 

>r  lea  peuples  italiens.  qui  avoicni  voulu  le  faire 

ic  de  Milan  et  roi  d'ltalie.     '  Mais  je  7ie  pense.' 

t-il,  'a  Tien  de   semhlahle   dans  aucun  pays.' — 

Vous  faiteg  bien  de   n' y  pas  songer  e?i  France,' 

pondit  Barras  ;   '  car,  si  le  directoire  vous  envoyoit 

t    ^main  au  Temple,  il  n' y  nuroit  pas  quatre  pcrson- 

H    '.s  qui  «'y  opposassenl-     Bonaparte  etoit  assis  sur 

,    il  canape  a  cote  de  Barras  :  a  ces  paroles  il  s'e- 

f.   iii^a  vers   la  cheminee,  n'etant  pas  iiiaitre  de  son 

titation  ;  puis,  reprenant  cette  espece  de  calme 
parent  dont  Ies  homines  Ies  plus  passiones  parmi 
It!  J3  habitans  du  Midi  soni  capables,  il  dechira  qu'il 
ft  >uloit  etre  charge  d'une  expedition  miliiaire.  Le 
s  rectoire  lui  proposa  la  descenie  en  Angleierre  ;  il 
;!  la  visiter  Ies  coies ;  et  reconnoissant  bieniot  que 
^  ite  expedition  etoit  insensee,  il  revint  decide  a 
itS  liter  la  conquele  de  TEgvpie." 
(  ■  Vol.  ii.  pp.  207,  208. 

'";  We  must  add  a  few  miscellaneous  passage?, 

J,^  develope  a  little  farther  this  extraordinary 

,-^  aracter.    Madame  de  Stael  had  a  lonj;  con- 

inJ  irsation  with  him  on  the  slate  of  Switzer- 

(*'  nd,  in  which  he  seemed  quite  insensible  to 

'*  i.y  feelings  of  generosity. 

Iiii)  "  Cette  conversation,"  however,  she  adds,  "  me 
,.J(  '  cependant  concevoir  I'agrement  qu'on  peut  lui 
jjj  '  luver  quand  il  prend  I'air  bonhomme.  et  parle 
ijji  ihime  d'ime  chose  simple  de  lui-meme  et  de  ses 
I'je'.d.     Cet  an,  le  plus   redouiablc  de  tous,  a 


captive  bcnucoiip  de  geris.  A  cette  memo  epoque. 
je  revis  encore  quelquetois  Bonnparte  en  eocieie,  el 
il  mc  pnrut  loujours  protondemeni  occupe  des  rnp- 
ports  ()u'il  vouloil  elablir  ciitre  lui  el  lea  autre.-* 
nonimcs,  Ies  tenant  ii  disiance  ou  Ies  rapprocliant 
de  lui,  euivant  qu';l  eroyoit  se  Ics  ailQclier  plus 
surement.  Quand  il  se  iruuvoit  avec  lea  directeurn 
surtoui,  il  craignoii  d'nvoir  I'air  d'un  general  sous 
Ies  ordres  de  son  >;ouvernemeiil,  et  il  csHayoil  tour 
ii  tour  dans  ses  manieres.  avec  cetic  sorte  de  supe- 
rieurs,  la  dignite  ou  la  lumiliuriic  ;  main  il  mnn(|uoii 
le  Ion  vrai  de  I'lnie  el  de  I'auire.  C'tut  un  hommn 
qui  ne  sail  roil  etre  tialunl  que  tlant  le  commandt 
mn*/."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  211,  212. 

The  following  remark  relates  rather  to  the 
French  nation  than  their  ruler.  We  ijuote  it 
for  its  exquisite  truth  rather  than  its  severity. 

"  Sa  conversation  avec  le  Mufti  dans  In  pyramide 
de  Cheops  devoit  eiu:hanter  Ies  Parisiens  ;  parce 
qu'elle  reuni.-snit  Ies  deux  chosesqui  Ies  capiivent  : 
un  certain  genre  de  trrandeur,  et  de  la  momiene 
lout  ensemble.  Les  Fran^iis  sont  bien  aisi.'S  d'etre 
emus,  ct  de  rire  de  ce  qu' its  sont  emut  !  Le  rhar- 
latanisme  leur  platt,  et  ils  aideiit  volontiers  a  t^e 
tromper  pux-inemes  ;  pmuvu  qu'il  leureoit  permis, 
tout  en  se  conduisant  comme  des  dupes,  de  mon- 
trer  par  quelques  bon  mots  que  pourtant  ils  ne  le 
sont  pas." — Vol.  ii.  p.  2-28. 

On  his  return  from  Egypt  it  was  understood 
by  every  body  that  he  was  to  subvert  the  ex- 
isting constitution.  But  he  pas.'^ed  live  weeks 
at  Paris  in  a  quiet  and  apparently  undecided 
way — and,  with  all  this  preparatory  study, 
acted  his  part  but  badly  after  all.  Nothing 
can  be  more  curious  than  the  following  pas- 
sage. When  he  had  at  last  determinetl  to 
put  down  the  Directory, — 

"  Le  19  brumaire,  il  arriva  dans  le  conseil  des 
cinq  cents,  les  bras  croises,  avec  un  air  trcs-sombre, 
et  suivi  de  deux  grands  grenadiers  qui  protegeoieni 
sa  petite  stature.  Les  deputes  appeles  jacobins 
pousserent  des  hurlemens  en  le  voyant  entrerdans 
la  siille  ;  son  freie  Lucien.  bien  heureusement  pour 
lui.  etoit  alors  president ;  il  agiioit  en  vain  la  son- 
nette  pour  reialilir  I'ordre  ;  les  cris  de  trailre  et 
d'usurptileur  se  faisoient  entendre  de  toutes  parts  : 
et  I'un  des  deputes,  compatriote  de  Bonaparte,  le 
cor.se  Arena,  s'lipproeba  de  ce  general  et  Ic  secoua 
foriemeiit  par  le  collet  de  son  habit.  On  a  suppose, 
mais  sans  fondement,  qu'il  avoit  un  poignard  pour 
le  tuer.  Son  action  rependaiu  effraya  Bonaparte  ; 
et  il  dit  aux  grenadiers  qui  Violent  a  cote  de  lui,  en 
laissani  lomber  sa  tele  sur  I'epaule  de  l'u7id'euT  : 
'  Tirez-moi  d'ici  !'  Les  grenadiers  TenleverciU  du 
milieu  des  deputes  qui  rentouroient  ;  ils  le  portr- 
reni  hors  de  la  suite  en  plein  air  ;  et,  des  quMI  y  fut. 
sa  presence  d'esprit  lui  revint.  II  monta  a  cheval 
n  I'ins'anl  mf'me  ;  et,  parcourant  les  rangs  de  ses 
grenadiers,  il  les  determina  bientot  ii  ce  qu'il  vou- 
loit  d'eux.  Daof  cette  circonstance,  comme  dans 
beaucoup  d'autres,  on  a  remarque  que  Bonaparte 
ponvoit  se  troubler  quand  un  autre  danger  que  celui 
de  la  tjuerre  etoit  en  face  de  lui ;  et  quelque.i 
personnes  en  ont  conclu  bien  ridiculemeiu  qu'il 
manquoii  de  courage.  Ceries  on  ne  peut  nier  son 
audace  ;  mais,  comme  il  n'est  rien,  pa«  memo 
brave,  d'une  fa^on  genereuse,  il  s'ensuit  qu'il  ne 
s'cxpose  jamais  que  quand  cela  peut  etre  utile.  II 
seroit  tre.-:-fachc  d'etre  tue.  parce  que  c'est  un  re- 
vers,  el  qu'il  veut  en  tout  du  succes.  ^  II  en  seroit 
aus-ii  Inche,  parce  que  la  morl  deplait  a  son  im- 
agination :  '  M  iis  il  n'hesiie  pas  a  hasardor  «a  vi#t, 
lorsque,  siiivnnt  sa  muniere  de  voir,  la  partie  vaui 
le  risque  de  I'enjeu,  s'il  est  permis  de  B'expriincr 
ainsi."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  240-242. 

Although  he  failed  thus  strangely  in  the 
theatrical  pait  of  the  business,  tlie  subslauUai 
U 


230 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


part  was  effectually  done.  He  sent  in  a 
column  of  grenadiers  with  fixed  bayonets  at 
one  end  of  the  hall  of  the  great  council,  and 
made  them  advance  steadily  to  the  other  : 
driving  the  unhappy  senators,  in  their  fine 
classical  draperies,  before  them,  anil  forcing 
thern  to  leap  out  of  the  windows,  and  scam- 
per through  the  gardens  in  these  strange 
habiliraciits !  Colonel  Pride's  purge  itself  was 
not  half  so  rough  in  its  operation. 

There  was  now  an  end,  not  only  of  liberty, 
but  of  republican  tyranny:  and  the  empire  of 
the  sword  in  the  hand  of  one  man.  was  sub- 
stantially established.  It  is  melancholy  to 
think,  but  history  shows  it  to  be  true,  that  the 
most  abject  servitude  is  usually  established 
at  the  close  of  a  long,  and  even  generous 
struggle  for  freedom ;  partly,  no  doubt,  be- 
cause despotism  offers  an  imaire  of  repose  to 
those  who  are  worn  out  with  contention,  but 
chiefly  because  that  military  force  to  which 
all  parties  had  in  their  extremity  appealed, 
naturally  lends  itself  to  the  bad  ambition  of  a 
fortunate  commander.  This  it  was  which 
made  the  fortune  of  Bonaparte.  His  answer 
to  all  remonstrances  was — ••  A^oulez-vous  que 
je  vous  livre  au.x  Jacobins  V'  But  his  true 
answer  was,  that  the  army  was  at  his  de- 
votion, and  that  he  defied  the  opinion  of  the 
nation. 

He  began  by  setting  up  the  Consulate  :  But 
from  the  very  first,  says  Madame  de  Stael, 
assumed  the  airs  and  the  tone  of  royalty. 

"  11  prit  les  Tuileries  pour  sa  dnmcure ;  et  ce  fui 
iin  coup  de  pariiu  que  le  choix  de  cetie  lialiitalioii. 
On  avoit  vu  la  le  roi  de  France  ;  les  habitudes  mon- 
archiques  y  etoieiit  encore  preseiite.';  a  tons  les  yeux, 
et  il  suffisoit,  pour  ainsi  dire,  de  laisser  taire  les 
niurs  pour  tout  rciablir.  Vers  les  derniers  jours  du 
dernier  sicde.  je  vis  entrer  le  premier  consul  dans 
ce  palais  bati  par  les  rois  ;  et  quoique  Bonaparte  Ait 
bien  loin  encore  de  la  niafrnifieence  qu'il  a  develop- 
pee  depuis,  Ton  voyoit  deja  dans  tout  ce  qui  I'en- 
touroit  un  empressement  de  se  faire  couriisan  a 
rorieniale,  qui  dut  lui  persuader  que  gouverner  la 
lerre  etoit  chose  bien  facile.  Quand  sa  voi'ure  fui 
arrivee  dans  la  cour  des  Tuileries,  sc*  valets  ouvri- 
rent  la  portiere  et  precipiterent  le  marchepied  avec 
une  violence  qui  sembloit  dire  qu'^  les  nhoses  phy- 
siques elles-memes  eloient  insolentes  quand  elles 
retardoient  un  instant  la  niarche  de  leur  niaitre  I  Lui 
ne  regardoit  ni  ne  remercioit  personne;  coninie  s'll 
avoit  craint  qu'on  piit  le  croire  sensible  au.x  hom- 
mages  rneme  qu'il  exigeoit.  En  montant  I'escalier 
au  milieu  de  la  foule  qui  se  pressoit  pour  le  siiivre. 
ses  yeux  ne  se  portoieni  ni  sur  aiicun  objet.  ni  sur 
aucune  personne  en  particulier.  II  y  avoit  quelque 
chose  de  vague  et  d'insouciani  dans  sa  physionomie, 
ei  ses  regards  n'exprinioient  que  co  qu'il  lui  con- 
vient  toujours  de  montrer, — rindifTerence  pour  le 
sort,  et  le  dedain  pour  les  hommes." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  258,  259. 

He  had  some  reason,  indeed,  to  despise 
men,  from  the  specimens  he  had  mostly  about 
him:  For  his  adheients  were  chiefly  desert- 
ers from  the  royalist  or  the  reijublican  party; 
— the  first  willing  to  transfer  their  servility  to 
a  new  dynasty. — the  latter  to  fake  the  names 
and  emoluments  of  republican  offices  from 
tlif  hand  of  a  plebeian  u.surper.  For  a  Avhile 
he  thoucht  it  prudent  tn  dissemble  with  each  : 
and.  with  that  utter  contempt  of  truth  which 
belonged  to  his  scorn  of  mankind,  held,  in  the 
same  day,  the  most  edifying  discourses  of 


citizenship  and  equality  to  one  set  of  hearer^ 
and  of  the  sacred  rights  of  sovereigns  to  an- 
other.     He  extended  the  same  unprincipled 
dissimulation  to  the  subject  of  religion.     To 
the  prelates  with  whom  he  arranged  his  cele- 
brated Concordat,  he  spoke  in  the  most  seri- 
ous maimer  of  the  truth  and  the  awfulnessof 
the  Go.spel;  and  to  Cabanis  and  the  philoso- 
phers, he  said,  the  same  evening, — ••  Savez- 
vons   ce   que   c'est  la   Concordat  ]     C'est  la 
Vacanc  de  la  Religion — dans  cinquante  ans  il 
n'y  aura  plus    en    France!"'     He   resolved., 
however,  to  profit  by  it  while  it  lasted ;  ana  i 
had  the  blasphemous  audacity  to  put   this,  ; 
among  other  things,  into  the  national  cate-ii 
chism,  approved  of  by  the   whole   Gallicaai' 
chuj-ch: — '•  Q«.  Que  doit-on  penser  de  ceui.; 
qui  manqueroient  a  leur  devoir  envers  TEm- 
pereur   Napoleon  ?     Reponse.   Qu'ils   resiste- 
roient  a  Pordre  etabli  de  Dieu  lui-mcme — et 
se  reiidroient  dignes  de  la  damnation  etanclle!" 
With  the  actual  tyranny  of  the  sword  bega; 
the  more  pitiful  persecution  of  the    slavisi 
journals — the  wanton  and  merciless  iiiriict;o 
of  exile  on  women  and  men  of  letters — ai; 
the  perpetual,  restless,  insatiable  hiteiferenci. 
in  the  whole  life  and  conversation  of  every 
one  of  the  slightest  note  or  importance.    Th«i 
following  passages  are  written,  perhaps,  witt; 
more  bitterness  than  any  other  in  the  book 
but  they  appear  to  us  to  be  substantially  just; 

'"Bonaparte,  lorsqn'il  disposoit  d'un  niillioi 
d'homnies  armes,  n'en  attachoit  pas  moins  d'im 
poriance  a  I'art  de  guider  Tesprit  public  par  le 
gazettes;  il  dicioit  souvent  lui-meme  des  arnclesd 
journaux  qu'on  pouvoit  reconnoitre  aux  saccadt 
violenies  du  style.  On  voyoit  qu'il  auroit  voul 
nieiire  dans  ce  qu'il  ecrivoit,  des  coups  au  lieu  d 
mois  I  II  a  dans  tout  son  eire  nn  fond  de  vulgarii 
que  le  giganiesque  de  son  ambition  meme  ne  sauro 
tonjours  cacher.  Ce  n'est  pas  qu'il  nc  sache  trei' 
bien,  un  jour  donne.  se  montrer  avec  beaucoup  c 
convenance  ;  mais  il  n'est  a  son  aise  que  dans 
mepris  pour  les  auires,  el.  des-qu'il  pout  y  rentre 
il  s'y  complait.  'I'ouiefois  ce  n'eloit  pas  uniqu' 
ment  par  goiit  qu'il  se  livroit  a  faire  servir.  dansB'  | 
notes  du  Moniteiir,  le  cynisnie  de  la  rcvohiiion  ( 
mainiicn  de  sa  puissance.  II  ne  pernietioit  qu'a  I 
d'etre  jacobin  en  Prance. — Vol.  ii.  p.  2G4. 

"  Je  fus  la  premiere  femme  que  Bonaparte  exil; 
Mais  bientot  aprrs  il  en  bannit  un  grand  nombi 
d'opinionsopposces.     D'ow  venoit  ce  luxe  en  fait' 
mechancete,  si  ce  n'est  d'une  sorie  de  haine  coni 
tous  les  etresindopendans  ?    Kt  comme  les  temmr 
d"une  part,  ne  pouvoieni  servir  en  rien  ses  dessei 
pohtiqurs,  et  que,  de  I'auire,  dies  eioient  moinss' 
cessibles  que  les  hommes  aux  craintes  et  aux  esf. 
ranees  dont  le  pouvoir  est   dispensateiir,  dies 
doiinoient  de  I'humeur  comme  dts  rebelles,  el  il 
plaisoii  a   leur  dire  des  choses  blessantes  et  y 
gnires.    II  hiiTssoit  auiant  Tesprit  di'  chevalerieqi 
recherchoii    I'etiquette :    c'etoit  faire   un    mauv 
choix  parmi   leS'  ancirnnes  mreurs.     II   lui  res» 
aussi  de  ses  premieres  habitudes  pendant  la  revo 
lion,  une  ceriaiiie  aniipathie  jacobine  contre  la  ' 
cieie   brillanie  de  Paris;  sur   laquelle  les  femii, 
exer9oient  beaucoup  d'ascendaiit.     II  redoutoit ' 
dies  I'ari  de  la  plaLsanterie.  qui.  Ton  doit  en  p' 
vcnir,  appariient  pariictilierement  aux  Francois 
Si  Bonaparte  avoit  voulu  s'en  tenir  au  supeiber 
de  gratid  general  et  de  premier  magistral  de  la 
pul)liqiie,  il  auroit  piano  de  toute   la  hauteur 
genie  au-dessiis  des  petiis  trails  acere.«  dr-  I'et 
(le  salon.     Mais  quand  il  avoit  le  dessein  dc  se  f»' 
nn  roi  pnrvf^nu.  un  bourL'fis  ffcniilliotnmo  sui 
irone,  il  s'exposoit  preciseuient  a  la  nioquerif  • 


DE  STAEL'S  FRENCH  PxEVOLUTION. 


231 


on  ton,  et  il  ne  pouvoit  la  cornprimer,  comme  il 
a  fait,  que  par  I'espionage  ct  la  terreur." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  30(!,  307. 

I  The  thin  mask  of  the  Consulate  was  soon 
itirown  off — and  the  Ernjioror  appeared  in  his 
, roper  habits.  The  following  remarks,  thouch 
lot  all  applicable  to  the  same  period,  appear 
[3  us  to  be  admirable. 

I  "  Bfinaparie  avoit  lu  I'histoire  d'une  maniiMe 
bnfuse.  Peu  aecouiume  a  I'etude,  il  se  rendoit 
•eaucoup  inoiiis  compte  de  c.e  qu'il  avoii  appris 
ans  les  livres,  que  de  ce  qu'il  avoit  recneilli  par 
lObservaiiori  des  hoinmes.  II  n'eii  etoit  p.is  inoiiis 
^;sie  dans  sa  iiue  un  oeriaiu  respect  pour  Attila  et 
3ur  Charlemagne,  pour  les  lois  feod;iles  et  pour  le 
sspoiisme  de  I' Orient,  qu'il  appliquoit  a  tort  et  a 
•avers,  ne  se  tronipaiit  jamais,  loutefois,  sur  ce 
kii  servoit  iiisiantancmem  il  son  pouvoir  ;  mais  du 
|)Ste,  ciumt,  blamant,  louant  et  raisonnant  conime 
(  hasard  le  conduisoii.  II  parloit  ainsi  des  heures 
;ilieres  avec  d'auiant  plus  d'avantage,  que  per- 
jnne  ne  rinterrompoii,  si  ce  u'esi  par  les  applau- 
ssemens  involontaires  qui  echappent  toujours 
iins  des  occasions  semblables.  Une  chose  siuffu- 
>)re,  c'esi  que,  dans  la  conversation,  plu^icurs 
jHciers  Bonapartisies  out  emprunte  de  leur  chei 
it  heroique  galimatias,  qui  veritabloment  ne  sisr- 
fie  rien  qu'  a  la  tete  de  iiuit  cent  niille  hommes?' 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  332,  333. 
*'  II  fit  occuper  la  phipari  des  charges  de  sa  mai- 
in  par  des  Nobles  de  Tancien  reeime  ;  il  aimoit 
s  flatteries  des  courUsajis  d' autrefois,  parce  qu'ils 
leniendoifint  mieux  a  cet  an  que  les  hommes  nou- 
jiaux,  inenie  les  plus  empresses.  Chaque  fois 
ii'un  gentilhomme  de  ranuienne  cour  rappeloil 
letiqueiie  du  temps  jadis,  proposoit  une  reverence 
•     b  plus,  uue  ceriaine  inqon  de  frapper  a  la  porte 

■  1}  quelque  anii-chambre,  une  maniere   plus  cere- 

■  jonieuse  de  presenter  une  depeche,  de  plier  une 
'  itre,  de  la  terminer  pnr  telle  ou  telle  formule.  il 
'  |oit  accueilli  comme  s'il  avoit  fait  faire  des  progres 
'  ji  bonheur  de  I'espece  humaine  !  Le  code  de  I'eii- 
J  lette  imperiale  est  le  document  le  phis  remarqu- 
'■  Me  de  la  hassesse  a  laquelle  on  pent  reduire 
'  '^spece  humaine." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  334,  335. 

"  Quand  il  y  avoit  quatre  cents  personnes  dans 
m  salon,  un  aveugle  auroit  pu  s'y  croire  seul,  lant 

sijence  qu'on  observoit  etoit  profond !  Les 
arecliaux  de  France,  au  milieu  des  fatigues  de  la 
lerre,  au  monjent  de  la  crise  d'une  liaiaille,  en- 
oient  dans  la  lenle  de  rempercur  pour  lui  de- 
ander  ses  ordres, — et  il  ne  leur  etoit  pas  permis 
!  s'y  asseoir  !  Sa  famille  ne  souffroil  pas  moins 
18  ies  etrangers  de  son  despotisme  et  de  sa  hau- 
Lucieri  a  mieux  aime  vivre  prisonnier  en 
ngleterre  que  regner  sous  les  ordres  de  son  frere. 
ouifi  Bonaparte,  dont  le  caraciere  est  generale- 
ent  esiime,  se  vit  constraint  par  sa  probiie  meme. 
renoncer  a  la  coiironne  de  Hollande  ;  et,  le  croi- 
it-on?  quand  il  causoit  avec  son  frere  pendant 
mx  heures  icie-a-ieie,  force  par  sa  niauvaise  same 
I  s'appuyer  poniblement  conire  la  muraille.  Na- 
ileon  ne  lui  ofTroii  pas  une  chaise  !  il  demeuroii 
i-meute  debout,  de  crainie  que  quelqu'un  n'eiii 
dee  de  se  faiuiliariserassez  avec  lui,  pour  s' asseoir 
I  sa  presence. 

"Le  peur  qu'il  causoit  dans  les  derniers  temps 
lit  telle,  que  personne  ne  lui  adressoit  le  premier 

parole  sur  rieit.  Quclquefois  il  s'cntreienoit 
ec  la  plus  grande  simpliciie.  au  milieu  de  sa  cour, 

dans  son  conseil  d'eiat.  II  souffroit  la  conlra- 
L-lion,  il  y  encoiirageoit  meme,  quand  il  s'ngis.soii 

questions  administratives  ou  judiciaires  sans  re- 
'ioM  nvec  son  pouvoir.  II  falloii  voir  alurs  I'atien- 
issement  de  ceux  auxqnels  il  avoit  rendu  pour  un 
omeni  la  respiration  libre;  mais,  quand  le  tnaiire 
parois.soit,  on  demandoit  en  vain  aux  miiiistres  de 
fisenter  un  rapport  a  I'empereur  contre  une  me- 
re injusie. — II  aimoit  moins  les  louanges  vraiee 


que  les  flatteries  servilcs ;  parce  que,  dans  les  unes, 
on  n'auroit  vu  que  son  mrriie,  tandis  que  les  auires 
atiestoient  son  autoriie.  Hn  general,  il  a  prelere 
la  puissance  a  la  gloire  ;  car  Paction  de  la  force  lui 
pliiisoii  irop  pour  (pi'il  s'occupa  de  la  posn'rite, 
sur  laqucllc  on  ne  peut  I'exercer." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  399—401. 

There  are  some  fnie  reiKarks  on  the  base- 
ness of  those  who  solicited  employment  and 
favonrsuniier  Bonaparte,  and  have'since  join- 
ed the  party  of  the  Ullras,  and  treated  the 
whole  Rcvoiutioii  as  an  atiucious  rebellioit — 
and  a  very  clear  ;ind  masterly  view  of  the 
policy  by  which  that  yreat  commander- sub- 
dued the  irrcater  part  of  Continental  Europe. 
But  we  can  atibrd  no  room  now  for  any  further 
account  of  them.  As  a  general,  she  says,  he 
was  prodig-.il  of  the  lives  of  his  soldiers — 
haughty  aiul  domineering  to  his  officers — and 
utterly  regardless  of  the  miseries  he  inflicted 
on  the  countries  which  were  the  scenes  of 
his  operations.  The  following  anecdote  is 
curious — and  to  us  original. 

"  On  I'a  vu  dans  la  guerre  d'Auiriche,  en  1309, 
quitter  I'lle  de  Lobau.  quand  i!  jugeoit  la  baiailU 
perdue.  11  traversa  le  Daiml)e,  seul  avec  M.  de 
Czernitchef,  I'un  des  inirepides  aides  de  camp  de 
I'empereur  de  Russie,  et  le  marechal  Berthier. 
L'empereur  leur  dit  as.sez  tranquilleinent  qn'apns 
avoir  srairne  (luaratile  bataillen,  il  7i' etoit  pns  ejclra- 
ordinaire  d'aiperdre  une;  et  lorsqu'il  fut  arrive 
de  Tautre  cote  du  fleuve,  il  se  concha  et  dormit 
JH!:qu''aii  lendemain  matin  !  sanss'inforiner  du  sort 
de  Tarmce  fran5oise.  que  ses  gcncraux  sauverent 
pendant  son  sommcil." — Vol.  ii.  p.  35S. 

Madame  de  Stael  mentions  several  other 
instances  of  this  faculty  of  sleeping  in  mo- 
ments of  great  apparent  anxiety.  The  most 
remarkable  is,  that  he  fell  fast  asleep  before 
taking  the  field  in  1814,  while  endeavouring 
to  persuade  one  of  his  ministers  that  he  hiid 
no  chance  of  success  in  the  approaching  cam- 
paign, but  must  inevitably  be  ruined  ! 

She  has  extracted  from  the  INlouiteur  of 
July  1810,  a  verv  singular  proof  of  the  au- 
dacity with  vvhicK  he  very  early  proclaimed 
his  own  selfish  and  ambitious  views.  It  is 
a  public  letter  addressed  by  him  to  his 
nephew,  the  young  Duke  of  Berg,  in  which 
he  says,  in  so  many  words,  ''N'oubliez  ja- 
mais, (pie  vos  premiers  devoirs  sqnt  envers 
Mt)i — vos  seconds  envers  la  France — ceux 
envers  les  peuples  que  je  pourrois  vous  con- 
fier,  ne  vieniient  qu'apres."  This  was  at 
least  candid — and  in  his  disdain  for  mankind, 
a  sort  of  audacious  candour  was  sometimes 
alternated  with  his  duplicity. 

"  Un  principe  general,  quel  qu'il  fut,  deplaisoic 
a  Bonaparte  ;  comme  une  niaiserie,  ou  comme  un 
ennemi.  II  n'etoit  point  sanguinaire,  mais  indilfe- 
reni  a  la  vie  dee  hommes.  II  ne  la  consideroit  que 
comme  un  moyen  d'arriver  a  son  but,  ou  coiinne 
un  obstacle  a  ecarler  de  sa  route.  II  n'etoit  pas 
meme  aussi  colere  qu'il  a  soiivcnt  paru  I'eire  :  il 
vouloii  efFrayer  avec  ses  paroles,  afin  de  s'epargner 
le  fait  par  la  menace.  Tout  etoit  chez  lui  nioyen 
on  but;  I'involontaire  ne  se  trouvoit  iiulle  part,  ni 
dans  le  bien.  ni  dans  le  nial.  On  pretend  qu'il  a 
cfit  :  J'ai  linit  de  ronnrril.t  o  dvjieimrr  jnir  an.  Ce 
propos  est  vraisemblable  ;  car  Bonaparte  a  oouveni 
assez  meprise  ses  audilcnrs  pour  se  coinpluire  ilans 
un  genre  de  sincerite  qui  n'eai  que  de  rimpndeure. 
— Jamais  il  n'a  cru  aux  sentimensexalles,  suit  dans 


232 


fflSTORV  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


lea  individus,  soit  dans  lc3  nations  ;  il  a  pris  I'ex- 
prtssion  de  ces  seniiinens  pour  de  Thypocnsie." — 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  391,  392. 

Bonaparte,  Madame  de  Stael  thinks,  had 
no  alternative  but  to  give  the  French  nation 
a  free  constitution ;  or  to  occupy  them  in 
war.  and  to  dazzle  them  with  military  glory. 
He  had  not  magnanimity  to  do  the  one.  and 
he  finally  overdid  the  latter.  His  first  great 
error  was  the  war  with  Spain ;  his  last,  the 
campaign  in  Russia.  All  that  followed  was 
put  upon  him,  and  could  not  be  avoided. 
She  rather  admires  his  rejection  of  the  terms 
otfei'ed  at  Chatillon  ;  and  is  moved  with  his 
farewell  to  his  legions  and  their  eagles  at 
Fontainebleau.  She  feels  like  a  French- 
woman on  the  occupation  of  Paris  by  foreign 
conquerors ;  but  gives  the  Emperor  Ale.xan- 
der  full  credit,  both  for  the  magnanimity  of 
his  conduct  as  a  conqueror,  and  the  gene- 
rosity of  his  sentiments  on  the  subject  of 
French  liberty  and  independence.  She  is 
quite  satisfied  with  the  declaration  made  by 
the  King  at  St.  Ouen,  and  even  with  the 
charter  that  followed — though  she  allows 
that  many  further  provisions  were  necessary 
to  consolidate  the  constitution.  All  this  part 
of  the  book  is  written  with  great  temperance 
and  reconciling  wisdom.  She  laughs  at  the 
doctrine  of  legitimacy,  as  it  is  now  main- 
tained ;  but  gives  excellent  reasons  for  pre- 
ferring an  ancient  line  of  princes,  and  a 
fixed  order  of  succession.  Of  the  Ultras,  or 
trnconstitutional  royalists,  as  she  calls  them, 
she  speaks  with  a  sort  of  mixed  anger  and 
pity;  although  an  unrepressed  scorn  takes 
the  place  of  both,  when  she  has  occasion  to 
mention  those  members  of  the  party  who 
were  the  abject  flatterers  of  Bonaparte  du- 
ring the  period  of  his  power,  and  have  but 
transferred,  to  the  new  occujiant  of  the  throne, 
the  servility  to  which  they  had  been  trained 
under  its  late  possessor. 

"  Mais  ceu.x  dont  on  avoit  le  plus  de  peine  a 
contenir  rindi^nation  vertueuse  conire  le  parti  de 
I'usiirpateur,  c  utoient  ies  nobles  ou  leurs  adherens, 
qui  avoient  demande  des  places  a  ce  nieme  u?ur- 
pateur  pendant  sa  puissance,  et  qui  s'en  etoient 
separes  bien  nettement  le  jour  de  sa  chute.  L'en- 
thousiasme  pour  la  legitimite  de  lel  chainbellan  de 
Madame  mere,  ou  de  telle  dame  d'atour  de 
Madame  sffiur,  ne  connois^oit  point  de  homes  ;  et 
certes,  nous  auires  que  Bonapane  avoit  proscrit.e 
pendant  tout  le  conrs  de  son  rcgne,  nous  nous 
examinions  pour  savoir  si  nous  n'avions  pas  ete 
ses  favoris,  quand  uiie  certaine  df'liiaiesse  d'ame 
nous  obhgeoit  a  le  d6fendre  conire  Ips  invectives 
de  ceux  qu'il  avoit  conibies  de  bienfaits." — Vol. 
jii.  p.  107. 

Our  Charles  II.  was  recalled  to  the  throne 
of  his  ancestors  by  the  voice  of  his  peojile  : 
and  yet  that  throne  was  shaken,  and.  within 
twenty-five  years,  overturned  by  the  arbitrary 
conduct  of  the  restored  sovereigns.  Louis 
XVIII.  was  not  recalled  by  his  people,  but 
brought  in  and  set  up  by  foreign  contjuerors. 
It  must  therefore  be  still  more  necessary  for 
him  to  guard  against  arbitrary  measures,  and 
to  take  all  possible  steps  to  secure  the  attach- 
ment of  that  people  whose  hostility  had  so 
lately  proved  fatal.    If  he  like  domestic  ex- 


amples better,  he  has  that  of  his  own  Hen: 
IV.  before  him.  That  great  and  popula 
prince  at  last  found  it  necessary  to  adopt  tht 
religious  creed  of  the  great  majority  of  hi? 
people.  In  the  present  day,  it  is  at  least  a.- 
necessary  for  a  less  popular  monarch  to  stud\ 
and  adopt  their  political  one.  Some  of  those 
about  him,  we  have  heard,  rather  recoimueiu 
the  example  of  Ferdinand  VII. !  But  even  the 
Ultras,  we  think,  cannot  really  forget  thai 
Ferdinand,  instead  of  having  been  restorer 
by  a  foreign  force,  was  dethroned  b)'  one 
that  there  had  been  no  popular  insurrectioii 
and  no  struggle  for  liberty  in  Spain  :  and  that 
besides  the  army,  he  had  the  priesthood  oi 
his  side,  which,  in  that  country,  is  as  omnip  I 
otent.  as  in  France  it  is  insignificant  an. 
powerless,  for  any  political  purposes.  Wi 
cannot  now  follow  Madame  de  Stael  into  th- 
profound  and  instixictive  criticism  she  make 
on  the  management  of  affairs  during  Bona 
parte's  stay  at  Elba  : — though  much  of  it  i 
applicable  to  a  later  period — and  though  W' 
do  not  remember  to  have  met  any  where  wit) 
so  much  truth  told  in  so  <ientle  a  manner. 

Madame  de  Stael  confirms  what  we  believ 
all  well-informed  persons  now  admit,  that  fc 
months  before  the  return  of  Bonaparte,  tli 
attempt  was  expected,  and  in  some  measur 
prepared  for — by  all  but  the  court,  and  th  \ 
royalists  by  whom  it  was  surrounded.  Whe.  j 
the  news  of  his  landing  was  received,  the  I 
were  still  too  foolish  to  be  alanned  :  and.  whe 
the  friends  of  liberty  said  to  each  other,  wii 
bitter  regret,  '•  There  is  an  end  of  our  hbert 
if  he  should  succeed — and  of  our  national  ii 
dependence  if  he' should  fail," — the  worth 
Ulti-as  went  about,  saying,  it  was  the  luckio; 
thing  in  the  world,  for  they  should  now  gt 
properly  rid  of  him  :  and  the  King  would  i: 
longer  be  vexed  with  the  fear  of  a  pr»'tend<'r 
Madame  de  Stael  treats  with  derision  the  idi 
of  Bonaparte  being  sincere  in  his  prole.*s:oi 
of  regard  to  liberty,  or  his  resolution  to  adhe-i 
to  the  constitution  proposed  to  him  after  h 
return.  She  even  maintains,  that  it  was  al 
surd  to  propose  a  free  constitution  at  such 
crisis.  If  the  nation  and  the  army  abandone 
the  Bourbons,  nothing  remained  for  the  natir' 
but  to  invest  the  master  of  that  army  with  tf 
dictatorship  :  and  to  rise  en  ma.'^ae.  till  the 
borders  were  freed  from  the  invaders.  Th; 
they  did  not  do  so,  only  proves  that  they  ha 
become  indifferent  about  the  country,  or  th;' 
they  were  in  their  hearts  hostile  to  Bonajarti 
Nothing,  she  assures  us.  but  the  consciousnei' 
of  this,  could  have  made  him  submit  to  coi 
cessions  so  alien  to  his  whole  character  ar. 
habits — and  the  world,  says  Madame  de  Stfli 
so  understood  him.  ''Quand  il  a  prononce  1'' 
mots  de  Loi  et  Liberie.  I'Enrope  s'est  ras.«uiei, 
Elle  a  senti  que  ce  n"etoit  plus  son  ancien 
terrible  adversaire." 

She  passes  a  magnificent  encomium  on  ll 
military  genius  and  exalted  character  of  o 
Wellington  :  but  says  he  could  not  Jiave  co 
quered  as  he  did,  if  the  French  had  been  I< 
by  one  who  could  rally  round  him  the  afTc 
tions  of  the  people  as  well  as  he  could  dire 
their  soldiers.     She  maintains^  that  after  tl 


DE  STAEL'S  FPxENCH  REVOLITION. 


zss 


{ittle,  when  Bonaparte  returned  to  Paris,  he 
;id  not  the  least  idea  ot  bein^  called  uj^on 
"rain  to  abdicate  ;  but  expected  to  obtain  from 
■e  two  chambers  the  means  of  renewina;  or 
lutinuing  the  contest.  When  he  found  that 
is  was  impossible,  he  sunk  at  once  into  de- 
'■air.  and  resiirned  himselF  without  a  struirirle. 
le  selti.-;hness  which  had  guided  his  whole 
reer.  disclosed  itself  in  naked  deformity  in 
e  last  acts  of  his  public  life.  He  abandoned 
sarmy  the  moment  he  found  that  he  could  not 
id  it  immediately  against  the  enemy — and 
1  sooner  saw  his  own  fate  determined,  than 
•  gave  up  all  concern  for  that  of  the  unhappy 
luntry  which  his  ambition  had  involved  iii 
!ch  disasters.  He  quietly  passed  by  the 
<mp  of  his  warriors  on  his  waj-  to  the  port 
1  which  he  was  to  make  his  own  escape — 
id.  by  throwing  himself  into  the  hands  of 
19  English,  endeavoured  to  obtain  for  him- 
»lf  the  benefit  of  those  liberal  principles 
Mich  it  had  been  the  business  of  his  life  to 
ttirpate  and  discredit  all  over  the  world. 
At  this  point  Madame  de  Stael  terminates 
niewhat  abruptly  her  historical  review  of 
t?  events  of  the  Revolution  ;  and  here,  our 
iiders  will  be  happy  to  learn,  we  must  stop 
t ).  There  is  half  a  volume  more  of  her  work, 
ileed, — and  one  that  cannot  be  supposed  the 
hst  interesting  to  us,  as  it  treats  chiefly  of 
t?  history,  constitution,  and  society  of  Eng- 
Ijid.  But  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that  we 
(hnot  trust  ourselves  with  the  examination  of 
i  We  have  every  reason  certainly  to  be  satis- 
1  d  with  the  account  she  gives  of  us ;  nor  can 
f  y  thing  be  more  eloquent  and  animating  than 
t^  view  she  has  presented  of  the  admirable 
I'chanism  and  steady  working  of  our  consti- 
ti'ion.  and  of  its  eimobling  effects  on  the  char- 
f;  er  of  all  who  live  under  it.  We  are  willing- 
l' believe  all  this  too  to  be  just;  though  we 
Si  certainly  painted  en  beau.  In  some  parts, 
IWever,  we  are  more  shocked  at  the  notions 
<:S  21VPS  us  of  the  French  character,  than 
frtered  at  the  contrast  exhibited  by  our  own. 
I, mentioning  the  good  reception  that  gentle- 
fn  in  opposition  to  government  sometimes 
ri-et  with  in  society,  among  us,  and  the  up- 
rjht  posture  they  contrive  to  maintain,  she 
a.-s,  that  nobody  here  would  think  of  con- 
oling  with  a  man  for  being  out  of  power,  or 
C|  receiving  him  with  less  cordiality.  She 
rices  also,  with  a  very  alarming  sort  of  ad- 
rration,  that  she  understood,  when  in  Eng- 
ird, that  a  gentleman  of  the  law  had  actually 
rused  a  situation  worth  6000/.  or  7000/.  a 
J'lr,  merely  because  he  did  not  approve  of 
t!'  ministry  by  whom  it  was  offered ;  and 
alls,  that  in  France  any  man  who  would  re- 


30 


fuse  a  respectable  oiTico,  with  a  salary  of 
8000  loui.s,  would  certainly  be  considered  as 
tit  for  Bedlam  :  And  in  another  place  she  ob- 
serves, that  it  .seems  to  be  a  fundamental 
maxim  in  that  country,  that  t-very  man  mu.'it 
have  a  place.  We  i'oiift\ss  that  we  have  some 
diriiculty  in  reconciling  these  iiu-idental  inti- 
mations with  her  leatling  iwsition,  that  the  great 
majority  of  the  French  nation  is  desirous  of  a 
free  constitution,  and  perfectly  fit  for  and  de- 
serving of  it.  If  these  be  the  principles,  not 
only  upon  which  they  act,  but  which  they  and 
their  advocates  avow,  we  know  no  constitution 
under  which  they  can  he  free  ;  and  have  no 
faith  in  the  power  of  any  new  inslitutions  to 
counteract  that  spirit  of  corruption  by  which, 
even  where  they  have  existed  the  longest, 
their  whole  virtue  is  consumed. 

With  our  manners  in  societv  she  is  not  qiiite 
so  well  pleased  ; — thouirh  she  is  kind  enough 
to  ascribe  our  deliciencies  to  the  mo.st  honour- 
able causes.  In  commiserating  the  compara- 
tive dulness  of  our  social  talk,  however,  has 
not  this  philosophic  ob.server  a  little  overlooked 
the  effects  of  national  tastes  and  habits — and 
is  it  not  conceivable,  at  least,  that  we  who  are 
used  to  it  may  really  have  as  much  satisfac- 
tion in  our  own  hum-drnm  way  of  seeing  each 
other,  as  our  more  sprightly  neighl>ours  in 
their  exquisite  assemblies  1  In  all  this  part 
of  the  work;  too,  we  think  we  can  perceive 
the  traces  rather  of  ingenious  theory,  than  of 
correct  observation  :  and  suspect  that  a  good 
part  of  the  tableau  of  English  .society  is  rather 
a  sort  of  conjectural  sketch,  than  a  copy  from 
real  life  ;  or  at  least  that  it  is  a  generalization 
from  a  very  few,  and  not  very  common  ex- 
amples. May  we  be  pardoned  too  for  hinting, 
that  a  person  of  Madame  de  Stael's  great 
talents  and  celebrity,  is  by  no  means  "well 
qualified  for  discovering  the  true  tone  and 
character  of  English  society  from  her  own  ob- 
servation ;  both  because  she  was  not  likely  to 
see  it  in  those  smaller  and  more  familiar  as- 
semblages in  which  it  is  seen  to  the  mo.st  ad- 
vantage, and  because  her  presence  must  have 
had  the  unluckv  effect  of  imposing  silence  on 
the  modest,  and  tempting  the  vain  and  ambi- 
tious to  unnatural  display  and  ostentation. 

With  all  its  faults,  however,  the  portion  of 
her  book  which  we  have  been  obliged  to  pass" 
over  in  silence,  is  well  worthy  of  as  ample  a 
notice  as  we  have  bestowed  on  the  other 
parts  of  it;  and  would  of  itself  be  sufficient  to 
justify  us  in  ascribing  to  its  lamented  author 
that  perfection  of  masculine  understanding, 
and  female  grace  and  acuteness,  which  are 
so  rarely  to  be  met  with  apart,  and  never,  we 
believe,  were  before  united. 

u2 


SM 


fflSTORV  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(fcbruaru,  ISIG.) 

Memoires  de  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Larochejaquelein  ;  avec  deux  Cartes  du  Theatre  de  / 
Guerre  de  La  Vendee.     2  tomeS;  8vo.  pp.  500.     Paris:  1815. 

This  is  a  book  to  be  placed  by  the  side  of 
Mrs.  Hutchinson's  delightful  Memoirs  of  her 
heroic  husband  and  his  chivalrous  Independ- 
ents. Both  are  pictures,  by  a  female  hand, 
of  tumultuary  and  almost  private  -wars,  car- 
ried on  by  conscientious  individuals  against 
the  actual  government  of  their  country: — and 
both  bring  to  light,  not  only  innumerable  traits 
of  the  most  romantic  daring  and  devoted 
ftdeJity  ni  particular  persons,  but  a  general 
character  of  domestic  virtue  and  social  gen- 
tleness among  those  who  would  otherwise 
have  figured  to  our  imaginations  as  adventur- 
ous desperadoes  or  ferocious  bigots.  There 
is  less  talent,  perhaps,  and  less  loftiness, 
either  of  style  or  of  character,  in  the  French 
than  the  English  heroine.  Yet  she  also  has 
done  and  suffered  enough  to  entitle  her  to 
that  appellation ;  and,  while  her  narrative 
acquires  an  additional  interest  and  a  truer 
tone  of  nature,  from  the  occasional  recurrence 
of  female  fears  and  anxieties,  it  is  conversant 
with  still  more  extraordinary  incidents  and 
characters,  and  reveals  still  more  of  what  had 
been  previously  malignantly  misrepresented, 
or  entirely  unknown. 

Our  readers  will  understand,  from  the  title- 
page  which  we  have  tran.scribed,  that  the 
work  relates  to  the  unhappy  and  sanguinary 
wars  which  were  waged  against  the  insur- 
{.cents  in  La  Vendee  during  the  first  and  mad- 
dest years  of  the  French  Republic  :  But  it  is 
proper  for  us  to  add.  that  it  is  confined  almost 
entire!}-  to  the  ti-ansuctions  of  two  years;  and 
that  the  detailed  narrative  ends  with  the  dis- 
solution of  the  first  Vendean  army,  before  the 
proper  formation  of  the  Chouan  force  in  Brit- 
tany, or  the  second  insurrection  of  Poitou : 
though  there  are  some  brief  and  imperfect 
notices  of  these,  and  subsequent  occurrences. 
The  details  also  extend  only  to  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Royalist  or  Insurgent  party,  to 
which  the  author  belonged ;  and  do  not  affect 
to  embrace  any  general  history  of  the  war. 

This  hard-fated  woman  was  very  young, 
and  newly  married,  when  she  was  thrown, 
by  the  adverse  circumstances  of  the  time, 
into  the  very  heart  of  those  deplorable  con- 
tests;— and.  without  pretending  to  any  other 
information  than  she  could  draw  from  her 
own  experience,  and  scarcely  presuming  to 
pass  any  judgment  ui^on  the  merits  or  de^ 


book  of  a  clear  and  dramatic  description  of 
acts  in  which  .she  was  a  sharer,  or  scenes  of 
which  she  was  an  eyewitness, — and  of  the 
characters  and  histories  of  the  many  distin- 
guished individuals  who  partook  with  her  of 
their  glories  or  sufferiiiirs.  The  irregular  and 
undisciplined  wars  which  it  is  her  business 
to  describe,  are  naturally  far  more  prolific  of 


I  extraordinary  incidents,  unexpected  turns  > 
!  fortune,  and  striking  displays  of  individu; 
I  talent,  and  vice  and  virtue,  tii.tn  the  more  st 
j  lemn  movements  of  national  hostility ;  whei 
;  everj-  thing  is  in  a  great  measure   provide 
;  and  foreseen,  and  where  the  intlexible  sul 
j  oidination  of  rank,  and  the  severe  exactior 
I  of  a  limited  duty,  not  only  take  away  the  ii 
i  ducement.  but  the  opportunity,  for  those  e: 
'  altations  of  personal  feeling   and   adventu 
!  which  produce  the  most  lively  interest,  a; 
!  lead  to  the  most  animating  results.     In  t. 
I  uncoucerted  proceedings  of  an  insurgi-nt  poj 
!  lation,  all  is  experiment,  and  all  is  passu 
1  The  heroic  daring  of  a  simple  peasant  li: 
him  at  once  to  the  rank  of  a  leader  :  and  k. 
,  dies  a  general  enthusiasm  to  which  all  ihii , 
become  possible.     Generous  and  gentle  fet 
I  uigs  are  speedily  generated   by  this  lais. 
state  of  mind  and  of  destination  ;  and  the  pt 
;  petual   iiiteiTnixture  of  domestic  cares  a: 
I  rustic  occupations,  with  the  exploits  of  troi 
serving  without  pay,  and  utterly  ullprovi^l• 
!  with  magazines,  produces  a  contrast  wh. 
\  enhances  the  eflects  of  both  parts  of  the  < 
!  scription,  and  gives  an  air  of  moral  picti 
j  esqueness  to  the  scene,  which  is  both  pathe 
I  and  delightful.  It  becomes  much  more  attra 
[  ive  also,  in  this  representation,  by  the  sin;, 
lar   candour  and  moderation — not  the  iik 
I  usual   virtue    of    belligerent    females — w 
;  which  Madame  de  L.  has  told  the  story 
her  friends  and  her  enemies — the  liberal 
I  with  which  she  has  praised  the  instances 
heroism  or  compassion  which  occur  in  ! 
conduct  of  the  republicans,  and  the  simplic 
with  which  she  confesses  the  jealousies  a 
e.vcesses  which  sometimes  disgraced  the 
surgents.     There  is  not  only  no  ie\alist 
antirevolutiouary  rant  in  these  volumes,!' 
scarcely  any  of  the  bitterness  or  exaggerat 
of  a  party  to  civil  dissensions  :  and  it  is  rat 
wonderful  that  an  actor  and  a  suffeier  in  . 
most  cruel  and  outrageous  warfare  by  wh' 
modern  times  have  been  disgraced,  sho' 
have  set  an  example  of  temperance  and 
partiality  which  its  remote  spectators  h: 
found  it"so  difficult  to  follow.     The  truth 
we  believe,  that  thost;  who  have  liad  ir 
occasion  to  see  the  mutval  madness  of  c 
tending  factions,  and  to  be  aware  of  the  tr  ■ 
of  individual  generosity  by  which  the  \\\- 
cause  is  occasionally  redeemed,  and  of  bn' 
outi-age  by  which  the  best  is  sometimes  • 
based,  are  both  more  indulgent  to  hur ' 
nature,  and  more  distrustful  of  its  immacu  ' 
purity,  than  the  fine  declaimers  who  ag;  • 
vate  "all  that  is  had  on  the  side  to  which  t  : 
are  opposed,  and  refuse  to  admit  its  existe ' 
in  that  to  which  they  belong.     The  gen,l 
of  an  adverse  army  has  always  more  tol.* 


f 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAIME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


235 


tin  for  the  severities  and  even  the  miscou- 
( ct  of  his  opponents,  and  the  herd  of  ignorant 
leculatois  at  home  \ — in  the  same  way  as  the 
i'Aers  of  political  parties  have  uniformly  far 
hs  rancour  and  animosity  towards  their  an- 
tTonists,  than  the  vulgar  followers  in  their 
ijiin.  It  is  no  small  proof,  however,  of  an 
(ivated  and  generous  character,  to  be  able 
(make  those  allowances;  and  Madame  de 
]  would  have  had  every  apology  for  falling 
i';o  the  opposite  error, — both  on  account  of 
]t  sex,  the  natural  prejudices  of  her  rank 
sId  education,  the  extraordinary  suflerings  to 
•■iiich  she  was  subjected,  and  the  singularly 
illd  and  unolfending  character  of  the  be- 
lied associates  of  whom  she  was  so  cruelly 
<prived. 

She  had  some  right,  in  truth,  to  be  delicate 
{(i  royalist,  beyond  the  ordinary  standard. 
]';r  father,  tht;  Marquis  de  Donnison,  had  an 
tiployment  abaut  the  person  of  the  King;  in 
V-tue  of  which,  he  had  apartments  in  the 
l.lace  of  Versailles ;  in  which  splendid  abode 
lie  writer  was  born,  and  continued  constantly 
llreside,  in  the  very  focus  of  royal  influence 
^d  glory,  till  the  whole  of  its  unfortunate  in- 
libitants  were  compelled  to  leave  it,  by  the 
iry  of  that  mob  which  escorted  them  to 
iris  in  1789.  She  had,  like  most  French 
ijhes  of  distinction,  been  destined  from  her 
ilancy  to  be  the  wife  of  M.  de  Lescure,  a 

tr  relation  of  her  mother,  and  the  repre- 
,  tative  of  the  ancient  and  noble  family  of 
fjlgues  in  Poitou.  The  character  of  "this 
«ainent  person,  both  as  it  is  here  drawn  by 
k  widow,  and  indirectly  exhibited  in  various 
)!rts  of  her  narrative,  is  as  remote  as  possible 
ijim  that  which  we  should  have  been  in- 
(I'ned,  a  priori,  to  ascribe  to  a  young  Fiench 
libleman  of  the  old  regime,  just  come  to 
(jurt,  in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  from  a  great 
ilitary  school.  He  was  extremely  serious, 
llshful,  pious,  and  self-denyinsr, — with  great 
I'mness  of  character  and  sweetness  of  tem- 
)[i'. — fearless,  and  even  ardent  in  war,  but 
limble  in  his  pretensions  to  dictate,  and  most 
wisiderate  of  the  wishes  and  sufferings  of  his 
ijlowers.  To  this  person  she  was  married  in 
ti  nineteenth  year  of  her  age,  in  October 
(90, — at  a  time  when  most  of  the  noblesse 
1(1  already  emigrated,  and  when  the  rage  for 
lit  unfortunate  measure  had  penetrated  even 
1  the  province  of  Poitou.  where  M.  de  Les- 
(jre  had  previously  formed  a  prudent  asso- 
ijition  of  the  whole  gentry  of  the  country,  to 
'lom  the  peasantry  were  most  zealously  at- 
tphed.  It  was  the  fashion,  however,  to  emi- 
}lite;  and  so  many  of  the  Poitevin  nobility 
ire  pleased  to  follow  it,  that  M.  de  Lescure 
!  la.st  thought  it  concerned  his  honour,  not  to 
ijnain  longer  behind;  and  came  to  Paris  in 
][:bruary  1791,  to  make  preparations  for  his 
;:irney  to  Coblentz.  Here,  however,  he  was 
iijuested  by  the  Queen  h.rs(;lf  not  to  iro 
I'-lher;  and  thought  it  his  duty  to  obey.  The 
(|mmer  was  passed  in  the  greatest  anxieties 
ijd  agitations ;  and  at  last  came  the  famous 
'Imth  of  August.  Madame  de  L.  assures  us, 
i|at  the  attack  on  the  palace  was  altoirether 
"iiexpected  on  that  occasion,  and  that  M. 


Moiilmorin,  who  came  to  her  from  the  King 
late  in  the  j)receding  evening,  inh)rnied  her, 
that  they  were  perfectly  aware  of  an  intention 
to  assiudt  the  royal  residence  on  the  night  of 
the  12th;  but  that,  to  a  certainty,  nothing 
would  be  attempted  till  then.  At  midnight, 
however,  there  were  signs  of  ;igilation  in  the 
neighbourhood;  and  before  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  mas-satre  had  begun.  M.  {io 
Lescure  rushed  out  on  the  fnst  symptom  of 
alarm  to  join  the  defenders  of  the  palace,  but 
could  not  obtain  access  within  the  gJites.  and 
was  obliged  to  return  and  disguise  hiniself  in 
the  gTirb  of  a  Satiscnlolte,  that  he  might  min- 
gle with  some  chance  of  escaj)e  in  the  crowd 
of  assailants.  M.  de  Monlmorin,  who.se  dis- 
guise was  less  perfect,  esi'njieil  as  if  by  a 
miracle.  After  being  insulted  b)  the  mob, 
he  had  taken  refuge  in  the  shop  of  a  small 
grocer,  by  whom  he  was  immediately  recog- 
nised, and  where  he  was  speedily  surrounded 
by  crowds  of  the  National  Guards,  reeking 
from  the  slaughter  of  the  Swiss.  The  good 
natnred  shopkeeper  saw  his  danger,  and 
stepping  quickly  up  to  him,  said  with  a  fa- 
miliar air,  "  Well,  cousin,  you  scarcely  ex- 
pected, on  your  arrival  from  the  country,  to 
witness  the  downfal  of  the  tyrant — Here, 
drink  to  the  health  of  those  brave  asserters 
of  our  liberties."  He  submitted  to  swallow 
the. toast,  and  got  oil  without  injury. 

The  street  in  wliich  M.  Lescure  resided, 
being  much  frequented  by  persons  of  the 
Swiss  nation,  Was  evidently  a  very  dangerous 
])lace  of  retreat  for  royalists ;  ancl,  soon  after 
it  was  dark,  the  whole  family,  disguised  in 
the  dress  of  the  lower  orders,  slipped  out, 
with  the  design  of  taking  refuge  in  the  house 
of  an  old  fcmine-de-chanibrc,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  M.  de  Donnison  and  his  wife 
went  in  one  party ;  and  Mailame  Lescure, 
then  in  the  seventh  month  of  her  pregnancy, 
with  her  husband,  in  another.  Intending  to 
cross  by  the  lowest  of  the  bridges,  they  first 
turned  into  the  Champi-Elyscos.  More  than 
a  thousand  men  had  been  killed  there  that 
day ;  but  the  alleys  were  now  silent  and 
lonely  :  thoui>h  the  roar  of  the  midtitude,  and 
occasional  discharges  of  cannon  and  musketry, 
were  heard  from  the  front  of  the  Tuilleries, 
\\here  the  conflagration  of  the  barracks  was 
still  visible  in  the  sky.  While  they  were 
wandering  in  these  horriii  shades,  a  woman 
came  flying  up  to  them,  followed  by  a  drunken 
patriot,  with  his  musket  presented  at  her 
:  head.  All  he  had  to  say  was.  that  she  was 
I  an  aristocrat,  and  that  he  must  /ini.sh  his  day's 
work  l>y  killing  her.  M.  Lescure  a]>iM'ased 
him  with  admirable  presence  of  mind,  by 
profes.sing  to  enter  entirely  into  his  sentiments, 
I  and  proposing  that  they  should  go  back  to- 
i  gether  to  the  attack  of  the  jialace — adding 
:  only,  "But  you  see  what  state  my  wile  is  m 
; — she  is  a  poor  timid  creature — and  I  must 
■  first  take  her  to  her  sister's,  and  then  I  .'■hall 
I  return  here  to  you."'  Tlie  savage  at  last 
'  agre(;d  to  this,  though  before  he  weiit  oil,  he 
I  presented  his  piece  several  times  at  lliem, 
swearing  that  he  believed  they  were  Jirislo- 
crats  after  all,  and  that  he  had  a  mind  to  liuvo 


236 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


a  shot  at  them.  This  rencontre  drove  them 
from  the  lonely  way ;  and  they  returned  to 
the  public  streets,  all  blazing  with  illumina- 
tions, and  crowded  with  dranken  and  infuri- 
ated wretches,  armed  with  pikes,  and  in  many 
instances  stained  with  blood.  The  tumult 
and  terror  of  the  scene  inspired  Madame  de 
L.  with  a  kind  of  s^^npathetic  frenzy;  and, 
without  knowing  what  she  did,  she  screamed 
out.  Vive  les  Sanscidotfes !  a  bos  les  tyrans  !  as 
outrageously  as  any  of  them.  They  glided 
unhurt,  however,  through  this  horrible  assem- 
blage ;  and  crossing  tlie  river  b}'  the  Pont 
Neuf,  found  the  opposite  shore  dark,  silent, 
and  deserted,  and  speedily  gained  the  numble 
refuge  in  search  of  which  they  had  ventured. 

The  domestic  relations  between  the  great 
and  their  dependants  were  certainly  more 
cordial  in  old  France,  than  in  any  other  coun- 
try— and  a  revolution,  which  aimed  profess- 
edly at  levelling  all  distinction  of  ranks,  and 
avenging  the  crimes  of  the-  wealthy,  armed 
the  hands  of  but  few  servants  against  the  lives 
or  liberties  of  their  masters.  M.  de  Lescure 
and  his  family  were  saved  in  this  extremity 
by  the  prudent  and  heroic  fidelity  of  some  old 
waiting-women  and  laundresses — and  ulti- 
mately effected  their  retreat  to  the  country  by 
the  zealous  and  devoted  services  of  a  former 
tutor  in  the  family,  who  had  taken  a  very 
conspicuous  part  on  the  side  of  the  Revolution. 
This  M.  Thomasin,  who  had  superintended 
the  education  of  M.  Lescure,  and  retained  the 
warmest  affection  for  him  and  the  whole 
family,  was  an  active,  bold,  and  good-humour- 
ed man — a  great  fencer,  and  a  considerable 
orator  at  the  meetings  of  his  section.  He  was 
eager,  of  course,  for  a  revolution  that  was  to 
give  every  thing  to  talents  and  courage  :  and 
had  been  made  a  captain  in  one  of  the  mu- 
nicipal regiments  of  Paris.  This  kind-hearted 
patriot  took  the  proscribed  family  of  M.  de 
Lescure  under  his  immediate  protection,  and 
by  a  thou.sand  little  stratagems  and  contriv- 
ances, not  only  procured  passports  and  con- 
vevances  to  take  them  out  of  Paris,  but 
actually  escorted  them  himself,  in  hi.s  national 
uniform,  till  they  were  safely  settled  in  a  roy- 
alist district  in  the  suburbs  of  Tours.  When 
any  tumult  or  obstruction  arose  on  the  journey, 
M.  Thomasin  leaped  from  the  carriage,  and 
assuming  the  tone  of  zeal  and  authority  that 
belonged  to  a  Parisian  officer,  he  harangued, 
reprimanded,  and  enchanted  the  provincial 
patriots,. till  the  whole  party  went  olT  again  in 
the  midst  of  their  acclamations.  From  Tours, 
after  a  cautious  and  encouraging  exploration 
of  the  neighbouring  country,  they  at  length 
j)roceeded  to  M.  Lescure's  chateau  of  Clisson. 
in  the  heart  of  the  district  afterwards  but  too 
well  known  by  the  name  of  La  Vendee,  of 
which  the  author  has  here  introduced  a  very 
clear  and  interesting  description. 

A  tract  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
.square,  at  the  mouth  and  on  the  southern 
bank  of  the  Loire,  comprehends  the  scene  of 
those  deplorable  hostilities.  The  most  inland 
part  of  the  district,  and  that  in  which  the  in- 
surrection first  broke  out.  is  called  Le  Socage; 
and  seems  to  have  been  almost  as  singular  in 


its  physical  conformation,  as  in  the  state  and 
condition  of  its  population.  A  series  of  de- 
tached eminences,  of  no  great  elevation,  rose 
over  the  whole  face  of  the  country,  with  little 
rills  trickling  in  the  hollows  and  occasional 
cliffs  by  their  sides.  The  whole  space  was 
divided  into  small  euclosurei*,  each  surround- 
ed with  tall  wild  hedges,  and  rows  o1"  pollan! 
trees ;  so  that,  though  there  were  few  large 
woods,  the  whole  region  had  a  sylvan  ami 
impenetrable  appearance.  The  ground  was 
mostly  in  pasturage ;  and  the  landscape  had. 
for  the  most  part,  an  aspect  of  wild  verdure 
except  that  in  the  autumn  some  patches  ot 
yellow  corn  appeared  here  and  there  athwart 
the  green  enclosures.  Only  two  great  road.- 
traversed  this  sequestered  region,  running 
nearly  parallel,  at  a  distance  of  more  thaii 
seventy  miles  from  each  other.  In  the  Inter- 
mediate space,  there  was  nothing  but  a  laby- 
rinth of  wild  and  devious  paths,  crossing  each 
other  at  the  extremity  of  almost  every  field 
— often  serving,  at  the  same  time,  as  channels 
for  the  winter  torrents,  and  winding  so  ca- 
priciously among  the  innumerable  hillocks, 
and  beneath  the  meeting  hedgerows,  that  the 
natives  themselves  were  always  in  dianger  ot 
losing  their  way  when  they  went  a  league  or 
two  from  their  own  habitations.  The  coun- 
try, though  rather  thickly  peopled,  contained, 
as  may  be  supposed,  few  large  towns;  and 
the  inhabitants,  devoted  almost  entirely  to 
rural  occupations,  enjoyed  a  great  deal  of 
leisure.  The  noblesse  or  gentry  of  the  coun- 
try were  very  generally  resident  on  their 
estates ;  where  they  lived  in  a  style  of  sim- 
plicity and  homeliness  which  had  long  disap- 
peared from  every  other  part  of  the  kingdom. . 
No  grand  parks,  fine  gardens,  or  ornamented  j 
villas  :  but  spacious  clumsy  chateaus,  sur-  < 
rounded  with  farm  offices  and  cottages  for  the  i 
labourers.  Their  manners  and  way  of  life,  | 
too.  partook  of  the  same  primitive  rusticity.  !j 
There  was  great  cordiality,  and  even  much  j 
familiarity,  in  the  intercourse  of  the  seigneurs  ! 
with  their  dependants.  They  were  followed 
by  large  trains  of  them  in  their  hunting  expe- 
ditioi;?.  which  occupied  a  great  part  of  their 
time.  Everyman  had  his  fowlingpiece,  and 
was  a  marksman  of  fame  or  pretensions 
They  v/ere  posted  in  various  quarters,  to  in- 
tercept or  drive  back  the  game;  and  werei 
thus  trained,  by  anticipation,  to  that  sort  of, 
discipline  and  concert  in  which  their  whole  j 
art  of  war  was  afterwards  found  to  consist.. 
Nor  was  their  intimacy  confined  to  theirj 
sports.  The  peasants  resorted  familiarly  tO| 
their  landlords  for  advice,  both  legul  andj 
medical  :  and  thev  repaid  the  visits  in  their, 
daily  rambles,  and  entered  with  hiterest  into, 
all  the  details  of  their  agricultural  opera-' 
tions.  They  came  to  the  weddings  of  their, 
children,  drank  with  their  guests,  and  made^ 
little  presents  to  the  young  people.  On  Sun-j 
days  and  holidays,  "all  the  retainers  of  the 
family  a.ssembled'at  the  chateau,  and  danced' 
in  the  barn  or  the  court-yard,  according  to  tht ; 
season.  The  ladies  of  the  house  joined  in  th(, 
festivity,  and  that  without  any  airs  of  conde  | 
scension  or  of  mockery ;  for,  in  their  own  life 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


237 

ere  was  little  spJentlour  or  luxurious  re/iue-  I  resident  gentry,  no  doubt,  for  the  most  jiart, 
ent.     They  travelled    on   horseback,  or  in    favoured'lhat  cause;  and  the  peasiin try  fell 

'■'     almost  universally  with  their  masters  ; — but 


'avy  carriages  drawn  by  oxen ;  and  had  lit 
i  other  amusement  than  in  the  care  of  their 
spendants,  and  the  familiar  intercourse  of 
;;ighbours  among  whom  there  was  no  rivalry 
•  principle  of  ostentation. 
i  From  all  this  there  resulted,  as  Madame  de 
assures  us,  a  certain  innocence  and  kindli- 
•ssof  character,  joined  with  great  hardihnoil 
iid  gaiety, — which  reminds  us  of  Henry  IV. 


;  d  his  Bearnois, — iind  carries  with  it,  per- 
!.ps,  on  account  of  that  association,  an  idea 
I' something  more  chivalrous  and  romantic — 
)3re  honest  and  unsophisticated,  than  any 
ting  we  now  e.xpect  to  meet  with  in  this 
ijdern  world  of  artifice  and  derision.    Theie 

iis  great  purity  of  morals  accordingly.  Ma- 
•ime  de  L.  informs  us,  and  general  cheerful- 
iss  and  content  throughout  the  whole  dis- 
tct ; — crimes  were  never  heard  of,  and  law- 
sits  ahnost  unknown.  Though  not  very  well 
fucated,  the  population  was  exceediuirly 
<  vout ; — thoyo:h  theirs  was  a  kind  of  super- 
cilious and  tratlitioiial  devotion,  it  must  be 
<rned,  rather  than  an  enlightened  or  rational 
Ith.  They  had  the  greatest  veneration  for 
•'icitixes  and  nnages  of  their  saints,  and  had 
\  idea  of  any  duty  more  imperious  than  that 
f  attending  on  all  the  offices  of  religion, 
'rey  were  sing-ularly  attached  al.=;o  to  their 
t'res ;  who  were  almost  all  born  and  bred  in 
t'  country,  spoke  their  patois,  and  shared  in 
d'  their  pastimes  and  occupations.  When  a 
I'nting-match  was  to  take  place,  the  clergy- 
r In  announced  it  from  the  pulpit  after  prayers, 
-Ind  then  took  his  fowlin2"piece.  and  accom- 
jliied  his  congregation  to  the  thicket.  It 
\  s  on  behalf  of  these  cures,  in  fact,  that  the 
l:t  disturbances  were  excited. 

The  decree  of  the  Convention,  displacing 
a  priests  who  did  not  take  the  oaths  imposed 
bthat  assembly,  occasioned  the  icmoval  of 
sreral  of  those  beloved  and  conscientious 
p5tors:  and  various  tumults  were  excited  by 
abrapts  to  establish  their  successors  by  au- 
Urity.  Some  lives  were  lost  in  these  tu- 
nlts;  but  their  most  important  effect  was 


neither  had  the  least  idea,  in  the  beginning, 
of  opposing  the  political  pretensions  of  the 
new  government,  nor,  even  to  the  last,  nnuh 
serious  hope  of  etTeclingany  revolution  in  the 
general  state  of  the  country.  The  first  niove- 
ments,  indeed,  partook  far  more  of  bigotry 
than  of  royalism  :  and  were  merely  ihe  rash 
and  undirected  expressions  of  plebeian  resent- 
ment for  the  loss  of  their  accuslonwd  pastors. 
The  more  extensive  cumniot ions  whicii  follow- 
ed on  the  compulsory  levy,  were  eijually  with- 
out object  or  plan,  ami  were  con  lined  at  first  to 
the  peasantry.  The  gentry  did  not  join  until 
they  had  no  alternative,  but  that  of  taking  up 
arms  either  against  their  own  dependanls,  or 
along  with  them;  and  they  went  into  the 
lield,  generally,  with  little  Other  view  than 
that  of  ac(piittiiig  their  own  faitli  and  honour, 
and  scarcely  any  expectation  beyond  that  ot 
obtaining  better  terms  for  the  rebels  they 
were  joining,  or  of  being  able  to  make  a  .stand 
till  some  new  revolution  should  take  place  at 
Paris,  and  bring  in  rulers  less  harsh  and  san- 
guinary. 

It  was  at  the  ballot  for  the  levy  of  St.  Flor- 
ent.  that  the  rebellion  may  be  said  to  have 
begun.  The  yoinig  men  first  murmured,  and 
then  threatened  the  cominissioners,  \\  ho  some- 
what rashly  directed  a  fieldpiece  to  be  point- 
ed against  them,  and  afterwards  to  be  iired 
over  their  heads; — Nobody  was  hurt  bv  the 
discharge  ;  and  the  crowd  immediately  "rush- 
ed forward  and  seized  upon  the  gun.  Some 
of  the  commissioners  were  knocked  down — 
their  papers  were  seized  and  burnt — and  the 
rioters  went  about  singing  and  rejoicing  for 
the  rest  of  the  evennig.  An  account,  proba- 
bly somewhat  exaggerated,  of  this  tumult, 
was  brought  next  day  to  a  venerable  'peasant 
of  the  name  of  Cathclhiean.  a  sort  of  itinerant 
dealer  in  wool,  who  was  immediately  struck 
with  the  decisive  consequences  of  tliis  open 
attack  on  the  constituted  authorities.  The 
tidings  were  brought  to  him  as  he  was  knead- 
ing the  weekly  allowance  of  bread  for  his 
ii'lifTusing  an  opinion  of  the  severity  of  the  I  family.  He  instantly  wi})ed  his  arms,  put  on 
nv  government,  and  familiarizing  the  peo-  i  his  coat,  and  repaired  to  the  village  market- 
p'  with  the  idea  of  resisting  it  by  force.  I  place,  where  he  harangued  the  inhabitants, 
Te  order  of  the  Convention  for  a  forced  levy  and  prevailed  on  twenty  or  thirty  of  the  bold- 
o'hree  hundred  thousand  men,  and  the  pre-  est  youths  to  take  their  arms  hi  their  hand.s 
pations  to  carry  it  into  effect,  gave  risp  to  and  follow  him.  He  was  universally  respect- 
tl  fu-st  serious  insurrection ;— and  while  the  ed  for  his  piety,  good  sense,  and  mildness  of 
dad  of  punishment  for  the  acts  of  violence  t  character;  and,  proceeding  with  his  troop  of 
a>ady  committed  deterred  the  insurgents  j  recruits  to  a  neighbouring  village,  repealed  his 
fm  submitting,  the  standard  was  no  sooner  ,  eloquent  exhortations,  and  instantly  found 
liiied  between  the  republican  government  on  |  himself  at  th("  head  of  more  than  a  hundred 
tl  one  hand  and  the  discontented  peasantry  I  enthusiasts.  VVithont  .stopping  a  moment,  he 
oiithe  other,  than  the  mass  of  that  united  anil  '  led  this  new  army  to  the  attack  of  a  military 
al'Tned  population  declared  itself  for  their  '  po.st  guarded  by  four  score  soldiers  and  a 
a-ociates:  and  a  great  tract  of  conntrv  was  :  piece  of  cannon.  The  post  was  .'•urpiisi'd. — 
Ills  arrayed  in  open  rebellion,  without"  con- I  the  soldiers  dispersed  or  made  ])risoners. — 
c<L  leader,  or  |)reparatio;i.  We  have  the  |  and  ihe  gun  brought  »)ff  in  triumph.  From 
tf'iniony  of  Madame  de  L.  therefore,  in  ad-  |  this  he  advanc*  s,  the  same  aflernoon,  to 
djon  to"  all  other  good  testimony,  that  th'S  ;  another  post  of  two  hundred  soldii' 


g!^t  civil  war  originated  almost  accidentally, 
certainly  not  from  any  plot  or  con>pirai;y 


j)ieces  of  cannon  :  and  si 
surprise  and  intrepid.'.s . 


!.<.l. 
Th(   ino: 


I  hi-  -ame 
:\u^  alVr, 


oflie  leading  royalists  in  the  country.     The,  while  prepstring  for  other  entcrjtrise.s,  he  is 


ess 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


joined  by  another  band  of  insurgents,  ^vho  had 
associated  to  protect  one  of  their  friends,  for 
whose  arrest  a  military  order  had  been  issued. 
The  united  force,  now  amounting  to  a  thou- 
sand men.  tnen  directed  its  attack  on  Chollet. 
a  considerable  town,  occupied  by  at  least  live 
hundred  of  the  republican  anny;  and  again 
bears  down  all  resistance  by  the  suddenness 
and  impetuosity  of  its  onset.  The  rioters  find 
here  a  considerable  supply  of  arms,  money, 
and  ammunition  : — and  thus  a  country  is  lost 
and  won.  in  which,  but  two  days  before,  no- 
body thought  or  spoke  of  insurrection  ! 

If  there  was  something  astonishing  in  the 
sudden  breaking  out  of  this  rebellion,  its  first 
apparent  suppression  was  not  less  extraordi- 
nary. These  events  took  place  just  before 
Lent ;  and,  upon  the  a])proach  of  that  holy 
season,  the  religious  rebels  all  dispersed  to 
their  homes,  and  betook  themselves  to  their 
prayers  and  their  rustic  occupations,  just  as  if 
they  had  never  quitted  them.  A  column  of 
the  republican  army,  which  advanced  from 
Angers  to  bear  down  the  insurrection,  found 
no  insurrection  to  quell.  They  marched  from 
one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other,  and 
met  everj-where  with  the  most  satisfactory 
appearances  of  submission  and  tranquUlity. 
These  appearances,  however,  it  will  readily 
be  understood,  were  altogether  deceitful ;  and 
as  soon  as  Easter  Sunday  was  over,  the  peas- 
ants began  again  to  assemble  in  arms, — and 
now,  for  the  first  time,  to  apply  to  the  gentry 
to  head  them. 

All  this  time  Madame  Lescure  and  her 
family  remained  quietly  at  Clisson;  and,  in 
that  profound  retreat,  were  ignorant  of  the 
singular  events  to  which  we  have  alluded,  for 
long  after  they  occurred.  The  first  intelli- 
gence they  obtaineil  was  from  the  indefatiga- 
ble M.  Thomasin,  who  passed  his  time  partly 
at  their  chateau,  and  partly  in  scampering 
about  the  country,  and  haranguing  the  con- 
stituted authorities — always  in  his  national 
imiforra,  and  with  tho  authority  of  a  Parisian 
patriot.  One  day  this  intrepid  person  came 
home,  with  a  strange  story  of  the  neighbouring 
town  of  Herbiers  having  been  taken  either  by 
a  party  of  insurgents,  or  by  an  English  army 
suddenly  landed  on  the  coast ;  and,  at  seven 
O'clock  the  next  morning,  the  chateau  was  in- 
vested by  two  hundred  soldiers, — and  a  party 
of  dragoons  rode  into  the  court  yard.  Their 
business  was  to  demand  all  the  horses,  anus, 
and  ammunition,  and  also  the  person  of  an  old 
cowardly  chevalier,  some  of  whose  foolish 
letters  had  been  carried  to  the  municipality. 
M.  de  L.  received  this  deputation  with  his 
characteristic  composure — made  the  apology 
of  the  poor  chevalier,  and  a  few  jokes  at  his 
expense — gave  up  some  bad  horses — and  sent 
away  the  jmrty  in  great  good  humour.  For  a 
few  days  they  were  agitated  with  contradic- 
tory rumours:  But  at  last  it  appeared  that 
the  government  had  determined  on  vigorous 
measures;  and  it  was  announced,  that  all  the 
gentry  would  be  required  to  arm  themselves 
and  their  retainers  against  the  insurgents. 
This  brought  thijigs  to  a  crisis ; — a  council 
was  held  in  the  chateau,  when  it  was  speedily 


determined,  that  no  consideration  of  prudenr 
or  of  safety  could  induce  men  of  honour  i 
desert  their  dependants,  or  the  party  to  whicii 
in  their  hearts,  they  wished  well ;, — and  that 
when  the  alternative  came,  they  would  rathei 
fight  with  the  insurgents  than  against  them " 
Henri  de  Larochejaquelein — of  whom  thefaij' 
writer  gives  so  engaging  a  picture,  and  upot^ 
whose  acts  of  heroism  she  dwells  throughoui 
with  so  visible  a  delight,  that  it  is  quite  a  dis. 
appointment  to  find  that  it  is  not  his  name  shf 
bears  when  she  comes  to  change  her  owi 
— had   been  particularly  inquired   after  arji 
threatened ;   and  upon  an  order  being  sei; 
to  his  peasantry  to  attend  and  ballot  for  th. 
militia,  he  takes  horse  in  the  middle  of  th 
night,  and  sets  out  to  place  himself  at  tht . 
head  for  resistance.     The  rest  of  the  par* 
remained  a  few  days  longer  in  consideral: 
perplexity. — M.   Thomasin    having    becom 
suspected;  on  account  of  his  frequent  resort  t 
them,  had  been  put  in  prison;. and  they  wer 
almost  entirely  without  intelligence  as  to  wh: 
was  going  on  ;  when  one  morning,  when  the 
were  at  breakfast,  a  party  of  horse  gallops  r 
to  the  gate,  and  presents  an  order  for  the  in 
mediate  arrest  of  the  whole  company.    M.  < 
L.  takes  this  with  perfect  calmness — a  ten 
of  oxen  is  yoked  to  the  old  coach:  and  tl 
prisoners  are  jolted  alona,  under  escort  of  ll 
National  dragoons,  to  the  town  of  Bressuir 
By  the  time  they  had  reached  this  place,  tht' 
mdd  and  steady  deportment   had   made 
favourable  an  impression  on  their  conductor 
that  they  were  very  near  taking  them  ba 
to  their  homes; — and  the  municipal  office 
before  whom  I\I.  de  L.  was  brought,  had  ht 
j  else  to  urge  for  the  arrest,  but  that  it  did  r 
seem  advisable  to  leave  him  at  large,  when 
had  been  found  necessary  to  secure  all  I 
other  gentry  of  the  district.     They  were  i. 
sent,  however,  to   the   common  prison,  I 
lodged  in  the  house  of  a  worthy  republic;, 
who  had  formerly  supplied  the  family  w 
groceries,  and   now  treated   them  with  I 
greatest  kindness  and  civility.    Here  they 
mained  for  several  days,  closely  shut  up 
two  little  rooms:  and  were  not  a  little  startl 
when  ihey  saw  from  their  windows  two, 
three  thousand  of  the  National  guard  ma  • 
fiercely  out  to  repulse  a  party  of  the  ins 
gents,  who  were  advancing,  it  was  report 
under  the  command  of  Henri  de  Larocht- 
([uelein.      Next  day.  however,  these  \'ali,: 
warriors  came  living  back  in  great  confusi- 
They  had  met  and  been  defeated  by  the  • 
surgents:  and  the  town  was  filled  with   • 
rors — and  with  the  cruellies  to  which  te  f 
always  gives  birth.     Some  hundreds  of  A  • 
!  seillois  arrived  at  this  crisis  to  reinforce  .3 
I  republican  army;  and  proposed.  asamca.'J 
I  of  intimidation  and  security,  that  they  shf'l 
I  immediately  massacre  all  the  prisoners. — '" 
native  leaders  all  expressed  the  greatest  ;• 
lor  at  this  proposal — but  it  was  neverthe  6 
carried  into  effect !    The  author  saw  hundi  s 
of  those  unfortunate  creatures  marched  oi  t 
the  town,  under  a  guard  of  their  butch'- 
They  were  then  drawn  up  in  a  neighbou  g 
field,  and  were  cut  down  with  the  sab;- 


MEMOmS  OF  MADAME  DF.  I.AROCIIF.JAQrKI.FIX. 


2.1 «» 


lost  of  them  quietly  kneelinif  and  exclaiin- 
lig,  Vive  le  Roi !  It  was  natural  for  Madame 
^~^L.  and  her  party  to  think  that  their  turn 
ias  to  coine  next :  and  the  alarms  of  their 
)mpa5sionate  jailor  did  not  help  to  aUay 
leir  apprehensions.  Their  fate  Imnj;  indeeil 
wn  the  slightest  accident.  One  day  they 
ceived  a  letter  from  an  emigrant,  congratu- 
ting  them  on  the  progress  of  the  counter- 
volution,  and  exhorting  them  not  to  remit 
eir  efforts  in  the  cause.  The  very  day  after, 
|.eir  letters  were  all  opened  at  the  munici- 
iility,  and  sent  to  them  unsealed  !  The 
[itriots,  however,  it  turned  out,  were  too 
Inch  occupied  with  apjirehensions  of  their 
jni,  to  attend  to  any  thing  else.  The  Xa- 
bnal  guards  of  the  place  were  not  much 
icustomed  to  war.  and  trembled  at  the  re- 
ftiation  which  the  excesses  of  their  Mar- 
lillois  auxiliaries  might  so  well  justify.  A 
'rt  of  panic  took  possession  even  of  their 
(•St  corps ;  nor  could  the  general  prevail  on 
Is  cavalry  to  reconnoitre  beyond  the  walls 
i  the  town.  A  few  hoisemen.  indeed,  once 
■ntured  half  a  mile  farther;  but  speedily 
•jme  galloping  back  in  alarm,  with  a  report 
jat  a  great  troop  of  the  enemy  were  at  their 
>els.  It  turned  out  to  be  only  a  single 
ijuntry-man  at  work  in  his  field,  with  a  team 
«t  six  oxen ! 

JThere  was  no  waiting  an  assault  with  such 
llces;  and,  in  the  beginning  of  May  1793, 
i^M-as  resolved  to  evacuate  the  place,  and  fall 
lick  on  Thouars.  The  aristocratic  captives 
■ere  fortunately  forgotten  in  the  hurry  of 
ijis  ingbrious  movement ;  and  though  they 
ijtened  through  their  closed  shutters,  with 
i  ireat  tranquillity,  to  the  parting  clamours 
fid  imprecations  of  the  Marseillois,  they  soon 
ibeived  assurance  of  their  deliverance,  in  the 
jbplications  of  their  keeper,  and  many  others 
([the  municipality,  to  be  allowed  to  retire 
^ih  them  to  Clisson,  and  to  seek  shelter 
t|'->  from  the  vengeance  of  the  advancing 
iliiists.  M.  de  Lescure,  with  his  usual 
h.\  nature,  granted  all  these  requests;  and 
tpy  soon  set  off,  with  a  grateful  escort,  for 
teir  deserted  chateau. 

Irhe  dangers  he  had  already  incurred  by 
l\  inaction — the  successes  of  his  less  prudent 
Ihids,  and  the  apparent  weakness  and  ir- 
rhlution  of  their  opponents,  now  decided  M. 
a  Lescure  to  dissemble  no  longer  with  those 
wo  seemed  entitled  to  his  protection;  and 
1|  resolved  instantly  to  cast  in  his  lot  with 
t  (  insurgents,  and  .support  the  efforts  of  his 
a  venturous  cousin.  He  accordingly  sent 
r;nd  without  the  delay  of  an  instant,  to  inti- 
Tito  his  pui-pose  to  all  the  parishes  where  he 
H  inlhience:  and  busied  himself  and  his 
hjsehold  in  preparing  hor.ses  and  arms, 
Uile  his  wife  and  her  women  were  engaged 
i;  manufacturing  white  cockades.  In  the 
r  1st  of  these  preparations.  Henri  de  Laroche- 
j;uelein  arrived,  flushed  with  victory  and 
h)e.  and  aimounced  his  seizure  of  Bressuire, 
a  i  all  the  story  of  his  brief  and  busy  campaign, 
'pon  his  first  arrival  in  the  revolted  district 
ohis  own  domains,  he  found  the  peasants 
Haer  disheartened  for  want  of  a  leader — 


.some  setting  olf  for  the  annv  of  Aiijcn.  and 
others  lueditatin"'  a  return  to  t)icir  own  iioruert. 
His  appcaraiice.  however,  and  llir  heart iiie.<i9 
of  his  ndheri'iice  to  then  can^ie,  at  once  re- 
vived the  sinking  llame  of  their  enthuBiasm, 
and  spread  it  through  all  the  adjoining  region. 
Before  next  eveninc,  he  found  him.sejf  at  the 
head  of  near  ten  tnousand  devoted  followei.s 
— without  arms  or  di,«cipline  indeed,  but  with 
hearts  in  the  trim — and  ready  to  follow  wher- 
ever he  would  ventuie  to  lend.  There  were 
only  about  two  hundred  firejocks  in  the  whole 
array,  and  these  were  shabbv  fowlingpieces. 
without  bayon(>ts:  The  lesl  wer(>  ecpiipped 
with  scythes,  or  blades  of  knives  stuck  upon 
poles — with  spits,  or  with  good  heavj'  ciuigels 
of  knotty  wood.  In  pre.sentini;  himself  to  thi.s 
romantic  anny,  their  youthtui  leader  made 
the  following  truly  eloquent  and  characteristic 
.speech — "My  good  friends,  if  my  father  were 
here  to  leadyou,  we  should  allproceed  with 
greater  confidence.  For  my  part.  I  know  I 
am  but  a  child — but  I  hope'  I  have  courage 
enough  not  to  he  quite  unworthy  oi'  snjiplving 
his  place  to  you — Follow  me  when  I  advance 
ai>-ainst  the  enemy — kill  me  when  I  turn  my 
back  upon  them — and  revenge  me,  if  they 
bring  me  down  !"  That  very  day  he  led 
them  into  action.  A  strong  post  of  the  repub- 
licans were  stationed  at  Aubiers  : — Henri, 
with  a  dozen  or  two  of  his  best  marksmen, 
glided  silently  behind  the  hedge  which  sur- 
rounded the  field  in  which  they  were,  and 
immediately  began  to  fire — some  of  the  un- 
armed peasants  handing  forward  loaded  mus- 
kets to  them  in  quick  succession.  He  himself 
fired  near  two  hundred  shots  that  day;  and  a 
gamekeeper,  who  stood  beside  him,  almost  as 
many.  The  soldiers,  though  at  first  astonished 
at  this  assault  from  an  invisible  enemy,  soon 
collected  themselves,  and  made  a  movement 
to  gain  a  small  height  that  was  near.  Henri 
chose  this  moment  to  make  a  general  assault ; 
and  calling  out  to  his  men,  that  they  were 
running,  burst  through  the  hedge  at  their 
head,  and  threw  them  instantly  into  flight  and 
irretrievable  confusion  ;  got  pos.scs.sion  of  their 
2^uns  and  stores,  and  pursued  them  to  within 
a  few  miles  of  the  walls  of  Bressuire.  Such, 
almost  universally,  was  the  tactic  of  those 
formidable  insurgents.  Their  whole  art  of 
war  consisted  in  creeping  round  the  hedges 
which  separated  them  from  their  enemies, 
and  firing  there  till  they  began  to  waver  or 
move — and  then  rushinir  forward  with  shouts 
and  impetuosity,  but  without  any  regard  to 
order;  jxis-sessing  themselves  first  of  the  artil- 
lery, and  rushing  into  the  heart  of  their  op- 
ponents with  prodigious  fierceness  and  activity. 
In  the.se  assaults  they  s<>ldom  lost  so  much  as 
one  man  for  every  five  that  fell  of  the  regu- 
lars. They  were  scarcely  ever  discovered 
soon  enouL'h  to  sutler  from  the  musketry — 
and  .seldom  gave  tho  artillery  an  o])i>ortunily 
of  firing  more  than  once.  When  llicy  saw 
the  flash  of  the  pieces,  they  iiislanllv  threw 
themselves  flat  on  the  ground  till  the  shot 
flew  over,  then  started  up.  and  nished  on  the 
gunners  before  they  could  r'-lund.  Jf  ili'-y 
were  finally  repulsed,  they  retreated  and  dju- 


240 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


jwrsed  with  the  same  magical  rapidity,  dart- 
ing through  the  hedges,  and  scattering  among 
the  defiles  in  a  waj-  that  ehided  all  pursuit, 
and  exposed  those  who  attempted  it  to  mur- 
derous ambuscades  at  every  turning. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  M.  de  Les- 
cure  had  declared  for  the  white  cockade, 
forty  parishes  assumed  that  badge  of  hos- 
tility :  and  he  and  his  cousin  found  themselves 
at  the  head  of  near  twenty  thousand  men ! 
The  day  after,  they  brought  eighty  horsemen 
to  the  diateau.  These  gallant  knights,  how- 
ever, were  not  very  gorgeously  caparisoned. 
Their  steeds  were  of  all  sizes  and  colours — 
many  of  them  with  packs  instead  of  saddles, 
and  loops  of  rope  for  stinups — pistols  and 
sabres  of  all  shapes  ti(>d  on  with  cords — 
white  or  black  cockades  in  their  hats — and 
tricoloured  ones — with  bits  of  epaulettes  taken 
from  the  vanquished  republicans,  dangling  in 
ridicule  at  the  tails  of  their  horses  !  Such  as 
they  were,  however,  they  filled  the  chateau 
with  tumult  and  exultation,  a)id  frightened 
the  hearts  out  of  some  unhappy  republicans 
who  came  to  look  after  their  wives  who  had 
taken  refuge  in  that  asylum.  They  did  them 
no  other  harm,  however,  than  compelling 
them  to  spit  on  their  tricoloured  cockades, 
and  to  call  Vive  le  Roi! — which  the  poor 
people,  being '-'des  gens  hounetes  et  paisi- 
bles,-'  very  readily  perfonmcHl. 

In  the  afternoon,  Madame  de  L.,  with  a 
troop  of  her  triumphant  attendants,  paid  a 
visit  to  her  late  prison  at  Bressuire.  The 
j)lace  was  now  occupied  by  near  twenty  thou- 
SiUid  insurgents — all  as  remarkable,  she  as- 
sures us,  for  their  simple  piety,  and  the 
innocence  and  purity  of  their  morals,  as  for 
the  valour  and  enthusiasm  which  had  banded 
them  together.  Even  in  a  town  so  obnoxious 
as  this  had  become,  from  the  massacre  of  the 
prisoners,  there  were  no  executions,  and  no 
pillage.  Some  of  the  men  were  expressing  a 
great  desire  for  some  tobacco;  and  upon  being 
asked  whether  there  was  none  in  the  place, 
answered,  quite  simply,  that  there  was  plenty, 
but  they  had  no  money  to  buy  it ! 

Iti  giving  a  short  view  of  the  whole  in.«ur- 
iXHUl  force,  which  she  estimates  at  about 
eighty  thousand  men,  Madame  de  L.  here 
introduces  a  short  account  of  its  principal 
leaders,  whose  characters  are  drawn  with  a 
(lelicatf^  though  probably  too  favourable  hand. 
M.  d'Elbee.  M.  de  Bonchamp.  and  M.  de 
Marigny,  were  almost  the  otily  ones  who  had 
formerly  exercised  the  profession  of  arms,  and 
were  therefore  invested  with  the  formal  com- 
mand. Stofflet,  a  native  of  Alsace,  had  form- 
erly served  in  a  Swiss  regiment,  but  had  long 
bet^n  a  gamekeeper  in  Poitou.  Of  Cathelineau 
we  have  spoken  already.  Henri  de  Laroche- 
jjKluelein.  and  M.  de  Lescure.  were  undnubt- 
f'dly  the  most  jiopidar  and  important  members 


of  the  a.s.sflciatioii,  aufl  are  paititc-d  with  th- 
greatest  livdines^i  and  di.scriminallon.  The 
former,  tall,  fair,  and  graceful — with  a  shy, 
affectionate,  an»l  indolent  matnier  in  private 
life,  had,  in  the  field,  all  the  gaifty,  anima- 
tion, and  love  of  adveiifnre,  that  he  used  to 
display  in  the  cha.'-e.     Utterly   utdifferent  to 


danger,  and  ignorant  of  th*^  very  name  of  fe^ 
his  great  faults  as  a  leader  were  rashness  [ 
attack,  and  undue  exposure  of  his  perst. 
He  knew  little,  and  cared  less,  for  the  sci«;. 
tific  details  of  war;  and  could  not  alwsi 
maintaai  the  gravity  that  was  required  in  U 
councils  of  the  leaders.  Sometimes  •  af  • 
bluntly  giving  his  opinion,  he  would  quic 
lay  himself  to  sleep  till  the  end  of  the  delil. 
rations:  and,  when  reproacheil  with  ti 
neglect  of  his  higher  duties,  would  answ, 
'•'What  business  had  they  to  make  me  aG*.. 
eral  ? — I  would  much  rather  have  beer;i 
private  light-horseman,  and  taken  the  spi 
as  it  came.'"  With  all  this  Ijght-heartednt;, 
however,  he  was  full  not  only  of  kindness  i 
his  soldiers,  but  of  compassion  for  his  priv 
ers.  He  would  sometinies  oiler,  indet^' 
fight  them  fairly  hand  to  hand,  before  acct 
ing  their  surrender ;  but  never  refused  to  g i 
quarter,  nor  ever  treated  them  with  insultii 
severity. 

M.  de  Lescure  was  in  many  respects  ot'  i 
opposite  character.  His  courage,  though  i 
the  most  heroic  temper,  was  invariably  ui.  i 
with  perfect  cocjlness  and  de]ib(Mation. 
had  a  great  theoretical  knowledge  of  \ 
having  diligently  studied  all  that  was  wri' 
on  the  subject  j  and  was  the  onh  man  in  i 
party  who  knew  any  thing  of  fortiticai 
His  temper  was  luialterably  sweet  and  p],i' 
and  his  never-failing  humanity,  in  the 
mendous  scenes  he  had  to  jwss  throuiih,  d 
something  in  it  of  an  angelical  charatT. 
Though  constantly  enga'jed  at  the  head  oiiiB 
troops,  and  often  leadiuir  them  on  to  the> 
sault.  lie  never  could  persuade  himself  to  lie 
the  life  of  a  fellow-creature  with  his  in 
hand,  or  to  show  the  .smallest  severity  tciJB 
captives.  One  day  a  soldier,  who  he  ihot'lt 
had  surrendered,  fired  at  him.  almost  atw 
muzzle  of  his  piece.  He  put  aside  the  rjs* 
ket  with  his  sword,  and  said,  with  peiiBt 
composure.  --Take  that  prisoner  to  the  re," 
His  attendants,  enraged  at  the  p<'rtidy  of  le 
assault,  cut  him  down  behind  his  back.  le 
turned  round  at  the  noise,  and  flew  into  le 
most  violent  passion  in  which  he  had  ft 
been  seen.  This  was  the  only  time  inii* 
life  in  which  he  was  known  to  utter  an  eh. 
There  was  no  .spirit  of  vengeance  in  .«ho  ill 
his  nature;  and  he  frequently  saved  i:re 
lives  after  a  battle,  than  had  been  lost  in 'aft 
course  of  it.  ( 

The  discipline  of  the  aimy.  thus  comm.d- 
ed,  has  been  already  spoken  of.  It  was  r  er 
even  divided  into  regiments  or  compaiiii  — 
When  the  chiefs  had  agreed  on  a  plf»t 
operations,  they  announced  to  their  follov>i 
— M.  Lescure  goes  to  take  sncli  a  bridj;)-* 
who  will  follow  him  ?  M.  Man^Dy  keepjhi 
I  passes  in  such  a  valley — w  lio  will  go  m 
I  him  ? — and  so  on.  They  were  i;ever  tcH» 
march  to  the  right  or  the  left,  but  to  thalj^t 
or  to  that  steeple.  They  were  gmeially  iijf 
ill  supplied  vvith  amniunition.  aiid  were  !•« 
obliged  to  attack  a  post  of  artillery  wilh'ji' 
jrels.     On  one  occasion,  while  rushing  (W 


On  one  occasion,  while  rustling 
this  purpose,  they  sudder.ly  di.scovered  f 
crucilix  i]i  a  recess uf  the  woods  oii  their 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  T,ARO{  HE.IAQITEI.KIX. 


Ill 


id  immecliately  every  man  of  them  slopjipd 

lort,  and  knelt  quietly  down,  under  tlie  (ire 

}'  the  enemy.     They  then  <rot  up,  ran   liiziit 

irward.   and   took   the   cannon.     They  had 

jierable  medical  assistance;  and  found  ad- 

irable  nurses  for  the  wounded,  in  the  nun- 

'^ries  and  other  relicrious  establishments  that 

Icisted  in  all  the  considerable  towns. 

•Their  first  enterprise,  after  the  capture  of 

essuire,  was  airaiiist  Thouars.     To  jjet  at 

iis  place,  a  considerable  river  was  to  be  cros,*- 

il. — M.  de  Lescure  headed  a  party  that  was 

'  force  the  passasre  of  a  bri'ljjje  ;  but  when  he 

me  within  the  heavy  fire  of  its  defenders, 

1  his  peasants  fell  back,  and   left  him  for 

me  minutes  alone  : — His  clothes  were  torn 

(:•  the  bullets,  but  not  a  shot  took   effect  on 

[s  person  : — He  returned  to  the  charge  airain 

(ith  Henri  de  Larochejaquelein  : — Their  t'ol- 

iwers,  all  but  two,  airain  left   them  at   the 

oment  of  charsriiiir :    But  the  enemy,  scared 

:  their  audacitj'.  had  already  taken  tiiirht : 

le  bridge  was  carried  by  those  four  men  ; 

;!d  the  town  was  driven  up  after  a  short  «trn>r- 

thouirh   not   before   Htnui   had    climbed 

i)ne  to  the  top  of  the  wall  by  the  help  of  a 

end's  shoulders,  and  thrown  several  stones 

the  flying  inhabitants  within.     The  repub- 

Ijan  ireneral  Qnetiiieau,  who  had  defended 

limself  with  cieat  valour,  obtained   honour- 

le  terms  in  this  capitulation,  and  was  treated 

th  the  ureatest  kindness  bv  the  in.^uraent 

fs.  He  had  commanded  at  Bressuiie  \\hen 

iLvas  finally  abandoned,  and  told  iM.  Lescure, 

•iicn  he  was  brouaht  before  him,  that  he  saw 

tji  closed  window-shutters  of  his  family  well 

tpuiih  as  he  marched  out;  and  that  it  was 

lit  out  of  foraretfulness  that  he  had  left  them 

i[molested.    ^I.  Lescure  expressed  his  o-rati- 

le  for  his  jrenerosity,  and  pressed  him  to 

main  with  them. — ••  You  do  not  asree  in  our 

nions,  I  know : — and  I   do  not  ask  you  to 

e  any  share  in  our  proceeding's,    '^'ou  shnll 

Ija  prisoner  at  larixe  amonc  us:    But  if  you 

dback  to  the  republicans,  they  will  say  jou 

4'e  up  the  place  out  of  treachery,  and  you 

I  be  rewardeil  by  the  executioner  for  the 

lant  defence  you  have  made." — The  cap- 

?  answered  in  terms  equally  firm  and  spir- 

ji|l. — "I  must  do  my  duty  at  all  hazards. — 

Itiould  be  dishonoured,  if  I   remained  vol- 

arily  amon2f  enemies:  and  I  am  ready  to 

wer  for  all  I  have  hitherto  done."* — It  will 

prise  some  violent    royalists   among  our- 

es,  we  believe,  to  find  that  this  frankness 

fidelity  to  his  ])ar1y  secured  for  him  the 

tihidship   and   esteem   of   all    the  Vendean 

i4lers.     The  peasants,   indeed,  felt  a  little 

e  like  the  liberal  persons  just  alluded  to. 

1/  were  not  a  little  scandalized   to  find  a 

J  r«|iiblican  treated  with  respect  and  courtesy: 

d.  abovo  all.  were  in  horror  when  they 

him  admitted  into  the  private  society  of 

lljir  chiefs,  and   discovered  that  M.  de  Bon- 

'Jmp  actually  trusted  himself  in  the  same 

'■fimber  with  him  at  hijrht!     For  the  first 

Iv  or  three  niirhts.  indeed,  several  of  them 

k|t  watch  at  the  outside  of  the  door,  to  de- 

Ml  him  against  the  assassination  they  ap- 

pipended ;  and  once   or  twice  he  found  m 

'  31 


thi^  morning,  that  one  more  dislruslful  than 
the  rest  had  <;li(led  into  the  room,  and  laid 
himself  down  across  the  fe«'t  of  his  com- 
mander. 

From  Thouars  they  proceeded  to  Fontenav, 
where  they  had  a  .<till  more  formidable  resist- 
ance to  encounter.  M.  de  Lescure  was  airain 
ex[>o.s(>d  alone  to  the  fire  of  six  pieces  of  can- 
non charge<i  with  grape;  ami  had  his  hat 
pierced,  a  spur  shot  oiL  and  a  boot  torn  bv 
the  discharire; — but  he  oidy  turned  round  lo 
his  men,  who  were  hanginir  back,  and  said, 
••  Von  see  these  fellows  can  take  no  aim  : — 


come  on  !"     Thev  <lid 


and 


carried  all  before  ihem. 

The  republicans  had  retaken,  in  the  couree 
of  these  encoinitcrs.  the  first  ineci'  of  cannon 
which  had  fallen  into  tin*  hands  of  the  insur- 
urenls.  and  to  which  the  ]iea,suits  had  fondly 
iriven  the  name  of  Marie  Jcnnnr.  Afti-r  ihei'r 
.success  at  Fontenay.  a  party  was  tonned  to 
recover  it.  One  man.  in  his  impatience,  got 
so  far  ahead  of  his  comnules.  that  he  was  in 
'  th(»  heart  of  the  enemy  before  he  Mas  aware. 
Fortunately,  he  had  the  hor.«e  and  accoutre- 
ments of  a  dragoon  he  hnd  killed  the  day 
before,  and  was  taken  by  the  jiarty  for  one  of 
their  own  company.  They  welcomed  him 
!  accordingly  ;  anil  told  him  that  he  was  just 
I  come  in  time  to  repulse  the  bri<2:;inds.  who 
j  were  advancing  to  retake  their  Mane  Jeanne. 
I  "Are  they  V  <aid  he  ; — "  follow  me.  ami  we 
j  shall  soon  give  a  srood  account  of  them  :"" — 
land  then,  heading  the  troop,  he  rode  on  till 
I  he  came  within  reach  of  his  own  party,  when 
I  he  suddenly  cut  down  the  two  men  on  each 
I  side  of  him,  and  welcomed  his  friends  to  the 
I  victory.  At  another  time,  four  youns  ofiicers, 
I  in  the  wantoimess  of  their  valour,  rode  alone 

■  to  a  large  village  in  the  heart  of  the  country 
occupied  by  the  republicans,  ordered  all  the 

i  inhabitants  to  throw  down  their  tricoloured 
i  cockades,  and  to  prepare  quarters  for  the  roy- 
i  alist  army,  which  was  to  march  in,  in  the 
evening,  one  hundred  thousand  strong.  The 
gootl  people  began  their  prejiarations  accord- 
ingly, and  hewed  down  their  tree  of  liberty — 
when  the  young  men  lauihed  in  their  faces, 
and  i5illoped  luimolested  away  from  upwards 
t  of  a  thousand  enemies! — The  whole  book  Ib 
full  of  such  feats  and  adventures.  Their  re- 
cent successes  had  encumbered  them  w  ith 
I  near  four  thousand  prisoners,  of  whom,  as 
they  had  no  strong  places  or  regular  garrison.s, 

■  they  were  much  at  a  loss  how  to  dis[)0se. — 
I  To  dismiss  such  a  mob  of  privates,  on  their 

parole  not  to  serve  any  more  ajrainst  them. 
I  they  knew  would  be  of  no  avail  ;  and  after 
I  much  deliberation,  they  fell  upon  the  inseni- 
i  ous  expedient  ol"  shavirii,'  their  heads,  at  the 
;  same  time  that  their  jarole  was  exacted  :  so 
j  that  if  they  ag.iin  took  the  field  ainiinst  them 
j  within  any  moderate  time,  they  nuuht  be 
ea.sily  reco'fjnised,  and  <lealt  with  accordingly. 
!  Madame  Lescure's  father  hail  the  merit  of 
:  this  happy  invention. 

The  day  after  thecajjture  of  Fontenay,  thn 
trreater  part  of  the  army  thouirht  it  was  lime 
to  so  home  for  a  while  to  look  after  llieir  cat- 
tle, and  tell  the,r  exploits  to  their  wives  and 
V 


mSTORY  AXD  fflSTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


children.  In  about  a  week,  however,  a  con- 1 
siderable  number  of  them  came  back  again.  | 
and  proceeded  to  altack  Sauniur.  Here  M.  [ 
de  Lescuie  receiveil  his  first  wound  in  the  ; 
arm ;  and  Henri,  throwins  liis  hat  over  the  i 
entrenchments  of  the  place,  called  to  his  men, 
"  Let  us  see  now.  who  will  brine  it  back  to 
xne!" — and  rushed  at  their  head  across  the 
glacis.  A  vast  multitude  of  the  republicans  ' 
fell  in  this  battle:  and  near  twelve  thousand  i 
prisoners  were  made. — who  were  all  .''haved  ] 
and  let  po.  The  insurgents  did  not  lose  four  I 
hundred  in  all.  In  the  castle  they  found  ' 
QuetineaU;  the  gallant  but  unsuccessful  de- 
fender of  Thouars.  who,  according  to  M.  de 
Lescure's  prediction,  had  been  arrested  and 
ordered  for  trial  in  consequence  of  that  dis- 
aster. He  was  again  pressed  to  remaiu  \yith 
them  as  a  prisoner  on  parole:  but  continued 
firm  in  his  resolution  to  do  his  duty,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  fortune.  He  was  sent,  accordingly, 
to  Paris  a  short  time  after — where  he  was 
tried,  condemned,  and  executed  ! 

The  insurrection  had  now  attained  a  mas- 
nittide  which  seemed  to  make  it  necessary  to 
have  some  one  formally  appointed  to  the  chief 
command  ;  and  with  a  view  of  at  once  flat- 
tering and  animating  the  peasants,  in  whose 
spontaneous  zeal  it  had  originated,  all  voices 
were  united  in  favour  of  Cathelineau,  the 
humble  and  venerable  leader  under  whom  its 
first  successes  had  been  obtained.  It  is  very 
remarkable,  indeed,  that  in  a  party  thus  asso- 
ciated avowedly  in  opposition  to  democratical 
innovations,  the  distinctions  of  rank  were 
utterly  disregarded  and  forgotten.  Not  only 
was  an  humble  peasant  raised  to  the  dignity 
of  commander-in-chief,  but  Madame  de  L. 
assures  us,  that  she  herself  never  know  or 
enquired  whether  one  half  of  the  officers 
were  of  noble  or  plebeian  descent ;  and  men- 
tions one,  thf  son  of  a  village  shoemaker,  who 
was  long  at  the  head  of  all  that  was  gallant 
and  distinguished  in  the  body.  We  are  afraid 
that  this  is  a  trait  of  their  royalism,  which  it 
is  no  longer  thought  prudent  to  bring  forward 
in  the  courts  of  royalty. 

Those  bril  1  ian t  successes  speed ily  suggested 
enterprises  of  still  greater  ambition  and  ex- 
tent. A  communication  was  now  opened 
with  M.  de  Charrette.  who  had  long  headed 
the  kindred  insurrection  in  Anjou :  and  a 
joint  attack  on  the  city  of  Nantes  wns  pro- 
jectpd  and  executed  by  the  two  armies.  That 
of  Poitou  was  now  tolerably  provided  with 
arms  and  ammunition,  and  decently  clothed, 
though  without  anv  atteution  to  uniformity. 
The  dress  of  the  officers  was  abundantly  fierce 
and  fantastic.  With  pantaloons  and  jackets 
of  gray  cloth,  they  wore  a  variety  of  great 
red  handkerchiefs  all  about  their  persons — 
one  tied  round  their  head,  and  two  or  three 
about  their  waist,  and  across  their  shoulders, 
for  holding  their  pistols  and  ammunition. 
Henri  de  Larochejaqueleiu  introduced  this 
fashion ;  and  it  specddy  became  universal 
among  his  companions,  giving  them  not  a 
little  the  air  of  briaands.  or  banditti,  the  name 
Ciirly  bestowed  on  th'^m  by  the  n^publicans, 
and  at  last  generally  adopted  and  recognised 


among  themselves.    The  expediticrn  to  Nantei 
was  disastrous.     The  soldiers  did  not  like  I 
go  so  far  from  home  :  and  the  army,  as  it  at 
vanced,  melted   away  by   daily   desertion; 
There  was  also  some  want  of  concert  in  tli 
movements  of  the  difTerent  corps ; — and.  aftt 
a  sanguinary  conflict,  the  attack  was  abando: 
ed,  and   the   forces   dispersed   all   over  tl 
country.     The  good  Cathelineau  was  mortal] 
wounded  in  this  affair,  at  which  neither  Ji 
de  Lescure  nor  Henri  were  present ;  the  latt 
being  in  garrison  at  Saumur,  and  the  oth 
disabled  by  his  wound.     The  news  of  tl 
wound  came  rather  suddenly  upon  his  wii 
who,  though  she  had  always  before  been! 
agonies  of  fear  on  horseback,  instantly  men! 
ed  a  ragged  colt,  and  galloped  off  to  rej< 
him.     She   never  afterwards  had    the   le: 
alarm  about  riding.     The  army  havin^r  spc 
taneously  disbanded  after  the  check  at  Nam 
it  was  found  impossible  to  maintain  thr  plat 
it  had  occupietl.  General  Westeimann  arriv 
from  Paris,  at  the  heail  of  a  latere  force :  ai 
after  retaking  Saumur  and  Panhenay,  be^' 
the  relentless  and  exterminating  system 
burning  and  laying  waste  the  districts  fn 
which  he  had  succeeded  in  dislodging  the 
surgents.     One  of  the  first  examples  he  m? 
was  at  M.  de  Lescure's  chateau  of  diss 
It  was  burnt  to  the  ground,  with  all  itsoffic 
stores,  and  peasants"  houses,  as  well  as  all 
pictures  and  furniture  of  its  master.     Hav 
long  foreseen  the  probability  of  such  a  c 
summation,  he  had  at  one  time  given  ore 
to  remove  some  of  the  valuable  article: . 
contained  ;  but  apprehensive  that  such  a  ]  • 
ceeding  might  discourage  or  disgust  his   - 
lowers,  he  afterwards  abandoned  the  des 
and  submitted  to  the  loss  of  all  his  fan . 
moveables.     The  event.  Madame  de  L.  ■ 
sures  us,  produced  no  degree  either  of  in  - 
tion  or  discouragement.    The  chiefs,  howe  ', 
now  exerted  all  their  influence  to  collect  l'  r 
scattered  forces  before  Chatillon  :  and  ]\Iad;  ■ 
de  L.  accompanied   her  husband  in  all 
rapid  and  adventurous  marches  he  niadi 
that  purpose,  throuiih  this  agitated  and    • 
tracted   country.     In  one   of  thc.«e   fatifr  - 
movements  with  some  broken   corps  of; 
army,  they  stopped  to  repose  for  the  nigl  • 
the  chateau  of  Madame  de  Concise,  who  i- 
still  so  much  an  alien  to  the  Vend  can  r- 
ners,  that  they  found  her  putting  on  r( 
and  talking  of  the  asritation  of  her  nerve: 

The  attack  on  Westermann-s  positio  '■ 
Chatillon  was  completely  successful  :  bu'  ;■ 
victory  was  stained  by  the  vindictive  m; '■ 
cres  which  followed  it.  The  burnings  ••''■ 
butcheries  of  the  republican  forces  '•' 
bloodily  avenged — in  spite  of  the  effori  i' 
M.  de  Lescure,  who  repeatedly  exposci  ,i  •' 
own  life  to  save  those  of  the  vanquished  li' 
the  midst  of  the  battle,  one  of  his  attem'ils 
seeing  a  rifleman  about  to  fire  at  him,  ste'ed 
bravely  before  him,  and  received  the  si  '" 
his  eye.  The  carriage  of  Westermani  ^- 
taken ;  and  some  young  officers,  to  wh  i 
was  entrusted,  having  foolishly  broken  ''■ 
the  strong  box.  which  was  believed  to  b  i: 
of  money,  there  was  a  talk  of  bringing  -^ 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  T.AFxOCHEJAQUELEIN. 


243 


trial  for  the  supposed  embezzlement.     M. 

L.,  however,  haviiiii;  (ipclaied  that  one  ot 

m  had  given  him  hi.s  word  ot'  honour  that 
h  box  was  empty  when  they  opened  it.  the 
Jiole  council  declared  themselves  s;iti.stied. 
jj  acquitted  the  youi!<inien  by  acclamation. 
In  the  course  of  the  summeroV  ITS.J.  various 
Juruinary  actions  were  louiiht  with  various 
ijcess :  but  the  mo.st  remarkable  eviMit  w  as 
Jj  arrival  of  M.  Tinteuiac,  with  desptches 
Ira  the  English  government,  about  the  mid- 
,t!  of  July.  This  intrepid  inessenger  had 
;[ne  alone  throuirh  all  Brittany  and  Anjou, 
:|rying  his  despatches  in  his  pistols  as  wad- 
as.  and  incessantly  in  danger  from  the  re- 
nblican  armies  and  magistrates.  The  des- 
.  ches,  Madame  de  L.  informs  us.  showed 
1:  increilible  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the 
[glish  government  of  the  actual  posture  of 
iliirs.  They  were  answered,  however,  with 
^titude  and  clearness.  A  debarkation  was 
5pngly  reconmiended  near  Sables  or  Paim- 
t'uf,  but  by  no  means  at  L'Orient,  Rochefort. 
jj.'iochelle ;  and  it  was  particularly  entreated, 
tit  the  troops  should  consist  chiefly  of  emi- 
jjnt  Frenchmen,  and  that  a  Prince  of  the 
[-iuse  of  Bourbon  should,  if  possible,  place 
liaself  at  their  head.  Madame  de  L.,  who 
k'pte  a  small  and  very  neat  hand,  was  em- 
pyed  to  write  out  these  despatches,  which 
i^'e  placed  in  the  pistols  of  M.  Tinteuiac, 
m  immediately  proceeded  on  his  adven- 
Lijjus  mission.  He  reached  Englantl.  it  seems, 
ijl  was  frequently  employed  thereafter  in 
ti[lertaking5  of  the  same  nature.  He  headed 
ibnsiderable  party  of  Bretons,  in  endeavour- 
ii|  to  support  the  unfortunate  descent  at 
Qjiberoa;  and.  disdainhii;-  to  submit,  even 
jj'rthe  failure  of  that  ill-concerted  expedi- 
tiji.  fell  bravely  with  arms  in  his  hands. 
Ajer  his  departure,  the  insurgents  were  re- 
pteed  at  Lucon,  and  obtained  some  advan- 
tabs  at  Chantonnay.  But  finding  the  repub- 
li^jn  armies  daily  increasing  in  numbers,  skill, 
iij  discipline,  they  found  it  necessary  to  act 
?lj?fly  on  the  defensive;  and,  for  this  pur- 
fxj?.  divided  the  country  into  several  districts. 
ii«'ach  of  wh  ch  they  stationed  that  part  of 
tqarmy  which  had  been  recruited  within  it, 
III  the  general  who  was  most  beloved  ancl 
"tfided  in  by  the  inhabitants.  In  this  way, 
MiLescure  came  to  be  stationed  in  the  heart 
jfjis  own  estates:  and  was  not  a  little  touched 
toind  almost  all  his  peasants,  who  hud  bled 
iij  suffered  by  his  side  for  so  long  a  time 
«"}iout  pay,  come  to  make  offer  of  the  rents 
:h'|  were  due  for  the  possessions  to  which 
lh|-  were  but  just  returned.  He  told  them. 
it  jas  not  for  his  rents  that  he  had  taken  up 
iris: — and  that  while  they  were  exposed  to 
hjcalamities  of  war,  they  were  well  entitled 
0^  freed  of  that  burden.  Various  lads  of 
een,  and  several  hale  grandsires  of  sev- 
came  at  this  period,  and  insisted  upon 
)eg  allowed  to  share  the  dangers  and  glories 

'  leir  kinsmen, 
cm  this  time,  downwards,  the  picture  of 
var  is  shaded  with  deeper  horrors ;  and 
operations  of   the  insurgents   acquire  a 

hacter  of  greater  desperation.     The  Con- 


vention issued  the  barbarous  decree,  that  th** 
whole  country,  which  still  continued  its  re- 
sistance, shou'lil  be  desolated  ;  that  the  whole 
inhabitants  should  be  e.xterminntfd.  without 
distiiiclion  of  age  or  sex  :  the  habitations  ckii- 
sumed  w  ith  tire,  and  the  trees  cut  down  with 
the  a.\e.  Si.v  armii  s.  amoniitir.;,'  in  all  to  mar 
I  two  hniidrt'd  ihou.'iand  men,  wer<>  charged 
I  with  the  rxt'cntioii  nf  thes<>  atrocious  orders; 
and  bei^-.ui.  in  Seiitembt-r  1793.  to  obey  them 
with  a  detestable  fidelity.  A  multitude  of 
.sjingtiinary  conflicts  ensu«'d  ;  and  the  insur- 
gents succeeded  in  repulsing  this  desolating 
invasion  at  almost  all  the  jxiints  of  attack. 
Among  the  slain  in  one  of  these  engagements, 
the  republicans  found  the  bodv  of  a  young 
j  w  Oman,  w  liich  Madame  de  L.  informs  us  gave 
occasion  to  a  number  of  iille  rejwrt.s ;  many 
j  giving  out  that  it  was  she  herself,  or  a  sister 
of  M.  de  L.  (who  had  no  sister),  or  a  new 
•loan  of  Arc,  who  had  kept  up  the  spirit  of 
the  peasantry  by  her  enthusiastic  jireflictions. 
The  truth  was,  that  it  was  the  body  of  an  in- 
nocent peasant  girl,  who  had  always  lived  a 
remarkably  quiet  and  pious  life,  till  recently 
before  this  action,  w  hen  she  had  been  seized 
With  an  irresistible  desire  to  take  a  pait  in 
the  conflict.  She  had  discovered  herself  some 
time  before  to  Madame  de  L. ;  and  begged 
from  her  a  shift  of  a  peculiar  fabric.  The 
night  before  the  battle,  she  also  revealed  her 
secret  to  M.  de  L. : — asked  him  to  cive  her  a 
pair  of  shoes — and  promised  to  behave  her- 
self in  such  a  manner  in  the  morrow's  fight, 
that  he  should  never  think  of  partini,'  with 
her.  Accordingly,  she  kept  near  his  person 
through  the  whole  of  the  battle,  and  conduct- 
ed herself  with  the  most  heroic  bravery.  Two 
or  three  times,  in  the  very  heat  of  the  flight, 
she  said  to  him.  "No.  mon.  General,  you  shall 
not  get  before  me — I  shall  alw  ays  be  closer 
lip  to  the  enemy  even  than  you."'  Early  in 
the  day,  she  was  hurt  pretty  seriously  in  the 
hand,  but  held  it  up  laughing  to  her  general, 
and  said,  '-It  is  nothing  at  all."  In  the  end 
of  the  battle  she  was  surrounded  in  a  charge, 
and  fell  fighting  like  a  desperado.  There 
I  were  about  ten  other  women,  who  took  up 
I  arms,  Madame  de  L.  pays,  in  this  cause; — 
I  two  si.sters,  under  fifteen — and  a  tall  beauty, 
who  wore  the  dress  of  an  olficer.  The  prie.s'ts 
attended  the  soldiers  in  the  field,  and  rallied 
and  exhorted  them;  but  took  no  part  in  the 
combat,  nor  ever  excited  them  to  any  acts  of 
inhumanity.  There  were  many  boys  of  the 
most  tender  age  amonj:  the  combatants, — 
some  scarcely  more  than  nine  or  ten  years  of 
aire. 

M.  Piron  gained  a  decided  victory  over  the 
most  numerous  army  of  the  republic ;  but 
their  ranks  being  recruited  by  the  whole  gar- 
rison of  Mentz,  w  hich  had  been  liberated  on 
parole,  presented  airain  a  mo.«t  formidable 
!  front  to  the  insurgents.  A  great  battle  was 
fought  in  the  middle  of  September  at  Chollet, 
where  the  government  army  was  completely 
broken,  and  would  have  been  finally  routerf, 
but  for  the  skill  and  firmness  of  the  cele- 
brated Kleber  who  commanded  it,  and  suc- 
cessfully maintained  a  position  which  covered 


244 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


its  retreat.     In  the  middle  of  the  battle  one  I 
of  the   peasants   look   a   flageolet   from   his 
poctet,  and,  in  derision,  begun  to  play  ga  ira,  [ 
as  he  advanced  a<rainst  the  enemy.     A  can-  j 
non-ball    struck   olf    his   horse's   head;   and  i 
bronght  him  to  the  ground  :  but  he  drew  his 
leg  from  the  dead  animal,  and  marched  for- 
ward on  foot,  without  discontniuing  his  music.  • 
One  other  picture  of  detail  will  give  an  idea  . 
of  the  extraordinary  sort  of  viarfare  in  which 
the  country  was  then  engajred.    Westermann  j 
was  beat  out  of   Chatillou,  and    pursued   to 
some  distance:  butlinding  that  the  insurgent  j 
forces  were  withdrawn,  he  bethought  himself  j 
of  recovering   the  place  by  a  coup  de  main. 
He  mounted  an  hundred  grenadiers  behind  [ 
an  hundred  picked  hussars,  and  sent  them  at  I 
midnight   into   the   city.     The   peasiuits.  as  j 
usual,  had  no  outposts,  and  were  scattered  j 
about  the  streets,  overcome  with  fatigue  and  j 
brandy.     However,  they  maiie  a   stout   and  i 
bloody  resistance.  One  active  fellow  received  j 
twelve  sabre  wounds  on  the  same  spot ;  an-  | 
other,   after   killing   a   hussar,    took    up    his  j 
wounded  brother  in  his  arms,  placed  him  on  | 
the  horse,  and   sent  him  out  of  the  city  ; — 
then  returned  to  the  combat;  killed  another 
hussar,  and  mounted   himself  on  the  prize. 
The   republicans,  irritated  at  the    lesistance 
they  experienced,  butchered    all   that  came 
across  them  in  that  night  of  confusion  !     All 
order  or  discipline  was  lost  in  the  darkness  :  '[ 
and  they  hacked  and  fired  at  each  other,  or  i 
wrestled  and  fell,  man  to  man,  as  they  chanced  j 
to  meet,  and  often  without  beina-  able  to  dis- 
tinguish friend  from  foe. — An  eminent  leader 
of  the  insurrection  was  trampled  under  foot 
by  a  party  of  the  republicans,  who  rushed  past 
him  to  mas.sacre  the  whole  I'amily  where  he  | 
lodged,  who  were  all  zealous  republicans. —  j 
The  town  was  set  on  fire  in  hfty  places. — and  [ 
was  at  last  evacuated  by  both  parties,  in  inu-  ! 
tual  fear  and  ignorance  of  the  force  to  which  j 
they  were  opposed.     When  the  day  dawned.  ! 
however,  it  was  finally  reoccujtied  tiy  the  in-  ! 
surgents.  j 

After  some  more  successes,  the  insurger.i  I 
chiefs  found  their  armies  sorely  reduced,  and  i 
their  enemies  perpetually  increasing  in  force  j 
and  numbers.     M.  de  la  Charette.  upon  some  j 
misunderstanding,  withdrew  his  corps  ;  and  | 
all  who  looked  btiyond  the  present  mimaent. 
could  not  fail  to  perceive,  that  disasters  of  the  i 
most  fatal  nature  were  almost  inevitably  ap- 
proaching.   A  dreadful  disaster,  at  all  events.  ; 
now  fell  on  their  fair  historian.     M.  de  1..  in  | 
rallying  a  party  of  his  men  near  Trcrnblaye.  '< 
was  struck  with  a  musket  ball  o  i   the  eye-  ! 
brow,  and  instantly  fell  senseless  to  the  srround.  • 
He  was  not  dead,  however  ;  and  wa-  withdilii-  1 
culty  borne  through  the  lont  which  was  the  l 
immediate  consequence  of  his  fall.    His  wife, 
entirely  ignorant  of  what  had  happened,  was 
forced  to  move  along  with  the  rotre.itin<2-  army ; 
and  in  a  miserable  little  village  was  called,  at 
midnight,  from  her  bed  oi  straw,  to  hear  mass 
performed  to  the  soldiers  by  whom  she  was 
surrounded.     The  soli-mn  ceremony  was  in- 
terrupteil  by  the  approaching  thunder  of  ar- 
tillery, and  the  perpetual  arrival  of  fugitive 


and  tumultuary  parties,  with  tidings  of  evij 
omen.  Nobody  had  the  courage  to  tell  thi 
unfortunate  woman  the  calamity  that  had  be 
fallen  her,  though  the  priest  awakened  a  vaau 
alarm  by  solenui  encomiums  on  the  piety  o 
jM.  de  L.,  and  the  necessity  of  resignation  ti! 
the  will  of  Heaven.  Next  night  she  fouli4i 
him  at  Cherdron,  scarcely  able  to  move  or  t| 
articulate, — but  suffering  more  from  the  ide' 
of  her  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  th 
enemy,  than  from  his  own  disasters. 

The  last  great  battle  was  fought  near  Ch(i 
let,  when  the  insurgents,  after  a  furious  ai. 
sJinguinary  resistance,  were  at  last  borne  dow 
by  the  multitude  of  their  opponents,  an 
driven  down  into  the  low  country  on  the  bank 
of  the  Loire.  M.  de  Bonwhamp,  who  ha 
always  held  out  the  policy  of  ciossii.g  th 
river,  and  the  advantages  to  be  derived  froi 
uniting  themselves  to  the  royalists  of  Bi  ittan 
was  mortally  wounded  in  this  battle  :  but  h 
counsels  still  influenced  their  proceedings 
this  emergency;  and  not  only  the  whole  d 
bris  and  wreck  of  the  army,  but  a  great  pi 
portion  of  the  men  and  women  and  chikln 
of  the  country,  flying  in  constemaiion  fro 
the  burnings  and  butchery  of  the  gov(  riimc 
forces,  flocked  down  in  agony  and  despair 
the  banks  of  this  great  river.  On  g-ainiiig  tl 
heights  of  St.  Florcnt.  one  of  the  most  moui 
ful,  and  at  the  same  time  most  maiiiiifict 
spectacles,  burst  upon  the  eye.  Those  heij:) 
form  a  vast  semicircle  :  at  the  bottom  of  whi^ 
a  broad  bare  plain  extends  to  the  c^lge  of  i 
water.  Near  an  hundred  thousand  unhap 
souls  now  blackened  over  that  tlreary  expaii; 
— old  men.  infants,  and  women  mingled  w 
the  half-armed  soldiery,  caravans,  crowd 
baggage  waggons  and  teams  of  oxen,  all  f 
of  despair,  impatience,  anxiety,  and  terror. 
Behind,  were  the  smokes  of  their  humi 
villages,  and  the  thunder  of  the  hostile  ar 
lery  : — before,  the  broad  stream  of  the  Loi 
divided  by  a  long  low  island,  also  covei 
with  the  fugitives — twenty  frail  barks  ply: 
in  the  stream — and.  on  the  far  banks,  I 
disorderly  movements  of  those  who  had 
fected  the  passage,  and  were  waiting  there; 
be  rejoined  by  their  companions.  Such,  1^' 
dame  de  L.  assures  u,*.  was  the  tumult  f' 
terrror  of  the  scene,  and  so  awful  the  reii 
lections  it  inspired,  that  it  can  never  be  effa(. 
from  the  memory  of  any  of  those  who  beh! 
it  :  and  that  many  of  its  awe-struck  spe(- 
tors  have  concurred  in  stating  that  it  broii- 
forcibly  to  their  imaginations  the  unspeaka' 
terrors  of  the  great  dav  of  .hulgnient !  Thron 
this  dismayed  and  bewildered  multitude.  ' 
discon.solate  family  of  iheir  L^allant  gem  I 
made  their  way  silently  to  the  shore: — M;' 
L.  stretched,  almost  insensible,  on  a  wietr  ;l 
litter. — his  wife,  three  m.onthsgone  with  ch  , 
walking  by  his  side, — ar.d,  behind  her,  If 
faithful  nurse,  with  her  helpless  and  astoni' 
ed  infant  in  her  arms.  When  theyarri'  I 
on  the  beach,  they  with  diliiculty  got  a  ci  v 
boat  to  carry  them  to  the  island  ;  but  the  a  j 
monk  who  steered  it  would  not  veiitim  • 
cross  the  larcer  branch  of  the  streani, —  J 
the  poor  wounded  man  was  obliged  to  suf  ' 

I     i 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  LARlX-HEJAQUELEIN. 


24& 


the  agony  of  another  removal.  At  length, 
ey  were  landed  on  the  opposite  bank :  where 
retchedness  and  desolation  appeared  still 
ore  conspicuous.  Thousands  of  helpless 
retches  were  lying  on  the  grassy  shore,  or 
aming  about  in  search  of  the  friends  from 
loni  ihey  liad  been  divided.  There  was  a 
neral  complaint  of  cold  and  hunger ;  and  no- 
fdy  hi  a  condition  to  give  any  directions,  or 
Jministerany  relief.  M.  de  L.  sutfered  excru- 
:iting  pain  from  the  piercing  air  which  blew 
ion  his  feverish  frame ; — the  poor  infant 
i .earned  for  food,  and  the  helpless  mother 
us  left  to  minister  to  both; — while  lier  at- 
lulant  went  among  the  burnt  and  ruineil 
\lages,  to  seek  a  drop  of  miik  for  the  babv. 
(  length  they  got  again  in  motion  for  the 
jjoining  vilkige  ot  Varades, — M.  de  L..  borne 
ia  sort  of  chair  upon  the  pikes  of  his  soldiers. 
\th  his  wife  and  the  maid-servant  walkins' 
tfore  him,  and  supporting  his  legs,  wrapped 
L  in  their  cloaks.  With  great  ditiiculty  thev 
ftcured  a  little  room,  in  a  cottage  swarminir 
V  h  soldiers, — most  of  them  famishing  for 
I'nt  of  food,  and  yet  still  so  mindful  of  the 
rhts  of  their  neighbours,  that  thev  would 
[I  take  a  few  potatoes  from  the  uarden  of 
t>  cottage,  till  JMadame  de  L.  had  obtained 
live  of  the  proprietor. 

Vl.  de  Bonchamp  died  as  they  were  taking 
hi  out  of  the  boat ;  and  it  became  necessaiy 
tc^lect  another  commander.  M.  de  L.  roused 
hiself  to  recommend  Henri  de  Larocheja- 
q'lein:  and  he  was  immediately  ap|X)inted. 
\'ien  the  election  was  announced  to  him,  M. 
dl  L.  desired  to  see  and  congratulate  his 
v'iarit  cousin.  He  was  already  weeping 
0;r  him  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room ;  and 
nil-  came  to  e.xpress  his  hopes  that  he  should 
Bch  be  superseded  by  his  recovery.  "No," 
s;'l  M.  de  L.,  "  that  I  believe  is  out  of  the 
q  'Stion :  But  even  if  I  were  to  recover. 
I  hould  never  take  the  place  you  have 
my  obtained,  and  should  be  proud  to  serve 
a;  your  aid-de-camp."  —  The  day  after, 
tfv  advanced  towards  Reiines.  M.  de  L. 
ccld  find  no  other  conveyance  than  a  bair- 
giie-waggon :  at  ever)'  jolt  of  which  he 
si'ered  such  anguish,  as  to  draw  forth  the 
m;t  piercing  shrieks  even  from  his  manly 
b(jm.  After  some  time,  an  okl  chaise  was 
di'overed:  a  piece  of  artillery  was  thrown 
av.y  to  supply  it  with  horses,  and  the 
Wfinded  general  was  laid  in  it. — his  heatl 
buir  supported  in  the  lap  of  Agatha,  his 
mher"s  faithful  waitiiiir-woman,  and  now 
th  only  attendant  of  his  wiie  and  infant, 
la'iree  painful  days  they  reached  Laval  ; — 
Mlame  de  L.  frequently  suflfering  from 
abilute  want,  and  sometimes  getting  noth- 
inAo  eat  the  whole  day,  but  one  or  two  sour 
apies.  M.  de  L.  was  nearly  insensible  du- 
rii-  the  whole  journey.  He  was  roused  but 
on-,  when  there  was  a  report  that  a  party 
of  le  enemy  were  in  sicrht.  He  then  called 
foiiis  musket,  and  attempted  to  get  out  of 
thi-arriage ; — addressed  exhortations  and  re- 
pn,ches  to  the  troops  that  were  flyinir  around 
nit;  and  would  not  rest  till  an  ofhcer  in  whom 
hoiad  confidence  came  up  and  restored  some 


order  to  the  detachment. — The  alarm  turned 
out  to  be  a  false  one. 

'  At  Laval  they  halted  tor  several  days;  and 
j  he  was  so  nuich  recruiteil  by  the  rep)se,  that 
I  he  was  able  to  :^et  for  half  an  hour  on  horse- 
I  back,  and  .seemetl  to  be  fairly  in  the  way 
I  of  recovery  ;  when  his  e.vcissive  /lal.  and 
an.xiety  lor  the  good  behaviour  of  the  troops, 
templed  him  to  i)remature  exertions,  from  tni- 
consequences  ot  which  he  never  afterwards 
recovered.  'Jhe  troops  being  all  collected 
and  i-efreshed  at  Laval,  it  was  resolved  to 
turn  upon  their  pursuers,  and  give  battle  to 
the  advancing  ariny  of  the  republic.  The 
conllict  was  sanguinary ;  but  eiuled  most 
decidedly  in  favour  ot  the  Vendeans.  'I'he 
fii-st  encounter  was  in  the  night. — and  was 
characterized  with  more  than  the  usual  con- 
fusion of  night  attacks.  The  two  armies 
crossed  each  other  in  so  extraordinary  a 
manner,  that  the  artillery  of  each  was  sup- 
plied, for  a  part  of  the  battle,  from  the  ecus- 
.so».s-  of  the  enemy  ;  and  one  of  the  Vendean 
leaders,  after  exposing  himself  to  great  hazard 
in  helping  a  brother  ofhcer,  as  he  took  him  to 
be,  out  of  a  ditch,  discovered,  by  the  next  flash 
of  the  cannon,  that  he  was  an  enemy — and 
immediately  cut  him  down.  After  daj  break, 
the  battle  became  more  orderly,  and  ended  in 
a  complete  victory.  This  was  the  last  grand 
crisis  of  tlie  insurrection.  The  way  to  La 
Vendee  was  once  more  open ;  and  the  fugi- 
tives had  it  in  their  power  to  return  triumphant 
to  their  fastnesses  and  their  homes,  after  rous- 
uig  Brittany  by  the  example  of  tneir  valour 
and  success.  M .  de  L.  and  Henri  both  inclined 
to  this  course:  but  other  counsels  prevailed. 
Some  w^ere  for  marching  on  to  Nantes — others 
for  proceeding  to  Rennes — and  some,  more 
sanguine  than  the  rest,  for  pushing  directly 
for  Paris  Time  was  irretrievably  lost  in  these 
deliberations  :  and  the  republicans  had  leisure 
to  rallv.  and  bring  up  their  reinforcements, 
before  any  thing  was  definitively  settled. 

In  the  meantime.  M.  de  L.  became  visibly 
worse  ;  and  oiie  morniner,  when  his  wife  alone 
was  in  the  room,  he  called  her  to  him,  and 
told  her  that  he  felt  his  death  was  at  hand  ; 
— that  his  only  regret  was  for  leaving  her 
in  the  midst  of  such  a  war,  with  a  helpless 
child,  and  in  a  state  of  pregnancy.  For  nim- 
self,  he  added,  he  died  happy,  and  with 
humble  reliance  on  the  Divine  mercy  ; — but 
her  sorrow  he  coulil  not  bear  to  think  of: — 
and  he  entreated  her  pardon  for  any  neglect 
or  unkindness  he  might  ever  have  shown  her. 
He  added  many  other  expressions  of  tender- 
ness and  consolation  :  and  seeing  her  over- 
whelmed with  anguish  at  the  despairing  tone 
in  which  he  spoke,  concluded  by  .saying,  that 
he  might  perhaps  be  mistaken  in  his  prog- 
nosis:— and  hoped  still  to  live  lor  her.  Next 
dav  they  were  under  the  necessity  of  moving 
forward  :  and,  on  the  journey,  he  learned 
accidentally  from  one  of  the  officers,  the 
dreadful  details  of  the  Queeifs  execution, 
which  his  w  ife  had  been  at  great  pains  to 
keep  from  his  knowledge.  This  intelligence 
seemed  to  bririir  back  his  fever — ihougfi  he 
still  spoke  of  living  to  avenge  her — "  If  1  do 
v2 


246 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


live,"  he  said,  •'  it  shall  now  be  for  vengeance 
•nly — no  more  mercy  from  me!" — That 
eyeuing,  Madame  de  L.,  entirely  overcome 
with  anxiety  and  fatigue,  had  fallen  into  a 
deep  sleep  on  a  mat  before  liis  bed  : — And 
soon  after,  his  condition  became  altogether 
desperate.  He  was  now  speechless,  and 
nearly  insensible  ; — the  sacraments  were  ad- 
ministered, and  various  applications  made 
without  awaking  the  unhappy  sleeper  by  his 
side.  Soon  after  midnight,  however,  she 
started  up,  and  instantly  became  aware  of  i 
the  full  extent  of  her  misery.  To  fill  up  ' 
its  measure,  it  was  ainiounced  in  the  course 
of  the  morning,  that  they  must  immediately 
resume  their  march  with  the  last  division  of 
the  army.  The  thing  appeared  altogether 
impossible;  Madame  de  L.  declared  she 
would  rather  die  by  the  hands  of  the  re- 
publicans, than  permit  her  husband  to  be 
moved  in  the  condition  in  which  he  then 
was.  When  she  recollected,  however,  that 
these  barbarous  enemies  hail  of  late  not  only 
butchered  the  wounded  that  fell  into  their 
power,  but  mutilated  and  insulted  their  re- 
mains, she  submitted  to  the  alternative,  and 
prepared  for  this  miserable  journey  with  a 
heart  bursting  with  angui.sh.  The  dying  man 
was  roused  only  to  heavy  moanings  by  the 
pain  of  lifting  him  into  the  carriage, — where 
his  faithful  Agutha  again  supported  his  head, 
and  a  surgeon  watched  all  the  changes  in 
his  condition.  Madame  de  L.  was  placed 
on  horseback ;  and,  surrounded  by  her  father 
and  mother,  and  a  number  of  otficers.  went 
forward,  scarcely  conscious  of  any  thing  that 
was  passing — only  that  sometimes,  in  the 
bitterness  of  her  heart,  when  she  saw  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  republican  soldiers  on 
the  road,  she  made  her  horse  trample  upon 
them,  as  if  in  vengeance  for  the  slaughter  of 
her  husband.  In  the  course  of  little  more 
than  an  hour,  she  thought  she  heard  some 
little  stir  in  the  carriage,  ami  insisted  on  stop- 
ping to  inquire  into  the  cause.  The  otficers, 
however,  crowded  around  her ;  and  then  her 


march  had  carried  her  ahead  ;  but  the  faitJ 
ful  Agatha,  fearful  lest  her  appearance  migl 
alarm  her  mistress  in  the  midst  of  the  jou 
ney,  had  remained  alone  with  the  dead  boi 
for  all  the  rest  of  the  day  !  Fatigue,  grit 
and  anguish  of  mind,  now  threatened  ^ladaii 
de  L.  with  consequences  which  it  seems  t 
together  miraculous  that  she  should  ha 
escaped.  She  was  seized  with  violent  paii 
and  was  threatened  with  a  miscarriage  in 
j  room  which  served  as  a  common  passage 
the  crowded  and  miserable  lodging  she  h 
procured.  It  was  thought  necessary  to  ble 
her — and;  after  some  difhculty,  a  surge 
was  procured.  She  can  never  forget,  g 
says,  the  formidable  apparition  of  thiswarli 
phlebotomist.  A  figure  six  feet  high,  w 
ferocious  whiskers,  a  great  sabre  at  his  sii 
and  four  huge  pistols  in  his  belt,  stalked 
with  a  fierce  and  careless  air  to  her  beil-sii 
and  when  she  said  she  was  timid  about  l 
operation,  answered  harshlv,  "So  am  not ; 
I  have  killed  three  hundred  men  and  upwa 
in  the  field  in  my  time — one  of  them  only  t 
morning — I  think  then  I  may  venture : 
bleed  a  woman — Come,  come,  let  us  see  y 
arm."'  •  She  was  bled  accordingly — and,  c 
trary  to  all  expectation,  was  pretty  well  ag! 
in  the  moraiiiir.  She  insisted  for  a  long  ti 
ill  carrying  the  body  of  her  husband  in 
carriage  along  with  her  : — but  her  fall- 
after  indulging  her  for  a  few  days,  contri  i 
to  fall  behind  with  this  precious  deposit,  1 
informed  her  when  he  came  np  again,  th;  t 
had  been  found  necessary  to  bury  it  priva  i 
in  a  spot  which  he  would  not  specify. 

This  abstract  has  grown  to  such  a  bulk  I 
we  find  we  cannot  afibrd  to  continue  iton^i 
same  scale.  Nor  is  this  very  necessary  :'r 
though  there  is  more  than  a  third  part  of  ;e 
book,  of  which  we  have  given  no  accou  - 
and  that,  to  those  who  have  a  taste  forts 
of  sorrow,  the  most  interesting  portion  of  - 
we  believe  that  most  readers  will  think  ■ 
have  had  enough  of  La  Vendee  ;  ami  ihii 
will  now  be  in  a  condition  to  judge  of  »■ 
decree  of  interest  or  amusement  which* 


h-' 


that  it  was  dreadful  to  feel  the  lilii! 
wheels,  aiul  the  cracking  o!  the  hen' 
heavy  carriage  passed  over  them, — li 
of  the  Vendeans  succeeded  in  rent : 


father  came  up  and  said  that  ]\I.  de  L.  wa 
in  the  same  state  as  before,  but  that  he  suf-  j  work  is  likely  to  atinrd  them.  We  shall  J, 
fered  dreadfully  from  the  cold,  and  would  |  however,  a  brief  sketch  of  the  rest  (H  its  ,!• 
be  very  much  distressed  if  the  door  was  again  ',  tents. — After  a  series  of  murderous  lattit  lo 
to  be  opened.  Obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  this  i  which  the  mutual  refusal  of  (]uarle 
answer,  she  went  on  in  sullen  ami  irloomy  |  exasperation  uuknowTi  in  any  otht 
silence  for  some  hours  longer  in  a  dark  and  and  which  left  the  field  so  cunil 
rainy  day  of  November.  It  was  night  when  dead  bodies  that  Madame  de  L.  :< 
they  reached  the  town  of  Fouireres;  and, 
when  lifted  from  her  horse  at  the  gate,  she 
was  unable  either  to  stand  or  walk  ; — she 
was  carried  into  a  wretched  house,  crowded 

with   troops  of  all   des<;riptions,  where  she  |  crers  upon  the  Loire,  and  tru.sted  to  a 
waited  two  hours  in  agony  till  she  heard  that  i  assault  upon  that  place  for  the  meai;* 
the  carriage  with  M.  de  L.  was  come  up.  }  passing  the  river,  and  regaining  their  b 
She   was  left  alone   for  a  dreadful   moment  |  country.      The    garrison,    however, 
with  her  mother:  and  then  M.  de  Keauvol-    stronger  and    more   resolute   than  thf 
liers  c^ime  in,  bathed    in  tears, — and   taking  |  expected.     Their  own  gay  and  enilni 
both  her  hands,  told  her  she  must  now  think  '  courage  had  sunk    under  a   long  cou 
o.'dy  of  savins,'  the  child   .she  carried  within 
hi-r !     Her  husband   had  expired  when  she 
heard  the  noise  in   the  carriaire,   soon  after 
their  setting  out — and   the  surgeon  had  ac- 
cordingly left  it  as  soon  as  the  order  of  the 


sntlering   and  disaster:    and.    after    l>i>    * 
great  number  of  men  before  the  wall-,  f' 
\\ere  obliged  to  turn  back  in  oonfu-"  ni.  <•} 
did  not  well  know  wlnfher.  but  (ai'lic  ■ 
farther  from  the  land  to  uhich  all  their  i  ^ 


MEMOIRS  OF  MADA^IE  DE  LAROCHEJAQUELEIN. 


247 


*1  wishes  were  directed.  In  the  tumult  of 
Is  retreat,  Madame  de  L.  lost  sight  of  her 
ineral)le  aunt,  who  had  hitherto  been  the 
jld  and  patient  companion  of  their  wander- 
\>:s:  and  learned  afterwards  that  she  had 
jlen  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and,  at 
;?  age  of  eighty,  been  publicly  executed  at 
Innes,  for  the  crime  of  rebellion  !     At  Fou- 

fes,  at  Laval,  at  Dol,  and  Savenay,  the 
indled  force  of  the  insurgents  had  to  sus- 
jn  new  attacks  from  their  indefatigable  pur- 

!rs.  in  which  the  othcers  and  most  of  the 
llery  gave  still  more  extraordinary  proofs, 
u  any  we  have  yet  reconled,  of  undaunted 
^our,  "and  constancy  worthy  of  belter  for- 
je.     The  weather  was  now,  in   tli(>  latter 
i)l  of  November,  extremely  cold  and  rainy  ; 
'ij  roads  almost  impassable ;  and  provisions 
rh-  scarce.     Often,  after   a  march   of  ten 
i^rs,  Madame  de  L.  has  been  obliged  to 
^i  for  a  tew  cold  potatoes  in  the  bottom  of 
liirty  cauldron,  tilled  with  greasy  water,  and 
)jluted  by  the  hands  of  half  the  army.     Her 
;|ld  sickened  from  its  teething,  and  insuffi- 
nt  nourishment-  and  every  day  she  wit- 
1  sed    th'J    death  of  some  of  those  gallant 
rlers  whoiTi  the  spring  had  seen  assembled 
ri^r  halls  in  all  the  Hush  of  youthful  confi- 
1  ce  and  glory.    After  many  a  weary  march, 
I]    desperate  struggle,  about   ten  thousand 
a  survivors  got  again  to  the  banks  of  that 
E.l  Loire,  which  now  seemed  to  divide  them 
'rn  hope  and  protection.     Henri,  who  had 
Liiiiged  the  whole  opeiation  with  consum- 
r:e  judiirnent,  found  the  shores  on  both  sides 
'r-  of  the  enemy: — But  all  the  boats  had 
)(jn  removed  ;  and,  after  leaving  orders  to 
Hstruct  rafts  with  all  possible  despatch,  he 
li.self,  with  a  few  attendants,  ventured  over 
n(  little  wherry,  which  he  had  brought  with 
li    on   a   cart,  to   make   arrangements  for 
Jferins  their  landing.     But  they  never  saw 
ndaring  Henri  again  !     The  vigilant  enemy 
wie  down  upon  them  at  this  critical  moment 
-itercepted  his  return — and.  stationing  seve- 
irmed  vessels  in  the  stream,  rendered  the 
ige  of  the  army  altogether  impossible, 
y  fell  back  in  despair  upon  Savenay  ;  and 
e  the  brave  and    indefatigable  Marigiiy 
Madame  de  L.  that  all  was  now  over — 
it  was  altogether  impossible  to  resist  the 
H)pk  that  would  be  made  next   day — and 
ed  her  to  seek  her  safety  in  flight  and 
uise,  without  the  loss  of  an  instant.     She 
out  accordingly,  with  her  mother,   in  a 
my  day  of  December,  under  the  conduct 
Iru'.iken  peasant ;  and,  after  being  out 


nilt  of  the  ni;;ht;  at  length  obtained  shelter 
dirty  farm  hons", — fiom  which,  in  the 
a  of  the  day.  she  had  the  misery  of  see- 

n>^er  unfortunate  countrvmeu  scattered  over 
vhole  open  country,  chased  and  butchered 

A'i[.''ut  mercy  by  the  republicans,  who  now 
a  final  vengeance  for  all  the  losses  thpy 
sustained.  She  had  long  been  clothed 
iredsand  patches,  and  needed  no  disguise 

o  mceal  her  ([uality.     She  was  sometimes 

li<en  in  the  mill,  when  the  troopers  came 
arch  for  fugitives  in  her  lonely  retreat  ; 

— jd  oftener  aeiit,  in  the  midst  of  winter,  to 


herd  the  sheep  or  cattle  of  her  faithful  and 
compassionate  host,  along  with  his  raw  boned 
daughter. 

In  this  situation  they  remained  till  late  in 
the  following  sj)ring; — and  it  would  be  end- 
less to  einnnenife  the  hairbreadth  "scapes  and 
unpar.dleled  sufferings  to  wliii-h  they  were 
eveiy  ilay  exposi'd— reduced  Ireijuently  to 
live  upon  alms,  and  forced  every  two  or  tlireo 
days  to  shift  their  quarters,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  from  one  royalist  cabin  to  another. 
Such  was  the  long-continued  and  vindictive 
rigour  of  the  republican  parly,  that  lh<'  mo.st 
eager  and  unrelaxing  search  was  made  for 
fugitives  of  all  descriptions;  and  every  ad- 
herent of  the  insurgent  faction  wlio  fell  into 
their  hands  was  barbarously  murdered,  with- 
out the  least  regard  to  age.  sex.  or  individual 
iiniocence  !  While  skulking  about  in  this 
state  of  peril  and  desolation,  they  had  glimpses 
and  occasional  rencounters  with  .Mime  ol  their 
former  companions,  whom  similar  misfortunes 
had  driven  upon  similar  schemes  of  conceal- 
ment. In  .particular,  ihey  twice  kiw  the 
tiaring  and  unsubduable  M.  de  IMarigny,  who 
had  wandered  over  tin;  whole  country  from 
Angers  to  Nantes;  and  notwithstanding  his 
gigantic  form  and  remarkable  features,  had 
contrived  so  to  disgxiise  himself  as  to  elude 
all  detection  or  pursuit.  He  could  counterfeit 
all  ages  and  dialects,  and  speak  in  perfection 
the  patois  of  every  village.  He  now  appeared 
before  them  in  the  character  of  an  itinerant 
dealer  in  poultry  ;  and  retired  unsuspected  by 
all  but  themselves.  In  this  wretched  condi- 
tion, the  term  of  Madame  de  L.'s  conlint  menl 
drew  on:  and,  after  a  thousand  frights  and 
disasters,  she  was  delivered  of  two  daughters, 
without  any  other  assistance  than  that  of  her 
mother.  One  of  the  infants  had  its  w  list  dis- 
located :  and  so  subdued  was  the  poor  mother's 
mind  to  the  level  of  her  fallen  fortunes,  that 
she  had  now  no  other  anxiety,  than  that  slie 
might  recover  strength  enough  to  carry  it 
herself  to  the  waters  of  Bareges,  whicli  she 
fancied  might  be  of  .service  to  it  ; — but  the 
poor  baby  died  w  ithin  a  fortnight  after  it  was 
born. 

Towards  the  end  of  1794,  their  lot  was 
.somewhat  softened  by  the  compassionate 
kindness  of  a  Madame  Dumoutiers,  whoofi'er- 
ed  them  an  asylum  in  her  house  ;  in  w  hich, 
though  still  liable  to  the  searches  of  the  blood- 
honiuls  of  the  municipality,  they  had  more 
assistance  in  eluding  them,  and  less  misery 
to  endure  in  the  intervals.  The  whole  his- 
tory of  their  escapes  would  make  the  adven- 
tures of  Caleb  Williams  appear  a  cold  and 
barren  chronicle  ;  but  we  hav(^  room  only  to 
mention,  that  after  the  death  of  Kobesjiierre. 
there  was  a  great  abatement  in  the  rigour  of 
pursuit;  and  that  a  geneiul  amnesty  was 
speedily  proclaimed,  for  all  who  had  been 
concerned  in  the  insurrection.  After  srvenil 
inward  struggles  with  pride  and  principle, 
Madame  de  L.  was  prevailed  on  to  repair  to 
Nantes,  to  avail  herself  of  this  amnesty  : — but, 
tirsl  of  all,  she  rode  in  to  reconnoitre,  and  con- 
sult with  some  friends  of  her  hostess;  and 
proceeded  boldly  through  the  hostile  city,  in 


248 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  ]MEMOIRS. 


the  dress  of  a  peasant,  with  a  sack  at  her  back 
aad  a  pair  of  fowls  in  her  hands,  bhe  found 
that  thVtone  was  now  to  flatter  and  conciliate 
the  h.surgents  by  all  sorts  ot  civilities  and 
compliments  ;  and  after  some  tune,  she  and 
uer  inoiher  applied  for,  and  obtained,  a  full 
pardon  for  all  their  otfences  against  the  Re- 
publican government. 

This  amnesty  drew  back  to  light  many 
of  her  former  friends,  who  had  been  univer- 
sally supposed  to  be  dead;  and  proved  by 
the  prod mious  numbers  whom  it  brough  from 
their  hiding-places  in  the  neighbourhood,  how 
ueneraUy  tie  lower  orders  were  attached  to 
their  cause,  or  how  luiiversal  the  virtues  ot 
compassion  and  fidelity  to  confiding  misery 
are  m  the  national  character.  It  also  brought 
to  the  writer^s  knowledge  many  shocking 
particulars  of  the  cruel  executions  which  so 
Ion-'  polluted  that  devoted  city.  We  may  give 
a  few  of  the  instances  in  her  own  words,  as  a 
specimen  of  her  manner  of  writing  :  to  whit-h, 
in  our  anxiety  to  condense  the  information  she 
affords  us,  we  have  paid  perhaps  too  little 
attention. 


aucun  soin.  A  peine  les  connai^ait-on.  1 
cadavres  reslaicnt  quelquefois  plus  d  un  jour  s 
qu'oii  vint  les  emporter. 

"  Acailie  ne  douiant  plus  d  une  niort  prochai 
envova  chercher  Lainberty.    11  la  couduisit  dans 
petit 'baiin.ent  a  soupape,  dans  lequel  on  avail  n, 
U-s  preires,  et  que  Carrier  lui  avail  donne      11  e 
seal  avec  elle,  et  voulut  en  prohier :  elle  resi , 
Lainbertv  la  meiia^ii  de  la  noyer  :  elle  courut  p  • 
se  ieter  elle-meme  a  I'eau.     Mors  cet  homme  , 
dif   Allons!  tu  es  une  brave  fille,  je  te  sauye . 
II  la  laissa  huit  jours  seule  dans  le  biuiment,  ou  : 
entendait  les  noyades  qui  se  taisaieut  la  null ;  ens  • 
il  la  cacha  chez  un  nonunr  S  *  '  \  qui  eiaii,  c, 
me  lui,  un  fidele  exccuteur  des  ordres  de  Carn. 
•'  Quelque  temps  aprcs,  la  discrde  divisa  les  • 
nubiicains  de  Nantes.  On  prii  le  preiexte  d  acci  i 
Lambertv  d'avoir  derobe  des  femnies  au.x  noya. , 
et  d'en  avoir  nove  qui  ne  devaient  pas    etre.    ^ 
jeune  homme.  nomme  Robin,  qui  eiaji  tort  deu 
a  Lamberty,  vint  saisir  Agaihe  chez  Madame S  . 
la  traina  dans  le  bateau,  et  voulut  la  poignor-. 
pour  faire   disparaiire  une  preuve  du  cMinie  a 


"  Madame  de  Jourdain  fut  menoe  sur  a  Loire 
pour  etre  noyee  avec  ses  trois  filles.  Un  soldat 
voulut  sauver  la  plus  jeune,  qui  etait  fort  belle. 
Elle  so  jeia  a  I'eau  pour  partager  le  sort  de  sa  mere. 
La  malbeureuse  ent'ani  tomba  sur  des  cadavres.  et 
n'enion9a  point.  f:ile  criait :  Poussez-moi,  je  n  ai 
pas  assez  d'eau!  et  elle  pent.     „ 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Cuissard,  a^ee  de  seize  ans, 
qm  etait  plus  belle  encore,  s'attira  aussi  le  meriie 
interet  d'unofficierqui  passa  trois  heures  a  ses  pieds, 
la  suppliant  de  se  laisser  sauver.  Elle  etait  avec 
une  vielle  parente  ()ue  cet  homme  rievoulaii  pas  se 
risquer  a  derober  au  snpplice.  Mademoiselle  de 
Cuissard  se  precipita  dans  la  Loire  avec  elle. 

"  Une  mort  afireuse  fut  celle  de  Mademoiselle  de 
la  Roche  St.  Andre.  Elle  etait  arosse  :  on  1  epargna. 
On  lui  laissa  nourrir  son  enfant;  mats  il  mourut, 
et  on  la  fit  perir  le  lendemain  !  Au  reste,  il  ne  taut 
pas  croire  que  touies  les  femmes  enceintes  lus.-eni 
rcpectces.  Cela  etait  meme  fort  rare  ;  plus  com- 
munement  les  soldnis  mnssacraient  femmes  eten- 
fants.  II  n'y  avait  que  devant  les^  tribunau.x.  on  1  on 
ob«ervaitces  exceptions  ;  et  on  y  laissait  aux  lemmes 
le  ^emps  de  nourrir  leiirs  enfanis,  comnie  etant  une 
obUgaUon  rtjmhlicaiiie.  C'est  en  quoi  consistait 
rhumanitc  dts  gens  d'alors. 

"Ma  pauvre  .\gathc  avait  couru  de  bien  grands 

dangers.     Elle  m'avait  quitto  a  Nort,  pour  profiler 

decette  amnistie  pretendne,  dont  on  avait  parle  dans 

ce  moment.     Elle  vint  a  Nantes,  et  tut  conduite 

devant  le  general  Lamberty,  le  plus  feroce  des  amis 

de  Carrier.     La  li-ure  d' ARathe  lui  plait  :  /  As-tu 

peur,  brigande  ?'  hiidit-il.  '  Non,  general,   repondil- 

elle.     '  He  bien  !  qnand  m  auras  peur.  souviens-iqi 

de    Lambertv.'    ajouta-t-il.       Elle    iut    cond.ute   a 

Tentrepot.     C'est   la  trop  famense  prison  ou  1  on 

entassoil    les   victimes    destinoes    a   etre    noyees. 

Chaque  nuil  on  venait  en   prendre  par  centaines, 

pour  les  mettle  s.ir  les  bateaux.     La,  on  liait   les 

malheureux  dtux  a  deu.x,  et  on  les  poussait  dnns 

I'eau,  a  coups  de  baTuniieite.     On  saisissaii  indis- 

tiiicicnient    tout  ce   qui  se   irouvait  a  {'entrepot ; 

tellemenl  qu'on   noya  un  jonr  I'etat  major  d  une 

corvette  Anglaise,  qui  etait  prisonnier  de   uuerre. 

Une  autre  Ibis,  Carrier,  voulant  donner  un  exemple 

de  Tausteritedes  m(Hnrsrei)ublicaines,  fit  enfenner 

trois  rents  filles  publiques  dc  la  viUe,  et  les  inal- 

heureuses   creatures  furent   noyees!     Lnhn,    Ion 

eetinie  qu'il  a  peri  a  I'entrepot  qumze  mille  per- 

sonnes  en  un  mois.  II  est  vrai  qu'outre  les  supplices, 

la  misere  et  la  maladie  ravageaient  les  prisonniers, 

qui  ctaient  presses  sur  la  paille,  et  qui  ne  recevment 


pour  laire  aisparaiire  uuc  i-.^^.v.  "-  v-- 
reprochait  a  son  patron.  Agatbe  se  jeta  a  sesp: 
parvint  a  I'attendnr,  et  il  la  cacha  ^-hf^  "" J^ 
amis,  nomme  Lavaux,  qi.i  etait  honneie  li-mm 
qui  avait  deja  recueilli  ^ladame  de  1  Lpmay : 
on  sut  d.'s  le  lendemain  I'asile  d  Agaihe,  el  on 

"""^Cep'endant  le  pavti  ennemi  de  Lamberty 
tinuail  a  vouloir  le  deiruire.  U/esulia  de 
circonstance,  qu'on  jeia  de  I  inieret  sur  A? 
On  loua  S'**  et  Lavaux  de  leur  humamte,  et 
narvint  i  faire  perir  Lainberty  !  Feu  apres  am 
mortde  Robespierre.  Agaihe  resta  eticore  que 
mois  en  prison,  puis  obtmt  sa  liberie.  — Vol.i 
171—175. 


When  the  means  of  hearmg  of  her  fn  :. 
were  thus  suddenly  restored,  there  was  ;le 
to  hear  but  what  was  mourniul.     Her  U:er 
had  taken  refuse  in  a  wood  with  a  small  yty 
I  of  horsemen,  after  the  rout  of  Savenay:id 
afterwards  collected  a  litlle  iorce,  with  w  :ti 
they  seized  on  the  town  of  Ancenis,  am  i 
nearly  forced  the  passage  of  the  Loire 
thev  were  surrounded,  and  made  prib. 
and  all  shot  in  ihe  market-place !    The  1 ' 
Henri   de   Larochejaqueleni  had  game, 
north  bank  with  about  twenty  follower;^ 
wandered   many   days   over   the   burnt 
bloody  solitudes  of  the  once  happy  La  \  e 
Overcome  with  fatigxie  and  hunger,  Ih  aj 
last  reached  an  inhabited  farm-house,  ai  ell 
fast   asleep   in   the  barn.     They  were  wn 
roused,  however,  by  the  news  that  a  pa  oi 
the  tepublicans  were  approaching  the  me 
house  ;  but  were  so  worn  out.  that  they  '.uW 
not  rise,  even  to  provide  against  that  ex  me 
hazard .     The  party  accordingl V  entered  .ml 
being  almost  as  much  exhausled  as  the  i  • 
threw  themselves  down,  without  askii 
questions,  at  the  other  end  ol  the  bar' 
slept  qui.nlv  be.<^ide  them.     Henri  nttei 
found  out  i\Lde  la  Charrette,  by  ^^h' 
was  coldly,  and  even  rudely  received  ;  i  ^ 
soon  raised  a  little  army  of  h:s  own,  ai>^ 
came  aguin  formidable  it.  the  ^ceues   1^ 
first  successes  :-till  one  day.  n.lins  a  l.M 
front  of  his  party,  he  fell  in  Willi  two   ..ub 
lican  soldiers,  upon  whom  his  ioUowei:  e« 
about  to  fire,  when  he  said    '-iNo,  no  fij 
shall  have  quarter;"  and  pi^shmg up  to  en ; 
called  upon  them  to  surrender     ^\ithm  JJ 
ing  a  word,  one  of  them  '^ised  his  piec  <^^ 
shot  him  right  through  the  forehead.   1 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARURAVINK  OF  BAKF.ITIi 


2-f9 


once  dead  before  them,  and  was  buried 
here  he  fell. 


Ainsi  peril,  a  vingt  et  un  ans,  Henri  dc  la 
ocliejaqiieiein.  Encore  a  present,  quand  Ics  piiy- 
ns  se  rappellent  I'urdeur  et  Techit  de  son  courage, 
niodesue,  sa  laciliie,  et  ce  caracicre  de  giierrur, 
de  l)on  eiit'ant,  ils  parlent  de  lui  avec  licrte  ei  avec 
iiour.  11  n'esi  pas  un  Veiuieen  done  on  ne  voic 
[regard  s'aninier,  quand  il  racoiite  coninieni  il  a 
[rvi  sous  M.  Henri." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  187,  188. 

I  The  fate  of  the  gallant  INIarigny  was  still 
ore  deplorable.  He  joined  Charrette  and 
otiiet  ;  but  some  misunderstanding  having 
isen  among  them  upon  a  point  of  discipline, 
ley  took  the  rash  and  violent  step  of  briiig- 
g  him  to  a  court-martial,  and  sentencing  him 
death  for  disobedience.  To  the  horror  of 
1  the  Vendeans,  and  the  great  joy  of  the  re- 
iblicans.  this  unjust  and  imprudent  sentence 
as  carried  into  execution  ;  and  the  cause  de- 
rived of  the  ablest  of  ils  surviving  champions. 
When  they  had  gratiiied  their  curiosity  with 
lese  melancholy  details,  jNIadame  de  L.  and 
er  mother  set  out  for  Bourdeaux,  and  from 
lence  to  Spain,  where  they  remained  for 
early  two  years — but  were  at  last  permitted 
(  return; — and,  upon  Bonaparte's  accession 
)  the  sovereignty,  were  even  restored  to  a 
rear  part  of  their  possessions.  On  the  earnest 
utreaty  of  her  mother,  she  was  induced  at 
list  to  give  her  hand  to  Louis  de  Larochejaque- 
jsin.  brother  to  the  gallant  Henri — and  tne  in- 
jeritor  of  his  principles  and  character.  This 
latch  took  place  in  1802,  and  they  lived  in 
eaceful  retirement  till  the  late  movements 
)r  the  restoration  of  the  house  of  Bourbon, 
'he  notice  of  this  new  alliance  terminates  the 
riginal  INIemoiis ;  but  there  is  a  supplement, 
ontainmg  rather  a  curious  account  of  the  in- 
gues  and  communications  of  the  royalist 
rty  in  Bourdeaux  and  the  South,  through 
e  whole  course  of  the  Revolution, — and  of 
e  proceedings  by  which  they  conceive  that 
bey  accelerated  the  restoration  of  the  King  in 
1814.     It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  add, 

^t  since  the  book  w-as  published,  the  second 
ibaud  of  the  unfortunate  writer  fell  in  bat- 


tle in  the  s;ime  cause  which  proved  fatal  ti. 
the  lirst,  during  the  short  pirioil  of  BonaparlfN 
last  reign,  and  but  a  few  da)  s  betbn"  (he  di-- 
cisive  battle  of  Waterloo. 

We  have  nut  left  room  now  for  any  general 
observations — and  lliere  is  no  need  «)l  tin  ni. 
The  book  is,  beyond  all  (juestion,  e.vtreniely 
curious  and  interesting — and  wi-  reall)  have 
no  idea  that  any  relleelions  of  ours  could  ap- 
pear half  so  mneli  so  as  the  abstiact  w  r  have 
now  given  in  their  stead.  One  remark,  how- 
ever, we  shall  venture  to  make,  now  that  mtr 
abstract  is  tlone.  If  all  Fr.ince  wt-re  like  I.a 
Vendee  in  1793,  we  should  anticipate  nothing 
but  happiness  from  the  restoration  of  the 
Bourbons  and  of  the  old  government.  But  the 
very  fact  that  the  Vendeans  were  crushed  by 
the  rest  of  the  country,  proves  that  this  is  not 
the  case ;  And  indeed  it  reipiires  but  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  to  perceive,  that  the  rest  of 
France  could  not  well  resemble  La  Vendee  in 
its  royalisin,  unless  it  had  res(  mbled  it  in 
the  olner  peculiarities  upon  w  hich  that  royal- 
ism  was  founded — unless  it  hail  all  its  no- 
blesse resident  on  their  estates:  and  living  in 
their  old  feudal  relations  with  a  "dimple  and 
agricultural  vassalage.  The  book  indee(l 
shows  two  things  very  plaiidy, — and  both  of 
them  well  worth  remembering.  In  the  first 
place,  that  there  may  be  a  great  deal  of  kind- 
ness and  good  affection  among  a  people  ot 
insurgents  against  an  established  governinent ; 
— and,  secondly,  that  where  there  is  such  an 
aversion  to  a  government,  as  to  break  out  iu 
spontaneous  insurrection,  it  is  impossible  en- 
tirely to  subdue  that  aversion,  either  by 
severity  or  forbearance — although  the  differ- 
ence of  the  two  courses  of  policy  is,  that 
severity,  even  when  carried  to  the  savage  ex- 
tremity of  devastation  and  indiscriminate 
slaughter,  leads  only  to  the  adoption  of  sirnilar 
atrocities  in  return — while  forbearance  is  at 
least  rewarded  by  the  acquiescence  of  those 
who  are  conscious  of  weaknes.S;  and  gives 
time  and  opportunity  for  those  mutual  conces- 
sions by  w  hich  alone  contending  factions  or 
principles  can  ever  be  permanently  reconciled. 


ilemoires  de  Frederique  Sophie  Wilhelmi.ne  de  Prusse,  Margrave  de  Bareilh,  Saur  dr  Fr 
deric  le  Grand.    Ecrits  de  sa  Main.    8vo.  2  tomes.    Brunswick,  Paris,  et  Londres :   \XV2. 


(NoDcmbcr,  1812.) 


Philosophers  have  long  considered  it  as  j 
irobable,  that  the  private  manners  of  absolute  | 
overeigns  are  vulgar,  their  pleasures  low,  and 
heir  dispositions  sellish;— that  the  two  e.\-  1 
reniesof  life,  in  short,  approach  pretty  closely 
o  each  other;  and  that  the  Masters  of  man-  ' 
:ind,  when  stripped  of  the  artificial  pomp  and  , 
nagnificence  which  invests  them  in  public,  j 
eseinble  nothing  so  nearly  as  the  meanest  of 
he  multitude.   "The  ground  of  this  oninion 
s,  that  the  very  highest  and  the  very  lowest 
if  mankind  are  equally  beyond  the  influence 
•f  that  wholesome  control,  to  which  all  the 
32 


intennediate  classes  are  subjected,  by  their 
mutual  dependence,  and  the  need  they  have 
for  the  good  will  and  esteem  of  tht-ir  fellows. 
Those  w  ho  are  at  the  very  ])otlom  of  the  sca!»? 
are  below  the  sphere  of  this  inllueiice;  and 
tho.se  at  the  very  top  are  above  it.  The  one 
have  no  chance  of  distinction  by  any  effort 
they  are  capable  of  making:  and  the  other 
are  secure  of  the  hiahe.sl  deiiree  of  it,  without 
any.  Both  therefore  are  indifferent,  or  very 
nearly  so,  to  the  opinion  of  mankind  :  the  for- 
mer, because  the  naked  subsistence  which 
they  earn  by  their  labour  will  not  be  aflccted 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


by  that  opinion  ;  and  the  latter,  because  their 
lega.l  power  and  preeminence  are  equally  in- 
dependent of  it.  Those  who  have  nothing  to 
lose,  in  short,  are  not  ver}-  far  from  the  condi- 
tion of  those  who  have  nothing  more  to  gain; 
and  the  maxim  of  reckoning  oiie's-self  last, 
which  is  the  basis  of  all  politeness,  and  leads, 
insensibly,  from  the  mere  practice  of  dissimu- 
lation, to  habits  of  kindness  and  sentiments  of 
generous  indepiMulence.  is  equally  inapplica- 
ble to  the  case  of  those  who  are  obviously  and 
in  reality  the  last  of  their  kind,  and  those  who 
are  quite  indisputably  the  first.  Both  there- 
fore are  deprived  of  the  checks  and  of  the 
ti-ainina,  which  restrain  the  selfishness,  and 
call  out  the  sensibilities  of  other  men :  And. 
remote  and  contrasted  as  their  actual  situa- 
tion must  be  allowed  to  be.  are  alike  liable 
to  exhibit  that  disregard  for  the  feelings  of 
others,  and  that  undisguised  preference  for 
their  own  gratification,  which  it  is  the  boast  of 
modern  refinement  to  have  subdued,  or  at  least 
effectually  concealed,  among  the  happier  or- 
ders of  society.  In  a  free  country,  indeed,  the 
monarch,  if  he  share  at  all  in  "the  spirit  of 
liberty,  may  escape  this  degradation  ;  because 
he  will  then  feel  for  how  much  he  is  depend- 
ent on  the  good  opinion  of  his  countrymen  : 
and,  in  general,  where  there  is  a  great  ambi- 
tion for  popularity,  this  pernicious  effect  of 
high  fortune  will  be  in  a  great  degree  avoided. 
But  the  ordinary  class  of  arbitrary  rulers,  who 
found  their  whole  claim  to  distinction  upon 
the  accident  6f  their  birth  and  station,  maybe 
expected  to  realize  all  that  we  have  intimated 
as  to  the  peculiar  manners  and  dispositions  of 
the  Caste ;  to  sink,  like  their  brethren  of  the 
theatre,  when  their  hour  of  representation  is 
over,  into  gross  sensuality,  paltry  intrigues, 
and  dishonourable  squabbles;  and,  in  short, 
to  be  fully  more  likely  to  beat  their  wives  and 
cheat  their  benefactors,  than  any  other  set  of 
persons — out  of  the  condition  of  tinkers. 

But  though  these  opinions  have  long  seem- 
ed pretty  reasonable  to  those  who  presumed 
to  reason  at  all  on  such  subjects,  and  even 
appeared  to  be  tolerably  well  confirmed  by 
the  few  indications  that  could  be  obtained  as 
to  the  state  of  the  fact,  there  was  but  little 
prospect  of  the  world  at  large  getting  at  the 
exact  truth,  either  by  actual  observation  or  by 
credible  report.  The  tone  of  adulation  and 
outrageous  compliment  is  so  firmly  establish- 
ed, and  as  it  were  positively  pr(>gcribed.  for 
all  authorized  communications  from  the  inte- 
rior of  a  palace,  that  it  would  be  ridiculous 
even  to  form  a  iruess.  as  to  its  actual  condi- 
tion, from  such  materials:  And,  with  regard 
to  the  ca.sual  observers  who  rnight  furnish 
lrs«  suspected  information,  a  great  part  are 
too  vain,  and  too  grateful  for  the  opportunities 
they  have  enjoyed,  to  do  any  thing  which 
might  prevent  their  recurrence  :  while  others 
are  kept  silent  by  a  virtuous  shame  :  and  the 
remainder  are  discredited,  and  perhaps  not 
always  without  reason,  as  the  instruments  of 
faction  or  envy.  There  seemed  great  reason 
to  fear,  therefore,  that  this  curious  branch  of 
Natural  History  would  be  left  to  mere  theory 
and  conjecture,  and  never  be  elucidated  by 


the  testimony  of  any  competent  observer 
when  the  volumes  before  us  made  their  ap 
pearance,  to  set  theory  and  conjecture  at  rest 
and  make  the  private  character  of  such  sove 
reigns  a  matter  of  historical  record. 

They  bear  to  be  Memoirs  of  a  Princess  ol 
Prussia,  written  by  herself;  and  are  in  fac 
memoirs  of  the  private  life  of  most  of  tht 
princes  of  Germany,  written  by  one  of  thei: 
own  number — with  great  freedom  indeed— 
but  with  an  evident  partiality  to  the  fraterni- 
ty ;  and  unmasking  more  of  ilie  domestic 
manners  and  individual  habits  of  persons  ii 
that  lofty  station,  than  any  other  work  witl 
which  we  are  acquainted.  It  is  ushered  inti 
the  world  without  any  voucher  for  its  auther. 
tichy,  or  even  any  satisfactory  account  of  tht 
manner  in  which  the  manuscript  was  obtain 
ed:  But  its  genuineness,  we  understand,!: 
ailmitted  even  by  those  whose  inclination- 
would  lead  them  to  deny  it,  and  appears  to  U; 
indeed  to  be  irresistibly  established  by  inter 
nal  evidence.*  It  is  written  in  the  vulga 
gossiping  style  of  a  chambemiaid  ;  but  at  ihi 
same  time  with  very  considerable  clevcrnes: 
and  sasracity,  as  to  the  conception  and  delinea 
tion  of  character.  It  is  full  of  events  and  por 
tiaits — and  also  of  rgoti.«m.  detraction,  aiii 
inconsistency  ;  but  all  delivered  with  an  airoi 
good  faith  that  leaves  us  little  room  to  doul 
of  the  facts  that  are  reported  on  the  writer' 
own  authority,  or,  in  any  case,  of  her  own  be 
lief  in  the  justness  of  her  opinions.  Indefd 
half  the  edification  of  the  book  consists  in  tin 
lights  it  aflbrds  as  to  the  character  of  th' 
writer,  and  consequently  as  to  the  effects  o 
the  circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed 
nor  is  there  any  thing,  in  the  very  curiou 
picture  it  presents,  more  .striking  than  the  pa; 
she  unintentionally  contributes,  in  the  peci; 
liarity  of  her  own  taste  in  the  colouring  ain 
delineation  The  heartfelt  ennui,  and  th' 
affected  contempt  of  greatness,  so  strangel; 
combined  with  her  tenacity  of  all  its  priv, 
leires,  and  her  perpetual  intrimiesand  quane! 
about  precedence — the  splendiil  encomium 
on  her  own  inflexible  integrity,  intermiiei. 
with  the  complacent  narrative  of  perpetnai 
trick  and  duplicity — her  bitter  complaints  o| 
the  want  of  zeaj  and  devotedness  in  hei 
friends,  and  the  desolating  display  of  her  OWli 
utter  heartlessness  in  every  page  of  the  hif; 
tory — and, — finally,  her  outrageous  abuse  o' 
almost  every  one  with  whom  she  is  conned 
ed;  alternating  with  professions  of  the  greatef* 
regard,  and  occasional  apologies  for  the  mosl 
atrocious  among  them,  when  they  happen  t 
;  conduct  themselves  in  conformity  to  her  ov 
I  little  views  at  the  moment — are  all,  we  thin! 
not  only  irrefragable  proofs  of  the  authei. 
]  licit y  of  the  singular  work  before   us,  bn; 


•  T  have  not  rerpnily  made  any  enriiiirie9  onlhJj 
'  snbjcrt :  and  it  is  pns?ihle  tliat  itie  anilii-nncity  0) 
i  this  s'ranrre  book  may  have  Iteen  (li.ecrediied,  einO; 
I  the  now  remote  period  wlien  I  last  heard  it  disciur 
!  ed.  It  is  obvious  at  first  sight  that  it  is  full  ofeilj 
I  affsreratinns :  Bui  that  is  too  roiiimon  a  characteriBiN 
I  of  trenuine  memoirs  written  in  the  trnnrhanl  9lj]- 
I  to  \KW\ch  it  beloncs,  to  deiraei  nnu-h  from  ihecrerf. 
j  to  which  the  minuteness  and  ••onfidence  of  lis  d«' 
I  tails  may  otherwise  be  thought  to  entitle  it. 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BAREITH. 


•gether  with  the  lownessof  its  style  and  dic- 

;  Ion,  are  features — and  pretty  prominent  ones 

!-in  that  portraiture  of  royal  manners  and  dis- 

bsitions  which  we  conceive  it  to  be  its  chief 

ihee   and   chief  merit  to   display.     In  this 

oint  of  view,  we  conceive  the  publication  to 

t  te  equally  curious  and  instructive  ;  and  there 

)  |i  a  vivacity  in  the  style,  and  a  rapidity  in  the 

larrative,  which  renders  it  at  all  events  very 

iitertaining,  though  little  adapted  for  abstract 

t  abridgment. — We  must  endeavour,  how- 

Ver,  to  give  our  readers  some  notion  of  its 

-ontents. 

:  What  is  now  before  us  is  but  a  frag-mont, 
Lxtending  from  the  birth  of  the  author  in 
1707  to  the  year  1742.  and  is  chiefly  occupied 
I'ith  the  court  of  Berlin,  down  till  her  mar- 
I  iage  with  the  Prince  of  Bareith  in  1731.  She 
*  lets  off  with  a  portrait  of  her  father  Frederic 
'  IV^illiam,  whose  peculiarities  are  already  pret- 
y  well  known  by  the  dutiful  commentaries 
|f  his  son,  and  Voltaire.  His  daughter  begins 
I  kith  him  a  little  more  handsomely;  and  as- 
I  lures  us,  that  he  had  ••  talents  of  the  first  or- 
ler" — '-an  excellent  heart"' — and,  in  short, 
tail  the  qualities  which  go  to  the  constitution 
|f  great  men  "'  Such  is  the  flattering  outline: 
,1ut  candour  required  some  shading ;  and  we 
fiust  confess  that  it  is  laid  on  freely,  and  with 
food  effect.  His  temper,  she  admits,  was  un- 
'overuable,  and  often  hurried  him  ijito  ex- 
esses  altogether  unworthy  of  his  rank  anil 
ituation.  Then  it  must  also  be  allowed  that 
i.e  was  somewhat  hard-hearted  ;  and  through- 
jut  his  whole  life  gave  a  decided  preference 
b  the  cardinal  virtue  of  Justice  over  the 
l-eaker  attribute  of  Mercy.  Moreover,  '■  his 
ixcessive  love  of  money  exposed  him"'  (her 
(ioyal  Highness  seems  to  think  very  unjustly) 
;  to  the  unputation  of  avarice."  And,  finally, 
Ihe  informs  us.  without  any  circumlocution, 
Ihat  he  was  a  crazy  bigot  in  religion — suspi- 
cious, jealous,  and  deceitful — and  entertained 
I  profound  contempt  for  the  whole  sex  to 
ivhich  his  dutiful  biographer  belongs. 
i  This  ■■great  and  amiable"  prince  was  mar- 
lied,  as  every  body  knows,  to  a  princess  of 
lianover,  a  daughter  of  our  George  the  First ; 
if  whom  he  was  outrageously  jealous,  and 
Vhom  he  trt^ated  with  a  degree  of  brutality 
jhat  would  almost  have  justified  any  form  of 
levenge.  The  princess,  however,  seems  to 
Slave  been  irreproachably  chaste :  But  had, 
iiotwithstandninf,  some  of  the  usual  vices  of 
[laves;  and  tormented  her  tyrant  to  very  good 
purpose  by  an  interminable  system  of  the 
inost  crooked  and  provoking  intrigues,  chiefly 
^bout  the  marriages  of  her  family,  but  occa-  | 
iiionally  upon  other  subjects,  carried  on  \fy,  j 
ihe  basest  tools  and  instruments,  and  for  a  1 
long  time  in  confederacy  with  the  daughter 
,.vho  has  here  recorded  their  history.  But  | 
.hough  she  had  thus  the  satisfaction  of  fre-  \ 
juently  enraging  her  husband,  we  cannot  help  ' 
.hitikiiig  that  she  had  herself  by  far  the  worst  I 
)f  the  game ;  and  indeed  it  is  impossible  to  \ 
lead,  without  a  mixed  feeling  of  pity  and  con-  \ 
I  empt,  the  catalogue  of  miserable  shifts  which  ; 
-his  poor  creature  was  perpetually  forced  to 
|?mploy  to  avoid  detection,  and  escape  the  1 


beatings  with  which  it  was  frequently  accom- 
paiiieil ! — feigned  sicknesses — midnight  con- 
sultations— hidings  bi'hind  screens  anil  uiuiei 
beds — spies  at  her  husband's  drunken  orgies 
— burning  of  letters,  pocketing  of  inkstands, 
and  all  the  paltry  apparatus  of  boarding-school 
imposture; — together  with  the  more  revolting 
criminality  of  lies  told  in  the  midst  of  caresses, 
and  lessons  of  falsehood  anxiously  inculcated 
on  the  minds  of  her  children. — It  is  edifying 
to  know,  that,  with  all  this  low  cunniiig.'and 
practice  in  deceiving,  this  poor  lady  was  her- 
self the  dupe  of  a  preposterous  aiul  unworthy 
confidence.  Shi*  told  every  thing  to  a  favour- 
ite chambermaid — who  told  it  over  again  to 
one  of  the  ministers — who  told  it  to  the  King: 
And  though  the  treachery  of  her  confidante 
was  perfectly  notorious,  and  she  herself  was 
reduced  privately  to  borrow  money  from  the 
King  of  England  in  order  to  bribe  her  to  se- 
crecy, she  never  could  keep  from  her  any  one 
thing  that  it  was  of  importance  to  conceal. 

The  ingenious  Princess  before  us  had  for 
many  years  no  other  brother  than  the  Great 
Frederic,  who  afterwards  succeeded  to  the 
throne,  but  whose  extreme  ill  health  in  his 
childhood  seemed  to  render  her  accession  a 
matter  of  considerable  probability.  Her  al- 
liance conseiiuently  became  an  early  object 
of  ambition  to  most  of  the  Prott  slant  princes 
of  her  time:  and  before  she  was  fully  eight 
years  old,  her  father  and  mother  had  had  fifty 
quarrels  about  her  marriage.  About  the  same 
time,  she  assures  us  that  a  Swedish  ofiicer, 
who  was  a  great  conjurer,  informed  hi>r,  after 
inspecting  her  hand,  "  that  she  would  be 
sought  in  marriage  by  the  Kings  of  Sweden, 
England,  Russia,  and  Poland,  but  would  not 
be  united  to  any  of  them  :" — a  prediction,  the 
good  Princess  declares,  that  was  afterwards 
verified  in  a  very  remarkable  manner.  The 
Swedish  proposition  indeed  follows  hard  upon 
the  prophecy;  for  the  very  next  year  engage- 
ments are  taken  for  that  match,  which  are 
afterwards  abandoned  on  account  of  the  ten- 
der age  of  the  parties. — The  Princess  here 
reg-ales  us  with  an  account  of  her  own  vivac- 
ity and  angelic  memory  at  this  period,  and 
with  a  copious  interlude  of  all  the  court  scan- 
dal during  the  first  days  of  her  existence. 
But  as  we  scarcely  imagine  that  the  scandal- 
ous chronicle  of  Berlin  for  the  year  1712, 
would  excite  much  interest  in  this  country  in 
the  year  1812,  we  shall  take  the  liberty  to 
pass  over  the  g-allantries  of  Madame  de  Blas- 
pil  and  the  treasons  of  M.  Clement;  merely 
noticinii',  that  after  the  execution  of  the  latter, 
the  King  ordered  every  letter  that  came  to 
his  capital  to  be  opened,  and  never  slept  with- 
out drawn  swords  and  cocked  pistols  at  his 
side.  But  while  he  was  thus  trembling  at 
imajrinary  dangers,  he  was.  if  we  can  believe 
his  infant  dauL'hter.  upon  th"  very  brink  of 
others  sufTtcieiitly  serious.  His  chief  favour- 
ites were  the  Prince  of  Anball.  who  is  briefly 
characterized  in  these  Memoirs  as  brutal, 
cruel  and  deceitful,  and  the  ministi-r  Grurn- 
kow,  who  is  represented,  on  the  .s;ime  author- 
ity, as  a  mere  concentration  nf  all  the  vices. 
Tnese  worthy  persons  had  .set  their  hearts 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


upon  our  author's  marriage  with,  the  nephew 
of  the  former,  and  her  ultimate  elevation  to 
the  throne  by  the  death  of  her  sickly  brother. 
But  wliPii  that  brother  begins  to  improve  in 
health,  aiui  the  old  King  not  oidy  makes  his 
will  without  consulting  them,  but  threatens 
to  hve  to  an  unreasonable  age.  they  naturally 
become  impatient  for  the  accomplishment  of 
their  wishes,  and  resolve  to  cut  off  both  father 
and  son,  the  first  lime  they  can  catch  them 
together  at  an  exhibition  of  ropedancing. — 
with  which  elegant  entertainment  it  seems 
the  worthy  monarch  was  in  the  habit  of  re- 
creating' himself  almost  every  evening.  The 
whole  of  this  dreadful  plot,  we  are  assured, 
was  revealed  to  the  King,  with  all  its  particu- 
larites.  by  a  lady  in  the  confidence  of  tne  con- 
spirators :  but  they  contrive,  somehow  or  other, 
to  play  their  parts  so  adroitly,  that,  after  a  long 
investigation,  they  are  reinstated  in  favour, 
and  their  fair  accuser  sent  to  pine,  on  bread 
and  water,  in  a  damp  dungeon  at  Spandau. 

In  the  year  1717,  Peter  the  Great  came 
with  his  Empress  and  court  to  pay  a  visit  at 
Berlin : — and  as  the  whole  scene  is  described 
with  great  vivacity  in  the  work  before  us,  and 
serves  to  illustrate  its  great  theme  of  the  pri- 
vate manners  of  sovereigns,  we  shall  make 
rather  a  fuller  abstract  of  it  than  we  can  aflbrd 
for  most  parts  of  the  narrative.  The  degrees 
of  grossness  and  pretension  are  infinite — and 
the  court  of  Prussia,  where  the  Sovereign  got 
drunk  and  kicked  his  counsellors,  and  beat 
the  ladies  of  his  family,  thought  itself  en- 
titled to  treat  Peter  and  his  train  as  a  set  of 
Barbarians! — On  his  first  presentation,  the 
Czar  took  Frederjc  firmly  by  the  hand,  and 
said,  he  was  glad  to  see  him  :  he  then  offered 
to  kiss  the  Queen — but  she-  declined  the  hon- 
our. He  next  presented  his  son  and  daughter, 
and  four  hundred  ladies  in  waiting — the 
greater  part  of  whom,  our  Princess  assures 
us,  were  washerwomen  and  scullions  pro- 
moted to  that  nominal  diimity.  Almost  every 
one  of  them,  however,  she  adds,  had  a  baby 
richly  dressed  in  her  amis — and  when  any 
one  asked  whose  it  was,  answered  with  great 
coolness  and  complacency,  that  •'  the  Czar  had 
done  her  the  honour  to  make  her  the  mother 
of  it.'' — The  Czarine  was  very  short,  tawny, 
and  ungraceful — dressed  like  a  provincial 
German  player,  in  an  old  fashioned  robe, 
covered  with  dirt  and  silver,  and  with  some 
dozens  of  medals  and  pictures  of  saints  strung 
down  the  front,  which  clattered  every  time 
she  moved,  like  the  bells  of  a  packhorse. 
She  spoke  little  German,  and  no  French ;  and 
finding  that  she  got  on  but  ill  with  the  Queen 
and  her  l)arty,  she  called  her  fool  into  a  corner 
to  come  and  entertain  her  in  Ru.'^sian — which 
she  did  with  such  effect,  that  she  kept  her  in 
a  continual  roar  of  laughter  before  all  the 
court.  The  Czar  himself  is  described  as  tall 
and  rather  handsome,  though  with  something 
intolerably  harsh  in  his  physiognomy.  On 
first  seeing  our  royal  author  he  took  her  up  in 
his  arms,  and  rubbed  the  skin  off  her  face  in 
kissing  her  with  his  rough  beard;  laughing 
very  heartily  at  the  air's  with  which  she  re- 
sented  this  familiarity.     He   was  liable   at 


I  times  to  convulsive  starts  and  spasms,  and' 
I  being  seized  with  one  of  them  when  at  table, 
I  with  his  knife  in  his  hand,  put  his  hosts  into 
I  no  little  bodily  terror.  He  told  the  Queen, 
however,  that  he  would  do  her  no  harm,  and' 
took  her  hand  in  token  of  his  good  humours; 
but  squeezed  it  so  unmercifully  that  she  was' 
forced  to  cry  out — at  which  he  laughed  agajni 
with  great  violence,  and  said,  "her  bones 
were  not  so  well  knit  as  his  Catherine's.'' 
There  was  to  be  a  grand  ball  in  the  evening: 
but  as  soon  as  he  had  done  eating,  he  got  up, 
and  trudged  home  by  himself  to  his  lodging? 
in  the  suburbs.  Next  day  they  went  to  see 
the  curiosities  of  the  place. — What  pleased 
him  most  was  a  piece  of  antique  sculpture, 
most  grossly  indecent.  Nothing,  nowever. 
would  serve  him  but  that  his  wife  should  kiss 
this  figure;  and  when  she  hesitated,  he  toid 
her  he  would  cut  off' her  head  if  she  refused. 
He  then  asked  this  piece  and  several  other 
things  of  value  from  the  King,  and  packed 
them  ofT  for  Petersburgh,  without  ceremony. 
In  a  few  days  after  he  took  his  departure; 
leaving  the  palace  in  Avhich  he  had  been 
lodged  in  such  a  state  of  filth  and  dilapidation 
as  to  remind  one.  says  the  princess,  of  the 
desolation  of  Jerusalem. 

We  now  come  to  a  long  chapter  of  the  au- 
thor's personal  sufferings,  from  a  sort  of  half 
governess,  half  chambeiTnaid,  of  the  name  of 
Letti,  who  employed  herself  all  day  in  beat- 
ing and  scratching  her.  for  refusing  to  repeat 
all  that  the  King  and  the  Queen  said  in  her 
hearing,  and  kept  her  awake  all  night  by 
snoring  like  fifty  troopers.  This  accomplishedi 
person  also  invented  ingenious  nicknames,: 
which  seem  to  have  had  much  currency,  for' 
all  the  leading  persons  about  the  court.  The 
Queen  she  always  called  La  grandc  dnesse, 
and  her  two  favourites  respectively  ia  grosac 
rachc.  and  La  sotle  bete.  Sometimes  she  only 
kicked  the  Princess"  shins — at  other  time.'^ 
she  pummelled  her  on  the  nose  till  ''  she  bled 
like  a  calf:"'  and  occasionally  excoriated  her 
face  by  rubbing  it  with  acrid  substances. 
Such,  however,  was  the  magiianimitv  of  her: 
royal  pupil,  that  she  never  made  the  leastj 
complaint  of  this  dreadful  usaire;  but  an  old. 
lady  found  it  out,  and  told  the  Queen,  that 
••her  daughter  was  beaten  every  day  like 
plaster."  and  that  she  would  be  brought  toj 
her  one  morning  with  her  bones  broken,  if  sLe, 
did  not  get  another  attendant.  So  La  Letti  la 
dismissed,  though  with  infinite  dilTiculty,  and' 
after  a  world  of  intrigue ;  because  she  had 
been  recommended  by  my  Lady  Arlington, 
who  had  a  great  deal  to  say  with  the  court  of 
England,  with  which  it  was.  at  that  time,  a. 
main  object  to  keep  well !  But  she  is  got  rid 
of  at  last,  and  decamps  with  all  the  Princes.-^'' 
wardrobt^  who  is  left  without  a  lag  to  covei 
her  nakedness.  Soon  after  this,  the  King  is', 
taken  with  a  colic  one  very  hot  June,  and  is 
judiciously  shut  up  in  a  close  room  with  a 
large  comfortable  fire ;  by  the  side  of  which 
he  commands  his  daughter  to  sit,  and  watch 
like  a  vestal,  till  her  eyes  are  ready  to  start 
from  her  head  ;  and  she  falls  into  a  dysentery, ' 
of  which  she  gives  a  long  history. 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BARKITH. 


2y3 


Being  now  at  the  vipe  age  of  twelve,  lier 
other  takes  her  into  her  coiiliiieiice.  and  be- 
ais  with  telhng  her,  that  there  are  certain 
(jople  who  are  liev  enemies,  to  whom  she 
j)ramand.s  her  never  to  show  any  kindness  or 
ivihty.  She  then  proceeds  to  name  •■  three 
.urths  of  all  Berlin."'  But  her  great  obji'ct 
'  to  train  her  daughter  to  be  a  spy  on  her 
,ther,  and  at  tlie  same  time  to  keep  every 
ing  secret  from  liim  aiul  his  counsellors; 
id  to  arrange  measures  for  a  matcli  between 
it  and  her  nephew  the  Duke  of  (Jlouoester 
(-afterwards  Prince  of  Wales,  on  the  acces- 
an  of  his  father  George  II.  In  1723,  George 
comes  to  visit  his  daughter  at  Berlui,  and  is 
laracterised.  we  cannot  say  very  favourably, 
,•  his  grandchild.  He  was  very  stupid,  she 
.ys,  with  great  airs  of  wisdom — had  no  gen- 
losity  but  for  his  favourites,  and  the  inis- 
ps.ses  by  whom  he  let  himself  be  governed 
,-spoke  little,  anil  took  no  pleasure  in  hearing 
jy  thing  but  niaiseries: — since  his  accession 
;  the  English  throne  he  had  also  become  in- 
[pportably  haughty  and  impeiious.  When 
jB  fair  author  was  presented  to  him,  he  took 
\^  a  candle,  held  it  close  to  her  face,  and  ex- 
jnined  her  all  over  without  saying  a  word : 
table  he  preserved  the  same  magnificent 
jlence ;  judging  wisely,  the  Princess  observes, 
|at  it  was  better  to  say  uothiiiii  than  to  e.\- 
[ise  himself  by  talking.  Before  the  end  of 
je  repast  he  was  taken  ill :  and  tumbled  down 
,1  the  floor,  his  hat  falling  off  on  one  siile. 
lid  his  wig  on  the  other.  It  was  a  full  hour 
■"fore  he  came  to  himself:  and  it  was  whis- 
?red  that  it  was  a  sort  of  ajwplexy :  How- 
j'er,  he  was  well  enough  next  day;  and 
jranged  every  thing  for  the  marriage  of  the 
'ithor  with  his  grandson,  and  of  her  brother 
jith  the  Princess  Amelia.  Obstacles  arose, 
|)\vever,  to  the  consummation  of  this  double 
iliance  ;  and  althouirh  the  two  Sovereigns  had 
iiother  meeting  on  the  subject  the  year  after, 
jill  the  necessity  of  obtainini;  the  consent  of 
jirliament  occasioned  an  obstruction  ;  and  in 
e  mean  time  Frederic  having  thought  fit  to 
jize  several  tall  Hanoverians,  and  enrol  them 
!,•  force  in  his  regiment  of  iriants,  the  Endish 
,.onarch  resented  this  outraire.  and  died  of 
'lother  attack  of  apo))lexy  before  matters 
!)uld  be  restored  to  a  v'lisht  "footing. 
I  Soon  after  this  catastrophe,  Frederic  takes 
j  drinking  witli  the  Imperial  ambassador : 
|id,  when  his  stomach  gets  into  disonler, 
ecomes  outrageously  pious;  orders  his  valet 
[■  sing  p.salms  before  him,  and  preaches  him- 
I'lf  to  his  family  every  afternoon.  The 
jrincess  and  her  brother  aie  ready  to  snfTo- 
iite  with  lauahter  at  these  discourses;  but 
hypochondria  sains  ground:  and  at  last 


e   Ki 


talks 


riously   of    resisning    hi? 


'.own,  and  retiring  with  his  family  to  a  small 
>nise  in  the  country;  where  hi.s  daughter 
lould  take  care  of  the  linen,  his  son  of  the 
[ovisions,  and  his  wife  of  the  kitchen.  To 
jvert  these  melancholv  thoi'irhis.  he  is  per- 
laded  to  payavisiifo  the  Elector  of  Sa.voii  v. 
[u:rustu3  Kina  of  Polan<l  :  and  there,  lury.- 
jjtalions  of  Hungarian  wine  speedily  ujssjpale 
(1  hisdreama  of  devotiofi.    JVpthing in  modern 


history,  we  supiwse,  comes  nears  the  profli- 
giicy  of  the  Court  oi'  Dresden  at  that  period. 
Augustus,  who  never  do.sed  a  day  in  subrietv, 
openly  kept  a  large  seniglio  in  his  palace, 
and  hail  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  chil- 
dren by  its  inhabitants.  One  of  those  who 
had  all  along  been  rec<igni/.ed  as  his  dau^Lrh- 
ter,  was  at  this  limt;  his  favourite  mistress; 
while  she,  tli.silaining  to  be  failliliil  to  this  m- 
cestuous  connection,  lavished  all  her  laveur 
on  a  brother,  who  was  her  avowed  lover,  and 
the  rival  of  their  common  parent!  —  Frederic, 
however,  was  so  nnich  pleased  with  tliese 
doings,  that  he  entered  into  a  treaty  for  mar- 
rying his  daughter  to  this  virtuous  elector, 
who  was  then  fifty  years  of  age;  and  the  year 
after,  Au<;ustus  came  to  Berlin,  to  follow  out 
his  suit,  where  he  was  received  in  great  stale, 
and  the  dauiihter-mistre.«is  caressed  by  the 
chaste  ([neen  and  her  daughter.  There  is  a 
good  liescription  of  a  ^rand  court  dinner  given 
on  this  occ<isioii ;  in  which,  after  a  long  ac- 
count of  the  marshalling  of  princes  and  prin- 
cesses, the  business  of  the  day  is  summed  up 
in  the  following  emphatic  words — (Jn  but 
force  sanies — on  parla  pen — et  on  s'lnnuya 
bcaucoup!  The  two  kings,  however,  had  va- 
rious tttc-d-tete  parties  that  were  more  jolly ; 
and  in  which  they  continued  at  table  from 
one  o'clock,  which  was  their  hour  of  dinner, 
till  near  midnight.  In  .spite  of  all  this  cor- 
diality, however,  the  treaty  of  inarriaL'^e  was 
broken  ofi":  the  heir-apparent  of  Augustus 
having  obstinately  refused  to  ratify  those  arti- 
cles in  it  which  required  his  concurrence. 

The  King  now  resolved  to  match  his  daugh- 
ter with  a  poor  German  prince,  called  Ihe 
Duke  of  Weis.seiifiekl ;  at  w hich  his  wile,  w  ho 
had  been  all  this  time  intriguing  busily  to 
bring  about  the  union  originally  projected 
with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  is  in  despair,  and 
persuailes  him  to  let  her  make  one  efi'ort  more 
to  bring  her  brother  of  England  to  a  determi- 
nation. And  here  we  liave  a  very  curious 
piece  of  .secret  history,  which,  though  it  touihes 
the  policy  of  the  Court  of  England,  has  hitherto 
been  unknown,  we  believe,  in  this  country. 
A  confidential  airent  arrives  from  Hanover, 
who  intorms  the  Queen,  that  the  Prince  of 
Wales  lias  made  up  his  mind  to  come  imme- 
diatelv  to  Berlin,  and  to  marry  her  dausihter. 
without  waitinc  for  the  foiinal  consent  of  his 
father,  or  the  Enijlish  Parliament,  who.  how- 
ever, he  has  no  doubt,  will  neither  of  them 
hesitate  to  ratify  the  act  wh«'n  il  is  once 
over.  The  Queen  is  traiisi)orted  with  this 
news:  and  is  so  much  intoxicated  with  joy 
on  the  occasion,  that  she  bethinks  herself  of 
confidinir  the  whole  story  in  the  evenini;  to 
the  Engli.^h  ambas.sidor — who  in.stantly  writes 
home  to  his  Court;  and,  his  letter  hi-'iwj  ad- 
dres.-ied  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  proilucesan 
immeiliate  mandate  to  the  Prince,  to  set  out 
for  England  without  tlie  delay  of  a  nioment. 
Thi>  mandate  arrives  just  as  his  I!o\al  IliL'h- 
ness  j.;  takinir  post  with  bridal  inipatieice  jor 
Berlin  :  and,  as  it  isaddres.sed  to  him  lliroviL'li 
the  public  olhces.  re(piin  s  his  iniplicit  obe- 
dience. The  truth  of  the  matter  is.  the  I'rin- 
ceRi?  assures  up.  that  (Jeoiye  II.  wan  Imncdf 
W 


254 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


desirous  that  the  match  should  be  concluded 
without  waituig  for  the  uncertain  sanction  of 
his  Parliament,  and  had  suggested  this  device 
of  a  seeming  ctourdcrie  on  the  part  of  his  son  ; 
but  the  indiscretion  of  her  mother,  in  blabbing 
the  matter  to  the  ambassador,  and  his  com- 
munication to  the  ministry,  left  the  monarch 
no  choice,  but  to  dissemble  his  mortification, 
and  lend  his  authority  to  prevent  the  execu- 
tion of  a  project  which  had  originated  with 
himself. 

But.  whatever  may  be  the  true  theory  of 
this  di.saster,  it  seems  to  be  certain,  that  the 
disappointment  put  the  King  of  Prussia  into 
exceeding  bad  humour,  and.  concurring  with 
an  untimc^ly  fit  of  the  gout,  made  the  lives  of 
his  family  still  more  uncomfortable  than  he 
took  care  at  all  times  to  render  them.  The 
account  indeed  which  is  here  given  of  the 
domestic  habits  of  this  worthy  sovereign, 
though  humiliating  in  some  degree  to  human 
nature,  has  yet  something  in  it  so  extrava- 
gant, as  to  be  actually  ludicrous  and  farcical. 
He  ordered  his  children  to  come  to  his  apart- 
ment at  nine  o'clock  every  morning,  and  kept 
them  close  prisoners  there  the  whole  day. 
not  letthig  them  once  out  of  his  sight,  '•'•four 
quelquc  raison  que  ce  fut.'^  His  employment 
was  to  curse  and  abuse  them  with  every 
coarse  term  of  reproach, — his  daughter  getting 
no  other  name  than  la  Canaille  Anglaise,  and 
his  son,  le  Coquin  de  Fritz.  He  had  always 
been  in  the  practice  of  famishing  them  ;  partly 
out  of  avarice,  and  partly  from  the  love  of 
tormenting ;  but  now  even  the  soup  made  of 
bare  bones  and  salt  was  retrenched .  He  often 
refused  to  let  them  have  any  thing  whatso- 
ever ;  and  spit  into  the  dishes  out  of  which  he 
had  helped  himself,  in  order  to  prevent  their 
touching  them  !  At  other  times  he  would 
insist  upon  their  eating  all  sorts  of  unwhole- 
some and  disgusting  compositions — "  ce  qui 
nous  obligeait  quelquefois  de  rendre,  en  sa 
presence,  tout   ce   que  nous  avions  dans 


corps , 


Even    this,    however,  was  not  the 


worst  of  it.  He  very  frequently  threw  the 
plates  at  their  heads ;  and  scarcely  ever  let 
his  daughter  go  out  of  the  room,  without  aim- 
ins  a  sly  blow  at  her  with  the  end  of  his 
crutch.  The  unhappy  Frederic  he  employed 
himself  almost  every  morning  in  caning  and 
kicking  for  a  long  time  together ;  and  was 
actual!}',  upon  one  occasion,  in  the  act  of 
strangling  him  with  the  cord  of  a  window- 
curtain,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  one  of 
his  domestics.  To  make  amends,  however, 
he  once  hung  up  himself;  when  the  Queen, 
by  a  ran;  act  of  folly,  was  induced  to  cut  him 
down.  When  free  from  gout,  he  was  still 
more  dangerous  ;  for  then  he  could  pursue  his 
dauiihters  with  considerable  agility  when  they 
ran  away  from  his  blows ;  and  once  caught 
the  author,  after  a  chase  of  this  kind,  when 
he  clutched  her  by  the  hair,  and  pushed  her 
into  the  fireplace,  fill  her  clothes  began  to 
burn.  During  the  heats  of  summer,  he  fre- 
quently carried  his  family  to  a  country-house, 
called  Vouslerhauscn,  which  was  an  old  ruin- 
ous mansion,  surrounded  with  a  putrid  ditch  : 
and  there  they  dined   every  day,  in  a  tent 


pitched  orr  a  terrace,  with  scarcely  any  thing 
to  eat.  and  their  feet  up  to  the  ancles  in  mud. 
if  the  weather  happenetl  to  be  rainy.  After 
dinner,  which  was  served  exactly  at  noon, 
the  good  king  set  himself  down  to  sleep  for 
two  hours,  in  a  great  chair  placed  in  the  full 
glare  of  the  sun,  and  compelled  all  his  family 
to  lie  on  the  ground  around  him,  exposed  to 
the  same  intolerable  scorching. 

After  some  little  time.  England  sends  an- 
other ambassador,  who  renews  ;n  due  form  the 
proposal  of  the  double  marriage,  and  (^tiers 
such  baits  to  the  avarice  or  the  King  that  mat- 
ters appear  once  more  to  be  finally  adjusted, 
and  the  princess  is  saluted  by  her  household 
with  the  title  of  Princess  of  Wales.  This, 
however,  was  not  her  destiny.  Grumkow 
intrigues  with  the  Imperial  ambassador  to 
break  off  the  match — and  between  them  they 
contrive  to  persuade  the  King  that  he  is  made 
a  tool  of  by  the  Queen  and  her  brother  ol 
England  :  and  inflame  him  to  such  a  rage  by 
producing  specimens  of  their  secret  corre- 
spondence, that  when  the  English  ambassador 
appears  next  day  with  decisive  proofs  of 
Grumkow's  treachery  and  insolence,  the  Kirj; 
throws  the  papers  in  his  face,  and  actually 
lifts  his  foot,  as  if  to  give  him  the  family  salute 
of  a  kick.  The  blood  of  the  Englishman 
rous(>s  at  this  insult :  and  he  puts  himself  in  a 
posture  to  return  the  compliment  with  inter- 
est, when  the  King  makes  a  rapid  retreat— 
and  the  ambassador,  in  sj)ite  of  theentreatie.« 
of  the  Queen  and  her  children,  and  various 
overtures  of  apology  from  the  King  himself, 
shakes  the  dust  of  Berlin  from  his  feet,  and; 
sets  off  in  high  dudgeon  for  London.  The; 
King  then  swears  that  his  daughter  shall  havei 
no  husband  at  all,  but  that  he  will  make  her] 
abbess  in  the  monastery  of  Herford  ; — andl 
her  brother  Frederic,  to  her  great  mortifica- 
tion, tells  her  it  is  the  best  tiring  she  can  do; 
and  that  he  sees  no  other  way  to  restore  peace 
in  the  family. 

We  now  proceed  to  the  adventures  of  thi.' 
brother,  which,  as   their   outline    is  alreadj 
generally  known,  need  not  be  fully  narratec 
in  this   place.     Tired   of  being  beaten  ant 
kicked  and  n^viled  all  day  long,  he  resolve:' 
to   withdraw  from  his  country,   and   make 
some  movements  to  that  efiect  in  confederac 
with  an  oflicer  of  the  name  of  Katt,  who  wii . 
to   have  been   the  companion  of   his  llight 
Both,    however,   are  arrested   by  the  Kins'' 
order,  who  makes  several  attempts  upon  thi 
life  of  his  son,  vrhen  he  is  brought  as  a  prisone] 
before  him — and  comes  home  foaming  an< 
black  with  passion,  crying  out  to  the  Quee 
th;it  her  accursed  son  was  dead  at  last;  ar.c 
felling  his  daughter  to  the  earth  with  h:s  fis'! 
as  he  tells  her  to  go  and  bear  her  brother  conij 
pany.     He  then  gets  hold  of  a  box  of  his  son| 
papers,  which  had  been  surprised  at  Katt' 
lodgings,  and  goes  out  with  it  in  great  spiriti' 
exclaiming  that  he  was  sure  he  should  fin 
in  it  enough  to  justify  him  in  cutting  off  th 
heads  both  of  Ic  Coqtnn  de  Fritz,  and  la  Ci 
naillc  dr  Wilhchninc.     Wilhelmine,  howeve 
and  her  ])olitic  mother  h.ui  been  beforehan, 
with  him— for  they  had  got  hold  of  this  earn 


MEMOIRS  OF  .AIARGRAVIXF,  OF  RAREITH. 


259 


the  clay  preceding,  and  by  false  keys  and 
Is  had  taken  all  the  papers  out  of  "it,  and 
laced  them  by  harmless  and  insignilicant 
liters,  vvhieh  they  had  (abricated  in  the 
cjirse  of  one  day.  to  the  amount  of  near 
gi-eu  hundred.  The  King,  therefore,  found 
ilhing  to  justify  immediate  e.xecution  ;  but 
iiil^t  the  Prince  a  close  prisoner  at  Custrin. 
n  1  shut  the  Princess  up  in  her  own  chamber. 
\ii  son  and  Katt  were  afterwards  tried  for 
c(}ciiioii.  before  a  court-martial  composed  of 
tielve  officers:  Two  were  for  sparing  the 
Ih  of  the  Prince,  but  all  the  rest  were  base 
ejjugh  to  gratify  the  sanguinary  insanity  of 
tKr  master  by  condemning  them  both  to 
thth.  All  Germany,  however,  e.\claimed 
|i|dly  aL>ain«t  this  sentence  ;  and  made  such 
r!)resentations  to  the  King,  that  he  was  at 
l;jt  constrained  to  spare  his  son.  But  the 
iiiaappy  Kalt  wrfs  sacrificed.  His  scafToltl 
vjs  erected  immediately  before  the  window 
Djiis  unhappy  master,  who  was  dressed  by 
fcjpe  in  the  same  funeral  garment  with  his 
fhid,  and  was  held  up  at  the  window  by 
tJD  soldiers,  w^hile  the  executioner  struck  ofT 
:  head  of  his  companion.  There  is  no 
ord  of  such  brutal  barbarity  in  the  history 
o\ero  or  Dornitian. 

\fter  this,  the  family  feuds  about  his  daugh- 
li's  mari'iage  revive  with  double  fury.     The 
Deen,  whose  whole  heart  is  set  on  the  Eng- 
lii  alliance,  continues  her  petty  intrig-ues  to 
ei?ct  that  object :  while  the  King,  rendered 
fi|ious  by  the  haughty  language  adopted  by 
tl!  English  ministry  on  the  subject  of  the  in- 
?!t  offered  to  their  ambassador,  determines 
((•have   her   m.arried   without   a   moment's 
[liay  ;  and  after  threatening  the  Queen  with 
hi  cane,  sends  to  otTer  her  the  hand  of  the 
Fjdce  of  Bareith  ;  which  she  dutifully  ac- 
cks.  in  spite  of  the  bitter  lamentations  and 
olrageous   fury    of    the   Queen.      That    in- 
tifuing  princess,  however,  does  not  cease  to 
iiiigue,  though  deserted  by  her  daughter — 
bi  sends  again  in  greater  urgency  than  ever 
tfEiiglaud  : — and  that  court,  if  we  are  to  be- 
lire  the  statement  before  us,  at  last  seriously 
akid  of   losing  a  match  every  way  desir- 
ajj,  sends  off  despatches,  containing  an  en- 
ti|    and    unijualified    accjuiescence    hi    all  | 
F  deric's  stipulations  as  to  the  marriage —  j 
vuch  arrive  at  Berlin  the  very  morning  of 
ill  day  on  which  the  Princess  was  to  be  so- 
lijinly  betrothed  to  M.  de  Bareith,  but  are  j 
kedly  kept  back  by  Grumkow  and  the 
iperial  Envoy,  till  after  the  ceremony  had  j 
1    publicly   and    irrevocably   completed,  j 
ir  disclo.sure  then  throws  all  parties  into 
ti  and  despair  :  and  the  intriguers  are  made 
ridiculous  victims  of  their  own  ba.seness 
a)  duplicity.   The  indefatigable  Queen,  how-  1 
e  jr.  docs  not  despair  even  yet ;  but  sends  off  ' 
alther  courier  to  Enirland,  and  sets  all  her 
eiiissaries  to  jjrepare  the  King  to  break  off 
tlj  match  in  the  event  of  the  answer  being  | 
f^purahle ;— nay,  the  very  night  before  the  ' 
njrringe,  she  takes  her  daughter  apart,  and 
tps  h'ir  to  live  witli  her  husband  as  a  sister 
w4i  her  brother,  for  a  few  days,  till  the  result  j 
[.he  embassage  is  known.     But  her  usual  i 


ilestiny  pursues  her.  The  fatal  evening  ar- 
rives :  ami  llu'  Princess,  with  a  train  forl\-(ive 
feet  in  length,  ami  the  spousal  « lown  plact  tl 
oil  twenty-four  twisted  locks  of  false  hair, 
each  thicker  than  her  ami,  enters  the  grand 
saloon,  and  takes  the  irri>v(icable  vow  ! — and 
her  mother  has  just  put  her  to  bed,  when  she 
hears  that  her  courier  lias  arrived,  ami  leaves 
her  in  rage  and  anguish. 

The  humours  of  the  rest  of  the  family  ap- 
pear to  no  great  advantage  during  the  bridal 
festivities.  In  the  first  place,  the  Priiice8.s' 
sister,  Charlotte,  falls  hi  love  with  the  bride- 
groom, and  does  her  jxissihle  to  stnluce  him. 
Then  old  Frederic  cheats  the  bride  in  her 
settlements,  which  amount  to  a  gross  sum  of 
near  500/.  a  year: — and.  tinally.  her  brother- 
in-law.  the  Margrave  of  Aiispach.  rallies  her 
husband  so  rudely  upon  his  mother's  ir.illan- 
tries.  that  \hc  latter  irivt>s  him  a  brave  defi- 
ance in  the  face  of  the  whole  court :  at  which 
the  poor  JMargrave  is  so  dreadfully  frightened, 
that  he  bursts  out  into  screams  and  tears,  and 
runs  for  refuge  into  the  Queen's  apartment, 
whert^  he  hides  himself  behind  the  arnis,  from 
which  he  is  taken  in  a  filthy  condition,  and 
carried  to  his  apartments,  -oil  il  exhala  sa 
colere  par  des  vomissemens  et  un  diarrhee 
qui  pensa  I'envoyer  a  Tautre  monde." — Yet 
the  good  Princess  assures  us,  that  this  reptile 
had  "  a  good  heart  and  a  good  understanding," 
— with  no  fault  but  being  a  little  passionate  ; 
and  then,  in  the  very  next  page,  she  records  a 
maliarnant  and  detected  falsehood  which  he 
had  vented  against  her  husband,  and  which 
rendered  him  odious  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole 
court.  Being  dissatisfied  with  her  settle- 
ments, she  puts  the  King  in  a  good  humour  by 
giving  a  grand  dinner  to  him  and  his  officers, 
at  which  they  are  all  -  ivres  morts;"  but 
having  mentioned  her  distresses  through  the 
Queen,  he  is  .so  much  moved  with  them,  that 
he  calls  for  the  settlements,  and  strikes  off 
about  one  fourth  of  her  allowance. 

All  this  happened  in  autumn  1731  ;  and  in 
January  1732,  the  Princess  being  far  advanced 
in  pregnancy,  and  the  roads  almost  impassa- 
ble, it  was  tnou;;ht  advisable  for  her  to  set  out 
for  her  husband's  court  at  Bareith.  She  i? 
overturned  of  course  several  times,  and  obliged 
to  walk  half  the  way  : — But  we  pass  overjhe 
disasters  of  the  journey,  to  commemorate  her 
arrival  in  this  ancient  princijiality.  The  firft 
village  she  reached  was  Hoff,  which  is  on  the 
frontier — and  has  also  the  convenience  of 
being  within  three  miles  of  the  centre  of  the 
territory  :  and  here  the  grand  marshal,  and  all 
the  nobility  of  the  province,  are  mustered  to 
receive  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  stnircase,  or, 
in  other  words,  of  the  wooden  ladiler  which 
led  to  her  apartments.  However,  various 
guns  were  fired  off  very  successfully,  and  the 
chief  nobility  were  invited  to  dinner.  The 
Pnnce.'is'  description  of  lhe.se  personages  is 
really  very  edifying.  They  had  all  faces,  she 
says,  which  a  child  could  not  look  on  without 
screaming; — huge  masses  of  hair  on  their 
heads,  filled  with  a  race  of  vermin  as  ancieni 
as  their  pedigrees: — clothed  in  old  l;iced  suits 
that  had  descended  through  many  gcneratious 


256 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEIMOIRS. 


the  most  part  in  rags,  and  no  way  fitting  their 
present  wearers ; — the  greater  part  of  them 
covered  with  itch ; — and  their  conversation,  of 
oxen.  Initnediately  after  dinner  they  began 
with  the  Princess'  lieaUh  in  a  huge  bumper, 
and  proceeded  regularly  in  the  same  gallant 
manner  lluough  the  whole  of  her  genealogy  • 
— so  that  in  less  than  half  an  hour  she  found 
herself  in  the  middle  of  thirty-four  monsters, 
so  drunk  that  none  of  them  could  articulate, 
'■et  rendant  les  boyaux  ii  lous  ces  desastrenx 
visages.'"  Next  day  being  Sunday,  there  was 
a  sermon  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  in  which 
the  preacher  gave  an  exact  account  of  all  the 
marriages  that  had  happened  in  the  world, 
from  the  days  of  Adam  down  to  the  last  of 
the  patriarchs — illustrated  with  so  many  cir- 
cumstantial details  as  to  the  antecedents  and 
consequents  in  each,  that  the  male  part  of  the 
audience  laughed  outright,  and  the  female 
pretended  to  blush  throughout  the  whole  dis- 
course. The  dinner  scene  was  the  same  as 
on  the  day  preceding;  with  the  addition  of 
the  female  nobility  who  came  in  the  evening, 
with  their  heads  enveloped  in  greasy  wigs 
like  swallows'  nests,  and  ancient  embroidered 
dresses,  stuck  all  over  with  knots  of  faded 
ribands. 

The  day  following,  the  Margrave,  her  father- 
in-law,  came  himself  to  meet  her.  This 
worthy  prince  was  nearly  as  amiable,  and  not 
«iuite  so  wise,  as  the  royal  parent  she  had  left. 
He  had  read  but  two  books  in  the  world, 
Telemaqne,  and  Amelot's  Roman  history,  and 
discoursed  out  of  them  so  very  tediously,  that 
the  poor  Princess  fainted  from  mere  ennui  at 
the  very  first  interview; — Then  he  drank  night 
and  day — and  occasionally  took  his  cane  to 
the  prince  his  son,  and  his  other  favourites. 
Though  livinir  in  poverty  and  absolute  dis- 
comfort, he  gave  himself  airs  of  the  utmost 
magiii licence  —  went  to  dinner  with  three 
flourishes  of  cracked  trumpets — received  his 
court,  leaning  with  one  hand  on  a  table,  in 
imitation  of  the  Emperor — and  conferred  his 
little  dignities  in  haranarues  so  pompous,  and 
so  awkwardly  delivered,  that  his  daughter-in- 
law  at  once  laughed  and  was  ashamed  of 
him.  He  was  awkward,  too,  and  embarrassed 
in  the  society  of  strangers  of  good  breeding — 
but  made  amends  by  chattering  without  end, 
about  himself  and  his  two  books,  to  those 
who  w(.'r(?  bomid  to  bear  with  him.  Under 
the  escort  of  this  great  potentate  the  Princess 
made  her  triumphal  entry  into  the  city  of  Ba- 
reith  the  next  morning:  the  whole  procession 
cfflisistina'  of  one  coach,  containing  the  con- 
stituted authorities  who  had  comt^  out  to  meet 
hf^r,  her  own  carriage  drawn  by  six  carrion 
|)ost-horses,  that  containing  her  attendants, 
and  six  or  siwcn  wairons  loaded  with  furni- 
ture. The  Margrave  then  conducted  tier  from 
the  palace  gate  in  gr«'at  state  to  her  apart- 
ments, through  a  lonL'  passage,  hung  with 
cobwidts.  and  so  abominably  lilthy  as  to  turn 
her  stomach  in  hurrying  through  it.  This 
opened  into  an  antechamber,  adorned  with 
r>l,l  tapestry,  so  tern  and  failed  that  the  figures 
or.  it  lookeil  like  somany  i-'hosts;  and  through 
that    into   a   cabinet    furniehcd    with    green 


damask  all  in  tatters.     Her  bedchamber  wai 
also  furnished  vvith  the  same  stufl' — but  ii 
such  a  condition,   that   the   curtains   fell  ii ' 
pieces  whenever  they  were  touched.     Hah 
of  the  windows  were  broken,  and  there  Mat 
no  fue;  though  it  was  midwinter.     The  diij.; 
ners  were  not  eatable  :  and  lasteil  three  hoursij 
vvith  thirty  flourishes  of  the  old  trumpets  fos* 
the  bumper  toasts  with  which  they  weie  en-' 
livened :  Add  to  all   this,  that  the  poor  Priii-;! 
cess   was   very   much   indisposed — that  the 
Margrave  came  and  talked  to  her  out  of  Teli 
maque  and  Amelot,  five  or  six  hours  every  da\ 
— and  that  she  could  not  mustei  cash  enougl 
to  buy  herself  a  gown  :  and  it  will  not  appeal 
wonderful,  that  in  the  very  midst  of  the  wed.] 
iling  revelries,  she  spent  half  her  time  in  bedj| 
weeping  over  the  vanity  of  human  grandenrl 
By  and  by,   however,   she  found   occupB' 
tion  in  quarrelling  with  her  sisters-in-law,  am 
in  making  and  appeasing  disputes   betweer 
her   husband    and   his  father.      She   airrets 
so  ill,   indeed,  with  all  the  family,  thai  he 
proposal  of  returning  to  lie-in  at  Berlin  is  n- 
ceived  with  great  joy: — but  while  they  an 
deliberating    about    raising   money   for    thi 
journey  of  two  hundred  miles,  she  becomi 
too  ill  to  move.     Her  sister  of  Anspacli.  aiii 
her   husband,  come,   and    quarrel    with  hi 
upon  points  of  etiquette  :  the  lMari>rave  fall 
in  love  with  one  of  her  attendants;  and  ilj 
the  midst  of  all  manner  of  perj.lexjtics  shi 
is  delivered  of  a  daughter.     The   Margrave 
who  was  in   the  country,  not  happi  niiig  l\ 
hear  the  cannon  which  iuoclainiecl  this  giea 
event,  conceives  that  he  is  treated  with  gi-ea 
disrespect,  and  gives  oiders   for  having  hi 
son  imprisoned  in  one  of  his  fortresses.    H 
relents,  however,  at  the  christening;  and  i 
put  in  good  humour  by  a  visit  iiom  anothe 
son  and  a  brother — the  first  of  wliom  is  det 
cribed  as  a  kind  of  dwarf  and   natuial  foo 
who  could  never  take  seriously  to  any  en 
ployment  but  catching  flies  ;  aiul  the  others 
a  furious  madman,  in  whose  company  noon 
was  sure  of  his  life.     This  annable  fainili 
party  is  broken  up,  by  an  order  on  the  Prill 
cess'  husband  to  join  his  regiment  at  Berlii 
and  another  order  from  her  father  for  her  i 
pay  a  visit  to  her  sister  at  Anspach.     On  hi 
way  she  visits  an  ancient  beauty,  with  a  iiOf 
like  a  beetroot,  and  two  maids  of  honour  .' 
excessively  fat  that  they  could  not  sit  dowr 
and,   in  .stooping  to  kiss  the  Princess'  ham 
fell  over,  and  rolled  like  balls  of  flesh  on  \\ 
carpet.     At  Anspach.  she  finds  the  Mai-grai 
deep  in  an  intrigue  with  the  housen:aid;  nr 
consoles  her  sister  under  this  af^iction.    SI 
then  makes  a  great  eflort.  and  raises  mone 
enough  to  carry  her  to  Berlin  :  wheie  she 
received  with'coldness  and  ridicule  by  t) 
Queen,  and   neglect    and  iisult   by  all  h 
sisters.      Her    brother's   marriage   with  tl 
Princess  of    Brunswick    was    just    about 
fake  place,  and  we  choose  to  'jwe  in  her  OV 
words  her  account  of  the  manner  in  whit 
she  was  talked  over  in  this  royiil  circle. 

"  I,a  reine,  ii  table,  fii  loniber  In  rorvfr.''aM 
sur  1h  prinrt'i^sf  roynlc  liiiiirf.  '  ^'nirr  (rc've.^^  I 
dii-tllcen  Ic  regardant,  '  est  an  c'(.'s<'5'iH»irilc  I'^V 


MEMOIRS  OF  MARGRAVINE  OF  BAREITH 


m 


•,  et  n'a  pas  tort :  c'cst  unevraibete;  elle  rt'pond 
out  ce  qu'on  Uii  dit  par  uu  oui  et  un  noii,  ;u-- 
npagne  d'uii  rire  niais  qui  fait  nial  ati  cceur.' 
ih!'  dit  ina  sccur  Charlotte,  'voire  Majesto  no 
inoit  pas  encore  tout  son  merite.  J'ai  en'  un 
lin  a  sa  toilette  ;  j'ai  era  y  suflbquer  ;  elle  exha- 
:  une  odeur  insupportable  !  Je  crois  qu'elle  a 
ir  le  moins  dix  ou  douze  fistules — car  cela  n'esi 
1  naturel.  J'ai  reinarque  aussi  qu'elle  est  con- 
faite ;  son  corps  de  jupe  est  renibourre  d"un 
'e,  et  elle  a  une  haiicfie  plus  hauie  que  I'au- 
.'  Je  fus  tort  etonnoe  de  ces  propos,  qui  so  lo- 
ent  en  presence  des  domesiiques — et  surtout  de 
n  Ire  re  I-  Je  in'aper^us  qu'ils  lui  t'aisoient  de 
peine  et  qu'il  changeoit  de  coiileur.  II  se 
ra  aussitot  apres  souper.  J'en  fis  autant.  II 
I  me  voir  un  moment  apres.  Je  lui  demandai 
'  etoit  satisfait  du  roi  ?  II  me  repondit  que  sa 
laiion  changeoit  i\  tout  moment;  que  tanioi  il 
■dt  en  faveur  et  tantot  en  disgrace  ;  que  son  plus 
:nd  lionheur  consistoit  dans  I'absence  ;  gu'il  me- 
lt une  vie  douce  et  tranquille  a  son  regiment ; 
I  I'eiude  et  la  musique  y  taisoieiit  ses  principales 
lupations  ;  qu'il  avoit  fait  baiir  une  maison  et  tail 
re  un  jardin  charmant  ou  il  pouvoit  lire  et  se 
Mtiener.  Je  le  pria  de  me  dire  si  le  portrait  que 
[cine  et  ma  sosur  m'avoient  fait  de  ta  Princesse 
I  Brunswick  eioit  veritable  ?  '  Nous  sommes 
(Is/  repartit-il,  '  et  je  n'ar  rien  de  cache  pour 
'  s.  Je  vous  parlerai  avec  sincerite.  La  reine, 
»  ses  miserabies  inirigues,  est  la  seule  source 
Inos  malhenrs  A  peine  avez-vous  ete  partie 
lil\e  a  renouo  avec  I'Angleterre  ;  elle  a  vonlu 
'■9su'>stituer  ma  scenr  Cliarlofe,  et  luifaire  epon- 
i(  le  Prince  de  Galles,  Vous  jugez  bien  qu'elle 
I  nploye  tous  ses  efToris  pour  faire  r^ussir  son  plan 
!ioiir  me  marier  avec  la  Princesse  Amelie.'  " 

"■he  poor  Prince,  however,  confesses  that 
1  cannot  say  much  for  the  mtellect  of  his 
r-nded  bride: — and  really  does  not  use  a 
r;ch  nobler  language  than  the  rest  of  the 
";:iily.  even  \Yhen  speaking  in  her  presence  ; 
"lou  her  first  presentation  to  his  sister,  find- 
i:  that  she  made  no  answer  to  the  compli- 
rits  that  were  addressed  to  her,  the  enam- 
)i?d  youth  encourages  her  bridal  timidity 
3  this  polite  exclamation,  "Peste  soit  de  la 
?(i? ! — remercie  done  ma  sa-ur!"  The  ac- 
cent of  the  festivities  which  accompanied 
^  marriage  really  excites  our  compassion  : 
HI  is  well  calculated  to  disabuse  any  iiiex- 
p(|ieiiced  person  of  the  mistake  of  suppo- 
M-(.  that  there  can  be  either  comfort  or  en- 
io;nent  in  the  cumbrous  splendours  of  a 
crrt.  Scanty  and  crowded  dinners  at  mid- 
M. — and  formal  balls  and  minuets  imnie- 
iijely  after,  in  June,  followed  up  with  dull 
2r<:jiing  in  the  evening; — the  necessity  of 
bt;ig  up  in  full  dress  by  three  o'clock  in  the 
m;ning  to  see  a  review — and  the  pleasure 
ofuMng  stifled  in  a  crowded  tent  without 
spii?  any  thinp:,  or  getting  any  refreshment 
fo,-(>ven  or  eight  hours,  and  then  to  return 
faishing  to  a  dinner  of  eighty  covers; — 
iitthcr  times  to  travel  ten  miles  at  a  foot- 
pal;  in  an  open  carriage  during  a  heavy  rain, 
an! afterwards  to  stand  shivering  ou  the  wet 
gr's  to  see  fireworks — to  pay  twenty  visits 
of  eremony  every  morning,  and  to  present 
an  be  presented  in  stately  silence  to  persons 
w.in  you  hate  and  despise.  Such  were  the 
gc'ial  delights  of  the  whole  court; — and 
ou  Princess  had  the  additional  gratification 
if'oeing  forced  from  a  sick-bed  to  enjoy 
ih^,  and  of  undergoiiur  the  sneers  of  her 
33' 


mother,  and  the  slights  of  her  whole  genora- 
tion.  Their  domestic  life,  when  these  galas 
were  over,  was  nearly  as  fatiguing,  and  still 
more  lugubrious.  The  good  old  custom  of 
famishing  was  kept  up  at  table ;  and  imme- 
diately after  diiuier  the  King  had  his  great 
chair  placed  right  before  the  fire,  and  snored 
in  it  for  three  hours,  during  all  which  th»'V 
were  obliged  to  keep  silence,  for  fear  of  dis- 
turbing him.  When  he  awoke,  he  set  to 
smoking  tobacco; — and  then  .sate  four  hours 
at  supper,  h.^tening  to  long  stories  of  his 
ancestors,  in  the  taste  of  those  sermons 
which  are  prescribed  to  pensons  afilioted 
with  iusomnolencv.  Then  the  troops  began 
their  exercise  under  the  windows  before  four 
o'clock  every  morning, — and  not  only  kept 
the  whole  household  awake  from  that  hour 
by  their  firing,  but  sometimes  sent  a  ram- 
rod through  the  glass  to  assist  at  the  Prin- 
cess' toilette.  One  afternoon  the  King  was 
seized  with  a  sort  of  apoplexy  in  his  sleep, 
which,  as  he  al\\-ays  snored  extremely  loud, 
might  have  carried  him  off  without  much 
observation,  had  not  his  daughter  observed 
him  grow  black  in  the  face,  and  restoretl  him 
by  timely  applications.  She  is  equally  un- 
fortunate about  the  same  time  in  her  father- 
in-law  the  Maigrave,  who  is  mischievous 
enough  to  recover,  after  breaking  a  blood- 
vessel by  falling  down  stairs  in  a  fit  of 
drunkenness.  At  last  she  gets  away  with 
great  difficulty,  and  takes  her  second  leave 
of  the  parental  roof,  with  even  less  regard 
for  its  inhabitants  than  she  had  felt  on  first 
quitting  its  shelter. 

On  her  return  to  Bareith,  she  finds  the  old 
Margrave  quite  broken  in  health,  but  extrava- 
aantly  and  honourably  in  love  with  a  lame, 
dwarfish,  middle-aged  lady,  the  sister  of  her 
,  ancient  governess,  whom  he  proposes  to 
'  marry,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  the  Prin- 
■  cess  and  his  son.  They  remonstrate  with  the 
lady,  however,  on  the  absurdity  of  .such  an 
union  ;  and  she  promises  to  be  cruel,  and  live 
single.  In  the  mean  time,  one  of  the  Mar- 
grave's daughters  is  taken  with  a  kind  ot 
madness  of  a  very  indecorous  character ; 
which  indicates  itself  by  frequent  impro- 
prieties of  speech,  and  a  habit  of  giving  invi- 
tations, of  no  equivocal  sort,  to  every  man 
that  comes  near  ner.  The  worthy  Margrave, 
at  first  undertakes  to  cure  this  very  trouble- 
some complaint  by  a  brisk  course  of  beating ; 
but  this  not  being  found  to  answer,  it  is 
thought  expedient  to  try  the  efTect  of  mar- 
riage ;  and,  that  there  may  he  no  harm  done 
to  any  body,  they  look  out  a  certain  Duke  of 
Weimar,  who  is  as  mad  as  the  lady — though 
somewhat  in  a  difTercnt  way.  This  prince's 
'  malady  consisted  chiefly  in  great  unsteadi- 
I  ness  of  purpose,  and  a  trick  of  outrageous 
and  inventive  boasting.  Both  the  Princess 
[  and  her  husband,  however,  take  great  pains 
[  to  bring  about  this  well-assorted  match  :  and, 
i  by  dint  of  flattery  and  intnnidation,  it  i(» 
I  actually  carried  through — though  the  bride- 
I  groom  sends  a  piteous  mesbjige  on  the  morn- 
j  ing  of  his  wedding  day.  begging  to  be  let  ofl 
I  and  keeps  them  from  twelve  till  four  o'clock 
w2 


258 


HISTORY  AND  fflSTORICAL  MOIOIRS 


in  the  morning  before  he  can  be  persuaded 
to  go  to  bed.  In  the  mean  time,  the  Princess 
gives  great  offence  to  the  populace  and  tlie 
preachers  of  Bareith,  by  giving  a  sort  of 
masked  ball,  and  riding  occasionally  on 
horseback.  Her  husband  goes  to  the  wars; 
and  returns  very  much  out  of  humour  with 
her  brother  Frederic,  who  talks  contemptu- 
ously of  little  courts  and  little  princes.  The 
old  Margrave  falls  into  a  contirmed  hectic, 
and  writes  billcts-<ioux  to  his  little  lady,  so 
tender  as  to  turn  one's  stomach ;  but  at  last 
dies  in  an  edifying  manner,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Old  Frederic  promises  fair,  at  the  same  time. 
to  follow  his  example  :  for  he  is  seized  with 
a  contirmed  dropsy.  His  legs  swell,  and 
burst;  and  give  out  so  much  water,  that  he 
is  obliged  for  several  days  to  sit  with  them 
in  buckets.  By  a  kind  of  miracle,  however, 
he  recovers,  and  goes  a  campaigning  for 
several  years  after. 

The  Memoirs  are  rather  dull  for  four  or 
five  years  after  the  author's  accession  to  the 
throne  of  Bareith.  She  makes  various  jour- 
neys, and  suffers  from  various  distempers — 
has  innumerable  quarrels  with  all  the  neigh- 
bouring potentates  about  her  own  precedence 
and  that  of  her  attendants;  fits  up  several 
villas,  gives  balls ;  and  sometimes  quarrels 
with  her  husband,  and  sometimes  nurses  him 
in  his  illness.  In  1740,  the  King,  her  father, 
dies  in  good  earnest ;  and  makes,  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  a  truly  heroic,  though  some- 
what whimsical,  ending.  Finding  himself 
fast  going,  he  had  himself  placed  early  in  the. 
morning  in  his  wheel-chair,  and  goes  himself 
to  tell  the  Queen  that  she  must  rise  and  see 
him  die.  He  then  takes  farewell  of  his  chil- 
dren ;  and  gives  some  sensible  advice  to  his 
son.  and  the  ministers  and  generals  whom  he 
had  assembled.  Aflerv\ards  he  has  his  best 
horse  brought,  and  presents  it  with  a  good 
grace  to  the  oldest  of  his  generals.  He  next 
ordered  all  the  servants  to  put  on  their  best 
liveries ;  and,  when  this  was  done,  he  looked 
on  them  with  an  air  of  derision,  and  said, 
'■Vanity  of  \anities!"  He  then  commanded 
his  physician  to  tell  him  exactly  how  long  he 
had  to  live ;  and  when  he  was  answered, 
"about  half  an  hour.'"  he  asked  for  a  looking- 
glass,  and  said  with  a  smile,  that  he  certainly 
did  look  ill  enough,  and  saw  '^'•qu'U  fcruil 
uiie  vilainc  grimace  en  monrmit !''  When  ihe 
•clergymen  proposed  to  come  and  pray  with 
him,  he  said,  -'he  knew  already  all  they  had 
to  say,  and  that  they  might  go  about  their 
business."  In  a  short  time  after  he  expired, 
in  great  tranquillity. 

Though  the  newKing  came  to  visit  his  sister 
poon  after  his  accession,  and  she  went  to  re- 
turn the  compliment  at  Berlin,  she  says  there 
■was  no  longer  any  cordiality  between  them  ; 
and  that  she  heard  nothing  but  complaints  of 
his  avarice,  his  ill  temper,  his  ingratitude,  and 
his  arrogance.  She  gives  him  great  credit 
for  talents;  but  entreats  her  readers  to  sus- 
pend their  judgment  as  to  the  real  character 
of  this  celebrated  monarch,  till  they  have 
perused  the  whole  of  her  Memoirs.    What 


seems  to  have  given  her  the  worst  opinion  o ', 
him,  was  his  impolite  habit  of  making  joke 
about  the  small  domains  and  scanty  revenue 
of  her  husband.  For  the  two  following  year 
she  travels  all  over  Germany.  abusing"al'l  th 
principaiUes  she  meets  with.  In  1742,  sh 
goes  to  see  the  coronation  of  the  new  Emperc 
at  Francfort,  and  has  a  long  negotiation  abou 
the  ceremony  of  her  introduction  to  the  En. 
press.  After  various  projets  had  bei  n  offert 
and  rejected,  she  made  these  three  coiuiitions 
— 1st,  That  the  w  hole  cortege  of  the  Empre? 
should  receive  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  staii 
case.  2dly,  That  the  Empress  herself  .shoul 
come  to  meet  her  at  the  outside  of  the  dot 
of  her  bed-chamber.  And,  Sdly,  That  sh 
should  be  allowed  an  ann-chair  during  th 
interview.  Whole  days  were  spent  in  th 
discussion  of  this  proposition  ;  and  at  last  th 
two  first  articles  were  agreed  to:  but  a 
that  she  could  make  of  the  last  was,  that  si 
should  have  a  very  large  chair,  without  arm 
and  the  Empress  a  very  small  one,  w  ith  then 
— Her  account  of  the  mterview  we  add  in  b 
own  word^ 

"  Je  vis  ceite  Princesse  le  joursuivant.  J'avoi 
qu'a  sa  place  j'anrois  imagine  toutes  les  piiqueii 
et  les  ceremonies  du  monBe  pour  m'enipecher  > 
\  paroiire.  L'Iniperatrice  est  d'unc  taille  au-desso 
I  de  la  petiie,  et  si  puissanie  qu'elle  senible  u 
boule  ;  elle  est  laide  au  possible,  sans  air  et  sa 
I  grace.  Son  esprit  repond  a  sa  figure  ;  elle  ( 
j  bigotte  a  I'exces,  et  passe  les  niiitsei  les  jours  da 
son  oratoire  :  les  vieilles  et  les  laides  sont  ordinair 
nient  le  partage  du  bon  Dieu  !  Elle  me  re^ut 
iromblant  et  d'un  air  si  dccontenance  qu'elle 
put  me  dire  un  mot.  Nous  nous  assiines.  Apr 
avoir  garde  quelque  temps  le  silence,  je  commen' 
la  conversation  en  fran9ais.  Elle  me  repondit,  da 
son  jargon  auirichien.  qu'elle  n'entendoit  pas  bi 
cctie  langue.  et  qu'elle  me  prioit  de  lui  parler 
allemand.  Cet  entreiien  ne  iut  pas  long.  Led 
lecie  autrichien  et  le  bas-saxon  sont  si  difl'erer 
qu'a  moins  d'y  etre  accouiume  on  ne  se  compre 
point.  C'est  aussi  ce  qui  nous  arriva.  IN'oiis  aurii 
prepare  a  rire  a  un  tiers  par  les  eoq-a-rane  c 
nousfaisions.  n'entendant  que  par-ci  par-la  un  m 
qui  nous  faisoit  deviner  le  reste.  Cetie  prince 
ctoit  si  fort  esciave  de  son  etiquette  qu'elle  aui 
cru  fairo  un  crime  de  lese-grandeur  en  m'entre' 
natu  dans  une  langue  eirangore  ;  car  elle  savoiil 
irnn^ais  !  L'Empereur  devoit  se  irouver  n  «: 
vie ite  ;  mais  il  eioit  tombe  si  malade  qu'on  craigr , 
nienie  pour  ses  jonrs." — pu.  345,  346. 

Alter  this  .-h"  comes  home  in  a  very  I 
humour:  and  the  Memoirs  break  off  abruf; 
with  her  detection  of  an  iiilrigiie  between 
husband  ai:d  her  favourite  attendant,  and 
dissiUisfactioii  with  the  dull  formal ily  of  • 
court  of  Stutgard.  We  hope  the  se<)nel  \ 
soon  find  its  way  to  the  public. 

Some  readers  may  think  we  have  dwelt  • 
long  on  such  a  tissue  of  impertinencies:  : 
others  may  think  an  apology  requisite  for  ' 
tone  of  levity  in  which  we  have  spoken  ot,' 
many  atrocities.  The  truth  is.  that  we  th : 
this  book  of  no  trilling  importance  ;  and  t ! 
we  could  not  be  serious  upon  the  subject  f  1 
without  being  both  sad  and  angry.  BeJJ 
concluding,  however,  we  shall  add  onewl 
in  seriousness — to  avoid  the  misconstructi.l 
to  which  we  might  otherwise  be  liable. 

We  are  decidedly  of  opinion,  that  ]\IonarC) 
and  Hereditary  Monarchyj  is  by  far  the  I* 


IRVING'S  COUhMBUS. 


28» 


fen  of  govprnmpiit  that  human  wisdom  has 
y|dev!S;'d  foi'  the  nclniiiiistralion  of  eonsider- 
afe  iialious;  and  thai  it  will  alwajscomiiuic 

3e  the  most  perfect  which  human  virtue 
admit  of.  We  are  not  readily  to  be  sus- 
p|ted,  therefore,  of  any  wish  to  produce  a 
di'aste  or  coiitemjit  for  th's  form  of  iiovern- 
niit;  and  beg  leave  to  say.  that  though  the 
fafs  we  have  now  collected  are  certainly 
eifh  as  to  give  no  favourable  impression  of 
thi  private  manners  or  personal  dispositions 
of'bsolute  sovereigns,  we  conceive  that  good, 
ralier  than  evil,  is  likely  to  result  from  their 
dj-emination.  This  we  hold,  in  the  first 
pte.  on  the  strenath  of  the  general  ma\im, 
th".  all  truth  must  be  ultimately  s;ilutary,  and 
al'deception  pernicious.  But  we  think  we 
c  see  a  little  how  this  maxim  applies  to  the 
p;  icular  case  before  us. 

1  the  first  place,  then,  we  think  it  of  ser- 
vi;'>  to  the  cause  of  royalty,  in  an  age  of  vio- 
le[  }^)assions  and  i"ash  experiments,  to  show 
th  most  of  the  vices  and  defects  which  such 
tiJes  are  apt  to  bring  to  light  in  particular 
fscreigns.  are  owing,  not  so  much  to  any  par- 
tidar  unworthiness  or  unfitness  in  the  indi- 
viial.  as  to  the  natural  operation  of  the  cir- 
ciistances  in  which  he  is  placed  :  and  are 
sua,  in  short,  as  those  circumstances  have 
il|ays  generated  in  a  certain  degree  in  those 
ivi)  have  been  exposed  to  them.  Such  con- 
5i<^ rations,  it  appears  to  us,  when  taken  along 
rt;i  the  strong  and  irresistible  arguments  for 
miarchical  government  in  general,  are  well 
:'aulated  to  allay  that  great  impatience  and 
irgerous  resentment  with  which  nations 
inurbulent  times  are  apt  to  consider  the 
of  their  sovereigns;  and  to  unite  with 
ieady  attachment  and  entire  respect  for 
otfice.  a  v(»ry  great  degree  of  indulgence 
he  personal  defects  of  the  individual  who 
happen  to  fill  it.  Monarch?,  upon  this 
fl\r  of  things,  are  to  be  considered  as  per- 
!o|  who  are  placed,  for  the  public  good,  in 
;it[uions  where,  not  oidy  their  comfort,  but 
hf  moral  qualities,  are  liable  to  be  greatly 
nriiired  :  and  who  are  poorly  paid  in  empty 
>pindour.  and  anxious  power,  for  the  sacri- 
idof  their  affections,  and  of  the  many  en- 
raing  qualities  which  might  have  blossomed 
n  Slower  region.  If  we  look  with  indulgence 
ipji  the  roughness  of  sailors,  the  pedantry  of 
'ctolmasters.  and  the  frivolousness  of  bean- 
ie! we  should  learn  to  regard,  with  some- 
hL'  of  the  same  feelings,  the  selfishness  and 
hcunning  of  kings. 


^a|t: 


In  the  second  place,  we  pre?umo  to  think 
that  the  genem!  ailoplion  of  these  opinions  as 
to  the  personal  defects  that  are  likely  to  result 
.  from  the  posses.sion  of  sovereign  power,  may 
'be  of  use  to  the  sovereigns  lliemsclves,  lidni 
'  whom  the  knowledge  of  their  prevalence  can- 
not be  very  long  concealed.  Such  knowledge, 
it  is  evident,  will  natundl\  stimulate  tin;  bette-r 
'  sort  of  them  to  counteract  the  can.ses  which 
tend  to  their  personal  dcirradation  :  and  enable 
them  more  gt-nenilly  to  surmount  their  per- 
nicious operation,  by  such  eflorts  and  reliec- 
tions,  as  have  every  now  and  then  rescued 
some  powerful  spirits  from  their  dominion, 
under  all  the  dis;idvanlages  of  the  delusions 
with  which  they  were  surrounded. 

Finally,  if  ihe  geneial  prevalence  of  these 
sentiments  as  to  the  private  manners  and  dis- 
jx)sitions  of  sovereigns  should  have  iho  effect 
of  rendering  the  bulk  of  their  subject8  less 
prone  to  blind  admiration,  and  what  may  be 
called  personal  altadmienl  to  them,  we  rjo 
not  imagine  that  any  great  harm  will  be  done. 
The  less  the  public  knows  or  cares  about  the 
private  wishes  of  their  monarch,  and  the  more 
his  individual  will  is  actually  consubstantiated 
with  the  deliberate  sanctionsof  his  resiwnsible 
counsellors,  the  more  perfectly  will  th«;  prac- 
tice of  government  correspond  with  its  a<I- 
mitted  theory  ;  the  more  wisely  will  affairs  be 
administered  for  the  public,  and  the  more 
harmoniously  and  securely  both  for  the  sove- 
reign and  the  people.  An  adventurous  war- 
rior may  indeed  derive  signal  advantages  from 
the  personal  devotedness  and  enthusiastic  at- 
tachment of  his  followers;  but  in  the  civil 
office  of  monarchy,  as  it  exists  in  modem 
times,  the  only  safe  attachment  is  to  the  ofiice, 
and  to  the  measures  which  it  sanctions.  The 
personal  popularity  of  princes,  in  so  far  as  we 
know,  has  never  "done  any  thing  but  hann  : 
and  indeed  it  seems  abundantly  evident,  that 
whatever  is  done  merely  for  the  personal 
gratification  of  the  reigning  monarch,  that 
would  not  have  been  done  at  any  rate  on 
grounds  of  public  expediency,  must  be  an 
injury  to  the  community,  and  a  sacrifice  of 
duty  to  an  unretnrned  aflection  ;  and  whatever 
is  forborne  out  of  regard  to  his  pleasuie,  which 
the  interest  of  the  country  would  otherw  ise 
have  required,  is  in  like  manner  an  act  of  base 
and  unworthy  adulation.  We  do  not  spe;ik, 
it  will  be  understood,  of  trifles  or  things  of  little 
moment  ;  but  of  such  public  acts  of  the  gov- 
ernment as  involve  the  honour  or  the  interest 
of  the  nation. 


(5cptcmbfr,    ISOS. 


9hry  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Ciiristoi'iikr   Columbus.     By  Washington   Ikvini 
4  vols.  8vo.     Ixindbn  :  1828. 


ills,  on  the  whole,  is  an  excellent  book ;  I  ness  of  all  that  it  implies, 
we  venture  to  anticipate  that  it  will  be  an    aware  that  there  are  but 


We  are  perfectly 
few  modern  works 


iniweventur- .., ,  ,  ,      •        i_  . , 

sntiring  one.     Neither  do  we   hazard    this    that  are  likely  to  verify  it ;  and  that  it  probably 
)r.!iction  lightly,  or  without  a  fixll  conscious- 1  could  not  be  extended  with  safety  to  »o  many 


260 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


as  one  in  a  hundred  even  of  those  which  we 

Cise.  For  we  mean,  not  merely  that  the 
k  will  be  familiarly  known  and  referred 
to  some  twenty  or  thirty  years  hence,  and 
will  pass  in  solid  bindinfr  into  every  consider- 
able collection  :  but  that  it  wHl  supersede  all 
former  works  on  the  s;ime  subject,  and  never 
be  itself  superseded.  The  first  stage  of 
triumph,  indeed,  over  past  or  existing  com- 
petitors, mav  often  be  predicted  securely  of 
works  of  no  very  extraordinary  merit ;  which, 
treating  of  a  progressive  science,  merely  em- 
body, with  some  small  additions,  a  judicious 
digest  of  all  that  was  formerly  known  ;  and 
are  for  the  time  the  best  works  on  the  subject, 
merely  because  they  are  the  last.  But  the 
second  stage  of  literary  bejititude.  in  which 
an  author  not  only  eclipses  all  existing  rivals, 
but  obtains  an  immunity  from  the  eliects  of 
all  future  competition,  certainly  is  not  to  be 
so  cheaply  won;  and  can  seldom,  indeed,  be 
secured  to  any  one.  unless  the  intrinsic  merit 
of  his  production  is  assisted  by  the  concur- 
rence of  some  such  circumstances  as  we  think 
now  hold  out  the  promise  of  this  felicity  to 
the  biographer  of  Columbus. 

Though  the  event  to  which  his  work  relates 
is  one  which  can  never  sink  into  insignificance 
or  oblivion,  but,  on  the  contrary,  will  probably 
excite  more  interest  with  every  succeedaig 
generation,  till  the  very  end  of  the  world,  yet 
its  importance  lias  been  already  long  enough 
apparent  to  have  attracted  the  most  eager  at- 
tention to  every  thing  connected  v.-ith  its  de- 
tails ;  and  we  think  we  may  safely  say.  that 
all  the  documents  which  relate  to  it  have  now 
been  carefully  examined,  and  all  the  channels 
explored  through  whiclt  any  authentic  infor- 
mation was  likely  to  be  derived .  In  addition  to 
the  very  copious,  but  ramblina  and  somewhat 
garrulous  and  extravagant  accounts,  which 
were  published  soon  after  the  discovery,  antl 
and  have  since  been  methodiseii  and  arranged, 
Don  F.  M.  Navarette,  a  Spanish  gentleman 
of  great  learning,  and  industry,  and  secretary 
to  the  Royal  Academy  of  History  at  Madrid, 
has  lately  given  to  the  world  a  very  extensive 
collection  of  papers,  relating  to  the  history 
and  voyages  of  Columbus ;  a  ver}'  considerable 
portion  of  which  appears  not  to  liave  been 
known  to  any  of  those  who  had  formerly 
written  on  the  subject.  Mr.  frving's  first 
design  was  merely  to  publish  a  tianslation 
of  this  collection,  with  occasional  remarks ; 
but  having,  during  his  residence  at  Madrid, 
had  access,  by  the  kindness  of  the  Duke  of 
Vei-aguaS;  the  descendant  of  the  great  Ad- 
miral, to  the  archives  of  his  family,  and  to 
various  other  documents,  still  remaining  in 
maimscrij)!,  which  had  escaped  tlu'  research 
even  of  Navarette,  he  fortunately  turned  liis 
thoughts  to  the  compilation  of  the  more  com- 
})rehensive  and  original  work  now  before  us — 
in  which,  by  those  great  helps,  he  has  been 
enabled,  not  only  to  supply  many  defects, 
but  to''  correct  many  errors,  and  reconcile 
some  apparent  contradictions  in  the  earlier 
accounts. 

It  was  evidently  very  desirable  ifiat  such  a 
work  should  at  length  be  completed  ,  and  we 


think  it  pecuharlv  fortunate  that  the  mea 
of  ccunpleting  it  should  have  fallen  into  su ' 
liands  as  Mr.  In-ing's.  The  materials,  it  w 
obvious,  were  only  to  be  found  in  Spain,  a 
were  not  perhaps  very  likely  to  be  intrust 
without  reserve  to  a  stranger;  while  iht 
was  reason  to  fear  that  a  Spaniard  might  r 
have  courage  to  speak  of  the  errors  and  crinn^ 
of  his  countrymen  in  the  tone  which  the  tru 
of  history  might  require;  or  might  not  thi.; 
it  safe,  even  yet,  to  expose  the  impolicy,-; 
canvass  the  pretensions,  of  the  governme:'; 
By  a  happy  concurrence  of  circumstances,  j 
eleg-ant  writer,  altogether  unconnected  eith' 
with  Spain  or  her  rivals  and  enemies,  a! 
kno\\n  all  over  the  civilized  world  as  a  m' 
of  intelligence  and  principle,  of  sound  iu(|i 
ment.  and  a  calm  and  indulgent  temper,  ■'■ 
paired  to  Madrid  at  a  time  when  the  jiubli  ■ 
tion  of  Navarette  had  turned  the  public  att 
tion,  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  to 
memorable  era  of  Columbus;  and.  by 
force  of  his  literary  and  personal  charac 
obtained  the  fullest  disclosure  of  every  th ; 
that  bore  upon  his  history  that  was  ever  ma,, 
to  native  or  foreigner, — at  the  same  time  t|| 
he  had  the  means  of  discussing  persona  , 
with  the  best  informed  individuals  of  the 
tion,  all  the  points  on  which  the  written  d( 
ments  might  seem  to  leave  room  for  doub  i 
explanation. 

Of  these  rare  advantages  Mr.  Irving  « 
availed  himself,  we  think,  with  singular  ji  - 
ment  and  ability.  He  has  written  the  his'r 
of  the  greatest  event  in  the  annals  of  manki, 
with  the  fuhie-ss  and  the  feeling  it  deser\  ; 
and  has  presented  us  with  a  flowinii'  and  '  i- 
tinuous  narrative  of  the  events  he  ha^  '■ 
record,  far  more  luminous  and  comprehen 
than  any  which  previously  existed,  and 
much  less  difihse  and  discursive  than 
earlier  accounts,  from  which  it  is  mainl} 
rived :  While,  without  sacrificing  in  ;• 
I  degree  the  intense  niterest  of  personal  ad  a- 
;  ture  and  individual  sympathy,  he  hasbro  bt 
I  the  lights  of  a  more  cultivated  age  to  bes  in 
I  the  ob.scure  places  of  the  story  ;  and  toU'  xl 
I  skilfully  on  the  errors  and  prejudices  oi.w 
I  times — at  once  to  enliven  his  picture  by  W 
singularity,  and  to  instruct  us  by  their  e.vp.'a- 
,  tion  or  apology.  Above  all,  he  has  comp  )d 
I  the  whole  work  in  a  temper  that  is  be  .id 
all  praise.  It  breathes  throughout  a  ger'ae 
spirit  of  humanity:  and,  embelhshed  afis 
with  beautiful  de.scriptions  and  wond.ul 
tales,  its  principal  attraction  in  our  eyes  in- 
sists in  its  soft-hearted  sympathy  with  srif- 
ing,  its  fearless  reprobation  of  injustice  iM 
oppre.ssion,  and  the  magnanimous  cando  0' 
its  judgments,  even  on  the  delin(|U('nt. 

But  though  we  think  all  this  of  Mr.  IrA^ 
work,  we  snsjiect  it  may  not  be  altog  i'' 
unnecessary  to  caution  our  more  scnsitiviinu 
sanguine  readers  against  giving  way  to  c<'U" 
feelings  of  disappointment,  which  it  iJ'' 
impossible  they  may  encounter  at  theCj** 
of  their  task  :  and  to  which  two  or  three  )iy 
innocent  can.ses  are  likely  enough  to  e.;M* 
them.  In  the  first  place,  many  great  ii'^rf}' 
of  Mr.  Irving's  former  works  will  proW 


TRviNG-s  (oi.rMnre 


?61 


liss  he  brilliant,  highly  finished,  and  ryth- 
dcal  style,  which  attiufted  thoni  so  iniu-h  in 
lose  pertormances ;  and  may  lind  the  less 
hificial  and  elaborate  diction  of  this  history 
pmparatively  weak  and  careless.  In  this 
Jidgment,  however,  we  c<ui  by  no  means 
^^ree.  Mr.  Irving's  former  style,  thuuiih  un- 
[.lestionably  very  elegant  and  hannonions, 
[ways  struck  us  as  somewhat  loo  laboureil 
Sid  exquisite — and,  at  all  events,  but  ill  titled 
;r  an  extensive  work,  where  the  interest 
•i.rned  too  much  on  the  weiifht  of  the  matter 
i  be  safely  divided  with  the  mere  polish  of 
ie  diction,  or  the  balance  of  the  periods. — 
e  has  done  well,  therefore,  we  think,  to  dis- 
!ird  it  on  this  occasion,  for  the  more  varied, 
•ireless,  and  natnral  style,  which  distiiiiiiiishes 
1.6  volumes  before  us — a  style  not  only  without 
[■ntentious  pretension,  or  "antithetical  pretli- 
|!ss,  but  even  in  some  degree  loose  and  uu- 
[ual — flowing  easily  on.  with  something  of 
ie  fulness  and  clearness  of  Herodotus  or 
jjccaccio — sometimes  languid,  indeed,  and 
(ten  inexact,  but  furnishing,  in  its  very  fresh- 
)?ssand  variety,  the  very  best  mirror,  perhaps, 
I  which  the  romantic  adventures,  the  sweet 
I'scriptions,  or  the  soft  humanities,  with  which 
(e  author  had  to  deal,  could  have  been  dis- 
layed. 

[Another,  and  perhaps  a  more  general  source 
ij  disappointment  to  impatient  readers,  is 
jtely  to  be  found  in  the  extent  and  minute- 
*ss  of  the  prefatory  details,  with  which  Mr. 
!|nng  has  crowded  the  foreground  of  his  pic- 
je,  and  detained  us,  apparently  without 
ifcessity,  from  its  prhicipal  features.  The 
ijnealogy  and  education  of  Columbus — his 
•irly  love  of  adventure — his  long  and  vain 
|icitations  at  the  ditferent  European  courts 
■the  uitrigues  and  jealousies  by  which  he 
^jis  batfled — the  prejudices  against  which  he 
|d  to  contend,  and  the  lofty  spirit  and  doubt- 
1  logic  by  which  they  w-ere  opposed. — are 
a  given  with  a  fulness  for  which,  how  ever 
istructive  it  may  be,  the  reader,  who  knows 
ffeady  what  it  is  to  end  in,  will  be  aj)t  to  feel 
;|y  thing  but  grateful.  His  mind,  from  the 
ifry  title-page,  is  amonir  tin;  bilious  of  the 
ilantic  and  the  islands  of  the  Caribs ;  and 
n  does  not  submit  without  impatience  to  be 
ibrmed  of  all  the  energy  tfuit  was  to  be 
tprted.  and  all  the  obstacles  to  be  overcome. 
Ifore  ne  can  get  there.  It  is  only  after  we 
1  ve  perused  the  whole  work  that  we  perceive 
tj  fitness  of  these  introductory  chapters  :  and 
t"n,  when  the  whole  grand  series  of  suffer- 
i|;s  and  e.vploits  has  been  unfolded,  and  the 
t'-atness  of  the  event,  and  of  the  character 
\'th  which  it  is  inseparably  blended,  have 
l?ii  impressed  on  our  minds,  we  feel  how 
rbessary  it  was  to  tfdl.  and  how  grateful  it  is 
ticnow,  all  that  can  now  be  known  of  the 
cpses  by  which  both  were  prepared ;  and 
ijtead  of  munriuring  at  the  length  of  these 
wcious  details,  feel  nothing  but  regret  that 
t|ie  should  have  so  grievously  abridired  them, 
jrhe  last  disappointment,  for  which  ihti 
rj/ler  should  be  prepared,  will  probably  fall 
'pn  those  who  expect  much  new  information 
a)lo  the  first  great  voyage  of  discovery ;  or 


suppose  lliat  the  thicff  M'ten  Pt  o'  li.t  ..oik 
must  be  exhausted  by  its  cornpietidn.  Thai 
portion  o(  the  story  ol  Columbus  has  ulwuvB, 
irom  obvious  causis.  t>eeu  given  wiili  uiore 
amplitude  and  Jidelity  than  any  other ;  and 
Mr.  Irving,  accoriUni:ly.  has  been  able  to  add 
but  few  adititiouiil  liaits  of  any  consiilenible 
importance.  Hut  it  is  not  liiere,  we  think, 
that  the  great  niteri  st  or  the  tiue  character 
of  the  work  is  lo  be  found.  'J"lie  mere  geo- 
graphical discovery,  sublime  as  it  undoubtedly 
IS,  IS  far  less  impre.«sive,  to  our  minds,  than 
the  moral  emotions  to  which  it  opens  the 
scene.  The  whole  history  of  the  settlement 
of  Hispaniola,  and  the  suUenngs  of  its  gentle 
people — the  ilaring  progress  ot  the  great  dis- 
coverer, through  iinlieard-of  forms  of  jieril, 
and  the  overwhelming  disjisters  that  seem  at 
last  to  weigh  him  down,  constitute  the  real 
business  of  the  piece,  and  are  what  truly  bring 
out.  not  only  the  character  of  the  man.  but 
that  of  the  events  with  which  his  memory  ib 
identified.  It  is  here,  too.  that  both  the  rower 
and  the  beauty  of  the  author's  style  chiefly 
display  themselves — in  his  account  of  the 
innocence  and  gentleness  of  the  simple  races 
that  were  then  first  iiUroducetl  to  their  elder 
brethren  of  Europe,  and  his  glowing  pictures 
of  the  lovely  land,  which  ministered  to  their 
primitive  luxury — or  hi  his  many  sketches  of 
the  great  commander  himself,  now  towering 
in  paternal  majesty  in  the  midst  of  his  newly- 
found  children — now  invested  with  the  dark 
gorgeousiiess  of  deep  and  superstitious  devo- 
tion, and  burning  ihirsl  of  fame — or,  still  more 
sublime,  in  his  silent  struggles  w^ith  malevo- 
lence and  misfortune,  and  his  steadfast  reli- 
ance on  the  justice  of  posterity. 

The  work  before  us  embodies  all  these,  and 
many  other  touchhig  representations  :  ami  in 
the  vivacity  of  its  colouring,  and  the  novelty 
of  its  scene,  possesses  all  the  interests  of  a 
novel  of  invention,  with  the  startling  and 
thrilling  assurance  of  its  actual  tnith  and 
exactness — a  sentiment  which  enhances  and 
every  moment  presses  home  to  our  hearts  the 
deep  pity  and  resentment  inspired  by  the  sul- 
ferinirs  of  the  confiding  beings  it  introduces 
to  our  knowledge — mingled  witli  a  feeling  of 
something  like  envy  and  delighted  wonder,  at 
the  story  of  their  child-like  innocence,  and 
humble  api  aratus  of  enjoyment.  No  savatres 
certainly  ever  were  so  engaging  and  loveable 
as  those  savages.  Aflectionate,  .sociable,  and 
without  cunning,  suilenness,  inconstancy,  or 
any  of  the  savage  vices,  but  an  aversion  irom 
toil,  which  their  happy  climate  at  once  in- 
spired and  renderecl  innoxious,  they  seem  to 
have  pass«d  their  days  in  blisslul  ipiorance 
of  all  that  human  intellect  has  contnved  for 
human  misery  ;  and  almost  to  have  enjoyeil 
an  exemption  from  the  doom  that  followed 
man's  first  unhallowed  appetite  for  knowledye 
of  good  and  evil.  It  is  appalling  to  think  with 
what  tremendous  rapidity  the  whole  of  thew; 
ha[)py  races  were  swept  away  !  Mow  soon, 
after  the  feet  of  civilized  Christians  liad  touch- 
ed their  shores,  those  shores  were  desolate, 
or  filled  only  with  mourning!  How  soon,  how 
frightfully  soon,  the  ewamiing  myriads  ot  idle 


262 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


and  light-hearted  creatures,  who  came  troop- 
ing from  their  fragrant  woods  to  receive  them 
with  smiles  of  welcome  and  gestures  of  wor- 
ship, and  whose  songs  and  shoutings  first 
hailed  ihera  so  sweetly  over  their  fresh  and 
Buniiy  bays,  were  plunged,  by  the  hands  of 
those  fatal  visitants,  into  all  the  agonies  of 
despair! — how  soon  released  from  them  by  a 
bloody  extermination  !  It  humbles  and  al- 
most crushes  the  heart,  even  at  this  distance 
of  time,  to  think  of  such  a  catastrophe,  brought 
about  by  such  uislruments.  The  learned,  the 
educated,  the  refined,  the  champions  of  chiv- 
alry, the  messengers  of  the  gospel  of  peace, 
come  to  the  land  of  the  ignorant,  the  savage, 
the  heathen.  They  find  them  docile  in  their 
ignorance,  submissive  in  their  rudeness,  and 
grateful  and  affectionate  in  their  darkness  : — 
And  the  result  of  the  mission  is  mutual  cor- 
ruption, misery,  desolation  !  The  experience 
or  remorse  of  four  centuries  has  not  yet  been 
able  to  expiate  the  crime,  or  to  reverse  the 
spell.  Those  once  smiling  and  swarming 
shores  are  still  silent  and  mournful  ;  or  re- 
sound only  to  the  groans  of  the  slave  and  the 
lash  of  the  slave-driver — or  to  the  strange 
industry  of  another  race,  di-agged  by  a  yet 
deeper  guilt  from  a  distant  land,  and  now 
cahnly  establishing  themselves  on  the  graves 
of  their  oppressors. 

We  do  not  propose  to  give  any  thing  like 
an  abstract  of  a  story,  the  abstract  of  which 
is  already  familiar  to  every  one ;  while  the 
details,  like  most  other  details,  would  lose 
half  their  interest,  and  all  their  character,  by 
being  disjoined  from  the  narrative  on  which 
they  depend.  We  shall  content  ourselves, 
therefore,  by  running  over  .some  of  the  par- 
ticulars that  are  less  generally  known,  and 
exhibiting  a  few  specimens  of  the  author's 
manner  of  writing  and  thmking. 

Rlr.  Irving  has  settled,  we  think  satisfacto- 
rily, that  Columbus  was  born  in  Genoa,  about 
the  year  1435.  It  was  fitting  that  the  hemi- 
sphere of  republics  should  have  been  dis- 
covered by  a  republican.  His  proper  name 
was  Colombo,  though  he  is  chielly  known 
among  his  contemporaries  by  the  Spanish 
synonyme  of  Colon.  He  was  well  educated, 
but  passed  his  youth  chiefiy  at  sea,  and  had 
his  full  share  of  the  hardships  and  hazards 
incident  to  that  vocation.  From  the  travels 
of  Marco  Polo  he  seems  first  to  have  imbibed 
his  taste  for  geographical  discovery,  and  to 
have  derived  his  grand  idea  of  reaching  the 
eastern  shores  of  India  by  sailing  straight  to 
the  west.  The  spirit  of  maritime  enterprise 
was  chiefiy  fostered  ui  that  age  by  the  mag- 
nanimous patronage  of  Prince  Henry  of  Portu- 
gal, and  it  was  to  that  court,  accordingly,  that 
Columbus  first  offered  his  services  in  the  year 
1470.  We  will  not  withhold  from  our  reader? 
the  following  brief  but  graphic  sketch  of  Ins 
character  and  appearance  at  that  period  : 

"  He  wa.s  at  that  time  in  the  full  vigour  of 
mnnhooH,  and  of  an  enga<;in£r  presence.  Mitnite 
do.scriptions  are  given  of  his  person  hv  his  son 
l''ernando,  by  Las  Casas,  and  oihers  of  his  con- 
temporaries. According  to  these  accounts,  he  was 
tall,  well-formed,  muscular,  and  of  an  elevaiedand 
dignified  demeanour.     His  visage  was  long,  and 


neither  full  nor  meagre ;  his  complexion  fair  a 

j  freckled,  and  inclined  to  ruddy  ;  his  nose  aquilin 
his  cheek-bones  were  rather  high  ;  his  eyes  lig 
grey,  and  apt  to  enkindle  ;  his  whole  countenan 

,  had  an  air  of  authority.     His  hair,  in  his  youth 

j  days,  was  of  a  li^'ht  colour;  but  care  and  troub 
according  to  Las  Casas,  soon  turned  it  grey,  and 

j  thirty  years  ol  age  it  was  quite  white.  He  w 
moderate  and  simple  in  diet  and  apparel,  eloque 
in  discourse,  engaging  and  affable  with  strange 
ai\d  of  an  amiableness  and  suavity  in  domestic  i\ 
that  strongly  attached  his  household  to  his  persf 
His  temper  was  naturally  irritable  ;  but  he  subduw 
by  the  magnanimity  of  his  spirit ;  comporting  bi 
self  with  a  courteous  and  gentle  gravity,  and  never  i 
diilging  iti  any  intemperance  ot  language.  Throuf 
out  his  liie  he  was  noted  for  a  strict  attention  to  t| 
(iffires  of  religion,  observing  rigorously  the  ft! 
and  ceremonies  of  the  church;  nor  did  his  pi 
consist  in  mere  forms,  but  partook  of  that  lofty  i 
solemn  enthusiasm  with  which  his  whole  charao 
was  strongly  tinctured." 

For  eighteen  long  years  did  the  proud  a 
ardent  spirit  of  Columbns  urge  his  heroic  c 
at  the  courts  of  most  of  the  European  m 
archs;  and  it  was  not  till  after  encounter 
in  every  form  the  discouragements  of  with 
ing  poverty,  insulthig  neglect,  and  taunt 
ridicule,  that,  in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  he  at  1 
prevailed  with  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  tos  ■ 
ply  him  with  three  little  ships,  to  achieve  ■ 
them  the  dominion  of  a  world  !  Mr.  Irv.; 
very  strikingly  remarks, 

"After  the  great  difficulties  made  by  varji 
courts  in  furtiishing  this  expedition,  it  is  surprUji 
how  inconsiderable  an  armament  svas  required.  ( 
is  evident  that  Columbus  had  reduced  his  re,'- 
silions  to  the  narrowest  limits,  lest  any  great:- 
pense  should  cause  impediment.  Three  small  .;• 
sels  were  apparently  all  that  he  had  requested.  'U 
of  them  were  light  barques,  called  caravals, -i 
superior  to  river  and  coasting  craft  of  more  mot « 
days.  Representations  of  this  class  of  vessels  i,< 
in  old  prints  and  paintings,  'i'hey  are  delineate,! 
open,  and  without  deck  in  the  centre,  but  buil'p 
hiiih  at  the  prow  and  stern,  with  forecastles  d 
cabins  for  the  accoinmodation  of  the  crew.  Yt 
Martyr,  the  learned  contemporary  of  Columl^ 
says  that  only  one  of  the  three  vessels  was  dec! 
'I'he  smallness  of  the  vessels  was  considere<  ■ 
advaotage  by  Columbus,  in  a  voyage  of  discof 'i 
enabling  him  to  run  close  to  the  shores,  and  to«  if 
shallow  rivers  and  harbours.  In  his  third  voy  i| 
when  coasting  the  gulf  of  Paria,  he  complsinel 
the  size  of  his  ship,  being  nearly  a  hundred  i* 
burden.  But  that  such  long  and  perilous  ex|  !• 
tions  into  unknown  seas,  should  be  undrrtak.  .u 
vessels  without  decks,  and  that  they  should  't 
through  the  violent  tempests  by  which  they  •« 
frequently  assailed,  remain  among  the  sinj.tf 
circumstances  of  these  daring  voyages." 

It  was  on  Friday,  the  3d  of  August,  12, 
that  the  bold  adventurer  sailed  forth,  will  le 
earliest  dawn,  from  the  little  port  of  P  ? 
on  his  magnificent  expedition  ;  and  imn  '■ 
ately  began  a  regular  journal,  address*'  lo 
the  sovereigns,  from  the  exo-rdivm  of  wl  li- 
as lately  printed  by  Navarette,  we  recei'a 
strong  impression  both  of  the  gravity  "• 
dignity  of  his  character,  and  of  the  im  "t- 
ance  he  attached  to  his  undertaking.  .J^ 
subjoin  a  short  specimen. 

"  Therefore  your  highnesses,  as  Ca:hoIic  (  »• 
tians  and  princes,  lovers  and  promoters  of  ilif 'V 
Christian  faiih,  snd  enemies  of  the  sect  of,l«* 
hornet,  and  of  all  idol.itiies  and  heiei^ies.  <  *r- 
mined  to  send  me,  Christopher  Columbus,  i  M 


reVING-S  COLUMBUS. 


id  pnrts  of  India,  to  see  the  said  princes,  and  the 
opie,  ami  lands,  and  discover  tlie  nature  and 
fsposiiion  ot  liiein  all,  and  the  means  to  be  taken 
r  llie  conversion  ot  them  to  our  iioly  faiiii  ;  and 
(iered  iliai  1  sliould  not  go  by  land  to  the  East, 
hiuli  11  is  the  cusioin  go,  but  by  a  voyai^e  to 
3  Wesi,  by  which  course,  unto  the  present  time, 
do  iioi  knoNV  for  certain  thai  any  one  hath 
ssed;  and  for  this  purpose  bestowed  great  favours 
on  me,  ennobling  nie,  that  tlieiicelbrward  1  might 
>le  inysi  II  Don,  appointing  ine  high  admiral  of 
Ocean  Sea,  and  perpetual  viceroy  and  governor 
i  all  the  islands  and  continents  I  should  discover 
iid  gain,  and  which  henceforward  may  be  dis- 
cfvered  and  gained,  in  the  Ocean  Sea;  and  that 
i'  eldest  son  should  succeed  me,  and  so  on,  from 
jncration  to  generation,  for  ever.  I  departed, 
prefore,  from  the  city  of  Granada  on  yaturday 
ife  12ih  of  May,  of  the  same  year,  1-492,  to  Falos, 
isea-pori,  where  I  armed  three  ships  well  calcu- 
fied  for  such  service,  and  sailed  from  that  port 
■?11  furnished  with  provisions,  and  with  many 
iitnen,  on  Friday  the  3d  of  August  of  the  same 
;'ar,  half  an  hour  before  sunrise,  and  took  thf 
rite  for  the  Canary  Islands  of  your  highnesses,  to 
iter  my  course  thence,  and  navigate  until  1  should 
^ive  at  the  Indies,  and  deliver  the  embassy  of 
jxiT  highnesses  to  those  princes,  and  accomplish 
i^it  which  you  had  comiiianded.  For  this  purpose. 
Intend  to  write  during  this  voyage  very  punctu- 
:v,  from  day  to  day.  all  that  I  may  do,  and  sec, 
;H  experience,  as  will  iiereafter  be  seen.  Also, 
A-  iovereign  princes,  besides  describing  each  night 
d  hit  has  occurred  in  the  day,  and  in  the  day  the 
i\  gallon  of  the  night,  I  propose  to  make  a  chart, 
11  which  I  will  set  down  the  waters  and  lands  ot  the 
wean  Sea,  in  their  proper  situations,  under  ilieir 
rarings;  and,  fiirther  to  compose  a  book,  and  il- 
ititrate  the  whole  in  picture  by  latitude  from  the 
(juinociial.  and  longitude  from  the  West  ;  and  upon 
If  whole  it  will  be  essential  that  I  should  lorget 
fjep,  and  attend  closely  to  the  navigatit)n,  to  acconi- 
{sh  these  things,  which  will  be  a  great  labour." 

[As  a  guide  by  which  to  sail,  Mr.  Irving  also 
imrms  u.s.  he  had  prepared  "a  map,  or  chart, 
i  proved  upon  that  sent  him  by  Paolo  Tos- 
(jnelli.  Neither  of  these  now  exist ;  but  the 
<l)be,  or  planisphere,  finished  by  Martin 
Ihem  in  this  year  of  the  admiral's  first 
age,  is  still  extant,  and  furnishes  an  idea 
(i^what  the  chart  of  Columbus  must  have 
bits  the  coasts  of  Europe  and 
south  of  Ireland  to  the  end 
pposite  to  them,  on  the  other 
of  the  Atlantic,  the  extremity  of  Asia, 
c|  as  it  was  termed,  India.  Between  them  is 
ced  the  island  of  Cii)an2:o,  (or  Japan,) 
lich.  according  to  Marco  Polo,  lay  fifteen 
iidred  miles  dTstant  from  the  Asiatic  coast, 
llhis  computations  Columbus  advanced  this  I 
'  ind  about  a  thousand  leagues  too  much  to 
'  east;  supposing  it  to  lie  in  the  situation 
Florida,  and  at  this  island  he  hoped  first  to 
ive." 

We  pass  over  the  known  incidents  of  this 
brated  vovage,  which  are  here  repeated 
Mh  new  interest  and  additional  detail ;  but 
^•  cannot  refrain  from  extracting  Mr.  living's 
ouiitof  its  fortunate  conclusion.  The  giow- 
panic  and  discoiilenl  of  his  mutinous  crew,  ' 
f^.i  their  resolution  to  turn  back  if  land  was  ' 
discovered  in  three  days,  are  well  known.  ! 

And  when  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  ihey  i 

held  the  sun  go  down  upon  a  shoreless  horizon,  | 

y  broke  lor;h  imo  clamorous  turbulence.     For-  i 

alely,  however,  the  manifestations  of  neighbour-  | 


(fwhat  the  char 
hn.  It  exhibit! 
irica,  from  the  ; 
(iGuinea ;  and  or 


ing  land  were  such  on  iho  followjnjj  day  nn  no 
longer  to  admit  a  doubt,  nesiden  a  nuaniiiy  of 
fresh  weeds,  such  as  grow  in  rivers,  they  saw  a 
green  fish  of  a  kind  which  keeps  about  rocks;  then 
n  brancii  of  thorn,  with  berrie.H  on  it,  and  recently 
SI  p.iraled  Ironi  the  tree,  lluaicd  by  them  ;  then  they 
pii-ked  u|i  a  reed,  u  small  board,  and,  above  all,  a 
staff  artilicially  carved.  All  gloom  and  niuiiny  now 
gave  WHv  to  siingiiine  expectation  ;  and  throughout 
the  day  each  one  was  eagerly  on  the  walcli,  in 
hopes  of  being  the  first  to  discover  the  longsoughl- 
for  land. 

"  III  the  evening,  when,  according  to  invariable 
custom  on  board  of  the  admiral's  ship,  thr  m<irintr$ 
had  siitif:  the  salve  regina,  or  vrtvrr  hifmn  to  the 
I'ir/rln.  he  made  an  impressive  adrtress  to  his  crew. 
He  pointed  out  the  noodness  of  (Jod  in  thus  con- 
ducting them  by  such,  soft  and  favouring  breezes 
across  a  traixjuil  ocean,  cheering  their  hopes  eon- 
linually  with  tresli  sinns,  increasing  as  their  feari 
augmented,  and  thus  leading  and  guiding  them  to  a 
promised  land. 

"  The  breeze  had  been  fresh  all  day,  with  more 
sea  than  usual,  and  they  had  made  great  progress. 
\i  sunset  tlit'y  had  stood  agtim  to  the  west,  and 
were  ploughing  the  waves  at  a  ra|)id  rale,  the  Pinla 
keeping  ihe  lead,  from  her  superior  sailing.  The 
greatest  animation  prevailed  throughout  the  ships ; 
not  an  eye  was  closed  ihat  night.  As  the  evening 
darkehed,  Columbus  took  his  station  on  tlio  top  of 
the  casile  or  cabin  on  the  high  poop  of  his  vessel. 
Itowever  he  might  carry  a  cheerful  and  confident 
countenance  during  the  (lay,  it  was  to  him  a  time  of 
thn  most  painful  anxiety;  and  now  when  he  was 
wrapped  from  observation  by  the  shades  of  night, 
he  maintained  an  intense  and  unremitting  watch, 
ratigiiig  his  eve  along  the  dusky  horizon,  in  search 
of  the  most  vague  indications  of  land.  Suddenly, 
about  ten  o'clock,  he  thought  he  beheld  a  light 
glininiering  at  a  distance  I  Feariii"  that  his  etiger 
hiipes  iniirht  deceive  him,  he  called  to  Pedro  Gu- 
tierrez, gentleman  of  the  king's  bed-cbaniber,  and 
iiKiiiiredvvheiher  he  saw  a  light  in  that  direction; 
I  he  l.iiicr  replied  in  the  affirmative.  Columbus,  yet 
doubtful  whether  it  might  not  be  some  delusion  of 
the  fancy,  called  Rodrlgo  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  and 
made  the  same  inquiry.  By  tlie  time  the  latter  had 
ascended  the  round- house,  the  light  had  di.-iap- 
peart^d.  They  saw  it  once  or  twice  afterwards  m 
sudden  and  passing  gleams ;  as  it  were  a  torch  in 
the  bark  of  a  fii^herman,  ri.-iing  and  sinking  with  the 
waves :  or  in  the  hantl  of  some  person  on  shore, 
borne  up  and  down  as  he  walked  from  house  to 
hou.se.  ."^o  transient  and  uncertain  were  these 
t;lea/ns.  that  few  attached  any  importance  to  them; 
Columbus,  however,  considered  them  as  certain 
signs  of  land,  and  moreover,  that  the  land  was  in- 
habi'cd. 

"They  continued  their  course  until  two  in  the 
morning,  when  a  gun  from  the  Pinta  gave  the  joy- 
ful signal  of  land.  It  was  first  discovered  by  a 
mariner  named  Rodrigo  de  Triana  ;  but  the  reward 
was  afterwards  adjudged  to  the  admiral,  for  having 
previously  perceived  the  light.  'I'he  land  was  now 
clearly  seen  about  two  leagues  distant  ;  whereupon 
they  look  in  sail  and  lay-to,  waiting  impatiently  for 
the  dawn. 

"  The  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Columbus  in  this 
little  space  of  iime  must  have  been  tumultuous  and 
intense.  At  length,  in  spite  of  every  dithculty  and 
danger,  he  had  accomplished  his  object.  The  great 
mys'i-ry  of  the  ocean  was  reveahd  ;  his  theory, 
wliii-h  had  been  the  scoff  of  sages,  was  triumphant- 
ly established  ;  he  had  secured  to  himself  a  glory 
which  must  be  ae  durable  as  the  world  itself 

"  It  is  (Idrieult  even  for  the  iniiigiiiation  to  con- 
ceive the  feelings  of  such  a  man  at  the  moment  of 
so  suliliiiie  a  discovery.  What  a  bewilderiiig  crowd 
of  eonjeciurea  must  have  thronged  upon  his  miiid, 
as  to  the  land  which  lay  before  him.  c.iv.rc-d  with 
darkness.  That  it  was  fruitful  was  evid.-ni,  from 
the  vegetables  whieh  flouted  from  iis  hliori-.n.  He 
thought,  loo,  that  he  perceived  in  the  balmy  air  the 


264 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


fragrance  of  aromatic  groves.  The  moving  light 
which  he  had  beheld,  had  proved  that  it  was  the 
residence  of  man.  But  what  were  its  inhabitants? 
Were  they  like  those  of  the  other  parts  of  the  globe  ; 
or  were  ihey  some  strange  and  monstrous  race, 
such  as  the  imagination  in  those  times  was  prone  to 
give  to  all  remote  and  unknown  regions?  Had  he 
come  upon  some  wild  island  far  in  the  Indian  Sea; 
or  was  this  the  famed  Cipango  itself,  the  abject  of 
his  golden  fancies  ?  A  thousand  speculations  of  the 
kind  must  have  swarmed  upon  him,  as,  with  his 
anxious  crews,  he  waited  for  the  night  to  pass 
away  :  wondering  whether  the  morning  light  would 
reveal  a  savage  wilderness,  or  dawn  upon  spicy 
groves,  and  glittering  fanes,  and  gilded  cities,  and 
all  the  splendour  of  oriental  civilization. 

The  land  to  which  he  was  thus  triumph- 
antly borne  was  the  island  of  San  Salvador, 
since  called  Cat  Island,  by  the  English;  and 
at  early  dawn  he  landed  with  a  great  com- 
pany, splendidly  armed  and  attired,  and  bear- 
ing in  his  hand  the  royal  standard  of  Castile. 

"  As  they  approached  the  shores,  they  were  re- 
freshed by  the  sight  of  the  ample  forests,  which  in 
those  climes  have  extraordinary  beauty  and  vegeta- 
tion. They  beheld  fruits  of  teinpting  hue,  but  un- 
known kind,  growing  among  the  trees  which 
overhung  the  shores.  The  purity  and  suavity  of 
the  atmosphere,  the  crystal  transparency  of  the  seas 
which  bathe  these  islands,  give  them  a  wonderful 
beauty,  and  must  have  had  their  efl'ect  upon  the 
susceptible  feelings  of  Columbus.  No  sooner  did 
he  land,  than  he  threw  himself  upon  his  knees, 
kissed  the  earth,  and  returned  thanks  to  God  with 
tears  of  joy.  His  example  was  followed  by  the 
rest,  whose  hearts  indeed  overflowed  with  the  same 
feeUngs  of  gratitude." 

"  The  natives  of  the  island,  when,  at  the  dawn 
of  day,  they  had  beheld  the  ships,  with  their  sails 
set,  hovering  on  their  coast,  had  supposed  them 
some  monsters  which  had  issued  Irom  the  deep  dur- 
ing the  night.  They  had  crowded  to  the  beach, 
and  watched  their  movements  wiili  awful  anxiety. 
Their  veering  about,  apparently  without  effort ;  the 
shifting  and  furling  of  their  sails,  resembling  huge 
wings,  filled  them  wiih  astonishment.  When  they 
beheld  their  boats  approach  the  shore,  and  a  num- 
ber of  strange  beings,  clad  in  glittering  steel,  or 
raiment  of  various  colours,  landing  upon  the  beach, 
they  fled  in  affright  to  their  woods.  Finding,  how- 
ever, that  there  was  no  attempt  to  pursue  nor 
molest  them,  they  gradually  recovered  from  thfir 
terror,  and  approached  ihe  Spaniards  with  great 
awe;  frequently  prostrating  themselves  on  the 
earth,  and  making  signs  of  adoration.  During  the 
ceremonies  of  taking  possession,  they  remained 
gazing  in  timid  admiration  at  the  complexion,  the 
beards,  the  shining  armour,  and  splendid  dress  of 
the  Spaniards.  The  admiral  particularly  attracted 
their  attention,  from  his  commanding  heititht,  his 
air  of  authority,  his  dress  of  scarlet,  and  the  defer- 
once  which  was  paid  him  by  his  companions;  all 
which  pointed  him  out  to  be  the  commander.  When 
they  had  still  further  recovered  from  their  fears, 
thev  approached  the  Spaniards,  touched  iheir  beards, 
and  examined  their  hands  and  faces,  admiring  their 
whiteness.  Columbus,  pleased  with  their  sim- 
plicity, their  gentleness,  and  the  confidence  they 
reposed  in  beings  who  must  have  appeared  to  them 
so  strange  and  formidaMe,  suffered  their  scrutiny 
with  perfect  actiuieacence.  The  wondering  savages 
were  won  by  this  benignity  ;  they  now  supposed 
that  the  ships  had  sailed  out  of  the  crystal  firma- 
ment which  bounded  their  horizon,  or  that  they  had 
descended  from  above  on  their  ample  wings,  and 
that  these  marvellous  beings  were  inhabitants  of  the 
skies." 

Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  the  journal 
of  the  great  discovereij  than  his  extraordinary 


sensibility  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery,  -.i 
the  charms  of  the  climate,  of  this  new  woi  • 
and  on  his  arrival  at  Cuba,  these  raptures  ;  ■, 
if  possible,  redoubled. 

"As  he  approached  this  noble  island,  he  s 
struck  with  its  magnitude,  and  the  grandeur  oi  g 
features  ;  its  high  and  airy  niountams,  which  . 
minded  him  of  those  of  Sicily  ;  its  lertile  valleys,  i 
long  sweeping  plains,  watered  by  noble  rivers  ;s 
stately  forests  ;  its  bold  proinoniories,  and  stre  . 
headlands,  which  melted  away  into  the  remo  t 
distance.  He  anchored  in  a  beautiful  river,  ig 
rom  rocks  or  shoals,  of  transparent  water,  its  bat 
overhung  with  trees.  Here,  landing,  and  tal| 
possession  of  the  island,  he  gave  it  the  nameif 
Juana,  in  honour  of  Prince  Juan,  and  to  the  rlr 
the  name  of  San  Salvador.  • 

'■  Returning  to  his  boat,  he  proceeded  for  e>t 
distance  up  the  river,  more  and  more  enchaid 
with  the  beauty  of  the  country.  The  forests  w  h 
covered  each  bank  were  of  high  and  wide-spres' ; 
trees;  some  bearing  fruits,  others  flowers,  whil 
some  both  fruits  and  flowers  were  mingled, 
speaking  a  perpetual  round  of  fertility  :  among  t  u 
were  many  palms,  but  differing  from  those  of  S  :i 
and  Africa ;  with  the  great  leaves  of  these  the  ,- 
lives  thatched  their  cabins. 

'■  The  continual  eulogies  made  by  Columbu  n 
the  beauty  of  the  scenery  were  warranted  b\  e 
kind  of  scenery  he  was  behulding.  There  a 
wonderful  splendour,  variety,  and  luxuriance  ii  > 
vegetation  of  those  quick  and  ardent  climates, 
verdure  of  the  groves,  and  the  colours  of  the  flo  • 
and  blossoms,  derive  a  vividness  to  the  eye  fron  k 
transparent  purity  of  the  air,  and  the  deep  sen  y 
of  the  azure  heavens.  The  forests,  too,  are  fu  >i 
life,  swarming  wiih  birds  of  brilliant  plun^e. 
Painted  varieties  of  parrots,  and  wood-pecl'g, 
create  a  glitter  amidst  the  verdure  of  the  grove  lid 
humming-birds  rove  from  flower  to  flower,  ren- 
bling,  as  has  well  been  said,  animated  panicles;* 
rainbow,  'i'he  scarlet  flamingos,  too,  seen  8i.B» 
times  through  an  opening  oi' a  forest  in  a  dint 
savannah,  have  the  appearance  of  soldiers  drawjip 
in  battalion,  with  an  advanced  scout  on  the  alelto 
give  notice  of  approachins;  danger.  Nor  is  the  <8l 
beautiful  part  of  animated  nature  the  various  in 
of  insects  that  people  every  plant,  displaying  'il- 
liant  coats  of  mail,  which  sparkle  to  the  eye'te 
precious  gems. 

"  From  his  continual  remarks  on  the  beau  ■ 
the  scenery,  and  irom  the  pleasure  which  he  . 
dently  derived  from  rural  sounds  and  object  M 
apfiears  to  have  been  extremely  open  to  those  Ii- 
cious  influences,  exercised  over  some  spirits  b  :Im 
graces  and  wonders  of  nature.  He  gives  iitieijc* 
to  these  fi-elings  with  characteristic  entliu.''ia8m  nd 
at  the  same  lime  with  the  artlessness  and  simp  ly 
of  diction  of  a  child.  When  speaking  of  some  1' Ijr 
scene  among  the  groves,  or  along  the  flowery  sle, 
of  this  favoured  island,  he  says,  '  one  could,v« 
there  for  ever.' — Cuba  broke  upon  him  like  at  jr* 
siuin.  '  It  is  tHe  most  beautiful  island,'  he  'i, 
'  that  eyes  ever  beheld,  full  oi  excellent  port:  no 
profound  rivers.'  The  climate  was  more  tetriFi" 
here  than  in  the  other  islands,  the  nights  [ng 
neither  hot  nor  cold,  while  the  birds  and  gras  tp- 
pers  sang  all  night  long.  Indeed  there  isabujf 
in  a  tropical  iiiyht,  in  the  dcpih  ot  the  darkm 
sky,  the  lambient  purity  of  ihe  siars,  and  ih/e* 
splendent  clearness  of  the  moon,  that  spreads  'el 
the  rich  landscape  and  the  balmy  groves  a  ci'* 
more  touching  than  the  splendour  of  the  day.   i 

"  In  the  sweet  smell  of  the  woods,  and  the  ''itt 
of  the  flowers,  which  loaded  every  breeze,  C(  (it- 
bus  fancied  he  perceived  ihe  iiagrance  of  or ;«! 
spices;  and  along  the  shores  he  iound  shells  (M 
kind  of  oyster  which  produces  pearls.  Frof  M 
grass  growing  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  1  ">• 
terred  the  peacefulness  of  the  ocean  which  b  ie« 
these  islands,  never  lashing  the  shore  with  i  i'lf 


IRVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


26S 


irges.  Ever  since  his  arrival  among  these  An- 
tes, he  had  experienced  notliiiifj  but  solt  nnd 
j,ntle  weather,  and  he  concluded  that  a  perpetual 
•  eiiiiy  reiyncd  over  these  happy  seas.  He  was 
lie  suspicions  of  the  occasional  bursts  of  fury  to 
\iich  they  are  liable." 

Hispaniola  was  still  more  enchanting. 

i' In  the  transparent  atmosphere  of  the  tropics, 
elects  are  descried  at  a  gre.it  distance,  and  the 
j)-iiy  of  the  air  and  serenity  of  the  deep  blue  sky 
ge  a  magical  efiect  to  the  scenery.  Under  tiiese. 
aaintages,  the  beautiful  island  of  Ilayii  revealed 
iflf  to  the  eye  as  tiicy  appruached.  It's  mountains 
v|re  higher  and  more  rocky  than  those  of  the  oilier 
i:-.nds ;  but  tiie  rocks  reared  themselves  from 
iiong  rich  Ibrests.  The  mountains  swept  down 
ii)  luxuriant  plains  and  green  savannahs;  while 
t  appearance  of  cultivated  fields,  with  the  numer- 
oi'  tires  at  night,  and  the  columns  of  smoke  which 
rie  in  various  parts  by  day,  all  showed  it  to  be 
pntlous.  It  rose  before  them  in  all  the  splendour 
11  tropical  vegetation,  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
hiuis  in  the  world,  and  doomed  to  be  one  of  the 
list  unfortunate." 

jrhe  first  interview  with  the  friendly  cacique 
Cacanagari,  as  well  as  his  generous  atteii- 
tis  on  the  wreck  of  one  of  their  vessels,  are 
(ikribed  with  great  beauty.  But  we  can 
oy  find  room  for  the  concluding  part  of  it. 

j  The  extreme  kindness  of  ihe  cacique,  the  gen- 
tliess  of  his  people,  the  quantities  of  gold  which 
ue  daily  brought  to  be  exchanged  for  the  veriest 
Ites,  and  the  information  coniinually  received  of 
B(rces  of  wealth  in  the  bosom  of  this  beautiful 
isiid,  all  contributed  to  console  the  admiral  ti^r  the 
n  firtune  he  had  suffered. 

The  shipwrecked  crew  also,  living  on  shore, 
a(  mingling  freely  with  the  natives,  became  fas- 
nliied  with  their  easy  and  idle  mode  of  life.  Ex- 
c'ned  by  their  simplicity  from  the  painful  cares 
ai'  toils  which  civilized  man  inflicts  upon  himself 
li'iis  many  artificial  wants,  the  existence  of  these 
isliders  seemed  to  the  Spaniards  like  a  pleasant 
d:jm).  They  disquieted  themselves  aiiout  nothing. 
A[iw  fields,  cultivated  almost  without  labour,  fur- 
ni[ed  the  roots  and  vegetables  which  formed  a 
Cttt  part  of  their  diet.  Their  rivers  and  coasts 
a'unded  with  fish;  their  trees  were  laden  with 
If'S  of  golden  or  blushing  hue,  and  heightened 
bi  tropical  sun  to  delicious  flavour  and  fragrance. 
Sjened  by  the  indulgence  of  nature,  a  great  part 
ol|lieir  day  was  passed  in  indolent  repose — in  that 
hfiry  of  sensation  inspired  by  a  serene  sky  and  a 
vc'.piuous  climate  ;  and  in  the  evenings  they  danced 
in'ieir  fragrant  groves,  to  their  national  songs,  or 
thjrude  sounds  of  their  sylvan  drums. 

.'^uch  was  the  indolent  and  holiday  life  of  these 
ihAe  people  ;  which,  if  it  had  not  the  great  scope 
of  ijoyment,  nor  the  high-seasoned  poignancy  of 
pi  sure,  which  attend  civilization,  was  certainly 
dciiuteof  most  of  its  artificial  miseries." 

was  from  this  scene  of  enchantment  and 
pinise,  unclouded  as  yet  by  any  shadow  of 
arnosity  or  distrust,  that  Columbus,  without 
or  drop  of  blood  on  his  hands,  or  one  stain  of 
crj'lty  or  oppression  on  his  conscience,  set 
sajon  his  return  to  Europe,  with  the  proud 
liings  of  his  discovery.  In  the  early  y.ni  of 
Kij/oyage  he  fell  in  with  the  Carribee  Islands, 
ari  had  .some  striking  encounters  with  the 
brjTe  but  ferocious  tribes  who  possessed 
thjn.  The  distresses  which  beset  him  on  his 
hae  passage  are  well  known ;  but  we  wil- 
lir  ly  pass  these  over,  to  treat  our  readers  with 
M  Irving's  splendid  description  of  his  mag- 
niient  reception  by  the  court  at  Barcelona. 
34 


"  It  was  about  the  middle  of  .\pril  that  rolunibus 
arrived  at  Barcelona,  where  cviry  pnpiiraimii  hn<J 
been  made  to  give  him  a  Holciiin  nnd  niajjnilicent 
reception.  The  beauty  and  serenity  of  ihc  weather 
in  that  penial  season  and  lavnun-d  t  lunate,  contrib- 
uted lo  pive  splendour  lo  tliis  memorable  rere- 
mony.  As  he  drew  near  ilie  place,  many  of  the 
more  youthful  courtiers,  and  hidaljtos  of  gallant 
bearing,  together  with  a  rnsi  concourse  of  the  popn- 
lace,  came  forth  to  meet  and  welcDine  him.  Hi« 
entrance  into  this  not)lc  city  has  licen  compared  to 
one  of  those  triumphs  which  the  Romans  were  ac 
customed  to  tiecrce  to  conqueri>rs.  First,  were 
paraded  the  Indians,  painted  according  lo  their  snv- 
ai:e  I'ashion,  and  d»'corated  with  their  national  orna- 
tiients  of  gold.  After  these  were  fxtrne  various 
kinds  of  live  parrots,  together  wiili  sniffed  birds  and 
animals  of  unknown  species  and  rare  plants,  sup- 
posed to  be  of  precious  qualities  ;  wfiile  great  rare 
was  taken  to  make  a  conspicuous  display  of  Indian 
coronets,  bracelets,  and  other  decorations  of  gold, 
which  might  give  an  idea  of  ihe  wealth  of  the  newly- 
discovered  regions.  After  this,  followed  Colunihus 
on  horseback,  surrounded  by  a  brilliant  cavalcade 
of  Spanish  chivalry.  The  streets  were  almost  im- 
passable from  the  countless  multitude  ;  the  win- 
dows and  balconies  were  crowded  with  the  fair  ;  the 
very  roofs  were  covered  with  spectators.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  public  eye  couhl  not  be  sated  with  gazing 
on  these  trophies  of  an  unknown  world  :  or  on  the 
remarkable  man  by  whom  it  had  been  discovered. 
There  was  a  sublimity  in  this  event  that  mingled  a 
solemn  feeling  with  the  public  joy.  It  was  looked 
upon  as  a  vast  and  signal  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence, in  reward  for  the  piety  of  the  monarchs  ;  and 
the  majestic  and  venerable  appearance  of  the  dis 
covercr,  so  different  from  the  youih  and  buoyancy 
that  are  generally  expected  from  roving  enterprise, 
seemed  in  harmony  with  the  grandeur  and  dignity 
of  his  achievement- 

"  To  receive  him  with  suitable  pomp  and  dis- 
tinction, the  sovereigns  had  ordered  their  throne  to 
be  placed  in  public,  under  a  rich  canopy  of  brocade 
of  gold,  in  a  vast  and  splendid  saloon.  Mere  the 
king  and  queen  awaited  his  arrival,  seated  in  state, 
with  the  prince  Juan  beside  them,  and  attended  by 
the  dignitaries  of  iheir  court,  and  the  principal  no- 
bility of  Castile,  Valeniia,  Catalonia,  and  Arragon, 
all  impatient  to  behold  the  man  who  had  conlerred 
so  incalculable  a  benefit  upon  the  nation.  At  lencih 
Columbus  entered  the  hall,  surrounded  by  a  bril- 
liant crowd  of  cavaliers,  among  whom,  says  Las 
Ca^as,  he  was  conspicuous  for  his  stately  aud  com- 
manding person,  which,  with  his  countenance, 
rendered  venerable  by  his  grey  hairs,  gave  him  the 
august  appearance  of  a  senator  of  Rome  ;  a  modest 
smile  lighted  up  his  features,  showing  that  he  en- 
joyed the  state  and  glory  in  which  he  came  ;  and 
certainly  nothing  could  be  more  deeply  moving  to 
a  mind  inflamed  by  noble  ambition,  and  conscious 
of  having  greatly  aeserved,  than  these  testimonials 
of  the  aamiralion  and  gratitude  of  a  nation,  or  rather 
of  a  world.  As  Columbus  approached,  the  sover- 
eigns rose,  as  if  receiving  a  person  of  the  highest 
rank.  Bending  his  knees,  he  requested  to  kiss 
their  hands;  but  there  was  some  hesitation  on  the 
part  of  their  majesties  to  permit  this  act  of  vassal- 
age. Raising  him  in  the  most  gracious  manner, 
they  ordered  him  to  seat  himself  in  their  presence  ; 
a  rare  honour  in  this  proud  and  punctilious  court." 

In  his  second  voyage  he  falls  in  again  with 
the  Caribs,  of  whost?  courai:e  and  c^iiinilal 
l)ropf[isiti{'s  he  had  now  sufficient  assurance. 
Mr.  Irvingri  remarks  uj)on  this  energetic  but 
untameable  race  are  striking,  and  we  think 
original. 

"  The  warlike  and  unyielding  character  of  thc»e 
people,  so  different  from  that  of  the  pusillanimouB 
nations  around  them,  and  the  wide  scope  of  their 
enterprises   and   wanderings,    like    those    of  the 


266 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


Nomade  tribes  of  the  Old  World,  entitle  tliem  to  dis- 
tinguished aitention.  They  were  trained  to  war 
Irom  their  iiifancy.  As  soon  as  ihey  could  walk, 
their  intrepid  rnoihers  put  in  their  hands  the  bow 
and  arrow,  and  prepared  them  to  lake  an  early  part 
ill  the  hardy  enterprises  ot"  their  fathers.  Their 
distant  roainings  by  sea  made  iheni  observant  and 
intelligent.  Tlie  natives  of  the  other  islands  only 
knew  how  to  divide  time  by  day  and  night,  by  the 
sun  and  moon  ;  wiiereas  these  had  acquired  some 
knowledge  of  the  stars,  by  which  to  calculate  the 
times  and  seasons. 

"  The  traditional  accounts  of  their  origin,  though 
of  course  extremely  vague,  are  yet  capable  of  being 
verified  to  a  great  degree  by  geographical  (acts,  and 
open  one  ol  the  rich  veins  of  curious  inquiry  and 
speculation  which  aliound  in  the  New  World.  They 
are  said  to  have  migrated  from  the  remote  valleys 
embosomed  in  the  Apalachian  mountains.  The 
earliest  accounts  we  have  of  them  represent  them 
with  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  continually  en- 
gaged in  war--,  winning  their  way  and  shifting  their 
abode,  until,  in  the  course  of  time,  they  found  them- 
selves at  the  e.xtremity  of  Florida.  Here,  abandon- 
ing the  northern  continent,  they  passed  over  to  the 
Lucayos,  and  from  thence  gradually,  in  the  pro- 
cess of  years,  from  island  to  island  oi  that  vast  and 
verdant  chain,  which  links,  as  it  were,  the  end  of 
Florida  to  the  coast  of  Paria,  on  the  southern  con- 
tiiient.  The  Archipelago,  extending  trom  Porto 
Rico  to  Tobairo,  was  their  strong  hold,  and  the 
island  of  Guadaloupe  in  a  manner  their  citadel. 
Hence  they  made  their  expeditions,  and  spread  the 
terror  of  their  name  through  all  the  surrounding 
countries.  Swarms  of  them  landed  upon  the  south- 
ern continent,  and  overran  some  parts  of  Terra 
Firma.  ^I'races  of  ihem  have  been  discovered  far 
in  the  interior  of  the  country  througii  which  flows 
the  Oroonoko.  The  Dutch'found  colotiies  of  them 
on  the  banks  of  the  Ikouteka,  whicli  empties  into 
the  Surinam,  along  the  Esquibi,  the  Maroni,  and 
Other  rivers  of  Giiayana,  and  in  the  country  watered 
by  the  windings  of  the  Cayenne  ;  and  it  would  ap- 
pear that  they  have  extended  their  wanderings  to 
the  shores  of  the  southern  ocean,  where,  among  the 
aboriginals  of  Brazil,  were  some  who  called  them- 
selves Caribs,  distinguished  from  the  surrounding 
Indians  by  their  superior  hardihood  subtlety,  and 
enterprise. 

"  Vo  trace  the  footsteps  of  this  roving  tribe 
throughout  its  wide  migrations  from  the  Apalachian 
mountains  of  the  northern  continent,  along  the 
clusters  of  islands  which  siud  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
and  the  Caribbean  sea  to  the  shores  of  Paria,  and 
soacross  the  vast  regions  of  Guayana  and  Amazonia 
to  the  reiiioie  coast  of  Brazil,  would  be  one  of  the 
most  curious  researches  in  aboriginal  history,  and 
might  throw  imuh  light  upon  the  mysterious  ques- 
tion of  the  population  of  the  New  VV'orld." 

We  pass  over  the  melancholy  story  of  the 
ruined  fort;  and  murdered  irtiiiisoii,  to  which 
our  adventurer  relurned  on  his  .second  voyage ; 
and  of  the  first  dissensions  that  broke  out  in 
his  now  increasing  colony ;  but  mu.st  pause 
for  a  moment  to  accomjiany  him  on  his  first 
march,  at  the  head  of  four  hnndictl  armed 
followers,  into  the  interior  of  the  country,  and 
to  the  mountain  resjion  of  expected  gold.  For 
two  days  xha  party  proceeded  up  the  banks 
of  a  stream,  which  seemed  at  last  to  lose  itself 
in  a  narrow  and  rocky  recess. 

"  On  the  following  day,  the  army  toiled  up  this 
eteep  defile,  and  arrived  where  the  gorge  of  the 
mountain  opened  into  the  interior.  Here  a  land  of 
promise  suddcnlv  burst  upon  their  view.  It  was 
the  same  glorious  prospect  which  bad  delighted  Oje- 
da  and  his  companions.  Below  lay  a  vast  and  de- 
liciou.=!  plain,  p;iinled  and  enamelled,  ns  it  were, 
with  all  the  rich  variety  of  tropical  vegetation.   The 


J  magnificent  forests  presented  that  mingled  bea 
1  and  majesty  of  vegetable  forms  known  only  to  th  ' 
generous  climates.  Palms  of  prodigious  heig 
I  and  spreading  mahogany  trees,  towered  from  ai 
J  a  wilderness  of  variegated  foliage.  Universal  fre 
ness  and  verdure  were  maintained  by  nuiner'. 
streams,  which  meandered  gleaming  through 
deep  bosom  of  the  woodland  ;  while  various  villa:  i 
and  hamlets,  peeping  from  among  the  trees,  i 
the  smoke  of  others  rising  out  of  thp  midst  o'f  i 
forests,  gave  signsof  a  numerous  population.  'J. 
luxuriant  landscape  extended  as  far  as  the  eye  co  I 
reach,  until  it  appeared  to  melt  away  and  min , 
with  the  horizon.  The  Spaniards  L';>zed  wiih  i . 
ture  upon  this  soft  voluptuous  country,  wl  i 
seemed  to  realise  their  ideas  of  a  icnesiial  paradi; 
and  Columbus,  struck  with  its  va.st  extent,  gav: 
the  name  of  the  Vega  Real,  or  Royal  Plain.      ; 

"  Having  descended  the  rugged  pass,  the  at  • 
issued  upon  the  plain,  in  military  array,  with  gi; 
clangour  of  warlike  instruments.  When  the  . 
dians  beheld  this  shining  band  of  warriors,  glit,. 
ing  ill  steel,  emero;ing  from  the  mountains  y\ 
prancin2  steeds  and  flaunting  banners,  and  he  , 
for  the  first  time,  their  rocks  and  forests  echoin ) 
the  din  of  drum  and  trumpet,  they  might  welllit 
taken  such  a  wonderful  pageant  for  a  supernatr'J 
vision.  ' 

"  On  the  next  morning  they  resumed  their  m:'|i 
up  a  narrow  and  steep  glen,  winding  antongcrsif 
rocks,  where  they  were  obliged  to  lead  the  hoi'. 
Arrived  at  the  summit,  they  once  more  enjui 
prospect  of  the  delicious  Vega,  which  here  presi 
a  still  grander  appearance,  stretching  far  and 
on  either  hand,  like  a  vast  verdant    lake, 
noble    plain,   according   to   Las    Casas,    is  i 
leagues  in   length,  an'd  from   twenty   to  thir, 
breadth,  and  of  incomparable  beauty." 

"  The  natives  appeared  to  them  a  singularh 
and  improvident  race,  indifferent  to  most  of  tli' 
jects  of  human  anxiety  and  toil.  They  were  i- 
patient  of  all  kinds  of  labour,  scarcely  g.ig 
themselves  the  trouble  to  cultivate  the  yuca  ,'«, 
the  maize,  and  the  potatoe,  which  formed  the  in 
articles  of  subsistence.  For  the  rest,  their  sir  • 
abounded  with  fish  ;  they  caught  the  ulia  or  ci 
the  guana,  and  various  birds;  and  they  had  s  : 
petual  banquet  trom  the  fruits  spontaneously |o- 
duced  by  their  groves.  Though  the  air  wa8  8;^ 
times  cold  among  the  mountains,  yet  ihey  prei'ed 
submitting  to  a  little  temporary  suffering,  rier 
than  take  the  trouble  to  weave  garments  tror.Tn 
gossampine  cotton  which  abounded  in  their  fc  li 
Thus  they  loitered  away  exisience  in  vacant  «• 
tivity,  under  the  shade  of  their  trees,  or  arr  ng 
themselves  occasionally  with  various  garnet  no 
dances."  [ 

"  Having  accomplished  the  purposes  of  his.ii- 
dence  in  the  Vega,  Columbus,  at  the  end  of  sw 
days,  took  leave  of  its  hospitable  inhabitant:  nd 
resumed  his  march  for  the  harbour,  reiurnin/.ilh 
his  little  army  througii  the  lofty  and  rugged  'Hi 
of  the  mountains  called  the  Pass  of  the  Hid,**. 
As  we  accompany  him    in    imagination  ovi  ifc* 
rocky  height,  trom  whence  the  Vega  first  ik* 
upon  the  eye  of  the  Europeans,  we  canno'«lp 
pau.^ing  to  cast  back  a  look  of  mingled  pity  a  »i- 
miration    over   this  beautiful  but    devoted  i  <■'' 
The  dream  of  natural  liberty,  of  ignorant  ci  i 
and  loitering  idleness,  was  as  yet  uidiroken,  I  " 
fiat  had  Mne  forth  ;  the  white  man  had  pen(  '" 
into  the  land  ;  avarice,  and  pride,  and  ainbitic  »' 
pining  care,  and  sordid  labour,  were  soon  to  :  J« 
iind  the  indolent  paradise  of  the  Indian  to  dis  ^^ 
forever!" 

There  is  something  to  us  inexprt^t' 
pleasing  in  these  passages  :  hut  we  are  '">' 
that  there  are  readers  to  whom  the;  "i* 
seem  tedious — and  believe,  at  all  even!  Ifi' 
we  have  now  eiven  a  laiire  enough  spt  n* 
of  the  kind  of  beauty  they  present.    Ffti 


IRVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


267 


[ons  of  a  different  taste  we  oiicrht  to  have  t».\- 
^■acted  some  account  ofthe  incredible  daiinj:;s. 
|nd  romantic  adventures,  of  Alonzo  de  Oieila  ; 
Irof  the  ruder  prowess  and  wild  magiraniniity 
[f  the  cacique  Caonabo,  who  alone  of  the 
^land  cliieftains  dared  to  offer  any  resistance 
■)  the  invaders.  When  made  prisoner,  and 
jarried  off  from  the  centre  of  his  dominions. 
iy  one  of  the  unima<i;inable  feats  of  Ojeda, 
I'ir.  Irving  has  reported  that 

I  "  He  always  maiiuained  a  haughty  deporinient 
|)\vards  Colinnbus,  while  he  niver  evinced  ihe 
fast  animosity  against  Ojeda  for  the  artifice  to  whii-h 
,e  had  fallen  a  victim.  It  rather  increased  his  ad- 
liration  of  him,  as  a  consunnnate  warrior,  looking 
pon  it  as  the  exploit  of  a  master-spirit  to  have 
ounced  upon  him,  and  borne  him  ofi'.  in  thishawk- 
ike  manner,  tVom  the  very  midst  of  his  tighiing- 
peii.  There  is  nothing  that  au  Indian  more  admires 
\  warfare,  than  a  deep.  well-e.xeruted  stratagem. 
[  "  Columbus  was  accustomed  to  bear  himself 
ith  an  air  of  dignity  and  authority  as  admiral  and 
jCeroy,  and  exacted  great  personal  respect.  VVlien 
»  entered  the  apartment  therefore  where  Caonabo 
as  confined,  all  present  rose,  according  to  custom, 
|id  paid  him  reverence.  The  cacique  alone  neither 
oved,  nor  took  any  notice  of  him.  On  the  con- 
ary.  when  Ojeda  entered,  though  small  in  person 
id  without  external  state,  Caonabo  immediately 
[•se  and  saluted  him  with  profound  respect.  On 
ping  asked  the  reason  of  this,  Columbus  being 
[uamiquina,  or  great  chief  over  all,  and  Ojeda  hut 
le  of  his  subiects,  the  proud  Carib  replied,  that 
admiral  had  never  dared  to  come  personally  to 
house  and  seize  him,  it  was  only  through  the 
ilour  of  Ojeda  he  was  his  prisoner ;  to  Ojeda, 
erefore,  he  owed  reverence,  not  the  admiral." 

The  insolent  licence  of  the  Spaniards,  and 
le  laborious  searches  for  gold  which  they 
iposed  on  the  natives,  had  at  last  overcome 
.eir  original  feelings  of  veneration ;  and, 
usting  to  their  vast  superiority  in  numbers, 
ey  ventured  to  make  war  on  their  heaven- 
'scended  visitants.  The  result  was  unre- 
3ted  carnage  and  hopeless  submission  !  A 
X  of  a  certain  quantity  of  gold  dust  was  im- 
j)sed  on  all  the  districts  that  afforded  that 
jbstance,  and  of  certain  quantities  of  cotton 
id  of  grain  on  all  the  others — and  various 
rtresseswere  erected,  and  garrisons  station- 
I,  to  assist  the  collection  ofthe  tribute. 

"  In  this  way."  says  Mr.  Irving,  "  was  the  voke 
servitude  fixed  upon  the  island,  and  its  thraldom 
actually  ensured.  Deep  despair  now  fell  upoji 
B  natives,  when  they  found  a  perpetual  task  in- 
led  upon  ihein,  enforced  ai  stated  and  frequently 
:urring  periods.  Weak  and  indolent  by  nature, 
used  to  labour  of  any  kind,  and  brought  up  in  the 
tasked  idleness  of  their  soft  climaie  and  iheir 
litful  groves,  death  itself  seemed  preferable  to  a 
;  of  toil  and  anxiety.  They  sow  no  end  to  this 
jrassing  evil,  which  had  so  suddenly  fallen  upon 
|Jm  ;  no  es'-ape  from  its  ali-pervading  influence  ; 
prospect  of  return  to  that  roving  independence 
|d  ample  lei.?ure.  so  dear  to  the  wild  inhabiianis 
Uhe  forests.  The  pleasant  life  of  the  island  was 
■Ian  end;  the  dream  in  the  shade  by  day;  the 
Wber  during  the  sultry  noon-tide  heal  liy  the 
intain  or  the  stream,  or  under  the  spreading 
!,lm-iree:  and  the  song,  the  dance,  and  the  game 
'the  mellow  evening, When  summoned  to  their 
wple  amuspments  by  the  rude  Indian  drum.  They 
ke  now  obliged  to  grope  day  by  day.  with  bend- 
te  body  and  anxious  eye,  slongr  ihe  borders  ot 
feir  rivers,  sifting  the  sands  for  the  grains  of  gold 
Tiich  every  day  grew  more  scanty ;  or  lo  labour 


in  their  fields  beneath  the  fer^'on^  of  a  tropical  sun. 
to  raise  food  lor  their  task-masters,  or  to  prudnco 
the  vegetable  tribute  imposed  upon  them.  'I  hey 
sunk  to  sleep  weurv  and  exhau.sied  ni  night,  with 
the  ceriaiiiiy  that  the  next  day  was  but  ti>  be  a 
repetition  of  the  name  toil  and  siiirering.  Or  it  they 
occasionally  indulged  in  their  national  daiici's,  iho 
ballads  to  which  they  kept  time  were  of  a  melan- 
choly and  plaintive  character.  Tliey  spoke  of  iho 
times  that  were  past  before  the  while  men  liiid  in- 
troduced sorrow  and  slavery,  and  weary  labour 
ainon«  them  ;  and  they  rehearsed  pretended  proniie- 
cies.  handed  down  Irom  their  ancestors,  luretellinu 
the  invasion  ol  the  Spaniards  ;  that  strangers  should 
come  into  iheir  island,  clothed  in  apparel,  with 
swords  capable  uf  cleaving  a  man  asunder  at  a 
blow,  under  whose  yoke  their  posterity  should  be 
sulidued.  These  ballads,  or  areytos,  they  suiir 
with  mournful  tunes  and  doleful  voices,  bewailing 
the  loss  of  their  lilierty  and  their  painful  serviiujo. 

There  is  an  interest  of  another  kind  in  fol- 
lowing the  daring  route  of  Columbus  along 
the  shores  of  Cuba  and  Jamaica,  and  ihiough 
the  turbulent  seas  that  Ih>iI  amoiii:  lite  kt-vs  in 
the  gulf  of  Paria.  The  shor.-s  still  aliorded  the 
same  beauty  of  aspect — tlie  people  the  same 
marks  of  submission  and  delighted  wonder. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  resist  noticing  the  striking 
contrasts  which  are  sometimes  forced  upon  the 
mind.  The  coast  here  described  as  so  populous  and 
animated,  rejoiciiiir  in  the  visit  of  the  discoverers,  is 
the  same  that  extends  westward  of  the  city  of 
'rrinidad,  along  the  gulf  of  Xagua.  .All  is  now 
silent  and  deserted.  Civilization,  which  has  covered 
some  pans  of  Cuba  with  glittering  cities,  has  ren- 
dered this  a  solitude.  The  whole  race  of  Indians 
has  long  since  passed  away,  pining  and  perishing 
beneath  the  dominaiion  of  the  strangers  whom  they 
welcomed  so  joyfully  to  their  shores.  Before  me 
lies  the  account  of  a  night  recentiv  passed  on  this 
very  coast,  by  a  celebrated  traveller,  (Humboldt,) 
but  with  what  different  feelings  from  those  of  Co- 
liimbus  !  '  I  passed.'  says  he,  '  a  great  part  of  the 
nisht  upon  the  deck.  What  deserted  coasts  !  not  a 
light  to  announce  the  cabin  of  a  fisherman.  From 
Batabano  to  Trinidad,  a  distance  ol  fifty  leagues, 
there  does  not  exist  a  village.  Yet  in  the  time  of 
Columbus  this  land  was  inhabitnd  even  along  the 
margin  of  the  sea.  When  pits  arc  digged  in  the 
soil,  or  the  torrents  plough  open  the  surface  of  the 
eanh.  there  are  often  found  hatchets  of  stone  and 
vessels  of  copper,  relics  of  the  ancient  inhabitants 
ofthe  island.'  " 

We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  adding 
the  following  full-length  picture;  which  has 
all  the  splendour  of  a  romance,  with  the  ad- 
ditional charm  of  being  true. 

"  One  morning,  as  the  ships  were  standing  along 
the  coast,  with  a  light  wind  and  easy  sail,  they  bc- 
li»'ld  three  canoes  issuing  from  among  ihe  islands 
of  the  bay.  They  approacliid  in  regular  order; 
one,  whi(  h  was  very  large  and  handsomely  carved 
and  painted,  was  in' ihe  centre,  a  little  in  advance 
ot  the  two  others,  which  appeared  to  aiiend  and 
guard  it.  In  this  w«  re  .seated  the  cncKjue  and  his 
family,  consisting  of  his  wife,  twn  diiiighiers,  two 
sons,  and  five  brothers.  One  of  the  daiighicrs  w.as 
eighteen  years  of  age,  beautiful  in  tir>rm  and  counte- 
nance ;  her  sister  was  somewhat  younger  ;  both 
were  naked,  according  lo  the  custom  of  these 
islands,  but  were  of  modest  dcinennour.  In  the 
prow  of  the  canoe  stood  the  siandaril-bearer  of  the 
cacique,  clad  in  a  kind  of  mantle  of  variegated 
feathers,  with  a  tuft  of  gay  plumes  on  \un  head,  and 
bearing  in  his  hand  a  tluiiering  white  banner.  Two 
Indians,  with  caps  or  helmets  of  feathers  nf  uniform 
shape  and  colour,  and  their  faces  painted  in  u  simi- 
lar manner,  beat    upon   labors  ;  two   others,  with 


268 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


hats  curiously  wrought  ol  green  feathers,  held 
trumpets  of  a  fine  black  wood,  ingeniously  carved  ; 
and  iliere  were  six  others,  in  large  hats  and  white 
leathers,  who  appeared  to  be  guests  to  the  cacique. 
This  gallant  little  artnada  having  arrived  alongside 
of  the  admiral's  ship,  the  cacique  entered  on  board 
with  all  his  train.  He  appeared  in  his  full  regalia. 
Around  his  head  was  a  band  of  small  stones  of 
various  colours,  but  principally  green,  symmetri- 
cally arraneed,  with  large  white  stones  at  intervals, 
and  connected  in  front  by  a  large  jewel  of  gold. 
Two  plates  of  gold  were  suspended  to  his  ears  by 
rings  of  small  green  stones.  'I'o  a  necklace  of  white 
beads,  of  a  kind  deemed  precious  by  them,  was 
suspended  a  large  plate,  in  the  form  of  a  fleur-de- 
lys,  of  guanin,  an  inlierior  species  of  gold;  and  a 
girdle  ot  variegated  stones,  similar  to  those  round 
his  head,  completed  his  regal  decorations.  His 
wife  was  adorned  in  a  similar  manner,  having  also 
a  very  small  apron  of  cotton,  and  bands  of  ihe  same 
round  her  arms  and  legs.  The  daughters  were 
without  ornaments,  excepting  the  eldest  and  hand- 
somest, who  had  a  girdle  of  small  stones,  from 
which  was  suspended  a  tablet,  the  size  of  an  ivy 
leaf,  composed  of  various-coloured  stones,  em- 
broided  on  net- work  of  cotton. 

"  When  the  cacique  entered  on  board  the  ship, 
he  distributed  presents  of  the  productions  of  his 
island  among  the  officers  and  men.  The  admiral 
was  at  this  time  in  his  cabin,  engaged  in  his  morn- 
ing devotions.  When  he  appeared  on  deck,  ihe 
chieftain  hastened  to  meet  him  with  an  animated 
countenance.  '  My  friend,'  said  he,  '  I  have  de- 
termined to  leave  my  country,  and  to  accompany 
thee.  I  have  heard  from  these  Indians  who  are  with 
thee,  of  the  irresistible  power  of  thy  sovereigns, 
and  of  the  many  nations  thou  hast  subdued  in  their 
name.  Whoever  refuses  obedience  to  thee  is  sure 
to  suffer.  Thou  hast  destroyed  the  canoes  and 
dwellings  of  the  Caribs,  slaying  their  warriors,  and 
carrying  into  captivity  their  wives  and  children. 
All  the  islands  are  in  dread  of  thee;  for  who  can 
withstand  thee  now,  that  thou  knowest  the  secrets 
of  the  land,  and  the  weakness  of  the  people  ? 
Rather,  therefore,  ihan  thou  shouldst  take  away 
my  dominions;  I  will  embark  with  all  my  house- 
hold in  thy  ships,  and  will  go  to  do  homage  to  thy 
king  and  queen,  and  to  behold  their  marvellous 
country,  of  which  the  Indians  relate  such  wonders.' 
When  this  speech  was  explained  to  Columbus,  and 
he  beheld  the  wife,  the  sons  and  daughters  of  the 
cacique,  and  thought  upon  the  snares  to  which 
their  ignorance  and  simplicity  would  be  exposed, 
he  was  touched  with  compassion,  and  determined 
not  to  take  them  front  their  native  land.  He  replied 
to  the  cacique,  therefore,  that  he  received  him 
under  his  protection  as  a  vassal  of  his  sovereigns  : 
but  having  many  lands  yet  to  visit  before  he  re- 
lumed to  his  country,  he  would  at  some  lutnre 
time  fulfil  his  desire.  Then,  taking  leave  wiih 
many  expressions  of  amity,  (he  cacique,  wiih  his 
wife  and  daughters,  and  all  his  retinue,  re-embarked 
in  the  canoes,  returning  relucianily  to  their  island, 
and  the  ships  continued  on  their  course." 

But  we  must  turn  from  these  bright  le- 
gends; and  hurry  onward  to  the  end  of  our 
extracts.  It  is  impossible  to  give  an}-  abstract 
of  the  rapid  succession  of  plots,  tumults,  and 
desertions,  which  blighted  the  infancy  of  this 
great  settlement ;  or  of  the  disgraceful  calum- 
nies, jealousies,  and  intrigues,  which  gradu- 
ally undermined  the  credit  of  Columbus  with 
his  sovereign,  and  ended  at  last  in  the  mission 
of  Bobadilla,  with  power  to  supersede  him  in 
command — and  in  the  incredible  catastroph^' 
of  his  being  sent  home  in  chains  by  this  arro- 
gant and  precipitate  adventurer !  When  he 
arrived  on  board  the  caravel  which  was  to 
carry  him  to  Spain,  the  master  treated  him 


I  with  the  most  profound  respect,  and  offered 
I  instantly  to  release  him  from  his  fetters. 

'  "  But  to  this  he  would  not  consent.  '  No,'  said 
he  proudly,  'their  majesties  commanded  me  by 
letter  to  submit  to  whatever  Bodadilla  should  order 
in  their  name  ;  by  their  authority  he  has  put  upon 
me  these  chains — I  will  wear  them  until  they  shall 
order  them  to  be  taken  off",  and  I  will  preserve  ilieni 
afterwards  as  relics  and  memorials  of  the  reward 
of  my  services.'  " 

"  '  He  did  so,'  adds  his  son  Fernando ;  '  I  saw 
them  always  hanging  in  his  cabinet,  and  he  re- 
quested that  when  he  died  they  might  be  buried 
with  him  I'  " 

If  there  is  something  in  this  memorable 
brutality  which  stirs  the  blood  with  intense 
inilignation,  there  is  something  soothing  and 
still  more  touching  in  the  instant  retribution. 

"  The  arrival,"  says  Mr.  Irving,  "  of  Columbus 
at  Cadiz,  a  prisoner  and  in  chains,  produced  aliiioft 
as  great  a  sensation  as  his  triumphant  return  from 
his  tirst  voyage.  It  was  one  of  tliose  striking  and 
obvious  facts,  which  speak  to  the  feelings  of  the 
multitude,  and  preclude  the  necessity  of  reflection. 
No  one  stopped  to  inquire  into  the  case.  It  wag 
sufficient  to  be  told  that  Columbus  was  brought 
home  in  irons  from  the  world  he  had  discovered! 
A  general  burst  of  indignation  arose  in  Cadiz,  and 
in  the  powerful  and  opulent  Seville,  which  was  im- 
mediately echoed  throughout  all  Spain." 

"  Ferdinand  joined  with  his  generous  queen  in 
her  reprobation  of  the  treatment  of  the  admiral,  and 
both  sovereigns  hastened  to  give  evidence  to  the 
world  that  his  imprisonment  had  been  without  their 
authority,  and  contrary  to  their  wishes.  \\'ithoul , 
waiting  to  receive  any  documents  that  might  arrives 
from  Bobadilla,  they  sent  orders  to  Cadiz  that  the  J 
prisoners  should  be  instantly  set  at  liberty,  andi| 
treated  with  all  distinction.  They  wrote  a  letter to^ 
Columbus  couched  in  terms  of  gratitude  and  affec-il 
tion,  expressing  their  grief  at  all  he  had  suffered.ij 
and  inviting  him  to  court.  They  ordered,  at  theij 
same  time,  that  two  thousand  ducats  should  be  ad-ij 
vanced  to  defray  his  expenses.  t 

'•  The  loyal  heart  of  Columbus  was  again  cheered  J 
by  this  declaration  of  his  sovereigns.  He  felt  coo- j 
scious  of  his  integrity,  and  anticipated  an  immediate^ 
restitution  of  all  his  rights  and  dignities.  He  ap-j 
peared  at  court  in  Granada  on  the  17th  of  Decem-i 
ber,  not  as  a  man  ruined  and  disgraced,  but  richly  : 
dressed,  and  attended  by  an  honourable  retinue.^ 
He  was  received  by  their  majesties  with  unqualifiedij 
favour  and  distinction.  When  the  queen  beheld] 
this  venerable  man  approach,  and  thought  on  all  bej 
had  deserved  and  all  that  he  had  suffered,  she  wag) 
moved  to  lears.  Columbus  had  borne  up  firmly 
against  the  stern  conflicts  of  the  world, — he  had; 
endured  with  lofty  scorn  the  injuries  and  insults  of  i 
ignoble  men,  but  he  possessed  strong  and  quick' 
sensibility.  When  he  found  himself  thus  kindlyl 
received  by  his  sovereigns,  and  beheld  tears  in  thei 
benign  eyes  of  Isabella,  his  lonor.supi)ressed  feel-, 
ings  burst  forth ;  he  threw  himself  upon  his  knees, 
and  for  some  time  could  not  utter  a  word  for  the 
violence  of  his  tears  and  sobbings  !"  i 

In  the  year   1502,  and   in  the   sixty-sixth^ 
year  of  his  age,  the  indefatigable  discoverenj 
set  out  on  liis  fourth  and  last  vo}"age.    In  thif* 
he  reached  the  coast  of  Honduras;  and  fel 
in  with  a  race  somewhat  more  advanced  ii 
civilization  than  any  he  had  yet  encounterei' 
in  these  remote  regions.     They  had  mantlet 
of  wov(Mi  cotton  and  some  small  utensils  ot 
native  copper.     He  then  ran  down  the  short 
of  Veragua,  and  came  through  tremendoiu 
tempests  to  Portobello,  in  .search,  it  appears 
of  a  strait  or  inlet,  by  which  he  had  per 


IRVINGS  COLUMBUS. 


26» 


jiJed  himself  he  should  find  a  ready  way 
t  the  shores  of  the  Gan^jes :  The  extreme 
s/eritvof  the  seasoii,  and  the  miserable  con- 
( ion  of  his  ships,  compelknl  him.  however, 
t  abandon  this  great  enterprise  ;  the  account 
c  which  j\Ir.  Irving  winds  up  with  the  fol- 
I'.iiiir  quaint  and  not  very  feUcitousobsewa- 
in  :  If  he  was  disappointed  in  his  expec- 
t  ion  of  finding  a  strait  through  the  Isthmus 
c  Darien,  it  was  because  nature  herself  had 
len  disappointed — for  she  appears  to  have 
?,empted  to  make  one,  but  to  have  attempted 
in  vain."" 

After  this  he  returned  to  the  coast  of  Vera- 
,1.  where  he  landed,  and  formed  a  tempo- 
1  V  st'ttlement,  with  a  view  of  searching  for 
t  lain  gold  mines  which  he  had  been  told 
v^re  in  the  neighbourhood.  This,  however. 
Vs  but  the  source  of  new  disasters.  The 
rtives,  who  were  of  a  fierce  and  warlike 
ciracter,  attacked  and  betrayed  him — and 
1,  vessels  were  prevented  from  getting  to 
SI.  by  the  formation  of  a  formidable  bar  at 
ti^  mouth  of  the  river. 

At  last,  b)'  prodigious  exertions,  and  the 
Iroic  spirit  of  some  of  his  officers,  he  was 
e'lbled  to  get  away.  But  his  altered  fortune 
si  pursued  him.  He  was  harassed  b)'^  per- 
fual  storms,  and  after  having  beat  up  nearly 
tHispaniola,  was  assailed  by 

i'  A  sudden  tempest,  of  such  violence,  that,  ac- 
Ciding  to  the  strong  expression  of  Columbus,  it 
simed  a.s  if  the  svorld  would  dissolve.  'I'liey  lost 
tiee  of  their  anchors  almost  immediately,  and  the 
cavel  Bermuda  was  driven  with  such  violence 
wn  the  ship  of  the  admiral,  that  the  bow  of  the 
Of.  and  the  stern  of  the  other,  were  greatly  shat- 
t'jd.  The  sea  running  high,  and  the  wind  being 
bsterous.  the  vessels  chafed  and  injured  each  other 
dadfnlly,  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  they 
vre  separated.  One  anchor  only  remained  to  the 
aniral's  ship,  and  this  saved  him  from  being  driven 
urn  the  rocks  ;  but  at  daylight  the  cable  was  found 
nrlv  worn  asunder.  Had  the  darkness  continued 
a. hour  longer,  he  could  scarcely  have  escaped 
s  iwreck. 

'At  the  end  of  six  days,  the  weather  having 
nderated,  he  resumed  his  course,  standing  east- 
v|-d  for  Hispaniola:  '  his  people,'  as  he  says,  '  dis- 
nyed  and  down-hearted,  almost  all  his  anchors 
1< ,  and  his  vessels  bored  as  full  of  holes  as  a 
hiieycomb." 

'iis  proud  career  seemed  now  to  be  hasten- 
ii!  to  a  miserable  end.  Incapable  of  strug- 
gig  longer  with  the  elements,  he  was  obliged 
tifun  before  the  wind  to  Jamaica,  where  he 
vs  not  even  in  a  condition  to  attempt  to 
njke  any  harbour. 

■  His  ships,  reduced  to  mere  wrecks,  could  no 
I' Ter  keep  the  sea,  and  were  ready  to  sink  even 
ir.iort.  He  ordered  them,  tlierefore,  to  be  run 
a'aund,  within  a  bow-shot  of  the  shore,  and  fast- 
e-'d  together,  side  by  side.  They  soon  filled  with 
wer  to  the  decks.  Thatched  cabins  were  then 
cned  at  the  prow  and  stern  for  the  accomnioda- 
ti.  of  the  crews,  and  the  wreck  was  placed  in  the 
bt  pnssilile  state  of  defence.  Thus  castled  in  the 
K',  Columbus  trusted  to  be  able  to  repel  any  siid- 
a'  attack  ol  the  naiivea,  and  at  the  same  liine  to 
kip  his  men  from  rovuig  about  tlie  neighbourhood 
n|  indulging  in  their  usiinl  excesses.  .\'o  one  was 
a'jwed  to  go  on  shore  v.-i'lioul  especial  lirence.  and 
tl]  utmost  precaution  was  taken  to  prevent  any 
ijiice  from  being  given  lo  the  Indians.     Any  ex- 


asperation of  them  might  be  fatal  to  the  .^paniarda 
ill  their  present  forlorn  situation.  A  (iielirand 
thrown  iiiio  their  wooden  fortress  might  wrap  it  iii 
flames,  and  leave  tlicin  dufeiu'cless  amidst  hosiilu 
thousands." 

"  The  envv,"  .says  Mr.  Irving,  "  whicii  had  once 
sickened  at  tlie  glory  and  prosperity  of  Cohimbu.s, 
could  scarcely  have  devised  for  him  a  nunc  forlorn 
heritage  in  the  world  he  had  discovered  ;  the  leiiani 
of  a  wreck  on  a  savage  coast,  in  an  untravcrsed 
ocean,  at  ihe  mercy  ol  barbarous  hordes,  who,  in  u 
moment,  from  precarious  friends,  might  be  trans- 
formed  into  lerocious  enemies ;  afflicted,  too,  by 
excruciating  maladies  which  confined  him  to  his 
bed,  and  by  the  pains  and  infirmities  which  hard- 
ship and  anxiety  had  heaped  upon  his  advancing 
age.  But  Columbus  had  not  yet  exhausted  his  cup 
of  biiieriiess.  He  had  yet  to  experience  an  evil 
worse  than  storm,  or  shipwreck,  or  bodily  aiijiuish. 
or  the  violence  of  savage  hordes,  in  the  perhdy  of 
those  in  whom  he  confided." 

The  account  of  his  sufferings  during  the 
twelve  long  months  he  was  allowed  to  remain 
in  this  miserable  condition,  is  full  of  the  deep- 
est interest,  and  the  strangest  variety  of  ad- 
venture. But  we  can  now  only  refer  to  it. — 
Two  of  his  brave  and  devoted  adherents  un- 
dertook to  cross  to  Hispaniola  in  a  slender 
Indian  canoe,  and  after  incredible  miseries,  at 
length  accomplished  this  desperate  under- 
taking— but  from  the  cold-hearted  indecision, 
or  paltiy  jealousy,  of  tlie  new  Governor 
Ovando.  it  was  not  till  the  late  period  we  have 
mentioned,  that  a  vessel  was  at  length  des- 
patched to  the  relief  of  the  illustrious  .>^nfferer. 

But  he  was  not  the  only,  or  even  the  most 
memorable  sufferer.  From  the  time  he  was 
superseded  in  command,  the  misery  and  op- 
pression of  the  natives  of  Hispaniola  had  in- 
creased beyond  all  ^oportion  or  belief.  By 
the  miserable  policy  of  the  newv  governor, 
their  services  were  allotted  to  the  Spanish 
settlers,  who  compelled  them  to  work  by  the 
cruel  infliction  of  the  scourge ;  and.  with- 
holding from  them  the  nourishment  necessary 
for  health,  exacted  a  degree  of  labour  which 
could  not  have  been  sustained  by  the  most 
vigorous  men. 

"  If  they  fled  from  this  incessant  toil  and  barba- 
rous coercion,  and  took  refuse  in  the  mountains, 
they  were  hunted  out  like  wild  beasts,  scourged  in 
the  most  inhuman  manner,  and  laden  with  chains 
to  prevent  a  second  escape.  Many  perished  long 
before  their  term  of  labour  had  expired.  'J'hose 
who  survived  their  term  ot  six  or  eight  months, 
were  permitted  to  return  to  their  homes,  until  the 
next  term  commenced.  But  their  homes  were 
often  I'orty.  sixty,  and  eighty  leagues  distant.  They 
had  nothing  to  sustain  them  throuah  the  journey 
but  a  few  roots  or  agi  peppers,  or  a  little  cassava- 
bread.  Worn  down  by  long  toil  and  cruel  hard 
ships,  which  their  feeble  consiiiuiioiis  were  incapa- 
ble of  sustaining,  many  had  not  sireimth  to  perform 
the  journey,  but  sunk  down  and  died  by  the  way  ; 
some  by  the  side  of  a  brook,  others  under  the  shado 
of  a  tree,  where  they  had  crawled  for  shelter  from 
the  sun.  '  I  have  found  many  dead  in  the  road,' 
says  Las  Cnsas,  'others  gasping  under  the  irees, 
and  others  in  the  pangs  of  death,  laintly  cryinj}, 
Hunger;  hunger  I'  'Those  who  reaclud  their 
homo  most  conimonly  found  iheiii  dcsoln'c  Du 
ring  (he  fight  inonilia  that  ihey  had  been  iibseni, 
ilieir  wives  and  children  had  riiher  peri.-<lied  or 
vvandered  away  :  the  fieldo  on  whicli  they  lii  ponded 
for  food  were  overrun  with  weeds,  and  iioining  waa 
Ififl  ihem  liiii  to  lie  down,  exhaiisicd  and  deFjiiiiring, 
and  die  at  the  threshold  of  (heir  babilatiu.is. 
X2 


2W 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


It  is  impossible  lo  pursue  any  fariher  tlie  picture 
drawn  by  ihe  venernhle  Las  Casas.  not  of  what  he 
had  heard,  bui  oi  wh:it  he  had  seen — nattne  and 
humanity  revnii  at  the  de;ails.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that,  so  iniolerable  were  the  loils  ;iii(l  Mift'trings  in- 
flicted upon  this  we'ik  aid  unoffending  race,  that 
they  sunk  under  them,  dissdlving  as  ii  were  from 
*he  face  of  rhe  eanb.  .Many  kilbd  tlieniselves  in 
despair.  ni;d  fven  mothers  nvcrcanie  the  powerful 
instinct  of  nature,  nud  des'royed  the  int'an's  at  their 
breasts,  lo  spare  iliem  a  li!e  of  wretcliedness. 
Twelve  vears  ha.l  n.-i  ehipsed  since  ihe  discovery 
of  the  i-|find.  and  s'venil  hundred  thousands  of  its 
native  itihaliitanis  had  perished,  miserable  victims 
to  the  gaj:ping  avarice  of  the  wh  le  men." 

These  pictures  ate  sufficiently  shocking; 
but  they  do  not  exhaust  the  honors  that  cover 
the  brief  history  of  this  ill-fated  people.  The 
province  or  district  of  Xaragua.  which  was 
ruled  ovtT  by  a  princess,  called  Aiiacaona, 
celebrateil  in  all  the  contempoi-dry  accounts 
for  the  grace  and  dignity  of  her  manners,  and 
her  confiding  attachment  to  the  strangers,  had 
hitherto  enjoyed  a  happy  exemption  from  the 
troubles  which  distractetl  the  other  parts  of 
the  island,  and  when  visited  about  ten  years 
before  by  the  brother  of  Columbus,  had  im- 
pressed all  the  Spaniards  with  the  idea  of  an 
earthly  paradise:  both  from  the  fertility  and 
sweetness  uf  the  country,  the  gentleness  of 
its  people,  and  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the 
women.  Upon  some  rumours  that  the  neigh- 
bouring caciques  were  assembling  for  hostile 
purposes.  Ovando  now  marched  uito  this  de- 
voted region  with  a  well-appointed  force  of 
near  four  hundred  men.  He  was  hospitably 
and  joyfully  received  by  the  princess :  and 
afiected  to  encourage  aiid  join  in  the  festivity 
■which  his  presence  had  Btcited.  He  was  even 
himself  engaged  in  a  sportful  game  with  his 
officers,  when  the  signal  for  mas,sacre  was 
given — and  the  place  was  instantly  covered 
with  blood  !  Eighty  of  the  caciques  were 
burnt  over  slow  fires !  and  thousands  of  the 
unarmed  and  unresisting  people  butchered, 
without  regard  to  sex  or  age.  "Humanity,"' 
Mr.  Irving  very  justly  observes,  "turns  with 
horror  from  such  atrocities,  and  would  fain 
discredit  them  :  But  they  are  circumstantially 
and  still  more  minutely  recorded  by  the 
venerable  Las  Casas — who  was  resident  in  ihe 
island  at  the  time,  and  conversant  with  the 
principal  actors  in  the  tragedy." 

Still  worse  enormities  signalised  the  final 
subjugation  of  the  province  of  Higuey — the 
last  scene  of  any  attempt  to  resist  the  tyran- 
nical power  of  the  invaders.  It  would  be 
idle  to  detail  here  the  progress  of  that  savage 
and  most  unecjual  warfare :  but  it  is  right  that 
the  butcheries  perpetrated  by  the  victors 
should  not  be  forgotten — that  men  may  see 
to  what  incredible  e.vcesses  civilised  beings 
may  be  tempted  by  the  possession  of  absolute 
and  un(]ueslioiied  power  —  and  may  learn, 
from  indisptitable  inemorials,  how  far  the 
abuse  of  delegated  and  provincial  authority 
may  be  actually  carried.  If  it  be  true,  as 
Homer  has  alleged,  that  the  day  wliich  makes 
a  man  a  slave,  takes  away  half  his  worth — it 
seems  to  be  still  more  infallibly  and  fatally 
true,  that  the  master  generally  suffers  a  yet 
iarger  privation. 


"Sometimes,"  says  Mr.  Irving,  "they  would, 
hunt  down  a  straggling  Indian,  atid  compel  him,  by 
torments,  to  betray  the  hiding-place  ot  his  com- 
panions, binding  him  and  driving  him  before  ihenji' 
as  a  guide.  Wherever  they  discovered  one  of 
these  places  (jf  refuge,  filled  with  the  aged  and  the 
infirm,  with  feeble  women  and  helpless  children, 
they  massacred  them  without  mercy !  1  hev 
wished  to  inspire  terror  throughout  the  land,  and  10 
frighten  the  whole  tribe  into  sui)mission.  They  ctu< 
otl'  the  hands  of  those  wliotn  they  took  roving  ai ; 
large,  and  sent  them,  as  they  said,  to  deliver  iheiri' 
as  letters  to  their  friends,  demanding  their  surrender. 
Numberless  were  those,  says  Las  Casas,  wUoh- 
hands  were  amputated  in  this  manner,  and  many 
of  them  sunk  down  and  died  by  the  way,  througn,^ 
anguish  and  loss  of  blood.  I 

'•  'I'lie  conquerors  delighted  in  exercisins;  strangel 
and  ingenious  cruelties.  They  mingled  horrible 
levity  with  their  bloodthirstiness.  They  erected 
gibbets  long  and  low,  so  that  the  feet  of  the  suf- 
ferers might  reach  the  ground,  and  their  death  U 
lingering.  'I'hcy  hanged  thirteen  together,  in  revi 
rence,  says  the  indignant  Las  Casas,  of  our  blesstr 
Saviour  and  the  twelve  apostles!  While  then 
victims  were  suspended,  and  still  living,  they  hack- 
ed them  with  their  swords,  to  prove  the  strenpii 
of  their  arm  and  the  edge  of  their  weapons.  The> 
wrapped  them  in  dry  straw,  and  setting  fire  toil, 
terminated  their  existence  by  the  frercesl  agony. 

"  These  are  horrible  details;  yet  a  veil  is  drawi 
over  others  still  more  detestable.  They  are  relaiec 
by  the  venerable  Las  Casas,  who  was  an  eyt-witne>: 
of  the  sce^ies  he  describes.  He  was  voung  at  tin 
time,  but  records  them  in  his  advanced  years.  '  Al 
these  things.'  says  he,  '  and  others  revolting  t., 
human  nature,  my  own  eyes  beheld !  and  now 
almost  fear  to  repeat  ihem.  scarce  believing  mysell 
or  whether  1  have  not  dreamt  them.' 

"  The  system  of  Columbus  may  have  borne  bar 
upon  the  Indians,  born  and  brought  up  in  untaske' 
freedoin  ;  but  it  was  never  cruel  nor  sanguinar\ 
He  inflicted   no  wanton   massacres  nor  vindictiv 
punishments  ;  his  desire  was  to  cherish  and  civilis' 
the  Indians,  and  to  render  them  useful  subjects,  nc 
to  oppress,  and  persecute,  and  destroy  them.  Whe 
he  beheld  the  desolation  that  had  swept  them  frot 
the  land  during  his  suspension  from  authority,  h 
could  not  restrain  the  strong  expression  of  his  fee 
ings.     In  a  letter  written  to  the  king  after  his  retur 
to  Spain,  he  thus  expresses  himself  on  the  subject 
'  The  Indians  of  Hispaniola  were  and  are  the  rich' 
of  the  island  ;  for  it  is  they  who  cultivate  and  mak 
the  bread  and  the  provisions  for  the  Christians,  wl 
diff  the  jrold  from  the  mines,  and  perform  all  tl 
offices  and  labours  both  of  men  and  beasts.    1  ai 
informed  that,  since  I  left  this  island,  (that  is,  in  le  1 
than  three  years,) .•!(>  partsoul  of  sfV(?iofthenafw 
art  dvad.  all  throuirli  ill  treatment  and  inliuinanm 
some  by  the  sword,   others  by  blows  and  cm 
usage,  and  others  through  hunger.     The  great 
part   have    pcrishcil   in  the  mountains  and  gler 
whither  they  had  fled,  from  not  being  able  to  su 
port  the  labour  imposed  upon  them.'  " 

The  story  now  draws  to  a  close.   Columb 
returned    to   Spain,    broken   down  with  a, 
and  affliction — and  after  two  years  spent 
unav-ailing   solicitations  at  the  court  of  t 
cold-blooded  and  ungrateful  Ferdinand  (Y 
generous  patroness,  Isabella,  having  died  i', 
mediately   on   his   return),   terminated  w 
characteristic  magnanimity  a  life  of  singu' 
energy,  splendour,  and  endurance.     Iiidep 
dent  of  his  actual  achievements,  he  wast 
doubtedly  a  great  and  remarkable  man;  a 
Mr.  Irving  has  summed  up  his  general  ch 
acter  in  a  very  eloquent  and  judicious  waj 

"His  ambition."   he  observes,  "was  lofly  '■ 
noble.     He  was  full  of  high  thoughts,  and  aiui  1 


IRVING'S  COLUMBUS. 


271 


listinguish  himself  by  great  achicvemenis.  It 
been  said  that  a  mercenaiy  I'ocling  niii;|pled 
1  his  views,  and  liiat  his  siipulations  wi;h  the 
iiish  Court  were  selfish  and  avaricious.  The 
:ge  is  inconsiiierate  and  unjust.  He  aimed  at 
jity  and  wealth  in  the  same  lofty  spirit  in  which 
rouglii  renown;  and  the  gains  tliat  promised  to 
t!  from  his  discoveries,  he  intended  to  appropriate 
ue  same  princely  and  pious  spirit  in  which  they 
10  demanded.  He  contemplated  works  and 
evemems  of  benevolence  and  religion  :  vast  con- 
ations for  the  relief  of  the  poor  of  his  native 
;;  the  foundation  of  churches,  where  masses 
lid  be  said  for  the  souls  of  the  departed  ;  and 
(69  for  ilie  recovery  of  the  holy  sepulchre  in 
I'stine. 

In  his  testament,  he  enjoined  on  his  son  Diego, 
iiwhoever  after  him  should  inherit  his  estates. 
llever  dignities  and  titles  might  afterwards  he 
ted  by  the  king,  always  to  sign  himself  simply 
Admiral,'  by  way  of  perpetuating  in  the  family 
i?al  source  of  greatness." 
He  was  devoutly  pious;  religion  mingled  with 
irt  hole  course  of  his  thoughts  and  actions,  and 
i?s  forth  in  all  his  most  private  and  unstudied 
1  ngs.  Whenever  he  made  any  great  discovery, 
;i-elebrated  it  by  solemn  thanks  to  God.  The 
ti  of  prayer  and  melody  of  praise  rose  from  hi.^ 
i;  when  he  first  beheld  the  New  World,  and 
Mrsi  action  on  landing  was  to  prostrate  himself 
iu  the  earth  and  return  thanksgivings.  Every 
r'ing,  the  Salve  Regiita,  andother  vesper  hymns, 
£<  clianted  by  his  crew,  and  masses  were  per- 
red  in  the  beautiful  groves  that  bordered  the 
i  shores  of  this  heathen  land.  The  religion 
I  deeply  seated  in  the  soul,  diflTused  a  sober  dic- 
tind  benign  composure  over  his  whole  demean- 
I-  His  language  was  pure  and  guarded,  free 
0  all  imprecations,  oaths,  and  otlier  irreverent 
ipssions.  But  his  piety  was  darkened  by  the 
,c)ry  of  the  age.  He  evidently  concurred  in  the 
lijon  that  all  the  nations  who  did  not  acknowledge 
itChrisiian  faith  were  destitute  of  natural  rights; 
lilihe  sternest  measures  might  be  used  for  their 
)iprsion,  and  the  severest  punishments  inflicted 
jij  their  obstinacy  in  unbelief.  In  this  spirit 
'  gotry  he  considered  himself  justified  in  making 
ifves  of  the  Indians,  and  transporting  them  to 
ph  to  have  them  taught  the  doctrines  of  Chris- 
any.  and  in  selling  them  for  slaves  if  they 
r€|nded  to  resist  his  invasions.  He  was  counte- 
ii\fd  in  these  views,  no  doubt,  by  the  general 
pipn  of  the  age.  But  it  is  not  the  intention  of 
lejuthor  to  justify  Columbus  on  a  point  where  it 
ijjxcusable  to  err.  Let  it  remain  a  blot  on  his 
luj-inus  name, — and  let  others  derive  a  lesson 
olit." 

1^  was  a  man,  too,  undoubtedly,  as  all 
M\  great  men  have  been,  of  an  imaginative 
ntj  sensitive  temperament — somethinc:,  as 
Iifrving  has  well  remarked,  even  of  a  vis- 
)niv — but  a  \'isionary  of  a  high  and  lofty 
n\:  controlling  his  ardent  imagination  by  a 
oxfrful  judgment  and  great  practical  sa- 
acy,  and  deriving  not  only  a  noble  delight 
uDiirnal  accessions  of  knowledge  from  this 
igir  and  activity  of  his  fancy. 

"I'et.  with  all  this  fervour  of  imagination,"  as 
IrCrvine  has  strikingly  observed,  "its  fondest 
reijis  fell  short  of  the  reality.  He  died  in  igno- 
infof  the  real  grandeur  of  his  discovery.  Until 
is  ht  breath  he  entertained  the  idea  that  he  had 
icity  opened  a  new  way  to  the  old  resorts  of  opu- 
^nifommerce,  and  had  discovered  some  of  the 
■ib'pgions  of  the  east.  He  supposed  Hispaniola 
">  lihe  ancient  Ophir  which  haa  been  visited  by 
ae'iips  of  Solomon,  and  that  Cuba  and  Terra 
'irtii  were  but  remote  parts  of  Asia.   What  visions 


upon  hiH  mind  coi 
iidfid  discovered 


have  known  that  iu'  had  iiiaeiu  uiscovireu  a  new 
ciintinciit,  fijujl  to  the  whole  of  the  nld  '.vorld  in  mag- 
nitude, and  .separated  by  two  vast  oceans  from  nil  the 
earth  hitherto  known  liy  civihsed  ninii  I  And  how 
would  his  miiKuanimous  spirit  hnve  been  consoled, 
amidst  the  alHiciionstof  age  and  the  lurfs  of  penury, 
the  neglect  of  a  tickle  public,  and  the  injustice  of  an 
ungrateful  king,  could  he  have  annctpntrd  the 
splendid  empires  whii-h  were  to  spread  over  the 
beautiful  world  he  had  discovered  ;  iiiid  the  nations, 
and  tongues,  and  languages*  whh  h  weni  to  till  its 
lands  with  his  renown^  iiiitl  to  revere  mid  bless  his 
name  to  the  latest  po.-iterity  I" 

The  appendix  to  Mr.  Irving's  work,  which 
occupies  the  greater  jxirl  of  llie  hist  volume, 
contains  most  of  the  original  niiitter  which 
his  learning  and  research  htivc  »'ii;iLiled  him 
to  bring  to  bear  on  the  princijxd  tiiilgect,  and 
constitutes  indeed  a  miscellany  of  a  singularly 
curious  and  interesting  description.  It  con- 
sists, besides  very  copious  atui  eiiiborate  ac- 
counts of  the  family  and  descendatits  of  Co- 
lumbus, principally  of  e.xtracts  and  criti(|ucs 
of  the  discoveries  of  earlier  or  contemporary 
navigators — the  voyages  of  the  Carthaginians 
and  the  Scandinavians.— of  Bchem.  the  l*in- 
zons,  Amerigo  Vespucci,  and  olhers — with 
some  very  curious  remarks  on  the  travels  of 
Marco  Polo,  and  Mandeville — a  dissertation 
on  the  .ships  used  by  Columbus  ami  his  con- 
temporaries— on  the  Atalantis  of  Plato — the 
imaginary  island  of  St.  Brandaii.  ;ind  of  the 
Seven  Cities — together  with  renitirks  on  the 
writings  of  Peter  Martyr,  Ovieilo,  Herrera, 
LasCasas.  and  the  other  contemporary  chroni- 
clers of  those  great  discoveries.  The  whole 
drawn  up,  we  think,  a^i  singular  judgment, 
dili<rence,  and  candoi^;  and  presenting  the 
reader,  in  the  most  manageable  form,  with 
almost  all  the  collateral  information  which 
could  be  brought  to  elucidate  the  transactions 
to  which  they  relate. 

Such  is  the  general  character  of  Mr.  Irving's 
book — and  such  are  parts  of  its  contents.  We 
do  not  pretend  to  give  any  view  w  hatever  of 
the  substance  of  four  large  historical  volumes  ; 
and  fear  that  the  specimens  we  have  ventured 
to  exhibit  of  the  author's  way  of  writing  are 
not  very  well  calculated  to  do  ju.stice  either 
to  the  occasional  force,  or  the  constant  variety, 
of  his  style.  But  for  judicious  readers  they 
will  probably  suffice — and,  we  trust,  will  be 
found  not  only  to  warrant  the  llt■;li^e  we  have 
felt  ourselves  called  on  to  bestow,  but  to  in- 
duce many  to  gratify  themselves  by  the  peru- 
sal of  the  work  at  large. 

Mr.  Irving,  we  believe,  was  not  in  England 
when  his  work  was  printed  :  and  we  must  say 
he  has  been  very  insufficiently  represented 
by  the  corrector  of  the  press.  We  do  not 
recollect  ever  to  have  seen  .'to  handsome  a 
book  with  so  many  gross  typographical  errors. 
In  many  places  they  ob.'^cure  thi'  sense — and 
are  very  freriuently  painful  ami  offiMiHive. 
It  will  be  absolutely  nece.'^.-ary  that  this  be 
looked  to  in  a  new  impression ;  and  the  au- 
thor would  do  well  to  avail  himself  of  the 
same  opportunity,  to  correct  some  verba)  in- 
accuracies, and  to  jwlish  and  improve  bome 
passages  of  slovenly  writing. 


«72 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


(JJitnc,  1S27.) 


Memoirs  of  Zehir-ed-din  Muhammed  Baber.  Emperor  of  Hindustan,  written  by  himself 
the  Jaghatai  Turki.  and  translated,  partly  by  the  late  John  Leyden,  Esq.  M.D..  partly  / 
William  Erskixe,  Esq.  With  Notes  and  a  Geographical  and  Historical  Introduction:  r 
e,ether  with  a  Map  of  the  Countries  bctireen  the  Oxus  and  Jaxartes,  and  a  Memoir  rcgardii, 
its  Construction,  by  Charles  WaddingtoN;  Esq..  of  the  East  India  Company's  Engineer 
London:   1826. 


1    ^' 
self.x  I 


This  is  a  very  curiouS;  and  admirably  edited 
work.  But  the  strongest  impression  which 
the  perusal  of  it  has  left  on  our  minds  is  the 
boundlessness  of  authentic  history:  and,  if 
we  might  venture  to  say  it.  the  uselessness 
of  all  history  which  does  not  relate  to  our  own 
fraternity  of  nations,  or  even  bear,  in  some 
way  or  other,  on  our  own  present  or  future 
condition. 

We  have  here  a  distinct  and  faithful  account 
of  some  hundreds  of  battles,  sieges,  and  great 
military  expeditions,  and  a  character  of  a  pro- 
digious namber  of  eminent  individuals. — men 
famous  in  their  day,  over  wide  regions,  for 
genius  or  fortune — poets,  conquerors,  martyrs 
— founders  of  cities  and  dynasties — authors 
of  immortal  works — ravagers  of  vast  districts 
abounding  in  wealth  and  population.  Of  all 
these  great  personages  and  events,  nobody  in 
Europe,  if  we  except  a  score  or  two  of  studi- 
ous Orientalists,  has  ever  heard  before  :  and 
it  would  not,  we  imagine,  be  very  easy  to 
show  that  we  are  any  better  for  hearing  of 
them  now.  A  few  clJious  traits,  that  hap- 
pen to  be  strikingly  in  contrast  with  our  own 
manners  and  habits,  may  remain  on  the 
memory  of  a  reflecting  reader — with  a  gene- 
ral confused  recollection  of  the  dark  and  gor- 
geous i)hantasmagoria.  But  no  one.  we  may 
fairly  say,  will  think  it  worth  while  to  digest 
or  develope  the  details  of  the  history ;  or  be 
at  the  pains  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
leading  individuals,  and  fix  in  his  memory  the 
series  and  connection  of  events.  Yet  the  ef- 
fusion of  human  blood  was  as  copious — the 
display  of  talent  and  courage  as  imposing — 
the  perversion  of  high  moral  qualities,  and  the 
waste  of  the  means  of  enjoyment  as  unspar- 
in<T,  as  in  other  Ions-past  battles  and  intrigues 
and  revolutions,  over  the  details  of  which  we 
still  pore  with  the  most  unwearied  atten- 
tion :  and  to  verify  the  dates  or  minute  cir- 
cumstances of  which,  is  still  regarded  as  a 
great  exploit  in  historical  research,  and  among 
the  noblest  employments  of  human  learning 
and  sagacity. 

It  is  not  perhaps  very  easy  to  account  for 
the  eagerness  with  which  we  still  follow  the 
fortunes  of  Milt  lades,  Alexander,  or  Caesar — 
of  the  Bruce  and  the  Black  Prince,  and  the 
uiterest  which  yet  belongs  to  \\\f  fields  of 
Marathon  and  Pharsalia.  of  Crncy  and  Ban- 
nockburn,  compared  with  the  indifierence.  or 
rather  reluctance,  with  which  we  listen  to  the 
details  of  Asiatic  warfare — the  conque.sts  that 
transferred  to  thf  Moguls  the  vast  sovereign- 
ties of  India,  or  raised  a  dynasty  of  Mauchew 


Tartars  to  the  Celestial  Empire  of  China, 
will  not  do  to  say,  that  we  want  somethir! 
nobler  in  character,  and  more  exalted  in  ii 
tellect,  than  is  to  be  met  with  among  tho; 
murderous  Orientals — that  there  is  nothing 
interest  in  the  contentions  of  mere  force  ai 
violence ;  and  that  it  requires  no  very  fin 
drawn  reasoning  to  explain  why  we  shou 
turn  with  disgust  from  the  story,  if  it  k 
been  preserved,  of  the  savage  affiays  whi' 
j  have  drenched  the  sands  of  Africa  or  "thp  roc! 
[  of  New  Zealand — through  long  generations. 
!  murder — with  the  blood  of  their  bruti.'^h  pop 
lation.  This  may  be  true  enough  of  Mac! 
gascar  or  Dahomy;  but  it  does  not  apply 
the  case  before  us.  The  nations  of  Asia  gei: 
rally — at  least  those  composing  its  great  stai 
— were  undoubtedly  more  polished  than  tho 
of  Europe,  during  all  the  period  that  preced 
their  recent  connection.  Their  warriors  wi 
as  brave  in  the  field,  their  statesmen  mc 
subtle  and  politic  in  the  cabinet :  In  the  a 
of  luxury,  and  all  the  elegancies  of  civil  1; 
they  were  immeasurably  superior;  in  in: 
nuity  of  speculation — in  literature — in  soc 
politeness — the  comparison  is  still  in  th 
favour. 

It  has  often  occurred  to  us,  indeed,  to  c( 

sider  what  the  effect  would  have  been  on  i 

I  fate  and  fortunes  of  the  world.  iT,  in  the  fo 

I  teenth.  or  fifteenth  century,  wh(Mi  the  ger 

of  their  present  civilisation  were  first  discio?. 

the  nations  of  Europe  had  been  introduceil 

an  intimate  and  friendly  acquaintance  w 

the  great  polished  communities  of  the  E: 

and  had  been  thus  led  to  take  tlicm  forth' 

masters  in  intellectual  cultivation,  and  th' 

models  in  all  the  higher  pursuits  of  geni 

polity,  and  art.     The  ditierence  in  our  soc 

and  moral  condition,  it  would  not  perhaps' 

easy  to  estimate :  But  one  result,  we  coiicei' 

would  unquestionably  have  been,  to  make. 

take  the  same  deep  interest  in  their  anci 

story,  which  we  now  feel,  for  similar  reasc 

in  that  of  the  sterner  barbarians  of  early  Roi 

or  the  more  imaginative  clans  and  coloi  ■ 

of  immortal  Grei^ce.     The  experiment,  he 

ever,  though  there  seemed  oftener  than  o  ■ 

to  be  some  openings  for  it,  was  not  ma 

Our  crusading  ancestors  M-ere  too  rude  tht  ■ 

'  selves  to  estimate  or  to  feel  the  value  of  •' 

j  oriental  refinement  which  presented  itseil ' 

I  their  passing  gaze,  and  too  eiilirely  occupl 

I  with  war  and  bigotry,  to  reflect  on  its  cai* 

I  or  effects;  and  the  first  naval  adventurers \' 

I  opened  up  India  to  our  (commerce,  were!,' 

1  too  few  and  too  far  off"  to  communicate ' 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


27S 


iSi! 


tjiir  brethren  at  home  any  taste  for  the  splen- 
(tivs  which  might  have  excited  their  own 
aniration.  By  the  time  that  our  intercourse 
vih  those  regions  was  enlarged,  our  own 
cjeer  of  improvement  had  been  prosperously 
blf^un ;  and  our  superiority  in  the  art,  or  at 
l(&t  the  discipline  of  war,  having  given  us  a 
«|ial  advantage  in  the  conflicts  to  which 
t|t  extending  intercourse  immediately  led, 
njurally  increased  the  aversion  and  disdain 
^^|h  which  almost  all  races  of  men  are  apt  to 
rtiard  strangers  to  their  blood  and  dissenters 
fin  their  creed.  Since  that  time  the  genius 
oi'AU'ope  has  been  steadily  progressive,  whilst 
t!t  of  Asia  has  been  at  least  stationary,  and 
a  -t  probably  retrograde  :  and  the  descendants 
of  he  feudal  and  predatory  warriors  of  the 
\\st  have  at  last  attained  a  decided  pre- 
dminancy  over  those  of  their  elder  brothers 
imhe  East;  to  whom,  at  that  periotl,  they 
wre  unquestionably  inferior  in  elegance  and 
unriuity.  and  whose  hostilities  were  then 
C(Jucted  on  the  same  system  with  our  own. 
T  y.  in  short,  have  remained  nearly  where 
lliv"  were  :  while  we,  beginning  v.'ith  the  im- 
pi.ement  of  our  governments  and  military 
diipline,  have  gradually  outstripped  them 
in  11  the  lesser  and  more  ornamental  attain- 
HTits  in  which  they  originally  excelled. 

liis  extraordinary  fact  of  the  stationary  or 

iierate  condition  of  the  two  oldest  and 
-lU'st  families  of  mankind — those  of  Asia 
u;  Africa,  has  always  appeared  to  us  a  sad 
ol  acle  in  the  way  of  those  who  believe  in 
th;general  progress  of  the  race,  and  its  con- 
8t*t  advancement  towards  a  state  of  perfec- 
tio.  Two  or  three  thousand  years  ago,  those 
va  communities  were  certainly  in  a  happier 
aw  more  prosperous  state  than  they  are  now; 
an!  in  many  of  them  we  know  that  their  most 
po'erful  and  flourishinir  societies  have  been 
coapted  and  dissolved,  not  by  any  accidental 
orrxtrinsic  disaster,  like  foreign  conquest, 
pc'lilence,  or  elemental  devastation,  but  by 
wit  appeared  to  be  the  natural  consequences 
of  aat  very  greatness  and  retinement  which 
ha  marked  and  rewarded  their  earlier  exer- 
ti':;-;.  In  Europe,  hitherto,  the  case  has  cer- 
tai  V  been  different:  For  though  darkness 
(iiifall  upon  its  nations  also,  after  the  lights  j 
of  Oman  civilisation  were  extinguished,  it  is 
toj?  remembered  that  they  did  not  burn  out  j 
of |iemselves.  but  were  trampled  down  by 
hos  of  invading  barbarians,  and  that  they 
blr.^d  out  anew,  with  increased  .splendour 
aa'-power.  when  the  dulness  of  that  .superin- 
'■''  bpnt  mass  was  at  length  vivified  by  their 

I't.  and  animated  by  the  fermentation  ! 

i.U  leaven  which  had  all  along  been  se-  ! 
c'  y  working  in  its  recesses.  In  Europe 
cejiinly  there  has  been  a  progress:  And  the 
rnc  poli.shed  of  its  present  inhabitants  have 
nO:)nly  reu^ained  the  place  which  was  held 
of  id  by  their  illustrious  masters  of  Greece 
an  Rome,  but  have  plaiidy  outgone  them  in 
thfinost  substantial  and  exalted  of  their  im- 
pv'iements.  Far  more  humane  and  refined 
'  :   the  Romans — far  less  irlddy  and  turbulent 

'.reacherous  than  the  (i reeks,  they  have 

t  a  security  to  life  and  property  that  was 

i  35 


unknown  to  the  earlier  ages  of  the  world — 
exalted  the  arts  of  peace  to  a  dignity  with 
which  ihey  were  never  before  investeif ;  and, 
by  the  iibolition  of  domestic  .>i»'rvilU(le,  for  the 
first  time  extended  to  the  bulk  of  the  jHjpula- 
tion  those  higher  capacities  and  enjoyments 
which  were  formerly  engro!»sed  by  a  lew.  By 
the  invention  of  printing,  they  have  made  all 
knowledge,  not  oidy  acct^ssibje.  but  imperish- 
able :  and  by  their  imnrovemeiits  in  the  art 
of  war,  have  eUeclually  secured  themselves 
against  the  overwhelming  calamity  of  bar- 
barous invasion — the  risk  of  subjugation  by 
mere  mmierical  or  animal  force  :  Whilst  the 
alternations  of  coii(|uest  and  defeat  amongst 
civilised  communities,  who  alone  can  now  be 
formidable  to  each  other,  though  productive 
of  great  local  and  temporary  evils,  may  be 
rejjanled  on  the  whole  as  one  of  the  means 
of  promoting  and  ecpialising  the  general  civili- 
sation. Rome  polished  and  enlightened  all 
the  barbarous  nations  she  subdued — anil  was 
herself  polished  and  enlightened  by  her  con- 
quest of  (deii-ant  Greece.  If  the  European 
parts  of  Ru.<sia  had  been  subjected  to  tin-  do- 
minion of  France,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  loss  of  national  independence  would  have 
been  compensated  by  i-apid  advances  both  in 
liberality  and  refinement ;  and  if,  by  a  still 
more  disastrous,  though  less  improbable  con- 
tingency, the  Moscovite  hordes  were  ever  to 
overrun  the  fair  countries  to  the  south-west 
of  them,  it  is  equally  certain  that  the  invaders 
would  speedily  be  softened  and  informed  by 
the  union;  and  be  infected  more  certainly 
than  by  any  other  sort  of  contact,  with  the 
arts  and  the  knowledge  of  the  vanquished. 

All  these  great  advantages,  however — this 
apparently  irrepressible  impulse  to  improve- 
ment— this  security  against  backsliding  and 
decay,  seems  peculiar  to  Europe,*  and  not 
capable  of  being  communicated,  even  by  her, 
to  the  most  docile  races  of  the  other  quarters 
of  the  world:  and  it  is  really  extremely  diffi- 
cult to  explain,  upon  what  are  called  philo- 
sophical principles,  the  causes  of  this  superi- 
ority. We  should  be  very  glad  to  ascribe  it 
to  our  greater  political  Freedom  : — and  no 
doidot,  as  a  secondary  cause,  this  is  among  the 
most  powerful ;  as  it  is  to  the  maintenance  of 
that  freedom  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  self- 
estimation,  the  feeling  of  honour,  the  general 
equity  of  the  laws,  and  the  substantial  se- 
curity both  from  .sudden  revolution  and  from 
capricious  oppression,  which  distinguish  our 
portion  of  the  globe.  But  we  cannot  bring 
ourselves  to  regard  this  freedom  as  a  mere 
accident  in  our  history,  that  is  not  itself  to  be 
accounted  for,  as  well  as  its  consequences: 
And  when  it  is  said  that  our  greater  stability 


•  Whon  wc  Bpeak  of  Europe,  it  will  bo  under' 
str>o(I  that  wc  .«nfak,  not  of  the  land,  l«ut  of  iho 
pfople — and  include,  therefore,  all  the  settleincnis 
and  colonics  of  that  favoured  race,  io  wliaicTcr 
quarter  of  the  giohe  they  may  now  be  esialilihlied. 
.Some  situations  seem  more,  and  some  Ica.^.  favour- 
alile  to  the  prenervation  of  the  orieinal  character. 
The  .Spaniards  certainly  depenerated  in  Peru — and 
the  Dutch  perhaps  in  IJiiuvin; — but  the  English 
remain,  we  (rust,  unimpaired  in  America. 


274 


HISTORY  AND  fflSTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


and  prosperity  is  owing  to  our  greater  freedom, 
we  are  immediately  tempted  to  ask,  by  what 
that  freedom  has  itself  been  produced  ?  In 
the  same  way  we  might  ascribe  the  superior 
mildness  and  humanity  of  our  manners,  the 
abated  ferocity  of  our  wars,  and  generallj-  our 
respect  for  human  life,  to  the  influence  of  a 
Religion  which  teaches  that  all  men  are  equal 
in  the  sight  of  God,  and  inculcates  peace  and 
charity  as  the'  first  of  our  duties.  But.  besides 
the  startling  contrast  between  the  profligac)', 
treachery,  and  cruelty  of  the  Eastern  Empire 
after  its  conversion  to  the  true  faith,  and  the 
simple  and  heroic  virtues  of  the  heathen  re- 
public, it  would  still  occur  to  inquire,  how  it 
has  happened  that  the  nations  of  European 
descent  have  alone  embraced  the  sublime 
truths,  and  adopted  into  their  practice  the 
mild  precepts,  of  Christianity,  while  the  peo- 
ple of  the  East  have  unifonnly  rejected  and 
disclaimed  them,  as  alien  to  their  character 
and  habits — in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the 
apostles,  fathers,  and  martyrs,  in  the  primitive 
and  most  effective  periods  of  their  preaching? 
How.  in  short,  it  has  happened  that  the  sensual 
and  sanguinary  creed  of  Mahomet  has  super- 
seded the  pure  and  pacific  doctrines  of  Chris- 
tianity in  most  of  those  very  regions  where  it 
was  first  revealed  to  mankind,  and  first  es- 
tablished by  the  greatest  of  existing  govern- 
ments ?  The  Christian  revelation  is  no  doubt 
the  most  precious  of  all  Heaven's  gifts  to  the 
benighted  world.  But  it  is  plain,  that  there 
was  a  greater  aptitude  to  embrace  and  to 
profit  by  it  in  the  European  than  in  the  Asiatic 
race.  A  free  government,  in  like  manner,  is 
unquestionably  the  most  valuable  of  all  human 
inventions — the  great  safeguard  of  all  other 
temporal  blessings,  and  the  mainspring  of  all 
intellectual  and  moral  improvement : — But 
such  a  government  is  not  the  re.sult  of  a  lucky 
thought  or  happy  casualty  ;  and  could  only  be 
established  among  men  who  had  previously 
learned  both  to  relish  the  benefits  it  secures, 
and  to  understand  the  connection  between  the 
means  it  employs  and  the  ends  at  which  it  aims. 
We  come  then,  though  a  little  reluctantly,  | 
to  the  conclusion,  that  there  is  a  natural  and  in- 
herent difference  in  the  character  and  temper- 
ament of  'tire  European  and  the  Asiatic  races 
— consistinjr,  perhaps,  chiefly  in  a  superior 
capacity  q£  patient  and  persevering  thought  in 
the  former — and  displaying  itself,  for  the  most 
part,  in  a  more  sober  and  robust  understanding, 
and  a  more  reasonable,  principled,  and  inflexi- 
ble morality.  It  is  this  which  has  led  us.  at 
once  to  temper  our  political  institutions  with 
prospective  checks  and  suspicious  provisions 
against  abuses,  and,  in  our  different  orders 
and  degrees,  to  submit  without  unpatience  to 
those  checks  and  restrictions  ; — to  extend  our 
reasonings  by  repeated  observation  and  ex- 
periment, to  larger  and  larger  conclusions — 
and  thus  gradually  to  discover  the  paramount 
importance  of  discipline  and  unity  of  purpose 
in  war,  and  of  absolute  security  to  person  and 
property  in  all  peaceful  pursuits — the  folly  of 
all  passionate  and  vindictive  assertion  of  sup- 
posed rights  and  jjretensions,  and  the  certain 
jecoil  of  long-continued  injustice  on  the  heads 


of  its  authors — the  substantial  advantages  ( 
honesty  and  fair  dealing  over  the  most  ing 
nious  systems  of  trickery  and  fraud  ; — ai 
even — though  this  is  the  last  and  hardest.  . 
well  as  the  most  precious,  of  all  the  lesso: 
of  reason  and  experience — that  the  tolerati. 
even  of  religious  errors  is  not  only  prude 
and  merciful  in  itself,  and  most  becoming 
fallible  and  erring  being,  but  is  the  sure 
and  speediest  way  to  compose  religious  difft 
ences,  and  to  extinguish  that  most  formidab 
bigotry,  and  those  most  pernicious  erro? 
which  are  fed  and  nourished  by  persecutic 
It  is  the  want  of  this  knowledge,  or  rather  i 
the  capacity  for  attaining  it.  that  constitut' 
the  palpable  inferiority  of  the  Eastern  race 
and,  in  spite  of  their  fancy,  ingenuity,  a 
restless  activity,  condemns  them,  it  wov 
appear  irretrievably,  to  vices  and  sufferini: 
from  which  nations  in  a  far  ruder  conditi 
are  comparatively  free.  But  we  are  wand' 
mg  too  far  from  the  magnificent  Baber  a 
his  commentators. — and  must  now  leave  thf ' 
vague  and  general  speculations  for  the  fa 
and  details  that  lie  before  us. 

Zehir-ed-din  Muhammed,  sumamed  Bab' 
or  the  Tiger,  was  one  of  the  descendants 
Zengiskhan  and  of  Tamerlane ;  and  thoi 
inheriting  only  the  small  kingdom  of  Fe 
hana  in  Bucharia,  ultimately  extended 
dominions  by  conquest  to  Delhi  and 
greater  part  of  Hindostan  :  and  transmittec 
his  famous  descendants.  Akber  and  Aure  • 
zebe,  the  magnificent  empire  of  the  Mogi', 
He  was  born  in  1482,  and  died  in  Ifi. 
Though  passing  the  greater  part  of  his  tu 
in  desperate  military  expeditions,  he  wasi 
educated  and  accomplished  man;  an  elegil 
poet :  a  minute  and  fastidious  critic  in  all  3 
niceties  and  elegances  of  diction ;  a  curi's 
and  exact  observer  of  the  statistical  phtj- 
mena  of  every  region  he  entered  ;  a  great  .• 
mirer  of  beautiful  prospects  and  fine  flow*'; 
and,  though  a  devoted  Mahometan  in  - 
Avay,  a  very  resolute  and  jovial  drinke: 
wine.  Gk)od-humoured,  brave,  munific  , 
sagacious,  and  frank  in  his  character,  e 
might  have  been  a  Henry  IV.  if  his  trail  ^ 
had  been  in  Europe: — and  even  as  he  i.9 
less  stained,  perhaps,  by  the  Asiatic  viwtf 
cruelty  and  perfidy  than  any  other  in  the  >t 
of  her  conquerors.  The  work  before  us  .a 
faithful  translation  of  his  own  account  ofw 
life  and  transactions;  written,  with  some  d- 
siderable  blanks,  up  to  the  year  1508,  in,i« 
form  of  a  narrative — and  continued  At" 
wards,  as  a  journal,  till  1529.  It  is  « 
illustrated  by  the  most  intelligent,  learl, 
and  least  pedantic  notes  we  have  ever  '0 
annexed  to  such  a  performance  ;  and  by  '0 
or  three  introductor}- dissertations,  morec  i, 
masterly,  and  full  of  instruction  than  a: 'it 
has  ever  been  our  lot  to  peruse  on  the  his;7 
or  geography  of  the  East.  The  transliiW 
was  begun  by  the  late  very  learned  am  0- 
terprising  Dr.  Leyden.  ft  has  been  lO* 
pleted,  and  the  whole  of  the  valuable  ■  n- 
mentary  added  by  ]Mr.  W.  Erskine,  on  « 
solicitation  of  the  Hon.  INIountstewart  EI]  n- 
stone  and  Sir  John  Malcolm,  the  two  1»- 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


275- 


ikials  in  the  worlil  best  qualified  to  judije 
( the  value  or  exeeiitioii  of  sm-h  a  work.  The 
j.-ater  part  of  the  traiislatioii  was  finished 
tl  transmitted  to  this  country  in  1817:  but 
\.s  ouly  committed  to  the  press  in  the  course 
dast  year. 
The  preface  contains  a  learned  account  of 
t»  Turki  language,  (in  which  these  memoirs 
\'re  written.)  the  prevailing  tongue  of  Cen- 
tjl  Asia,  and  of  which  the  Constantinopolitan 
Trkish  is  one  of  the  most  corrupted  dialects, 
-some  valuable  corrections  of  Sir  William 
Jhes'  notices  of  the  Institutes  of  Taimur. — 
al  a  very  clear  explanation  of  the  method 
e  ployed  in  the  translation,  and  the  various 
nps  by  which  the  great  difficulties  of  the 
tjic  were  relieved.  The  first  Introduction, 
hvever,  contains  much  more  valuable  niat- 
t(? :  It  is  devoted  to  an  account  of  the  great 
Irtar  tribes,  who.  under  the  denomination 
o;he  Turki.  the  Mnghul.  and  the  Mandshnr 
nes,  may  be  said  to  occupy  the  whole  vast 
eentof  Asia,  north  of  Hindostan  and  part 
of  Persia,  .and  westward  from  China.  Of 
tlse,  the  Mandshurs,  who  have  long  been 
ll  sovereigns  of  China,  possess  the  countries 
uiiediately  to  the  north  and  east  of  that 
a  lent  empire — the  Turki,  the  regions  imme- 
dtelyto  the  north  and  westward  of  India 
a.  Persia  Proper,  stretching  round  the  Cas- 
pn,  and  advancing,  by  the  Constanfinopoli- 
tr  tribes,  considerably  to  the  southeast  of 
E.ope.  The  Moghuls  lie  principally  be- 
tMen  the  other  two.  These  three  tribes 
s]ak,  it  would  appear,  totally  different  lan- 
gges— the  name  of  Tartar  or  Tatar,  by 
wich  they  are  generally  designated  in  Eu- 
rce.  not  being  acknowledged  by  any  of  them, 
ai  appearing  to  have  been  appropriated  only 
U  small  clan  of  Moghuls.  The  Huns,  who 
diolated  the  declining  empire  under  Attila*, 
ai  ti\ought  by  Mr.  Erskine  to  have  been 
ollhe  Moghul  race;  and  Zengiskhan,  the 
mhty  conqueror  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
w;  certainly  of  that  family.  Their  princes, 
hi  .-ever,  were  afterwards  blended,  by  family 
aiinces,  with  those  of  the  Turki ;  and  sev- 
ei  of  them,  reigning  exclusively  over  con- 
Qired  tribes  of  that  descent,  came  gradually 
trigh  of  proper  Moghul  ancestry,  to  reckon 
tliTiselves  as  Turki  sovereigns.  Of  this  de- 
scption  was  Taimur  Beg,  or  Tamerlane, 
W)se  family,  though  descended  from  Zengis, 
h;  long  been  settled  in  the  Turki  kingdom 
ofaraarkand  ;  and  from  him  the  illustrious 
B;er,  the  hero  of  the  work  before  us,  a 
dfided  Turki  in  language,  character,  and 
prudices.  was  lineally  sprung.  The  relative 
edition  of  these  enterprising  nations,  and 
thr  more  peaceful  brethren  iji  the  south, 
caiot  be  more  clearly  or  accurately  described 
thi  in  the  words  of  Mr.  Erskine  : — 


The  learned  translator  conceives  that  the  snp- 
poH  name  of  this  famous  barbarian  was  truly  only 
th^lenomination  of  his  office.  Ii  is  known  that  he 
subeded  his  \inrle  in  the  government,  thouch 
ihif  were  children  of  his  nlive.  It  is  probable, 
th^fore,  that  lie  originally  assumed  auihonty  in 
ihftharacter  of  their  guardian  ;  and  the  word  Atn- 
lH^a  Tartar,  signifies  guardian,  or  quasi  jmnns. 


"  Tke  whole  of  Asia  may  be  considcrrd  bh  divi- 
ded  into  two  p»rls  by  the  iTont  chain  of  mounciina 
which  run"  from  (^hinn  and  the  Hirinnn  Kmpirc  on 
the  insi,  lo  liic  Hlnck  Sea  and  the  iVleditorrniuon 
on  the  west.  From  the  eastward,  wiierc  it  i.^  of 
great  bnudih,  it  keeps  a  iioriliwesterly  course, 
rising  in  lieijiht  as  it  advances,  and  formiiig  iJir  Inll 
countries  ol  Assam,  Bi)otnn,  Nepal,  f>irinnffnr, 
'lUiet,  and  Lndhk.  Ii  encloses  ttie  valley  of  Knsh- 
mtr,  near  which  it  seemii  to  have  gained  I's  preiiiest 
height,  and  thence  proceeds  westward,  piissin','  to 
the  north  of  I'esluiwer  and  Kiibul,  alter  which  it 
appeals  to  break  into  a  variety  of  smaller  ranges 
ol  lulls  that  proceed  in  a  westerly  and  sniith-wcHl- 
erlv  direction,  generiillv  lerminatiii)^  in  the  province 
of  khornsan.  Near  Hiirai.  m  tlmt  province,  the 
mountains  sink  away  ;  but  the  ran^e  appears  to 
rise  again  near  Meshhed,  and  is  by  some  consid- 
ered as  resuinint;  its  course,  runninc  to  the  south 
of  the  Ciispian  and  l)ounding  .Mazcncfisran,  whence 
it  proceeds  on  through  Armenia,  and  thence  into 
Asia  Minor,  finding  its  termination  in  the  moun- 
tains of  ancient  Lycia.  This  immense  ranre,  which 
some  consider  as  terminating  at  Herat,  while  it  di- 
vides Bengal,  Hindustan,  the  Penjab,  Afghanistan, 
Persia,  and  part  of  the  Turkish  territory,  from  the 
counirv  of  the  Moghul  and  'I'nrki  tribes,  which, 
with  few  exceptions,  occupy  the  whole  extent  of 
country  from  the  borders  of  China  to  the  sea  of 
Azof,  may  also  be  considered  as  separating  in  its 
whole  course,  nations  of  comparative  civilisation, 
from  uncivilised  tribes.  To  the  south  of  this  range, 
if  we  perhaps  except  some  part  of  the  Afghan  ter- 
ritory, which,  indeed,  may  rather  be  held  as  part 
of  the  range  it.self  than  as  south  of  it,  there  is  no 
nation  which,  at  some  period  or  other  of  its  history, 
has  not  been  the  seat  of  a  powerful  empire,  and  of 
all  those  arts  and  refinements  of  life  which  attend 
a  numerous  and  wealthy  population,  when  pro- 
tected  by  a  government  that  permits  the  fancies  and 
energiesof  the  human  mind  to  fiijiow  their  natural 
bias.  The  decrees  of  civilisation  and  of  happine.-is 
possessed  in  these  various  regions  may  have  been 
extremely  different  ;  but  many  of  the  comforts  of 
wealth  and  abundance,  and  no  small  share  of  the 
higher  treasures  of  cultivated  judgment  and  imagi- 
nation, must  have  been  enjoyed  by  nations  that 
could  produce  the  various  systems  of  Indian  phi- 
losophy and  science,  a  drama  so  polished  as  the 
Sakontnla,  a  poet  like  Ferdousi.  or  a  moralist  like 
Sadi.  While  to  the  south  of  this  range  we  every 
where  see  flourishing  cities,  cultivated  fields,  ani 
all  the  forms  of  a  regular  government  and  policy, 
to  the  north  of  it,  if  we  except  China  and  the  coun- 
tries to  the  south  of  the  Sirr  or  Jaxartcs,  and  along 
its  hanks,  we  find  tribes  who,  down  to  the  present 
day,  wander  over  their  extensive  regions  as  their 
forefathers  did,  little  if  at  all  more  refined  than  they 
appear  to  have  been  at  the  very  dawn  of  history. 
Their  flocks  are  still  their  wealth,  their  camp  their 
city,  and  the  same  government  exists  of  separate 
chiefs,  who  arc  not  much  exalted  in  luxury  or 
information  above  the  commonest  of  their  subjects 
around   them." 

These  general  remarks  are  followed  up  by 
an  exact  and  most  luminous  geographical 
enumeration  of  all  the  branches  of  this  gnat 
northern  family, — accompanied  with  histori- 
cal notices,  and  very  interi-sting  elucidations 
of  various  jKissages  both  in  ancient  and 
modern  writers.  The  following  observations 
are  of  more  extensive  application  : — 

"  The  general  state  of  society  which  prevailed 
in  the  age  of  Haber,  within  the  countries  that  h»vo 
been  de8cribc:d,  will  be  much  better  undiistKod 
from  a  perusal  of  the  followinR  Meinmrs  than  (nun 
any  prefatory  observationt  that  could  be  ofiend. 
It  IS  evident  that,  in  consequence  of  the  pniteciion 
which  had  been  afforded  to  the  people  of  Mawcrol- 


276 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


naher  by  their  regular  governments,  a  considerable 
degree  of  comforc,  and  perhaj)s  still  more  of  ele- 
gance and  civility,  prevailed  in  the  towns.  The 
whole  age  of  Babcr,  however,  was  one  of  great 
confusion.  Nothing  contributed  so  much  to  pro- 
duce the  constant  wars,  and  eventual  devastation 
of  the  country,  which  the  Memoirs  exhibit,  as  the 
want  oi  strme  fixed  ride  of  Success iuti  to  the  Throne. 
The  ideas  of  regal  descent,  according  to  primogeni- 
ture, were  very  indistinct,  as  is  the  case  in  all  Ori- 
ental, and.  in  general,  in  all  purely  despotic  king- 
doms. When  the  succession  to  the  crowti,  like 
everything  else,  is  subject  to  the  will  of  the  prince, 
on  his  death  it  necessarily  becomes  the  subject  of 
contention; — since  the  will  of  a  dead  king  is  of 
much  less  consequence  than  the  intrigues  of  an 
able  minister,  or  the  sword  of  a  successful  com- 
mander. It  is  the  privilege  of  litierty  and  of  law 
alone  to  bestow  equal  security  on  the  rights  of  the 
monarch  and  of  the  people.  The  death  of  the 
ablest  sovereign  was  only  the  signal  lur  a  general 
war.  The  different  parlies  at  conri,  or  in  the  harem 
of  the  prince,  espoused  the  cause  of  different  com- 
petitors, and  every  npit;hboMring  potentate  believed 
himself  to  be  perfectly  justified  in  inarching  to  seize 
his  portion  of  the  spoil.  In  the  course  of  the  Me- 
moirs, we  shall  find  that  the  grandees  of  the  court, 
while  they  take  their  place  by  the  side  of  the  candi- 
date of  their  choice,  do  not  appear  to  believe  that 
fidelity  to  him  is  any  very  necessary  virtue.  The 
nobility,  unable  to  predict  the  events  of  one  twelve- 
month, degenerate  iiuo  a  set  of  selfish,  calculating, 
though  pernaps  brave  partizaiis.  Rank,  and  wealth, 
and  |)resent  enjoyment,  become  their  idols.  The 
prince  leels  the  intlueiue  of  the  general  want  of 
stability,  and  is  himself  educated  in  the  loose  princi- 
ples ot  an  adventurer.  In  all  about  him  he  sees 
merely  the  instruments  of  his  power.  The  subject, 
seeing  the  prince  consult  only  Ins  pleasures,  learns 
on  his  part  to  consult  only  his  private  convenience. 
In  such  societies,  the  steadiness  of  principle  that 
flows  from  the  love  of  right  and  of  our  country 
can  have  no  place.  It  may  be  questioned  whether 
the  prevalence  of  the  Malionunedan  religion,  by 
swallowing  up  civil  in  religious  distinctions,  has  not 
a  tendency  to  increase  this  indifference  to  country, 
wherever  it  is  established." 

"That  the  fashions  of  the  East  are  unchanged, 
is,  in  general,  certainly  true;  because  the  cliiuaie 
and  the  despotism,  from  the  one  or  other  of  which 
a  very  large  proportion  of  them  arises,  have  con- 
tinued the  same.  Yet  one  who  observes  the  way 
in  which  a  Mussulman  of  rank  spends  his  day,  will 
be  led  to  suspect  that  the  ma.xim  has  sometimes 
been  adopted  with  too  little  limitation.  Take  the 
example  of  his  pipe  and  his  coffee.  The  Kalliiin, 
or  Hukka,  is  seldom  out  of  his  hand  ;  while  the 
coffee-cup  makes  its  appearance  every  hour,  as  if 
it  contained  a  necessary  of  life.  Perhaps  there  are 
no  enjoyments  the  loss  of  which  he  would  feei 
more  severely  ;  or  which,  were  we  to  judge  only 
by  the  frequency  of  the  call  for  them,  we  should 
suppose  to  have  entered  from  a  more  remote  pe- 
riod into  the  system  of  Asiatic  life.  Yet  we  know 
that  the  one  (which  has  indeed  become  a  necessary 
of  life  to  every  class  of  Mussulmans)  could  not  have 
been  enjoyed  before  the  discovery  of  America; 
and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  other 
was  not  introduced  into  Arabia  from  Africa,  where 
coffee  is  indigenous,  previously  to  the  sixteenth 
century  ;'  and  what  marks  the  circumstance  more 
strongly,  both  of  these  habits  have  forced  their 
way,  m  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  the  rigorists 
in  religion.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  lorTunaie 
lor  Baber  had  they  prevailed  in  his  acre,  as  they 
might  have  diverted  him  from  the  immoderate  use 
first  of  wine,  and  afterwards  of  deleterious  drugs, 
which  ruined  his  constitution,  and  hastened  on  his 
end." 


*  La  Roque,  Traite  Historique  de  i'Origine  et  dn 
Progres  du  Cafe,  &c      Paris.  1716,  12mo. 


The  Fas?,  or  institutions  of  Chengiz,  ai 
often  mentioned. 

"They  seem,"  says  Mr.  Erskine,  "to  have  bee 
a  collection  of  the  old  usages  of  the  Moghul  tribe 
comprehending  some  rules  of  state  and  cereinon 
and  some  injunctions  for  the  punishment  of  parii 
ular  crimes.  The  punishments  were  only  two- 
death  and  the  bastinado*  ;  the  numherol  blows  e 
tending  from  seven  to  seven  hundred.  There 
something  very  Chinese  in  the  whole  oi  the  M 
ghul  system  of  punishment,  even  princes  advanc« 
in  years,  and  in  command  of  large  armies,  beit 
punished  by  bastinado  with  a  stick,  by  their  faibei 
orders. t  Whether  they  received  their  usage  in  if 
respect  from  the  Chinese,  or  communicated  it 
them,  is  not  very  certain.  As  the  whole  body.; 
their  laws  or  customs  was  formed  before  the  ioiri 
duction  of  the  Mussulman  religion,  and  was  probi 
biy  in  many  respects  inconsistent  with  the  Kon' 
as.  for  instance,  in  allowing  the  use  of  ihe  blood '^ 
animals,  and  in  the  extent  of  toleration  granted  ' 
other  religions,  it  gradually  fell  into  decay."        | 

The  present  jNIoghul  tribes,  it  is  addej 
punish  most  offences  by  fines  of  cattle.  Tl 
art  of  war  in  the  days  of  Baber  had  iiot  bej 
very  greatly  matured  ;  and  though  matcUoc' 
and  unwieldy  cannon  had  been  recently  ' 
troduced  from  the  West,  the  arms  chiej 
relied  on  weie  still  the  bow  and  the  spe. 
the  sabre  ami  the  battle-a.\e.  Mining  v 
practised  in  sieges,  and  cavalry  seems  to  k- 
formed  Ihe  least  considerable  part  of  i 
army. 

There  is  a  second  Introduction,  contain 
a  clear  and  brief  abstract  of  the  history 
those  regions  from  the  time  of  Tamerlant 
that  of  13aber, — together  with  an  e.\cell 
Memoir  on  the  annexed  map,  and  an  acco 
of  the  hills  and  rivers  of  Bokara,  of  whic' . 
would  be  idle  to  attempt  any  abstract. 

As  to  the  IVIemoirs  themselves,  we  h  < 
already  said  that  we  think  it  in  vain  to'^ 
commend  them  as  a  portion  of  History  v,i 
which  our  readers  should  be  acquaints  • 
or  consequently  to  aim  at  presenting  tl  i 
with  any  thing  in  the  nature  of  an  abstr 
or  connected  account  of  the  events  the\  < 
minutely  detail.  All  that  we  propose  to 
therefore,  is,  to  extract  a  few  of  the  ti  s 
which  appear  to  us  the  most  striking  i 
characteristic,  and  to  endeavour,  in  a  \J 
short  compass,  to  give  an  idea  of  whatt.r 
curiosity  or  interest  the  work  possesses,  e 
most  remarkable  tiling  about  it,  or  at  1  it 
that  which  first  strikes  us.  is  the  simpliy 
of  the  style,  and  the  good  sense,  varied  kr- 
ledge,  and  extraordinary  industry  of  the  r  il 
author.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  believe  it 
it  is  the  work  of  an  Asiatic,  and  a  sovert  i- 
Though  copiously,  and  rather  diflusely  ^  t- 
ten,  it  is  perfectly  free  from  the  ornani(  »1 
verbosity,  the  eternal  metaphor,  and  pule 
e.vaggeralions  of  most  Oriental  compositifi 
and  though  savouring  so  far  of  royalty  :'lo 
abound  in  descriptions  of  dresses  and  i.e* 
monies,  is  yet  occupied  in  the  main  with  lO* 
cents  greatly  too  rational  and  humble  !')• 
much  in  favour  with  monarchs.  As  a  s  '^ 
men  of  the  adventurous  life  of  the  chietiini 

*  D'Herbelot,  Biblioth.  Orient,  art.  Turk.  I 
t  Hist,  de  Timur  Bee,  vol.  iii.  pp.  227. 26?;». 
&c.  i 


MEMOIRS  OF  PABER. 


277 


those  days,  and  of  Baber"s  manner  of  de- 
iribing  it,  we  may  pass  at  once  to  his  account 
,  his  being  besiegeil  in  Samarkand,  and  the 

rliculars  of  his  liight  after  he  was  obliged 
i  abandon  it : — 

y  During  the  continuance  of  the  siege,  the  rounds 
•Jthe  rampart  were  regularly  gone,  onco  every 
);ht,  sonutinics  by  Kasan  Bfg,  and  somtMimes  by 
(K-r  Begs  and  captains.  From  the  Firozeh  gate 
iilie  Slioikh-Zadeh  gate,  we  were  able  to  go  along 
t'  laniparis  on  horseback  ;  everywhere  else  we 
\re  obliged  to  go  on  foot.  Setting  out  in  the 
Irjnning  of  the  night,  it  was  morning  before  we 
1]  completed  our  rounds. 

'  One  day  Sheibani  Ivhan  made  an  aiiack  be- 
teen  the  Iron  gate  and  that  of  the  Sheikh-Zudeh. 
J.  I  was  with  the  reverse,  I  immediniely  led  ihein 
tthe  quarter  that,  was  attacked,  without  attending 
l,Lhe  Washing-green  gate  or  the  Needlemakers' 
pe.  That  same  day,  from  the  top  of  the  Sheikh- 
ideh's  gateway,  I  struck  a  palish  white  coloured 
h  se  an  e.xcellent  shot  with  my  cross-bow  :  it  iell 
d.d  the  moment  my  arrow  touched  it;  but  in  the 
ran  while  they  had  made  such  a  vigorous  attack, 
n.r  the  Camel's  Neck,  that  they  eflecied  a  lodg- 
mit  close  under  the  rampart.  Being  holly  engaged 
iiepelling  the  enemy  where  I  was,  I  had  enier- 
taed  no  apprehensionsof  danger  on  the  other  side, 
vere  they  had  prepared  and  brought  with  them 
t'luy-live  or  twenty-six  scaling-ladders,  each  of 
tlni  so  broad  that  two  and  three  men  could  mount 
areasi.  He  had  placed  in  ambush,  opposite  to 
tl  city-wall,  seven  or  eight  hundred  chosen  men 
wh  these  ladders,  between  the  Ironsmilhs'  and 
>L^dlemakers'  gates,  while  he  himself  moved  to 
tl;  other  side,  and  made  a  false  attack.  Our  atten- 
ti  was  entirely  drawn  off  to  this  attack  ;  and  the 
m  in  ambush  no  sooner  saw  the  works  opposite 
t(  hem  empty  of  defenders,  by  the  watch  having 
Ici  them,  than  they  rose  from  the  place  where  they 
h  lain  in  ambush,  advanced  with  e.\treme  speed, 
ai  applied  their  scaling-laddt-rs  all  at  once  between 
tftwo  gates  that  have  been  mentioned,  exactly 
oij)site  to  Muhammed  Mazid  'I'erkhan's  house. 
'!}.  Begs  who  were  on  guard  had  only  two  or 
tlie  of  their  servants  and  attendants  a!)Out  them. 
Nienheless  Kuch  Beg,  Muhannned  Kiili  Kochin, 
S'h  Sufi,  and  another  brave  cavalier,  boldly  assail- 
e(|heni,  and  displayed  signal  heroism.  Some  of 
if',  enemy  had  already  mounted  the  wall,  and 
sfral  others  were  in  the  act  of  scaling  it,  when 
tirlojr  persons  vvho  have  been  mentioned  arrived 
otjhe  spot,  fell  upon  them  sword  in  hand,  with  the 
gi'.iest  bravery,  and  dealinir  out  furious  blows 
ar'nd  them,  drove  the  as.«ailanis  back  over  the 
w;,  and  put  them  to  flight.  Kuch  Beg  dit-tin- 
gijhed  himself  above  all  the  rest ;  and  this  was 
anixploit  for  ever  to  be  cited  to  his  honour.  He 
twje  during  this  siege  performed  excellent  service 
byiis  valour. 

'It  was  now  the  season  of  the  ripening  of  the 
gr',1,  and  nobody  had  brought  in  any  new  corn. 
A^he  siege  had  drawn  out  to  great  length,  the  in- 
haiiants  were  reduced  to  extreme  distress,  and 
thjjs  came  to  such  a  pass,  that  the  poor  and  meaner 
soiwere  forced  to  feed  on  dogs'  and  asses'  flesh. 
Gijn  for  the  horses  becoming  scarce,  they  were 
obi;ed  to  be  fed  on  the  leaves  of  trees ;  and  it  was 
osirtained  from  experience,  that  the  leaves  of  the 
m!J)erry  and  bbickwood  answered  best.  Many 
US,  the  shavings  and  raspings  of  wood,  which 
ih'  soaked  in  water,  and  gave  to  their  horses. 
F<' three  or  four  months  .'^hfibani  Khan  did  not 
np'oach  the  fortress,  but  blockaded  it  at  some  dis- 
•atp  on  all  sides,  changing  his  ground  from  lime 
tome. 

jThe  ancients  have  said,  that  in  order  to  main- 
taia  fortress,  a  head,  two  hands,  and  two  feet  are 
nejssary.  The  head  is  a  captain,  the  two  handH 
nrcwo  friendly  forces  that  must  advance  from  op- 
puie  sides ;  the  two  feet  are  water  and  stores  of 


I  provision  within  the  fort.  I  looked  for  aid  and  as- 
sistance  from  the  princes  my  neighbours ;  but  each 
of  them  had  his  ntlciition  fixed  on  some  oilier  ob- 
ject,   p'or  example.  Sultan  liussain  Mir/u  was  un- 

I  doubtedly  a  brave  and  experienced  moiinrch,  yet 

I  neither  did  he  give  me  assistance,  nor  oven  send 

I  an  ambassador  to  encourage  me." 

I  He  is  obliged,  in  consequence,  to  evacuate 
the  citv.  and  moves  olf  privately  in  the  night. 

I  The  tollowiiig  account  of  his  liight,  we  think, 
is  e.vtrcmely  picturesipie  and  interesling. 

"  Having  entangled  ourselves  among  liie  great 
branches  of  the  canals  of  the  Soghd,  during  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  we  lost  our  way,  and  after 
encininiering  many  diirieulties  we  passed  Khwiijch 
Didar  about  dawn.  By  the  time  of  early  mormnf 
prayers,  we  arrived  at  the  hillock  of  Karbogh,  and 
passing  it  on  ihe  north  below  the  villiigc  of  Kherdek, 
we  made  tor  Ilaniui.  (In  the  road.  I  had  a  race 
with  Kamber  Ali  and  Kasim  Beg.  My  horse  got 
the  lead.  As  I  turned  round  on  my  seal  to  see 
how  far  I  had  leit  iheiii  behind,  my  saddle-girth 
being  slack,  the  .saddle  turned  round,  and  I  came 
to  the  ground  right  on  my  head.  Although  I  im- 
mediaiely  sprang  up  and  mounted,  yet  I  did  not 
recover  ihe  full  possession  of  my  faculties  till  the 
evening,  and  the  world,  and  all  that  occurred  at  the 
time,  passed  before  my  eyes  and  apprehension  like 
a  dream,  or  a  phantasy,  and  disappeared.  The 
lime  of  afternoon  prayers  was  past  ere  we  reached 
Ilan-titi,  where  we  alighted,  and  having  killed  a 
horse,  cut  him  up,  and  dressed  slices  of  his  ilesh  ; 
we  stayed  a  little  time  to  rest  our  horses,  then 
mounting  again,  before  dav-break  we  alighted  at 
the  village  of  Khalileh.  ?Vom  Khalih'h  we  pro- 
ceeded to  Dizak.  At  that  time  Tiiher  Duldai,  the 
son  of  Hafez  Muhammed  Beg  Duldai,  was  governor 
of  Dizak.  Here  we  found  nice  fat  flesh,  bipad  ot 
fine  flour  well  baked,  sweet  melons,  and  excellent 
grapes  in  great  abundance;  thus  jiassing  from  ihe 
extreme  of  famine  to  phmty,  and  from  an  estate  of 
danger  and  calamity  to  peace  and  ease. 

"  In  my  whole  life,  I  never  enjoyed  myself  so 
much,  nor  at  any  period  of  it  felt  so  sensibly  the 
pleasures  of  peace  and  plenty.  Enjoyment  after 
suffering,  abundance  after  want,  come  with  in- 
creased relish,  and  afford  more  exquisite  delight.  I 
have  four  or  live  limes,  in  the  course  of  my  life, 
passed  in  a  similar  manner  from  distress  to  ease, 
and  from  a  state  of  suflcring  to  enjoyment :  but  this 
was  the  first  time  that  I  had  ever  been  delivered  at 
once  from  the  injuries  of  my  enemy,  and  the  pres- 
sure of  hunger,  and  pa.>ised  to  the  ease  of  security, 
and  the  [pleasures  of  plenty.  Having  rested  and 
enjoyed  ourselves  two  or  three  days  in  Dizak,  we 
proceeded  on  to  Uraiippa. 

"  Dekhat  is  one  of  the  liill-districts  of  Uraiippa. 
It  lies  on  the  skirls  of  a  very  high  mountain,  imme- 
diately on  passing  which  you  come  on  the  country 
of  Masikha.  'Ihe  iiihabiiants,  though  Sarts,  have 
large  flocks  of  sheep,  and  herds  of  mnres,  like  llie 
Turks.  The  sheep  lieioniring  to  Dekhat  may 
amount  to  forty  thousand.  We  took  up  our  lodg- 
ings in  the  peasants'  houses.  I  lived  at  the  hou.«c 
of  one  of  ihe  head  men  of  the  place.  He  was  an 
aged  man,  seventy  or  eighty  years  old.  His  mother 
was  still  alive,  and  had  attained  an  extreme  old 
age,  being  at  this  time  a  hundred  and  eleven  years 
old.  (-)ne  of  ihirt  lady's  relations  had  accompanied 
the  army  of  'F'aimur  Beg.  when  it  invaded  Hin- 
dustan. The  circuiiisiancfs  remained  frefh  in  hiT 
rnemorv,  and  she  often  told  us  stories  on  that  sub- 
ject. In  the  district  of  Dekhat  alone,  there  still 
were  of  this  lady's  children,  grandchildren,  great- 
grandchildren, and  great-great-grandcliildnn,  to 
the  number  of  ninety-six  persons;  and  including 
ihope  deceased,  the  whole  amounted  lo  two  huri- 
drcd.  One  uf  her  greai-grundcliildn-n  was  at  this 
tune  a  young  man  of  twenty-live  or  iw<.'iity-HU 
years  of  age,  with  a  tine  block  beard.  Wlule  I 
Y 


278 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


Temained  in  Dekhat,  I  was  accustomed  to  walk  on 
foot  all  about  the  hills  in  the  neighbourhood.  I 
generally  went  out  barefoot,  and,  from  this  habit 
of  walking  barefoot,  I  soon  found  that  our  feet  be- 
came so  hardened  that  wc  did  not  mind  rock  or 
stone  in  the  least.  In  one  of  these  walks,  between 
afternoon  and  evening  prayers,  we  met  a  man  who 
was  going  with  a  cow  in  a  narrow  road.  I  asked 
him  the  way.  He  answered,  Keep  your  eye  fi.ved 
on  the  cow  ;  and  do  not  lose  sight  of  her  till  you 
come  to  the  issue  of  the  road,  when  you  will  know 
J'our  ground.  Khwajeh  Asedulla,  who  was  with  me, 
enjoyed  the  joke,  observing.  What  would  become 
of  U8  wise  men,  were  the  cow  to  lose  her  way? 

"  It  was  wonderfully  cold,  and  the  wind  of  Ha- 
derv/Tsh  had  here  lost  none  of  its  violence,  and 
blew  keen.  So  excessive  was  the  cold,  that  in  the 
course  of  two  or  three  days  we  lost  two  or  three 
persons  from  its  severity.  I  required  to  bathe  on 
account  of  my  religious  purifications  ;  and  went 
down  for  that  purpose  to  a  rivulet,  which  was  frozen 
on  the  banks,  but  not  in  the  middle,  i'rom  the  ra- 
pidity of  the  current.  I  plunged  myself  into  the 
water,  and  dived  sixteen  times.  The  extreme 
chilliness  of  the  water  quite  penetrated  ine." 

"  It  was  now  spring,  and  intelligence  was  brought 
that  Sheibani  Khan  was  advancing  against  Uratippa. 
As  Dekhat  was  in  the  low  country,  I  passed  by 
Abburd^en  and  Amani,  and  came  to  the  hill  country 
of  Mastkha.  Abburden  is  a  village  which  lies  at 
the  footof  Masikha.  Beneath  Abbtlrden  is  a  spring, 
and  close  by  the  spring  is  a  tomb.  From  this 
spring,  towards  the  upland,  the  country  belongs  to 
Masikha,  but  downwards  from  the  spring  it  de- 
pends on  Yclghar.  On  a  stone  which  is  on  the 
brink  of  this  spring,  on  one  of  its  sides,  I  cansed 
the  following  verses*  to  be  inscribed  : — 

I  have  lieard  that  the  exalted  Jemshid 

lnscrit)ed  on  a  stone  beside  a  fountain, 

'Many  a  man  like  us  has  rested  by  this  fountain. 

And  disappeared  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ! 

Should  we  conquer  the  whole  world  by  our  manhood 

and  strength. 
Yet  could  we  not  carry  it  with  us  to  the  grave." 

In  this  hill-country,  the  practice  of  cutting  verses 
and  other  inscriptions  on  the  rocks  is  extremely 
common." 

After  this,  he  contrives  partly  to  retrieve 
his  affairs,  by  uniting  himself  with  a  warlike 
Khan  of  his  family,  and  takes  the  field  with 
a  considerable  force  against  Tambol.  The 
following  account  of  a  night  skirmish  reminds 
us  of  the  chivalrous  doings  of  the  heroes  of 
Froissart : — 

"  Just  before  the  dawn,  while  o"'  men  were  still 
enjoying  themselves  in  sleep,  Kamber  Ali  Beg 
galloped  up,  exclaiming,  '  The  enemy  are  upon  us — 
rouse  up!'  Having  spoken  these  words,  without 
halting  a  moment,  he  passed  on.  I  had  gone  to 
sleep,  as  was  my  custom  even  in  times  of  .-^ciurity, 
•without  taking  off  my  ;V/77i«,  or  frock,  and  instantly 
arose,  girt  on  my  sabre  and  quiver,  and  mounted 
my  horse.  My  standard-bearer  seized  ihe  standard, 
but  without  having  time  to  lie  on  the  horse-tail  and 
colours;  but,  taking  the  banner-staff  in  his  hand 
just  as  it  was,  leaped  on  horseback,  and  we  pro- 
ceeded towards  the  quarter  from  which  the  enemy 
were  advancing.  When  I  first  mounted  there  were 
ten  or  fifteen  men  with  me.  By  the  time  I  had 
advanced  a  bowshot,  we  fell  in  with  the  enemy's 
skirmishers.  At  this  moment  there  might  be  about 
ten  men  with  me.  Riding  quick  up  to  them,  and 
giving  a  discharge  of  our  arrows,  we  came  upon 
the  most  advanced  of  them,  attacked  and  drove 
them  back,  and  continued  to  advance,  pursuing 
them  for  the  distance  of  another  bowshot,  when 
we  fell  in  with  the  main  body  of  the  enemy, 
yultan  Ahmed  Tambol  was  standing,  with  about  a 


From  the  Boslan  of  Sadi. — Leyden. 


hundred  men.     Tambol  was  speaking  with  anotht, 
person    in  the  front  of  the  line,  and  in  the  act  o 
saying,  '  8miie  them  !   Smite  them  !'  but  his  me 
were  sideling  in  a  hesitating  way,  as  if  sayin; 
'  Shall  we  flee?     Let   us  flee!'    but  yet  standii" 
sidl.     At  this  instant  there  were  left  with  me  onl 
three    persons:    one   of   these    was   Dost    Nasi 
anoiher  Mirza  Kfili  Gokultash,  and  Kerimdad  Kli4 
daidad,    the   Turkoman,    the   third.     One   arrov 
which  was  then  on  the  notch,  I  discharged  on  tl 
helmit  of  Tambol,  and  again  applied  my  hand 
my  quiver,  and  brought  out  a  green- tipped  barb* 
arrow,  which  my  uncle,  the  Khan,  had  given  m 
Unwilling  to  throw  it  away,  I  returned  it  to  tl 
quiver,  and  thus  lost  as  much  time  as  would  ha> 
allr)wed  of  shooting    two  arrows.     I  then  plac« 
anoiher  arrow  on  the  string,  and  advanced,  while  ili 
other  ihree  lagged  a  little  behind  me.  Twopereoii 
came  right  on  to  meet  me;  oneof  them  was  Tambc 
who  preceded  the  other.     There  was  a  highwi 
between  us.     He  mounting  on  one  side  of  it  as 
mounted  on  the  other,  we  encountered  on  itinsui' 
a   manner,  that    my  right  hand  was  towards  i»' 
enemy,   and   Tambol's   right   hand    towards  nil 
Except  the  mail  for  liis  horse.  Tambol  had  ail  ||i 
armour  and  accoutrements  complete.     I  had  or( 
my  sabre  and  bow  and  arrows.     I  drew  up  to  r' 
lar.  and  sent  right    for  him    the  arrow   whichi! 
had  in  my  hand.     At  that  very  inomeiu,  an  ami! 
of  the  kind  called  Sheibah  struck  me  on  the  rig' 
thigh,  and  pierced  through  and  through.     I  hat' 
steel  cap  on  my  head.     Tambol,  rushing  on,  snu 
me  such  a  blow  on  it  with  his  sword  as  to  stun  n 
though  not  a  thread  of  the  cap  was  penetrated. 
my  head  was  severely  wounded.     I  had  neglec 
to  clean  my  sword,  so  that  it  was  rusty,  and  I  ! 
time  in  drawing  it.     I  was  alone  and  single  in 
midst  of  a  multitude  of  enemies.    It  was  no  sea- 
for  standing  still ;  so  I  turned  my  bridle  round, 
ceiving  anoiher  sabre  stroke  on  ihe  arrows  in 
quiver.     I  had  gone   back  seven  or  eight  pac 
when   three  fooT  soldiers  came  up  and  joined 
Tambol  now  attacked  Dost  Nasir  sword  in  ha; 
They  followed  us  about  a  bowshot.    Arigh-Jak: 
shah  is  a  large  and  deep  stream,  which  is  not  fc 
able  everywhere  ;    but  God  directed  us  right 
that  we  came  exactly  upon  one  of  the  fords  of 
river.    Immediately  on  crossing  the  river,  the  he 
of  Dost  Nasir  fell  from  weakness.     We  haliei 
remount  him.  and  passing  among  the  hillocks  i 
are  between  Khirabiik  and  Feraghineh.  and  gc 
from  one  hillock  to  another,  we  proceeded  by  L 
roads  towards  Ush." 

We  shall  conclude  our  warlike  exlnJ 
with  the  following  graphic  and  lively  accot 
of  the  author's  attack  on  Akhsi,  and  his  si- 
sequent  repulse : — 

"  Sheikh  Bayezid  had  just  been  released,  \ 
was  entering  the  gale,  when  I  met  him.  I  im  • 
diately  drew  to  the  head  the  arrow  which  wsiii 
my  notch,  and  discharged  it  full  at  him.  It  J 
grazed  his  neck,  but  it  was  a  fine  shot.  The  • 
meni  he  had  entered  the  gale,  he  turned  shot  o 
the  right,  and  lied  by  a  narrow  street  in  great  • 
turbaiion.  I  pursued  him.  Mirza  Kuli  Goku!  h 
struck  down  one  foot-soldier  wiih  his  mace,  d 
had  passed  another,  when  the  fellow  aimed  ai  '• 
row  at  Ibrahim  Beg,  who  startled  him  by  excl  i- 
ing,  Hai !  Hai !  and  went  forward  ;  after  whicln 
man,  being  about  as  far  off  as  ilie  porch  of  a  li  i« 
is  from  the  hall,  let  fly  at  me  an  arrow,  which  si  » 
me  under  the  arm.  I  had  on  a  Kalmuk  mail;;'" 
plates  of  it  were  pierced  and  broken  from  the  I* 
After  shooting  the  arrow,  he  fled,  and  I  dische,« 
an  arrow  after  him.  At  that  very  moment  a  »■ 
soldier  happened  to  be  flying  along  the  rain'', 
and  my  arrow  pinned  his  cap  to  :he  wall,  wh  i' 
remained  shot  through  and  through,  and  dan  ig 
from  the  parapet.  Me  look  off  bis  tiirlian,  v -'h 
he  twisted  round  his  .•nin,  and  ran  away.  A  >'' 
on  horseback  passed  close  by  me,  fleeing  uj  n* 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


tfrow  lane  by  which  Sheikh  Bayezid  had  escaped. 
l;truck  him  such  a  blow  on  ihe  temples  with  the 
pnt  of  n)y  sword,  that  he  bent  over  as  if  ready  to 
i  from  his  horse;  but  supporting  himsell  on' the 
yll  of  the  lane,  he  did  not  lose  his  seat,  but  es- 
ced  with  the  utmost  hazard.  Having  dispersed 
a,the  horse  and  foot  that  were  at  the  gate,  we  took 
psessioii  of  it.  There  was  now  no  reasonable 
cmce  of  success ;  for  they  had  two  or  three  thou- 
Sid  well-armed  men  in  the  citadel,  while  I  had 
dy  a  handled,  or  two  hundred  at  most,  in  the 
Oicr  stone  lort :  and,  besides,  JehannTr  Mirza, 
a  ut  as  loiii;  before  as  milk  lakes  to  boil,  had  been 
bi'en  and  driven  out,  and  half  of  mv  men  were 
wjli  him." 

[^oon  after  this  there  is  an  unlucky  hiatus 
ii|i]l  the  manuscripts  of  the  Meinoirsj  so  that 
its  to  this  day  unknown  by  what  means  the 
h'oic  prince  escaped  from  his  treacherous 
abciates,  only  that  we  find  him,  the  year 
an;  warritig  prosperously  against  a  new  set 
o;nemies.  Of  his  military  e.xploits  and  ad- 
v^tures,  however,  we  think  we  have  now 
gen  a  sufficient  specimen. 

'n  these  we  have  said  he  resembles  the 
pudins  of  Europe,  in  her  days  of  chivalric 
e'erprise.  But  we  doubt  greatly  whether 
af  of  her  knightly  adventiuers  could  have 
gen  so  exact  an  account  of  the  qualities  and 
pductions  of  the  countries  they  visited  as 
tl  Asiatic  Sovereign  has  here  put  on  record. 
0;  Kabul,  for  example,  after  describing  its 
bjndaries,  rivers,  and  mountains,  he  says — 

This  country  lies  between  Hindustan  and  Kho- 
rcin.  It  is  an  excellent  and  profitable  market  for 
cctinodities.  Were  the  merchanis  to  carry  their 
gcjis  as  far  as  Khita  or  Riiin,*  they  would  scarcely 
gijihe  same  profit  on  them.  Every  year,  seven, 
ei't,  or  ten  ihouj^aiid  horses  arrive  in  Kabul.  From 
Hdustan,  every  year,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
piifisof  ci^li  are  brought  by  caravans.  The  com- 
mliiies  ot  Hindustan  are  slaves,  white  cloths, 
Siiir-candy,  refined  and  common  sugar,  drugs, 
atj  spices.  There  are  many  merchanis  that  are 
niisatisfied  wiih  getting  thirty  or  forty  for  ten.t 
T':  produ'-iions  of  Khorasan,  Riim,  Irak,  and 
Cjat,  may  all  be  found  in  Kabul,  wiiich  is  the  very 
etiorium  of  Hindustan.  lis  warm  and  cold  dis- 
trjs  are  close  by  each  other.  From  Kabul  you 
ni|  in  a  single  day  go  to  a  place  where  snow  never 
faj.  and  in  the  space  of  two  astronomical  hours, 
yi-imay  reach  a  spot  where  .snow  lies  always,  ex- 
ec' now  and  then  when  the  summer  happens  to 
boRculiariy  hot.  In  the  districts  dependant  on 
Klul,  there  is  great  abundance  of  the  fruits  both 
otjot  and  cold  climates,  and  they  are  found  in  iis 
injediate  vicinity.  The  fruits  of  the  cold  dis- 
tris  in  Kabul  are  grapes,  pomegranates,  apricots, 
pejhes,  pears,  apples,  quinces,  jnjiibes,  damsons, 
al.j)nds,  and  walnuts;  all  of  wiiicli  are  found  in 
grit  abundance.  I  caused  the  sour-cherry-tree  ^ 
to|e  bronglii  here  and  planted  ;  it  produced  ex- 
ccint  fruit,  and  continues  thriving.  The  fruits  it 
pojesses  peculiar  to  a  warm  climate  are  the  orange, 
citjn.il  the  amlnk,  and  sugar-cane,  which  are 
br|ghtfrom  ihe  Lam^hanat.  I  caused  the  susar- 
cai  to  be  brous^ht,  andplanted  it  here.  They  bring 
thiJelghuxek^  from  Nijrow.  They  have  num- 
_1 


(<hiia  is   Northern  China,  and  its  dependent 
princes.     Rum  is  Turkey,  particularly  the  pro- 
9  about  Trebizond. 
Hiree  or  four  hundred  per  cent. 
;;hin  is  ail  China.  ^  Alubala. 

\  berry  like  the  karinda. 
The  jeighuzek  is  the  seed  of  a  kind  of  pine,  the 
3  of  which  are  as  big  aa  a  man's  two  fists. 


279 

j  bcrs  of  bee-hives,  but  honey  is  brought  onlv  from 
I  the  hill-couniry  on  the  west.  The  rawii.sli  *'ot  K«- 
I  bul  is  of  oxcellenl  quality ;  its  quinces  and  dnniask 
I  plums  are  excellent,  as  well  aa  its  biidrcugs.t  'ihire 
I  isaspeciesof  grape  which  they  cull  the  water-graiM-, 
I  that  is  very  delicious  ;  its  wines  are  strong  and  in- 
j  toxicnting.     That    produced   on   (ho   skirl   of    the 

mouniain  of  Khwiijeh  Khan-Sanid  is  relebrBtid  lor 
,  iis  potency,  though  1  describe  it  only  from  what  I 

have  heard  : 

"The  (iriiikrr  knows  the  flavour  of  llic  wino;  bow 
slioulil  the  Kobcr  know  il )" 

'■  Kiibul  19  not  leriile  in  grnin  ;  a  return  of  four  or 
five  to  one  is  reckoned  fiivourable,  'Ihe  melons  too 
are  not  good,  but  those  raised  from  seed  brought 
from  Khorasiin  are  tolerable.  The  climate  is  ex- 
tremely delightlul,  and  m  this  respect  there  is  no 
such  place  in  the  known  world.  In  the  nights  of 
summer  you  cannoi  sleep  wiilioui  a  po8iTn(or  lamb- 
skin cloak.)  'I'hough  the  snow  falls  very  deep  in 
the  winter,  yet  the  cold  is  never  excessively  intense. 
Samarkand  and  Tabriz  arc  celebrated  for  their  fine 
clinnite,  but  the  winter  cold  there  is  extreme  be- 
yond measure," 

"  Opposite  to  the  forlof  Adinahpur,t  to  the  south, 
on  a  rising  ground,  1  formed  a  charbagh  (or  great 
garden),  in  the  year  nine  hundred  and  fourteen 
(1508),  It  is  called  Baghe  Vafii  (the  fJarden  of  Fi- 
delity). It  overlooks  the  river,  which  flows  between 
the  fort  and  the  palace.  In  the  year  m  which  I 
defeated  Behar  Khan  and  conquered  Lahore  and 
Dibalpur.  I  brought  plantains  and  planted  them 
here.  They  grew  and  thrived,  'ihe  year  before  I 
had  also  planted  the  sugar-cane  in  it,  which  throve 
remarkably  well.  I  sent  some  of  them  to  Badakh- 
shan  and  Bokhara.  It  is  on  an  elevated  site,  enjoys 
running  water,  and  the  climate  in  the  winter  sea.son 
is  temperate.  In  the  garden  there  is  a  small  hillock, 
from  which  a  stream  of  water,  sufTicieni  to  drive  a 
mill,  incessantly  flows  into  the  garden  below.  The 
four-fold  field-plot  of  this  garden  is  situated  on  this 
eminence.  On  the  south-west  part  of  this  garden 
is  a  reservoir  of  water  ten  gez  square,  which  is 
wholly  planted  round  with  orange  trees ;  there  are 
likewise  pomegranates.  All  around  the  piece  of 
water  the  ground  is  quite  covered  with  clover.  1'his 
spot  is  the  very  eye  of  the  beauty  of  the  garden. 
At  the  lime  when  the  orange  becomes  yellow,  the 
pro-pect  is  delightful.  Indeed  ilie  garden  is  charm- 
ingly laid  out.  To  the  souih  of  this  garden  lies  the 
Kohe-Sefid  (the  White  Mountain)  of  Nangenhar, 
which  separates  Bengash  from  Nangenhar.  There 
is  no  road  by  which  one  can  pass  it  on  horseback. 
Nine  streams  descend  from  this  mountain.  The 
snow  on  its  summit  never  diminishes,  whence  prob- 
aldy  comes  the  name  of  Koh-e-Sefidv  (the  White 
Mouniain).  No  snow  ever  falls  in  the  dales  at  its 
foot." 

"  1'he  wine  of  Dereh-Nur  is  famous  all  over 
Lamirhanat.  It  is  of  two  kinds,  which  they  term 
areh-ti'ishi  (the  stone-saw),  and  suhiht-tashi  (the 
stone-file),  I'he  sione-saw  is  of  a  yellowish  colour; 
the  stone-file,  of  a  fine  red.  The  stone-saw,  how- 
ever, is  the  belter  wine  of  the  two,  though  neither 
of  iliem  eijuals  their  reputation.  Higher  up,  at  the 
head  of  the  glens,  in  this  mountain,  there  are  some 
apes  to  be  met  with.     Apes  are  found  lower  down 


*  The  rawash  is  described  as  a  root  something 
like  beet-rooi.  bul  much  larger — white  and  red  in 
colour,  with  large  leaves,  that  rise  little  from  the 
ground  It  has  a  pleasant  mixture  of  sweet  and 
acid.     Il  may  be  the  rhubarb,  raweid. 

t  The  liiidreng  is  a  larue  green  fruit,  in  shape 
somewhat  like  a  citron.  The  name  is  also  applied 
to  a  large  sort  of  cucumber. 

t  The  fort  of  Adinahpur  is  to  the  south  of  the 
Kiibul  river. 

%  The  Koh-e-Sefid  is  a  remarkable  position  in 
the  geography  of  Afghanistan.  Il  is  seen  from 
Peshawer. 


280 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


towards  Hindustan,  but  none  higher  up  thaa  this  i 
hill.  The  inhabiianis  used  ibrmerly  to  keep  hogs.*  I 
but  in  my  time  they  have  renounced  the  practice."  : 

His  account  of  the  productions  of  his  pater-  | 
nal  kingdom  of  Ferghana  is  still  more  minute  i 
— telling  us  even  the  number  of  apple-trees  | 
in  a  particular  district,  and  making  mention  ' 
of  an  excellent  way  of  drying  apricots,  with  ' 
almonds  put  in  instead  of  the  stones ;  and  of 
a  wood  with  a  fine  red  bark,  of  admirable  use 
for  making  whip-handles  and  birds'  cages ! 
The  most  remarkable  piece  of  statistics,  how- 
ever, with  which  he  has  furnished  us,  is  in 
his  account  of  Hindustan,  which  he  first  en- 
tered as  a  conqueror  in  1525.  It  here  occu- 
pies twenty-five  closely-printed  quarto  pages; 
and  contains,  not  only  an  exact  account  of  its 
boundaries,  population,  resources,  revenues, 
and  divisions,  but  a  full  enumeration  of  all  its 
useful  fruits,  trees,  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes; 
with  such  a  minute  description  of  their  sev- 
eral habitudes  and  peculiarities,  as  would  make 
no  contemptible  figure  in  a  modern  work  of 
natural  history — carefully  distinguishing  the 
facts  which  rest  on  his  own  observation  from 
those  which  he  gives  only  on  the  testimony 
of  others,  and  making  many  suggestions  as  to 
the  means  of  improving,  or  transferring  them 
from  one  region  to  another.  From  the  de- 
tailed botanical  and  zoological  descriptions. 
we  can  afford  of  course  to  make  no  extracts. 
What  follow^s  is  more  general : — 

"  Hindustan  is  situated  in  the  first,  second,  and 
third  climates.  No  part  of  it  is  in  the  fourth.  It  is 
a  remarkably  fine  country.  It  is  quite  a  different 
world,  compared  with  our  countries.  Its  hills  and 
rivers,  its  forests  and  plains,  its  animals  and  plants, 
its  inhabitants  and  their  languages,  its  winds  and 
rains,  are  all  of  a  different  nature.  Although  the 
Gerinsils  (or  hot  districts),  in  the  territory  of  Kabul, 
bear,  in  many  respects,  some  rnsemblance  to  Hin- 
dustan, while  in  other  particulars  they  differ,  yet 
you  have  no  sooner  passed  the  river  Sind  than  the 
country,  the  trees,  the  stones,  the  wandering 
tribes, t  the  manners  and  cnsioms  of  the  people,  are 
all  entirely  those  of  Hindustan.  The  northern 
range  of  hills  has  been  mentioned.  Immediately  on 
crossing  tiie  river  Sind,  we  come  upon  several 
countries  in  this  range  of  mountains,  connected  with 
Kashmir,  such  as  Pekheli  and  Shemeng.  Most  of 
them,  though  now  independent  of  Kashmir,  were 
formerly  included  in  its  territories.  After  leaving 
Kashmir,  these  hills  contain  innumerable  tribes  and 
etates,  Pergannahs  and  countries,  and  extend  all  the 
way  to  Bongal  and  the  shores  of  the  Great  Ocean. 
About  these  hills  are  other  tribes  of  men." 

"The  country  and  towns  of  Hindustan  are  e.\- 
tremely  ugly.  All  its  towns  and  lands  have  an 
uniform  look;  iis  gardens  have  no  walls;  the 
greater  part  of  it  is  a  level  plain.  The  banks  of  its 
rivers  and  streams,  in  consequence  of  the  rushing 
of  the  torrents  that  descend  during  the  rainy  season, 
are  worn  deep  into  the  ch.innel,  which  makes  it 
generally  difficult  and  troublesome  to  cross  them. 
In  many  places  the  plain  is  covered  by  a  thorny 
brush-wood,  to  such  a  degree  that  the  people  of  the 
Pergannahs,  relying  on  those  forests,  take  shelter 
in  them,  and,  trusting  to  their  inaccessible  situation, 
often  continue  in  a  state  of  revolt,  refusing  to  pay 
their  taxes.  In  Hindustan,  if  you  except  the  rivers, 
there  is  little  running  water.t     Now  and  then  some 


standing  water  is  to  be  met  with.  All  these  cit  • 
and  countries  derive  their  water  from  wells  or  tan! 
in  which  it  is  collected  during  the  rainy  season. 
Hindustan,  the  populousness  and  decay,  or  to 
destruction  of  villages,  nay  of  cities,  is  almost  : 
stantaneous.  Large  cities  that  have  been  inhabi; 
for  a  series  of  years,  (it,  on  an  alarm,  the  inhabiiai 
take  to  flight,)  in  a  single  day,  or  a  day  and  a  h; 
are  so  completely  abandoned,  that  you  can  scarce 
discover  a  trace  or  mark  of  population."* 

The  prejudices  of  the  more  active  a 
energetic  inhabitant  of  the  hill  countrj-  i 
still  more  visible  in  the  following  passage  :• 

"  Hindustan  is  a  country  that  has  few  pleasu 
to  recommend  it.t  The  people  are  not  handson 
They  have  no  idea  of  the  charms  of  friendly  socic 
of  frankly  mixing  together,  or  of  familiar  iniercour 
They  have  no  genius,  no  comprehension  of  mi 
no  politeness  of  manner,  no  kindness  or  fello 
feeling,  no  ingenuity  or  mechanical  invention 
planning  or  executing  their  handicraft  works, 
skill  or  knowledge  in  design  or  architecture;  tl 
have  no  good  horses,  no  good  flesh,  no  grapes 
musk-melonst,  no  good  fruits,  no  ice  or  cold  wai 
no  good  food  or  bread  in  their  bazars,  no  baihf 
colleges,  no  candles,  no  torches,  not  a  candlesticl 

"  The  chief  excellency  of  Hindustan  is,  thati 
a  large  country,  and  has  abundance  of  gold  ;■ 
silver.  The  climate  during  the  rains  is  very  pleasi: 
On  some  days  it  rains  ten,  fifteen,  ar.d  even  twe 
times.     During  the  rainy  season,  inundations  ci 
pouring  down  all  at  once,  and  form  rivers,  evei 
places  where,   at  other  times,  there  is  no  wn 
While  the  rains  continue  on  the  ground,  the  a 
singularly  delightful — insomuch,  that  nothing 
surpass  its  soft  and  agreeable  temperature.    Its 
feet   is,    that   the   air   is    rather  moist  and  da 
During  the  rainy  season,  you  cannot  shoot,  f 
with  the  bow  of  our  country,  and  it  becomes  q 
useless.     Nor  is  it  the  bow  alone  that  beco 
useless;  the  coats  of  mail,  books,  clothes,  and 
niture,    all   feel  the   bad  effects   of  the   moist. 
Their  houses,  too,  suffer  from  not  bci  g  subs  • 
lially  built.     There  is  pleasant  enough  weathei 
the  winter  and  summer,  as  well   as   in  the  «,> 
season  ;  but  then  the  north  wind  always  blows,  i 
there  is  an  excessive  quantity  of  earth  and  dust  • 
ing  about.     When  the  rains  are  at  hand,  this  v  1 
blows  five  or  six  times  with  excessive  violence,  I 


*  This  praclicp  Baber  viewed  with  disgust,  the  hog 
being  an  impure  animal  in  the  Muhammedan  law. 
t  "The  lis  and  Uhiscs." 
t  In  Persia  there  are  few  rivers,  but  numbers  of 


artifical  canals  or  water-runs  for  irrigation,  anrf  ■ 
the  supply  of  water  to  towns  and  villages, 
same  is  the  case  in  the  valley  of  Soghd,  and  5 
richer  parts  of  Maweralnalier. 

*  "  'I'his  is  the  wiiha  or  walsa,  so  well  descr,! 
by  Colonel  Wilks  in  his  Historical  Sketches,  V'A 
p.  309.  note  :  '  On  the  approach  of  an  hostile  ar  , 
the  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  India  bury  u  r 
ground  their  most  cuinbrous  effects,  and  each  i- 
vidual,  man,  woman,  and  child  ai)ove  six  yeni'i 
age,  (the  infant  children  being  carried  by  i' 
mothers,)  with  a  load  of  grain  proportioned  to  I 
strength,  issue  from  their  beloved  lnunes,  and  '« 
the  direction  of  a  country  (if  such  can  be  fo  D 
exempt  from  the  miseries  of  war  ;  sunietimes  • 
strong  fortress,  but  more  generally  of  the  mos'  i- 
frequented  hills  and  woods,  where  tliey  prolo  i 
miserable  existence  until  the  departure  o(  the  .'• 
my ;  and  if  this  should  be  protracted  beyonc  •• 
time  for  which  they  have  provided  food,  a  /• 
portion  necessarily  dies  of  hunger.'  .'^ee  thfe  '• 
itself.  The  Historical  Sketches  should  be  reaij 
every  one  who  desires  to  have  an  accurate  idij" 
the  South  of  India.  It  is  to  be  regretted  llu* 
do  not  possess  the  history  of  any  other  part  o  * 
dia,  written  with  the  same  knowledge  or  reseafc 

t  Babcr's  opinions  regarding  India  are  nearl* 
same  with  those  of  most  Europeans  of  the  »'*' 
class,  even  at  the  present  day. 

t  Grapes  and  musk-melons,  particularly  th  it* 
ter,  are  now  common  all  over  India. 


MEMOmS  OF  RARFTx. 


281 


iijh  a  quantity  of  dust  flies  about  that  you  cannot 
;<  one  another.  They  call  this  an  Audlii.*  It 
r.i  warm  during  Taurus  and  Gemini,  but  not  so 
vjm  as  to  become  intolerable.  The  heat  cannot 
)^;ompared  to  the  heats  ol'  Balkh  and  Kandaliiir. 
Is  not  above  halt  so  warm  as  in  these  places. 
\')iher  convenience  of  Hindustan  is,  that  the 
V  kmen  of  every  profession  and  trade  are  inmi- 
nable  and  without  end.  For  any  work,  or  any 
mloyment,  there  is  always  a  set  ready,  to  whom 
1:  same  employment  and  trade  have  descended 
r  1  father  to  son  for^ages.  In  the  Zefer-Nameh 
ifl'illa  Sherif-ed-din  Ali  Yezdi,  it  is  mentioned 
is.  surprising  fact,  that  when  Taimur  Reg  was 
n.iing  the  Sangin  (or  stone)  mosque,  there  were 
tie-cutters  of  Azerbaejan,  Fars,  Hindustan,  and 
it^r  countries,  to  the  number  of  two  hundi;ed, 
v'king  every  day  on  the  mosque.  In  Agra  alone, 
ii'of  stone-cutters  belonging  to  that  place  only,  I 
Vy  day  employed  on  my  palaces  si.\  hundred  and 
ijjt'y  persons ;  and  in  Agra,  Sikri,  Biana,  Dhulpiir, 
Jlliar,  and  Koel,  there  were  every  day  employed 
iroy  works  one  thousand  tour  hundred  and  ninety- 
mstone-cutiers.  In  the  same  way,  men  of  every 
Tij  and  occupation  are  numberless  and  without 
ti'  in  Hindustiin. 
|The  countries  from  Behreh  to  Behar,  which 
iffnow  under  my  dominion,  yield  a  revenue  of 
ifl-two  krors,+  as  will  appear  from  the  particular 
iri  detailed  statement. t  Of  this  amount,  Per- 
jajiahs  to  the  value  of  eight  or  nine  krors"5i  arc  in 
nJDOssrssion  of  some  Rais  and  Rajas,  who  t>om 
il(;imes  have  been  submissive,  and  have  received 
he  Pergannahs  for  the  purpose  of  confirming 
ha  in  their  obedience." 

ihese  Memoirs  contain  many  hundred  char- 
icirs  and  portraits  of  individuals;  and  it 
nlld  not  be  fair  not  to  give  our  readers  one 
invo  specimens  of  the  royal  author's  minute 
itjs  of  execution  on  such  subjects.  We  may 
)ein  with  that  of  Omer-Sheikh  Mirza,  his 
;r,.dfather,  and  immediate  predecessor  in 
hithrone  of  Ferghana  : — 

jOmer-Sheikh  Mirza  was  of  losv  stature,  had  a 
hi;  bushy  beard,  brownish  hair,  and  was  very 
.oijlent.  He  used  to  wear  his  tunic  extremely 
ig{;  insomuch,  that  as  he  was  wont  to  contract 
iiselly  while  he  tied  the  strings,  when  he  let  him- 
eljout  again  the  strings  often  burst.  He  was  not 
ui|us  in  either  his  food  or  dress.  He  tied  his 
urkn  in  the  fashion  called  Deslar-pich  (or  plaited 
urin).  At  that  time,  all  turbans  were  worn  in 
m-har-pech  (or  four-plaii)  style.  He  wore  his 
Wput  folds,  and  allowed  the  end  to  hang  down. 
)i!ng  the  heats,  when  out  of  the  Divan,  he  gene- 
al'  wore  the  .Moghnl  cap. 

"i  le  read  elegantly  :  his  general  reading  was 
hei^hamsahs.ll  the  Mesnevis.lT  and  books  of  bis- 
on; and  he  was  in  partifular  fond  of  reading  the 
Jhjnameh.**  'I'hough  he  had  a  turn  for  poetry, 
e|j  not  cultivate  it.  He  was  so  strictly  jusi,  that 
the  caravan  from  Khita+t  had  once  reached  the 


his  is  still  the  Hindustani  term  for  a  storm,  or 
enfjst. 

bout  a  million  and  a  half  sterling,  or  rather 

(mi. 

his  statement   unfortunately   has   not   been 
ircfrved. 

out  225,000Z.  sterling. 
Several    Persian   poets   wrote    Khamsahs.   or 
s,  on  tive  different  given  subjects.     The  most 
elijrated  is  Nezaini. 
'['he  most  celebrated  of  these  Mesnevis  is  the 
ny  cal  poem  of  Moulavi  Jiliileddin  Muhammed. 
Hi  Sufis  consider  it  as  equal  to  the  Koran. 

*The  Shahn/imeh,  or  Book  of  Kings,  is  the  fa- 

ao    poem   of  the  great    Persian   poet  Ferdausi, 

ndjoniains  the  romantic  history  of  ancient  Persia. 

+iNorth  China ;  but  often  applied  to  the  whole 

36 


hill  country  to  the  east  of  Andejnn,  and  iho  snow 
fell  so  deep  as  to  burv  if,  so  that  of  the  whole  only 
two  persons  escaped,  he  no  sooner  rcicivcd  m- 
formaiion  of  tlio  occurrence,  llian  he  di  Hpaichcd 
overseers  to  collect  and  take  charRc  of  nil  tin-  prop- 
erty and  ertbcis  of  the  pt'ople  of  uio  cninvoii ;  and, 
wherever  the  heirs  were  not  nt  hand,  though  him- 
self in  great  want,  his  resources  being  e.xliniistcd, 
he  placed  the  property  under  soqucst ration,  and  pro- 
served  it  uniouchod;  till,  m  the  coiirsr  of  one  or 
two  years,  the  heirs,  cotning  from  Khor.isiui  and 
Samarkand,  in  consciiuence  of  the  intimation  whidj 
they  received,  he  delivered  back  the  good.s  sate 
and  uninjured  into  their  hands.*  Hi^  generosity 
was  large,  and  so  was  his  whole  soul ;  ln'  was  ol  nn 
excellent  temper,  affable,  eloquent,  and  sweet  in 
his  conversation,  yet  brave  wiihnl,  and  niniily. 
On  two  occasions  he  advanced  in  Imnt  of  the 
troops,  and  exhibited  distinguished  prowess;  once, 
at  the  gales  of  Akhsi,  and  once  ni  the  gates  of 
Shahrokhia.  He  was  a  middling  shot  with  the 
bow ;  he  had  uncommon  force  in  his  fisis,  and 
never  hit  a  man  whom  he  did  not  knock  down. 
From  his  excessive  ambition  tor  conqin'si,  he  often 
exchanged  peace  for  war.  and  friendship  tor  hosiilitv. 
In  the  earlier  part  of  his  life  he  wns  greatly  ad- 
dicted to  drinking  biizeh  and  lalar.t  I.,aiierlv, 
once  or  twice  in  the  week,  he  indultred  in  a  lirink. 
iitg  party.  He  was  a  pleasant  companion,  and  in 
the  course  of  conversation  used  often  to  cite,  with 
great  felicity,  appropriate  verses  from  the  poets.  In 
his  latter  days  he  was  much  addicted  to  the  use  of 
Maajiin,t  while  under  the  influence  of  which  he  was 
subject  to  a  feverish  irritabilitv-  He  was  a  humane 
man.  He  played  a  great  deal  at  backgammon, 
and  someiiiiies  at  games  of  chance  wiiii  the  dice.' 

The  following  is  the  memorial  of  Hussain 
Mirza.  king  of  Khorasan,  vrho  died  in  1506: 

"He  had  straight  narrow  eyes,  his  body  was  robust 
and  firm  ;  from  the  waist  downwards  he  was  of  a 
slenderer  make.  Although  he  was  advanced  in 
years,  and  had  a  white  beard,  he  dressed  in  gay-co- 
loured red  and  green  woollen  clothes.  He  usually 
wore  a  cap  of  black  lamb's  skin,  or  a  kilpak.  Now 
and  then,  on  festival  days,  he  put  on  a  small  (urban 
tied  in  three  folds,  broad  and  showy,  and  having 
placed  a  plume  nodding  over  it,  went  in  this  style  to 
prayers. 

"On  first  mounting  the  throne,  he  took  it  into 
his  head  that  he  would  cause  the  names  of  the 
twelve  Imams  to  be  recited  in  the  Klmtbeh.  .Many 
used  their  endeavours  to  prevent  him.  F'inally, 
however,  he  directed  and  arranoed  everv  thing  ac- 
cording to  the  orthodo.x  Sunni  faith.  From  a  dis- 
order in  his  joints,  he  was  unable  to  perform  his 
prayers,  nor  could  he  oliserve  the  stated  fasts.  He 
was  a  lively,  pleasant  man.  His  temper  was  rather 
hasty,  and  his  language  took  after  his  temper.  In 
many  instances  he  displayed  a  prolound  reverence 
for  the  faith  ;  on  one  occasion,  one  of  tiis  sons  hav- 
ing slain  a  man,  he  delivered  him  up  to  the  avengers 
of  blood  to  be  carried  before  the  judgment-seat  of 
the  Kazi.  For  about  six  or  seven  years  after  he 
first  ascended  the  throne,  he  was  very  iiiiarded  in 
abstaining  from  such  things  as  were  iorbiddcn  by 


country  from  China  to  Terfan,  and  now  even  west 
to  the  Ala-iagh  Mountains. 

*  This  anecdote  is  erroneously  related  of  Daber 
himsrlf  by  Feriehta  and  others. — Sec  Dow's  Hitt. 
of  Ilindogtan,  vol.  ii.  p.  218. 

t  Bnzoh  is  a  sort  of  intoxicating  liquor  somewhat 
resembling  beer,  made  from  millet.  Tulnr  I  do 
not  know,  but  understand  it  to  be  a  preparation 
from  the  poppy.  There  is,  however,  nothing  about 
bi'izeh  or  lalar  in  the  Por.sian,  which  only  specifics 
fhernh,  wine  or  strong  drink. 

t  Any  medical  mixture  is  called  a  ninnjim  ;  hut 
in  common  speech  the  term  is  chiefly  ninilii'd  to  in- 
toxicaiing  comfits,  and  especially  those  prti)ared 
with  bang. 

t2 


fflSTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


282 

the  law :  afterwards  he  became  addicted  to  drinking 
wine.  During  nearlv  forty  years  that  '"^  wa«  l^'''g 
Of  Khorasan,  not  a  day  P^^^ed  in  wh.ca  c  d.d  ■  ot 
drink  afier  mid-day  prayers;  but  he  ne  er  drank 
wine  in  the  morning.  ^  II.s  ^«"«i  f ^pi  hfs  rxa  n 
soldiery,  and  ihe  town's-people,  follou  ed  hi^  exam- 
ple in  th.s  resp.,ct.  and  seemed  to  v,e  ^y>.h  each 
other  in  debauchery  and  lasciviousnesb.  He  was  a 
b  ave  and  vahant  man.  He  olien  engaged  sword 
in  hand  in  iigl.t.  nay,  frequently  distinguished  h.s 
prowess  hand'to  han^  several  times  in  the  course  of 
thp  <;ame  fi^ht.  No  person  oi  the  race  of  I  aimui 
BeVe^r  equalled  Sultan  Hussain  Mirza  in  the  use 
of  tlie  scym.tar.  He  had  a  turn  for  poetry,  and  com- 
nosed  a  Diwin.  He  wrote  in  the  Turk,.  His  poet- 
fcalname  was  Hussaini.  Many  of  his  verses  are  far 
from  bdng  bad,  but  the  whole  of  ,he  Mirza  s  D.wan 
is  in  the  same  measure.  Although  a  prmceoi  dignity, 
both  as  to  years  and  e.xieut  of  terruory,  he  was  as 
fond  as  a  child  of  keeping  butting  rams,  and  of  amu- 
sing himself  with  flying  pigeons  and  cock-hghiing. 

One  of  the  most  striking  passages  in  the 
work  is  the  royal  author's  account  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  court  and  city  of  Herat,  when 
he  visited  it  in  1506;  and  especially  his  im- 
posinc^  catalogue  of  the  illustrious  authors,  art- 
ists, and  men  of  genius,  by  whom  it  was  then 
adorned . 

"  The  a<rp  of  Sultan  Hussain  Mirza  was  certainly 
a  wonderful  age ;  and  Khorasan,  particularly  the 
city  of  Heri,  abounded  with  eminent  men  oi  tinn- 
valled  acquirements,  each  of  whom  made  it  his  aim 
and  ambition  to  carry  to  the  highest  P'^'rfect.o.i  the 
art  to  whicli  he  devoted  himself.  Among  these  was 
the  MouU.na  Abdal  Rahman  Jann,*  to  vvhom  there 
was  no  person  of  that  period  who  could  be  compar- 
ed whether  in  resi.ed  to  profane  or  sacred  science. 
His  poems  are  well  known.  The  merits  of  the 
Mulla  are  of  too  exalted  a  nature  to  admit  oi  being 
described  by  me  ;  but  I  have  been  anxious  to  bring 
the  mention  of  his  name,  and  an  allusion  to  his  ex- 
cellences, into  these  humble  pages,  for  a  good  omen 
and  a  blessing!" 

He  then  proceeds  to  enumerate  the  names 
of  between  thirty  and  forty  distinguished  per- 
sons: ranking  fiVst  the  sages  and  theologians, 
to  the  number  of  eight  or  nme  ;  next  the 
poets,  about  fifteen  ;  then  two  or  three  paint- 
ers ;  and  live  or  six  performers  and  composers 
of  music ;— of  one  of  these  he  gives  the  fol- 
lowing instructive  anecdote — 

"  Another  was  Hiissian  Udi  (the  lutanist),  who 
played  with  great  taste  on  the  lute,  and  composed 
elegantly.  He  could  play.  w.^mA'  only  one  string  ol 
his  lute  at  a  time.  He  had  the  fault  ot  giving  him- 
self many  airs  when  desired  to  play.  On  one  oc- 
casion Shcibani  Khan  desired  him  to  play.  A  ter 
givin-  much  trouble  he  played  very  ill,  and  besides, 
did  not  brinf  his  own  instrument,  but  one  that  was 
good  for  nothing.  Sheibani  Khan,  on  learning  how 
matters  stood,  directed  that,  at  that  very  party,  he 
should  receive  a  ceHain  nuviherof  Wo ";.""'«  thenech. 
This  was  one  good  deed  that  Sheibani  Khan  did  m 
his  day  ;  and  indeed  the  aflectaiion  of  such  people 
deserves  even  more  severe  animadversion. 

In  the  seductions  of  this  luxurious  comt, 
Baber's  orthodox  abhorrcMice  to  wine  was  first 
assailed  with  temptation :— and  there  is  some- 
thing very  naive,  we  think,  in  his  account  ol 
his  reasonings  and  feelings  on  the  occasion. 


"  As  we  were  guests  at  MozefTer  Mirza's  he  e, 
Mozeflur  Mirza  placed  me  above  himself,  and  ■». 
in^  filled  up  a  glass  of  welcome,  the  cupbeare  in 
wailing  began  to  supply  all  who  were  ot  thejiy 
with  pure  wine,  which  ihey  quaflVd  as  if  it  had  m 
the  water  ot  life.     The  party  waxed  warm,  an  \e 
spirit  mounted  up  to  their  heads.  They  took  a!  :y 
to  make  me  drink  too,  and  bring  me  into  the :  w 
circle  with  themselves.     Although,  all  thai  tii   I 
had  never  been  guilty  of  drinknig  wine,  andun 
never  having  fallen  into  the  practice  was  ign  nt 
of  the  sensations  it  produced,  yet  I  had  a  sng 
lurking  inclination  to  wander  in  this  desert,  an^  ly 
heart  was  much  disposed  to  pass  the  stream. In 
my  boyhood  I  had  no  wish  for  u,  ;md  did  not  iiw 
its  pleasures  or  pains.  When  my  taiher  at  anyne 
asked  ine  to  drink  wine,  I  excused  myself,  aujb- 
stained.     After  my  father's  death,  by  the  gua;an 
care  of  Khwajeh  Kazi,  I  remained  pure  and  vie- 
filed.     I  abstained  even  from  forbidden  foods ;  )w 
then  was  I  likely  to  indulge  in  wine  ?     Aftervxli 
when   from  the  force  of  youthful  imaginalioind 
constitutional  impulse,  I  got  a  desire  lor  wine,  lad 
nobody  about  my  person  to  invite  me  to  grant  ny 
wishes  ;  nay,  there  was  not  one  who  even  susf  ed 
my  secret  longing  for  it.     Though  1  had  the  le- 
tile,  therefore,  u  was  difficult  tor  me.  unsoliciiu 
I  was,  to  indulge  such  unlawful  desires.    I  ow 
came  into  mv  head,  that  as  they  urged  me  so  i  th. 
and  as,  besides,  I  had  come  into  a  rehned  cil;ike 
Heri,  in  which  every  means  of  heighieningpli.are 
and  "aiety  was  possessed  in  perieciion ;  in    ich 
all  the  incentives  and  apparatus  of  enjoy ment,er« 
combined  with  an  invitation  to  indulgence,  ifdid 
not  seize  the  present  moment,  I  never  could  i'«t 
'^uch  another.     I  therefore  resolved  to  drink  le! 
But  it  struck  me,  that  as  Badia-ez-zeman  .rxi 
was  the  eldest  brother,  and  as  I  had  declined  i'mt- 
ing  ii  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  house  he  mig  now 
take  ofience.     I  therefore  mentioned  this  dililiy 
which  had  occurred  to  me.     My  excuse  wap- 
proved  of,  and  I  was  not  pressed  any  more.  Urn 
party,  to  drink.     It  was  settled,  however,  tllbe 
next  time  we  met  at  Badia-ez-zeman  Mir .8.  I 
should  drink  when  pressed  by  the  two  Mirz;^ 

By  some  providential  accident,  ho^Ver, 
the  conscientious  prince  escaped  frorlthis 
meditated  lapse ;  and  it  was  not  till  me 
years  after,  that  he  gave  way  to  thejing- 
cherished  and  resisted  propensity.  A:hat 
particular  occasion  he  first  fell  into  the  an-, 
unfortunately  is  not  recorded— as  theriBi 
blank  of  several  years  in  the  Memoi  pre- 
vious to  1519.  In  that  year,  howevf  ve 
find  him  a  confirmed  toper;  and  nothi,,  in- 
deed, can  be  more  ludicrous  than  the  ac  ••acy 
and  apparent  truth  with  which  he  coi  me> 
to  chronicle  all  his  subsequent  and  ve^lre- 


*  No  moral  poet  ever  had  a  higher  reputation 
than  Jami.  His  poems  are  written  with  sreat 
beauty  of  lansuage  and  versification,  in  acaptivat 
strain  of  reli-ioiis  and  philosophic  mysticism. 
is  not  merely  admired  ijjr  his  subhmity  as  a  poet 
but  venerated  as  a  saint." 


He 


quent  excesses.  The  Eastern  votary 
toxication  has  a  pleasant  way  ot  varyi,  Ji 
eniovments,  which  was  never  taken  W 
West .  When  the  fluid  el.mients  of  dr  ten- 
ness  begin  to  pall  on  him,  he  betakes  n  w 
what  is  learnedly  called  a  vmioj-oi,  bein  joj 
of  electuary  or  confection,  made  ui^m 
pleasant  spices,  and  rendered  poten,oy» 
large  admixture  of  opium,  bang,  am  U»er 
narcotic  ingredients  ;  producing  a  sohd  Utt  • 
cation  of  a  very  delightful  and  desira.'^J  ; 
scription.  One  of  the  first  dnnking  r:^^ 
that  is  described  makes  honourable  r  noof' 
of  this  variety  :—  , 

"The  maajun-takers  and  ^pi>-"-''7"''.^i;^i£ 
hive  different  tastes,  are  very  apt  !"  f/^ij'ji,, 
with  each  other.  I  said,  '  P«"  \«P'V  •  f 'w  let 
of  the  party;  whoever  wishes  to  druiksf". 


MEMOIRS  OF  BABER. 


2S3 


jim  drink  spirits ;  and  let  him  that  prefers  ninnjun, 
like  tr.anjun  ;  and  let  not  the  one  party  give  any 
Jle  or  provoking  language  to  the  other.'  Some  sat 
jown  to  spirits,  some  to  niaajiln.  The  panv  went 
|n  for  some  time  tolerably  well.  Baba  Jiin  knbnzi 
ad  not  been  in  the  boat ;  we  had  sent  for  him  when 
I'e  reached  the  royal  tents.  He  chose  to  drink 
liirits.  Terdi  Mahammed  Kipchfik,  loo,  was  sent 
j)r,  and  joined  the  spirit-drinkers.  As  the  spirit- 
drinkers  and  maajiin-takers  never  can  agree  in  one 
[arty,  the  spirit-bibing  party  began  to  indulge  in 
polish  and  idle  conversation,  and  to  make  provok- 
\ig  remarks  on  maajiin  and  maajim-takers.  Biiba 
An,  too,  getting  drunk,  talked  very  absurdly.  The 
pplers,  tilling  up  glass  afier  glass  for  'i'crdi  Mii- 
[■iinnied,  made  him  drink  them  off.  so  that  in  a 
ery  short  time  he  was  mad  drunk.  Whatevor 
^eriions  I  could  make  to  preserve  peace,  were  all 
unavailing ;  there  was  much  uproar  and  wrangling, 
i'he  party  became  quite  burdensome  and  unplea- 
jint,  and  soon  broke  up." 

I  The  second  day  after,  we  find  the  roj-al 
acchanal  still  more  grievously  overtaken  : 

"  We  continued  drinking  spirits  in  the  boai  till 
»d-iime  pr.'iyers,  when,  being  completely  drunk, 
le  mounted,  and  taking  torches  in  our  hands  came 
>  full  gallop  back  to  the  camp  from  the  river-side, 
lling  sometimes  on  one  side  of  the  horse,  and 
Miieiimes  on  the  other.  I  was  miserably  drunk, 
id  next  morning,  when  they  told  me  of  our  having 
illoped  into  the  camp  with  lighted  torches  in  our 
mds.  r  had  not  the  slighle.'t  recollection  nf  the 
rciiinsiance.  After  coming  home,  I  vomited 
entifally." 

Even  in  the  middle  of  a  harassing  and  des- 
IfoiT  campaign,  there  is  no  intermission  of 
lis  e.vcessive  jollity,  though  it  sometimes  puts 
le  parties  into  jeopardy, — for  example  :  — 

'  We  cominued  at  this  place  drinking  till  the  sun 
as  on  the  decline,  when  we  set  out.  Those  who 
!id  been  of  the  party  were  completely  drunk. 
I,'ed  Kasim  was  so  drunk,  that  two  of  his  servants 
lere  obliged  to  put  him  on  horseback,  ami  brought 
m  to  the  camp  with  great  difficulty.  Dost  Mu- 
mmed Bakir  was  so  far  gone,  that  A  nun  Mu- 
mmed Terkhan.  Masti  Chehreh,  and  those  who 
ere  along  with  him,  were  unable,  with  all  their 
iertions,  to  get  him  on  horseback.  They  poured 
fc;reat  quantity  of  water  over  him,  but  all  to  no 
jirpose.  At  this  moment  a  body  of  Afghans  ap- 
|ared  m  sight.  Amin  Muhammed  I'erkhaii, 
|ing  very  drunk,  gravely  gave  it  as  his  opinion, 
ai  rather  than  leave  him.  in  the  condition  in  which 
I  was,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  it  was 
filer  at  once  to  cut  ofT  his  head,  and  carry  it 
^av.     iVIaking  another   e.xertion,    however,   with 

fich  difficulty,  ihey  contrived  to  throw  him  upon 
horse,  which  they  led  along,  and  so  brought 
pi  ofT." 

I  On  some   occasions   they   contrive    to   be 
|unk  four  times  in  twenty-four  hours.     The 
fliant  prince  c.ontents  himself  with  a  strong 
jjun  one  day  :  but 

Next  morning  we  had  a  drinking  pariy  in  the 
e  tent.  We  continued  drinking  till  night.  On 
i;  following  morning  we  again  had  an  early  eup. 
id.  getting  intoxicated,  went  to  sleep.  About 
ijon-day  prayers,  we  left  Isialif.  and  I  took  a 
liajiin  on  the  road.  It  was  about  afternoon  prayers 
Hbre  I  reached  Bthziidi.  TIk-  crops  were  ex- 
tmely  good.  While  I  was  riding  round  the  har- 
'Ht-fields,  such  of  my  companions  an  were  fond 
'•wine  began  to  contrive  onotlicr  drinking- bout 
■jihough  I  had  taken  a  manjun.  yet.  ax  the  crop^ 
W^e  uncommonly  fine  !  we  sat  down  under  sonio 
t«8  thai  had  yielded  a  pleniiful  load  of  fruit  and 
iRan  to  drink.    We  kept  up  the  parly  in  the  same 


place  till  bed-lime  prayers.  Mull  MNhmtid  Khnlifi-h 
having  arrived,  we  invited  him  to  join  \\%.  .M.dnlln, 
who  hnd  got  vi-ry  drunk,  iniuie  an  ol.srrvii  lui 
whiih  ntr-cted  Khalileh.  Without  rei-olb  riiTiu  ih:it 
Mulla  .Muhmud  was  present,  he  repeated  the  *rr»r. 
l/Vr»ioii.)  Kxamino  wh<iin  you  will,  you  will  lii.d 
him  t<ul1riing  lr,im  the  siiiiie  wound, 
Mully  .Mahmud.  who  did  not  drink,  reproved  .Ab- 
dilla  for  rcDrating  this  verse  with  iovity.*  Al)dallii, 
recovering  his  judgment,  was  in  l«rri  >le  pcriur!>n- 
tion,  and  conversed  iii  n  wonderfully  smuolh  and 
sweet  strain  all  the  rest  of  ilie  evening." 

In  a  year  or  two  after  this,  whi'ii  h«!  wema 
to  be  in  a  conr.se  of  uiui.'«iial  iiidulgenre,  wm 
meet  with  the  following  edifying  remark  : 
"  As  I  intend,  when  forty  years  old,  to  nbnlain 
from  wine  ;  and  as  I  now  want  somewhat  less 
ihan  one  year  of  being  forty,  /  drink  utiic 
most  copiously'.''  When  forty  comes,  how- 
ever, we  hear  nothing  of  tiiis  sji^e  rrsoluliou 
— but  have  a  regular  record  of  the  wine  and 
maajiin  parties  as  before,  uptotht!  year  l.'>27. 
In  that  year,  however,  he  is  seized  with  rather 
a  sudden  fit  of  penitence,  and  has  the  resolu- 
tion to  beijin  a  course  of  riijorous  relonn. 
There  is  somelhing  rather  pictnre»<iue  in  his 
very  solemn  and  remarkable  account  ot  this 
great  revolution  in  his  habits : 

"  On  Monday  the  23d  of  the  tirst  Jemadi.  I  had 
mounted  to  survey  my  posis.  and,  in  ihe  course  of 
my  ride,  was  seriouslv  struck  with  the  reflection 
that  I  had  always  resolved,  one  time  or  another,  to 
make  an  eflecliial  repentance,  and  that  some  traces 
of  a  hankering  after  the  renunciation  of  torbiddeti 
works  had  ever  remained  in  my  heart.  Having 
sent  for  the  gold  and  silver  goblets  and  cups,  with 
all  the  other  utensils  used  for  drinking  parties,  I 
directed  them  to  be  broken,  and  renounced  the  use 
of  wine — purilying  my  mind  I  The  Iragmenis  of 
the  goblets,  and  other  utensils  of  gold  and  silver,  I 
directed  to  be  divided  among  Derwishes  and  the 
poor.  The  first  person  who  followed  me  in  my  re- 
pentance was  Asas,  who  also  accompanied  me  in 
my  resolution  of  ceasing  to  cut  the  beard,  and  of 
allowing  it  lo  grow.t  That  night  and  the  following, 
numbers  of  Amirs  and  courtiers,  soldiers  and  per- 
sons not  in  the  service,  to  the  number  of  nearly 
three  hundred  men.  made  vows  of  reformation, 
'ihe  wine  which  we  had  with  us  we  poured  on  the 
"round  I  I  ordered  that  the  wine  brought  by  Biiba 
Dost  should  have  salt  thrown  into  it,  that  it  might 
be  make  into  vinegar.  On  the  spot  where  the  wiiio 
had  been  poured  out,  I  directed  a  wain  to  be  sunk 
and  built  of  stone,  and  close  by  the  wain  an  alma- 
house  to  be  erected." 

He  then  issued  a  magnificent  Firman,  an- 
nouncing his  reformation,  and  recommending 
its  e.xaniple  to  all  his  subjects.  But  he  still 
persist.^,  we  find,  in  the  use  of  a  mild  nia.ijnn. 
We  are  .sorry  to  be  obliged  to  add.  that  tlioiiuh 
he  had  the  firmness  lo  persevere  to  the  last 
in  his  abstinence  from  wine,  the  sacnfico 
seems  to  have  cost  him  very  dear:  and  he 
continued  to  the  very  end  of  his  life  lo  liauker 
after  his  broken  wine-cups,  and  lo  look  bink 
with  fond  regret  to  the  delights  he  had  ab- 


*  "  This  verse,  I  presume,  is  frimi  a  rehgtoua 
poem,  and  has  n  mystical  meaning.  The  profane 
applicBiion  of  ii  is  the  ground  of  offrnre." 

+  •'  This  vow  was  someiimes  mode  by  p«TW)n« 
who  Rct  nut  on  n  war  ntrni'i"!  iho  Infidel".  They 
did  not  trim  the  beard  'ill  they  returned  vir(orii>ii«. 
•Some  vows  of  a  bimilor  nature  may  be  louml  m 
Scripiure." 


284 


HISTORY  AND  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS. 


jured  for  ever.  There  is  something  abso- 
lutely pathetic,  as  well  as  amiablej  in  the 
following  candid  avowal  in  a  letter  written 
the  very  year  before  his  death  to  one  of  his 
old  drinking  companions : — 

•'  In  a  leiier  which  I  wrote  to  Abdalla,  I  men- 
tioned that  I  had  much  difficulty  in  reconcihng  my- 
self to  the  desert  of  penitence  ;  but   that   I   had 
resolution  enough  to  persevere, — 
(.Turki  verse) 

I  am  distressed  since  I  renounced  wine  ; 

I  am  confounded  and  unfit  for  business, — 

Regret  leads  me  to  penitence. 

Penitence  leads  me  to  regret. 
Indeed,  last  year,  my  desire  and  longing  for  wine 
and  social  parties  were  beyond  measure  excessive. 
It  even  came  to  such  a  length  that  I  have  found 
myself  shedding  tears  from  vexation  and  disappoint- 
ment. In  the  present  year,  praise  be  to  God,  these 
troubles  are  over,  and  I  ascribe  them  chiefly  to  the 
occupation  afforded  to  my  mind  by  a  poetical  trans- 
lation, on  which  I  have  employed  myself  Let  niP 
advise  you  too,  to  adopt  a  life  of  abstinence.  Social 
parties  and  wine  are  pleasant,  in  company  with  our 
jolly  friends  and  old  boon  companions.  But  with 
whom  can  you  enjoy  the  social  cup  ?  With  whom 
can  you  indulge  in  the  pleasures  of  wine?  If  you 
have'  only  Shir  Ahmed,  and  Haider  Kulli,  for  the 
companions  of  your  gay  hours  and  jovial  goblet, 
you  can  surely  find  no  great  difficulty  in  consenting 
to  the  sacrifice.  I  conclude  with  every  good  wish." 

We  have  mentioned  already  that  Baber  ap- 
pears to  have  been  of  a  frank  and  generous 
character — and  there  are,  throughout  the  Me- 
moirs, various  traits  of  clemency  and  tender- 
ness of  heart,  scarcely  to  have  been  expected 
in  an  Eastern  monarch  and  professional  war- 
rior. He  weeps  ten  whole  days  for  the  loss 
of  a  friend  who  fell  over  a  precipice  after  one 
of  their  drinking  parties ;  and  spares  the  lives, 
and  even  restores  the  domains  of  various 
chieftains,  who  had  betrayed  his  confidence, 
and  afterwards  fallen  into  his  power.  Yet 
there  are  traces  of  Asiatic  ferocity,  and  of  a 
hard-hearted  wastefulness  of  life,  which  re- 
mind us  that  we  are  beyond  the  pale  of  Eu- 
ropean gallant rv  and  Christian  compassion. 
In  his  wars  in  Afghan  and  India,  the  prisoners 
are  commonly  butchered  in  cold  blood  after 
the  action — and  pretty  uniformly  a  triumphal 
pjTamid  is  erected  of  their  skulls.  These 
horrible  executions,  too,  are  performed  with 
much  solemnity  before  the  royal  pavilion  : 
and  on  one  occasion,  it  is  incidentally  record- 
ed, that  such  was  the  number  of  prisoners 
brouuht  forward  for  this  infamous  butchery, 
that  the  sovereign's  tent  had  three  times  to 
be  removed  to  a  different  station — the  ground 
before  it  being  so  drenched  with  blood  and 
encumbered  with  quivering  carcasses !  On 
one  occasion,  and  on  one  only,  an  attempt 
was  made  to  poison  him — the  mother  of  one 
of  the  sovereierns  whom  he  had  dethroned 
having  bribed  his  cooks  and  tasters  to  mix 
death  in  his  repast.  L^pon  the  detection  of 
the  plot,  the  taster  was  cut  to  pieces,  the  cook 
flayed  alive,  and  the  scullions  trampled  to 
death  by  elephants.  Such,  however,  was  the 
respect  paid  to  rank,  or  the  indulgence  to 
maternal  resentment,  that  the  prime  mover 
of  the  whole  conspiracy,  the  queen  dowager, 
is  merely  put  tmder  restraint,  and  has  a  con- 


tribution levied  on  her  private  foitune.    The  ■ 
following  brief  anecdote  speaks  volumes  as  to 
the  difference  of  European  and  Asiatic  man- 
ners and  tempers : — 

"  Another  of  his  wives  was  Katak  Begum,  who 
was  the  foster-sister  of  this  same  Terkiian  Begum. 
Sultan  Ahmed  Mirza  married  her  for  love.  He  was 
prodigiously  attached  to  her,  and  she  governed  him 
with  absolute  sway.  She  drank  wine.  During  her 
life,  the  Sultan  durst  not  venture  to  frequent  any 
other  of  his  ladies.  At  last,  however,  he  put  her  to 
death,  and  delivered  himself  from  this  reproach." 

In  several  of  the  passages  we  have  cited, 
there  are  indications  of  this  ambitious  war- 
rior's ardent  love  for  fine  flowers,  beautiful 
irardens,  and  bright  waters.  But  the  work 
abounds  with  traits  of  this  amiable  and,  with 
reference  to  some  of  these  anecdotes,  appar- 
ently ill-sorted  propensity.  In  one  place  he 
says — 

"  In  the  warm  season  they  are  covered  with  the 
chekin-laleh  grass  in  a  very  beautiful  manner,  and 
the  Aimaks  and  Tiirks  resort  to  them.  In  ihe 
skirts  of  these  mountains  the  ground  is  richly  di- 
versified by  various  kinds  of  tulips.  I  once  directed 
them  to  be  counted,  and  they  brought  in  thirty-two 
or  thirty-three  different  sorts  of  tulips.  There  is 
one  species  which  has  a  scent  in  some  degree  like 
the  rose,  and  which  I  termed  laleh-aul-hui  (the  rose- 
scented  tulip).  This  species  is  found  only  in  tLc 
Desht-e-Sheikh  (the  Sheikh's  plain),  in  a  small  spi  ■ 
of  ground,  and  nowhere  else.  In  the  skirts  of  iht 
same  hills  below  Perwan,  is  produced  the  laleh-ttd- 
herg  (or  hundred-leaved  tulip),  which  is  likewi.'t 
found  only  in  one  narrow  spot  of  ground,  as  w( 
emerge  from  the  straits  of  Ghiirbena." 

And  a  little  after — 

"  Few  quarters  possess  a  district  that  can  riva 
Istalif  A  large  river  runs  through  it,  and  on  eithe. 
side  of  it  are  gardens,  green,  gay,  and  beautiful.  It: 
water  is  so  cold,  that  there  is  no  need  of  icing  it 
and  it  is  particularly  pure.  In  this  district  is  a  gar 
den,  called  Bash-e-Kilan  (or  the  Great  Garden' 
which  Uliigh  Beg  Mirza  seized  upon.  I  paid  ih 
price  of  the  garden  to  the  proprietors,  and  receive 
from  them  a  grant  of  it.  On  the  outside  of  th 
garden  are  large  and  beautiful  spreading  plan 
trees,  under  the  shade  of  which  there  are  agreeabl 
spots  finely  sheltered.  A  perennial  stream,  larg 
I  enough  to  turn  a  mill,  runs  through  the  garden 
i  and  on  its  banks  are  planted  planes  and  other  tree; 
Formerly  this  stream  flowed  in  a  winding  an 
crooked  course,  but  I  ordered  its  course  to  be  a 
lered  according  to  a  regular  plan,  which  adde 
trreatly  to  the  beauty  of  the  place.  Lower  dow 
than  these  villages,  and  about  a  koss  or  a  koss  at 
!  a  half  above  the  level  plain,  on  the  lower  skirls ' 
1  tlie  hills,  is  a  tbuntain,  named  Khwiijeh-seh-yart 
(Kwiijeh  three  friends),  around  which  there  a.'j 
three  species  of  trees  ;  above  the  fountain  are  mar| 
beautiful  plane-trees,  which  yield  a  pleasant  shad 
On  the  two  sides  of  the  fountain,  on  small  en 
nences  at  the  bottom  of  the  hills,  there  are  a  nut' 
ber  of  oak  trees;  except  on  these  two  spots,  whe 
there  are  groves  of  oak,  there  is  not  an  oak  to  ' 
met  with  on  the  hills  to  the  west  of  Kabul.  In  fro 
of  this  fountain,  towards  the  plain,  there  are  mat 
spots  covered  with  the  flowery  Arghwan*  tree,  a  .' 
besides  these  Arghwan  plots,  there  are  none  el, 
in  the  whole  country." 

We  shall  add  but  one  other  notice  of  tl 


"  The  name  Arghwan  is  generally  applied  to  t 
anemone  ;  but  in  Afghanistan  it  is  given  to  a  be! 
tiful  flowering  shrub,  which  grows  nearly  to  t 
size  of  a  tree." 


MEMOIRS  OF  RARKR. 


285 


egant  taste — thoiiijh  on  the  occasion  there 
leiitionecl,  the  tiowers  were  aided  by  a  less 
>Iicate  soit  ot  excitement. 

I"  This  day  I  ate  a  maajun.  Wiiile  under  its  in- 
lence,  I  visited  some  beautiful  gardens.  In  dit- 
-ent  beds,  the  ground  was  covered  with  purple 
ild  yellow  Arghwan  flowers.  On  one  hand  were 
ds  of  yellow  flowers  in  bloom  ;  on  the  other  hand, 
li  flowers  were  in  blossom.  In  many  places  ihi'v 
/rung  up  in  the  same  bed,  mingled  together  as  il 
6y  had  been  flung  and  scattered  abroad.  I  took 
1/  seat  on  a  rising  ground  near  the  camp,  to  enjoy 
li  view  of  all  the  tlowcr-pois.  On  the  si.v  sides 
1  ihis  eminence  they  were  formed  as  into  regular 
Ids.  On  one  side  were  yellow  flowers  :  on  another 
t!  purple,  laid  out  in  triangular  beds.  On  two 
ucr  sides,  there  were  ft-wer  flowers;  but,  as  far 
i|the  eye  could  reach,  there  were  flower-gardens 
(,a  similar  kind.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  Per- 
f'lwer,  during  the  spring,  the  flower-plots  are  e.\- 
dsitely  beautiful.'' 

VVe  have,  now  enabled  our  readers,  we 
tuk,  to  judge  pretty  fairly  of  the  nature  of 
ts  very  curious  volume:  and  shall  only 
j!sent  them  with  a  few  passages  from  two 
Iters  written  by  the  valiant  author  in  the 
l;t  year  of  his  life.  The  first  is  addressed 
t,his  favourite  son  and  successor  Humaiiin. 
v.om  he  had  settled  in  the  goverimient  of 
Siiarcand.  and  who  was  at  this  time  a  sover- 
e'n  of  approved  valour  and  prudence.  There 
i;i  very  diverting  mixture  of  sound  political 
cinsel  and  minute  criticism  on  writing  and 
cn}X)sition.  in  this  paternal  effusion.  We 
a  give  but  a  small  part  of  it. 

':  In  many  of  your  letters  you  complain  of  sepa- 
nbn  from  your  friends.  It  is  wrong  for  a  prince 
Knduige  in  such  a  complaint. 

There  is  certainly  no  greater  bondage  than  that 
irVhich  a  king  is  placed  ;  but  it  ill  becomes  him  to 
C'lplain  of  inevitable  separation. 

,  In  compliance  with  my  wishes,  you  have  in- 
diil  written  me  letters,  bin  you  certainly  never 
ul  thein  over  ;  for  had  you  attempted  to  read 
thin,  you  must  have  found  it  absolutely  impossible, 
ai|  would  then  undoubtedly  have  put  them  by.  I 
Cf:rived  indeed  to  decipher  and  comprehend  the 
mining  of  your  last  letter,  but  with  much  diffi- 
ci'y.  his  excessively  confused  and  crabbed.  Who 
eV"  3aw  a  Moiimma  (a  riddle  or  a  charade)  in 
pije?  Your  spelling  is  not  bad,  yet  not  quite 
ccect.  You  have  written  iltafat  with  a  toe  (in- 
stid  of  a  te),  and  hid'mg  with  a  he  (instead  of  a 
hn.  Your  letter  may  indeed  be  read  ;  but  in 
coicquence  of  the  far-fetched  words  you  have 
er  loyed,  the  meaning  is  by  no  means  very  intel- 
iie'le.  You  certainly  do  not  excel  in  letter-wriiing, 
anfail  chiefly  because  you  have  too  great  a  di;sire 
to  low  your  acquirements.  For  the  future,  you 
shld  write  unaffectedly,  with  clearness,  using 
plii  words,  which  would  cost  less  trouble  both  to 
thi'Ariter  and  reader." 

he  other  letter  is  to  one  of  his  old  com- 
paions  in  arms: — and  considering  that  it  is 
wilten  by  an  ardent  and  ambitious  conqueror, 
frf|i  the  capital  of  his  new  empire  of  Hin- 
dujan,  it  seems  to  us  a  very  striking  proof, 
no'only  of  the  nothingness  of  high  fortune, 


but  of  the  native  simplicity  and  amiableness 
of  this  Eastern  highlander! 

'■  I\Iy  solicitude  to  visit  my  wcHtern  dommionw  in 
boundless,  and  great  beyond  expression.  The 
afliiirs  of  Hindustan  have  at  length,  however,  been 
reduced  into  n  certain  degree  of  order;  and  I  trust 
in  Almiahty  (Jod  that  the  time  is  near  at  liuiid, 
when,  through  the  grace  of  the  Most  High,  every 
thing  will  be  roinpleiely  settled  in  this  couinry. 
.\s  soon  ns  matters  are' brought  into  that  state,  I 
shall.  (Jod  willing,  set  out  lor  your  quarter,  with- 
out losing  a  moment's  time.  How  is  it  possible 
that  the  delights  of  tho.ie  lands  should  ever  bo 
erased  from  the  heart  ?  .Vbove  all.  how  is  it  possi- 
ble for  one  like  mc,  who  have  made  n  vow  <if  ab- 
stinence from  wine,  and  of  purity  of  life,  to  forget 
the  delicious  melons  and  grapes  of  that  pleasant 
region  '  They  very  recently  brought  mc  a  single 
musk-melon.  While  cutting  it  up,  1  fell  myself 
afTecied  with  a  stronc  ft-rlin!;  of  londincrx.  and  a 
fi'n^r  of  my  exile  from  my  vnlire  country;  and  I 
could  not  help  shedding  tears  while  1  was  eiitiiig  it!" 

On  the  whole,  we  cannot  help  having  a 
liking  for  "the  Tiger""— and  the  romatitic, 
though  somewhat  apocryphal  account  that  is 
given  of  his  death,  has  no  lendtMicv  to  dimini.sh 
our  partiality.  It  is  recoided  by  Abulfa/i, 
and  other  native  historians,  (hat  "in  the  year 
after  these  Memoirs  cease.  Himiaiiin.  the  be- 
loved son  of  Baber,  was  brought  to  Agi"a  in  a 
state  of  the  most  miserable  health  : 

"  When  all  hopes  from  medicine  were  over,  and 
while  several  men  of  skill  were  talking  to  the  em- 
peror of  the  melancholy  situatiDn  ul  his  son,  Abul 
Baka,  a  personage  highly  venerated  for  his  know- 
ledge and  piety,  remarked  to  Baber.  that  in  such  a 
case  the  Almighty  had  someiimes  vouchsafed  to 
receive  the  most  valualde  thing  possessed  by  one 
friend,  as  an  ofi'ering  in  exchange  for  the  life  of 
another.  Baber,  exclaiming  that,  of  all  things,  his 
life  was  dearest  to  Humaiiin,  as  Hilmaiiin's  was  to 
him,  and  that,  next  to  the  life  of  Himiaiiin,  his  own 
was  what  he  most  valued,  devoted  his  life  to  Hea- 
ven as  a  sacrifice  for  his  son's  1  The  noblemen 
around  him  entreated  him  to  retract  the  rash  vow, 
and,  in  place  of  his  first  ofl'ering,  to  give  the  dia- 
mond taken  at  Agra,  and  reckoned  the  most  valu- 
able on  earth  :  that  the  ancieiu  sages  had  said, 
that  it  was  the  dearest  of  our  worldly  possessions 
alone  that  was  to  be  offered  to  Heaven.  But  he 
persisted  in  his  resolution,  declaring  that  no  stone, 
of  whatever  value,  could  be  put  in  competition  with 
his  lile.  He  three  times  walked  round  the  dying 
prince,  a  solemnity  similar  to  that  used  in  sacriiiccs 
and  heave-ofl'erings,  and,  retiring,  prayed  earnestly 
to  God.  After  some  time  he  was  heard  to  exclaim, 
'I  have  borne  it  away!  I  have  home  it  away!' 
The  Mussulman  historian? assure  us,  that  HumBiun 
almost  immediately  began  to  recover,  and  that,  in 
proportion  as  he  recovered,  'he  health  and  strength 
of  Baber  visibly  decayed.  Baber  comiiiunicated 
his  dving  instructions  to  Khwiiieh  Khaliieh.  Kiunber 
Ali  Beg,  Terdi  Beg,  and  ifindu  Beg.  who  were 
then  at  court  commending  Humaiiin  to  their  pro- 
tection. With  that  unvaryinn;  aH"ection  for  his 
family  which  he  showed  in  all  the  rircumstances 
of  his  life,  he  strongly  besought  Humaiiin  to  be 
kind  and  lorgiving  to  his  brothers.  Hiimaiiin  pro- 
mised— and,  what  in  such  circumsiancca  is  rare, 
kept  his  promise." 


POETRY. 


(ilUrtl),   1S19.) 


Specimens  of  the  British  Poets ;  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices,  and  i 
Poetry.     By  Thomas  Campbell.     7  vols.  8 vo.     London:  1819.     • 


Essay  on  En^iii] 


We  would  rather  see  Mr.  Campbell  as  a 
poet,  than  as  a  commentator  on  poetry : — be- 
cause we  would  rather  have  a  solid  addition 
to  the  sum  of  our  treasures,  than  the  finest  or 
most  judicious  account  of  their  actual  amount. 
But  we  are  very  glad  to  see  him  in  any  way : 
— and  think  the  work  which  he  has  now  given 
us  very  excellent  and  dehghtful.  •  Still,  how- 
ever, we  think  there  is  some  little  room  for 
complaint ;  and,  feeling  that  we  have  not  got 
all  we  were  led  to  expect,  are  unreasonable 
enough  to  think  that  the  learned  author  still 
owes  us  an  arrear :  which  we  hope  he  will 
handsomely  pay  up  in  the  next  edition. 

When  a  great  poet  and  a  man  of  distin- 
guished talents  announces  a  large  selection 
of  English  poetry,  ''with  biographical  and 
critical  notices,"  we  naturally  expect  such 
notices  of  all,  or  almost  all  the  authors,  of 
who.se  works  he  thinks  it  worth  while  to 
favour  us  with  specimens.  The  biography 
sometimes  may  be  unattainable — and  it  may 
still  more  frequently  be  uninteresting — but 
the  criticism  must  always  be  valuable  ;  and, 
indeed,  is  obviously  that  which  must  be 
looked  to  as  constituting  the  chief  value  of 
any  such  publication.  There  is  no  author  so 
obscure,  if  at  all  entitled  to  a  place  in  this 
register,  of  whom  it  would  not  be  desirable  to 
know  the  opinion  of  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Camp- 
bell— and  none  so  mature  and  settled  in  fame, 
upon  whose  beauties  and  defects,  and  poetical 
character  in  general,  the  public  would  not 
have  much  to  learn  from  such  an  authority. 
Now,  there  are  many  authors,  and  some  of 
no  mean  note,  of  whom  he  has  not  conde- 
scended to  say  one  word,  either  in  the  Essav, 
or  in  the  notices  prefixed  to  the  citations.  Of 
Jonathan  Swift,  for  example,  all  that  is  here 
recorded  is  "Born  1667— died  1744:"  and 
Otway  is  despatched  in  the  same  summary 
manner — "Born  16.51— died  1685."  Mar- 
lowe is  commemorated  in  a  single  page,  and 
Butler  in  half  of  one.  All  this  is  rather  ca- 
pricious:— But  this  is  not  all.  Sometimes  the 
notices  are  entirely  biogra]}hical,  and  some- 
times entirely  critical.  We  humbly  conceive 
they  ought  always  to  have  been  of  both  des-  i 
criptions.  At  all  events,  we  ought  in  every  | 
case  to  have  had  some  criticism, — since  this  1 
could  always  have  been  had,  and  could  I 
scarcely  have  failed  to  be  valuable.  Mr.  C,  I 
we  think,  has  been  a  little  lazy. 
286 


If  he  were  like  most  authors,  or  even  lik 
most  critics,  we  could  easily  have  pardoneij 
this;  for  we  very  seldom  hnd  any  work  toi 
short.     It  is  the  singular  goodness  of  his  crit'l 
cisms  that  makes  us  regret  their  fewness;  fn 
nothing,  we  think,  can  be  more  fair,  judiciovj 
and   discriminating,  and   at   the   same  timj 
more   fine,    delicate   and   original,    than  tli 
greater  part  of  the  discussions  witk  which  I'l 
has  here  presented  us.     It  is  very  rare  to  fir 
so  much  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  poelr 
united  with  so  much  toleration  for  its  fault 
and  so  exact  a  perception  of  the  merits 
every   particular   style,    interfering   so  liti 
with  a  just  estimate  of  all.    Poets,  to  be  sui 
are  on  the  whole,  we  think,  very  indulge 
judges  of  poetry ;  and  that  not  so  much,  ^ 
verily  believe,  from  any  partiality  to  their  o^ 
vocation,  or  desire  to  exalt  their  fratemi 
as  from  their  being  more  constantly  alive 
those  impulses  which  it  is  the  business 
poetry  to  excite,  and  more  quick  to  catch  a 
to  follow  out  those  associations  on  which 
efficacy  chiefly  depends.     If  it  be  tnie, 
we  have  formerly  endeavoured  to  show,  w 
reference  to  this  very  author,  that  poetry  p 
duces  all  its   greater  effects,  and  worke 
more  memorable  enchantments,  not  so  mi 
by  the  images  it  directly  presents,  as  by  tli 
which  it  suggests  to  the  fancy;  and  melts 
inflames  us  less  by  the  fires  which  it  app  ■ 
from  without,  than  by  those  which  it  kiiic'i 
within,  and  of  which  the  fuel  is  in  our  o  i 
bosoms, — it  will  be  readily  understood  I ' 
these  effects  should  be  most  powerful  in  ' 
sensitive  breast  of  a  poet ;  and  how  a  sp:  • 
which  would  have  been  instantly  queue  i 
in  the  duller  atmosphere  of  an  ordinary  br- 
may  create  a  blaze  in  his  combustible  im  • 
nation,  to   wann   and    enlighten    the  wi  • 
The  greater  poets,  accordingly,  have  air  t 
always  been  the  warmest  admirers,  and  f 
most  liberal  patrons  of  poetry.     Theemi'f. 
only — your  Laureates  and  Ballad-monge  ,-    i 
are  envious  and  irritable — jealous  evc'  "*  " 
dead,  and  less  desirous  of  the  praist  i 
than  avaricious  of  their  own. 

But  though  a  poet  is  thus  likely  \o  \  • 
gentler  critic  of  poetry  than  another,  J: 
by  having  a  finer  sense  of  its  beauties,  t  k' 
better  qualified  for  the  most  pleasing  and  i- 
portant  part  of  his  office,  there  is  aii^^r 
requisite  in  which  we  should  be  afraii  i« 


CAMPBELL'S  SPEQiMEXS  OF  THE  POETS. 


257 


vjuld  generally  be  fount!  wanting,  especially  j 
iia  work  of  the  large  and  comprehensive  j 
nure  of  that  now  before  us — we  mean,  in  i 
a  olute  fairness  and  impartiality  towards  the 
d  "erent  schools  or  styles  of  poetry  which  he  ^ 
ny  have  occasion  to  estimate  and  compare.  ' 
E?u  the  most  common  and  miscellaneous 
rtier  has  a  peculiar  taste  in  this  way — and 
h:  generally  erected  for  himself  some  ob-  j 
stre  but  e.xclusive   standard  of  excellence. 
b;which  he  measures  the  pretensions  of  all 
tli:  come  untler  his  view.    One  man  admires 
w.y  and  satirical  poetry,  and  sees  no  beauty  i 
inural  imagery  or  picturesque  description; 
'f'J<  w  lo  another  Joats  on  Idyls  and  Pastorals,  I 
ai  will  not  allow  the  affairs  of  polite  life  to 
foi  a  subject  for  verse.     One  is  for  simplic- ! 
"'"'  U'pnd  pathos;  another  for  magnificence  and  j 
epi'idour.     One  is  devoted  to  the  Muse  of  I 
.  :  another  to  that  of  love.    Some  are  all  ! 
iood  and  battles,  and  some  for  music  and 
miilight — some    for    emphatic   sentiments. 
taBanlsome  for  melodious  verses.     Even  those 
'  SF  w|se  taste  is  the  least  e.xclusive,  have  alean- 
-  into  one  class  of  composition  rather  than  to 
aiiiher;  and  overrate  the  beauties  which  fall 
y.[  ith  their  own  propensities  and  associations 
hile   they  are   palpably  unjust   to   those 
ii  wear  a  different  complexion,  or  spring 

..vt-  a  different  race. 

™e3     jit.  if  it  be  difficult  or  almost  impossible 

Hfrtto  eet  with  an  impartial  judge  for  the  whole 

artt   family  of  genius,  even   among   those 

•    c'jt  and  studious  readers  who  ought  to  find 

'  ■  ht  even  in  their  variety,  it  is  obvious  that 

ii;as  and  obliquity  of  judgment  must  be 

:iiore  incident  to  one  who.  by  being  him- 

.1  Poet,  must  not  only  prefer  one  school 

letry  to  all  others,  but  must  actually  be- 

'0  it,  and  be  disposed,  as  a  pupil,  or  .still 

.:!'ii  as  a  Master,  to  advance  its  pretensions 

.  :ii)'t>  those  of  all  its  competitors.     Like  the 

V  itljos  or  leaders  of  other  sects,  successful 

ii'iij.  have  been  but  too  apt  to  establish  ex- 

,    I'lnji-e  and  arbitrary  creeds;  and  to  invent 

I'-li's  of  faith,    the   slightest   violation   of 

h  effaces  the  merit  of  all  other  virtues. 

.ting  themselves,  as  they  are  apt  to  do. 

•  exclusive  cultivation  of  that  style  to 

T  the  bent  of  their  own  genius  naturally 

I'S  them,  they  look  everywhere  for  those 

'  ■A\\es  of  which  it  is  peculiarly  susceptible, 

i:i<llie  disgusted  if  they  cannot  be  found. — 

Likj discoverers  in  science,  or  improvers  in 

ntjioy  see  nothing  in  the  whole  system  but 

li'':own  di.scoveries  and  improvements,  and 

in<!  value  every  thing  that  cannot  be  con- 

i''<[:l  with  their  own  studies  and  glorj'.    As  ] 

he  jhinese  mapmakers  allot  all  the  lodgeable 

•ir'Tof  the   earth  to   their  own  nation,  and 

the  other  countries  of  the  world  into 

'Houtskirts  and  by-corners — so  poet?  are 

-l>ed  to  represent  their  own  little  field  of 

■  on  as  occupying  all  the  sunny  part  of 

'  Missus,  and  to  exhibit  the  adjoining  regions 

"11  terrible  shadows  and  most  unmerciful 

■'"jortenings. 

^Vh  those  impressions  of  the  almost  in- 
-  le  partiality  of  poetical  judirments  in 
Hil,  we  could'not  recollect  that  Mr.  Camp- 


hn 


bell  was  himself  a  Ma.Mer  in  a  distinct  scnool 
of  |X)etry,  and  distinguished  by  a  very  pecu- 
liar and  fastidious  .style  of  coinpcsilion,  with- 
out being  anprelien.sive  that  tlie  cdt  ctnof  ihif 
bias  would  be  apparent  in  his  work  ;  and  that, 
with  all  his  lalent  and  di.'H-ernmeiil.  he  would 
now  and  then  be  guilty  of  gnat.  lliou;jli  un- 
intended injustice,  to  some  of  those  whose 
manner  was  mo.st  op|X).site  to  his  own.  We 
are  happy  to  say  that  those  ajjprehensions 
have  jirovetl  entirely  irroundless ;  and  that 
nothing;  in  the  volumes  before  us  is  more  ad- 
mirable, or  to  us  more  .surprising,  than  the 
perfect  candour  and  undeviating  fairness  with 
which  the  learned  author  pas,<es  judgment  on 
all  ihe  different  authors  who  come  bffore  him  ; 
— the  quick  and  trur-  perception  he  has  of  the 
most  opposite  and  almost  contradictory  beau- 
ties— the  good-natured  and  liberal  allowance 
he  makes  for  the  disadvantages  o|  each  age 
and  individual — and  the  t(>mix'rance  and 
brevity  and  firmness  with  whidi  lie  reproves 
the  excessive  severity  of  critics  l«ss  entitled 
to  be  severe.  No  one  indeed,  w«>  w  ill  venture 
to  affirm,  ever  placed  himself  in  the  .seat  of 
judirment  with  more  of  a  judicial  temper — 
though,  to  obviate  invidious  conqiarisons,  we 
must  beg  leave  just  to  add,  that  being  called 
on  to  pass  judgment  only  on  ihc  (had,  who.«ie 
faults  were  no  longer  corrigible,  or  had  already 
been  e.vpiated  by  appropriate  pains,  his  tem- 
per was  less  tried,  and  his  severities  less  pro- 
voked, than  in  the  case  of  living  od'enders, — 
and  that  the  very  number  and  variety  of  the 
errors  that  called  for  animadversion,  in  the 
course  of  his  wide  survey,  mu.st  have  made 
each  particular  case  ajipear  ciinij)aratively 
insignificant,  and  mitigated  the  si'iitence  of 
mdividual  condemnation. 

It  is  to  this  last  circumstance,  of  the  large 
and  compreliensive  range  which  he  was  ob- 
liged to  take,  and  thejrreat  extent  and  variety 
of  the  .society  in  which  he  was  compelled  to 
mingle,  that  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe,  not 
only  the  general  mildness  and  indulgence  of 
his  judirments,  but  his  happy  emancii'atiou 
from  those  narrow  and  limitary  maxims  by 
which  we  have  already  said  tliat  poets  are  so 
peculiarly  apt  to  be  entangled.  As  a  large 
ajid  familiar  intercourse  with  men  of"  different 
habits  and  dispositions  never  fails,  in  charac- 
ters of  any  force  or  generosity,  to  dispel  the 
prejudices  with  which  we  at  first  reirard  them, 
and  to  lower  our  estimate  of  our  own  superior 
happine.ss  and  wisdom,  so.  a  very  ample  and 
extensive  course  of  reading  in  any  depart- 
ment of  letters,  tends  naturally  to  enlari,'e  onr 
narrow  principles  of  jud^mient ;  and  not  only 
to  cast  down  the  idols  before  which  we  had 
formerly  aba.sed  oursclv<'s,  but  to  disclo.se  to 
us  the  might  and  the  majesty  of  mnch  that 
we  had  mi.staken  and  conlr-rnned. 

In  this  point  of  view,  we  think  such  a  work 
as  is  now  b<'fore  us,  likely  to  be  of  great  use 
to  ordinary  readers  of  poetrv — not  only  as 
unlockinir  to  them  innumerable  new  springs 
of  enjoyment  and  admiration,  but  as  havinjg 
a  tendency  to  correct  and  libfrali/i-  their 
judtrments  of  their  old  fr.vouril'S,  and  to 
strengthen  and  enliven  all  those  faculties  ly 


POETRY. 


which  they  derive  pleasure  from  such  studies. 
Nor  would  the  benefit,  if  it  once  e.xtended  so 
far,  by  any  means  stop  there.  The  character 
of  our  poetry  depends  not  a  little  on  the  taste 
of  our  poetical  readers  : — and  though  some 
bards  have  always  been  before  their  age,  and 
some  behind  it.  the  greater  part  must  be 
pretty  nearly  on  its  level.  Present  popularity, 
whatever  disappointed  writers  may  say,  is, 
after  all,  the  only  .safe  pas.sage  of  future  glory ; 
— and  it  is  really  as  unlikely  that  good  poetry 
should  be  produced  in  any  quantity  where  it 
is  not  relished,  as  that  cloth  should  be  manu- 
factured and  thrust  into  the  market,  of  a 
pattern  and  fashion  for  which  there  was  no 
demand.  A  shallow  and  uninstructed  taste 
is  indeed  the  most  fle.vible  and  inconstant — 
and  is  tossed  about  by  every  breath  of  doc- 
trine, and  every  wind  of  authority ;  so  as 
neither  to  derive  any  permanent  delight  from 
the  same  works,  nor  to  assurt>  any  permanent 
fame  to  their  authors  : — while  a  taste  that  is 
fonned  upon  a  wide  and  large  survey  of  en- 
during models,  not  only  affords  a  secure  basis 
for  all  future  jutlgments,  but  must  compel, 
whenever  it  is  general  in  any  society,  a  salu- 
tary conformity  to  its  great  principles  from  all 
who  depend  on  its  suffrage. — To  accomplish 
such  an  object,  the  general  study  of  a  work 
like  this  certainly  is  not  enough :  — But  it 
would  form  an  excellent  preparation  for  more 
extensive  reading — and  would,  of  it.self,  do 
much  to  open  the  eyes  of  many  self-satisfied 
persons,  and  startle  them  into  a  .sense  of  their 
own  ignorance,  and  the  poverty  and  paltriness 
of  many  of  their  ephemeral  favourites.  Con- 
sidered as  a  nation,  we  are  yet  but  very  im- 
perfectly recovered  from  that  strange"  and 
ungrateful  forgetfulness  of  our  older  poets, 
which  began  with  the  Restoration,  and  con- 
tinued almost  unbroken  till  after  the  middle 
of  the  last  century. — Nor  can  the  works  which 
have  chiefly  tended  to  dispel  it  among  the 
instructed  orders,  be  ranked  in  a  higher  class 
than  this  which  is  before  us. — Percy's  Relics 
of  Antient  Poetry  produced,  we  believe,  the 
first  revulsion — and  this  was  followed  up  by 
Wharton's  History  of  Poetry. — Johnson's  Lives 
of  the  Poets  did  something  : — and  the  great 
effect  has  been  produced  by  the  modern  com- 
mentators on  Shakespeare.  Those  various 
works  recommended  the  older  writers,  and 
reinstated  them  in  some  of  their  honours  : — 
but  still  the  works  themselves  were  not  placed 
before  the  eyes  of  ordinary  readers.  This 
was  done  in  part,  perhaps  overdone,  by  the 
entire  republication  of  some  of  our  older  dra- 
matists—and with  better  effect  by  Mr.  Ellis's 
Specimens.  If  the  former,  however,  was 
rather  too  copious  a  supply  for  the  returning 
appetite  of  the  public,  the  latter  was  too 
.scanty  ;  and  both  were  confined  to  too  narrow 
a  perio.l  of  lime  to  enable  the  reader  to  enjoy 
the  variety,  and  to  draw  the  comparisons,  by 
which  he  might  be  mo^t  pleased  and  instruct- 
ed.— Soulhey's  continuation  of  Ellis  did  harm 
rather  than  good ;  for  though  there  is  some 
cleverness  in  the  introduction,  the  work  itself 
is  executed  in  a  crude  petulant,  and  super- 
ficial manner, — and  bears  all   the  marks  of 


being  a  mere  bookseller's  speculation.—,; 
we  have  heard  nothing  of  it  from  the  time  .■ 
its  first  publication,  we  suppose  it  has  had  t 
success  it  deserved. 

There  was  great  room  therefore. — and,  \ 
will  even  say.  great  occasion,  for  such  a  wo 
as  this  of  Mr.  Campbell's,  in  the  present  sta' 
of  our  literature  ; — and  we  are  persuaded,  lb' 
all  who  care  about  poetry,  and  are  not  alrea( 
acquainted  with  the  authors  of  v.hora  ittrei 
— and  even  all  who  are — cannot  possibly 
better  than  read  it  fairly  through,  from  L- 
first  page  to  the  last — without  skipping  tj 
extracts  which  they  know,  or  those  which  ni' 
not  at  first  seem  very  attractive.     There  is  I 
reader,  we  will  venture  to  say.  who  will  ri' 
from  the  perusal  even  of  these  partial  a] 
scanty  fragments,  without  a  fresh  and  de- 
sense  of  the  matchless  richness,  variety,  aj 
originality  of  English  Poetry  :  while  the  ji 
taposition  and  arrangement  of  the  pieces  i 
only  gives  room  for  endless  comparisons  a 
contrasts. — but  displays,  as  it  were  in  miJ 
ture,  the  whole  of  its  wonderful  progress ;  3 
.sets  before  us,  as  in  a  great  gallery  of  pictu; 
the  whole  course  and  liistory  of  "the  art,  fi 
its   first   rude  and   infant   beginnings,  to 
maturity,  and  perhaps  its  decline.     Whil- 
has  all  the  grandeur  and  instruction  that 
longs  to  such  a  gallery,  it  is  free  from 
perplexity  and  distraction  which  is  geuen 
complained  of  in  such  exhibitions;  as  e; 
piece  is  necessarily  considered  separately . 
in  succession,  and  the  mind  cannot  warn 
like  the  eye,  through  the  splendid  labyr, 
in  which  it  is  enchanted.     Nothing,  we  ih 
can  be  more  delightful,  than  thus  at  our  t  • 
to  trace,  through  all  its  periods,  vicissituii, 
and  aspects,  the  progress  of  this  hiiihest  i 
most  intellectual  of  all  the  arts — coloureil 
it  is  in  every  age  by  the  manners  of  the  ti  ■ 
which   produce  it.   and  embodying,  be^  ■ 
those  flights  of  fancy  and  touches  of  pa  - 
that  con.stitute  its  more  immediate  esse;, 
much  of  the  wisdom  and  much  of  the  raonf 
that  was  then  current  among  the  people ;  9 
thus  presenting  us.   not  merely  with  ali'jl 
all  that  genius  has  ever  created  for  deljj, 
but  with  a  brief  chronicle  and  abstract  o«l 
that  was  once  interesting  to  the  generai^i* 
which  have  gone  by. 

The  steps  of  the  progress  of  such  an  t- 
and  the  circumstances  by  which  they  'i 
been  efll'ected.  would  fonn,  of  them.'^elvMa 
large  and  interesting  theme  of  sjiei'i;!:! " 
Conversant  as  poetry  necessarily  is  w  1;  I' 
that  touches  human  feelings,  concenps,  >i 
occupations,  its  character  must  have  bet-ija- 
pressed  by  every  change  in  the  mora!  w 
political  condition  of  society,  and  must  iJ" 
retain  the  lighter  traces  of  their  succe,'* 
follies,  amusements,  and  pursuits:  whi  1° 
the  course  of  ages,  the  very  multiplicj* 
and  increasing  business  of  the  people  ;« 
forced  it  through  a  progress  nol  wholl."*- 
similar  to  that  which  the  same  causes  « 
produced  on  the  agriculture  and  landsca  « 
ihe  country  ; — whoieat  first  we  had  nui  jw 
dreary  wastes,  thinly  sprinkled  with  fflj 
spots  of  simple  cultivation — then  vast  f  !* 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


a  I  chases,  stretching  far  around  feudal  cas- 
!  i  and  piitnacleil   abbeys — then  woodland 
hnlets.  and  pjoodly  mansions,  and  gorj^ffiuis 
l:  liens,  and  parks  rich  with  waste  fertility, 
ai    lax    habitations — and,    finally,    crowded 
id  road-side  villas,  and   brick-walled 
ens,  and   turnip-fields,  and   canals,  and 
cial  ruins,  and  ornamented   farms,  and 
.  ajres  trellised  over  ^vith  e.\ofic  jilants  ! 
!ut.  to  escape  from  those  metaphors  and 
Liiiias  to  the  business  before  us,  we  must 
iUirk.   that  in  order  to  give  any  tolerable 
li  of  the  poetry  which  was  thus  to  be  rep- 
uted, it  was  necessary  that  the  specimens 
■  exhibited  should  be  of  some  compa.ss 
extent.     We   have   heard    their   length 
jilaiiied  of — but  we  think  with  very  little 
ice.     Considering  the  extent  of  the  works 
which  they  are  taken,  thej-  are  almost 
t  inconsiderable  fragments;  and  where 
riginal  w^s  of  an  Epic  or  Tragic  charac- 
'greater  abridgment   would    have   been 
mutilation, — and  would  have  given  only 
a  specimen  of  the  whole,  as  a  brick 
t  do  of  a  building.     From  the  earlier  and 
familiar  authors,  we  rather  think  the  cita- 
are  too  short ;  and,  even  from  those  that 
V  ^rilmore  generally  known,  we  do  not  well 
^    8e'|how  they  could  have  been  shorter,  with 
r: ■  Jtoisafety  to  the  professed  object,  and  oidy 
r..  .iWof  the  publication.     That  object,  we  con- 
j  JKb,  .  was   to   give    specimens   of   English 

';, po|ry,  from  its  earliest  to  its  latest  periods; 

;  an'|it  would  be  a  strange  rule  to  have  fol- 
loVd,  in  making  stich  a  selection,  to  leave 
lihe  best  and  most  popular.  The  work 
iinly  neither  is,  nor  professes  to  be,  a  col- 
pn  from  obscure  and  forgotten  authors — 
I  ipecimens  of  all  who  have  merit  enough 
Ipserve  our  remembrance  ; — and  if  some 
lave  such  redundant  merit  or  good  for- 
a^to  be  in  the  hands  and  the  minds  of 
\  le  world,  it  was  necessary,  even  then,  to 
some  extracts  from  them, — that  the 
might  be  complete,  and  that  there 
it  be  room  for  comjurison  with  others, 
or  tracing  the  progress  of  the  art  in  the 
IS  of  its  best  models  and  their  various 
>iiK%iltors. 

1  one  in.sfance,  and  one  only,  Mr.  C.  has 
■(.  led  doing  this  duty  :  and  left  the  place 
.c[?  great  luminary  to  be  filled  up  by  recoi- 
ls that  he  must  have  presumed  would 
[iiversal.     He  has  given  but  two  pages  to 
■:sPE.\RE — and  not  a  line  from  any  of  his 
Perhaps    he  has   done   rightly.     A 
iiledge  of  Shakespeare  may  be  safely  pre- 
Bd,  we  believe,  in  every  reader ;  and,  if 
|d  begun  to  cite  his  Beauties,  there  is  no 
^Ig  vvhere  he  would  have  ended.     A  little 
!  calling  itself  Beauties  of  Shake.'speare, 
^mblished  some  years  ago,  and  shown,  as 
ive  heard,  to  Mr.  Sheridan.     He  turned 
oveihe  leaves  for  some  time  with  apparent 
satijiction,    and   then    said,    "This    is   very 
welibut  where  are  the  other  s<>ven  volumes?" 
rhri'    is   no   other  author,  however,   who.se 
famlis  such  as  to  justify  a  similar  ellipsis, 
3r  V|ose  works  can  be  thus  elegantly  under- 
''Wr,  in  a  collection  of  good  poetry.     Mr.  C. 
37 


has  complied  perhaps  too  far  with  the  puiMilur 
prejuiiice,  in  confining  his  citations  fioiu  .Mil- 
ton to  the  Comus  and  the  smaller  pi('i(>.  and 
leaving  the  Paradise  Lost  lo  the  ineninry  o| 
his  readers.  But  though  we  do  not  think  liie 
extracts  by  any  means  loo  long  on  the  uliole, 
we  are  certanily  of  opinion  llml  Mmw  art'  tod 
long  and  others  loo  short  ;  and  that  n  anv, 
especially  in  the  latter  case,  nr»'  imt  vi  ry 
well  select<>d.  There  is  far  too  little  ol  Mar- 
lowe for  instanc*!,  and  too  much  of  Sim  ley, 
ami  even  of  IMa,Hsin<;er.  We  should  have 
liked  more  of  Warner,  Fairfax.  J'lmieas 
Fletcher,  and  Henry  More — all  jjott-  nl  no 
scanty  dimensions — ;irid  could  havr  .-j'an'd 
several  pages  of  Hnller.  Mason.  Whili  Inad. 
Roberts.  Meston,  ami  Amhurst  Seldin  We 
do  not  think  the  specimens  from  Hnrns  very 
well  selected  ;  nor  those  from  Prior — nor  can 
we  see  any  good  reason  forc|uoling  the  whole 
Castle  of  Indolence,  and  7uitkin^  else,  for 
Thomson — and  the  whole  Kape  ot  the  Lock, 
and  nolhinij;  else,  for  Pope. 

Next  to  the  im])ressi()n  of  the  vast  fertility, 
compass,  and  beauty  of  our  English  poetry, 
the  reflection  that  recurs  most  fre(|uently  and 
forcibly  to  us,  in  accompanying  Mr.  C.  through 
his  wide  survey,  is  that  of  the  perishalijc  na- 
ture of  poetical  fame,  and  the  si>ee(ly  utilivion 
that  has  overtaken  so  many  of  the  promised 
heirs  of  immortality  !  Of  near  two  hundred 
and  fifty  authors,  whose* works  are  cited  in 
these  volumes,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  whom 
were  celebrated  in  their  generation,  there  are 
not  thirty  who  now  enjoy  any  thing  that  can 
be  called  popularity — whose  works  are  to  be 
found  in  the  hands  of  ordinary  readers — in 
the  shops  of  ordinary  booksellers — or  in  the 
press  for  republication.  About  fifty  more  may 
be  tolerably  familiar  to  men  of  taste  or  litera- 
ture : — the  rest  slumber  on  the  shelves  of  col- 
lectors, and  are  partially  known  to  a  few  anti- 
quaries and  .'scholars.  Now,  the  fame  of  a. 
Poet  is  popular,  or  nothinir.  He  does  not  ad- 
dress himself,  like  the  man  of  .science,  to  the 
learned,  or  those  who  desire  to  learn,  but  to 
all  mankind  ;  and  his  purpose  being  to  delight 
and  be  ])raised.  nece.><sJirily  extends  to  all  who 
can  receive  ph-asure,  or  join  in  applause,  h 
is  strancre.  then,  and  somewhat  nnmiliatini:, 
to  see  how  great  a  proportion  of  those  who 
had  once  fought  their  way  t^uccessfuliy  todi.s- 
tinction,  and  surmounted  the  rivalry  of  con- 
temporary envy,  have  a^fain  .'^unk  into  neglc 
We  have  great  deference  for  ])ublic  opii 
and  readily  admit,  that  nothing  but  wl 
good  can  be  permanently  popular.  But  th 
its  rival  be  generally  oracular,  its  perea'  if*- 
pears  to  us  to  be  often  sufliciently  capric  ..,^'a; 
and  while  we  would  fo.ster  all  that  it  bidn  to 
live,  we  would  willingly  revive  much  that  it 
leaves  to  die.  The  very  multiplicatirn  of 
works  of  amusement,  necessarily  wjlhd'iws 
many  from  notice  that  deserve  to  be  k<  ('i  in 
remembrance:  for  we  should  sooa  fi  i  it 
labour,  and  not  amusement,  if  we  were  ol  ii'r>'d 
to  make  u.se  of  them  all,  or  even  to  talv  <iil 
upon  trial.  As  the  materials  of  erijoymei  i  -.nn' 
instruction  accumulate  around  u-*,  mor-  mr 
more,  we  fear,  must  thus  be  daily  rejecte<.*,  an 


290 


POETRY. 


left  to  waste:  For  while  our  tasks  lengthen, 
our  lives  remain  as  short  as  ever;  and  the 
c&Us  on  our  time  multiply,  while  our  time 
itself  is  flyinp:  swiftly  away.  This  superfluity 
and  abuiidance  of  "our  treasures,  therefore, 
necessarily  rentiers  much  of  them  worthless; 
and  the  veriest  accidents  may,  in  such  a  case, 
determine  what  part  shall  be  preserved,  antl 
what  thrown  away  and  neglected.  When  an 
army  is  decimated,  the  very  bravest  may  fall; 
and  many  poets,  worthy  of  eternal  remem- 
brance, have  probably  been  forgotten,  merely 
because  there  was  not  room  in  our  memories 
for  all. 

By  such  a  work  as  the  present,  however, 
this  injustice  of  fortune  may  be  partly  re- 
dressed— some  small  fragments  of  an  immor- 
tal strain  may  still  be  rescued  from  oblivion — 
and  a  wreck  of  a  name  preserved,  which  time 
appeared  to  have  swallowed  up  for  ever. 
There  is  something  pious  we  think,  and  en- 
dearing, in  the  office  of  thus  gathering  up  the 
ashes  of  renown  that  has  passed  away;  or 
rather,  of  calling  back  the  departed  life  for 
a  transitory  glow,  and  enabling  those  great 
spirits  which  seemed  to  be  laid  for  ever,  still 
to  draw  a  tear  of  pity,  or  a  throb  of  admira- 
tion, from  the  hearts  of  a  forgetful  generation 
The  body  of  their  poetry,  probably,  can  never 
be  revived ;  but  some  sparks  of  its  spirit  may 
yet  be  preserved,  in  a  narrower  and  feebler 
frame.  • 

When  we  look  back  upon  the  havoc  which 
two  hundred  years  have  thus  made  in  the 
ranks  of  our  immortals  —  and,  above  all, 
when  we  refer  their  rapitl  disappearance  to 
the  quick  succession  of  new  competitors,  and 
the  accumulation  of  more  good  works  than 
there  is  time  to  peruse,  we  cannot  h<dp  being 
dismayed  at  the  prospect  which  lies  before 
the  writers  of  the  present  day.  There  never 
was  an  age  so  prolific  of  popular  poetry  as 
that  in  which  we  now  live ; — and  as  wealth, 
population,  and  education  extend,  the  produce 
is  likely  to  go  on  increasing.  The  last  ten 
years  have  jjroduced,  we  think,  an  annual 
supply  of  about  ten  thousand  lines  of  good 
staple  poetry — poetry  from  the  very  first 
hands  that  we  can  boast  of — that  runs  quickly 
to  three  or  four  large  editions — and  is  as  likely 
to  be  permanent  as  present  success  can  make 
it.  Now,  if  this  goes  on  for  a  hundred  years 
longer,  what  a  task  will  await  the  poetical 
readers  of  1919  !  Our  living  poets  will  then 
be  nearly  as  old  as  Pope  and  Swift  an>  at  pres- 
ent— bat  there  will  stand  between  them  and 
that  generation  nearly  ten  times  as  much  fresh 
and  fashionable  poetry  as  is  now  interposed 
between  us  and  those  writers : — and  if  Scott 
and  Byron  and  Campbell  have  already  cast 
Pope  and  Swift  a  good  deal  into  the  shade,  in 
what  form  and  dimensions  are  they  themselves 
likely  to  be  presented  to  the  eyes  of  our  great 
-^r:'  hildren?  The  thought,  we  own,  is  a 
littlr  opalling; — and  we  confess  we  see  noth- 
ing )'■  ter  to  imagine  than  that  they  may  find 
CO  "'ortable  place  in  some  new  collection 
'  s,M  'umens — the  centenary  of  the  present 
'bi  .  tion.  There — if  the  future  editor  have 
V      ng  like  the  indulgence  and  veneration 


for  antiquity  of  his  predecessor — there  slj 
posterity  still  hang  with  rapture  on  the  hall 
Campbell — and  the  fourth  part  of  Byron — { [ 
the  si.xth  of  Scntt — anil  the  scattered  tyt]) 
of  Crabbe — and  the  three  per  cent,  of  South 
— while  some  good-natured  critic  shall  sil| 
our  mouldering  chair,  and  more  than  half  r , 
fer  them  to  those  by  whom  they  have  bi 
superseded  ! — It  is  an  hypeibole  of  good  . 
ture,  however,  we  fear,  to  ascribe  to  theme^  i 
those  dimensions  at  the  end  of  a  century.  . 
ter  a  lapse  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  i 
are  afraid  to  think  of  the  space  they  may  hs  i 
shrunk  into.  We  have  no  Shakes])eare,  all 
to  shed  a  never-setting  light  on  his  contf  ■. 
poraries: — and  if  we  continue  to  write  ;| 
rhyme  at  the  present  rate  for  two  hund  1 
years  longer,  there. must  be  some  new  art 
short-hand  rcadin>x  invented — or  all  readlj 
will  be  given  up  in  despair.  We  need  i 
distress  ourselves,  however,  with  these  afi'< 
tions  of  our  posterity: — and  it  is  quite  til 
that  the  reader  should  know  a  little  of  i 
work  before  us.  j 

The  Essay  on  English  Poetry  is  very  cli» 
erly,  and,  in  many  places,  very  finely  wril'( 
■i— but  it  is  not  equal,  and  it  is  not  compi  . 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  the  poet's  wayw: 
ness  even  in  Mr.  C."s  prose.  His  histor  : 
Muse  is  as  disdainful  of  drudgery  and  pi 
work  as  any  of  her  more  tuneful  sisterS'*^ 
and  so  we  have  things  begun  and  abandn  j 
— passages  of  great  eloquence  and  be; 
followed  up  by  others  not  a  little  careless  . 
disorderly — a  large  outline  rather  meag  f 
filled  up,  but  with  some  morsels  of  e.xquiil 
finishing  scattered  irregularly  up  and  di 
its  expanse — little  fragments  of  detail  :d 
controversy — and  abrupt  and  impatient  'ji« 
elusions.  Altogether,  however,  the  wor «  I 
ven-y  spirited ;  and  abounds  with  the  im 
tions  of  a  powerful  and  fine  understJ\in  . 
and  of  a  delicate  and  original  taste.  We  :• 
not  now  afford  to  give  any  abstract  of  thi  i- 
formation  it  contains — but  shall  make  a  .v 
extracts,  to  show  the  tone  and  manner  of  e 
composition. 

The  following  sketch  of  Chaucer,  foil- 
stance,  and  of  the  long  interregnum  il 
succeeded  his  demise,  is  given  with  { it 
grace  and  spirit. 

"  His  first,  and  long-continued  predilection, 'U 
attracted  by  the  new  and  allegorical  style  ct" 
mance,  which  had  spriins  up  in  France,  ir  » 
thirteenth  century,  under  VViUiam  de  Lorris.  '• 
find  him,  accnfdingly,  during  a  great  part  (  U» 
poetical  career,  engaged  among  the  dreams  n- 
hicms,  flower- worshippings,  and  aniaiory  p  «• 
nients,  of  liiat  visionary  school.  This,  we  "7 
siiy,  was  a  nymnusium  of  raiher  too  light  and  f* 
ful  e.xercise  for  so  strong  a  genius  ;  and  it  niu  j* 
owned,  that  his  allegorical  poeiry  is  often  p  ,iw 
and  proli.x.  Vet,  even  in  this  walk  of  ficlio  « 
never  entirely  lose  sight  of  that  peculiar  giac  no 
gaiety,  which  distinguish  the  Muse  of  <'iin  ti 
and  no  one  who  remembers  his  produciinns  (  n« 
House  oi  Fame,  and  the  Flower  and  the  Lea'  'i" 
regret  that  he  sported,  for  a  season,  in  ilic  lii  o' 
allegory.  Even  his  pieces  of  this  descripno  be 
most  fantastic  in  design,  and  tedious  in  cmt  "1i 
are  generally  interspersed  wiih  fresh  and  j  'W 
descriptions  of  external  nature.  In  this  new  s  vM 
of  romance,  we  perceive  the  youthful  Muse  •  IW 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


Ml 


I  gyage,  in  love  with  mystical  meanings  and  forms 
t fancy,  more  remote,  if  possible  from  renliiy, 
in  those  of  the  chivalrous  fable  iiselt  ;  and  \vc 
ciid,  sometimes,  wish  her  back  front  her  eni- 
binatic  castUs,  to  the  more  solid  ones  of  the  elder 
f-le  ;  but  still  she  moves  in  pursuit  of  those  shad- 

s  with  an  impulse  ol  novelty,  and  an  exnber- 
■f  of  spirit,  that  is  not  wbolly  without  its  aitrac- 

II  and  delight.  Chaucer  was,  afterwards,  happily 
li  wn  t(#the  more  natural  style  of  Boccaccio  ;  and 
fin  him  he  derived  the  hint  of  a  subject,  in  which, 
bides  his  own  original  portraits  of  coniemporary 
li,  he  could  introduce  stories  of  every  description, 
tin    the.  most   heroic   to   the    most    familiar." — 

pp.71— 73. 

'  Warton,  with  great  beauty  and  justice,  com- 
pes  the  a^ipearatioe  of  Chaucer  in  our  lan<;uai;e, 
tia  premature  day  in  an  English  spring;  after 
Vjich  the  gloom  of  winter  returns,  and  the  buds 
a  blossoms,  which  have  been  called  forth  by  a 
tihsient  sunshine,  are  nipped  by  frosts,  and  scat- 
icrd  by  storms.  The  causes  of  the' relapse  of  our 
ptry,  after  Chaucer,  seem  but  too  apparent  in  the 
a  als  of  English  history  ;  which,  during  five  reigns 
o  he  fifteenth  century,  continue  to  display  but  a 
ti  ic  of  conspiracies,  proscriptions,  and  bloodshed. 
Ii'rior  even  to  France  in  literary  progress,  Eng- 
lai  displays  in  the  fifteenth  century  a  still  more 
ntifying  contrast  with  Italy.  Italy,  too,  had  her 
rtfzious  schisms  and  public  distractions ;  but  her 
ail  and  literature  had  always  a  sheltering  place. 
li'V  were  even  cherished  by  the  rivalship  of  inde- 
I  pfdent  communities,  and  received  encouragement 
'  fni  the  opposite  sources  of  commercial  and  eccle- 
siiical  wealth.  But  we  had  no  Nicholas  the 
I-  h,  nor  House  of  .Medicis.     In  England,  the  evils 

I  ivil  war  agitated  soc-iety  as  one  mass.  There 
\v  no  refuge  iroin  them — no  enclosure  to  lence 
line  field  of  improvement — no  mound  to  sletn  the 
u\ent  of  public  troubles.  Before  the  death  of 
Hiry  VI.  it  is  said  that  one  half  of  the  nobility  and 
g(i:ry  in  the  kingdom  had  perished  in  the  field,  or 
01; he  scafibid  I"  ' 

'he  colden  age  of  Elizabeth  has  often  been 
e;:)l]ecl,  and  the  genius  of  Spenser  delineated, 
wa  feeling  and  eloquence.  But  all  that  has 
b(!n  written,  leaves  the  following  striking 
pillages  as  original  as  they  are  eloquent. 

In  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  the  English  mind 
pi'forih  its  energies  in  every  direction.  e.\alied  by 
a  frer  religion,  and  enlarged  by  new  views  of  truth. 
Ti  was  9n  age  of  loyalty,  adventure,  and  gcner- 
IV emulation.  The  chivalrous  character  was  soli- 
1  by  intellectual  pursuits,  while  the  genius  of 
iialry  itself  still  lingered,  as  if  unwilling  to  de- 
pa;  and  paid  his  last  homage  to  a  Warlike  and 
Fuale  reign.  A  desrree  ol  romantic  fancy  ro- 
ni  led,  too,  in  the  manners  and  superstitions  of 
ihieople;  and  Allegory  might  be  said  to  parade, 
thjitreets  in  their  public  pajreants  and  fesiiviiies. 
Qjint  and  pedantic  as  those  allegorical  exhibitions 
m  It  often  be,  they  were  nevertheless  more  ex- 
prt^ive  of  erudition,  ingenuity,and  moral  meaning, 
thi  thev  had  been  in  former  limes.  The  philoso- 
phof  the  highest  minds,  on  the  other  hand,  still 
pa;>ok  of  a  visionary  character.  A  poetical  spirit 
ini(ed  itself  into  the  praciical  heroism  of  the  nee; 
aniSr.me  of  the  worthies  of  ihat  period  seem  less 
liklordinary  men,  than  like  beings  called  forth  out 
of!ction,  and  arrayed  in  the  brightnesH  of  her 
dr<!-ns.  They  had  '  high  thouehls  seated  in  henna 
of  nirtcsy.'  The  life  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney  was 
po.  y  put  ipto  action. 

fhe  result  of  activity  and  curiosity  in  the  public 

mi   was  to  complete  the  revival  of  classical  liiera- 

tur  to  increase  the  importation  of  foreign  books, 

*n<'o  muliiply  iranslniions.  from  which  poetry  sup- 

,  ,,«.  Pli'i  herself  with  abundant  subjects  and  mairrinls. 

jVj|iiiii«J'<|n  the  use  of  which  she  showed  n  frank  and 

I*  "IjI^^PWSm  energy,  that  criticism  and  satire  had  not 

'""^  .iiifiyet'cquired  power  to  overawe.     Romance  came 


back  to  us  from  the  southern  langtingcg,  clothed  in 
new  luxury  by  the  worm  imagmaiion  ol  the  («)inh. 
'I'he  jirowih  of  poetry  under  such  circumi«iiiuie« 
might  indeed  be  expected  to  be  as  irregular  ns  it  v.u$ 
profuse.  The  field  was  open  to  diirnig  nbsutdiiy, 
as  Well  as  to  genuine  inspiraiion;  and  accordingly 
there  is  no  period  in  which  the  extremes  of  good  and 
bad  Nvritingare  so  nbtindani." — pp.  IJO — ^.^J. 

"  The  mistaken  opinion  that  Ben  Jonson  censured 
the  amiquiiy  of  the  diction  in  the  '  Fairy  Queen,'  liiu 
been  corrected  by  Mr.  Malone,  who  pronounce*  it 
to  be  exactly  that  of  his  coniemporaries.  His  au- 
thority is  weighiy  ;  still,  however,  without  reviMiig 
ihe  exploded  error  respecting  Jonson's  censure,  one 
might  imngine  the  ddferonce  of  ."^penser's  Biyle  from 
that  of  Shakespeare's,  whom  he  so  shortly  pre- 
ceded, to  indicate  that  Ivis  (Jothic  Jkubjccl  and  story 
made  him  lean  towards  words  ol  the  elder  time. 
At  all  evcnis,  much  of  his  expression  is  now  l)ecoino 
antiquated  ;  though  it  is  beauiiliil  in  its  antiquity, 
and,  like  ihe  moss  and  ivy  on  some  ninjeslic  build- 
ing, covers  the  fabric  of  his  language  wnij  roniantic 
and  venerable  associations. 

"  flis  command  of  imagery  is  wide,  easy,  and 
lu.xuriant.  He  threw  the  soul  of  harnionv  into  our 
verse,  and  matjc  it  more  warmly,  tenderly,  and 
magnificently  descriptive  than  it  ever  was  before, 
or,  with  a  tew  exceptions,  than  it  has  ever  been 
since.  It  must  ceriainly  be  owned,  that  in  descrip- 
tion he  exhibits  nothing  of  the  brief  strokes  and 
robust  power  which  characterize  the  very  greatest 
poets:  But  we  shall  nowhere  find  more  airy  and 
expansive  images  of  visionary  iliings,  a  sweeter  tone 
of  sentiment,  or  a  finer  flush  in  the  colours  of  lan- 
cuage,  than^n  this  Rubens  of  English  poetry.  His 
fancy  teems  exuberantly  in  minuteness  of  circum- 
stance ;  like  a  fertile  soil  sending  bloom  and  verdure 
through  ij^e  utmost  extremities  of  the  foliage  which 
it  nourisnes.  On  a  comprehensive  view  of  the 
whole  work,  we  certainly  miss  the  charm  of 
strength,  symmetry,  and  "rapid  or  interesting  pro- 
gress ;  for  though  the  plan  which  the  poet  designed 
is  not  completed,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  no  additional 
cantos  could  have  rendered  it  le.is  perplexed.  But 
still  there  is  a  richness  in  his  materials,  even  wiiere 
their  coherence  is  loose,  and  their  di«posiiion  con- 
fused. The  clouds  of  his  allegory  may  seem  to 
spread  into  shapeless  forms,  but  iliey  are  still  the 
clouds  of  a  glowing  atmosphere.  Though  his  story 
grows  desultory,  the  sweetness  ai^d  grace  of  his 
manner  siill  abide  by  him.  We  always  rise  from 
perusing  him  with  melody  in  the  mind's  ear,  and 
with  pictures  of  romantic  beauty  impressed  on  the 
imagination." — pp.  124 — 127. 

In  his  account  of  the  creat  dramatic  writers 
of  that  and  the  succeeding  reign,  Mr.  C.'s 
veneration  for  Shakespeare  has  made  him 
rather  unjuBt,  we  think,  to  the  fame  of  some 
of  his  precursois. — We  have  already  said  that 
he  passes  Marlowe  with  a  very  slight  notice, 
and  a  paire  of  citation. — fireene.  certainly  a 
far  inferior  writer,  is  treated  with  the  same 
scanty  courtesy — and  there  is  no  account 
and  no  specimen  of  Kyd  or  Lodge,  though 
both  authors  of  very  considerable  genius  and 
originality. — With  the  writiiitrs  of  Fecic,  we 
do  not  profess  to  bi'  actjuainled — but  the  <|U()- 
tations  given  from  him  in  the  Kssay  should 
have  entitled  liim  to  a  place  in  tin-  body  of 
the  work. — We  must  p;is.s  ov'er  wliat  he  sayn 
of  Shakesi)earr'  and  Jr)iison.  tlioii;:h  full  of 
beauty  anti  feeling. — To  the  latli-r,  iiidrcd,  he 
is  ratlif  r  more  than  just. — The  arcoinil  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  is  lively  and  discriminating. 

"  The  theatre  of  Beaumont  and  Fletehrr  coniairw 
all  manner  of  good  and  evil.  'Ihe  refpecive  iihares 
of  ihose  dramatic  parmers,  in  the  works  eolleciively 
published  with  their  nomea,  bavo  been  «iatod  m  a 


292 


POETRY. 


different  part  of  these  volumes.  Fleicher's  share 
in  them  is  by  far  the  largest ;  and  he  is  chargeable 
wiih  the  greatest  number  of  faults,  although  at  the 
same  time  his  genius  was  more  airy,  prolific,  and 
fanciful.  There  are  such  extremes  ol  j;ro-:sness 
and  magnificence  in  their  drama,  so  much  sweetne.'s 
and  beamy  interspersed  wiih  views  of  nature  either 
falsely  romantic,  or  vulgar  beyond  reality-;  there  is 
80  much  to  animate  and  amuse  us,  and  ye:  so  much 
that  we  would  willingly  overlook,  that  I  cannot 
help  comparing  the  contrasted  impressions  which 
they  make  to  those  which  we  receive  from  .visiting 
Bome  great  and  ancient  city,  picturesquely  but  irreg- 
ularly built,  gliitering  with  spires  and  surrounded 
with  gardens,  b\ii  exhibiting  in  many  quarters  the 
lanes  and  hovels  of  wretchedness.  'I'hey  have 
scenes  ol  wealthy  and  high  life,  which  remind  us  of 
courts  and  palates  frequented  by  e'egattl  females 
and  high-spirited  gallants,  whil.«t'  tl,e;r  noble  old 
martial  characters,  with  Caractacus  in  the  midst  of 
them,  may  mspire  us  with  the  same  sort  of  regard 
which  we  pay  to  the  rough-hewn  magnificence  of 
an  ancient  fortress. 

"  Unhappily,  the  same  simile,  without  being 
hunted  down,  will  apply  but  too  faithfully  to  the 
nuisances  of  the  drama.  Their  languaae  is  ofteti 
basely  profligate.  Shakespeare's  and  Jonson's  in- 
delicacies are  but  casual  blots;  whiUt  theirs  are 
sometimes  essential  colours  of  their  painiing,  and 
extend,  in  one  or  two  instances,  to  entire  atid  offen- 
sive scenes.  This  fault  has  deservedly  injured  their 
reputation  ;  and,  saving  a  very  slight  allowance  for 
the  fashion  and  taste  of  their  age,  adniiis  of  no  sort 
of  apology.  Their  draiTia,  nevertheless,  is  a  very 
wide  one,  and  'has  ample  room  and  ver^e  enough' 
to  permit  the  attention  to  wander 'from  these, 
and  to  fix  on  more  inviting  peculiarities — as  on 
the  great  variety  of  their  fal)les  and  person- 
ages, their  spirited  dialogue,  their  wit,  pfcthos,  and 
humour.  Thickly  sown  as  their  blemishes  are. 
their  merits  will  bear  great  deductions,  and  still 
■•emain  great.  We  never  can  forget  such  beautiful 
characters  as  their  Cellide,  their  .'\spatia  and  Bella- 
no,  or  such  humorous  ones  as  their  La  Writ  and 
Cacafogo.  Awake  they  will  always  keep  us, 
whether  to  quarrel  or  to  be  pleased  with  them. 
Their  invention  is  fruitful;  its  beings  are  on  the 
whole  an  active  and  sanguine  generation  ;  and  their 
scenes  are  crowded  to  fulness  with  the  warmth, 
agitation,  and  interest  of  actual  life."— pp.  210—213. 

Some  of  the  most  splendid  passages  in  the 
Essay  are  dedicated  to  the  fame  of  Milton — 
and  are  ofTerings  not  unworthy  of  the  shrine. 

"  In  Milton,"  he  says,  "there  may  be  traced  ob- 
ligations to  several  minor  English  poets:  But  his 
^  genius  had  too  great  a  supremacy  to  belong  to  any 
school.  Though  he  acknowledged  a  filial  rever- 
ence for  Spenser  as  a  poet,  he  left  no  Gothic  irregu- 
lar tracery  in  the  design  of  his  own  great  work,  but 
gave  a  classical  harmony  of  parts  to  its  stupendous 
pile.  It  thus  resembles  a  dome,  the  vastness  of 
which  is  at  first  sight  concealed  by  its  symmetry, 
but  which  expands  more  and  more  to  the  eye  while 
it  is  contemplated.  His  early  poetry  seems  to  have 
neither  disturbed  nor  corrected  the  bad  taste  of  his 
age. — Comus  came  into  the  world  unacknowledged 
by  its  author,  and  Lycidas  appeared  at  first  only 
with  his  initials.  These,  and  other  exquisite  pieces, 
composed  in  the  happiest  years  of  his  life,  at  his 
father's  country-house  at  Horton,  were  collectively 
published,  with  his  name  affixed  to  them,  in  1645; 
but  that  precious  volume,  which  included  L' Allegro 
and  U  Penseroso  did  not  (I  believe)  come  to  a 
second  edition,  till  it  was  republished  by  himself  at 
the  distance  of  eight-and-twenty  years.  Almost  a 
century  elapsed  before  his  minor  works  obtained 
their  proper  fame. 

"  Even  when  Paradise  Lost  first  appeared,  though 
it  was  not  neglected,  it  attracted  no  crowd  of  imi- 
tators, and  made  no  visible  change  in  the  poetical 


practice  of  the  age.  He  stood  alone,  and  aloof abo 
his  times;  the  bard  of  immortal  subjects,  and,  as  ' 
as  (here  is  perpetuity  in  language,  of  mimorial  fan 
The  Very  choice  of  those  subjects  bespoke  a  .i 
temp:  for  any  species  of  excellence  that  was  attui 
able  by  o  her  men.  There  is  something  ii 
overawes  the  mind  in  conceiving  his  long-deli'n 
aied  sfleetion  of  that  theme — his  attempting  it  at 
his  eyes  were  shut  upon  the  face  of  nature — his  i 
pendence,  we  mii;ht  almost  say,  on  su[^rnatu 
inspiration,  and  in  the  calm  air  of  strength  w 
which  he  opens  Paradise  Lost,  beginning  a  migl 
performance  without  the  appearance  of  an  effort 

"  The  warlike  part  of  Paradise  Lost  was  inse 
rable  from  its  subject.  Whether  it  could  have  bt 
differently  managed,  is  a  problem  which  our  rev 
eiice  for  .Milton  will  scarcely  permit  us  to  stale, 
feel  that  reverence  too  strongly  to  suggest  even  ■ 
possibility  that  Milton  could  have  improved 
poem,  by  having  thrown  his  angelic  warfare  i 
more  remote  perspective  :  But  it  seems  to  mete 
most  sublime  when  it  is  least  distinctly  broo' 
home  to  the  imagination.  What  an  awful  effect  i' 
the  dim  and  undefined  conception  of  the  conf 
w-hich  we  gather  from  the  retrospects  in  the  ; 
book  I  TlTere  the  veil  of  mystery  is  left  undn  i 
between  us  and  a  subject  which  the  powers  of  . 
scription  were  inadequate  to  exhibit.  The  minis  i 
of  divine  vengeance  and  pursuit  had  been  recsi 
— the  thunders  had  ceased 

'  To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless  deep 
(in  that  line  what  an  image  of  sound  and  spaci 
conveyed  !) — and  our  terrific  conception  of  the  .t 
is  deepened  by  its  indistinctness.  In  optics  it 
are  some  phenomena  which  are  beauiifully-de  • 
live  at  a  certain  distance,  but  which  lose  their... 
sive  charm  on  the  slightest  approach  to  them  4 
changes  the  light  and  position  in  which  they  e 
viewed.  Something  like  this  takes  place  in  e 
phenomeira  of  fancy.  The  array  of  the  fa 
angels  in  hell — the  unfurling  of  the  standai  i 
Satan — and  the  march  of  his  troops  ', 

'  In  perfect  phalanx,  to  the  Dorian  mood      ; 
Of  flutes  and  sofl  recorders' — 

all  this  human  pomp  and  circumstance  of  *« 
magic  and  overwhelming  illusion.  The  imaeinw 
is  taken  by  surprise.  But  the  noblest  effur'jf 
language  are  tried  with  very  unequal  effect,  to  r- 
est  us  in  the  immediate  and  close  view  of  the  'k 
itself  in  the  sixth  book;  and  the  martial  det  i«, 
who  charmed  us  in  the  shades  of  hell,  lose  at 
portion  of  their  sublimity,  when  their  artilli  i» 
discharged  in  the  daylight  of  heaven. 

"  If  we  call  diction  the  garb  of  thought,  M  «, 
in  his  style,  may  be  said  to  wear  the  costpr  rf 
.sovereignty.  The  idioms  even  of  foreign  lang  ^ 
contributed  to  adorn  it.  He  was  the  most  le  «i 
of  poets  ;  yet  his  learning  interferes  not  wi  hii 
substantial  English  purity.  His  simplicity  is  in- 
paired  by  glowin»  ornament, — fike  the  bush  ^ 
sacred  flame,  which  burnt  but  '  was  not  consu  i' 

"  In  delineating  the  blessed  spirits,  Miltc  iM 
exhausted  all  the  conceivable  variety  that  co  t* 
given  to  pictures  of  unshaded  sanctity;  bt  * 
chiefly  in  those  of  the  fallen  angels  that  his  «• 
lence  is  conspicuous  above  every  thing  anc  •• 
modern.  Tasso  had,  indeed,  portrayeJanii  ■" 
council,  and  had  given  the  hint  to  our  poet  ••• 
cribing  the  origin  of  pagan  worship  to  those  >">• 
bate  spirit*.  But  how  poor  and  squalid  ir  '•»' 
parison  of  the  Miltonic  Pandaemonium  siM 
Scyllas,  the  Cyclopses,  and  the  Chimeras  t» 
Inlernal  Council  of  the  Jerusalem  !  Tasso  •«• 
clave  of  fiends  is  a  den  of  ugly  incongruous  i* 
sters.  The  powers  of  Milton's  hell  areiU" 
shapes  and  forms.  Their  appearance  dwarfi  'OT 
other  poetical  conception,  when  we  turn  our  »••» 
eyes  from  contemplating  them.  It  is  not  tl  .«*• 
ternal  attributes  alone  which  expand  the  in  '*■ 
lion,  but  their  souls,  which  are  as  colossal  £  ^ 
stature— their  '  thoughts  that  wander  thrmt  **" 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMENS  OF  THE  POETS. 


29t 


ny' — the  pride  that  burns  amidst  the  ruins  of  their  i 

dune  natures,  and  ihcir  gonuis,  thai  I'cels  witli  ilie  | 

auur  and  debates  wiin  tne  eloiiueiii-e  ot  hfuven."  i 

pp.  242,  247.      I 

Ve  have  already  said,  that  we  think  Shir-  . 
I.  overpraieed — but  he  is  praised  with  great 
/ .  e  [uence.    There  is  but  little  siiid  of  Dryileii 
,,    jiiiie  Essay — but  it  i^  said  with  force  and 
\vh  judgment.    In  speaking  of  Pope  and  his  ' 
ciitemporanes,  Mr.  C.  touches  on  debatoable 
uuiid:     And  we  shall  close  our  quotations  ! 
I  a  this  part  of  his  work,  with  the  passage 
,1.  hichhe  announces  his  own  indulgent,  and, 
n  lips,  latitudinarian  opinions. 

There  are  e.xclusionists  in  taste,  who  tiiink  that 

liii  cannot  speak  wnh  snHicient  disparagement  of 

ihiBnglish  poets  of  the  lirst  part  of  tiie  eighteenth 

ceiury  ;  and  ihej'  are  arnieii  with  a  noble  provoca- 

livjto  Knglishconieiupt,  wiien  ihey  have  it  to  say 

th[ihose  poets  belong  to  a  t-'reiieh  school.  Indeed 

Dien  himself  is  generally  included  in  that  school; 

th^ijh  more  genuine  English  is  to  be  found  in  no 

in^'s  pages.    But  in  poetry  '  there  are  many  man- 

;    siqj.'     I  am  free  to  conless,  thai  I  can  pass  from 

;,  ibielder  writers,  and  still  tind  a  charm  in  the  cor- 

rejand  equable  sweetness  of  Parnell.    ConScious 

mH,„j,|th3hi3  diction  has  not  the   freedom  and  volubility 

J    of  le  better  strains  of  the  elder  time,  I  cannot  but 

"  ■  reotrk  his  exemption  from  the  quaintness  and  false 

nufphor  which  so  ot'ien  disligure  the  style  of  the 

'    prtkling  a^e  ;  nor  deny  tny  respect  to  the  select 

-h^e  ol  his  e.Kpression,  the  clearness  and  keeping 

!  li  imagery,  and  the  pensive  dignity  of  his  moral 

e-ig. 

■'ope  gave  our  heroic  couplet  its  strictest  nie- 
idand  tersest  e.xpression. 
\0'un  mot  mis  en  so  place  it  enseigne  le  pouvoir. 

If  \i  contemporaries  forgot  other  poets  in  admiring 
hinjlet  him  not  be  robbed  of  his  just  fame  on  pre- 
ten|  that  a  part  of  it  was  superfluous.    The  public 
ircas  lorig  fatigued  with  repetitions  of  his  man- 
but  if  we  place  ourselves  in  the  situation  of 
to  whom  his  brilliancy,  succinctness  and  ani- 
n   were   wholly    new,  we   cannot  wonder  at 
being  captivated  to  the   fondist  admiration. — 
ief  to  do  justice  to  Pope,  we  should   forget 
litators,  if  that  were  possible  ;  but  it  is  easier 
member  than  to  forijet  by  an  effort — to  acquire 
aiions  than  to   .shake    them  ofT.     Every  one 
ecoUect  how  often  the  most  beauiiiul  air  has 
upon  his  ear,  and  grown  insipid,  from  l)eing 


■W  DoriaiW 


.jassf.        „     . 

IHMliittla;  j  or  sung  by*  vulgar  musicians.  It  is  the  same 
ifUJOfliW!'  lit  with  reL'ard«o  Pope's  versification.  That  hii 
^nilbtil  K  ar  rhythm  and  manner  are  the  very  best 
PjBteifaiif  •*  hole  range  of  our  poetry  need  not  he  asserted. 
,  |]iiiiii{ii  [e  s  H  gracefully  peculiar  manner,  though  it  is 
Lp-^lkfliil  01  Iculaied  to  be  an  universal  one  ;  and  when-, 
''    ,  shall  we  find  the  style  of  poetry  that  could 


^0fi^  »  finounced  an  exclusive  model  for  every  com 

^^[i  M<f     His    pauses    have  little   variety,  and    I 

2iilifi  ir/^9  are    too  much  weighed    in    the   balance  of  | 

2"^i»  lliisis.     But  let  us  look  to  the  spirit  that  points 

"Tj^iIi!  •  iiithesis,  and    to    the    rapid   precision  of  his 

SiBtW?  I"]' i'9.  and  we  shall  forgive   him  for  being  loo 

•  '£ll*l  ***  ^''*^  *"*^  sententious." — pp.  259 — 262 

■^uisr  ^^  *°  '^'^  '^  subjoined  a  long  argument,  to 
''foifli'lio  that  Mr.  Bowles  is  mistaken  in  supixjs-  : 
^ti^^^t^  ^f  a  P««t  should  always  drjiw  his  imatres 
,j((iiii9^1orilhe  works  of  nature,  and  not  from  those  I 
i .  We  have'  no  roorff  at  present  for  any  ] 
scjgjon  of  the  question;  but  we  do  not  | 
in  it  is  quite  fairly  sttiteil  in  the  passage  to  i 
'  i  1  we  have  referred  ;  and  confess  that  we  | 
ther  inclined,  on  the  whole,  to  adhere  to  I 
eed  of  Mr.  Bowles. 


Of  the  Specimens,  which  compose  tne  body 
of  the  work,  we  cannot  jjrciend  to  give  any 
account.  They  are  tliemselves  but  tiny  anil 
slender  fragments  of  the  works  from  which 
they  are  taken  :  and  to  abriilge  them  further 
\yould  be  to  reduce  them  to  mere  dust  and 
rubbish.  Besides,  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
review  the  poets  of  England  for  liie  last  four 
hundred  years! — but  only  the  present  editor 
and  critic.  In  the  little  we  have  yet  to  saj-. 
therefore,  we  shall  treat  only  of  the  merits  ol 
Mr.  Campbell.  His  account  of  Hall  and  Cham- 
berlayn  is  what  struck  us  most  in  his  lirst 
volumes — probably  because  neither  of  the 
writers  whom  he  so  jmliciously  praises  wero 
formerly  lamiliar  to  us.  Hall."  who  was  the 
founder  of  our  satirical  jtoetry,  wrote  his  satires 
about  the  year  1597.  when  only  twenty-three 
years  old;  and  whether  we  consider  tne  age 
of  the  man  or  of  the  world,  they  appetir  to  us 
equally  wonderful.  In  this  extratjrdinary  work, 

"  He  discovered."  says  Mr.  C.  "  not  only  the 
early  vigour  of  his  own  goniiis.  but  the  power  and 
pliability  of  his  native  tongue:  for  in  the  point,  niul 
volubility  and  visjpur  of  Ilnll's  numbers,  we  iniaht 
frequently  imagine  onr.sclves  perusing  Drydoii. 
This  may  be  exemplified  in  the  hannonv  and  pic- 
turesqnenessofthe  following  description  ofn  ningnif- 
icent  rural  mansion,  which  the  traveller  iippro.irhea 
in  the  hopes  of  reaching  the  seat  of  ancient  hospi- 
tality, but  finds  it  deserted  by  its  selfiih  owner. 

Beat  the  broad  gates,  a  goodly  hollow  sound, 

With  double  echoes,  doth  again  rebound  ; 

Rut  not  a  dog  doth  bark  to  welcome  thse, 

Xor  churlish  porter  canst  thou  chafing  see. 

.Ml  dumb  and  silent,  like  the  dead  ol  iiight, 

Or  dwelling  of  some  sleepy  Sybarite; 

The  marble  pavement  hid  with  desert  weed. 

With  house-leek,  thistle,  dock,  and  hemlock  seed. 

******** 

Look  to  the  tow'red  chininies,  which  should  be 
The  wind-pipes  of  good  hospitality. 
Through  which  it  breatheth  to  the*  open  air, 
Betokening  life  and  liberal  welfare, 
Lo,  there  th'  unthankful  swallow  takes  her  rest, 
.And  fills  the  tunnel  with  her  circled  nest. 

"  His  satires  are  neither  cramped  by  personal  hos- 
tility, nor  spun  out  to  vague  declamati<ms  on  vice  ; 
but  give  us  the  form  and  pressure  ol  the  times.  e.\- 
hibited  in  the  faults  of  coeval  literature,  and  in  the 
toppery  orsordid  traits  of  prevailing  manners.  The 
age  was  undoubtedly  fertile  in  eccentricity. " 

•     Vol.  ii.  pp.  257,  2.')8. 

What  he  says  of  Chamberlayn,  and  the  ex- 
tracts he  has  made  from  his  Pliaronniihi,  hava 
made  us  nuite  impatient  for  an  opportunity  of 
perusing  tne  whole  poem. 

The  jxietical  merits  rW  Ben  Jrtnsou  are 
chiefly  diucu.'i.sed  in  the  E.-^-sjiy ;  and  the  No- 
tice  is  principally  biographical.  It  is  very 
pleasingly  written,  though  with  an  allectional.^ 
leaning  towards  his  her*).  The  following  short 
pas.iage  affords  a  fair  specimen  of  the  goml 
sense  and  good  temper  of  aJl  Mr.  Campbell's 
ajwlogies. 

"  The  poet's  journey  to  Senilniui  (lf.l7)  nwnkins 
many  pleasinjj  recollections,  when  wr  com  <  ivi  hiin 
aniicipaiini;  Ins  welcome  among  n  people  who  nii»;ht 
be  proud  of  a  nhare  in  his  ancestry,  and  M-itineoui. 
with  manlv  flireneih,  on  a  journey  of  four  hiindrrd 
mile«,  on  foot.  We  are  asHiired.  by  one  who  linw 
him  III  .Scotland,  that  he  was  treated  wnh  r*i>pect 
and  afTection  among  the  nobiliiy  and  goniry  ;  nor 
X  2 


294 


POETRY. 


was  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  country  lost  upon  ' 
his  fancy.     From  the  poem  svhich  he  meditated  on  ' 
Lochlomond,  it  is  seen  that  lie  looked  on  it  wiih  a  [ 
poet's  eye.     But,  unhappily,  the  meagre  anecdotes  1 
of  Drummond  have  made  this  event  of  liis  life  too  ! 
prominent,  by  the  over-^mportani'e  which  has  been 
aiiaclied  to  them.    Drummond,  a  smooth  and  sober 
gentleman,  seems  to  have  disliked  Jonson's  indul- 
gence in  I  hat  conviviality  which  Ben   had  shared 
with  his  Fletcher  and  Shakespeare  at  the  Mermaid. 
In  consequence  of  those  anecdotes,  Jonson's  mem- 
ory   has   been   damned  for  brutality,  and   Drum- 
mond's  for  perfidy.     Jonson  drank  freely  at  Haw- 
thornden,  and  talked  big — things  neither  incredibJe 
nor  unpardonable.    Drummond's  perfidy  amounted 
to  writing  a  letter,   beginning  Sir,  wiih  one  very 
kind  .-sentence  in  it.  to  the  man  whom  he  had  de- 
scribed unfavourably  in   a  private  memorandum, 
which  he  never  meant  for  publication.  As  to  Drum- 
mond's decoying  Jonson  under  his  roof  with  any 
premeditated  design  on  his  reputation,  no  one  can 
seriously  believe  it." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  150,  151. 

The  notice  of  Cotton  may  be  quoted,  as  a 
perfect  model  for  such  slight  memorials  of 
writers  of  the  middle  order. 

"  There  is  a  careless  and  happy  humour  in  this 
fftiet's  Voyage  to  Ireland,  which  seems  to  anticipate 
the  manner  "f  Anstey.  in  the^th  Guide.  The 
tasteless  indelicacy  of  his  parody  of  the  iEneid  has 
found  but  too  many  admirers.  His  imitations  of 
Lucian  betray  the  grossest  misconception  of  humor- 
ous effect,  when  he  attempts  to  burlesque  that 
which  is  ludicrous  already.  He  was  acquainted 
with  French  and  Italian  ;  and  among  several  works 
from  the  former  language,  Iranslated  the  Horace  of 
Corneille.  and  Montaigne's  Essays. 

"  The  father  of  Cotton  is  described  by  Lord  Cla- 
rendon as  an  accomplished  and  honourable  man. 
who  was  driven  by  domestic  afflictions  to  habits 
which  rendered  his  age  less  reverenced  tlian  his 
youth,  and  made  his  best  friends  wish  that  he  had 
not  lived  so  long.  From  him  our  poet  inherited  an 
incumbered  estate,  with  a  disposition  to  e.xirava- 
gance  liitle  calculated  to  improve  it.  After  having 
studied  at  Cambridnre,  and  returned  from  his  travels 
abroad,  he  married  the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas 
Owihnrji.  in  Nottinghamshire.  He  went  to  Ireland 
as  a  captain  in  the  army  ;  but  of  his  military  pro- 
gress nothing  is  recorded.  Having  embraced  the 
soldier's  life  merely  as  a  shift  in  distress,  he  was 
not  likely  to  pursue  it  with  much  ambition.  It  was 
probably  in  Ireland  that  he  met  with  his  second  wile, 
Mary,  Countess  Dowager  of  .^rdglasa.  the  widow 
of  Lord  Cornwall.  She  had  a  jointure  of  1500/.  a 
year,  secured  from  his  imprudent-  management. 
He  died  insolvent,  at  Westminster.  One  of  his 
favourite  recreations  was'  angling  ;  and  his  house, 
which  was  situated  on  the  Do-^ ,  a  fine  trout  stream 
which  divides  the  counties  of  Derby  and  Stafford, 
was  the  frequent  resort  of  his  friend  Isaac  Walton 
There  he  built  a  fishing  house,  '  Piscatoribus  sa- 
crum.' with  the  initials  of  honest  Isaac's  name  and 
his  own  uniied  in  ciphers  over  the  door.  The  walls 
were  painted  with  fishing-scenes,  and  the  portraits 
of  Cotton  and  Walton  were  upon  ihe  beanfet. — 
pp.  293,  294. 

There  is  a  very  betiutiful  and  affectionate 
account  of  Parnell. — But  there  is  more  power 
of  writing,  and  more  depth  and  delicacy  of 
feeling,  in  the  following  masterly  account  and 
estimate  of  Lillo. 

"  George  Lillo.  was  the  son  of  a  Dutch  jeweller, 
who  married  an  F.Mglishwoman.  and  settled  in  Lon- 
don. (~)iir  poet  was  born  near  Moorfield*.  was  bred 
to  his  father's  business,  and  followed  it  for  many 
years.  The  story  of  his  dying  in  distress  was  a 
fiction  of  Hammond,  the  poet ;  for  ho  bequeathed  a 
considerable  property  to  his  nephew,  whom  he 


made  his  heir.  It  has  been  said,  that  this  bet  k 
was  in  consequence  of  his  finding  the  young  uj 
disposed  to  lend  him  a  sum  of  money  at  a  i* 
when  he  thought  proper  to  feign  pecuniary  dist  s, 
in  order  that  he  might  discover  the  sinceri  jf 
those  calling  themselves  his  Iriends.  Thomas  |. 
vies,  his  biographer  and  editor,  professes  to  fe 
got  this  anecdote  from  a  surviving  partner  of  o. 
It  bears,  however,  an  intrinsic  air  ol  improbal  y' 
It  is^not  usual  for  sensible  tradesmen  to  affec  e^ 
ing  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy  ;  and  Lillo's  j. 
acter  was  that  of  an  uncommonly  sensible  n. 
Fielding,  his  intimate  friend,  ascribes  to  h  i 
manly  simplicity  of  mind,  that  is  extremely  i,^ 
such  a  stratagem. 

'•  LiUo  is  the  tragic  poet  of  middling  and  fai  itt 
life.     Instead  of  heroes  from  romance  and  hi  7, 
he  gives  the  merchant  and  his  apprentice ;  at  be 
Macbeth  of  his  '  Fatal  Curiosity'  is  a  privati  -a- 
tleman,  who  has  been  reduced  by  his  pove  to 
dispose  of  his  copy  of  Seneca  for  a  morsel  of  1  ij. 
The  mind  will  be  apt,  alter  reading  his  wor  to 
suggest  to  itself  the  question,  how  tar  the  ;  rer 
drama  would  gain  or  lose  by  a  more  general  jp. 
tion  of  this  plebeian  principle.     The  cares,  i  in 
be  said,  that  are  most  familiar  to  our  exisienc  ind 
the  distresses  of  those  nearest  to  ourselves  in  u. 
tion,  ought  to  lay  the  strongest  hold  upon  oui  m- 
pathies;  and  the  general  mass  of  society  ou   lo 
furnisli  a  more  express  image  of  man  than  a  d^ 
tached  or  elevated   portion  of  the   species,  liil, 
notwithstanding   the   power  of  Lillo's  worl  wt 
entirely  miss  in  them  that  romantic  attraction  licb 
invites  to  repeated  perusal  of  them.     They  ;  iw 
life  in  a  close  and  dreadful  semblance  of  1  iiy, 
but  not  arrayed  in  the  magic  illusion  of  poetj  Ebi 
strength   lies   in   conception   of  situations,    ;  b 
beauty  of  dialogue,  or  in  the  eloquence  of  tl  nt- 
sions.     Yet  the  effect  of  his  plain  and  home  mb- 
jects  was  so  strikingly  superior  to  that  of  th'  ipid 
and   heroic  productions  of  the  day,   as  to  ln' 
some  of  his  contemporary  admirers  to  proi 
that  he  had  reached  the  acme  of  dramatv 
lence,  and  struck  into  the  best  and  most  ; 
path  of  tragedy.  George  Barnwell,  it  was  ob  vea.   1 
drew  more  tears  than  ihe  rants  of  Alexande  This  j 
might  be  true;  but  it  did  not  bring  the  com  i«': 
of  huinble  and  heroic  subjects  to  a  fair  test ; 
tragedy  of  Alexander  is  bad,  not  from  its 
but  from  the  incapacity  of  the  poet  who  d 
it.     It  does  not  prove  that  heroes,  drawn  ^ 
tory  or  romance,  are  not  at  least  as  suscei 
high  and  poetical  effect,  as  a  wicked  apprei 
a  distressed  gentleman  pawning  his  inoveai  >•  ■■  | 
is  a  different  question  whether  Lillo  has  givi  oii» 
subjects  from  private  Me,  the  degree  ofbi  lyol 
which  they  are  susceptible.     He 'is  a  maste  I  Ui- 
rific.  but  "not  of  tender  impressions.     Wi'eel  » 
harshness  and  gloom  in  his  genius,  even  \  lew* 
are  compelled  ro  admire  its  force  and  origii  ty.     i 

"  The  peculiar  choice  of  his  subjects  w;  v 
events,  happy  and  commendable,  as  far  ;  " 
garded  himself;  for  his  talents  never  succ  N 
well  whetj   he  ventured  out  of  them.    I 
another  question,  whether  the  familiar  cas 
subjects  was  fitted  to  constitute  a  more     - 
or»nly  a  sjibordinaie  walk  in  tragedy.    '  *' 
edly  the  genuine  delineation  of  the  hun 
will  please  us,  from  whatever  station  01  '< 
stances  of  life  it   is   derived:  and,  in  tl; -i 
pathos  of  tragedy,  probably  very  little    '' 
will   be   fell  from  the  choice  of  charact. 
pitched  above  or  below  the  line  of  met  r 
station.     But    something  more  than  patl   '■ 
quired  in  tragedy  ;  and  the  very  pain  th:  '■ 
our  sympathy,  wouj^  seem   to   require     ' 
and  romantic  associations  of  the  lancx     ' 
with  its  poignancy.     Whatever  an  1 
importance,  publicity,  and  elevatioi'  •  ■ 
of  pity,  forms  a  brightening  and  ailurin.' '=', 
to  the  imagination.     Athens  herself,  wi  »■ 
simplicity  and  democracy,  delighted  on  tl  sw^ 


••  Neaj, 

'.BC!ill«» 


CAMPBELLS  SPECLMENS  OF  THE  POE'lc. 


i»S 


'Let  gorgeous  Trapedy 
In  scepter'd  pall  come  swi-eping  l>y.' 

Even  siiuaiions  far  depressed  beneuih  ilu-  fiiinil- 
r  mediocrity  of  life,  are  more  pieiuresnue  unJ 
)elical  than  iia  ordinary  level.  It  is  reriuiiily  on 
e  viriiies  of  the  middling  rank'ol  lile,  that  the 
rength  and  comforts  of  soeieiv  chicHy  d»-pfiid. 
le  same  way  as  we  look  for  the 


harvest,  not  on 
if&atid  precipices,  but  on  the  easy  slope  and  the 
liform  plain.     But  the  painter  does  not  in  genernl 

fon  level  countries  tor  the  subjouls  of  his  noblest 
idscapes.  There  is  an  analogy,  I  conceive,  to 
sin  the  moral  painting  of  tragedy.  Disparities 
station  give  it  boldness  of  outline.  The  com- 
Iuiding  situations  of  life  are  iis  mountain  sienery 
the  reijion  where  its  storm  and  sunshine  may  be 
rtrayed  ill  their  strongest  contrast  and  colouring." 
Vol.  v.  pp.  5S— G2.. 
Nothing,  we  think,  can  be  more  exquisite 

tniliil;  1^1 

i,iiow(ii4 

preover  of  opinion,  that  the  merits  of  Lillo. 
a  poet  at  least,  aie  consiileiably  overrateil. 
Here  is  a  llatiiess  and  a  weakness  in  his  dir- 
in,  that  we  think  must  have  struck  Mr.  C. 
Dre  than  he  has  acknowletlged, — and  a  tone, 
casionally,  both  of  vuliiurity  and  of  paltry 
"ectatioii,  that  counteracts  the  pathetic  etlect 
.  his  conceptions,  and  does  injustice  to  the 
periment  of  domestic  trajjedy. 
The  critique  on  Thomson  is  distinguished 
J:  the  same  fine  tact,  candour,  and  concise- 
iss. 


mddliiigiii' 
tomannul 

•nly'isijn 


k.  Ttew 
II  loom  ea 
mo  orate 
iwtiolilijiji 
iiaoltowii 
I',  of  mil 
.  oi  the  i[ii 
:r  ik'  Lih'n 


an  this  criticism. — though  we  are  far  from 
iuig  entire  converts  to  its  doctrines;  and  are 


rillosiotiollt 


aemii     "Habits  of  early  admiration  teach  us  all  to  look 
iJfliiniiMBi   |;k  upon  this  poet  as  the  favouriie  comiianion  of 
;ifmiiolkilii   <-9olitai7  walks,  and  as  the  author  who  has  first 
.( lie  day, «!  <chiefly  reflected  back  to  our  minds  a  heightened 
'liiiilieistil    |]  refined  sensation  of  the  deligiit   which  rural 
Kwoflia    inery  afTords  us.     The  judgment  of  cooler  years 
/■xAidn   i.y  somewhat  abate  ouresiimaiion  of  him.'thoush 
i)m»ell,ilw    ivill  still  leave  us   the   essential   features  of  his 
iaiijolAliffl   fstical  character  to  abide  the  test  of  reflection. 
!  Totbiitflli'      e  unvaried  pomp  of  bis  diction  suggests  a  most 
■yfjloadiis   I  "avourable  comparison  with  the  manly  and  idiom- 
'^.nolfiiii  «;  simplicity  of  Cowper  :  at  the  same   time,  the 
dilupoeull    I  vading  spirit  and  teeling  of  his  poetry  is  in  gene- 
jifciroesjn"   i  more  bland  and  delightful  than  that  of  his  great 
(tltaslim  nl  in  rural  description.     Thomson  seems  to  coii- 
BjwcWif  '  iplate  the  creation   with  an  eye  of  unqualified 
sifeff  pasure  and  ecstasy,  and  to  love  its  inhabitants 
:    V  h  a  lofty  and  hallowed  feeling  of  reliiiious  hap- 
less; Cowper  has  also  his  philanthropy,  but  it  is 
(Ijhed  with  religious  terrors,  and  with  themes  of 
■sir'',  regret,  and  reprehension.     Cowper's  image 
.I. re  is   more  curiously  distinct   and   familiar. 
!  .ixin  carries  our  associations  through  a  wider 
'iu:'.  uf  speculation  and  sympathy.     His  touches 
cinot  be  more  faithful  than  Cowper's,  but  they 
n|more  soft  and  select,  and  less  disturbed  by  the 


us  by  its  unwieldy  dilTercnre  fr»m  thocontinoii  co«- 
luine  ol  expre».8ioii." — pp.  CIS — 218. 

There  m  the  same  dehcacy  of  taote,  iind 
beauty  of  writing,  in  the  lollowing  riMnarks 
on  Collins — lhuui{)i  we  think  tin?  ^p<  eiinent* 
afterwards  given  from  this  e.xquimle  |M)et  uie 
rather  niggardly. 

"  Collins  published  bin  Orioiiinl  Kdocuen  while 
a(  college,  and  his  lyrical  poetry  nt  the  age  <>| 
tweniy-six.  Those  works  will  abide  conipariguii 
with  whatever  Milton  wrote  under  the  age  ol  thirty. 
It  they  have  rather  less  exubcrniit  wealth  ol  ^vnuia, 
they  e.\hil>it  more  exiiuisito  touches  ol  pathos. 
Like  Milton,  he  leads  us  into  the  haunti-d  ground 
ol  imaginniioii ;  like  him,  he  has  the  rich  ecmioniy 
of  expression  holoed  with  thought,  which  by  itingle 
or  lew  words  often  hints  entire  pictures  to  the  imagi- 
naiion.  In  what  short  and  Bim|)le  terms,  lor  in- 
stance, does  he  open  a  wide  and  majestic  lundtcapc 
to  the  mind,  sucii  as  we  might  view  Irom  Uvnlu- 
mond  or  Snowden — when  he  speaks  ol  the  hut 
'That  from  nonie  niountnin'*  Kiile 
Views  wilUH  and  swvlling  Hoods' 

.\nd  in  the  line,  '  Where  faint  and  sickly  winds 
for  ever  howl  around.'  lie  does  not  seem  merely  to 
describe  the  sultry  desert,  but  brings  it  home  to  the 
senses. 

•■  A  cloud  of  obscurity  sometimes  rests  on  hia 
highest  conceptions,  arising  from  the  fincnes.s  ol  hia 
associations,  and  the  daring  sweep  ol  Ms  illusions  ; 
but  the  shadow  is  transitory,  and  inierlere.H 
little  with  the  light  of  hia  iinasery,  or  the 
of  his  feelings.  'I'he  absence  ol  even  this  speck  of 
mysticism  from  his  Ode  on  the  Passions  is  perhaps 
the  happy  circumstance  that  secured  its  unbounded 
popularity.  Nothing,  however,  is  common-place 
in  Collinsi  The  pastoral  eclogue,  which  is  insipid 
in  all  other  English  hands,  assumes  in  Ins  a  touch- 
ing interest,  and  a  picturesque  air  of  novelty.  It 
seems  that  he  himself  uliimaiely  undervalued  those 
eclogues,  as  deficient  in  characteristic  manners  ;  but 
surely  no  just  reader  ol  them  cares  any  more  about 
this  circumstance  than  about  the  authenticity  of  the 
tale  of  Troy. 

"In  his  Ode  to  Fear  he  hints  at  his  dramatic 
ambition  ;  and  he  planned  several  tragedies.  Had 
he  lived  to  enjoy  and  adorn  existence,  it  is  not  easy 
to  conceive  his  sensitive  spirit  and  harmonious  tar 
descending  to  mediocrity  in  any  path  ol  poetry  ; 
yet  it  may  be  doubted  if  his  mind  had  not  a  pas- 
sion for  the  visionary  and  niiiote  forms  of  imngnm- 
tion,  too  strong  ana  exclusive  for  the  general  pur- 
po.ses  of  the  drama.  His  genius  loved  to  breathe 
rather  in  the  preternatural  and  ideal  element  of 
poetrv,  than  in  the  atmosphere  of  imitotioii,  which 
lies  closest  to  real  lile  ;  and  his  notions  of  potiical 
excellence,  whatever  vows  he  might  address  to 
'  the  manners,'  were  still  tending  to  the  vast,  the 
iindefinable,  and  the  absirnci.  Certainly,  how- 
ever, he  carried  sensibility  and  tenderness  into  the 
hmhest  reiiioiiB  of  abstracted  thought :     His  cnihu- 


viirmtn 


iliision  of  homely  objects.     It  is  but  justice  to  say,  j  gin.sni  spreads  a  glow  even  amongst  '  the  shadowy 


tIJ!  amidst  the  feeling  and   fancy  of  the  .Seasons 
wjmeet  with  interruptions  of  declamation,  heavy 
n  rative.  and  unhappy  digression — with  a  parhelion 
e  (uence  that  throws  a  counterfeit  glow  of  expres- 
811  on  common-place  ideas — as  when  he  treats  us 
t<he  solemnly  ridiculous  bathing  of  Miisidora  ;  or 
d  IKS  from  the  clas.«ics  insteaH  of  nature ;  or,  alter 
ii)kuig  inspiration  from  lier  hertnit  seat,  makes  his  | 
d  icaiory  bow  loa  patronizing  countess,  or  sfieaker 
o  he  Mouse  of  Commons.     As  long  as  he  dwells  | 
if  fie  pure  contemplation  of  nature,  and  appeals  to  I 
tl  uriiversal  poetry  of  the  human  breast,  his  re- 
d'dant  style  comes  to  us  as  something  venial  and 
aif^nininiis — it  is  the  flowing  vesture  of  diedniid  ; 
ai  perhaps  to  the  general  experience  is  rmher  im- 
p  n.' ;  but  when  he  rptiirns  to  the  familiar  norra-  j 
ti  9  or  courtesies  of  life,  the  same  rliciion  censes 
UKem  the  mantle  of  inspiration,  and  only  airikca  | 


les  of  mind,'  and  his  allegory  is  as  sensible  to 
the  heart  as  it  is  visible  to  the  fancy." — pp.  lUO,  312. 

Though  we  are  afraid  our  e.xlract.s  are  be- 
coming unreasonable,  we  cannot  resist  iiidulj;- 
ing  our  own  nationalitv,  by  producing  this 
specimen  of  Mr.  CampLell'a. 

"  The  admirers  of  the  (icnile  Shepheid  muai 
perhaps  be  contented  to  sbiirc  sonic  ausjiicion  of 
imiionni  partiality,  while  ibev  do  justice  to  iheir 
own  f.eling  of  its  merit.  Yet  as  this  dramo  ia  • 
picture  of  rusno  Sroiluod,  it  wimid  perhspa  be 
saying  hnle  for  its  fidelity,  if  it  viclded  no  more 
ngrceableiicHS  to  the  breasl'of  a  na'ivc  ibnii  he  could 
expound  to  n  «ttnnger  bv  ilni  »trict  letter  <>|  rriii- 
cism.  We  should  think  the  painter  had  fimshrd 
the  likeneaa  of  a  mother  very   ijidiffvrcnily,  if  il 


296 


POETRY. 


did  not  bring  home  to  her  children  trails  of  unde- 
finable  expre-^sion  which  had  escaped  every  eye 
but  thai  of  fainiliar-nfTfiiion.  Ramsay  had  n»t  ihe 
force  of  Burns;  but,  iieiilier.  in  jus;  proportion  to 
his  merits,  is  he  hkeiy  to  be  felt  by  aii  English 
reader.  The  fire  of  Burns'  wit  and  passion  glows 
through  an  obscure  dialect  by  its  confinement  to 
short  and  concentrated  bursts.  The  interest  which 
Ramsay  e.xcites  is  spread  over  a  long  poem,  deline- 
ating manners  more  than  passions,  and  the  mind 
must  be  at  home  both  in  the  language  and  manners, 
to  appreciate  the  skill  and  comic  archness  with  which 
he  iias  heightened  the  display  of  rustic  character 
without  giving  it  vulgarity,  and  refined  the  view 
of  peasant  life  by  situations  of  sweetness  and  ten- 
derness, without  departing  in  the  least  degree  from 
its  simplicity.  The  Gentle  Shepherd  stands  quite 
apart  from  the  general  pastoral  poetry  of  modern 
Europe.  It  has  no  satyrs,  nor  featureless  simple- 
tons, nor  drowsy  and  still  landscapes  ol  nature,  but 
distinct  characters  and  amusing  incidents.  The 
principal  shepherd  never  speaks  out  of  consistency 
with  the  habits  of  a  peasant  ;  but  he  moves  in  that 
sphere  with  such  a  manly  spirit,  with  so  much 
cheerful  sensibility  to  its  humble  joys,  with  max- 
ims of  life  so  rational  and  independent,  and  with 
an  ascendency  over  his  fellow  swains  so  well  main- 
tained by  his  force  of  character,  that  if  we  could 
suppose  the  pacific  scenes  of  the  drama  to  be  sud- 
denly changed  into  situations  ot  trouble  and  danger, 
we  should,  in  exact  consistency  wiih  our  former 
idea  of  him,  expect  him  to  become  the  leader  of 
the  peasants,'  and  the  Tell  of  his  native  hamlet. 
Nor  is  the  character  of  his  mistress  less  beautifully 
conceived.  She  is  repr€sented,  like  himself,  as 
elevated,  by  a  fortunate  discovery,  from  obscure  to 
opulent  life,  yet  as  equally  capable  of  being  the 
ornament  of  either.  A  Richardson  or  a  D'Arblay, 
had  they  continued  her  history,  might  have  height- 
ened the  portrait,  but  they  would  not  have  altered 
its  ouiline.  Like  the  poetry  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto, 
that  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  is  engraven  on  the 
memory,  and  has  sunk  into  the  heart,  of  its  native 
country.  Its  verses  have  passed  into  proverbs,  and 
it  continues  to  be  the  delijiht  and  solace  of  the 
peasantry  whom  it  describes." — pp.  344 — 346. 

We  think  the  merits  of  Akeiiside  under- 
rated, and  those  of  Churchill  exagsrerated : 
But  we  have  found  no  passage  in  which  the 
amiable  but  equitable  and  reasonable  indulg- 
ence of  Mr.  Campbell's  mind  is  so  conspicu- 
ous, as  in  his  account  of  Chattcrton — and  it 
is  no  slight  thing  for  a  poet  to  have  kept  him- 
self cool  and  temperate,  on  a  them^^  which 
has  hurried  so  many  inferior  spirits  into  pas- 
sion and  extravagance. 

"When  we  conceive,"  says  Mr.  C,  "the  in- 
spired boy  transporting  himself  in  imagination  back 
to  the  days  of  his  fictitious  Rowley,  embodying  his 
ideal  character,  and  giving  to  airy  nothing  a  '  local 
habitation  and  a  name,'  w(^  may  forget  the  im- 
postor in  the  enthusiast,  and  forgive  the  lalsehood 
of  his  reverie  for  its  beauty  and  ingenuiiv.  One 
oi'  his  companions  has  described  the  air  of  rapture 
and  inspiration  with  which  he  used  to  repeat  his 
passages  from  Rowley,  and  the  delight  which  lie 
took  to  contemplate  the  church  of  St.  Mary  Red- 
cliffe,  while  it  awoke  the  associations  of  aniiqu^iy 
in  his  romantic  mind.  There  was  one  spot  in 
particular,  full  in  view  of  the  chiirrh,  where  he 
would  often  lay  himself  down,  and  fix  his  eyes,  as 
it  were,  in  a  trance.  On  Sundays,  as  long  as  day- 
light lasted,  he  would  walk  alone  in  ihe  counti-y 
around  Bristol,  taking  drawings  of  churches,  or 
other  objects  that  struck  his  imnginaiinn. 

"  During  the  few  monih.t  of  his  existence  in 
London,  his  letters  to  his  mother  and  sister,  which 
were  always  accompanied  with  presents,  expressed 
the  most  joyous  anticipations.      But  suddenly  all 


the  flush  of  his  gay  hopes  and  busy  projects  t( 
tninaied  in  despair.  Tlie  particular  causes  whi 
led  to  his  catastrophe  have  not  been  disiinci 
traced.  His  own  descriptions  of  his  prospec 
are  but  little  to  be  trusted  ;  for  while  appareni 
exchanging  his  shadowy  visions  of  Rowley  for  t 
real  adventures  of  lite,  he  was  still  moving  und 
the  spell  of  an  imagination  that  saw  every  thing 
exaggerated  colours.  Out  of  this  dream  he  w 
at  length  awakened,  when  he  found  that  he  li 
miscalculated  the  chances  of  patronage  and  ti 
profits  of  literary  labour. 

"  The  heart  which  can  peruse  the  fate  of  Ch; 
tcrton  without  being  moved,  is  little  to  be  envi 
for  iis  tranquillity;  but  the  intellects  of  ib.ose  m 
must  be  as  deficient  as  their  hearts  are  uncharitab 
who,  confounding  all  shades  of  moral  disiiuciio 
have  ranked  his  literary  fiction  of  Rowley  in  i 
same  class  of  crimes  with  pecuniary  forgery;  a 
have  calculated  that  if  he  had  not  died  by  his  o\ 
hand  he  would  have  probably  ended  his  days  up 
a  gallows!  This  disgusting  semence  has  be 
pronounced  upon  a  youth  who  was  exemplary 
severe  study,  temperance,  and  natural  affectic 
His  Rowleian  forgery  must  indeed  be  pronounc 
improper  by  the  general  law  which  condemns 
serious  and  deliberate  falsifications;  but  it  depri\ 
no  man  of  his  fame;  it  had  no  sacrilegious  inierf. 
ence  with  the  memory  of  departed  genius ;  it  \- 
not,  like  Lauder's  imposture,  any  malignant  mot 
to  rob  a  party,  or  a  country,  of  a  naiiie  which  « 
its  pride  and  ornament. 

"  Setting  aside  the  opinion  of  those  unctiarital 
biographers,  whose  imaginations  have  coiiduci 
him  to  the  gibbet,  it  may  be  ojvned  thai  his  i 
formed  character  exhibited  strong  and  coiiflicti 
elements  of  good  and  evil.  Even  the  monienn' 
project  of  the  infidel  boy  to  become  a  3Iethot 
preacher,  betrays  an  obliquity  of  design  and  a  C( 
tempt  of  human  credulity  that  is  not  very  amial 
But  had  he  been  spared,  his  pride  and  ambit 
would  probaltly  have  come  to  flow  in  their  proi 
channels.  His  understanding  would  have  taui 
him  the  practical  value  of  truth  and  the  dignity 
virtue,  and  he  would  have  despised  artifice,  wl 
he  had  felt  the  strength  and  security  of  wi&doi 
In  estimating  the  promises  of  his  genius.  I  wo, 
rather  lean  to  the  utmost  enthusiasm  of  his  adnr' 
ers,  than  to  the  cold  opinion  of  those  who  are  air 
of  being  blinded  to  the  defects  of  the  poems  alti 
utcd  to  Rowley,  by  the  veil  of  obsolete  phraseolc 
which  is  thrown  over  them. 

"The   inequality   of  Chatterion's   various  p 
ductions  may  be  compared  to  the  disproporiions 
the  ungrown  giant.     His  works  had  nothing  of 
definite  neatness  of  that  precocious   talent  wl. 
Slops  short  in  early  maturity.     His  thirst  for  knf , 
ledge  was  that  of  a  being  taught  by  instinct  to  . 
up  materials  for  the  exercise  of  great  and  un 
veloped    powers.     Even   in    his   favourite   max 
pushed  it  might  be  to  hyperbole,  that  a  man 
absiinence    and    perseverance    m\"\\\.    accomp!' 
whatever  he  pleased,  may  be  traced  the  indicati , 
of  a  genius  which  nature  had  meant  to  achieve  wo 
of  immortality.  Tasso  alone  can  be  compared  to  I 
as  a  juvenile  prodigy.    No  English  poet  ever  eqi 
led  him  at  the  same  age." — Vol.  vi.  pp.  1J(")— It 

The  account  of  Gray  is  excellent;  and  t 
of  Goldsmith  delightful.     We  can  afford.' 
give  but  an  inconsiderable  part  of  it. 

"  Goldsmith's  poetry  enjoys  a  calm  and  8le  ' 
popul;nity.  It  inspires  us,  indeed,  with  no  adm  ' 
lion  of  daring  design,  or  of  fertile  invention;  bir'. 
presonis.  wiiliin  its  narrow  limits,  adisiinct  and 
broken  view  of  poetical  deli<ihifuliiess.  His  desc  • 
lions  and  seniimems  have  the  pure  zest  of  nan  • 
He  is  refined  without  false  delicacy,  and  con  j 
wiihoui  iii>ipidity.  Perhaps  there  is  an  iniellec  1 
composure  in  his  manner,  which  may.  in  some  i; 
sages,  be  said  to  approach  to  the  reserved  and  { • 


CAMPBELL'S  SPECIMEN'S  OF  THE  POCTS. 


297 


lie;  but  he  unbends  from  this  grnvcr  sirain  t)f 
■tloriion,  lo  lendernt'ss.  and  even  lo  |i|i)yriiliu>»i!>, 
nil  !in  cast'  ami  irrace  aliiiosi  exeliisivrly  liisuwn: 
111  coiinecis  e.xiensive  views  of  the  hnppintss  and 
;ieresis  ol  society,  wiih-piclures  of  lile,  thai  lourh 
le  heart  by  their  fainihariiy.  •  His  h»iit;ii;ige  is  cer- 
iiiily  simple,  though  it  is  not  cast  id  a  rugged  or 
irt'less  mould.  He  is  no  disciple  oltlic  gaunt  and 
rnished  school  of  simplicity.  Dclihoraitly  as  he 
rote,  he  cannot  be  accused  of  wanting  natural  atid 
loinaiic  e.\f  ression ;  but  still  it  is  select  and  re- 
:cd  e.\pressiori.  He  uses  the  ornatnonis  which 
lUst  always  distinguish  true  poetry  from  prose; 
id  when  he  adopts  colloquial  plainness,  jt  is  with 
10  utmost  care  and  skill,  to  avoid  a  vulgar  humility, 
here  is  more  of  this  elegant  simplicity,  of  this 
laste  economyand  choice  of  words,  in  Goidsmiih, 
an  in  any  modern  poet,  or  periiaps  than  would  he 
lainable  or  desirable  as  a  standard  for  every  writer 

rhytne.  In  extensive  narrative  poems  such  a 
vie  would  be  too  diflicult.  There  is  a  noble  pro- 
icty  even  in  the  careless  streniiih  of  great  poems 

in  the  roughness  of  castle  walls;  and.  generally 
leaking,  where  there  is  a  long  course  of  story,  or 
'servaiion  of  life  to  be  pursued,  such  exquisite 
uches  as  those  of  Goldsmith  would  be  too  costly 
atcrials  for  sustaining  it.  The  tendency  towards 
istracted  observation  in  his  poetry  agrees  peculiarly 
ith  the  compendious  form  of  expression  which  he 
[udied;  whilst  the  homefelt  joys,  on  which  his 
mcy  loved  to  repose,  required  at  once  the  chastest 
[id  sweetest  colours  of  language,  to  make  them 
irmonize  with  the  dignity  of  a  pliilosophical  poem. 
i-  whole  manner  has  a  still  depth  of  feeling  and 
ilection,  which  gives  back  the  image  of  nature 
iruffled  and  minutely.  He  has  no  redundant 
oughts,  or  false  transports  ;  but  seetns  on  every 
oasion  to  have  weigheii  the  impulse  to  which  he 
rrendered  hiinself.  Whatever  ardour  or  casual 
icities  he  may  have  thus  sacrificed,  he  gained  a 
jh  degree  of  purity  and  self-possession.  His 
aste  pathos  makes  him  an  insinuaiing  moralist ; 
d  throws  a  charm  of  Claude-like  softness  over  his 
scripiions  of  homely  objects,  that  would  seem 
ly  fit  to  be  the  subjects  of  Dutch  painting.  But 
I  quiet  enthusiasm  leads  the  affections  to  humble 
ings  without  a  vulgar  association  ;  and  he  inspires 
with  a  fondness  to  irace  the  simplest  recollections 

Auburn,  till  we  count  the  furniture  of  its  ale- 
use,  and  listen  to  the  '  varnished  clock  that 
eked  behind  the  door.'  " — pp.261 — 263. 

Tliere  is  too  much  of  William  Whitehead, 
id  almost  too  much  of  Richard  Glover, — and 
'irreat  deal  too  much  of  Arahurst  Selden, 
amstou,  and  jNIesloii.     Indeed  the  ne  quid 
mis  seems  to  have  been  more  forgotten  by 
'•  learned  editor  in  the  last,  than  in  any  of 
e  other  volumes.     Yet  there  is  by  no  means 
I  much  of  BuniS;  or  Cowper,  or  even  of  the 
artons.    The  abstract  of  Burns"  life  is  beau- 
ul ;  and  we  are  most  willing  to  acknowledge 
■It  the  defence  of  the  poet,  ayjiijust  some  of 
<•  severities  of  tliis  Journal,  is  substantially 
ccessful.     No  one  Avho  reads  all  that  we 
Lve  written  of  Bums,  will  doubt  of  the  sin- 
|rity'of  our  admiration  for  his  genius,  or  of 
depth  of  our  veneration  and  sympathy  for 
lofty  character   and    his   untimely    fate. 
)e  still  think  he  had  a  vuli»r  taste  in  letter- 
ritinp;   and   too   frequently  patronized  the 
lief  of  a  connection  between  licentious  in- 
igences  and  generosity  of  character.     But. 
looking  back  on  what  we  have  paid  on 
s»3  subjfcts,  we  are  sensible  that  we  ha»c 
jrcssed   ourselves   with   too  much   bitter- 
ns, and  made  the  words  of  our  censure  far 
>re  compreheusive  than  our  meaning.     A 


certain  tone  of  e.\aprreration  is  incident,  we 
fear,  lo  the  sort  of  wnting  in  winch  we  arw 
eiig-.Lgid.  Kfikdiiing  u  iillle  too  uiiich,  jht- 
haps,  on  the  dulness  of  our  reader.s,  we  are 
otlen  li'd,  unconsciously,  lo  ove-istate  our 
sentiments,  in  order  to  make  theni  under- 
-stood  ;  ami,  wlu-re  n  little  controvrr.sial 
warmtji  is  adiled  to  a  little  love  of  iirect, 
an  excess  of  colouring  is  apt  lo  steal  over 
the  C4invass  which  ultimately  ylleiids  no 
eye  so  much  as  our  own.  We  gladly  make 
this  expiation  lo  the  shade  of  our  illustrious 
countryman. 

In  his  observations  on  Joseph  Warton,  Mr. 
C.  resumes  the  coiitrover.-^y  about  the  i>oeticai 
character  of  Pope,  uixiii  v.hich  he  had  entered 
at  the  close  oi  his  Essiy  ;  and  as  to  which 
we  hope  to  have  some  other  ojiporlunily  of 
giving  our  opinions.  At  pn-.sent.  however,  we 
must  hasten  to  a  conclusiou  ;  and  shall  make 
our  last  extracts  from  the  notice  of  Cowper, 
w  hich  is  drawn  up  on  somew  hat  of  a  larger 
scale  than  any  other  in  the  work.  The  ab- 
stract of  his  life  is  given  with  great  tenderness 
and  beauty,  and  with  consiilerabie  fulness  of 
detail.  But  the  remarks  on  his  poetry  are  the 
most  precious, — and  are  all  that  we  have  now 
room  to  borrow. 

"  The  nature  of  Cowper's  works  makes  us 
peculiarly  identify  the  poet  and  the  man  in  perusing 
tliem.  As  an  individual,  he  was  letired  and  wcanea 
Irom  ihn  vanities  of  the  world  ;  and.  as  an  original 
writer,  he  lelt  the  ambitious  and  iuxuriuni  subjccta 
ol  fiction  and  passion,  for  those  of  real  lite  and  sim- 
ple nature,  and  for  the  development  of  his  own 
earnest  feeling.^,  in  behalf  of  moral  and  religious 
truth.  His  language  has  such  a  masculine  idiom- 
atic strength,  and  his  maninr,  whether  he  rises 
into  grace  or  falls  into  negligence,  has  so  much 
plain  and  familiar  freedom,  that  we  read  no  poetry 
with  a  deeper  conviction  ol  its  sentiments  having 
come  Irom  the  author's  heart ;  and  ol  the  enthu- 
siasm, in  whatever  he  describes,  having  been  un- 
feigned and  unexaggeraied.  He  impresses  us  with 
the  idea  of  a  being,  whose  fine  spirit  had  been  long 
enough  in  the  mixed  society  of  the  world  to  be 
polished  by  its  intercourse,  and  yet  withdrawn  so 
soon  as  to  retain  an  unworldly  degree  of  purity  and 
simplicity.  He  was  advanced  in  years  before  he 
became  an  auihor;  but  his  compositioiix  disnlay  a 
tenderness  of  feeling  so  youihlully  preser^d,  and 
even  a  vein  <'f  humour  so  tar  Irom  being  extinguished 
by  his  ascftic  habits,  that  we  can  scarcely  regret  his 
not  having  written  them  at  an  earlier  pt nod  of  life. 
For  he  blends  the  dcterminanon  uf  nge  with  an 
exquisite  and  ingenuous  sensibility;  and  though  ho 
sports  very  much  with  his  sulijecis.  yet,  w  hen  he  is 
in  earnest,  there  i.i  a  gravity  ol  long-felt  conviction 
in  his  sentiments,  which  gives  an  unconimun  ripe- 
ness ol  character  to  his  poetry. 

"  It  is  due  to  Cowper  to  fix  our  regard  on  this 
unatl'ectedness  and  auiheniicitv  of  his  works,  con- 
sidered as  represeniaiions  uf  liimstlf,  because  ho 
lorms  a  striking  instance  of  cenius  writing  the  his- 
tory ol  its  own  recluded  feelings,  refiecnuna.  and 
enjoy tncntii,  in  a  shape  so  interesting  as  to  engage 
tliif  iniaginaiion  like  a  work  of  fiction.  He  has  ia- 
vented  no  character  in  fnlile,  nor  in  the  drama  ;  but 
lie  lias  left  a  record  of  hi.i  own  character,  which 
lorms  ni>i  only  an  object  of  d<  ep  sympNihy,  but  ■ 
su'  ject  for  the  study  ut  human  iintiire.  His  verse. 
It  is  true,  I'diisidered  as  such  u  record,  abounds  with 
oppoKiie  truiiH  of  scviriiy  and  g<  ntlencwi,  of  play- 
liilneks  niid  Kupersntion,  ol  solemnity  and  nurlo, 
wliirh  appear  almost  anomalnus  ;  and  ihcre  ■••  UO- 
duiibiedly,  aomeiimes  an  air  ol  moody  »rr««iiliiy  in 
the  extreme  contrasts  of  his  leclings.     liui  looluog 


298 


POETRY. 


to  his  poetry  as  an  entire  structure,  it  has  a  massive 
air  of  sincerity.  It  is  founded  in  steadfast  princi- 
ples of  belief;  and,  if  we  may  prolong  the  archi- 
tectural metaphor,  though  its  arches  may  be  some- 
times gloomy,  its  tracery  sportive,  and  its  lights  and 
shadows  grotesquely  crossed,  yet  altogether  it  still 
forms  a  vast,  various,  and  interesting  monument  of 
the  builder's  mind.  Young's  works  are  as  devout, 
as  satirical,  sometimes  as  merry,  as  those  of  Cow- 
per;  and,  undoubtedly,  more  witty.  But  the  melan- 
choly and  wit  ot  Young  do  not  make  up  to  us  the 
idea  of  a  conceivable  or  natural  being.  He  has 
sketched  in  his  pages  the  ingenious,  but  incongruous 
form  of  a  fictitious  mind — Cowper's  soul  speaks 
from  his  volumes." 

"  Considering  the  tenor  and  circumstances  of  his 
life,  it  is  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  some 
asperities  and  peculiarities  should  have  adhered  to  the 
strong  stem  of  his  genius,  like  the  moss  and  fungus 
that  cling  to  some  noble  oak  of  the  forest,  amidst  the 
damps  of  its  unsunned  retirement.  It  is  more  sur- 
prising that  he  preserved,  in  such  seclusion,  so  much 
genuine  power  of  comic  observation.  There  is  much 
of  the  full  distinctness  of  Theophrastus,  and  of  the 
nervous  and  concise  spirit  of  La  Bruyere,  in  his 
piece  entitled  '  Conversation,'  with  a  cast  of  humour 
superadded,  which  is  peculiarly  English,  and  not  to 
be  found  o^it  of  England." — Vol.  vii.  pp.  357,  358. 

Of  his  greatest  work,  The  Task,  he  after- 
wards observes, 

"  His  whimsical  outset  in  a  work,  where  he 
promises  so  little  and  performs  so  much,  may  be 
advantageously  contrasted  with  those  magnificenf 
commencement  of  poems,  which  pledge  both  the 
reader  and  the  writer,  in  good  earnest,  to  a  task. 
Cowper's  poem,  on  the  contrary,  is  like  a  river, 
which  rises  from  a  playful  little  fountain,  and 
gathers  beauty  and  magnitude  as  it  proceeds.  He 
leads  us  abroad  into  his  daily  walks ;  he  exhibits 
the  landscapes  which  he  was  accustomed  to  con- 
template, and  the  trains  of  thought  in  which  he 
habitually  indulged.  No  attempt  is  made  to  in- 
terest us  in  legendary  fictions,  or  historical  recol- 
lections connected  with  the  ground  over  which  he 
expatiates;  all  is  plainness  and  reality:  But  we 
instantly  recognise  the  true  poet,  in  the  clearness, 
sweetness,  and  fidelity  of  his  scenic  draughts ;  in 
his  power  of  giving  novelty  to  what  is  common  ; 
and  in  the  high  relish,  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of 
rural  siglits  and  sounds,  which  he  communicates 
to  the  spirit.  '  His  eyes  drink  the  rivers  with  de- 
light.' He  excites  an  idea,  that  almost  amounts  to 
sensation,  of  the  I'reshness  and  delight  of  a  rural 
walk,  even  when  he  leads  us  to  the  wasteful  com- 
mon, flthich 

'  Overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 

With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  delorni'd, 
And  dang'rous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom, 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble.     There  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odorif'rous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
Witii  luxuries  of  unexpected  sweets.' 

"  His  rural  prospects  have  far  less  variety  and 
compass  than  those  of  Thomson  ;  but  his  graphic 
touches  are  *iore  close  and  minute  :  not  that 
Thomson  was  either  deficient  or  undelightful  in 
circumstantial  traits  of  the  beauty  of  nature,  but 
he  looked  to  her  as  a  whole  more  than  Cowper. 
His  genius  was  more  excursive  and  philosophical. 
The  poet  of  Olney,  on  the  contrary,  regarded 
human  philosophy  with  something  of  theological 
contempt.  To  liis  eye,  the  great  and  little  ihinas 
of  this  world  were  levelled  into  an  equality,  by  his 
recollection  of  the  power  and  purposes  of  Him 
who  made  thein.  They  are,  in  his  view,  only  as 
toys  spread  on  the  lap  and  carpet  of  nature,  for 
this  childhood  of  our  immortal  being.  This  reli- 
gious indifference  to  the  world  is  far,  indeed,  from 
blunting  his  sensibility  to  the  genuine  and  simple 


beauties  of  creation  ;  but  it  gives  his  taste  a  c . 
tentinent  and  fellowship  with  humble  things,  i 
makes  him  careless  of  selecting  and  refinincr  j 
views  of  nature  beyond  their  actual  appearan. . 
He  contemplated  the  face  of  plain  rural  Eng  \ 
lite,  in  moments  of  leisure  and  sensibility,  til]  g 
minutest  features  were  impressed  upon  his  fan  ; 
and  he  sought  not  to  embellish  what  he"  lo' ;. 
Hence  his  landscapes  have  less  of  the  ideally  b(  • 
tiful  than  Thomson's  ;  but  they  have  an  unriva  1 
charm  of  truth  and  reality. 

"  He  is  one  of  the  few  poets,  who  have  indui  d 
neither  in  descriptions  nor  acknowledgments  f 
the  passion  of  love  ;  but  there  is  no  poet  who  s 
given  us  a  finer  conception  of  the  amenity  f 
female  influence.  Of  all  the  verses  that  have  t  a 
ever  devoted  to  the  subject  of  domestic  happin  i, 
those  in  his  winter  evening,  at  the  opening  of  e 
fourth  book  of  The  Task,  are  perhaps  the  i  it 
beautiful.  In  perusing  that  scene  of  '  intimate  !• 
lights,'  'fireside  enjoyments,'  and  'home-In 
happiness,'  we  seem  to  recover  a  part  of  the  •. 
gotten  value  of  existence  ;  when  we  recognist  e 
means  of  its  blessedness  so  widely  dispensed,  d 
so  cheaply  attainable,  and  find  them  suscep  le 
of  description  at  once  so  enchanting  and  so  fait  j. 

"  Though  the  scenes  of  The  'I'ask  are  lai  q 
retirement,  the  poem  affords  an  amusing  pers  ;• 
tive  of  human  affairs.  Remote  as  the  poet  u 
from  the  stir  of  the  great  Babel,  from  the  '  i- 
/usa  so/ius  Urbis,  et  illatabile  murmur,'  he  gla  la 
at  most  of  the  subjects  of  public  interest  w  h 
engaged  the  attention  of  his  contemporaries,  in 
those  subjects,  it  is  but  faint  praise  to  say  th;  le 
espoused  the  side  of  justice  and  humanity.  Ab  1- 
ance  of  mediocrity  of  talent  is  to  be  found  one 
same  side,  rather  injuring  than  promotingie 
cause,  by  its  officious  declamation.  But  none 
can  be  further  from  the  stale  commonplace  id 
cuckooism  of  sentiment,  than  the  philanth  lic 
eloquence  of  Cowper — he  speaks  '  like  one  hi  ig 
authority.'  Society  is  his  debtor.  Poeiical  «  o- 
sitions  of  the  horrors  of  slavery  may,  indeed,  m 
very  unlikely  agents  in  coniributing  to  destro  I; 
and  it  is  possible  that  the  most  refined  plant  io 
the  West  Indies,  may  look  with  neither  si  o« 
nor  compunction  on  his  own  image  in  tlie  )  ei 
of  Cowper.  But  such  appeals  to  the  heart  cm 
community  are  not  lost!  They  fix  thcinses 
silently  in  the  popular  memory  ;  and  they  bee  le, 
at  last,  a  part  of  that  public  opinion,  which  i  St. 
sooner  or  later,  wrench  the  lash  from  the  hai  of 
the  oppressor." — pp.359 — 364. 

But  we  must  now  break  away  at  once  >ni 
this  delightful  occupation  ;  and  take  our  lal 
farewell  of  a  work,  in  which,  what  is  orii  al, 
is  scarcely  less  valuable  than  what  is  rf  ib- 
lished,  and  in  which  the  genius  of  a  1  ng 
Poet  has  shed  a  fresh  grace  over  the  f:  ng 
glories  of  so  many  of  his  departed  brot  rs. 
We  Avish  somebody  would  continue  the  ^  rk, 
by  furnishing  us  with  Specimens  of  our  L'ng 
Poets.  It  would  be  more  difficult,  to  be  re, 
and  more  dangerous;  but.  in  some  resj  its, 
it  would  also  be  more  useful.  The  be;  les 
of  the  unequal  and  voluminous  writers  ^  uW 
be  more  conspicuous  in  a  selection;  an  the 
different  styles  and  schools  of  poetry  Mild 
be  brought  into  fairer  and  nearer  teiT,of 
comparison.-  by  the  mere  juxtaposition  ol  wn 
best  productions ;  while  a  better  and  c  '.rei 
view  would  be  obtained,  both  of  the  g(  OTl 
progress  and  apparent  tendencies  of  th  art: 
than  can  easily  be  gathered  from  the  se]:*!*" 
study  of  each  important  production,  fhe 
mind  of  the  critic,  too,  would  be  at  onren- 
lightened  and  tranquillized  by  the  very  ,»t- 
ness  of   the  horizon   thus  subjected     ws 


FORDS  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


survey;  and  he  wouiJ  orobably  rt-jraril,  l>olh 
with  less  enthusiasm  aiiti  less  uirenee,  tlioso 
contrasted  and  coinpensiitinj;;  beauties  and 
defects,  when  presented  to<(t>ther,  and  aa  it 
were  in  combination,  than  he  can  over  do 
when  they  come  upon  him  in  distinct  mass»"s, 
and  without  the  relief  and  soflenin;;  of  so  va- 
ried aji  assembla;re.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
caiHiot  be  dissembled,  that  such  a  work  wi>uld 
be  very  tryniii  to  the  uidiappy  editor's  pro- 
phetic reputation,  as  well  as  to  his  imprti- 
alily  and  temper ;  and  would,  at  all  events, 


subject  him  to  the  most  furioufl  inipututiuiii« 
of  unlairncMt  nml  malignity.  In  ]Miuit  iil 
,  courage  luid  cumlunr,  we  Jo  not  know  any- 
;  b<Hiy  who  woultl  do  it  much  beitiT  than 
|our»<'lves!  And  if  Mr.  Campbell  could 
I  only  imivirt  to  us  a  fair  hhure  of  Iuh  i-K-. 
j  ^iince,    his   fint^    iM'rcei)tions,   und    hi.t   con- 

iciseness,  we  shoulil  like  nolhniji  better  than 
to  sus|H'nd,  for  a  whdi*,  iheiK"  iH-niMJiral  lu- 
cubrations, anil  funiish  out  a  jr.illery  of  l.iv- 
iufi  Bards,  to  matdi  this  exhibition  of  the 
Deixirted. 


(Z^ugust,    18U.) 


Tfu  Dramatic  Works  0/ John  Ford;  wilh  an  Introduction  and  Explanatory  Notes. 
Weber,  Esq.     2  vols.  8vo.  pp.  950.     Edinburgh  and  London :   1811. 


By  11. 


All  true  lovers  of  English  ]X)etry  have 
been  long  in  love  with  the  dramatists  of 
the  time  of  Elizabeth  and  James;  and 
must  have  been  sensibly  comforted  by  their 
late  restoration  to  some  degree  of  favour 
and  notoriety.  If  there  was  any  good  rea- 
son, indeed,  to  believe  that  the  notice  which 
they  have  recently  attracted  proceeded  from 
any  thing  but  that  indiscriminate  rage  for 
editing  and  anpotating  by  which  the  present 
times  are  so  happily  distinguished,  we  should 
be  disposed  to  hail  it  as  the  mo.st  unequivocal 
symptom  of  improvement  in  public  taste  that 
has  "yet  occurred  to  reward  and  animate  our 
labours.  At  all  events,  however,  it  gives  us' 
a  chance  for  such  an  improvement ;  by  placing 
in  the  hands  of  many,  who  would  not  other- 
wise have  Jieard  of  them,  some  of  those  beau- 
tiful performances  which  we  have  always 
regariled  as  among  the  most  pleasing  and 
characteristic  productions  of  our  native  genius. 

Ford  certainly  is  not  the  best  of  those  ne- 
glected writers, — nor  Mr.  \Veber  by  any  means 
the*best  of  their  recent  editors :  But  we  cannot 
resist  the  opjwrtunity  which  this  publication 
seems  to  afford,  of  saying  a  word  or  two  of  a 
class  of  writers,  whom  we  have  long"  wor- 
shipped in  secret  with  a  sort  of  idolatrous 
veneration,  and  now  find  once  more  brought 
forward  as  candidates  for  public  api)lause. 
The  sera  to  which  they  belong,  indeed,  has 
always  appeared  to  us  by  far  the  brightest  in 
the  history  of  English  literature, — or  indeed 
of  human  intellect  and  cajwcity.  There 
never  was,  any  where,  any  thing  like  the 
ai.xty  or  seventy  years  that  elapsed  from  the 
middle  of  Elizabeth's  reign  to  the  period  of 
the  Restoration.  In  point  of  real  force  and 
originality  of  genius,  neither  the  age  of  IVri- 
cles,  nor  the  age  of  Auguslun,  nor  the  time.* 
of  Leo  X.,  nor  of  I>ouis  XIV.,  can  come  at  all 
into  comparison:  For,  in  that  short  period. 
we  shall  find  the  nafnes  of  almost  all  the 
very  great  men  that  this  nation  has  ever 
produccd,-:-the  names  of  Shakespeare,  and 
Bafon.  and  Spenser,  and  Sydney,  —  and 
Hooker,  and  Taylor,  and  Barrowj  and  Italeigh, 


— and  Napier,  and  Milton,  and  Cudworth. 
and  Hobbes,  and  many  others; — men,  all  o| 
them,  not  merely  of  great  talents  and  ac- 
comj)lishments,  but  of  vast  compass  and 
reach  of  under.standing,  and  of  minds  truly 
creative  and  original; — not  perfecting  art  by 
the  delicacy  of  their  taste,  or  digesting  know- 
ledce  by  the  justness  of  their  reasonings  ;  but 
making  vast  and  substantial  additions  to  th»» 
materials  upon  which  taste  and  reason  must 
hi'reafter  be  employed. — and  enlaririnv.'.  to  an 
incredible  and  unparalleled  extent.  Injlh  the 
stores  and  the  resources  of  the  human  facul- 
ties. 

Whether  the  brisk  concussion  which  was 
given  to  men's  minds  by  the  force  of  the 
Reformation  had  much  effect  in  producing 
this  sudden  development  of  Brilisn  grmus, 
we  cannot  urnlerlake  to  determine.  For  our 
own  part,  we  should  be  rather  inclined  to 
hold,  that  the  Reformation  it.^elf  was  but  one 
symptom  or  <  fiect  of  that  great  spirit  ol  pro- 
gression and   improvement  which   had  hnu 

set  in  operation  by  deeper  and  more  yi  1 1 

causes:  and  which  afterwards  blossomed  out 
into  this  splendid  harvest  of  authorship.  But 
whatever  may  have  been  the  causes  that 
deteimined  the  appearance  of  tho.so  great 
works,  the  fact  is  certain,  not  only  that  they 
appeared  together  in  irreal  numbers,  but  that 
they  po.ssewsed  a  common  character,  which, 
in  spite  of  the  great  diversity  of  their  sub- 
jects aii<l  desiinis,  would  have  made  them  b*« 
cla.ssed  together  as  the  works  of  the  Ninie 
order  or  description  of  men,  even  if  they  had 
appeared  at  the  most  distant  intervnls  of 
lime.  They  are  the  works  of  Ciants,  in 
short,  —  and  of  Giants  of  one  nation  mil 
familv  : — and  their  chanicteristic«  are,  great 
force.' bf)Idnes.s,  and  originalitv  ;  totrother  m  ith 
a  certain  rnciiiess  of  Ent?rish  jjenilinriry, 
which  distinguishes  them  from  all  tjio-e  [  er- 
I  formanci««  that  have  since  b«'en  prciuceiJ 
among  ourselves,  upju  a  more  vayue  and 
yenenil  idea  of  Eurorx-an  excellenee.  Their 
1  sudden  appearance",  indeed,  in  all  thin  «i)len- 
Idour  of  native  luxuriance,  can  only  be  com- 


300 


POETRY. 


pared  to  what  happens  on  the  breaking  up  of 
a  virgin  soil, — where  all  the  indigenous  plants 
spring  up  at  once  with  a  'rank  and  irrepressi- 
ble fertility,  and  display  whatever  is  peculiar 
or  excellent  in  their  nature,  on  a  scale  the 
most  conspicuous  and  magniticent.  The  crops 
are  not  indeed  so  clean,  as  where  a  more 
exhausted  mould  has  been  stimulated  by 
systematic  cultivation ;  nor  so  profitable,  as 
where  their  quality  has  been  varied  by  a 
judicious  admixture  of  exotics,  and  accom- 
modated to  the  demands  of  the  universe  by 
the  combinations  of  an  unlimited  trade.  But 
to  those  whose  chief  object  af  admiration  is 
the  living  power  and  energy  of  vegetation, 
and  who  take  delight  in  contemplating  the 
various  forms  of  her  unforced  and  natural 
perfection,  no  spectacle  can  be  more  rich, 
splendid,  or  attractive. 

In  the  times  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
classical  learning,  though  it  had  ^ade  great 
_  progress,  had  by  no  means  become  an  exclu- 
'  sive  study ;  and  the  ancients  had  not  yet 
'peen  permitted  to  subdue  men's  minds  to  a 
ji^ense  of  hopeless  inferiority,  or  to  condemn 
^'ihe  moderns  to  the  lot  of  humble  imitators. 
f  They  were  resorted  to,  rather  to  furnish  ma- 
terials and  occasional  ornaments,  than  as 
models  for  the  general  style  of  composition  ; 
and,  while  they  enriched  the  imagination,  and 
\nsensibly  improved  the  taste  of  their  suc- 
cessors, they  did  not  at  all  restrain  their  free- 
dom, or  impair  their  originality.  No  common 
standard  had  yet  been  erected,  to  which  all 
the  works  of  European  genius  were  retjuired 
to  conform;  and  no  general  authority  was 
acknowledged,  by  which  all  private  or  local 
;ideas  of  excellence  must  submit  to  be  cor- 
rected. Both  readers  and  authors  were  com- 
1(iparatively  few  in  number.  The  former  were 
infinitely  less  critical  and  difhcjiult  than  they 
»  have  |ince  become ;  and  the  latter,  if  they 
were  not  less  solicitous  about  fame,  were  at 
least  much  less  jealous  and  timid  as  to  the 
hazards  which  attended  its  pursuit.  IMen, 
indeed,  seldom  took  to  writing  in  those  days, 
unless  they  had  a  great  deal  of  matter  to 
communicate;  and  neither  imagined  that 
they  could  make,  a  reputation  by  delivering 
commonplaces  in  ai\  elegant  manner,  or  that 
the  substantial  value  of  their  sentiments 
would  be  disregarded  for  a  little  rudeness  or 
neirligence  in  the  finishing  They  were 
hahituatpel.  therefore,  both  to  depend  upon 
th(^ir  own  resources,  and  to  draw  ujotu  them 
without  fear  or  anxiety;  and  followed  the 
dictates  of  their  own  taste  and  judgment, 
without  standing  much  in  awe  of  the  ancients, 
of  their  readers,  or  of  each  other. 

The  achievements  of  Bacon,  and  those  who 
set  free  our  understandings  from  the  shackles 
of  Papal  and  of  tyrannical  imposition,  afford 
(sufficient  evideiice  of  the  benefit  which  re- 
sulted to  the  reasoning  faculties  from  this 
[happy  independence  of  the  first  great  wri- 
ters of  this  nation.  But  its. ad  vantages  were, 
if  possible,  still  more  conspicuous  in  the  mere 
niterary  character  of  their  productions.  The 
quantity  of  bright  thoughts,  of  original  images,' 
and  splendid  expressions,  which  they  poured 


forth  upon  every  occasion,  and  by  which  they 
illuminated  and  adorned  the  darkest  and  most 
rugged  topics  to  which  they  had  happened  to 
turn  themselves,  is  such  as  has  never  been 
equalled  in  any  other  age  or  country;  and 
places  them  at  least  as  high,  m  point  of 
fancy  and  imagination,  as  of  force  of  reason, 
or  comprehensiveness  of  understanding.  In 
this  highest  and  most  comprehensive  sense 
of  the  word,  a  great  proportion  of  the  writers 
we  have  alluded  to  were  Poets :  and,  without 
going  to  those  who  composed  in  metre,  and 
chiefly  for  purposes  of  delight,  we  will  ven- 
ture to  assert,  that  there  is  in  any  one  of  the.} 
prose  folios  of  Jeremy  Taylor  more  fine  fancy! 
and  original  imagery — more  brilliant  concep- 
tions and  glowing  expressions — more  new 
figures,  and  new  applications  of  old  figures — 
more,  in  short,  of  the  body  and  the  soul  of 
poetry,  than  in  all  the  odes  and  the  epics  that 
have  since  been  produced  in  Europe.  There 
are  large  portions  of  Barrow,  and  of  Hooker 
and  Bacon,  of  which  we  may  say  nearly  ag 
much  :  nor  can  any  one  have  a  tolerably  ade- 
quate idea  of  the  riches  of  our  language  andi 
our  native  genius,  who  has  not  made  himself; 
acquainted  with  the  prose  writers,  as  well  as 
the  poets,  of  this  memorable  period. 

The  civil  wars,  and  the  fanaticism  by  whicl: 
they  were  fostered,  checked  all  this  fine  bloon, 
of  the  imagination,  and  gave  a  difieient  and 
less  attractive  character  to  the  energies  which 
they  could  not  extinguish.  Yet.  those  were 
the  times  that  matured  and  drew  forth  the 
dark,  but  powerful  genius  of  such  men  a: 
Cromwell,  and  Harrison,  and  Fleetwood.  &c 
— the  milder  and  m^r*^  fj"ii"rGii^_PiiilTisi:i^ 
of  'Blake,  and  Hutchison,  and  Hampden— i 
and  the  stirring  and  indefatigable  spirit  of! 
Pym,  and  IloUis,  and  Vane — and  the  chivali 
rous  and  accomplished  loyalty  of  Stfafl'ord  anc 
Falkland  ;  at  the  same  time  that  they  stimui 
lated  and  repaid  the  severer  studies  of  Coke 
and  Selden,  and  Milton.  The  Drama,  how 
ever,  was  entirely  destoyed,  and  has  neve 
since  regained  its  honours ;  and  Poetry,  i) 
general,  lost  its  ease,  and  its  majesty  am 
force,  along  with  its  copiousness  and  origi, 
nality. 

The  Restoration  made  things  still  worse 
for  it  broke  down  the  barriers  of  our  literar 
independence,  and  reduced  us  to  a  provmc  • 
of  the  great  republic  of  Europe.  The  geniu, 
and  fancy  which  lingered  through  the  usui 
pution,  though  soured  and  blighted  by  th 
severities  of  that  inclement  seas6ii,  were  sti  , 
genuine  English  genius  and  fancy;  an 
owned  no  aUegiance  to  any  for(>ign  author 
ties.  But  the  Restoration  brought  in  a  Frciic, 
taste  upon  us,  and  what  was  called  a  cliisssic; 
and  a  polite  taste;  and  the  wingsof  our  Enj' 
lish  IViuses  were  clipped  and  trimmed,  aii; 
their  fiights  regulated  at  the  e.vper.se  of  a; 
that  was  peculiar,  and  fnuch  of  what  wi^ 
brightest  in  their  beauty.  The  King  and  h 
courtiers  during  their  long  exile,  had  of  coun 
imbibed  the  taste  of  their  protectors;  an; 
cominn"  from  the  gay  court  of  Prance,  wi 
something  of  that  additional  pro(Jig:.'cy  th' 
belonaed^  to    their   outcast    and    advcntur 


FORDS  DR-\MATIC  WORKS. 


301 


•haracter,  were  likely  eijough  to  be  revolted 
ly  the  peculiarities,  and  by  the  very'excel- 
eiices,  ol  our  native  literature.  The  grand 
iid  sublime  tone  of  oiu  greater  jxjets,  ap- 
leareil  to  7Tlt*!n  dull,  morose,  and  gloomy; 
nd  tlie  line  play  of  their  rich  and  unre- 
tiained  fancy,  mere  childisimess  and  foil  v  : 
vhile  their  frequent  lapses  and  perpetual  ir- 
egularity  were  set  liown  as  clear  indications 
t  barbarity  and  ignorance.  Such  sentiment?, 
00,  were  natural,  we  must  ailmit,  for  a  few 
issipated  and  witty  men,  accustomed  all 
lieir  days  to  the  regulated  splendour  of  a 
Kurt — to  the  g-ay  and  heartless  gidlantry  of 
"lench  manners — and  to  the  imposing  pomp 
lid  bnllianl  regularity  of  French  poetry. 
lut,  it  may  appear  somewhat  more  unac- 
ountable  that  they  should  have  been  able  to 
upose  their  sentiments  upon  the  great  btnly 
I  the  nation.  A  court,  indeed,  never  has  so 
luch  iiiduence  as  at  the  moment  of  a  resto- 
ition  :  but  the  influence  of  an  English  court 
as  been  but  rarely  discernible  in  the  litera- 
ire  of  the  country ;  and  had  it  not,  been  for 
le  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  the  nation 

as  then  placed,  we  believe  it  would  have 
'sisted  this  attempt  to  naturalise  foreign  no- 
uns, as  sturdily  as  it  was  done  on  almost 
very  other  occasion. 

I  At  this  particular  moment,  however,  the 
ative  hterature  of  the  country  had  been  sunk 
ptoa  very  low  an.d  feeble  state  byAe  rigours 
if  the   usurpation, — the   best   of   its   recent 

odels  laboured  under  the  reproach  of  re- 

blicanisra, — and  the  courtiers  were  not  only 
sposed  to  see  all  its  peculiarities  with  an 

e  of  scorn  and  aversion,  but  had  even  a 

lod  deal  to  say  in  favour  of  that  very  oppo- 
te  style  to  which  they  had  been  habituated. 
I  was  a  witty,  and  a  grand,  and  a  splendid 
Ule.  It  showed  more  scholarship  and  art, 
lan  the  luxuriant  negligence  of  the  old 
nglish  school ;  and  was  not  only  free  from 
lauy  of  its  hazards  and  some  of  its  fault.*, 
at  possessed  merits  of  its  own,  of  a  charac- 
T  mor^ikely  to  please  those  who  had  then 
le  power  of  conferrinu  celebrity,  or  con- 
smning  to  derision.  Then  it  was  a  style 
hich  it  was  peculiarly  easy  to  justify  by 
•^rument ;  and  in  support  of  which  great 
ithorities.  as  well  as  imposing  reasons,  were 
ways  ready  to  be  produced.  It  came  upon 
^  with  the  air  and  the  pretension  of  being  the 
vie  of  cultivated   Europe,  and  a  true  copy 

the  style  of  polished  antiquity.  Englanii, 
1  the  other  hand,  had  had  but  little  inter- 
'urse  with  the  rest  of  the  world  for  a  con- 

lerable  period  of  time  :  Her  language  was 
)t  at  all  studied  on, the  Continent,  and  her 
ilive  authors  had  not  been  taken  into  account 

forming  those  ideal  standards  of  excellence 
hich  had  been  recently  constructed  in  France 
id  Italy  nnon  the  authority  of  the  Roman 
assies,  and  of  their  own  most  celebrated 
riters.  When  the  comparison  came  to  be 
ade,  therefore,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  that  it 
lould  generally  be  thought  to  be  very  much 

our  disadvantage,  and  to  understand  how 
le  great  multitude,  even  among  ourselves. 
lOuld  be  dazzled  with  the  pretensiona  of  the 


I  fashionable  style  of  writing,  and  actually  feel/ 
;  ashamed  of  t^eir  own  richer  and  more  \uried 
I  productions.  | 

I  It  would  greatly  exceed  our  limits'  to  «le- 
j  .icribe  accurately  the  ]mrticulaiR  in  wiinh 
this  new  Continental  etyle  diliered  Inmi  cui 
oM  insular  one  :  But.  lor  our  prewnl  j  urj  •  m. 
it  may  lu-  enough  perhapfi  to  .siy.  thut  it  \ui(* 
more  worldly,  and  more  townit<li. — IikIchi;; 
more  of  rea.son,  and  ridicule,  and  aullioiit)  — 
more  elaborate  and  more  assuming — a<l(lr<  >*- 
ed  more  to  the  judgment  than  to  the  freliic-". , 
and  somewhat  ostentatiously  accommoilal)  d/ 
to  the  habits,  or  sujjposed  liabito,  ot  pi  isoni* 
in  fashionable  life.  In.'»teadof  lenderiiesp  mil 
faia\v.  we  had  satire  and  sophis((y — artiticial 
declamation,  in  place  of  the  s|>ontaneous  ani- 
mation of  giMiius — and  for  the  univerfml  lan- 
guage of  f^hakespeare.  the  personalities,  the 
party  politics,  and  the  brutal  obscenities  of 
Drvden.  Nothing,  indeed. ran  better  charac- 
terize the  change  which  had  taken  place  in 
our  national  taste,  than  the  alterations  and 
ailditions  which  this  eminent  jR-r.^on  ])resnmed 
— and  thought  it  neces.s'iry — to  make  »in  the 
productions  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  The 
heaviness,  the  coarseness,  and  the  l>oml>a»t 
of  that  abominable  travestie,  in  which  he  has 
exhibitinl  the  Paradise  Lost  in  the  foini  of  an 
opera,  and  the  atrocious  indelicacy  and  com- 
passionable  stupidity  of  the  new  characters 
with  which  he  has  polluted  the  enchanted 
solitude  of  Miranda  and  Prospero  in  the 
Tempest,  are  such  instances  ol  digenemcy 
as  we  would  be  apt  to  impute  rather  to  some 
transient  hallucination  in  the  author  hims«'lf, 
than  to  the  general  prevalence  of  any  sys- 
tematic bad  taste  in  the  public,  did  we  not 
know  that»Wycherly  and  his  coadjutors -were 
in  the  habit  of  converting  the  neglected  dramas 
of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  into  popular  plays, 
merely  by  leaving  out  all  the  romantic  swt  et- 
ness  of  their  characters — turning  their  melo- 
dious blank  verse  into  vulgar  pro.se  —  and 
apgravating  the  indelicacy  of  their  Ipwer 
characters,  by  lending  a  more  disgusting 
indecency  to  the  whole  dramatis  penoiia. 

Dryden   was,   beyond   all   comparison,  the 
greatest  poet  of  his  own  day  ;  and.  endued 


as   he  was  with  a  vigorous  and   discursive 
mastery  over 
his  language  which  no  later  writer  has  at- 


imagination,  and   ix)sse.sllng  a  mastery  over 


tained,  if  he  had  known  nothing  of  foreign 
literature,  and  been  left  to  form  himself  on 
the  models  of  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  and 
!  Milton;  or  if  he  had  lived  in  the  country)| 
at  a  distance  from  the  i)ollutioiis  of  courts, 
faction.*,  and  playhouses,  there  is  reason  to 
think  that  he  woulil  have  built  up  the  jairc 
and  original  school  of  English  poetry  so  tirndy, 
as  to  have  made  it  impossible  for  fashion,  or 
caprice,  or  prejudice  of  any  sort,  ever  to  luive 
rendered  any  other  jjopular  amon;,'  our  own 
inhabitants.  As  it  i.--,  he  has  not  written  one  • 
line  that  is  reilhetic.  and  very  few  that  can 
be  considered  a«"BTlT>Tjm<v_ 

Addison,  howev«*r,  was  the  consummation 

of  tliis  Continental  style  ;  and   if  it   had  not ' 

been  redeemed  about  the  same  time  by  the 

fine  talents  of  Pope,  would  probably  hare  to 

2  A 


302 


POETRY. 


lies  anu  leiicmesoi  uiciion — uui 
/great  deal  of  fancy,  and  sc^ely 
!any  of  the  greater  passionjj  He 
'best,  we  think,  of  the  classica' 


far  discredited  it,  as  to  have  brought  us  back 
to  our  original  faith  half  a  cenlhry  ago.  The 
extreme  caution,  timidity,  and  flatness  of  this 
author  in  his  poetical  compositions — the  nar- 
rowness of  his  range  in  poetical  sentiment 
and  diction,  and  the  utter  want  either  of  pas- 

.  sion  or  of  brilliancy,  render  it  difTicult  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  born  under  the  same  sun 
with  Shakespeare,  and  wrote  but  a  century 
after  him.  His  fame,  at  this  day  stands  solely 
upon  the  delicacy,  the  modest  gaiety,  and  in- 
genious purity  of  his  prose  style  • — for  the 
occasional  elegance  and  small  ingenuity  of 
his  poems  can  never  redeem  the  poverty 
of  their  dictimi,  and  the  tameness  of  their 
conception,  tfrope   has   incomparably   more 

j  spirit  and  taste  and  animation  :  but  Pope  is  a 

/  satirist,  and  a  moralist,  and  a  wit,  and  a  critic, 
and  a  fine  writer,  much  more  than  he  is  a 
poet.  He  has  all  the  delicacies  and  proprie- 
ties and  felicities  of  diction — but  he  has  not  a 
:ely  ever  touches 
"le  is  much  the 
■ical  Continental 
school ;  but  he  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the 
masters — nor  with  the  pupils — of  that  Old 
English  one  from  which  there  had  been  so 
lamentable  an  apostacy.  There  are  no  pic- 
tures of  nature  or  of  simple  emotion  in  all  his 
writings.  He  is  the  poet  of  town  life,  and  of 
high  life,  and  of  literary  life ;  and  seems  so 
much  afraid  of  incurring  ridicule  by  the  dis- 
play of  natural  feeling  or  unregulated  fancy, 
that  it  is  difficult  not  to  imagine  that  he  would 
have  thought  such  ridicule  very  well  directed. 
The  best  of  what  we  copied  from  the  Con- 

•  tinental  poets,  on  this  desertion  of  our  own 
great  originals,  is  to  be  found,  perhaps,  in  the 
lighter  pieces  of  Prior.  That  ton%  of  polite 
raillery — that  airy,  rapid,  picturesque  narra- 
tive, mixed  up  with  wit  and  naivete — that 
style,  in  short,  of  good  conversation  concentra- 
ted into  flowing  and  polished  verses,  was  not 
within  the  vein  of  our  native  poets ;  and  prob- 
ably never  would  have  been  known  among 
us,  if  we  had  been  left  to  our  own  resources. 
It  is  lamentable  that  this,  which  alone  was 
worth  borrowing,  is  the  only  thing  which  has 
jot  been  retained.  The  tales  and  little  apol- 
ogues of  Prior  are  ^till  the  only  examples  of 
this  style  in  our  language. 

With  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne  this  foreign 
school  attained  the  summit  of  its  reputation ; 
and  has  ever  since,  we  think,  been  declining, 
though  by  slow  and  almost  imperceptible 
gradations^  Thomson  was  the  first  writer  of 
any  eminence  who  seceded  from  it,  and  made 
some  steps  back  to  tlje  force  and  animation 
of  our  original  poetryTl  Thomson,  however, 
was  educated  in  S(53t1and,  where  the  new 
style,  we  believe,  had  not  yet  become  famil- 
iar ;  and  lived,  for  a  long  time,  a  retired  and 
unambitious  life,  with  very  little  intercourse 
with  those  who  gave  the  tone  in  literature  at 
the  period  of  his  first  appearance.    Thomson, 

.accordingly,  has  always  been  popular  with  a 
much  wider  circle  of  readers,  than  either 
Pope  or  Addison;  and,  in  spite  of  consid- 
erable vulgarity  and  signal  cumbrousness 
of  diction,  tas  drawn,  even   from  the  fas- 1 


tidious,  a  much  deeper  and  more  heartfeli 
admiration. 

Young  exhibits,  we  think,  a  curious  com- 
bination; or  contrast  rather,  of  the  two  styles 
of  which  we  have  been  speaking.  Thougl 
incapable  either  of  tenderness  or  passion,  he 
had  a  richness  and  activity  of  fancy  that  be- 
longed rather  to  the  days  of  James  and  Eliza- 
beth, than  to  those  of  George  and  Anne:— 
But  then,  instead  of 'indulging  it,  as  the  oldei 
writers  would  have  done,  in  easy  and  plaj-fui 
inventionSj  in  splendid  dt>scriptioiis.  or  glow- 
ing illustrations,  he  was  led,  by  the  restraintt^ 
and  established  taste  of  his  age,  to  work  itutj 
into  strange  and  iantastical  epigrams,  or  intti 
cold  and  revolting  hyperboles.  Instead  of 
letting  it  flow  gracefully  on,  in  an  easy  anc 
sparkling  current,  he  perpetually  forces  it  ou 
in  jets,  or  makes  it  stagnate  in  formal  canals 
and  thinking  it  necessary  to  write  like  Pope 
when  the  bent  of  hiis  genius  led  him  rathe 
to  copy  what  was  best  in  Cowloy  and  mo6 
fantastic  in  Shakespeare,  j  he  has  producec 
something  which  excites  wDnder  instead  oi 
admiration,  and  is  felt  by  every  one  to  beJ 
once  ingenious,  incongruous,  and  unnaturaU 

After  Young,  there  was  a  plentiful  lack  oi 
poetical  talent,  down  to  a  period  comparalitel; 
recent.  Akenside  and  Gray,  indeed,  in  thi 
interval,  discovered  a  new  way  of  imitatim 
the  ancieyts  ] — and  Collins  and  Goldsmith  pro 
duced  some  small  specimens  of  exquisite  am 
original  poetry.  At  last,  Cowper  threw  off  th 
whole  trammels  of  French  criticism  and  arti 
ficial  refinement ;  and,  setting  at  defiance  ai 
the  imaginary  requisites  of  poetical  dictio 
and  classical  imager)- — dignity  of  style,  ani 
politeness  of  phraseology — ventured  to  writ 
again  with  the  force  and  the  freedom  whic! 
had  characterised  the  old  school  of  Eiiglisi 
literature,  and  been  so  unhappily  sacriticec 
upwards  of  a  century  before.  Cowper  hav 
many  faults,  and  some  radical  deficiencies 
— but  this  atoned  for  all.  There  was  somt 
thing  so  delightfully  refreshing,  m  seein 
natural  phrases  and  natural  images  Kain  dit 
playing  their  unforced  graces,  and  waviii 
their  unpruned  heads  in  the  enchanted  gai 
dens  of  poetry,  that  no  one  complained  of  th- 
taste  displayed  in  the  selection ; — and  Cow 
per  is,  and  is  likely  to  continue,  the  mof 
popular  of  all  who  have  written  for  the  preaer 
or  the  last  generation. 

Of  the  poets  who  have  come  after  him,  w 
cannot,  indeed,  say  that  they  have  attache 
themselves  to  the  school  of  Pope  and  Add 
son  ;  or  that  they  have  even  failed  to  show- 
much  stronger  predilection  for  the  naJJA'e  beat 
ties  of  their  great  predecessors.  £_Southei 
and  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  and  Mif 
Baillie,  have  all  of  them  copied  the  niannt' 
of  our  older  poets ;  and,  along  with  this  ind 
cation  of  good  taste,  have  given  great  proo 
of  original  genius.  The  misfortune  is,  thi 
their  copies  of  those  great  originals  are  habl 
to  the  charge  of  extreme  afiectation.  The 
do*  not  write  as  those  great  poets  would  hav 
written  :  they  merely  mimic  their.manner,  an  ■ 
ape  their  peculiarities; — and  consequentl; 
though  they  profess  to  imitate  the  freest  an 


FORD'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


303 


ost  careless  of  all  versifiers,  their  style  is 
ore  remarkably  and  ofl'eiisively  artificial 
in  that  of  any  other  class ot  writers.  Thev 
ve  mi.ved  in,  too,  so  much  of  the  mawkish 
ne  of  pastoral  innocence  and  babyi.^h  sim-' 
icity,  with  a  sort  of  pedantic  emphasis  and! 

ntatious  glitter,  that  it  is  diliicult  not  to; 
diegusted  with  their  perversity,  ami  with 

solemn  self-complacency,  and  keen  and 
dictive  jealousy,  with  which  ihey  have  put 
their  claims  on  public  admiration.  But  we 
ve  said  enough  elsewhere  of  the  fauUs  of 
ose  auiliors  ;  and  sliall  only  add.  at  present, 
at,  notwithstanding  all  these  fault.s,  there  is 
fertility  and  a  force,  a  wamith  of  feeling 
id  an  exaltation  of  imagination  about  them, 
hich  classes  them,  in  our  estimation,  with 
much  higher  order  of  poets  than  the  fol- 
wers  of  Dryden  and  Addi.son  ;  and  justifies 
.  anxiety  for  their  fame,  in  all  the  admirers 
Milton  and  Shakespeart^J 
Of  Scott,  or  of  Campbell,  we  need  scarcely 
y  any  thmg,  with  reference  to  our  present 
)ject,  arfter  the  very  copious  accounts  we 
ive  given  of  them  on  former  occasions.  The 
rmer  professes  to  copy  something  a  good 
jal  older  than  what  we  consider  as  the  golden 
re  of  English  poetry, — and,  in  reality,  has 
•pied  every  style,  and  borrowed  from  every 
anner  that  has  prevailed,  from  the  times  of 
laucer  to  his  own  : — illuminating  and  unit- 
g.  if  not  harmonizing  them  all,  by  a  force 
colouring,  and  a  rapidity  of  succession, 
hich  is  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  of  his 
any  models.  The  latter,  we  think,  can 
arcely  be  said  to  have  copied  his  pathos,  or 
8  energy,  from  any  models  whatever,  either 
cent  or  early.  The  exquisite  harmony  of 
s  versification  is  elaborated,  perhaps,  from 
e  Castle  of  Indolence  of  Thomson,  and  the 
rious  pieces  of  Goldsmith; — and  it  seems 
,  be  his  misfortune,  not  to  be  able  to  reconcile 
mself  to  any  thing  which  he  cannot  reduce 
'ithin  the  limits  of  this  elaborate  harmony, 
liis  e.vtreme  fastidiousness,  and  the  limila- 
5n  of  his  efforts  to  themes  of  unbroken  ten- 
''rness  or  sublimity,  distinguish  him  from  the 
;.reless,  prolific,  and  miscellaneous  authors 
;  our  primitive  poetry  ; — while  the  enchaiit- 
g  softness  of  his  pathetic  passages,  and  the 
iwer  and  originality  of  his  more  sublime^ 
nceptions,  place  him  at  a  still  greater  dis- 
nce  from  the  wits,  as  they  truly  called 
emselves,  of  Charles  II.  and  Queen  Anne. 
We  do  not  know  what  other  apology  to 
"er  for  this  hasty,  and,  we  fear,  tedious 
etch  of  the  history  of  our  poetry,  but  that 
appeared  to  us  to  be  necessary,  in  order  to 
plain  the  peculiar  merit  of  that  class  of 
■iters  to  which  the  author  before  us  belongs ; 
;d  that  it  will  very  greatly  shorten  what  we 
,ve  still  to  say  on  the  characteristics  of  our 
•  ler  dramatists.  An  opinion  prevails  very 
fnerally  on  the  Continent,  and  with  foreign- 
led  scholars  among  ourselves,  that  our  na- 
inal  taste  has  been  corrupted  chiefly  by  our 
ijlatry  of  Shakespeare  ; — and  that  it  is  our 
jtriotic  and  traditional  admiration  of  that 
Hgular  writer,  that  reconciles  us  to  the  mon- 
1 0U8  compound  of  faults  and  beauties  that 


occur  in  his  performances,  and  must  to  all 

:  impartial  jutlgis  aifjicar  (|uite  absurd  and 
!  unnatural.  Before  entering  upon  the  charac- 
ter of 'a  contemporary  dramatist,  it  was  of 
i  some  importance,  thi'refure,  to  show  that 
'  there  was  a  distinct,  original,  and  indipendent 
school  of  literature  in  Kngland  in  the  time  of 
i  Shakespeare  ;  to  the  general  lone  of  whose 
;  ])roduct.ons  his  works  were  suliicienlly  eon- 
j  forniable  ;  and  that  it  was  owing  to  ci'rcum- 
j  stances  in  a  gnat  measure  accidental,  that  thia 
I  native  school  was  suiier.seded  about  the  time 
I  ot  the  Restoration,  and  a  foreign  standard  of  ex- 
cellence intruded  on  us,  not  in  (he  drama  tudy, 
but  in  every  other  department  of  poetry.  This 
new  style  of  composition,  however,  though 
adorned  and  recommended  by  the  s]>lendid 
talents  of  many  of  its  followers,  was  never 
perfectly  naturalisi-d,  we  think,  in  this  coun- 
try ;  and  has  ceased,  in  a  ^reat  measure,  to 
be  cultivated  by  those  who  have  lately  aimed 
with  the  greatest  success  at  the  higher  hon- 
ours of  poetry.  Our  love  of  Shakespeare, 
therefore,  is  not  a  viouoniant<t'oT  solitary  ana 
unaccountable  infatuation  j  but  is  merely  the 
natural  love  w  hich  all  men  bear  to  those  tonus 
of  excellence  that  are  accommoc^ated  to  their 
peculiar  character,  temperament,  and  .situa- 
tion ;  and  which  will  always  return,  and  assert 
its  power  over  their  aliections,  long  after 
authority  has  lost  its  reverence,  fashions  bee>n 
anticpiateti,  and  artificial  tastes  passed  away. 
In  endeavouring,  therelbre,  to  besp«'ak  some* 
share  of  favour  for  such  of  his  contemporaries 
as  had  fallen  out  of  notice,  during  the  preva- 
lence of  an  imported  literature,  we  conceive 
that  we  are  only  enlarging  that  foundation  of 
native  genius  on  which  alone  any  lasting 
superstructure  can  be  raised,  and  invigorating 
that  deep-rooted  stock  upon  which  all  the 
perennial  blossoms  of  our  literature  must  still 
be  engrafted. 

The  notoriety  of  Shakespeare  may  seem  to 
make  it  superfluous  to  speak  of  the  peculiari- 
ties of  those  old  dramatists,  of  whom  he  will 
be  admitted  to  be  so  worthy  a  representative. 
Nor  shall  we  venture  to  say  any  thing  of  the 
confusion  of  their  plots,  the  disorders  of  their 
chronology,  their  contempt  of  the  unities,  or 
their  imperfect  discrimination  between  the 
provinces  of  Tragedy  and  Comedy.  Yet  there 
are  characteristics  which  the  lovers  ol  litera- 
ture may  not  be  disph'ased  to  find  enumerated, 
and  which  may  constitute  no  dishonourable 
distinction  for  the  whole  fraternity,  independ- 
ent of  the  splendid  talents  and  incommuiiica- 
ble  graces  of  their  great  chieftain. 

Of  the  old  English  dramatists,  then,  in- 
cluding under  this  name  (besides  Shake- 
speare), Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Massinger, 
Jonson,  Ford,  Shirley.  Web.sler.  Dekkar,  Field, 
and  Rowley,  it  may  be  said,  in  general,  tlut 
they  are  more  iK)etical,  and  more  onginal  in 
their  diction,  than  the  dramatists  of  any  other 
age  or  country.  Their  Bc«'nrs  abouiul  more 
in  varied  images,  and  gratuitous  e.Mursions 
of  fancy.  Their  illustrations,  and  li^iures  of 
speech,  aretrore  borrowed  Irom  ruial  life, 
and  from  the  simple^cupations  or  ui;iverHal 
feelings  of  mankincTZ   They  are  i»ot  cooiined 


304 


POETRY. 


to  a  certain  range  of  dis^nified  expressions, 
nor  restricted  to  a  particular  assortment  of 
imagery,  beyond  which  it  is  not  lawful  to  look 
for  embeliishrnt.Mits.  Let  any  one  compare 
the  prodiijious  variety,  and  wide-ranging  free- 
dom of  Shakespeare,  with  the  narrow  round 
of  fjames,  tempests,  treasons,  victims,  and 
tyrants,  that  scantily  adorn  the  sententious 
pomp  of  the  French  drama,  and  he  will  not 
fail  to  recognise  the  vast  superiority  of  the 
former,  in  the  excitement  of  the  imagination, 
and  ali  the  diversities  of  poetical  delight. 
That  very  mi.vlure  of  styles,  of  which  the 
French  critics  have  so' fastidiously  complained, 
forms,  when  not  carried  to  any  height  of  ex- 
travagance, one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  our 
ancient  dramatists.  It  is  equally  sweet  and 
natural  for  personages  toiling  on  the  barren 
heights  of  life,  to  be  occasionally  recalled  to 
some  vision  of  pastoral  innocence  and  tran- 
quillitj-.  as  for  the  victims  or  votaries  of  am- 
bition to  cast  a  glance  of  envy  and  agony  on 
the  joys  of  humble  content. 

Those  charming  old  writers,  however,  have 
a  still  more  striking  peculiarity  in  their  con- 
duct of  the  dialogue.  On  the  modern  stage, 
every  scene  js  visibhj  studied  and  digested 
beforehand, — and  every  thing  from  beginning 
to  end,  whether  it  be  description,  or  argument, 
or  vituperation,  is  very  obviously  and  osten- 
tatiously set  forth  in  the  most  advantageous 
light,  and  with  all  the  decorations  of  the  most 
elaborate  rhetoric.  Now,  for  mere  rhetoric, 
and  fine  composition,  this  is  very  right; — but^ 
for  an  imitation  of  nature,  it  is  not  quite  so 
well:  And  however  we  may  admire  the  skill 
of  the  artist,  we  are  not  very  likely  to  be 
moved  with  any  very  lively  sympathy  in  the 
emotions  of  those  very  rhetorical  interlocutors. 
When  we  come  to  any  important  part  of  the 
play,  on  the  Continental  or  modern  stage,  we 
are  sure  to  have  a  most  complete,  formal, 
and  exhausting  discussion  of  it,  in  long  flourish- 
ing orations; — argurrient  after  argument  pro- 
pounded and  answered  with  infinite  ingenuity, 
and  topic  after  topic  brought  forward  in  well- 
digested  method,  wathout  any  deviation  that 
the  most  industrious  and  practised  pleader 
would  not  approve  of, — till  nothing  more  re- 
mains to  be  said,  and  a  new  scene  introduces 
us  to  a  new  set  of  gladiators,  as  expert  and 
persevering  as  the  former.  It  is  exactly  the 
same  when  a  story  is  to  be  told, — a  tyrant  to 
be  bullied, — or  a  princess  to  be  wooed.  On 
the  old  English  stage,  however,  the  proceed- 
ings were  by  no  means  so  regular.  There  the 
discussions  always  appear  to  be  casual,  and 
the  argument  quite  artless  and  disorderly. 
The  persons  of  the  drama,  in  short,  are  made 
to  sp6ak  like  men  and  women  who  meet 
without  preparation,  in  real  life.  Their  rea- 
sonings are  perpetually  broken  by  passion,  or 
left  imperfect  for  want  of  skill.  They  con- 
stantly wander  from  the  point  in  hand,  in  the 
most  unbusinesslike  manner  in  the  world  ; — 
and  after  hitting  upon  a  topic  that  would  afibrd 
a  judicious  playwright  room  for  a  magnificent 
seesaw  of  pompous  declamation,  they  have 
generally  the  awkwardness  to  let  it  slip,  as 
if  perfectly  unconscious  of  its  value ;  and  uni- 1 


formly  leave  the  scene. without  exhaustinj 
the  controversy,  or  stating  half  the  plausibli 
things  for  themselves  that  any  ordinary  ad 
visers  might  have  suggested — after  a  fev 
weeks'  reflection.  As  specimens  of  eloquen 
argumentation,  we  must  admit  the  signal-in 
feriority  of  our  native  favourites;  but  as  tru' 
copies  of  nature, — as  vehicles  of  passion,  am 
representations  of  character,  we  confess  w 
are  tempted  to  give  them  the  preference 
When  a  dramatist  brings  his  chief  charactet 
on  the  stage,  we  readily  admit  that  he  mus 
give  them  something  to  say, — and  that  thi 
something  must  be  interesting  and  characlei 
istic  ;-^but  he  should  recollect  also,  that  the 
are  supposed  to  come  there  without  havin 
anticipated  all  they  were  to  hear,  or  med 
tated  on  all  they  were  to  deliver;  and  that : 
cannot  be  characteristic,  therefore,  because 
must  be  glaringly  unfiaturalj  that  they  .shoul 
proceed  regularly  through  every  possible  \'ie\ 
of  the  subject,  and  exhaust,  in  set  ortler*  th 
whole  magazine  of  reflections  that  can  b 
brought  to  bear  upon  their  situation. 

It  would  not  be  fair,  however,  to  leave  thi 
view  of  the  matter,  without  observing,  th; 
this  unsteadiness  and  irregularity  of  dialogui 
which  gives  such  an  air  of  nature  to  ouroldt 
plays,  and  keeps  the  curiosity  and  atlentio 
so  perpetually  awake,  is  frequently  carried  1 
a  most  blameable  excess;  and  that,  indeper 
dent  of  their  passion  for  verbal  quibbles,  thei 
is  an  inequality  and  a  capricious  uncertain! 
in  the  taste  and  judgment  of  these  good  ol 
writers,  which  excites  at  once  our  amazeraei 
and  our  compassion.     If  it  be.  true,  that  r 
other  man  has  ever  written  so  finely  as  Shak( 
speare  has  done  in  his  happier  passages,  it 
no  less  true  that  there  is  not  a  scribbler  no- 
alive  who  could  possibly  write  worse  than  Y 
has  sometimes  written, — who  could,  on  occ; 
sion,  devise  more  contemptible  ideas,  or  mi 
place  them  so  abominably,  by  the  side  of  sue 
incomparable  excellence.     That  there  wei 
no  critics,  and  no  critical  readers  in  those  day 
appears  to  us  but  an  imperfect  solution  of  tr  ; 
difficulty.   '  He  who  could  write  so  adtnirabl 
must  have  been  a  critic  to  himself.    Childre  ■ 
indeed,   may  play  with   the   most   precioi 
gems,  and  the  most  worthless  pebbles,  witl 
out  being  aw-are  of  any  difference  in  the 
value  ;  but  the  fiery  powers  which  are  nece 
sary  to  the  production  of  intellectual  excf 
lence,  must  enable  the  possessor  to  recognis 
it  as  excellence ;  and  he  who  knows  when  1 
succeeds,  can  scarcely  be  unconscious  of  h 
failures.     Unaccountable,  however,  as  it  i 
the  fact  is  certain,  that  almost  all  the  dramat 
writers  of  this  age  appear  to  be  alternate 
inspired,  and  bereft  of  understanding;  ar 
pass,  apparently  without  being  conscious  ( 
the  change,  from  the  most  beautiful  displa; 
of  genius  to  the  most  melancholy  exemph 
cations  of  stupidity.^ 

There  is  only  one  other  peculiarity  whi( 
we  shall  notice  in  those  ancient  dramas;  ai, 
that  is,  the  singular,  though  very  beautif 
style,  in  which  the  greater  part  of  them  a 
composed, — a  style  which  we  think  must 
felt  as  peculiar  by  all  who  peruse  them,  thou| 


FOKDS  DRAMATIC  WORKS. 


ityofti 
me  to«i 
y  and  alt! : 
"-live 


ibeatti 


,  -  b}-  no  means  easy  to  describe  in  Mhat  itP 

■nliarity  consists.     It  is  not.  for  the  most 

I  t.  a  lot'ty  or  sonorous  style, — nor  can  it  be 

-  !  generally  to  be  finical  or  afFecteil, — or 
lined,  (juaint,  or  pedantic: — Bnt  it  is,  at 

[     same  time,  a  style  full  of  turn  and  con- 

t   ance, — with  some  little  decrree  of  constraint 

a!  involution. — very  often  characterised  by 

atndied  briefness  and  simplicity  of  diction, 

y  relieved  by  a  certain  indirect  and  ti^ura- 

t  '  c<Tst  of  expression, — and  almost  alwavs 

I  Hired  witli  a  modest  tini^e  of   in^einiity, 

1  tashioneil,  rather  too  visibly,  upon  a  jiar- 

ilar   model   of  elegance   and   purity.     In 

-  ifs  of  powerful  jvassion.  this  sort  of  arti- 
i'  prettiness  is  commonly  shaken  otT;  and. 
Shakespeare,  it  disappears  under  all  his 
ns  of  animation:   But  it  sticks  closer  to 

;:st  of  his  contempomries.  In  Massinger 
!o  has  no  passion),  it  is  almost  always  dis- 
■lable  ;  and.  in  the  author  Ix'fore  us,  it  gives 
necnliar  tone  to  almost  all  the  estimable 
p  tf  of  his  productions. — If  is  now  time,  how- 
e  r,  and  more  than  time,  that  we  should  turn 
t(  his  author. 

'  lis  biography  will  not  detain  us  long  :  for 

V  y  little  is  known  about  him.     He  was  born 

ii  Devonshire,   in    15S6:   and    entered  as  a 

stlent   in   the  Middle  Temple:   where  he 

b  an  to  publish  poetry,  and  probably  to  write 

:  ivs,  soon   after  his   twenty-first  j-ear.     He 

;iot  publish  any  of  his  dramatic  works, 

;  ,>ever.  till  1629  :  and  thous:h  he  is  supposecl 

t.iave  written  fourteen  or  fifteen  pieces  for 

t!   theatres,  only  nine  appear  to  have  been 

phted,  or  to  have  found  their  way  down  to 

present   times.     He    is   known  to   have 

■fen  in  conjunction  with  Rowley  and  Dek- 

.  a:id  is  supposed  to  have  died  about  1640: 

:  d  this  is  the  whole  that  the  industry  of 

1   Weber,  assisteil   by  the   researches   of 

Sfevcns  and  Malone,  has  been  able  to  dis- 

C(^r  of  this  author. 

I  would  be  useless,  and  worse  than  use- 

'  ■ .  to  jrive  our  readers  an  abstract  of  the 

"  and  management  of  each  of  the  nine 

:;.  s  contained  in  the  volumes  before  us.    A 

;.■  few  brief  remarks  upon  their  ireneral 

^acter,  will  form  a  sufficient  introduction 

he  extracts,  by  which  we  propose  to  let 

readers  jud^e  for  themselves  of  the  merits 

o(  heir  execution.     The  comic  parts  are  all 

'Illy  bad.     With  none  of  the  richness  of 

"  kospeare's  humour,  the  extravagant  mer- 

•nt   of    Beaumont   and   Fletcher,   or   the 

ig  colouring  of  Ben  Johnson,  they  are  as 

•  y  and  as  mdecent  as  those  of  Massinger, 

not  more  witty7 though  a  little  more  va- 

than  the  buffooneries  of  Wycherley  or 

■    len.     Fortunately,  however,  the  author's 

m  ry  vein   is  not  displayed    in   very  many 

p:  s  of  his  perfoiTTiances.     His  plots  are  not 

Vfr  cunningly  digested:  nor  developed,  for 

Ih  most  part,  by  a  train  of  probable  incidents. 

H  characters  are  drawn  rather  with  occa- 

sii'al  feliciH',  than  with  gene ral^sagacity  and 

ment.rTike  those  of  Massin^geTTTTH*)-  are 

"^-^^|)^o^!tartle  the  reader  with  sudden  and 

"lA'pected  transformations,  and  to  tum  out, 

inhe  latter  half  of  the  play,  verj-  diflferently 

39 


rro 
of 


This  kind  of  .surprise  has  been  repro- 
senled  by  some  as  a  niaster-slrt)ke  of  art  in 
the  author,  and  a  great  merit  in  the  jx'rform- 
ance.  We  have  no  iloubl  at  all,  however,  that 
it  is  to  be  ascribed  merely  to  the  writer's 
carelessni',s.s,  or  change  of  punxise  ;  and  have 
never  failed  to  feel  it  a  great  t^ijcmish  in  every 
serious  piece  where  it  occurs.    / 

The  author  has  not  mucliT^the  oratorical 
stateliness  and  imposing  (low  of  Massinger; 
nor  a  great  deal  <il  the  smooth  and  flexible 
diction,  the  watniernig  fancy,  and  romantic 
sweetness  of  Beaumont  and  Hetcher ;  and  yet 
he  comes  nearer  to  thef*e  qualites  than  to  any 
of  the  distineuishing  characteristics  of  Jonson 
or  Shakespeare.  He  excels  most  in  rej)rest»nl- 
ing  the  pride  and  irallantry,  and  hiiih-toned 
honour  of  youth,  and  the  enchanting  .softnens, 
or  the  mild  and  graceful  mainianimity  of  fe- 
male charact»'r.  There  is  a  certain  melan- 
choly air  about  his  most  striking  representa- 
tions ;  and.  in  the  tender  and  alHicting  |)athetic. 
he  appears  to  us  occasionally  to  be  second 
only  to  him  who  has  never  yet  had  an  equal. 
The  greater  jxirt  of  every  play,  however,  is 
bad  ;  and  there  is  not  one  which  do«'3  not 
contain  faults  sufficient  to  justify  tlie  derision 
even  of  those  w  ho  are  incapable  of  compre- 
hending its  contrasted  beauties. 

The  diction  we  think  for  the  most  part 
beautiful;  and  worthy  of  the  inspired  age 
which  produced  it.  That  we  may  not  be  sus- 
pected of  misleading  our  readers  by  partial 
and  selected  quotations,  we  shall  lay  before 
them  the  very  first  sentence  of  the  play  \\  hich 
stands  first  in  this  collection.  The  subject  is 
somew  hat  revolting :  though  manaced  with 
great  spirit,  and,  in  the  more  dangerous  parts, 
with  considerable  dignity.  A  brother  and 
sister  fall  mutually  in  love  with  each  other . 
and  abandon  themselves,  wifh  a  sort  of  splen- 
did and  perverted  devotedness,  to  their  in- 
cestuous passion.  The  sister  is  afterwards 
married,  and  their  criminal  intercourse  de- 
tected by  her  husband, — when  the  bmther, 
perceiving  their  de.stmction  inevitable,  first 
Kills  her.  and  then  throws  himself  upon  the 
sword  of  her  injured  husband.  The  play 
opens  with  his  attempting  to  justify  his  passion 
to  a  holy  friar,  his  tutor — wno  thus  addresses 
him. 

"  Friar.   Dispute  no  more  in  this ;    for  know, 
youn?  man, 
Thpse  arc  no  school  points  ;  Nice  philosophy 
.Mav  lolernte  unlikely  arguments. 
But  linovcn  admits  no  jeot.     Wits  that  presum'd 
On  wit  too  much,  by  striving  how  to  prove 
Tlicre  was  no  God,  with  foolish  prounds  of  art, 
Disrover'd  first  the  ncar'st  way  to  hell. 
.And  filled  the  world  with  dcvNish  atheism. 
^\irh  qucfliions,  youth,  are  fond  :  for  liettcr  'lis 
To  blenB  the  fwn.  tlian  reason  why  it  hhincs 
Yet  he  thou  talk'st  of  is  nl)ovc  the  sun. 
No  tuoif  I  I  tnry  not  hiiir  it. 

Cio.  fJentle  fniher. 

To  you  T  have  tmclasp'd  my  hurden'd  noiil. 
F-'mptied  the  storehouse  of  my  thoughts  and  heart. 
.Madn  myself  poor  of  Hcrreis;  have  not  lef) 
.Another  word  untold,  which  haili  not  spoke 
All  what  I  ever  durst,  or  think,  <>r  know  ; 
A  rd  yet  is  here  the  comfort  I  nhall  have  f 
Must  I  not  do  whal  all  men  else  may, — love  f 
2  a2 


306 


POETRY. 


No,  father !  in  your  eyes  I  see  the  change 

Of  pity  and  compassion  ;  from  your  age, 

As  from  a  sacred  oracle,  distils 

The  hie  of  counsel.     Tell  me,  holy  man. 

What  cure  shall  give  me  ease  in  these  extremes  ? 

Friar.  Repentance,  son,  and  sorrow  for  this  sin : 
For  thou  hast  mov'd  a  majesty  above 
With  thy  unranged,  almost,  blasphemy. 

Gio.  O  do  not  speak  of  that,  dear  confessor. 

Friar.  Then  I  have  done,  and  in  thy  wilful  flames 
Already  see  thy  ruin  ;  Heaven  is  just. 
Yet  hear  my  counsel  I 

Gio.  As  a  voice  of  life. 

Friar.  Hie  to  thy  father's  house;  there  lock  thee 
Alone  within  thy  chamber ;  then  fall  down       [fast 
On  both  thy  knees,  and  grovel  on  the  ground; 
Cry  to  thy  heart ;  wash  every  word  thou  utter' st 
In  tears  (and  if 't  be  possil)le)  of  blood: 
Beg  Heaven  to  cleanse  the  leprosy  of  love 
That  rots  thy  soul ;  weep,  sigh,  pray 
Three  times  a  day,  and  three  times  every  night : 
For  seven  days'  space  do  this;  then,  if  thou  find'st 
No  change  in  thy  desires,  return  to  me ; 
ril  think  on  remedy.     Pray  for  thyself 
At  home,  whilst  I  pray  for  thee  here.     Away ! 
My  blessing  with  thee  !  We  have  need  to  pray." 
Vol.  i.  pp.  9—12. 

In  a  subsequent  scene  with  the  sister,  the 
same  holy  person  maintains  the  dignity  of  liis 
style. 

Friar.  I  am  glad  to  see  this  penance  ;  for,  believe 
You  have  unripp'd  a  soul  so  foul  and  guilty,      [me 
As  I  must  tell  you  true,  I  marvel  how 
The  earth  hath  borne  you  up ;  but  weep,  weep  on, 
These  tears  may  do  you  good  ;  weep  faster  yet, 
Whilst  I  do  read  a  lecture. 

A7in.  Wretched  creature ! 

Friar.  Ay,  you  are  wretched,  miserably  wretch- 
Almost  condemned  alive.     There  is  a  place,      [ed. 
List,  daughter,)  in  a  black  and  hollow  vault, 
Where  day  is  never  seen  ;  there  shines  no  sun, 
But  flaming  horror  of  consuming  fires; 
A  lightless  sulphttr,  chok'd  with  smoky  fogs 
Of  an  infected  darkness;  in  this  place 
Dwell  many  thousand  thousand  sundry  sorts 
Of  never-dying  deaths.     There  damned  souls 
Roar  without  pity  ;  there  are  gluttons  fed 
With  toads  and  adders ;  there  is  burning  oil 
Poiir'd  down  the  drunkard's  throat;  the  usurer 
Is  forc'd  to  sup  whole  draughts  of  molten  gold  ; 
There  is  the  murderer  for  ever  stabb'd. 
Yet  can  he  never  die  ;  there  lies  the  wanton 
On  racks  of  burning  steel,  whilst  in  his  soul 
He  feels  the  torment  of  his  raging  lust. 

A?tn.  Mercy  !  oh  mercy  !  [things, 

Friar.  There  stand  these  wretched 

Who  have  dream'd  out  whole  years  in  lawless  sheets 
And  secret  incests,  cursing  one  another,"  &c. 

Vol.  i.  pp.  63,  64. 

The  most  striking  scene  of  the  play,  how- 
ever, is  that  which  contains  the  catastrophe 
of  the  lady's  fate.  Her  husband,  after  shut- 
ting her  up  for  some  time  in  gloomy  privacy, 
invites  her  brother,  and  all  his  family,  to  a 
solemn  banquet;  and  even  introduces  him, 
before  it  is  served  up,  into  her  private  cham- 
ber, where  he  finds  her  sitting  on  her  mar- 
riage-bed, in  splendid  attire,  but  filled  with 
boding  terrors  and  agonising  anxiety.  He, 
though  equally  aware  of  the  fate  that  was 
preparfHl  for  them,  addresses  her  at  first  with 
a  kind  of  wild  and  desperate  gaiety,  to  which 
she  tries  for  a  while  to  answer  with  sober  and 
earnest  warnings, — and  at  last  exclaims  im- 
patiently, 

"  .Ann.  O  let's  not  waste 

These  precious  hours  in  vain  and  useless  speech. 


Alas,  these  gay  attires  were  not  put  on 

But  to  some  end  ;  this  sudden  solemn  feast 

Was  not  ordain'd  to  riot  in  expense ; 

I  that  have  now  been  chamber' d  here  alone, 

Barr'd  of  my  guardian,  or  of  any  else. 

Am  not  for  nothing  at  an  instant  freed 

To  fresh  access.     Be  not  deceiv'd,  my  brother; 

This  banquet  is  an  harbinger  of  Death 

To  you  and  me  !  resolve  yourself  it  is, 

And  be  prepar'd  to  welcome  it.  [fa( 

Gio.  Look  up,  look  here  ;  what  see  you  in  ; 

Ann.  Distraction  and  a  troubled  countenance.i 

Gio.  Death  and  a  swift  repining  wrath  ! ^ 

What  see  you  in  mine  eyes  ?  [Ic 

Ann.  Methinks  yon  weep. 

Gio.  I  do  indeed.     These  are  the  funeral  tear 
Shed  on  your  grave  !  These  furrow'd  up  mychei 
When  first  I  lov'd  and  knew  not  how  to  woo. 
Fair  Annabella !  should  I  here  repeat 
The  story  of  my  life,  we  might  lose  time ! 
Be  record,  all  the  spirits  of  tlie  air. 
And  all  things  else  that  are,  that  day  and  night, 
Early  and  late,  the  tribute  which  my  heart 
Hath  paid  to  Annabella's  sacred  love  [no 

Hath  been  these  tears, — which  are  her  mourn 
Never  till  now  did  nature  do  her  best 
To  show  a  matchless  beauty  to  the  world, 
Which  in  an  instant,  ere  it  scarce  was  seen. 
The  jealous  destinies  require  again. 
Pray,  Annabella,  pray  !  since  we  must  part. 
Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven. 
Pray,  pray,  my  sister. 

Ann.  Then  I  see  your  drift; 

Ye  blessed  angels,  guard  me ! 

Gio.  So  say  I. 

Kiss  me !  If  ever  after-times  should  hear 
Of  our  fast-knit  aflfections,  though  perhaps 
The  laws  of  conscience  and  of  civil  use 
May  justly  blame  us,  yet  when  they  but  know 
Our  loves,  that  love  will  wipe  away  that  rigour 
Which  would  in  other  incests  be  abhorr'd. 
Give  me  your  hand.     How  sweetly  life  doth  ru 
In  these  well-colour'd  veins !  how  constantly 
These  palms  do  promise  health  !  but  I  could  el  i 
With  nature  for  this  cunning  flattery. — 
Kiss  me  again  ! — forgive  me  ! 

Ann.  With  my  heart 

Gio.  Farewell. 

Ann.  Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Gio.  Be  dark,  bright  i , 

And  make  this  mid-dny  night,  that  thy  gilt  ray 
May  not  behold  a  deed  will  turn  their  splendou 
More  sooty  than  the  poets  i'eign  their  Styx! 
One  other  kiss,  my  sister  ! 

Ann.  What  means  this? 

Gio.  To  save  thy  fame,  and  kill  thee  in  a  kis 

[Stabs ;. 

Thus  die  !  and  die  by  me,  and  by  my  hand ! 

A7in.  Oh  brother,  by  your  hand! 

Gio.  When  thou  art  de 

I'll  ^ive  my  reasons  for't ;  for  to  dispute 
With  thee,  even  in  thy  death,  most  lovely  beau^ 
Would  make  me  staaiger  to  perform  this  act 
Which  I  most  glory  in. 

Ann.  Forgive  him.  Heaven — and  me  my  s  ! 
Farewell. 
Brother  unkind,  unkind, — mercy,  great  Heave  ■ 
oh — oh.  U  '■ 

Gio.  She's  dead,  alas,  good  soul!  This  mart  e 
In  ail  her  best,  bore  her  alive  and  dead.  [  l> 

Soranzo,  thou  hast  miss'd  thy  aim  in  this;       , 
I  have  prevented  now  thy  reaching  plots. 
And  kill'd  a  love,  for  whose  each  drop  of  bloo 
I  would  have  pawn'd  my  heart.     Fair  Annabe, 
How  over-glorious  art  thou  in  thy  wounds. 
Triumphing  over  infamy  and  hate  ! 
Shrink  not,  courageous  hand  ;  stand  up,  my  hti 
And  boldlv  ac.  my  last,  and  greater  part !" 
—Vol.  i.  pp.  98—101.  [Exit  with  the  if 

There  are  few  things   finer   than  thijiB 
Shakespeare .  It  bears  an  obvious  resembli  ^ 


ttttd  ,^ 


FORD'S  DIL\MATIC  WORKS. 


30. 


"GalijiBKed  to  the  death  of  Desdemona ;  and, 
*!  talia:  it  as  a  detached  scene,  we  think  it 
Tj^rater  the  more  beantifu!  of  the  two.  The 
■  '  swiftness  of  the  diction — the  natnral  tone  of 
erness  and  passion — the  strai 


pervt 


Mi;'''jioof  kind  and  niai,niannnous  natnies,  and 
rrid  c^ata«trophe  by  which  their  iruih  is 
it  lice  consummated  and  aventred.  have  not 
^Kfjwfti  been  rivaUed.  m  the  jia^^es  either  of  the 
^^'ismqern  or  the  ancient  drama. 
'5™'''  'le  play  entitled  -The  Broken  Heart,"  is 
,„.    n  »r  author's  best  maimer 

,      ?■         1     ! 


'i»iiiipiij,.el 


npai    ,f 


and  woukl  sup- 
nore  beautiful  quotations  than  we  have 
Wm  for  insertiii";.     The  storv  is  a  little 


flfoiiHcated  ;  but  the  fojlowin::  slight  sketch 


will  make  our  e.xtracts  sntHciently 


^*eU:ible.     Penthea.  a  noble  lady  of  Siiarta. 
L  ,  valbetrothed,  with  her  father's  approbation 

nivkdr, 


,\nJher  own  full  consent,  to  Or^ihis ;    but 


Prti.  Not  yri.  heaven 

I  do  bcftecch  thee  !  fir«t,  let  some  wild  \itv» 
Srorch,  noi  coiiHUino  il  !  may  ihc  licui  be  cluuisli'd 
With  dcsiffs  iiitiiiiie,  hut  h«jM;8  impotwiblc  ! 

1th.     Wrong'd  twul,  thy  priiyerH  aro  luard. 

/Vn.  H«ro,  lo,  I  breathe, 

.\  niisernble  creaiiirc,  led  lo  rum 
By  ail  untiatiiral  brother! 

Ith.  I  consume 

In  lati);uishiii|<  iitreclions  of  that  treapau; 
Yet  caiinul  die. 

I'm.  The  handmaid  lo  the  wnftcs, 

The  iiniroul)led  but  otcouniry  toil,  driiiks  sireaiin 
Wiih  lenpiriR  kids  and  with  the  bleaiinji  lamlm, 
And  so  njlnys  her  ihirst  perure  ;   whilst  1 
Queneh  my  hot  si^jihs  with  floeiinpi  of  my  tears. 

Ilh.     The  labourer  doth  eat  hi8  coarscHt  bread, 
Enrii'd  Willi  his  sweat,  and  lies  hiin  down  lo  sleep; 
Wnilst  every  bit  1  louch  turns  in  digestion 
To  gall,  as  bilier  as  Penthea's  curse. 
Put  me  to  any  penance  for  my  tyranny 
And  I  will  call  thco  merciful. 

/'rf».  Pray  kill  me! 

Rid  nie  from  living  wiih  a  jealous  husband, 
'I'hen  we  will  jdin  in  friendship,  be  again 
Brother  and  sister.— Kill  me,  pray  !  nay,  will  ye  f 

Ith.     Thou  shall  stand 
A  deity,  my  sister,  and  be  worshipp'd 
For  thy  resolved  martyrdom:  wrong'd  maids 
And  married  wives  shall  to  thy  haliow'd  shrine 
Oder  iheir  orisons,  and  sacrifice 
Pure  luriles,  crown'd  with  myrtle,  if  thy  pity 
Unto  a  yielding  brother's  pressure,  tend 
One  finger  but,  lo  ease  it. 

Pen.     Who  is  the  saint  you  serve  f     (daughter ! 

Ith.     Calaniha   'tis! — the  princess!    the   king  "a 
.^ole  heir  of  Sparta. — Me,  most  miserable! — 
Do  I  now  love  thee  I     For  my  injuries 
Revenge  thyself  wiih  bravery,  and  gossip 
.My  treasons  to  the  king's  ears  !     Do  ! — Calantha 
Knows  it  not  yet ;  nor  Prophilus,  my  nearest. 

Fen.     We  are  reconcil'd  ! — 
Alas,  sir,  being  children,  but  two  branches 
Of  one  stock,  'tis  not  111  we  should  divide : 
Have  comfort ;  vou  may  find  it. 

Ilh.  Yes,  in  thee; 

Only  in  thee,  Penthea  mine! 

Pen.  If  sorrows 

Have  not  too  much  duU'd  my  inlecied  bram, 
I'll  cheer  invention  for  an  acrive  strain. 

Ith.     Mad  man  !  why  have  I  wrong'd  a  maid  so 
excellent  T"  Vol.  i.  pp.  «73— 277. 


:ioie  )eilf  soliciftd,  at  the  s;iiTie  time,  by  Bass;ines. 
Kk»  p'son  of  more  splendid  fortune,  was,  after 
'*J«i  leiather's  death,  in  a  manner  compelled  by 
'"wUieibrolher  Ithodes  to  violate  her  first  en- 
|^J''*''|aament,  and  yield  him  her  hand.  In  this 
rted  alliance,  thoncrh  livinc:  a  life  of  un- 
she  was  harassed  and 
ided  by  tlie  perpetual  jealousies  of  her 
irthy  husband  ;  and  pined  away,  like  her 
ted  lover,  in  sad  and  hitter  recollections 
e  happy  pix)mise  of  their  youth.  Itho- 
in  the  meantime,  had  pursued  the  course 
mbition  with  a  bold  and  command  ins: 
,  and  had  obtained  the  highest  honours 
ikflii;l#'f  s  country;  but  too  much  occupied  in  the 
ifirtkiipuiiit  to  think  of  the  misery  to  which  he 
condemned  the  sister  who  was  left  to  his 
ction  :  At  last,  however,  in  the  midst  of 
roud  career,  he  is  seized  with  a  sudden 
Jason  for  Calantha,  the  heiress  of  the  sover- 
Hai;  and.  after  many  strugjrles,  is  reduced  to 
Wnkmlislijthe  intercession  and  advice  of  his  un- 
lajiy  sister,  who  was  much  in  favour  with 
'?™'^iJieiirincess.  The  followinsr  is  the  scene  in 
^  |Mivhp  he  makes  this  request ; — and  to  those 
.."jijljj^hj  have  learned,  from  the  preceding  jjas- 
,il;jj,iii;!aep.  ;he  lofty  and  unbendins  temper  of  the        We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  addiii 

surfiant,  and  the  rooted  and  bitter  ansrnish  |  a  part  of  the  scene  in  which  this  sad  ambas- 
)gm^{  pr  whom  he  addresses,  it  cannot  fail  to  |  sadress  acquits  herself  of  the  task  she  Jiad 
kW«»'ipjhr  one  of  the  most  striking  in  the  whole  j  undertaken.     There  is  a  tone  of  heart-struck 

sorrow  and  female  gentleness  and 
about  it  that  is  singularly  engaging,  an 
trasts  strangely  with  the  atrocious  indecen- 
cies w  ith  which  the  author  has  polluted  his 
paper  in  other  parts  of  the  same  play. — The 
princess  says, 

"  f'al.  Being  alone,  Penthea,  you  now  have 
The  opportunity  you  sought ;  and  might  [granted 
At  nil  times  have  commanded. 

Pen.  "V\»  a  benefit 

Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodness  even  indeaili  for: 
My  gl.Tss  of  life,  sweet  princess,  haih  few  niiiiuies 
Remaining  lo  run  down  ;  the  sands  are  spent ; 
For  by  an  inward  messenger  1  feel 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain. 

f'al    You  feed  io<j  much  your  melancholy. 

Pen.  (Jlorics 

Of  human  greatness  arc  but  pleasing  dreama 
And  shadows  soon  decaying.     ()n  the  stage 
Of  my  morialiiy,  my  youth  hath  acied 
.''ome  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  leni;ih 
By  varied  pleasures,  sweetened  in  ihe  muiiuxe, 
I  But  tragical  in  issue.     Beauty,  pomp, 


,j5or]iass  of  dramatic  composition. 

w'       "tk.    Sit  nearer,  sister,  to  rne  I — nearer  yet ! 
l';-eiii»W(iad  one  father;  i.i  one  womb  took  life;' 
^    ^V(,  brought  up  twins  together; — Yet  have  liv'd 

At  nance,  like  two  strangers!     I  could  wish 

i  li;  the  first  pillow,  whereon  I  was  cradled, 

Haij)roved  to  me  a  grave  ! 
-tKi^'    /{i.  You  had  been  happy  ! 

Th*  had  you  never  known  that  sin  of  life 
f^,|i(ii»Wtpj  blots  all  following  glories  with  a  vengeance, 

Foibrfeiting  ihe  last  will  of  die  dead, 
rtl'Uffrnl  whom  you  had  your  being. 
:»      ll  S.-id  Penthea! 

Th'  canst  not  be  too  cruel ;  mv  rash  spleen 

ilit  wiih  a  violent  hand  pluc'^'d  from  iny  bosom 
^  :•    A  Ije-blest  heart,  to  grind  it  into  dust — 
^  fii'if  or' hich  mine's  now  a-breaking. 

.^i        *[have  often  fancied  what  a  splendid  effect  Mrs. 

!'i'l('ns  and  John  Kemble  would  have  given  to  the 

■F"'   g  of  this  scene,  in   actual  representation  ! — 

wiiljhe  deep  throb  of  iheir  low  voices,  their  pa- 

.ihet)  pauses,  and  majestic  attitudes  and   move- 


purity 
id  con- 


POETRY. 


With  every  sensuality  our  giddiness 
Doth  frame  an  idol,  are  unconsiant  iriends. 
When  any  troubled  passion  makes  us  halt 
On  the  unguarded  castle  of  the  mind. 

Cal.  To  what  end 
Reach  all  these  moral  texts  ? 

Pen.  To  place  before  ye 

A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  life  •■, 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery. 

Cal.  Indeed 

You  have  no  little  cause  ;   yet  none  so  great 
As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 

Pen.  That  remedy 

Must  be  a  winding  sheet !  a  fold  of  lead. 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  of  the  earth. — 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  princess, 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal.  Speak ;  and  enjoy  it. 

Pen.  Vouchsafe,  then,  to  be  my  executrix. 
And  take  that  trouble  on  you  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  1  bequeath,  impartially; 
I  [lave  not  much  to  give  ;  the  pains  are  easy, 
Heav'n  will  reward  your  piety,  and  thank  it 
When  I  am  dead  ;  for  sure  I  must  not  live : 
I  hope  I  cannot." 

After  leaving  her  fame,  her  youth,.  &c.  in 
some  very  pretty  but  fantastical  verses,  she 
proceeds — 

"Pen.  'Tislongagone,  since  first  I  lost  my  heart; 
Long  have  I  livecTwithout  it ;  else  ior  certain 
I  should  have  given  that  too  ;  But  instead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 
By  service  bound,  and  by  affection  vow'd, 
I  do  bequeath  in  holiest  rites  of  love 
Mine  only  brother,  Ithocles. 

Cal.   What  say'st  thou? 

Pen.  I  must  leave  the  world 

To  revel  in  Elysium  ;  and  'tis  just 
To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here  ; 
Yet  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithocles  is  ignorant 
Of  this  pursuit. 

Cal.  You  have  forgot,  Penthea. 

How  still  I  have  a  lather. 

Pen.  But  remember 

I  am  a  sister,  though  to  me  this  brother 
Hath  been,  vou  know,  unkind  !  Oh,  most  unkind  !" 
Vol.  i.  pp.  291—293. 

There  are  passasre,*?  of  equal  power  and 
beauty  in  the  plays  called  "  Love's  Sacrifice." 
"The  Lover's  Melancholj'.'"  and  in  '-Fancies 
Chaste  and  Noble."  In  Perkin  Warbeck.  there 
is  a  more  uniform  and  sustained  elevation  of 
style.  But  we  pass  all  those  over,  to  give  our 
readers  a  word  or  two  from  "  The  Witch  of 
Edmonton,"  a  drama  founded  upon  the  recent 
e.xpcntion  of  a  miserable  old  woman  for  that 
fashionable  offence;  and  in  which  the  devil, 
in  the  shape  of  a  black  dog.  is  a  principal  per- 
former !  The  greater  part  of  the  play,  in  which 
Fold  was  assisted  by  Dekkar  and  Kowlev.  is 
of  course  utterly  absurd  and  contemptible — 
though  not  without  its  value  as  a  memorial 
of  the  strange  superstition  of  the  age  :  but  it 
contains  some  scenes  of  great  interest  and 
beauty,  though  written  in  a  lower  and  more 
familiar  tone  than  most  of  those  we  have  al- 
ready exhibited.  As  a  specimen  of  the  range 
of  the  author's  talents,  we  shall  present  our 
readers  with  one  of  these.  Frank  Thorney 
had  privately  married  a  woman  of  inferior 
rank ;  and  is  afterwards  strongly  uraed  by  his 
father,  and  his  own  inclination,  to  take  a 
second  wife,  in  the  per.son  of  a  rich  yeoman's 
daughter  whose  afTections  were  fixed  upon 


him.  After  taking  this  unjustifiable  step,  ha : 
is  naturally  troubled  with  certain  inward! 
compunctions,  which  manifest  themselves  in  I 
his  exterior,  and  excite  the  apprehensions  of ' 
his  innocent  bride.  It  is  her  dialogue  with 
him  that  we  are  now  to  extract ;  and  we  thiiik 
the  picture  that  it  affords  of  unassuming  inno- 
cence and  singleness  of  heart,  is  drawn  with 
great  truth,  and  even  elegance.  She  be^i: . 
with  asking  him  why  he  changes  countenaiii 
so  suddenly.     He  answers — 

"Who,  I?    For  nothin: 

Sus.  Dear,  say  not  so  :  a  spirit  of  your  consiaiM 
Cannot  endure  this  change  for  nothing.    I've  o:- 

serv'd 
Strange  variations  in  you. 

Frank.  In  me  ? 

Sus.  In  you,  sir. 

Awake,  you  seem  to  dream,  and  in  your  sleep 
You  utter  sudden  and  distracted  accents,       [bare 
Like  one  at  enmity  with  peace.     Dear' loving  hu; 
If  I  may  dare  to  challenge  any  interest 
In  you,  give  me  thee  fully  1  you  may  trust 
My  breast  as  safely  as  your  own. 

Fra7ik.  With  what? 

You  half  amaze  me  ;  pr'ythee — 

Sus.  Come,  you  shall  no: 

Indeed  you  shall  not  shut  me  from  partaking 
The  least  dislike  that  grieves  you.    I'm  all  your.- 

Frank.  And  I  all  thine. 

Sus.  You  are  not ;  if  you  ket; 

The  least  grief  from  me :  but  I  know  the  cause ; 
It  grows  from  me. 

Frank.  From  you  ? 

Sus.  From  some  distasi 

In  me  or  my  behaviour:  you're  not  kind 
In  the  concealment.     'Las,  sir,  I  am  young, 
Silly  and  plain  ;  more  strange  to  those  contents 
A  wife  should  offer.     Say  but  in  what  I  fail, 
I'll  study  satisfaction. 

Frank.  Come;  in  nothing. 

Sus.  I  know  I  do:  knew  I  as  well  in  what, 
You  should  not  long  be  sullen.     Pr'ythee,  lore, 
If  I  have  been  immodest  or  too  bold, 
Speak't  in  a  frown  ;  if  peevishly  too  nice, 
Shew't  in  a  smile.     Thy  liking  is  a  glass 
By  which  I'll  habit  my  behaviour. 

Frank.  Wherefore 

Dost  weep  now  ? 

Sus.  You,  sweet,  have  the  power 

To  make  me  passionate  as  an  April  day. 
Now  smile,  then  weep  ;  now  pale,  then  crimson  ret 
You  are  the  powerful  moon  of  my  blood's  sea, 
To  make  it  ebb  or  flow  into  my  face. 
As  your  looks  change.  \ 

Frank.  Change  thy  conceit,  I  pr'ythee 

Thou'rt  all  perfection  :  Diana  herself 
Swells  in  thy  thoughts  and  moderates  thy  beauty 
Within  thy  clear  eye  amorous  Cupid  sits  '■ 

Feathering  love-shafts,  whose  golden  heads  hediij 
In  thy  chaste  breast. 

Sus.  Come,  come:  the.ee  golden  strings  of  flatle'i 
Shall  not  tie  up  my  speech,  sir;  I  must  know  | 
The  ground  of  your  disturbance. 

Frank.  Then  look  Aff: 

For  here,  here  is  the  fen  in  which  this  hydrs        ! 
Of  discontent  grows  rank.  , 

Sus.  Heaven  shield  it !    Wher'i 

Frank.  In  mine  own  bosom  !  here  the  cause  Hj 
root ; 
The  poisoned  leeches  twist  about  my  heart,        | 
And  will,  I  hope,  confound  me.  \ 

Sus.  You  speak  riddles.' , 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  437-+; 

The  unfortunate  bigamist  afterwards  ;I 
solves  to  desert  this  innocent  creature;  b' 
in  the  act  of  their  parting,  is  moved  by  t 
devil;  who  rubs  against  him  in  the  shape  o 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SH.yCESPEARE. 


309 


do!  to  murder  her.  We  are  tempted  to 
gh  the  greater  part  of  this  scene,  just  to 
shiy  how  much  beauty  of  diction  and  natu- 
ral expression  of  character  may  be  com- 
bud  with  the  most  revohini,'  and  degrading 
abirdities.   The  unhappy  bridegroom  says — 

'  vVhy   would  you  delay  ?    we  have   no   other 
I       business 
•^**  Noi,  but  to  part.  [limc  ? 

i:s.  And  will  not  that,  sweet-heart,  ask  a  long 
,  J    Me  inks  it  is  the  hardest  piece  of  work 
']'h;u'er  I  took  in  hand. 

hid:  Fie,  fie  !  why  look,       j 

I'll  lake  it  plain  and  easy  to  you.     Farewell. 

[Kisses  her. 
1$?.  Ah,  Mas  !  I'm  not  half  perfect  in  it  yet.        | 
,    1  niit  have  it  thus  read  an  hundred  limes. 
Pra  you  take  some  pains,  I  confess  my  dulness. 
JFr/iA-.  Come  !  again  and  again,  farewell.  [Kisses 
her.]      Yet  wilt  return  ? 
Ail  lestions  of  my  journey,  my  stay,  employment, 
Ancevisitation,  fully  I  have  answered  all. 
..  Thf'a  nothing  now  behind  but — 

S  .  But  this  request — 

Will     jFjnA-.  What  is't  ?  [more, 

S .  That  I  may  bring  you  thro'  one  pasture 
lew  Up  I  yon  knot  of  trees  :  amons;st  those  shadows 
aH'sI'II  mish  from  you;  they  shall  leach  me  how. 
i«j.  Ill     F\nk.  VVhy  'tis  granted  :  come,  walk  then. 

S..  Nay,  not  too  fast: 

i.-([iol;iThe|say,  slow  things  have  best  perfection; 
i:ius(TI>e|entle  show'r  wets  to  fertility, 

Thepurlish  storm  makes  mischief  with  his  bounty. 
>  F^nk.  Now,  your  request 

Pr^gls  Oij".  yet  will  you  leave  me  ? 
•>'„:tr;     St-  What?  so  churlishly  ! 

You  make  me  stay  for  ever, 
.  Rati;  than  part  with  such  a  sound  from  you. 
,        Fiik.  Why,  you  almost  anger  me. — 'Pray  you 
You  ive  no  company,  and 'tis  very  early  ;  [begone. 
,  Pj^Somhurt  may  beiide  you  homewards. 
mti'cu,'^';  Tush!  I  fear  none  : 

,  PjiToJ'jve  you  isthe  greatest  I  can  suffer. 


I  Mi 


F^^k.  So  !  I  shall  have  more  trouble." 


*'2    H|e  the  dog  rabs  against  him ;  and,  after 
!; '  •  6omi|more  talk,  he  stabs  her ! 


Why  then  I  thank  you  ; 


.You  jive  done  lovingly,  leaving  yourself, 
'♦j'YLThatiou  would  thus  bestow  me  on  another. 


Thou  art  my  husband,  Death  !  I  embrace  theo 
With  all  the  love  I  have.     Forget  the  stain 
Of  my  unwitting  sin:  and  then  I  come 
A  crystal  virgin  to  thee,     ^ly  soul's  purity 
Shall,  with  bold  wings,  ascend  the  doors  of  mercy  ; 
For  innocence  is  ever  her  companion. 
Fnuik.  Not  yet  mortal  ?    I  would  not  linger  you, 

,  Or  leave  you  a  tongue  to  blub.       [Sinhs  her  Ofiain. 

1      Sus.  Now  heaven  reward  you  ne'er  the  worse  for 
I  did  not  think  that  death  had  been  so  sweet,    [me  ! 
Nor  I  so  apt  to  love  him.     I  could  ne'er  die  belter, 
Had  I  stay'd  forty  years  for  preparation: 
For  I'm  in  charity  with  all  the  world. 

;  Let  me  for  once  be  thine  example,  heaven  ; 

I  Do  to  this  man  as  I,  forgive  him  freely, 

I  And  may  he  better  die,  and  sweeter  live.     [Dies.^' 
Vol.  ii.  pp.  ■l.')2— 4 1."). 

I  We  cainiot  afford  any  more  space  for  Mr. 
I  Ford  ;  and  what  we  have  stiiil,  and  what  we 
have  shown  of  him,  will  probably  be  thought 
enough,  both  by  those  who  are  disixjsed  to 
scoff,  and  those  who  are  inclined  to  admire. 
It  is  but  fair,  however,  to  intimate,  that  a 
thorough  perusal  of  his  works  will  afford  more 
e.xercise  to  the  former  disposition  than  to  the 
latter.  His  faults  are  glaring  and  abundant ; 
but  we  have  not  thought  it  neces.'yiry  to  pro- 
duce any  specimens  of  them,  bi;eause  they 
are  exactly  the  sort  of  faults  which  every  one 
acquainted  with  the  drama  of  that  age  reckons 
upon  finding.  No  body  tlonbts  of  the  exist- 
ence of  such  faults  :  But  there  are  many  who 
doubt  of  the  existence  of  any  counterbalanc- 
ing beauties ;  ami  therefore  it  seemed  worth 
while  to  say  a  word  or  two  in  their  ex])lana- 
tion.  There  is  a  great  treasure  of  poetry,  we 
think,  still  to  be  brought  to  light  in  the  neglect- 
ed writers  of  the  age  to  which  this  author  be- 
longs; and  poetry  of  a  kiiul  which,  if  jnirified 
and  improved,  as  the  happier  specimens  show 
that  it  is  capable  of  being,  would  be  far  more 
delightful  to  the  generality  of  English  readers 
thairany  other  species  of  poetry.  We  shall 
readily  be  excused  for  our  tediousness  by  those 
who  are  of  this  opinion  ;  and  should  not  have 
been  forgiven,  even  if  we  had  not  been  tedious, 
by  those  who  look  upon  it  as  a  heresy. 


I  (::iugu5t,  1817.) 

C holders  of  Shakespeare- s  Plays.    By  William  Hazlitt.    8vo.  pp.352.    London:   1817.* 


^iit 


V]-,  is  not  a  book  of  black-letter  learning, 
!i.  )rical  elucidation  : — neither  is  it  a  me- 
.ili ;,ical  dissertation,  full  of  wise  perplexi- 
ea   id  elaborate  reconcilements.     It  is,  in 


J!,    •  Ilfiay  be  thought   that  enough  had  been  said 
^' *l>f  ouiarly  dramatists,  in  the  immediately  preced 


0^ 


ng  ar;-le;  and  it  probably  is  so.  But  I  could  not 
resist  e  temptation  of  thus  renewing,  in  my  own 
lame  hat  vow  of  allegiance,  which  1  had  so  often 
akenuionymously,  to  the  only  true  and  lawful 
v'ing  "  our  English  Poetry  I  and  now  venture, 
hereie,  fondly  to  replace  this  slight  and  perish- 
ible  v?ath  on  his  august  and  undecaying  shrine  : 
vith  I  farther  apology  than  that  it  presumes  to 
"it  ttention  but  to  one,  and  that,  as  I  think,  a 
iipjiitively  neglected,  aspect  of  his  universal 


I  truth,  rather  an  encomium  on  Shiikespeare. 
I  than  a  commentary  or  crititjue  on  him — and 
j  is  written,  more  to  show  extraordinary  love, 
I  than  extraordinary  knowledge  of  his  produc- 
;  tions.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  very  pleasing 
'  book — and,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  a  book 
;  of  very  considerable  originality  and  genius. 
The  author  is  not  merely  an  admirer  of  our 
great  dramatist,  but  an  Idolater  of  him  ;  and 
openly  professes  his  idolatry.  We  have  our- 
selves too  great  a  leaning  to  the  sJime  super- 
stition, to  blame  him  very  much  for  his  error: 
and  though  we  think,  of  course,  that  our  own 
admiration  is,  on  the  whole,  more  disiriminat- 
ing  and  judiciou.s.  there  are  not  many  points 
,  on  which,  especially  after  reading  his  eloquent 


310 


POETRY. 


exposition  of  them,  we  should  be  much  in- 
clined to  disagree  with  him. 

The  book,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  is 
written  less  to  tell  the  reader  what  Mr.  H.  knows 
about  Shakespeare  or  his  writings,  than  to 
explain  to  them  what  he  feels  about  them — 
and  why  he  feels  so — and  thinks  that  all  who 
profess  to  love  poetry  should  feel  so  likewise. 
What  vve  chiefly  look  for  in  such  a  work,  ac- 
cordingly, is  a  fine  sense  of  the  beauties  of 
the  author,  and  an  eloquent  exposition  of 
them  ;  and  all  this,  and  more,  we  think,  may 
be  found  in  the  volume  before  us.  There  is 
nothing  niggardly  in  Mr.  H.'s  praises,  and 
nothing  affected  in  his  raptures.  He  seems 
animated  throughout  with  a  full  and  hearty 
sympathy  with  the  delight  which  his  author 
should  inspire,  and  pours  himself  gladly  out 
in  e.xplanation  of  it,  with  a  fluency  and  ardour, 
obviously  much  more  akin  to  enthusiasm  than 
affectation.  He  seems  pretty  generally,  in- 
deed, in  a  state  of  happy  intoxication — and 
has  borrowed  from  his  great  original,  not  in- 
deed the  force  or  brilliancy  of  his  fancy,  but 
something  of  its  playfulness,  and  a  large  share 
of  his  apparent  joyousnessand  self-indulgence 
in  its  exercise.  It  is  evidently  a  great  plea- 
sure to  him  to  be  fully  possessed  with  the 
beauties  of  his  author,  and  to  follow  the  im- 
pulse of  his  unrestrained  eagerness  to  impress 
them  upon  his  readers. 

When  we  have  said  that  his  observations 
are  generally  right,  we  have  said,  in  sub- 
stance, that  they  are  not  generally  original ; 
for  the  beauties  of  Shakespeare  are  not  of  so 
dim  or  equivocal  a  nature  as  to  be  visible  ordy 
to  learned  eyes — and  undoubtedly  his  finest 
passages  are  those  which  please  all  classes  of 
readers,  and  are  admired  for  the  same  quali- 
ties by  judges  from  every  school  of  criticism. 
Even  with  regard  to  those  passages,  however, 
a  skilful  commentator  will  find  something 
worth  hearing  to  tell.  Many  persons  are  very 
sensible  of  the  efiect  of  fine  poetry  on  their 
feelings,  who  do  not  well  know  how  to  refer 
these  feelings  to  their  causes  ;  and  it  is  always 
a  delightful  thing  to  be  made  to  see  clearly 
the  sources  from  which  our  delight  has  pro- 
ceeded— and  to  trace  back  the  mingled  stream 
that  has  flowed  upon  our  hearts,  to  the  remo- 
ter fountains  from  which  it  has  been  gathered. 
And  when  this  is  done  with  warmth  as  well 
as  precision,  and  embodied  in  an  eloquent  de- 
scription of  the  beauty  which  is  explained,  it 
forms  one  of  the  most  attractive,  and  not  the 
least  instructive,  of  literary  exercises.  In  all 
works  of  merit,  however,  and  especially  in  all 
works  of  original  genius,  there  are  a  thousand 
retiring  and  less  obtrusive  graces,  which  es- 
cape hasty  and  superficial  observers,  and  ordy 
give  out  their  beauties  to  fond  and  patient 
contemplation; — a  thousand  slight  and  har- 
monising touches,  the  merit  and  the  effect  of 
which  are  equally  imperceptible  to  vulgar 
eyes ;  and  a  thousand  indications  of  the  contin- 
ual presence  of  that  poetical  spirit,  which  can 
only  be  recognised  by  those  who  are  in  some 
measure  under  its  influence,  or  have  prepared 
themselves  to  receive  it,  by  worshipping 
meekly  at  the  shrines  which  it  inhabits. 


In  the  exposition  of  these,  there  is  iw 
enough  for  originality, — and  more  room  th 
Mr.  H.  has  yet  filled.     In  many  points,  ho 
ever,  he  has  acquitted  himself  excellently : 
partly  in   the  development  of   the  princi> 
characters  with  which  Shakespeare  has  ft 
pled  the  fancies  of  all  English  reader*— t 
principally,  we  think,  in  the  delicate  sei; 
bility  with   which   he   has   traced,  and  l( 
natural  eloquence  with  which  he  has  point 
out  that  fond  familiarity  with  beautiful  for ! 
and  images — that  eternal  recurrence  to  yill 
is  sweet  or  majestic  in  the  simple  aspectsi! 
nature — that   indestructible   love   of  flowij 
and  odours,  and  dews  and  clear  waters,  ai 
soft   airs   and    sounds,  and  bright  skies,  »l 
woodland  solitudes,  and   moonlight  bowel 
which  are  the  Material  elements  of  Poetry,' 
and  that  fine  sense  of  their  undefinable  rt-t 
tion  to  mental  emotion,  which  is  its  esse>i 
and  vivifying  Soul — and  which,  in  the  mi 
of   Shakespeare's  most   busy   and  atroci 
scenes,  falls  like  gleams  of  sunshine  on  ro 
and  ruins — contrasting  with  all  that  is  ruj; 
and  repulsive,  and  reminding  us  of  the  v\ 
ence  of  purer  and  brighter  elements! — wi 
HE  ALONE  has  pourcd  out  from  the  rick 
of  his  own  mind,  without  efibrt  or  restra:! 
and  contrived  to  intermingle  with  the  plaj' 
all  the  passions,  and  the  vulgar  course  of  j 
world's  afiairs,  without  deserting  for  an  ins  j 
the  proper  business  of  the  scene,  or  appen 
to  pause  or  digress,  from  the  love  of  ornai 
or  need  of  repose  ! — He  alone,  who,  v 
the  object   requires   it,  is   always  keen 
worldly  and  practical — and  who  yet,  wii 
changing  his   hand,  or   stopping  his  coi 
scatters  around   him,  as   he  goes,  all  S(" 
and  shapes  of  sweetness — and  conjure 
landscapes  of  immortal  fragrance  and  li 
ness,  and  peoples  them  with  Spirits  of  ■•  j 
rious   aspect  and  attractive  grace — and  'i ' 
thousand  times  more  full  of  fancy  and 
gery,  and  splendour,  than  those  who,  in 
suit  of  such  enchantments,  have  shrunk    • 
from  the  delineation  of  character  or  pas 
and  declined  the  discussion  of  human  il  • 
and  cares.    More  full  of  wisdom  and  rid  ' 
and  sagacity,  than  all  the  moralists  an 
tirists   that   ever   existed — he   is  more 
airy,  and  inventive,  and  more  pathetic  >i 
fantastic,  than  all  the  poets  of  all  regions  jd 
ages  of  the  world : — and   has  all  those  ^ 
ments  so  happily  mi.xed  up  in  him,  and  1  f 
his  high  faculties  so   temperately,  iha  if 
most  severe  reader  cannot  complain  of  IB 
for  want  of  strength  or  of  reason — nor  the  i* 
sensitive  for  defect  of  ornament  or  ingeif 
Every  thing  in  him  is  in  unmeasured  alj^- 
ance,  and  unequalled  perfection — but  f|fj 
thing  so  balanced  and  kept  in  subordin  "Hi 
as  not  to  jostle  or  disturb  or   take  the  j<* 
of  another.    The  most  exquisite  poetica!*!' 
ceptions,  imager,  and  descriptions,  are  !« 
with  such  brevit},  and  introduced  with:* 
skill,  as  merely  to  adorn,  without  loadir  * 
sense  they  accompany.     Althoujih  hisjJ* 
are   purple  and    perfumed,  and  his  pr'  » 
beaten  gold,  they  waft  him  on  his  voyag'i'?' 
less,  but  more  rapidly  and  directly  tl  " 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


811 


>  alnjil 

Mif 

■jMBiIh 

injiaiRi 

tie  jjiC' 
illofianT 

(iaiacim 
Kocofli! 
[lisiouB 

•  jpijIiJi 
wpf«* 


tl  y  had  been  composed  of  baser  materials. 
A  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Nature  her- 
si".  are  throwti  out  together;  and,  instead  of 
ii  Mt'eringwith,  support  and  recommend  each 
0  er.  His  Howers  are  not  tied  up  in  garlands. 
,n  his  fruits  crushed  into  baskets — but  spring 
li  ng  from  the  soil,  in  all  the  dew  ami  fresh- 
n  s  of  youth  1  while  the  graceful  foliage  in 
wich  they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches,  the 
n  i:h  and  vigorous  stem,  and  the  wide-spread- 
ii  roots  on  which  they  depend,  are  present 
a  iir  with  them,  and  share,  in  their  places, 
tl  equal  care  of  their  Creator. 

>Vhat  other  poet  has  put  all  the  charm  of  a 
ftonlight  landscape  into  a  single  line? — and 
tljt  by  an  image  so  true  to  nature,  and  so 
si  pie.  as  to  seem  obvious  to  the  most  com- 
nn  observation  ? — 
"ee  how  the  Moonlight  sleeps  on  yonder  bank  !" 

Vio  else  has  expressed,  in  three  lines,  all 
tit  is  picturesque  and  lovely  in  a  Summer's 
rwnl — lirst  settiiur  before  our  eyes,  with 
n^iriail  precision,  the  visible  appearances  of 
tl  infant  light,  and  then,  by  one  graceful 
a ;  glorious  image,  pouring  on  our  souls  all 
tl  freshness,  cheerfuhiess,  and  sublimity  of 
nirning  morning  ? — 

:  "  See.  love  !   what  envious  streaks 

Djiace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  East  I 
Nht's  eaiidles''  are  burnt  out, — and  jocund  Day 
S  ids  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops'." 

Viiere  shall  we  tind  sweet  sounds  and  odours 
8(iu.\uriously  blended  and  illustrated,  as  in 
tlse  few  words  of  sweetness  and  melody, 
were  the  author  says  of  soft  music — 

0  it  came  o'er  my  ear,  like  the  sweet  South 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odour!" 

T  s  is  still  finer,  we  think,  than  the  noble 
sjech  on  Music  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice, 
a;  only  to  be  compared  with  the  enchant- 
niits  of  Prospero"s  island:  where  all  the 
e  cts  of  sweet  sounds  are  expressed  in  mi-  j 
nulous  numbers,  and  traced  in  their  opera- 
tii  on  all  the  gradations  of  being,  from  the  j 
ducate  Arial  to  the  brutish  Caliban,  who, 
Siage  as  he  is,  is  still  touched  with  those 
silernatural  harmonies;  and  thus  exhorts  his 
l(k  poetical  a.ssociates — 

e  not  afraid,  the  isle  is  full  of  noi.ses, 
junds,  and  sweet  airs,   that  give  delight  and 
hurt  not. 


If  the  advocates  for  the  grand  style  object  to 

expression,  we  shall  not  slop  to  defend  it :    But 

t(  8,  it  seems  equally  beautiful,  as  it  is  obvious  and  j 

I  jral,  to  n  person  coming  out  of  a  lighted  chamber  j 

the  pale  dawn.  The  word  candle,  we  admit, 
iflither  homely  in  modern  language,  while  lamp  is 
sincicnily  dignified  for  poetry.  The  moon  hangs 
hi  silver  lamp  on  high,  in  every  echofjlboy's  ropy 
n/ersf's;  and  she  could  not  be  called  the  candip 
ii'icaven  without  manifeot  absurdity.  .Such  are 
til  caprices  of  usage.  Yet  we  like  the  passage 
b  ire  us  much  better  as  ii  is.  than  if  the  candles 
we  clianued  into  lamps.  If  we  should  read, 
""be  lamps  of  heaven  are  quenched,"  or  "  wax 
di,"  ii  appears  to  us  that  the  whole  charm  "I 
tl  expression  would  be  lost :  asoiir  fancies  would 
n(longer  be  recalled  to  the  privacy  of  that  dim- 
lilned  chamber  which  the  lovers  were  so  reluct- 
t^y  leaving. 


Sometimes  n  thousand  twanging  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears,  and  sometimes  voices, 
That  if  I  then  had  waked  after  a  lon^  slei  p, 
Would  make  me  siei'p  again." 

Observe,  ttx),  that  this  and  the  oilier  jMieti- 
cal  sjX'eches  oi"  this  incarnate  dcinoii,  arc  not 
mere  ornaments  of  the  jxiet's  fancy,  but  ex- 
plain his  character,  and  describe  his  situalioii 
inoie  briedy  and  elicctually,  than  any  other 
words  could  have  done.  In  tins  play,  indeeil, 
and  in  the  Midsiimnier-Nighl's  Dream,  all 
Eden  is  unloiked  before  u.s,  and  the  wholet 
trea.sury  of  natnial  and  supernatural  beauty 
ix)ured  out  profu.sely,  to  the  delight  of  all  our 
faculties.  We  dare  not  trust  ourselves  with 
ijuotations  ;  but  we  refer  to  those  play.s  gen- 
erallv — to  the  forest  scenes  in  As  Vou  Like 
It — llie  rustic  parts  of  the  Winter's  Tale — 
several  entire  sceiu's  in  Cymbeline,  and  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet — and  many  passages  in  all 
the  other  plays — ;is  illustrating  this  love  of 
nature  and  natural  beauty  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking — the  power  it  had  over  the 
jioet.and  the  power  it  imjiarted  to  him.  Who 
else  woulil  have  thought,  on  the  very  thres- 
hold of  treason  and  midnight  murder,  of 
bringing  in  so  sweet  and  rural  an  ima^e  as 
this,  at  the  portal  of  that  blood-stained  castle 
of  Macbeth  ? 

"  This  ffuesi  of  summer. 
The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve 
By  his  loved  masonry  that  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here.     No  juiiing  fiieze. 
Buttress,  nor  coijzne  of  vaniaiie,  but  this  bird 
Has  made  his  pendent  bed,  and  procreant  cradle." 

Nor  is  this  brought  in  for  the  sake  of  an 
elaboiate  contrast  between  the  peaceful  inno- 
cence of  this  extt;rior,  and  the  guilt  and  hor- 
rors that  are  to  be  enacted  within.  There  is 
no  hint  of  any  such  suggestion — but  it  is  set 
down  from  the  pure  love  of  nature  and  re- 
ality— because  the  kindled  mind  of  the  poet 
brought  the  whole  scene  before  his  eyes, 
and  he  painted  all  that  he  saw  in  his  vision. 
The  s:ime  ta.ste  predominate.s  in  that  em- 
phatic exhortation  to  evil,  where  Lady  Mac- 
beth says, 

"  Look  like  the  innocent  flower, 

But  be  the  serpent  under  it." 

And  in  that  proud  boast  of  the  bloody 
Richard — 

"But  I  was  liorn  so  liii»h  : 
Our  aery  btiildeih  in  the  cedar's  top. 
And  dallies  with  the  wind,  and  scorns  the  sun  !" 

The  same  splendour  of  natural  imagery, 
bronirht  simply  and  directly  to  bear  ujx)!!  stern 
ami  repulsive  passions,  is  to  be  found  in  the 
cynic  rebukes  of  Apemantus  to  Timon. 

"  Will  these  moist  trees 
That  have  out-liv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  poini'st  out  7  will  the  cold 

brook, 
Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste 
To  cure  thine  oer-night's  surfeit  I" 

No  one  but  Shakespeare  would  have  thoutrht 
of  putting  this  noble  picture  into  the  launtinp 
address  of  a  .snappish  misiinthrope — any  more 
than  the  following  into  the  mouth  of  a  mer- 
cenary murderer. 


312 


POETRY. 


Their  lips  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk, 

And  in  their  stuttmer  beauty  kissed  each  other  !" 

Or  this  delicious  description  of  concealed  love, 
mto  that  of  a  regretful  and  moralizing  parent. 

"  But  he,  his  own  affeciions  Counsellor, 
Is  to  hiiTiselfso  secret  and  so  close, 
As  is  the  bud  bit  wiih  an  envious  worm 
Ere  he  can  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun." 

And  yet  all  these  are  so  far  from  being  un- 
natural, that  they  are  no  sooner  put  where 
they  are,  than  we  feel  at  once  their  beauty 
and  their  effect :  and  acknowledge  our  obli- 
gations to  that  exuberant  genius  which  alone 
could  thus  throw  out  graces  and  atractions 
where  there  seemed  to  be  neither  room  nor 
call  for  them.  In  the  same  spirit  of  prodi- 
gality he  puts  this  rapturous  and  passionate 
exaltation  of  the  beauty  of  Imogen,  into  the 
mouth  of  one  who  is  not  even  a  lover. 

— "  It  is  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus  !  the  flame  o'  th'  taper 
Bows  towards  her  !  and  would  under-peep  her  lids 
To  see  th'  enclosed  liglits,  now  canopied 
Under  the  windows,  white  and  azure,  laced 
With  blue  of  Heaven's  own  tinct  ! — on  her  left 

breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
r  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip  !" 

But  we  must  break  at  once  away  from  these 
manifold  enchantments — and  recollect  that 
our  business  is  with  Mr.  Hazlitt,  and  not  with 
the  great  and  gifted  author  on  whom  he  is 
employed  :  And,  to  avoid  the  danger  of  any 
further  preface,  we  shall  now  let  him  speak 
a  little  for  himself.  In  his  remarks  on  Cym- 
beline,  which  is  the  first  play  in  his  arrange- 
ment, he  takes  occasion  to  make  the  follow- 
ing olDservations  on  the  female  characters  of 
his  author. 

"  It  is  the  peculiar  characteristic  of  Shakespeare's 
heroines,  that  they  seem  to  exist  only  in  their  at- 
tachment to  others.  They  are  pure  abstractions  of 
the  affections.  We  think  as  little  of  their  persons 
as  they  do  themselves  ;  because  we  are  let  into  the 
secrets  of  their  hearts,  which  are  more  important. 
We  are  too  much  interested  in  their  affairs  to  stop 
to  look  at  their  faces,  except  by  stealth  and  at  inter- 
vals. No  one  ever  hit  the  true  perfection  of  the 
female  character,  the  sense  of  weakness  leaning 
on  the  strength  of  its  affections  for  support,  so  well 
as  Shakespeare — no  one  ever  so  well  painted  natu- 
ral tenderness  free  from  affectation  and  disguise — 
no  one  else  ever  so  well  showed  how  delicacy  and 
timidity,  when  driven  to  extremity,  grow  romantic 
and  extravagant :  For  the  romance  of  his  heroines 
(in  which  they  abound)  is  only  an  excess  of  the 
habitual  prejudices  of  their  sex  ;  scrupulous  of  being 
false  to  their  vows  or  truant  to  their  atTections,  and 
taught  by  the  force  of  feeling  when  to  forego  the 
forms  of  propriety  for  the  essence  of  it.  His  women 
were  in  this  respect  exquisite  logicians  ;  for  there  is 
noihing  so  logical  as  passion.  Gibber,  in  speaking 
of  the  early  English  stage,  accounts  for  the  want 
of  prominence  and  theatrical  display  in  Shake- 
speare's female  characters,  from  the  circumstance, 
that  women  in  those  days  were  not  allowed  to  play 
the  parts  of  women,  which  made  it  necessary  to 
keep  them  a  good  deal  in  the  back  around.  Does 
not  this  state  of  manners  itself,  which  prevented 
their  exhibiting  themselves  in  public,  and  confined 
thorn  to  the  relations  and  charities  of  domestic  life, 
afford  a  truer  explanation  of  the  matter  ?  His  wo- 
men are  certainly  very  unlike  stage  heroines." — 
pp.3,  4. 


His  remarks  on  Macbeth  are  of  a  higji 
and  bolder  character.  After  noticing  i 
wavering  and  perplexity  of  Macbeth's  reso 
tion,  '-driven  on,  as  it  were,  by  the  violet 
of  his  Fate,  and  staggering  under  the  weij', 
of  his  own  purposes,"  he  strikingly  observi, 

"  This  part  of  his  character  is  admirably  set  ' 
by  being  brought  in  coiineciion  wiili  thai  of  L; 
Macbeth,  whose  obdurate  strength  of  will  and  n 
culine  firmness  give  her  the  ascendancy  over 
husband's  faltering  virtue.  She  at  once  seizes 
the  opportunity  that  ofll-is  for  the  accomplishm 
of  their  wished-for  greatness;  and  never  flincl 
from  her  object  till  all  is  over.  The  magnitude' 
her  resolution  almost  covers  the  m;ignitude  of  j 
guilt.  She  is  a  great  bad  woman,  whom  we  hi| 
but  whom  we  fear  more  than  we  hate.  Shed 
not  excite  our  loathing  and  abhorrence  like  Re, 
and  Gonnerill.  She  is  only  wicked  lo  gain  agi 
end ;  and  is  perhaps  more  distinguisht'd  by 
commanding  presence  oi  mind  and  inexorable  s 
will,  which  do  not  suffer  her  to  be  diverted  fror 
bad  purpose,  wheti  once  formed,  by  weak  : 
womanly  regrets,  than  by  the  hardness  of  her  hi 
or  want  of  natural  affections." — pp.  18,  19. 

But  the  best  part  perhaps  of  this  critiq 
is  the  comparison  of  the  IMacbeth  with 
Richard  of  the  same  author. 

"  The  leading  features  in  the  character  of  M 
beth  are  striking  enough,  and  they  forni  what  i^ 
be  thought  at  first  only  a  bold,  rude,  Gothic  ouil 
By  comparing  it  with  other  characters  of  the  s; 
author  we  shall  perceive  the  absolute  truth  ' 
identity  which  is  observed  in  the  midst  of  thegi 
whirl  and  rapid  career  of  events.  Thus  he  i  i 
distinct  a  being  from  Richard  III.  as  it  is  poss 
to  imagine,  though  these  two  characters  in  conn 
hands,  and  indeed  in  the  hands  ol  any  other  p 
would  have  been  a  repetiiion  of  the  same  gen 
idea,  more  or  less  exaggerated.  For  both 
tyrants,  usurpers,  murderers, — both  aspiring 
ambitious, — both  courageous,  cruel,  treachen 
But  Richard  is  cruel  from  nature  and  constitui 
Macbeth  becomes  so  froin  accidental  circtimstair 
Richard  is  from  his  birth  deformed  in  body  t 
mind,  and  naturally  incapable  of  good.  Maet, 
is  full  of  "  the  milk  of  human  kindiies.«,"  is  Ira 
sociable,  generous.  He  is  tempted  to  the  conn 
sion  of  guilt  by  golden  opportunities,  by  the  iiisi 
tions  of  his  wife,  and  by  prophetic  warnii 
'  Fate  and  metaphysical  aid'  conspire  against  i 
virtue  and  his  loyalty.  Richard  on  the  conii' 
needs  no  prompter  ;  but  wades  through  a  serie![ 
crimes  to  the  height  of  his  ambition,  from  the  ,■ 
governable  violence  of  his  temper  and  a  reck  » 
love  of  mischief.  He  is  never  gay  but  in  the  p  !• 
pect  or  in  the  success  of  his  villanies  :  Macbetll 
full  of  horror  at  the  thoughts  of  the  murder! 
Duncan,  which  he  is  with  difficulty  prevailed  o,) 
commit ;  and  of  remorse  alter  its  ptrpetrat  . 
Richard  has  no  mixture  of  common  Ininianii}  i 
his  composition,  no  regard  to  kindred  or  po.iieiit ; 
he  owns  no  fellowship  with  others  ;  he  is  '  him 
alone.'  Macbeth  is  not  destitute  of  h'elinL'S| 
sympathy,  is  accessible  to  pity,  is  even  mad<  I 
some  measure  the  dupe  of  his  uxoriou.^iiess;  rail 
the  loss  of  friends,  of  the  cordial  love  ol  his  foil  '• 
ers,  and  of  his  good  name,  among  the  causes  wijl 
have  made  him  weary  of  life;  and  regrets  tha  > 
has  ever  seized  the  Crown  by  unjust  means,  f\i 
he  cannot  transmit  it  to  his  posterity.  There  {J 
other  decisive  differences  inherent  in  the  two  cli- 
acters.  Ricluird  may  be  regarded  as  a  man  of'( 
world,  a  plotting  hardened  knave,  wholly  reg  ;• 
less  of  everything  but  his  own  ends,  and  the  mi  » 
to  secure  them. — Not  so  Macbeth.  The  supe  • 
tions  of  the  age,  the  rude  state  of  society,  8 
local  scenery  and  customs,  all  give  a  wildneas  i 
imaginary  grandeur  lo  his  character.    From! 


HAZLITTS  CHARACTKKS  (»F  SIIAKKSI'EARE. 


313 


lIicM;. 


■' Uf^riess  of  (he  events  iliiit  surround  him,  he  i» 
t  aiiiaz.'mi'iu  and  fear;  and  stands  in  douht 
on  the   world  of  reahty   and  the    world  of 
lie  sees  sights  not  shown  to  mortal  eve, 
,  ii^ars  unearthly  music.     All  is  tumult  and  dis- 
.1  within  and  without  his  mind;  his  purposes 
reci!  upon  himself,  are  broken  and  disjointed  ;  he 
'liaiiijie  t;;  double  thrall  of  his  passions  and  his  destiny. 
''^i;;;  Ricjird  is  not  a  character  either  of  imagitiation  or 
r  :.  p.ii  PS,  but  of  pure  selt-will.     'I'here  is  no  confln-i 
.,   Ill  .posiie  feelintrs  in  his  breast.     In  the  busy  tur- 
bill  cc  of  his  projects  he  never  loses  his  self-pos- 
s( siiii,  and  makes  use  of  every  circumstame  that 
lia[  ns  as  an  instrument  of  his  long-reachinj(  de- 
[iii»i;     In  his  last  e.xtreinily  we  regard  him  but  as 
;i  \\;1  beast  taken  in  the  toils:  But  we  never  en- 
ure' lose  our  concern  for  .Macbeth;  and  he  calls 
b;i>alloursympathy  by  that  fine  close  of  thought- 
ful 'elancholy. 

"  My  way  of  life 
Is  I  en  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf; 
Aii:hai  which  should  accompany  old  ape, 
.    .Aspiiour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  Iriends, 

I  iiv:t  not  look  to  have  !   But  in  their  stead, 
...  L'uk's  not  loud  but  deep;  mouth-honour,  breath, 
-pf.lj,liWl-h  the  poor  heart  would  fum  deny,  and  dares 
not!"—  pp.  06— 30. 

f""^!    I  treating  of  the  Julius  Ca;sar,  Mr.  H.  ex- 

traJ?  the  following  short  scene,  and  praises  it 

»  llhW,  ami,  in  our  opinion,  so  justly,  that 

■vplinnot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting 

t, — together  with  his  brief  commentary. 

■■'rutus.  The  games  are   done,  and  Cassar  is 
[      returning.  [sleeve, 

Ci'fius.  As  they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the 
\iiiie  will,  after  his  sour  tashion,  tell  you 
.  •  ;    has  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 
Iittus.  I  will  do  so;  but  look  you.  Cassius — 
iiingry  spot  doth  glow  on  Cesar's  brow, 
ill  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train. 

I  urnia's  cheek  is  pale  ;  and  Cicero 
'  ,5  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes, 
-  f  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 

crost  in  conference  by  some  senator. 
'  [fius.  Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 

( \<'ir.  Aiiionius 

.i-ony.  Csesar? 

'  l>ar.     Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are  fat, 
-     'l-htaded  men,  and  such  as  sleep  a-nights: 
•    '  ■  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look, 
.iiks  too  much;  such  men  are  dangerous. 
Ayiity.    Fear  him  not,  Caesar,  he's  not  danger- 
ous: 
:     ja  noble  Roman,  and  well  given.  [not: 

'  .ar.     Would  he  were  fatter !     But  I  fear  him 
i  '  1,'my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  (ii.iot  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 

n  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much ; 
a  great  observer;  and  he  looks 
through  the  deeds  of  men.    He  loves  no  plays, 
)u  dost,  Antony  ;  he  hears  no  music  : 
11  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort, 
le  mock'd  himself,  and  scorned  his  spirit, 
ha-ould  be  moved  to  smile  at  any  thing, 
nen  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease 
t  thev  behold  a  greater  than  themselves; 
iherefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 

■  .  ;r  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd 

■  jwhat  I  fear;  for  always  I  am  Cnjsar. 
'  on  my  ri^ht  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deiif, 
I'jU  me  truly  what  thou  think'si  of  him." 

i'e  know  hardly  any  paasace  more  expreosive 

i  genius  of  Shakespeare  than  this.     It  is  an  if 

li|l  been  actually  present,  had  known  the  dif- 

r'li  characters   and    what  they    thought  of  one 

I'lilr,  and   had  taken  down  what  he  heard  and 

w.aieir  looks,  words,  and  gestures,  just  as  they 

II  led."— pp.  36,  37. 

\V  may  add  the  following  as  a  specimen 

1  40 


of  the  moral  and  political  n-flectioiis  which 
this  author  has  intermixed  with  his  criliei.->ms. 

"  Sliakrspcnrc  has  in  ihin  play  and  elsewhere 
shown  the  same  pi'netrntii)n  into  poliiiiiil  fharucier 
and  the  sprini;B  of  public  events  ns  inio  those  of 
every-dnv  hie.  For  instance,  ilie  whole  design  to 
liberate  tlieir  country  lails  from  lb<'  generous  tem- 
per and  dverwcening  coiifideiue  of  Uru'us  in  the 
goodness  of  their  cause  and  the  ns.xistniire  of  others. 
I'hus  it  has  always  been.  Those  who  inenn  well 
themselves  think  well  of  others,  and  tail  a  prey  to 
their  security.  The  friends  of  librriy  tnisi  lo  the 
professions  of  others,  because  they  are  themselves 
siiuere.  and  endeavour  to  secure  the  public  good 
with  the  least  possible  hurl  to  its  enemies,  who 
have  no  regard  to  any  thing  bii;  their  own  un- 
principled ends,  and  stick  nt  iiotliini;  to  uccumplish 
them.  Cassius  was  better  cut  out  fur  a  conspirator. 
His  heart  prompted  his  head.  His  habiiual  jealousy 
made  him  lear  the  worst  that  might  hnppen,  and  his 
irritability  of  temper  added  to  his  inveter.icy  of  pur- 
pose, and  sharpened  his  patrioiism.  The  mixed 
nauire  of  his  motives  made  him  filter  to  contend 
with  iind  men.  The  vices  arc  never  so  well  em- 
ployed as  in  combating  one  another.  Tyranny  and 
servility  are  to  be  dealt  with  after  their  own  lashion : 
otherwise,  they  will  triumph  over  those  who  spare 
them,  and  finally  pronounce  their  funeral  panegyric, 
as  Antony  did  that  of  Brutus. 

"  .411  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  ol  great  Ca-sar : 
He  only  in  a  general  honest  thought 
Of  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 

pp.  38,  39. 

The  same  strain  is  resumed  in  his  remarks 
on  Coriolanus. 

"  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  had  a  leaning  to 
the  arbitrary  side  of  the  question;  perhaps  from 
some  feeling  of  contempt  for  his  own  origin  ;  and 
to  have  spared  no  occasion  of  baiting  the  rabble. 
What  he  says  of  them  is  very  true  :  what  be  says 
of  their  betters  is  also  very  true;  Hut  he  dwells 
less  upon  it. — The  cause  of  the  people  is  indeed  but 
little  calculated  as  a  subject  for  poetry  :  it  admits  of 
rhetoric,  which  goes  into  argument  and  explanation, 
but  it  presents  no  immediate  or  distinct  images  to 
the  mind.  The  imasination  is  an  exaugerating  and 
exclusive  faculty.  The  uiiderstandiri!,'ls  a  dividing 
and  measuring  faculty.  'Ihe  one  is  an  aristocrati- 
cal,  the  other  a  republican  faculty.  The  principle 
of  poetry  is  a  very  anti-levelling  principle.  It  aims 
at  efTeci,  and  exists  by  conirasi.  It  is  every  thing 
by  excess.  It  puts  the  individual  fcjr  the  species, 
the  one  above  the  infinite  many,  might  before  right. 
A  lion  hunting  a  flock  of  sheep  is  a  mure  poeiic&l 
object  than  they  ;  and  we  even  take  part  with  the 
lordly  beast,  because  our  vanity  or  some  other  feel- 
ing makes  us  disposed  to  place  ourselves  in  the 
situation  of  the  strongest  party.  There  is  nothing 
heroical  in  a  multitude  of  miserable  rogues  not 
wishing  to  be  starved,  or  coiiiplHinmg  that  they  are 
like  to  be  so :  but  when  a  sinulo  man  comes  for- 
ward to  brave  their  cries  and  to  make  them  submit 
to  the  last  indignities,  from  mere  pride  and  sell-will, 
our  admiration  of  his  prowess  is  immediately  con- 
verted into  contempt  for  their  pusillaniinity.  We 
had  rather,  in  short,  be  the  oppressor  than  the  op- 
pressed. The  love  of  power  in  ourselves  and  the 
admiration  of  it  in  others  are  both  natural  to  man: 
But  the  one  makes  him  o  tyrant,  the  other  a  slave." 
—pp.  69—72. 

There  are  many  excellent  remarks  and 
several  line  quotations,  in  th(!  di.-H'ussions  on 
Troiliis  and  Crefwida.  As  this  is  no  lonjer 
an  acti'd  j)lay,  we  venture  to  give  one  exlracl, 
with  Mr.  H.'s  short  obs«'rvation«,  which  per- 
fectly express  our  opinion  of  its  merits. 
2  B 


114 


POETRY. 


"It  cannot  be  said  of  Shakespeare,  as 
of  some  one,  that  he  was  '  without  o'erflowing  full. 
He  was  full,  even  lo  o'erflowing.  He  save  heaped 
measure,  running  over.  This  was  his  greatest 
fault.  He  was  only  in  danger  '  of  losing  distinction 
in  his  thoughts'  (to  borrow  his  own  expression) 

"  As  doth  a  battle  when  they  charge  on  heaps 
The  enemy  flying." 

"  There  is  another  passage,  the  speech  of  Ulysses 
to  Achilles,  showing  him  the  thankless  nature  of 
popularity,  which  has  a  still  greater  depth  of  moral 
observation  and  richness  of  illustration  than  the 
former. 

"Ulyxfes.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  Oblivion  ;  [back, 

A  great-siz'd  monster  of  ingratitudes  ; 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ; 
Which  are  devour'd  as  fast  as  they  arc  made, 
Forgot  as  soon  as  done  :  Persev'rance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  Honour  bright :  to  have  done,  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 
In  monumental  mockery.      Take  the  instant  way  ; 
For  Honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow. 
That  one  but  goes  abreast ;  keep  then  the  path, 
For  Emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  by  one  pursue  ;  if  you  give  way, 
Or  hediie  aside  from  the  direct  forih-right, 
Like  to  an  entered  tide  they  all  rush  by, 

And  leave  vim  hindmost ; 

Or,  hke  a  gallant  horse  fall'n  in  first  rank,   [present, 
O'er-run  and  trampled  on:  then  what  they  do  in 
Tho'  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'ertop  yours  : 
For  Time  is  like  a  fashionable  host. 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  th'  hand, 
And  with  his  arms  outstretch'd  as  he  would  fly. 
Grasps  in  the  comer  :  thus  Welcome  ever  smiles, 
And  Farewel  goes  out  sighing.  O,  lei  not  virtue  seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was  ;  For  beauty,  wit, 
High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service. 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  lime: 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 
That  all.  with  one  consent,  praise  new  born  gauds, 
Though  they  are  made  and  mouldedof  things  past." 
"  The  throng  of  images  in  the  above  lines  is  pro- 
digious ;  and  though  they  sometimes  josile  against 
on'e  another,  they  everywhere  raise  and  carry  on 
the  feeling,  which  is  meiaphsically  true  and  pro- 
found."— pp.  85 — 87. 

This  Chapter  ends  with  an  ingenious  paral- 
lel between  the  genius  of  Chaucer  anti  that 
of  Shakespeare,  which  we  have  not  room  to 
insert. 

The  following  observations  on  Hamlet  are 
very  characteristic  of  Mr.  H.'s  mamier  of 
writing  in  the  work  now  before  us ;  in  which 
he  continually  appears  acute,  desultory,  and 
capricious — with  great  occasional  felicity  of 
conception  and  expression — fre(}uent  rashness 
and  carelessness — constant  warmth  of  admi- 
ration for  his  author — and  some  fits  of  extrav- 
agance and  folly,  into  which  he  seems  to  be 
hurried,  either" by  the  hasty  kindling  of  his 
zeal  as  he  proceeds,  or  by  a  selfwiljed  deter- 
mination not  to  be  balked  or  baffled  in  any 
thing  he  has  taken  it  into  his  head  he  should 
say. 

"  Hamlet  is  a  name:  his  speeches  and  sayings 
but  the  idle  coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  But  are 
they  not  real  ?  They  are  as  real  as  our  own  thoughts. 
Their  reality  is  in  the  reader's  mind.  It  is  we  who 
are  Hamlet.  This  piny  has  a  prophetic  truth,  which 
is  above  that  of  history.  Whoever  has  become 
thoui^htful  and  melancholy  through  his  own  mis- 
hups  or  those  of  others  ;  whoever  has  borne  about 


said  I  with  him  the  clouded  brow  of  reflection,  and  thoj 
himself  '  too  much  i'  ih'  sun;'  whoever  has   i 


the  eolden  lamp  of  day  dimmed  by  envious  n 
rising  in  his  own  breast,  and  could  find  in  the  »  J 
before  him  only  a  dull  blank,  with  nothing  lef  . 
markable  in  it ;  whoever  has  known  •  the  pangf 
despised  love,  the  insolence  of  office,  or  the  spi 
which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes ;'  he  o 
has  felt  his  mind  sink  within  him,  and  sadness  i. 
to  his  heart  like  a  malady  ;  who  has  had  his  h| 
blighted  and  his  youth  staggered  by  the  appariii 
of  strange  things;  who  cannot  be  well  at  ease,  vj 
he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  a  spectre ;  w  ^ 
powers  of  action  have  been  eaten  up  by  thou  ; 
he  to  whom  the  universe  seems  infinite,  atid  . 
self  nothing;  whose  bitterness  ol  soul  makes  j 
careless  of  consequences,  and  who  goes  to  ail', 
as  his  best  resource  to  shove  ofl',  to  a  seconc'i. 
move,  the  evils  of  life,  by  a  mock-representatit  f 

them. This  is  the  true  Hamlet. 

"  We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy,  th: 
hardly  know  how  to  criticise  it,  any  more  tha 
should  know  how  to  describe  our  own  faces, 
we  must  make  such  observations  as  we  can 
the  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  that  we  thir 
oftenest  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  n. 
tions  on  human  life,  and  because  the  distreasi 
Hamlet  are  transferred,  by  the  turn  of  his  mit  t 
the  general  account  of  humanity.     Whatever 
pens  to  him,  we  apply  to  ourselves;  becau 
applies  it  so  himself  as  a  means  of  general  n 
ing.     He  is  a  great  moralizer,  and  w  hat  maku 
worth  attending  to  is,  that  he  moralizes  on  hi- 
feelings  and  experience.    He  is  not  a  commnr 
pedant.     If  Zear  shows  the  greatest  depth  ol  • 
sion,  Hami.et  is  the  most  remarkable  for  tlie  i- 
nuity,   originality,   and  unstudied  developme'rf 
character.  There  is  no  attempt  to  force  an  intii: 
every  thing  is  left  for  time  and  circumsiancli 
unfold.    Tlie  attention  is  excited  without  effor  » 
incidents  succeed  each  other  as  matters  of  co  •; 
the  characters   think,  and   speak,  and  act,  j  !• 
they  might  do  if  left  entirely  to  themselves, 
is  no  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a  point.    T. 
servaiions  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scent  « 
gusts  of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  M 
borne  on  the  wind.     The  whole  play  is  an  IB 
transcript  of  what  might  be  supposed  to  have  >i 
place  at  the  court  of  iJenmark,  at  the  remote  d 
of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern  refine  w 
in  morals  and  manners  were  heard  of.    It   i<; 
have  been  interesting  enough  to  have  been  : 
ted  as  a  by-siander  in  such  a  scene,  at  such  r 
to  have   heard  and  seen  something  of  wh: 
eoing  on.     But  here  we  are  more  than  spec  ri 
We  have  not  only  '  the  outward  pageants  at  ij 
signs  of  grief,'   but   '  we  have  that  within  a 
passes  show.'     We  read  the  thoughts  of  the  .m. 
we  catch  the  passions   living  as  they  rise.    »" 
dramatic  writers  give  us  very  fine   versior  inJ 
paraphrases  of  nature  ;  but  Shakespeare,  to  w 
with  his  own  comment,  gives  us  the  originci'. 
that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves.     This  is  i* 
advantage.  - 

"  The  character  of  Hamlet  is  itself  a  pur  »• 
sion  of  genius.  It  is  not  a  character  marl  *f 
strength  of  will,  or  even  of  passion,  but  by  "•• 
ment  of  thought  and  sentiment.  Hamlet  is  i  '"• 
of  the  hero  as  a  man  can  well  be  :  but  he  is  a  iJC 
and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusias.U' 
qui'-k  sensibility,  —  the  sport  of  circums  * 
(luestioning  with  fortune,  and  refining  on  n,|« 
feelings;  and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  » 
disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situaii  ■" 
pp.  104—107. 

His  account  of  the  Tempest  is  all  plea  glj 
written,  especially  his  remarks  on  Ca  M 
but  we  rather  give  oui  readers  his  sf  W" 
tions  on  Bottom  and  his  associates. 

'■  Bottom  ihe  Weaver  is  a  character  that  "^ 
had  justice  done  him.     He  is  the  most  rom  «» 


HAZLITT'S  CHARACTERS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


S18 


L'chanics ;  He  follows  a  sedentary  trade,  and  he  is 
pordiiiirly  represented  as  conceited,  serious,  and 
lliiastic.il.  He  is  ready  to  undertake  any  thinp  and 
;ry  tiling,  as  iJit  was  as  nuu-li  a  matter  ot  course 
sjllie  motion  of  his  loom  and  shuttle.  He  is  forplay- 
i'  the  tyrant,  the  lover,  the  lady,  the  lion.  '  He  will 
{it  that  it  shall  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear 
ki  ;'  and  this  being  objected  to  as  improper,  he 
til  has  a  resource  in  his  good  opinion  of  himself, 
jjd  'will  roar  you  an  'twere  any  nightingale.' 
I'ug  the  Joiner  is  the  moral  man  of  the  piece, 
MO  proceeds  by  measurement  and  discretion  in 
jj  things.  You  see  him  with  his  rule  and  coin- 
IjSses  in  his  hand.  '  Have  you  the  lion's  part 
ytten  f  Pray  you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am 
»w  of  study.' — ■  You  may  do  it  extempore,'  says 
Uince,  ■  for  it  is  nothing  but  roaring.'  Siarve- 
fg  the  Tailor  keeps  the  peace,  and  objects  to  tlie 
l[n  and  the  drawn  sword.  '  1  believe  we  must 
live  the  killing  out  when  all's  done.'  Starveling. 
Ijwever.  does  not  start  the  objections  himself,  but 
jconds  them  when  made  by  others,  as  if  he  had 
i  spirit  to  e.xpress  his  fears  without  encourage - 
i^nt.  It  is  too  much  to  suppose  all  this  intentional : 
k  it  very  luckily  falls  out  so." — pp.  I'2t>,  127. 

Mr.  H.  admires  Romeo  and  Juliet  rather  too 
lach — though  his  encomium  on  it  is  about 
IB  most  eloquent  part  of  his  performance: 
lit  we  really  cannot  sympathise  with  all  the 
inceits  and  puerilities  that  occur  in  this  play ; 
1:  instance,  this  exhortation  to  Night,  which 
.  H.  has  extracted  for  praise  !— 

Give  me  my  Romeo — and  when  he  shall  die, 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars, 
\.iid  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine, 
I'hatallihe  world  will  be  in  love  with  Night, "&c. 

We  agree,  however,  with  less  reservation, 
his  rapturous  encomium  on  Lear — but  can 
"ord  no  extracts.  The  following  speculation 
the  character  of  Falstaff  is  a  striking,  and, 
the  whole,  a  favourable  specimen  of  our 
i  thor's  manner. 

Wit  is  often  a  meagre  substitute  for  pleaaure- 

ile   sensation;  an  effusion   of  spleen  and   petty 

re  at  the  comforts  of  others,  from  feeling  none  in 

ielf.     FalsialFs  wit  is  an  emanation  of  a  fine  con- 

i'uiion;  an  exuberance  of  good-humour  and  good- 

I  lure  ;  an  overflowing  of  his  love  of  laughter,  and 

jod-fellowship  ;  a  giving  vent  to  his  heart's  ease 

id  over-contentment  with  himsell  and  others. — 

would  not  be  in  character  if  he  were  not  so  fat 

he  is;  for  there  is  the  greatest  keeping  in  the 

I undie^s  iu.xury  of  his  imagination  and  the  pam- 

ired  sell-indulgence  of  his  physical  appetites.    He 

mures  and  nourishes  his  mind  with  jests,  as  he 

•  es  his  body  with  sack  and  suoar.     He  carves  out 

I  jokes,  as  he  would  a  capon,  or  a  haunch  of 

'nison,  where  there  is  rut  and  come  a^ahi:  and 

ishly  pours  out  upon  them  the  oil  of  gladness. 

8  tongue  drops  fatness,  and  in  the  chambers  of 

I  brain  '  it  snow^  of  meat  and  drink.'     He  keeps 

perpetuil  holiday  and  open  house,  and  we  live 

n  him  in  a  round  of  invitations  to  a  rump  and 

en. — Yet  we  are  not  left  to  suppose  that  he  was 

lere  sensualist.     All  this  is  as  much  in  imagina- 

I  as  in  reality.     His  sensuality  does  not  engross 

Btupify  his  other  faculties,    but   '  ascendu    me 

I  the  brain,  clears  away  all  the  dull,  crude  va- 

urs  that  environ  it,  and  makes  it  lull  of  nimble, 

ry,    and   delectable   shapes.'      His   imagination 

epa  up  the  ball   long  after  his  senses  have  done 

ih  it.     He   seems   to  have  even  a  greater  enjoy- 

ent  of  the  freedom  from  restraint,  of  good  cheer, 

his  ease,  of  his  vanity,  in  the  ideal  and  exngge- 

ted  descriptions  which    he  gives  of   iheni.   than 

fact.      He    never  tails  to    enrich    his    discourse 

xh  alluaioaa   to  eating  and   dnnkuig ;    but    we 


never  see  iiim  at  table.  He  carries  his  own  larder 
about  with  liiin,  and  he  is  hiiiiselt  '  a  tun  of  muii  ' 
His  pulling  out  the  botile  in  the  tield  of  battle  is  a 
juke  to  show  his  coiilempt  tor  glory  accompanied 
with  danger,  his  syslemalic  odherence  to  his  Kpi- 
curean  philosophy  in  the  most  trying  circumstances. 
Again,  such  i.s  his  deliberate  exaggeration  of  his 
own  vices,  that  it  does  not  seem  (|uiie  cerium 
wheiher  the  account  of  his  hostess'  bill,  found  iii 
his  pocket,  with  such  on  out-of-the-way  charge  lor 
ciipons  and  sack  with  only  one  halt-penny-worth 
of  bread,  was  not  put  there  by  himself,  as  a  trick  to 
humour  the  jest  upon  Ins  favourite  propensities,  and 
as  a  conscious  caricature  of  hiniBell. 

"  The  secret  of  Kalsiatf 's  wii  is  lor  the  most  part 
a  masterly  presence  of  mind,  an  absolute  self-pos- 
session, which  nothing  can  disturb.  His  reparicca 
are  involuntary  suggestions  of  his  self-love  ;  iiistinc . 
live  evasions  of  everv  thing  that  threatens  to  inter- 
rupt the  career  of  his  triumphant  jollity  and 
self-complacency.  His  very  size  floats  him  out  of 
all  his  dirtiiiiliies  in  a  sea  ol  rich  conceits  ;  and  he 
turns  round  on  the  pivot  of  his  convenience,  with 
every  occasion  and  at  a  moment's  warniiu;.  His 
natural  repugnance  to  every  unpleasant  thought  or 
circumstance,  of  itself  makes  light  ot  objeciiona, 
and  provokes  the  most  extravagant  and  licentious 
answers  in  his  own  justiticatioii.  His  iiiditfereiico 
to  truth  puts  no  check  upon  his  invention  ;  and  the 
more  improbable  and  unexpected  his  contrivances 
are,  the  more  happily  does  he  seem  to  be  delivered 
of  them,  the  anticipation  of  their  elfect  acting  as  a 
stimulus  to  the  gaiety  of  his  fancy.  The  success  of 
one  adventurous  sally  giv.-s  him  spirits  to  undertake 
another:  he  deals  always  in  round  numbers,  and 
his  exaggerations  and  excuses  are  '  open,  palpable, 
monstrous  as  the  father  that  begets  them.'  " 

pp.  189—192. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  make  an  end  of  this. 
We  are  not  in  the  humour  to  discuss  points 
of  learning  with  this  author;  and  our  readers 
now  gee  well  enough  what  sort  of  book  he 
has  written.  We  shall  conclude  with  his  re- 
marks on  Shakespeare's  style  of  Comedy,  in- 
troduced in  the  account  of  the  Twelfth  Night. 

"  This  is  justly  considered  as  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightt'ul  of  .Shakespeare's  comedies.     It  is  lull  of 
sweetness  and  pleasantry.     It  is  perhaps  too  good- 
natured   for  comedy.     It   has  little  satire,  and   no 
I  spleen.     It  aims  at  the   ludicrous  rather  than  the 
j  ridiculous.     It   makes  us  laugh   at    the   follies  of 
mankind ;  not  despise  them,  and  still  less  bear  anjr 
I  ill-will  towards  them.     Shakespeare's  comic  gcniua 
I  resembles  the  bee  rather  in  its  power  of  ex;raciing 
sweets  Ironi  weeds  or   poisons,  than  in  leaving  a 
]  sting  behind  it.     He  gives  the  most  amusing  exag- 
geration of  the  prevailing  foibles  of  his  characters, 
but  in  a  way  that  they  ihem.selvos,  instead  of  being 
offended  at,  would  almost  join  in  to  humour ;  he 
I  rather  contrives   opportunities    tor    them    to    show 
I  tlieiiiHelves  off  in  the  happiest   lights,  than  renders 
I  them  contemptible  in  the  perverse  construction  of 
j  the  wit  or  malice  of  others. 

"There  is  a  certain   stage  of  societv,  in   which 

I  people   become  conscious  of  their  peculiarities  and 

!  alisurdities,  ulfect  to  disguise  what  they  are,  and  set 

:  up   preieiiHioiiH  t<j  wiiiii   they  are   not.     This  givt^s 

riHC  to  H  correspondiog  style  of  comedy,  the  object 

I  of  which  is  to  detect  the  disguises  of  self  love,   and 

lo  make  reprisals  on  these  preposterous  assumptions 

of  vanity,  by  marking  the  contrast  br-iween  the  real 

I  and  the  affected  character  us  severely  as  possible, 

and  denying  lo  those,  who  would  iini>o,se  on  us  for 

what  they  are  not,  even  the  merit  which  they  have. 

'  This  is  ifie  comedy  of  nriificial  life,  of  wit  and  »«- 

•  lire,  such  as  we  see  in  ('ongreve,  Wycherley,  Van- 

brugh,  &,c.     Ijul  there  i«  a  period  in  the  progrrss 

of  manners  anierior  to  this,  in  which  iheluiblrH  and 

I  follies  of  individuiils  are  of  nature's  plaiiiini;.  not  the 

I  growth  uf  art  ur  study  ;  in  which  lUey  ore  ihuivion 


316 


POETRY. 


uncoDscions  of  them  themselves,  or  care  not  who 
knows  ihem,  if  they  can  but  have  their  whim  out; 
and  in  which,  as  (here  is  no  attempt  at  imposition, 
the  speciaiors  rather  receive  pleasure  from  humour- 
ing the  inclinations  of  the  persons  they  laugh  at, 
than  wish  to  give  ihern  pain  by  exposing  their  ab- 
surdity. This  may  be  called  the  comedy  of  na- 
ture ;  and  it  is  the  comedy  which  we  generally  find 
in  Shakespeare. — Whether  the  analysis  here  given 
be  just  or  not,  the  spirit  of  his  comedies  is  evidently 
quite  distinct  from  that  of  the  authors  above  men- 
tioned; as  it  is  in  its  essence  the  same  with  that  of 
Cers-anies,  and  also  very  frequently  of  Moiiere, 
though  he  was  more  systematic  in  his  e.\travagance 
than  Shakespeare.  Shakespeare's  comedy  is  of  a 
pastoral  and  poetical  cast.  Folly  is  indigenous  to 
the  soil,  and  shoots  out  with  native,  happy,  un- 
checked luxuriance.  Absurdity  has  every  encour- 
agement afforded  it ;  and  nonsense  has  room  to 
flourish  in.  Nothing  is  stunted  by  the  churlish,  icy 
hand  of  indifference  or  severity.  The  poet  runs  riot 
in  a  conceit,  and  idolizes  a  quibble.  His  whole  ob- 
ject is  to  turn  the  meanest  or  rudest  objects  to  a 
pleasurable  account.  And  yet  the  relish  which  he 
Las  of  a  pun,  or  of  the  quaint  humour  of  a  low 
character,  does  not  interfere  with  the  dehght  with 
wiiich  he  describes  a  beautiful  image,  or  the  most 
refined  love.  The  clown's  forced  jests  do  not  spoil 
the  sweetness  of  the  character  of  Viola.  The  same 
house  is  big  enough  to  hold  Malvoho,  the  Countess 


;  Maria,   Sir  Toby,  and   Sir  Andrew   Aguecheek 

For  mstance,  nothing  can  fall  much  lower  than  thii 

last  character  in  intellect  or  morals:  yet  bow  are  hi; 

weaknesses  nursed  and  dandled  by  Sir  Toby  inu 

something  •  high  fantastical ;'  when  on  Sir  Andrew'; 

commendation  of  himself  for  dancing  and  fencine 

Sir  Toby  answers, — '  Wherefore  are   these  ihino; 

hid?     Wherefore  have  these  gifts  a  curtain  befori 

them  ?     Are  they  like  to  take  dust,  hke  Mrs.  Moll'i 

picture  ?     Why  dost   thou  not  go    to   church  in  j 

galliard,  and  come  home  in  a  coranto?     My  very 

walk  should  be  a  jig  !  I  would  not  so  much  as  makj 

water  but  in  a  cinque-pace.  What  dost  thou  mean 

I  Is  this  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?     I  did  think  b\ 

'  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg,  it  was  frame; 

under  the  star  of  a  galliard  I' — How  Sir  Toby,  Sii 

j  Andrew,  and  the  Clown  afterwards  chirp  over  their 

I  cups .'  how  they  '  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch' 

!  able  to  draw  three  ouls  out  of  one  weaver  !'    VVha 

[  can  be  better  than  Sir  Toby's  unanswerable  answei 

to  Malvolio,   '  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  ar 

virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  alef— ' 

In  a  word,  the  best  turn  is  given  to  everything,  in.; 

stead  of  the  worst.     There  is  a  constant  infusion  o! 

the  romantic  and  enthusiastic,  in  proportion  as  Ihi 

characters  are  natural  and  sincere  :  whereas,  in  tht 

more   artrficial  style  of  comedy,  everything  give' 

way  to  ridicule  and  indifference  ;  there  being  noth 

ing  left  but  affectation  on  one  side,  and  increduli- 

on  the  other." — pp.  255 — ^259. 


Sardanapalus,  a  Tragedy. 


(fcbrnarM,  1822.) 

The  Two  Foscari,  a  Trasedy.     Cain,  a  Mystery. 
Bvo.  pp.  440.     Murray.  London :  1822.* 


By  Lord  Byro 


It  must  be  a  more  difficult  thing  to  write  a 
good  play — or  even  a  good  dramatic  poem — 
than  we  had  imagined.  Not  that  we  should, 
a  priori,  have  imagined  it  to  be  very  easy : 
But  it  is  impossible  tiot  to  be  struck  with  the 
fact,  that,  in  comparatively  rude  times,  when 
the  resources  of  the  art  had  been  less  care- 
fully considered,  and  Poetry  certainly  had  not 
collected  all  her  materials,  success  seems  to 
have  been  more  frequently,  and  far  more 
easily  obtained.  From  the  middle  of  Eliza- 
beth's reign  till  the  end  of  James',  the  drama 
formed  by  far  the  most  brilliant  and  beautiful 
part  of  our  poetry,— and  indeed  of  our  litera- 
ture in  general.  From  that  period  to  the 
Revolution,  it  lost  a  part  of  its  splendour  and 
originality;  but  still  continued  to  occupy  the 
most  conspicuous  and  considerable  place  in 
our  literary  annals.  For  the  last  centur)-.  it 
has  been  quite  otherwise.  Our  poetry  "has 
ceased  almost  entirely  to  be  dramatic ;  and, 
though  men  of  great  "name  and  great  talent 
have  occasionally  adventured  into  this  once 
fertile  field,  they  have  reaped  no  laurels,  and 
left  no  trophies  behind  them.  The  genius  of 
Dryden  appears  nowhere  to  so  little  advantage 
as  in  his  tragedies:  and  the  contrast  is  truly 
humiliating  when,  in  a  presumptuous  attempt 
to  heighten  the  colouring,  or  enrich  the  sim- 
plicity of  Shakespeare,  he  bedaubs  with  ob- 


*  I  have  thought  it  best  to  put  all  my  Dramatiml 
criticisms  in  one  series:  and,  therefore,  I  take  the 
tragedies  of  Lord  Byron  in  this  place — and  apart 
from  his  other  poetry. 


I  scenity,  or  deforms  with  rant,  the  genuim 

I  passion  and  profligacy  of  Antony  and  Cleopatn 

[  — or  intrudes  on  the  enchanted  sohtude  o 
Prospero  and  his  daughter,  with  the  tones  c 
worldly  gallantry,  orthe  caricatures  of  affectei 

!  simplicity.  Otway.  with  the  sweet  and  reeJ 
low  diction  of  the  former  age,  had  none  of  it 
force,  variety,  or  invention.  Its  decajnng  fire 
burst  forth  in  some  strong  and  irregular  llashc- 
in  the  disorderly  scenes  of  Lee ;  and  sank  a 

I  last  in  the  ashes,  and  scarcely  glowing  embers 

'  of  Rowe. 

Since  his  time — till  very  lately — the  schoc 
of  our  ancient  dramatists  has  been  deserted 
and  we  can  scarcely  say  that  any  new  on 
has  been  established.  Instead  of  the  irregula 
and  comprehensive  plot — the  rich  discursiv* 
dialogue — the  ramblings  of  fancy — the  magi' 

I  creations  of  poetry — the  rapid  succession  o 
incidents  and  characters — the  soft,  fle.vibit 
and  ever-varying  diction — and  the  flowiiii. 
continuous,  and  easy  versification,  which  chai 
acterised  those  masters  of  the  golden  tira( 
we  have  had  tame,  formal,  elaborate,  an 
stately  compositions  —  meagre  stories— fe> 
personages — characters  decorous  and  consis 
ent,  but  without  nature  or  spirit — a  guardei 
timid,  classical  diction — ingenious  and  m 

j  thodical  disquisitions — turgid  or  sententioi 
declamations — and  a  solemn  and  monotonoi 

'  strain  of  versification.  Nor  can  this  be  a. 
cribed,  even  plausibly,  to  any  decay  of  genii 
among  us :  for  the  inost  remarkable  failun 

j  have  fallen  on  the  highest  talents.    We  ha> 

1  already  hinted  at  the  miscarriages  of  Dr)dej 


LORD  BYRON'S  TRAGEDIES. 


317 


'ae  exquisite  taste  and  fine  observation  of 

Jldison,  produced  only  the  solemn  niawkish- 

ijss  of  Cato.     The  beautiful  fancy,  the  gor- 

ilous   diction,   and    generous    atfeciions   of 

Tiomson,  were  chilled  and  withered  as  soon 

fjhe  touched  the  verire  of  the  Drama;  where 

Ip  name  is  associated  with  a  mass  of  verbose 

IJerility,  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  could 

6(er  have  proceeded  from  the  autlior  of  the 

fck.sons  and  the  Castle  of  Indolence.     Even 

tp  mighty  intellect,  the  eloijuent  morality. 

m  lofty  style  of  Johnson,  which  g-ave  loo 

tigic  and  magiuTicent^a'tone  lo  his  ordinary 

Vjiting,  failed  altogether  to  support  him  in  his 

alempt  to  write  actual  tragedy :  and  Irene  is 

ni  only  unworthy  of  the  imitator  of  Juvenal 

la^tniij,  I  *'  *he  author  of  Rasselas  and  the  Lives  of 

i«aBi|t|  Poets,   but   is  absolutely,  and    in    itself. 

' ^isKi  I  nihing   better   than  a  tissue  of  wearisome 

""W-ilajl  unimpassioned  declamations.     We  have 

.. **![;•  ^nAied    the   most   celebrated   names  ui   our 

t' 4m    I'^ratu'"*^)  since  the  decline  of  the  drama,  al- 

,  nj^L   ixkt  to  our  own  days  ;  and  if  they  have  neither 

;  lamifni   14  *")'  "^^^'  l^o'iours  to  the  stage,  nor  bor- 

"i'.  iulffl   rcfed  any  from  it.  it  is  needless  to  s;iy,  that 

tb'e  who  adventured  with  weaker  [wwers 

h:  no  better  fortune.     The  Mourning  Bride 

of^ongreve,  the  Revenge  of  Young,  and  the 

Diglas  of  Home  [we  cannot  add  the  Mys- 

tesus  Mother  of  Walpole — even  to  ple;ise 

L<J  Byron],  are  almost  the  only  tragetlies  of 

thln-il  age  that  are  familiar  to  the  present  ; 

^i  they  are  evidently  the  works  of  a  feebler 

BiUui  ^r  more  effeminate  generation — indicating, 

ksnuch  by  their  exaggerations  as  by  their 

ka  dity,  their  own  consciousness  of  inferiority 

!Ul,ll»!  to  heir  great  predecessors — whom  they  af- 

'™vj#  feipd,  however,  not  to  imitate,  but  to  supplant. 

lut  the  native  taste  of  our  people  was  not 

h;.  to  be  seduced  and  perverted;  and  when 

liiiwilsof  Queen  Anne"s  time  had  lost  the 

^r,mii  aufority  of  living  authors,  it  asserted  itself 

V  UiBi  byj  fond  recurrence  to  its  original  standards. 

[[iJdji;  an  a  resolute  ne^dect  of  the  more  regular 

.jjjediiiil  an  elaborate  dramas  by  which  they  had  been 

[^  jjli  su  ceded.     Shakespeare,  whom  it  had  long 

fivilowi  ^®r  '^'^  fashion  to  decry  and  even  ridicule, 

■    '  aS'ie  poet  of  a  rude  and  barbarous  age*,  was 

rilflT-l!i'  reiktated  in  his  old  supremacy :  and  m  hen 

.  jUjjjj  hifjlegitimate   progeny  could   no  longer  be 

..  .JJ.JI  foijd  at  home,  his  .spurious  issue  were  hailed 

,:    wij  rapture  from  foreiirn  countries,  and  in- 

vitji    and  welcomed   with  the  most   eager 

ii!|usiasm  on  their  arrival.     The  German 


-\y0 


i?  Vi, 


not  a  little  remarkable  to  find  mich  a  man 
jldannili  joining  in  this  pitiful  sneir.  In  his 
■  of  Wakefield,  he  constantly  repre«fnls  his 
fanijs  town  ladie?.  Miss  Carolina  Amelia  Wilhcl- 
miiiSkeggfi.  and  the  other,  as  diK'ourbing  ui>oiit 
■'  Ivh  life,  Shakenpeare.  and  the  mil.oical  glu.iseH!" 
~.'ld,  in  a  more  serious  passajie,  he  ii\tr(>!ii<en  a 
'i  ijr  OS  astonishing  the  Vicar,  by  iiiforiniup  him 
'  1:11'  Dryden  and  Rowe's  manner  were  quite  out 
I  fjhion — our  taste  has  gone  back  a  whole  <cniury; 
I  K'her,  iJeu  Jonson,  and,  above  all,  the  ployn  of 
{■'P'orr,  are   the  only  ihinuj*   ihni  l" 


I,, 


^^ 


;iya  tlie  Vit-: 


it  poii.aibic  tlini  the 


Tt  a;^e  ro'i  l)e  pleaded  with  thai  antiiji/aled  d, 
hal   o'i»olcte   humour,   and    tlioFC   otrrrtinrpcd 

''lert  whifli  abound   in  the  works  you   mcH- 
No  writer  of  natne.  who  was  not  niiirrig  at 

lido-t,  would  venture  to  say  this  now 


[  imitations,  of  Schiller  and  Kotzebne,  carica- 
'  tureil  and  distorted  as  they  were  by  the  aber- 
rations of  a  vulgar  and  vitiated  taste,  luui  .Ktill 
so  much  of  the  raciness  ami  vigour  of  the  old 
'  English  dnima,  from  which  they  were  avow- 
.  edly  derived,  that  they  instantly  b«'came  more 
'  popular  in  England  than  any  thing  that  her 
,  own  artists  had  recently  produced  ;  and  served 
j  sliil  more  efleclually  tn  rec;il  itiir  alieelions  lo 
I  their  native  and  lei;itimate  ruliTs.     Then  fol- 
i  lowed  reiniblicalions  of  Massitiger,  atid  Beau- 
mont   anil     Fletcher,    and     Ford,    anil    their 
contemporaries — and  a  host  of  new  tragedies, 
all  written  in  avowed  and  elal)orate  imitation 
of  the  ancient  models.    Mis<i  Baillie,  we  rather 
think,  iiad  the  merit  of  leading  the  way  in  thid 
return  to  our  old  allegiance — and  then  came 
a  volume  of  pla\s  by  Mr.  Cheiievi.\,   and  a 
succession  of  single  pia\s.  all  of  considemblo 
merit,  from  Mr.  Coleridge,  Mr.  Maturin,  Mr. 
Wilson,  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall,  and  Mr.  Milmaii. 
The  tirst  and  the  last  of  lhe.se  names  are  the 
most  likely  to  be  remembered  :  but  none  of 
them,  we  fear,  will  ever  be  ranked  with  the 
older  worthies;  nor  is  it  conceivable  that  any 
age  should  ever  cla.'^s  them  together. 

We  do  not  mean,  however,  altogether  to 
deny,  that  there  may  be  some  illusion,  in  our 
habitual  feeling.*,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  great 
originals — conseciated   as   they   are,    in   our 
imaginations,  by  early  admirution,  ami  asso- 
ciated, as  all  their  peculiarities,  and  the  mere 
accidents  and  oddities  of  their  diction  now 
are,  with  the  recollection  of  their  intrinsic  ex- 
cellences.     It  is  owing  to  this,  we  suppose, 
that  we  can  scarcely  venture  to  ask  ourselves, 
steadily,  and  without  an  inward  startling  ami 
feeling  of  alarm,  what  reception  one  of  Shake- 
speare's irregular  plays — the  Tempest  for  ex- 
ample, or  the  Midsummer  Niarht's  Dream — 
would  be  likely  to  meet  with,  if  it  were  now 
to  appear  for  the  first   time,  without  name, 
notice,  or  preparation?    Nor  can  we  pursue 
the  hazardous  suppo.sition  through  all  the  pos- 
sibilities to  which  it  invites  us,  without  some- 
thing like  a  sense  of  impiety  and  profanation. 
Yet,  though  some  little  superstition  may  min- 
ude  with  our  faith,  we  must  still  believe  it  lo 
'  be  the  true  one.     Though    time   may  have 
I  hallowed  many  things  that  were  at  hrst  but 
!  common,  and  accidental  associations  imparted 
I  a  charm  to  much  that  was  in  itself  indifl'erent, 
'  we  cannot  but  believe  that  there  was  an  orig- 
inal sanctity,  which  time  only  matured  and 
extended — and  an  inherent  charm  from  which 
the  association  derived  all  its  power.     And 
when  we  look  candidly  and  calmly  to   the 
j  works  of  our  early  dramatists,  it  is  impofsible, 
I  ue  think,  to  dispute,  that  after  criticism  ha.s 
j  done  its  wor.st  on  them — after  all  deductions 
I  for  impo.ssible  plots  and  tantastical  characters, 
unaccountable  forms  of  speech,  and  occasional 
extravagance,  indelicacy,  and  horrors — there 
is  a  facility  and  richries.s  alx)ul  them,  both  of 
I  thought  at;d  of  diction — a  force  of  invention, 
j  and  a  depth  of  siigacilj — an   originalitv  of 
i-onceplion.  and  a  playo!  fancy — a  nakeifnesi 
and  eneigy  of  passion,  and,  above  all,  a  co« 
j  piousness  of  imagerj.  and  a  sweetn*  s.s  and 
I  flexibility  of  vers",  wh.ih  is  altogether  unri« 
2  n2 


318 


POETRY. 


vailed;  in  earlier  or  in  later  times ; — and  places 
them,  in  our  estimation,  in  the  very  highest 
and  foremost  place  among  ancient  or  modern 
poets. 

It  is  in  these  particulars  that  the  inferiority 
of  their  recent  imitators  is  most  apparent — in 
the  want  of  ease  and  variety — originality  and 
grace.  There  is.  in  all  their  attempts,  what- 
ever may  be  their  other  merits  or  defects,  an 
air  of  an.vietyand  labour — and  indications,  by 
far  too  visible,  at  once  of  timidity  and  ambi- 
tion. This  may  arise,  in  part,  from  the  fact 
of  their  being,  too  obviously  and  consciously, 
imitators.  They  do  not  aspire  so  much  to 
rival  the  genius  of  their  originals,  as  to  copy 
their  manner.  They  do  not  write  as  they 
woukl  have  written  in  the  present  day,  but  as 
they  imagine  they  themselves  would  have 
written  two  hundred  years  ago.  They  revive 
the  antique  phraseology,  repeat  the  venerable 
oaths,  and  emulate  the  quaint  familiarities  of 
that  classical  period — and  wonder  that  they 
are  not  mistaken  for  new  incarnations  of  its 
departed  poets !  One  great  cause  why  they 
are  not,  is,  that  they  speak  an  unnatural  dia- 
lect, and  are  constrained  by  a  masquerade 
habit :  in  neither  of  which  it  is  possible  to 
display  that  freedom,  and  those  delicate  traits 
of  character,  which  are  the  life  of  the  drama, 
and  were  among  the  chief  merits  of  those  who 
once  exalted  it  so  highly.  Another  bad  effect 
of  imitation,  and  especially  of  the  imitation 
of  unequal  and  irregular  models  in  a  critical 
age,  is,  that  nothing  is  thought  fit  to  be  copied 
but  the  exquisite  and  shinaig  passages  ; — 
from  which  it  results,  in  the  first  place,  that 
all  our  rivalry  is  reserved  for  occasions  in 
which  its  success  is  most  hopeless;  and,  in 
the  second  place,  that  instances,  even  of  occa- 
sional success,  want  their  proper  grace  and 
effect,  by  being  deprived  of  the  relief,  shading, 
and  preparation,  which  they  would  naturally 
have  received  in  a  less  fastidious  composition ; 
and,  instead  of  the  warm  and  native  and  ever- 
varying  graces  of  a  spontaneous  effusion,  the 
work  acquires  the  false  and  feeble  brilliancy 
of  a  prize  essay  in  a  foreign  tongue — a  collec- 
tion of  splendid  patches  of  different  texture 
and  pattern. 

At  the  bottom  of  all  this — and  perhaps  as 
its  most  efficient  cause — there  lurks,  we  sus- 
pect, an  unreasonable  and  undue  dread  of 
criticism ; — not  the  deliberate  and  indulgent 
criticism  which  we  e.xercise,  rather  for  the 
encouragement  of  talent  than  its  warning — 
but  the  vigilant  and  paltry  derision  which  is 
perpetually  stirring  in  idle  societies,  and  but 
too  continually  present  to  the  spirits  of  all  who 
aspire  to  their  notice.  There  is  nothing  ."^o 
certain,  we  take  it,  as  that  tho.se  who  are  the 
most  alert  in  discovering  the  faults  of  a  work 
I  of  genius,  are  the  least  touched  with  its  beau- 
ties. Those  who  admire  and  enjoy  fine  poetry, 
j  in  short,  are  quite  a  different  class  of  persons 
I  from  those  who  find  out  its  flaws  and  defects 
— who  are  sharp  at  delecting  a  plagiarism  or 
a  grammatical  inaccuracy,  and  laudably  in- 
dustrious in  bringing  to  light  an  obscure  pas- 
eage — sneering  at  an  exaggerated  one — or 
wondering  at  the  meaning  of  some  piece  of 


excessive  simplicity.  It  is  in  vain  to  expect  th 
praises  of  such  people  ;  for  they  never  praise 
— and  it  is  truly  very  httle  worth  while  t 
disarm  their  censure.  It  is  only  the  prais€ 
of  the  real  lovers  of  poetry  that  ever  give 
ti-ue  fame  or  popularity — and  these  are  littl 
affected  by  the  cavils  of  the  fastidious.  \^Yt 
the  genius  of  most  modern  writers  seems  t 
be  rebuked  under  that  of  those  pi-agmatic; 
and  insignificant  censors.  They  are  so  rauc 
afraid  of  faults,  that  they  will  scarcely  ventui 
upon  beauties;  and  seem  more  anxious  ) 
general  to  be  safe,  than  original.  They  da? 
not  indulge  in  a  florid  and  magnificent  wayc 
writing,  for  fear  of  being  charged  with  bon 
bast  by  the  cold-blooded  and  malignant.  The 
must  not  be  tender,  lest  they  should  be  laugl 
ed  at  for  puling  and  whining:  nor  discursii 
and  fanciful  like  their  great  predecessori 
under  pain  of  being  held  out  to  derision,  < 
ingenious  gentlemen  who  have  dreamed  th 
the  gods  have  made  them  poetical ! 

Thus,  the   dread   of  ridicule,  which  th«: 
have  ever  before  their  eyes,  represses  all  ll 
emotions,  on  the  e.xpression  of  which  thi 
success   entirely  depends:   and  in   order 
escape  the  blame  of  those  to  whom  they  c 
give  no  pleasure,  and  through  whom  theyc 
gain  no   fame,    they  throw  away  their  h 
chance  of  pleasing  those  who  are  capable 
relishing  their  excellences,  and  on  whose  < 
miration  alone  their  reputation   must  at 
events  be  founded.    There  is  a  great  want 
magnanimity,  we  think,  as  well  as  of  wisdo 
in  this  sensitiveness  to  blame ;  and  we  ; 
convinced   that   no  modem  author  will  c 
write  with  the  grace  and  vigour  of  the  oh 
ones,  who  does  not  write  with  some  port  ' 
of  their  fearlessness  and  indifference  to  c 
sure.     Courage,  in  short,  is  at  least  as  nee 
sary  as  genius  to  the  success  of  a  work 
imagination ;   since,   without   this,    it   is 
possible  to  attain  that  freedom  and  self-j 
jSession,  without  which  no   talents  can  e 
liave  fair  play,  and,  far  less,  that  inward  c  ■ 
fidence  and  exaltation  of  spirit  which  ir  I 
accompany  all  the  higher  acts  of  the  uiic  • 
standing.     The  earlier  writers  had  proba  ' 
less  occasion  for  courage  to  secure  them  tl" ' 
advantages;  as  the  public  was  far  lesscrit  I 
in  their  day,  and  much  more  prone  to  adn  • 
tion  than  to  derision :  But  we  c<in  still  li  e 
in  their  writings   the  indications  both  d 
proud  consciousness  of  their  own  powers  i 
privileges,  and  of  a  brave  contempt  for  f 
cavils  to  which   they  might    expose  thi- 
selves.     In  our  own  times,  we  know  but  e 
writer  who  is  emancipated  from  this  sla  o 
awe  of  vulgar  detraction — this  petty  tim  )' 
about  being  detected  in  blunders  and  fa  * 
j  and  that  is  the  illustriousauthor  of  Wave  v, 
and  the  other  novels  that  have  made  ar'i» 
in  our  literature  as  remarkable,  and  as  li  1)' 
to  be  remembered,  as  any  which  can  j<  * 
traced  in  its  history.     We  shall  not  noviy 
how  large  a  portion  of  his  success  we  as  be 
to  this  intrepid  temper  of  his  genius:  bi  *'« 
are  confident  that  no  person  can  read  an  nf 
of  his  wonderful  works,  without  fei'linc.*' 
their  author  was  utterly  careless  of  th  re- 


LORD  HVRON-S  TRACKDIKS. 


319 


prtch  of  small  imperfections:  disdained  the 

iii:iriou5  labour  of  perpetual  correctness,  and' 

ha  coiiscqur.ntlii  imparted  to  his  productions' 

til    spirit  and   ease    and   variety,  which  re-' 

in'\<  us  of  better  times,  and  gives  lustre  and 

l^.  elltt  to  those  rich  and  resplendent  jxisKiges 

,^lo  ihich  it  left  him  free  to  asi)ire. 

pj^     |)rd  Byron,  in  some  respects,  may  appear 

L:  no'o  have  been  wanting  in  intrepidity.     He 

..]  ha  aot  certainly  been  very  tractable  to  ad- 

'vic  nor  very  patient  of  blame.     But  this,  in 

|hii  we  fear,  is   not  superiority  to  censure. 

g! Jbu  aversion  to  it ;.  and,  instead   of  proving 

i  |thr  he  is   inditl'erent   to   detraction,    shows 

Onl   that  the  dread  and  dislike  of  it  operate 

^nwi   more  than  common  force  on  his  mind. 


JA  ( tic,  whose  object  was  to  give  pain,  would 
'5lie9e  no  better  proof  of  the  eiRcacy  of  his  in- 
'"!™Bicpns,  than  the  bitter  scorn  ami  fierce  de- 
",  fiaip  with  which  they  are  encountered  :  and 
™'the|nore  vehemently  the  noble  author  pro- 
les! that  he  despises  the  reproaches  that 
i*iavbeen  bestowed  on  him,  the  more  certain 
P™t  ilthat  he  sutlers  from  their  severity,  and 
^™'woa  be  glad  to  escape,  if  he  cannot  over- 
"'beathem.  But  however  this  may  be.  we 
thoiiitHii,  jt  ig  certain  that  his  late  dramatic  eflbrts 
iMliiav  not  been  made  carelessly,  or  without 
w'l"in.\  ty.  To  us.  at  least,  they  seem  very  elab- 
5tciiip»ra1  and  hard-wrought  compositions;  and 
doawlusndeed  we  take  to  be  their  leading  char- 
on  misxjtf  Stic,  and  the  key  to  most  of  their  pe- 
aiitaliiuli-ities. 

lUsdii  Cisidered  as  Poems,  we  confess  they  ap- 
le.aiJiieato  us  to  be  rather  heavy,  verbose,  and 
lUliioiTnel  :ant — deficient  in  the  passion  and  energy 
smtoilthii  belongs  to  the  other  writings  of  the 
ilhffltiob  author — and  still  more  in  the  richness 
liieieeif  i  agery.  the  originality  of  thought,  and 
itleaiislie  iveetness  of  versdlca'tion  for  which  he 
{sof»»e(to  be  distingui.shed.  They  are  for  the 
I  tfe  iuos  part  solemn,  prolix,  and  ostentatious — 
idnailenL  i-?ned  out  by  large  preparations  for  cata.s- 
olfgirop  '8  that  never  arrive,  and  tantalizing  us 
(lijtiijritl  slight  specimens  and  glimpses  of  a 
ijititufe'' ■  interest,  scattered  thinly  up  and  down 
L,(|i)iaii  weary  pages  of  declamation.  Alonir 
-jjjl/ithh!^  concentrated  pathos  and  homestruek 
'  "^jj^nt  lents  of  his  former  poetry,  the  noble 
.  ijilijUth    seems  also,  we  cannot  imagine  why. 


Kptoiei 


ff  hie  discarded  the  spirited  and  melodious 
jjers  cation  in  which  they  were  embodied, 
'  j^d  »  have  formed  to  himself  a  measure 
^  ,#l"?y  remote  from  the  spring  and  vigour  of  '  n 
'"",  "js  rmer  compositions,  and  from  the  soft-  la 
^* 'essnd  flexibdity  of  the  ancient  masters  of 
r"'  yte  (ima.  There  are  some  sweet  lines,  and 
^^  tian  of  great  weight  and  energy;  but  the 
^i*  pne  1  march  of  the  verse  is  cumbrous  and 


m^ 


cal.  His  lines  do  not  vibrate  like 
I  lances,  at  once  strong  antl  li^'ht,  in 
ds  of  hi.s  persons,  but  are  wielded  like 
batons  in  a  bloodless  affray.  In.stead 
ful  familiarity  and  idiomatical 
Shakespeare,  they  are  apt,  too,  to 
clumsy  prose,  in  their  approaches  to 
r'y  and  colloquial  style;  and.  in  the 
•|,'ass.iges,  are  occasionally  dcfomu-d  by 
d  common  images,  that  harmonize  but 
n  the  general  solemnity  of  the  diction. 


--::iL'  batons  if 

tlj  graceful 

eUe.s  of  Shal 

"   il  )  p.liimsv 


As  Plays,  we  are  afraid  we  must  also  wiy 
that  the  pieces  before  us  ar«' wanting  ::i  iiil«-r- 
est,  chanicler,  and  action  ; — at  leant  we  must 
say  lliis  of  the  three  last  of  thi-ni — for  ihrrc  is 
interest    in  Siiuianaimlus — iind  biaulies    be- 
sides, that  make  us  Liiiml  to  il,s  other  defects. 
There    is,   howev<'r,    throughout,   a   want    of 
dnimatic  etieit  and  varietv  ;  and  we  bUf-pecl 
there  is  .s<jn\elhing  in  the  di.iraclir  or  hab;l 
of  Lord  Byron's  genius  which  will  render  this 
unattainable.  He  has  loo  little  symiKilhy  with 
iheonlinary  feelings  and  fraillie.s  of  humanity, 
to  succeed  well  in  their  representation — 'His 
soul  is  like  a  star,  and  dwells  apart."   It  doe? 
not  "hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature."  nor  catch 
the  hues  of  surrounding  objects;  but,  like  a 
kindled  furnace,  throws  out  its  intenw>  glare 
and  gloomy  grandeur  on   the   narrow  scene 
which  it  irradiates.     He  has  given  us,  in  his 
other  works,  .some  glorious  pictures  of  nature 
— some  magnificent  reliections,  and  some  in- 
imitable delineations  of  chanict»'r:   But   the 
s;ime    feelings  p#vail   in  them  all ;  and   his 
portraits  in  particular,  though  a  little  varied 
in  the  drapery  and  attitude,  seem  all  copied 
from  the  ."^ame  orijjinal.     His  Childe  Harold, 
his  Giaour,  Conrad,  Lara,  Manfred,  Cain,  and 
Lucifer — are  all  one  individual.    There  is  the 
same  varnish  of  voluptuousness  on  the  sur- 
face— the  .same  canker  of  mi.santhropy  at  the 
core,  of  all  he  touches.     He  cannot  draw  the 
changes  of  many-coloured  life,  nor  transport 
himself  into  the  condition  of  the  inlinitely  di- 
versified characters  by  whom  a  stage  should 
I  be  peopled.     The  very  intensity  of  his  feel- 
ing.s — the  loftiness  of  his  views — the  pride  of 
his  nature  or  his  genius — withhold  him  from 
this  identification  ;  so  that  in  personating  the 
heroes  of  the  .scene,  he  does  little  but  repeat 
himself.      It  would   be   better   for   him,  we 
think,  if  it  were  otherwise.     We  are  sure  it 
!  would  be  better  for  his  readers.     He  would 
1  iret  more  fame,  and  thinirs  of  far  more  worth 
j  than  fame,  if  he  would  condescend  to  a  more 
i  e.xtended  and  cordial  sympathy  with  his  fel- 
!  low-creatures;   and  we    should    have   more 
variety  of  fine  poetry,  and,  at  all  events,  bet- 
ter tnigedii'S.     We  have  no  business  to  read 
him  a  homily  on  the  sinfulness  of  pride  and 
uncharity  ;  but  we  have  a  right  to  sjiy,  that 
it  argues  a  poorness  of  irenius  to  keep  alwavs 
to  the  same  topics  and  persons ;  and  that  the 
j  world  will  weary  at  last  of  the  mo.st  energetic 
-lictures  of  misanthropes  and  madmen — out- 
aws  and  their  mistres.ses  ! 
A  man  gifted  as  he  is,  when  he  aspires  at 
'  dramatic   fame,  should  emulate  the  greatest 
of  dnimatists.     Let    Lonl  Byron   then  think 
of  Shakesjieare — and  consider  what  a  noble 
raiiireof  character,  what  a  freedom  from  niai,- 
I  nerism  and  egotism,  there   is   in   him !   How 
I  much  he  seems  to  have  studii'd  nature;  how 
j  littltr   to   have  thought   about    him.stdf ;    how 
seldom  to  have  repeated  or  glanced   back  at 
his  own  most  successful  inventions  !     Why 
indeed    should    he  ^     .Nature   was    still   ofM-n 
!  beforr*  him.  and  ine.vhaustible  :  and  the  fresh- 
I  lies-;  and  variety  that  still  delii'lil  h'-*  i<a,!er«, 
must   have  ha(l  coi:«t;i:it   ali:u!ioi.s  lor  ii  r.i- 
I  telf.     Take  his  Hamlet,  for  uietaiico.     Whul 


318 


POETRY. 


vailed,  in  earlier  or  in  later  times ; — and  places 
them,  in  our  estimation,  in  the  very  highest 
and  foremost  place  among  ancient  or  modern 
poets. 

It  is  in  these  particulars  that  the  inferiority 
of  their  recent  imitators  is  most  apparent — in 
the  want  of  ease  and  variety — originality  and 
grace.  There  is,  in  all  their  attempts,  what- 
ever may  be  their  other  merits  or  defects,  an 
air  of  anxiety  and  labour — and  indications,  by 
far  too  visible,  at  once  of  timidity  and  ambi- 
tion. This  may  arise,  in  part,  from  the  fact 
of  their  being,  too  obviously  and  consciously, 
imitators.  They  do  not  aspire  so  much  to 
rival  the  genius  of  their  originals,  as  to  copy 
their  manner.  They  do  not  write  as  ihey 
wouKl  have  written  in  the  present  day,  but  as 
they  imagine  they  themselves  would  have 
written  two  hundred  years  ago.  They  revive 
the  antique  phraseology,  repeat  the  venerable 
oaths,  and  emulate  the  quaint  familiarities  of 
that  classical  period — and  wonder  that  they 
are  not  mistaken  for  new  incarnations  of  its 
departed  poets !  One  great  c^use  why  they 
are  not,  is,  that  they  speak  an  unnatural  dia- 
lect, and  are  constrained  by  a  masquerade 
habit ;.  in  neither  of  which  it  is  possible  to 
display  that  freedom,  and  those  delicate  traits 
of  character,  which  are  the  life  of  the  drama, 
and  were  among  the  chief  merits  of  those  who 
once  exalted  it  so  highly.  Another  bad  effect 
of  imitation,  and  especially  of  the  imitation 
of  unequal  and  irregular  models  in  a  critical 
age,  is,  that  nothing  is  thought  fit  to  be  copied 
but  the  exquisite  and  shining  passages  ; — 
from  which  it  results,  in  the  first  place,  that 
all  our  rivalry  is  reserved  for  occasions  in 
which  its  success  is  most  hopeless;  and,  in 
the  second  place,  that  instances,  even  of  occa- 
sional success,  want  their  proper  grace  anil 
effect,  by  being  deprived  of  the  relief,  shading, 
and  prejwration,  which  they  would  naturally 
have  received  in  a  less  fastidious  composition  : 
and,  instead  of  the  warm  and  native  and  ever- 
varying  graces  of  a  spontaneous  effusion,  the 
work  acquires  the  false  and  feeble  brilliancy 
of  a  prize  essay  in  a  foreign  tongue — a  collec- 
tion of  splendid  patches  of  different  texture 
and  pattern. 

At  the  bottom  of  all  this — and  perhaps  as 
its  most  efficient  cause — there  lurks,  we  sus- 
pect, an  unreasonable  and  undue  dread  of 
criticism  ; — not  the  deliberate  and  indulgent 
criticism  which  we  exercise,  rather  for  the 
encouragement  of  talent  than  its  warning — 
but  the  vigilant  and  paltry  derision  which  is 
perpetually  stirring  in  idle  societies,  and  but 
too  continually  present  to  the  spirits  of  all  w  ho 
aspire  to  their  notice.  There  is  nothing  .so 
certain,  we  take  it,  as  that  those  who  are  the 
most  alert  in  discovering  the  faults  of  a  work 
of  geniu.s,  are  the  least  touched  with  its  beau- 
ties. Those  who  admire  and  enjoy  fine  poetry, 
in  short,  are  quite  a  different  class  of  persons 
from  those  who  find  out  its  flaws  and  defects 
— who  are  sharp  at  detecting  a  plagiarism  or 
a  grammatical  inaccuracy,  and  laudably  in- 
dustrious in  bringing  to  light  an  obscure  pas- 
sage— sneering  at  an  exaggerated  one — or 
wondering  at  the  meaning  of  some  piece  of 


excessive  simplicity.  It  is  in  vain  to  expect  tha 
praises  of  such  people  ;  for  they  never  praise- 
— and  it  is  truly  very  little  worth  while  to 
disarm  their  censure.  It  is  only  the  praises 
of  the  real  lovers  of  jwetry  that  ever  give  it 
true  fame  or  popularity — and  these  are  littJe 
affected  by  the  cavils  of  the  fastidious.  Vji'etf 
the  genius  of  most  modern  writers  seems  to 
be  rebuked  under  that  of  those  pragmatical 
and  insignificant  censors.  They  are  so  much 
afraid  of  faults,  that  they  will  scarcely  venture 
upon  beauties;  and  seem  more  anxious  in 
general  to  be  safe,  than  original.  jThevilare 
not  indulge  in  a  florid  and  magnificent  way  of 
writing,  for  fear  of  beiiiir  charged  with  bom- 
bast by  the  cold-blooded  and  malignant.  They 
must  not  be  tender,  lest  they  should  be  laugh- 
ed  at  for  puling  and  whining;  nor  discursire 
and  fanciful  like  their  great  predecessors, 
under  pain  of  being  held  out  to  derision,  as 
ingenious  gentlemen  who  have  dreamed  thai 
the  gods  have  made  them  poetical ! 

Thus,  the  dread  of  ridicule,  which  they 
have  ever  before  their  eyes,  represses  all  the 
emotions,  on  the  e.xpression  of  which  their 
success  entirely  depends;  and  in  order  to 
escape  the  blame  of  those  to  whom  they  can 
give  no  pleasure,  and  through  whom  they  can 
gain  no  fame,  they  throw  away  their  beat 
chance  of  pleasing  those  who  are  capable  of 
reli.shing  their  excellences,  and  on  whose  ad- 
miration alone  their  reputation  must  at  all 
events  be  founded.  There  is  a  great  want  of 
magnanimity,  we  think,  as  well  as  of  wisdom, 
in  this  sensitiveness  to  blame ;  and  we  are 
convinced  that  no  modem  author  will  cjw 
write  with  the  grace  and  vigour  of  the  oHIei 
ones,  who  does  not  write  with  some  portko 
of  their  fearlessness  and  indifference  to  ccn-l 
sure.  Courage,  in  short,  is  at  least  as  neee* 
sary  as  geniul;  to  the  success  of  a  work  0/ 
imagination;  since,  without  this,  it  is  im- 
possible to  attain  that  freedom  and  self-pos- 
jSession,  without  Avhich  no  talents  can  evef 
(have  fair  play,  and,  far  less,  that  inward  con- 
fidence and  exaltation  of  spirit  which  musl 
accompany  all  the  higher  acts  of  the  under- 
standing. "  The  earlier  writers  had  probably 
less  occasion  for  courage  to  secure  them  these 
advantages;  as  the  public  was  far  les^s critical 
in  their  day,  and  much  more  prone  to  admin- 
tion  than  to  derision  :  But  we  c<in  still  trace 
in  their  writings  the  indications  both  of  a 
proud  consciousness  of  their  own  powers  and 
privileges,  and  of  a  brave  contempt  for  the 
cavils  to 'which  they  might  e.xpose  them- 
selves. In  our  own  times,  we  know  but  oof 
writer  who  is  emancipated  from  this  slaviM 
awe  of  vulgar  detraction — this  petty  timidity 
about  being  detected  in  blunders  and  faults 
and  that  isthe  illustrious  author  of  Waverlev, 
and  the  other  novels  that  have  made  an  eit 
in  our  literature  as  remarkable,  and  as  likely 
to  be  remembered,  as  any  which  can  yet  be 
traced  in  its  history.  We  shall  not  now  MJ 
how  large  a  portioii  of  his  success  we  ascnre 
to  this  intrepid  temper  of  his  genius ;  but  « 
are  confident  that  no  person  can  read  anyone 
of  his  wonderful  works,  without  fcling  thU 
their  author  was  utterly  careless  of  the  I^ 


LORD  HVRON'-S  TR.\(;EDIES 


321 


Ufi  strike  one  as  abst)lutely  iiiciri 
""■'^vi     t  so  happens,  however,  that  the 
""•jMi  t;l',  and,  in  Inith,  absurdity  of 
'arsjm  hhci  objects  to  a  lormalitv'of  th 
motmi  ..'i-;.,„K-  .r.o^io,.^.!  ;,.  ^ .V  .i 


-  soin  imagination,  as  often  a?  llie  action  re- 
5,7''**  qres  it.  That  ajiy  writer  should  ever  have 
*'ini  '^L  '■'^^^'^  ^"  ''"^"^'  ^"  ""'*}■  "'"  1^1'**-  DUist  appear 
'^^^^^^  «i[iciently  preiwsterouK;  but.  tliat  iheiiefenee 
,|-J'*j  oit  should  be  taken  up  by  an  author  \\ho<e 
'"^  pl\  s  are  never  to  be  acted  at  all,  and  which, 
hefore,  have  nothing  more  tlian  a  nominal 
to  aiiy  sta^ire  or  loc;Uity  whatever, 
u,.st  strike  one  as  abst)lutely  incredible. 

»e  disad\-an- 
Rjicrifioinir 

^    ...|,..-  — J .- ..  .^ IS  kin(l,  is 

Vki  stlfiinuly  displaved  in  one  of  these  dnimas — 
wcrilffa  Tk  Two  Foscari.  The  whole  interest  here 
'm\k,i  tubs  U}X)n  the  youuirer  of  them  haviji-;  le- 
*»o[|ni]|]ed  from  banishment,  in  iletiance  of  the 
'wotjilj  )a  and  its  consetjuence.s  from  an  unconcjuer- 
"oaffeclaiah  longing  after  his  native  country.     Now, 

li?ifiiflllth  only  way  to  have  made  this  sentiment 
i^;'ltaleiil!iipj>able,  the  practicable  foundation  of  stu- 
i3?aii(liptdous  sutTerings,  would  luive  been,  to  have 
TsateiiipKenled  him  to  the  audience  wearing  out 
ni  and  ilia  hi  heart  in  e.vile — and  forming  his  restilution 

aridpoetii,  lo  eturn,  at  a  distance  from  his  country,  or 
^niselTCiiihtering,  in  excruciating  suspense,  withui 
ladriwliiisiHt  of  its  borders.  We  miglit  then  have 
[^■^leiiiliiifii! ca jhl  some  glimpse  of  the  nature  of  his 
idaui  jm  ives,  and  of  so  evlraordinary  a  chai-acter. 
theifOtli'iBi  as  this  would  have  been  contrary  to  one 
tjoo.  Hell! o*  It*  Unities,  we  Ih-st  meet  with  him  let!  from 
Pacb*"  e  Question."'  and  afterwards  taken  back 
ifiilieisli«'o  '»  the  Ducal  Palace,  or  clinging  to  the 
«^I.toidit:eon-walisof  his  native  city,  and  e.xpiring 
^ucetlaiil,|fr«i  his  dread  of  leaving  them:  and  ihere- 
;|;efeisji',|fo  feel  more  wonder  than  SMnpathy.  when 
liiiisl  k Ik ^^'  ^'■'-  *"'^'  '"  ^  Jeremiail  of  wilful  lamenta- 
msniii*''^  that  these  agonising  consequences  have 
ii>l  te'iti'"^  't*'''!  "''t  '■■o'Ti  guilt  or  disister.  but  merely 

„jjjLfni  the  intensity  of  his  love  for  his  country. 
■Wi'aiill  "^  ^^^  must  now  look  at  the  other  Trage- 
■    'pujjgdi  :  and  on  turning  acain  to  Sardasapali 


■itm  oiu 

d  lie  IBS 


_y,(\V(  ire  half  inclined  to  repent  of  the  severity 
rv,of  ome  of  our  preceding  n-marks.  or  to  owii 


ast  that  they  are  not  strictly  applicable 
lis  performance.     It  is  a  work  beyond  all 


jLtetion   of   creat   beauty   and    power;   and 
thiiL'h  the  heroine  has  many  trails  in  com- 
with  the  Meiloras  and  CJulnares  of  Lord 
I  us  undramatic  [xjclry,  the  hero  nnist  be 
jved  to  be  a  new  cliaracter  in  his  hands. 
[has.  indeed,  the  scorn  of  war,  and  L'lopk-. 
I  priestcraft,  and  regular  morality,  which 
j  rmiiishes  the  rest  of  his  Lordship's  favour- 
i:  but  he  lias  no  mis;iiithropy.  and   very 
(•    pride — and    may  be  regarded,   on    the 
jle.  as  one  of  the   most   truly  good-hu- 
red.  amiable,  and  respectable  voluptuaries 
horn  we  have  ever  been  prewnted.     In 
conception  of  his  character,  the  author! 
very  wis»dy  followed   nature  and  fancy 
?r  than  historv*.     His  Sardanapalus  is  not 
liie^fanireminate,  worn-out  debauchee,  with  shal- 
!iat«'tei|l  nerves  and  exhausted  .senses,  the  slave 
lolence  and  vicious  habits ;  but  a  san- 
>  votary  of  pleasure,  a  nrinwiy  epicure, 
;l2iny^.  revelling  in  Uiundless  luxury  while 
'■an,  but  with  a  sjiil  s^i  inured  to  volup- 
sness.   so   salunited   Wilh    delights,    that 
i  and  dancer,  when  they  come  uncalled 
it'ive   him    neither   concern   nor   dread; 
•tl 


aiul  he  goes  forth,  fiom  the  banquet  to  iha 
battle,  as  to  a  dance  or  measure,  attire.l  by 
the  (Jnices.  and  wilh  youlh.  jov,  and  love  tor 
his  guides.  He  dallies  with  ftellona  as  her 
bruieiuoom — for  his  .siHjrl  uiul  luisliine;  and 
the  sjM'ar  or  fan,  the  shield  or  shining  niirrorj 
U'conie  his  hands  equally  well.  He  enjojs 
life,  in  short,  and  triunqhs  over  death  ;  and 
whether  in  prusjM'rous  or  adverse  circum- 
Ktances.  his  soul  smiles  out  sujK'rior  to  evil. 
The  Kpicunmi  jihilosophy  of  S;irdanapalii» 
gives  him  a  (ine  oiij>ortunily,  in  his  conler- 
ences  with  his  stern  and  coniidential  a(lvi.'«er, 
Siilemenes,  to  contra.st  his  own  imputed  aiid 
fatal  vices  of  ea,•^!  ami  love  of  i)|ea.»ure  with 
the  boasted  virtues  of  his  predecc'.sors,  War 
ami  CoiKjiie.Kt  ;  and  we  may  a.-*  well  La-gin 
wilh  a  short  sixrimen  of  this  eharacleriBtic 
discussion.  S;ilemenes  is  bmther  to  the  ne- 
glected ijueen  ;  and  the  controversy  originates 
in  the  monarch's  allusion  to  her. 


"  San!,     'riiou  ihink'st  ihat  I  hnve  wrong'ti  the 
qiiceii :  is't  not  «o  f 

Sale.    Thifik  .'  'I'liou  linni  wrong'd  hor  ! 

Surd.  Pnii»ncc.  prinri',  and  hrar  me. 

.''hp  has  all  power  and  Bplc-i)diiiir  of  hiT  siaiiun, 
Rcspi-ct,  (he  luiehigc  o(  Assyna's  heira, 
The  hiiniace  and  the  appannj^e  of  sovircigniy. 
I  iimrrifd  bi-r,  as  nionarcho  wed — for  stale, 
.\nil  loved  her.  as  most  husbands  love  iheir  wives, 
n  she  or  ilioii  supposedsl  I  could  link  nic 
Like  a  Chaldean  peosani  lo  his  male, 
Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarrhs,  nor  mankind. 

Sale.  1  pray  ihec,  change  the  theme  ;  my  blood 
disdains 
Complaint,  and  Salcmenea'  sister  seeks  not 
nehiriaut  love,  even  from  Assyria's  lord  I 
Nor  would  she  deicrn  to  accept  divided  passion 
\^  ith  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  slaves. 
The  queen  is  silint. 

Sard.  And  why  not  her  brother? 

Salt:  I  only  echo  thee  the  voice  of  empires. 
Which  he  who  long  neclects  not  long  will  govern. 

Sard.    The   ungrateful   and   ungracious  slaves! 
they  murmur 
Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 
To  dry  into  the  desert's  dust  by  myriads. 
f)r  whiten  with  their  bones  the  banks  ol  Ganges  ; 
Nor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 
Nor  sweated  them  to  l>uild  up  pyramids, 
Or  Hnliy  Ionian  walls. 

Siilr.  Yet  these  are  trophies 

More  worthy  of  a  people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs,  and  lutes,  and  leasts,  and  concubines, 
.■\n(l  lavish'd  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

Sard.  ( )h  !  for  my  trophies  1  have  founded  cities  : 
Theri-'s  Tarsus  and  AiM-hi.iius.  both  built 
In  one  day — what  could  that  blood-luving  beldame, 
My  martml  grundam.  chanie  .'^emiramis, 
Do  more — except  destroy  them  f 

Sdlr.  'Ti»  most  true  ; 

I  own  ihy  mirii  in  those  founded  cities. 
Built  for  a  whim,  recorded  with  averse 
Whii-h  shames  both  them  and  thee  locominx  ages. 

Sard,  .'^haine  mc  I  By  Baal,  the  cities,  ttiuugh 
w.  11  built. 
.•\re  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  I     Ray  what 
'I'hou  wilt  against  the  truth  of  that  brief  record, 
Why.  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
or  nil  things  human;  hear — '  ."^ard.innpalus 
Tin-  king,  and  Son  of  Anacyndnraxes, 
In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 
J^ut.  drink,  and  love  I  the  rest's  not  worth  a  fillip. 

Suit.  A  worthy  moral,  and  a  wise  insrnpiion, 
For  a  king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects  I 

Sard.  Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  mc  doubtless  «et 
up  cdicis — 


322 


POETRY. 


'  Obey  the  king — contribute  to  his  treasure — 
Recruit  his  phalanx — spill  your  blood  at  bidding — 
Fall  d)wn  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil.' 
Or  thus — '  Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fitly  thousand  of  his  enemies. 
These  are  iheir  sepulchres,  ami  this  his  trophy.' 
I  leave  such  things  to  conquerors  ;  enough 
For  me,  it  I  can  mako  niy  subjects  feel 
The  weiglit  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaniiig  to  the  tomb ;  I  lake  no  licence 
Which  I  deny  to  them.     We  all  are  men. 
Sale.  'I'hy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods — 
Sard.  In  dust 

And  deaih — where  ihey  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 
Talk  not  of  such  to  me  !  the  worms  are  gods; 
At  h-ast  I  hey  banqueted  upon  your  gods. 
And  died  for  lack  of  farther  nutriment. 
'^I'hose  gods  were  merely  men  ;  look  to  their  issue — 
I  feel  a  thousand  mortal  things  about  me. 
But  nothing  godlike — unless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a  disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful ;  to  pardon 
The  ft)llies  of  my  species,  and  (that's  human) 
To  be  indulgent  to  my  own." — pp.  18 — 21. 

But  the  chief  charm  and  vivifying  angel  of 
the  piece  is  Myrrha,  the  Greek  slave  of  Sar- 
danapalus — a  beautiful,  heroic,  devoted,  and 
ethereal  being — in  love  with  the  generous 
and  infatuated  monarch — ashamed  of  loving 
a  barbarian — and  using  all  her  influence  over 
him  to  ennoble  as  well  as  to  adorn  his  exist- 
ence, and  to  arm  him  against  the  terrors  of 
"its  close.  Her  voluptuousness  is  that  of  the 
heart — her  heroism  of  the  affections.  If  the 
pai  t  she  takes  in  the  dialogue  be  sometimes 
too  subdued  and  submissive  for  the  lofty 
daring  of  her  character,  it  is  still  such  as 
might  become  a  Greek  slave — a  lovely  Ionian 
girl,  in  whom  the  love  of  liberty  and  the 
scorn  of  death,  was  tempered  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  what  she  regarded  as  a  degrading 
passion,  and  an  inward  sense  of  fitness  and 
decorum  with  reference  to  her  condition.  The 
development  of  this  character  and  its  con- 
sequences form  so  material  a  part  of  the  play, 
that  most  of  the  citations  with  which  we  shall 
illustrate  our  abstract  of  it  will  be  found  to 
bear  upon  it. 

Salemenes,  in  the  interview  to  which  we 
have  just  alluded,  had  driven  --'the  Ionian 
minion"  from  the  royal  presence  by  his  re- 
proaches. After  his  departure,  the  Monarch 
again  recalls  his  favourite,  and  reports  to  her 
the  warning  he  had  received.  Her  answer 
lets  us  at  once  into  the  nobleness  and  delicacy 
of  her  character. 

"  3Ii/r.  He  did  well. 

Sard.  And  say' Si  thou  so  1. 

Thou  whom  he  spurn'd  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers, 
And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 

iliyr.  /  sJiouJd  do  holh 

More  frequently  !  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.     But  thou  spakest  of  peril — 
Peril  to  thee — 

Sard.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

Froiri  Medes — and' discontented  troops  and  nations. 
I  know  not  what — a  labyrinth  of  things — 
A  maze  of  mutter'd  threats  and  mysteries  : 
Thou  know'st  the  man — it  is  his  usual  custom. 
But  he  is  honest.    Come,  we'll  think  no  more  on't — 
But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

J\[iir.  'Tis  time 

To  liii'ik  of  an^ht  save  festivals.     Thou  hast  not 
Spurn'd  his  sage  cautions  ? 

Sard.  W  hat  ?— and  dost  thou  fear  ? 


Myr.  Fear! — I'm  a  Greek,  and  how  sh  Id  1 

fear  death  ? 
slave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  frei  imj 
Sard.  Then  wherefore  dost  thou  turn  so  p? 


tiard 
Myr. 
Sard.  And  do  not  I 


I  love  thee  far — fa:  lore 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm, 
Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced:  yot  I  blanf  not. 

Blyr.  When  he  who  is  thei  ulgj 

Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him? 

Sard.  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Frown  not  upon  me:  you  have  smii 
Too  often  on  me,  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur. — King,  I  am  your  si  ;ct! 
Master,  I  am  your  slave  !   Man,  I  have  loved  ;  i|— 
Loved  you,  I  know  not  by  what  fatal  weaki  s, 
Although  a  Greek,  and  born  a  foe  to  monan  — 
A  slave,  and  hating  tetters — an  Ionian, 
And,  theretbre,  when  I  love  a  stranger,  moi 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains ! 
Still  I  have  loved  you.     If  that  love  were  bi  ig 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature. 
Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  I 

Sard.  Save  me,  my  beauty  !  Thou  art  v{  fair, 
And  what  I  seek  of  thee  is  love — not  safety, 

Myr.  And  without  love  where  dwells  sec  tyt 

Sard.  I  speak  of  woman's  love. 

3Iyr.  The  vt  first 

Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  b  si; 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  f  lips. 
Your  first  tears  quench'd  by  her,  and  yc  last 

sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  woman's  hearii 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  c 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  ledtm. 

Sard.  My  eloquent  Ionian  !  thou  speak'st  ,»ic! 
The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song  > 

I  have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favourite  p  ime 
Of  thy  far  father-land.   Nay,  weep  not— callhee. 

3Iyr.  I  weep  not — But  I  pray  thee,  do  nc  pea,i 
About  my  fathers,  or  their  land  ! 

Sard.  Yet  oft 

T/wu  speakcst  of  them. 

BIyr.  True — tnie  !  constant  'Ughl 

Willoverflow  in  words  unconsciously  ;       i 
But  wheii  another  apeaks  of  Greece,  il  woun'me. 

Sard.  Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  jau;ie,as 
thou  saidst  ?  [fc  der«. 

Myr.    Look    to    the  annal.s   of  thine  tm> 

Sard.  They  are  so  blotted  over  with  li)d,  I 
cannot.  [«!■ 

But  what  wouldst  have  ?  the  empire  Aas  beet'mi- 
1  cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 

3Iyr.  Preserve  thine  own. 

Sard.                                   At  least  I  will   oyii. 
Coiue,  Myrrha,  let  na  on  to  the  Euphrates 
The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared,     ■ 
And  the  pavilion,  deck'd  for  our  return,     ' 
In  fit  adornment  for  the  evenitig  banquet, 
Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  uni 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  ui. 
Itself  an  opposite  star;  and  we  will  sit 
Crown'd  with  fresh  flowers  like 

31t/r.  Victims.  , 

Sard.  No.  like  sov .signs, 

The  shepherd  kino:s  of  patriarchal  times,    ; 
Who  knew  no  brighter  gems  than  summer  sallis- 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.     Let  us  c  ' 
pp.  3-36. 

The  second  act,  w^hich  contains  theBlails 
of  the  conspiracy  of  Arbaces,  its  dete'onbv 
the  vigilance  of  Salamenes,  and  the  1;  tarn 
and  hasty  forgiveness  of  the  rebels  ijr  thu 
King.  is.  on  the  whole,  heavy  and  uni  crest- 
ing. '  Early  in  the  third  act,  the  ro>  Dim- 
quet  is  disturbed  by  sudden  tidings  tre* 
son  and  revolt;  and'then  the  revellei to^* 
out  into  the  hero,  and  the  Greek  Iw  ^' 
Myrrha  mounts  to  its  proper  office    The 


LOUD  inuON-S  Tli.VGEDlES. 


323 


bllowing  passages  are  striking.  A  messenger 
ays, 

Priui-e  Salenieiies  doth  inniloru  the  king 
To  arm  hinistlf.  »l(lioiii;h  t>iit  lur  n  iiioiiumk, 
iud  show  htiiiuir  uiiio  the  .sulJu  rs  :  his 
ole  presence  in  this  instant  inij;ht  do  ntore 

han  hosts  can  do  in  Im  b«hiilf. 

Sard.  What,  hoi 

rly  armour  there. 

M^r.  Aiui  wilt  thou  f 

'Surd.  Will  I  not  r 

lo.  there ! — But  yeek  not  lor  the  huckU^r  ;  'tis 

o.i  hcavv  : — a  !ii:ht  cuirass  niid  my  sworJ. 

Mt/r.  llow  I  do  love  ihit* ! 

Sard,  I  ne'er  doubted  it. 

^lyr.  But  now  I  kixiw  thee. 

Sard.  (iirmiVrjr  ki»iailf) 

ive  me  the  cuirass — so:  mybaldrii'!  now 
ly  sword :   I  had  forgot  the  helm,  where  is  it  f 
'hat's  well — no,  'tis  too  hi-avy  ;  you  mistake,  too — 
i  was  not  tills  I  ntoani,  but  that  wliich  bears 

diadem  around  it. 

S/rr(t.  Sire.  I  decnt'd 

'hat  too  conspicuous  from  the  pit?cious  stones 
'o  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath — and,  trust  me. 

his  is  of  better  metal  though  less  rich. 

Smrd.  You  deem'd '.    Are  you  too  lurn'd  a  rebel  f 

Fellow  ! 
'our  part  is  to  obey:  remrn,  and — no — 

is  loo  late — I  will  go  forth  without  it. 

Sfero.  At  least  wear  this. 

Sard.  Wear  Caucasus '.  why,  'tis 

mountain  on  my  tcinples. 
[^rrha.  retire  unto  a  place  of  safety. 
I  hy  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels  ? 

Mfr.  Because  my  place  is  here. 

I  dare  all  things 
xcept  9ur\Mve  what  I  have  loved,  to  be 

rebel's  booty  :  forth,  and  do  your  bravest  " 

pp.  So— 89. 

The  noise  of  the  conflict  now  reaches  her 
doubtful  clamour;  and  a  soldier  comes  in, 

"  whom  she  asks  how  the  King  bears  hira- 

:If — a/id  is  answered, 

"  At'.  Like  a  kin?.     I  must  find  i?fcro, 

nrl  brinij  him  a  new  g;iear  niid  his  own  helmet. 

e  tilths  till  now  l«are-hiadtii.  and  by  for 

oo  much  exposed.     Tlie  suldiets  knew  his  fiice, 

nd  the  fue  too :  and  in  the  moon's  broad  light, 

IS  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 

[ake  him  a  mark  too  royal      Every  arrow 

pointed  at  the  fair  hair  and  fair  features, 
nd  the  broad  filiet  which  crowns  both. 
he  king!  the  knig  (ighie  as  he  revels. 

Myr.  "lis  no  dishono<ir — no — 

'is  no  dishonour !  (o  have  loved  this  man. 

almost  wish  now.  what  1  never  wisih'd 

efore.  that  he  were  flr'cian.     If  Abides 

'ere  shamed  in  wearine  Lydian  Omphale's 

ic-^arb,  and  wielding  her  vile  diktat! ;  surely 

e,  who  sprines  up  a  Hercules  at  once, 

urs'd  ill  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood, 

nd  ruslics  from  the  bamiuet  lo  the  battb-, 

s  though  it  were  a  ^*d  of  love,  deserve* 

hat  a  Creek  i^rl  •hoiild  be  Ins  pnmmour, 

nd  a  fJreek  bard  his  minsircl,  a  Greek  tomb 

is  moiiumenil" — pp.  92,  93. 

Soon  after,  she  rushes  out  in  agony  lo  me»'t 
e  fate  that  seemed  inipfiiding.  The  Kite. 
)Wf;vor,  by  his  darin:;  valour,  restorrs  thi 


rluue  of  the  li;^lit;  and  r»'turns,  with  all  his 
in,  lo  the  palace.  The  scene  that  ensues 
very  masterly  and  characteristic.  Turning 
Myrrha — 

[Know'st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I  lighted  on 
his  minion  f 


Salt.  Herding  with  the  other  fomalea 

Like  frighten'd  antelopes. 

Sard.  No!     Like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raginc, 
She  urged  on,  with  her  voice  and  gritture,  and 
Her  tloatiiig  hair  and  (lashing  eyes,  the  soldier* 
In  thn  purauii. 

Sale.  Indeed ! 

Sard  You  aee,  this  night 

Made  warriors  of  mom  than  me  I  paumd 
To  lixik  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek  ; 
Her   iiwge  black   ryes,   that   llash'd   through   her 

lon^  hair 
.•\s  it  stream  d  o'er  her  ;  her  blue  vrins  that  roae 
.Moiig  her  most  transparent  brow;  her  niMtrii 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry  ;  her  lina 
.\pari ;  her  voire  th:it  clove  through  all  the  dm, 
.\s  a  lute's  pirrceiii  through  the  rymlial's  clanh, 
Jarr'd  hut  not  drown'd  by  the  loud  hrattlitig  ;  her 
Waved  arms,  more  dazxling  with  their  own  born 

whilei:ese 
'I'han  the  sled  her  hand  held,  which  snn  rauglit  up 
From  a  dead  soldier's  grasp  ;  nil  thi'se  thiiiga  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  trtnips  a  prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself 
Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

Salt,  (.ill  TftiriHg.)  .Myrrha! 

S^tyr.  Prince. 

Salr.  You  have  shown  a  soul  to. nigh'. 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sL-ter's  lord Hut  now 

I  have  no  time  :  thou  lov'st  the  king  ? 

Mi/r.  I  love 

Sardanapalus. 

Salr.  But  wouldst  have  him  king  still  f 

Myr.  I  would  not  have  him  less  than  what  he 
should  be. 

Sale.  Well,  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours, 
and  all 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ;  to  have  him  live, 
Let  him  not  sink  back  into  lu.xury. 
You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
I  Raiding  without:    look  well  that   he   relapse   not. 
I  [Eiit  Salejie.vu. 

Sard.   Myrrha  !  what,  at  whispers 
With  my  stern  brother?     1  shall  soon  be  jealous 

^Tyr.  i.tmilins.)  You  have  cause,  sire  ;  lor  on  the 
I  earth  there  breathes  not 

A  man  more  worthy  ol  n  woman's  love — 
A  soldier's  trust — a  suliject's  reverence — 
A  king's  esteem — the  whole  world's  admiration  ' 

Sard.  Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.  I  niuM  not 
Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  elomient  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  the  sliaae  ;  yet  you  speak 
truth."— pp.  100—105. 

After  thi.s.  there  is  an  useless  and  nnnnfural 
scene  with  the  Queen,  whose  fondues.*  her 
erring  husbaiKi  mei'ts  with  irn-at  kindne-m 
and  remop"'.  It  is  carefully,  but  rather  tedi- 
ously written;  and  ends,  a  great  deal  too  long 
after  it  ou^ht  to  have  endfd.  by  Salcmen«-» 
earning  oJl  his  sistt-r  in  a  Hi. 

Tne  riflh  act  gives,  rather  languidly,  the 
consummation  of  the  reb«'llion.  Sali-rnenrs 
is  slain  ;  and  the  Kinir.  in  s:)ite  of  a  desperate 
resistance,  driven  back  to  his,  pilace  and  iI.h 
ifardetis.  lie  tlu-ii  diiilribul)-B  iiis  treasure  to 
his  friends,  ami  forc<-s  them  lo  eiiiUirk  on  ihe 
river,  which  is  slill  open  for  thfir  «w;iif; 
only  roquirinir.  as  the  lant  si-rvue  of  li.s  failh- 
fiil  veleraii.«,  tliat  they  should  I  iiihl  tip  n  hu^^e 
pile  of  combustibles  around  the  ihriuie  in  his 
rres«-iice-cliambeT,  and  leave  him  there  wilh 
Nlyrrha  alone  ;  and  corninandin;;  ihein,  when 
the\  had  rienrfd  the  city  with  their  galleys, 
to  sound  their  Irumjiets  as  a  signal  of  safiMy. 
We  shall  closo  our  extracts  with  n  few  frag- 


324 


POETRY. 


ments  of  the  final  scene.     This  is  his  fare- 
well to  the  troops. 

"  Sard.  My  best  I  my  last  friends! 

Let's  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once  : 
All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  tor  ever, 
Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 
Atid  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  wuh  tears. 
Hence .  and  be  h:ippy  :  trust  me,  I  am  not 
Now  to  be  pitied  ;  or  far  more  for  what 
Is  past  than  present ; — for  the  future,  'lis 
In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such  [well. 

There  be  :    I  shall  know  soon.     Farewell — tiire- 
[Exeimt  Pania  and  Soldiers. 

Myr.  These  men  were  honest :  It  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  looks  should  be  on  loving  faces,    [me  ! 

Sard.  And  lovelx/  ones,  my  beautitul  1 — but  hear 
If  at  this  moment,  for  we  now  are  on 
The  brink,  thou  feel'st  an  inward  shrinking  from 
This  leap  through  tiame  into  the  tuture,  say  it : 
I  shall  not  love  thee  less;  nay,  perhaps  more, 
For  yielding  to  thy  nature  :  and  there's  time 
Yet  for  thee  to  escape  hence, 

iliyr.  Shall  I  light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap'd  beneath 
"The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without, 
Before  Baal's  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  ? 

Sard.  Do  so.     Is  that  thy  answer  ? 

Myr.  Thou  shalt  see."— pp.  162,  163. 

There  is  then  a  long  invocation  to  the 
shades  of  his  ancestors ;.  at  the  end  of  which. 
Myrrha  returns  with  a  lighted  torch  and  a 
cup  of  wine — and  says, 

"Lo! 
I've  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sard.  And  the  cup  ? 

Myr.  'Tis  my  country's  custom  to 

Make  a  libation  to  the  gods. 

Sard.  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.     I've  not 
Forgot  the  custom  ;  and  although  alone, 
Wilf  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A  joyous  banquet  past. 

Yet  pause. 
My  Myrrha  !  dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 
Freely  and  fearlessly  ? 

Myr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A  Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  ? 

Sard.  Then 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Myr.  It  is  long 

In  sounding. 

Sard.  Now,  farewell ;  one  last  embrace. 

Myr.  Embrace,  but  7iot  tiie  last ;    there  is  one 
more.  ^  [ashes. 

Sard.  True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mi.x  our 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth! 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  '.farewell  Ionia  ! 
Be  thou  still  free  and  beautifiil,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation  !     My  last  prayer         [thee! 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  o7if ,  were  of 

Surd.  And  that? 

Myr.  Is  yours. 

[The  trumpet  of  Fasia  sounds  without. 

Sard.  Hark  I 

3Iyr.  Now ! 

Sard.  Adieu,  Assyria! 

I  loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers'  land, 
And  belter  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 
I  satiated  thee  with  peace  and  joys  ;  and  this 
Is  my  reward  !  and  now  I  owe  thee  nothing. 
Not  even  a  grave.  [He  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Art  thou  ready  ! 

Sard.  As  the  torch  in  thy  |rasp. 

[Myrrha  fires  the  pile. 

Myr.  'Tis  fired!  I  come. 

[As  Myrrha  springs  forward  to  throw  herself 
into  the  flames,  the  Curtain  falls.'' 

pp.  164— 1G7. 


Having  gone  so  much  at  length  into  thj 
drama,  which  we  take  to  be  much  the  besti 
the  volume,  we  may  be  excused  for  sayin 
little  of  the  others.  '■  The  two  Foscari,"  w 
think,  is  a  failure.  The  interest  is  founde 
upon  feelings  so  peculiar  or  overstrained,  a 
to  engage  no  sympathy ;  and  the  whole  stor 
turns  on  incidents  that  are  neither  pleasim 
nor  natural.  The  Younger  Foscari  undercof 
the  rack  twice  (once  in  the  hearing  oftL 
audience),  merely  because  he  has  chosen  1 
feign  himself  a  traitor,  that  he  might  b 
brought  back  from  undeserved  banishmen 
and  dies  at  last  of  pure  dotage  on  this  eent 
ment;  while  the  Elder  Foscari  submits,  i; 
profound  and  immovable  silence,  to  this  trea 
ment  of  his  son,  lest,  by  seeming  to  feel  fi 
his  unhappy  fate,  he  c-hould  be  implicated  i 
his  guilt — though  he  is  supposed  guiltless,  n 

The  '•  Marino  Faliero'" — though  itiiherinoi' 
vigorously  written — is  scarcely  more  succcfc' 
fui.     The  story,  in  so  far  as  it  is  original  i 
our  drama,  is  extremely  improbable }  thooffj' 
like  most  other  very  improbable  stories,  V 
rived   from  authentic  sources:   But.  in  tlj 
main,  it  is  not  original — being  indeed  mere' 
another   Venice  Preserved;  and  continual' 
recalling,  though  certainly  without  eelipsbj 
the  memory  of  the  first.     Except  that  Jaffii' 
is  driven  to  join  the  conspirators  by  the  nat' 
ral  impulse  of  love  and  misery,  and  the  Do|' 
by  a  resentment  so  outrageous  as  to  exclnii 
ail  sympathy — and  that  the  disclosure,  whil 
is  produced  by  love  in  the  old  play,  is  hc 
ascribed  (with  less  likelihood)  to  mere  frier' 
ship,  the  general  action  and  catastrophe 
the  two  pieces  are  almost  identical — whi 
with  regard  to  the  writing  and  manageme 
it  must  be  owned  that,  if  Lord  Byron  has  Di'i 
sense  and  viconr,  Otway  has  by  far  the  m\ 
passion  and  pathos  :  and  that,  though  our  ni' 
conspirators  are  better  orators  and  reason 
than   the  gang  of  Pierre  and  Re^niault,  1 
tenderness   of  Belvidora    is  as   much  ni' 
touching,  as  it  is  more  natural  than  thestoi 
and  self-satisfied  decorum  of  Angiolina.   1 
abstract,  or  argument  of  the  piece,  isshoi 
as  follows. 

Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice,  and  nea 
fourscore  years  of  age.  manies  a  young bea  ■ 
of  the  name  of  Angiolina — and,  soon  a 
their  union,  a  giddy  youns:  nobleman,  wh. 
he  had  had  occasion  to  rebuke  in  public,  sti*' 
up  some  hidecent  lines  on  his  chair  of  stsil 
purporting  that  he  was  the  husband  of  a  '^ 
wife,  whom  he  had  the  honour  of  keeping;.' 
the  benefit  of  others.  The  Doge  having  • 
covered  the  author  of  this  lampoon,  compl:  J 
of  him  to  the  Senate — who.  upon  proof  of  J 
charge,  sentence  him  to  a  month's  conf* 
ment.  The  Doge,  considering  this  as  ;  • 
gether  inadequate  to  the  reparation  of  hi;'* 
jured  honour,  immediately  conceives  ar;* 
insane  and  unintellijrible  animoshy  at  .e 
whole  body  of  the  nobility — and,  in  8pit<  f 
the  dignified  example  and  gentle  sootnin:' 
Angiolina,  puts  himself  at  the  head  of  a  > 
spiracy,  which  had  ju.st  been  organised" 
the  overthrow  of  the  government  by  cci « 
plebeian  malecontents,  who  had  more  > 


LORD  HVRONS  TRAGEDIES. 


iintial  wrongs  and  grievances  to  complain  of. 
lie  of  the  faction,  nowever,  had  a  friend  in 
i!e  Senate  whom  he  wislied  to  preserve  ;  and 
«es  to  him.  on  the  eve  of  the  insurrection, 
"jth  words  of  waniinsj,  which  h^ad  to  it.s 
tnely  detection.  The  Doire  and  his  asso- 
«ites  are  arrested  and  biou;:ht  to  trial  :  and 
fe  former,  after  a  vain  intorcission  from  An- 
jnlina,  who  candidly  admits  the  enomiity  of 
\-  iTuilt.  and  prays  only  for  his  life,  is  leil.  in 
l^  ducal  robes,  to  the  j>lace  where  he  was 
til  constvrattnl  a  soverei<rn,  and  there  pub- 
lly  decapitated  by  the  hands  of  the  execn- 
t'ner. 

^Ve  can  afford  hut  a  few  specimens  of  the 
eecution.  The  followin;:  pas.s;ijL;e,  in  which 
X^  ancient  Doge,  while  nn^inii  his  gentle 
^>use  to  enter  more  warmly  into  his  resent- 
i  'nt.  reminds  her  of  the  motives  tliat  had 
II  him  to  seek  her  alliance,  (her  father's  re- 
(  '.'sL  and  his  own  di'sire  to  allbrd  her  orphan 
Uplessness  the  highest  and  most  nnsuspect- 
e  protection.)  though  not  jx^rfectly  dramatic, 
tp  great  sweetness  and  dignity  :  and  reminds 
t'  in  its  rich  verbosity,  of  the  moral  and 
1 'llifluous  parts  of  Massinger. 

l'  Do^e-  For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my 
I  new  10  be  illusion,  and  ne'er  saw  [youth 

Isting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
I,  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate^ays, 
-''id  could  not  be  so  now,  did  such  exist. 
It  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
/.a  true  feeling  for  your  wellare,  and 
/  ree  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes  ; 
.(';-iindness  to  your  virtues,  watchfulness 
^.t  shown,  but  shadowing  o'er  such  little  failings 
/i youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  check 
"pliiy.  but  win  you  from  thtm  ere  you  knew 
had  been  won.  but  thought  the  change  your 

I  choice ; 

-■^Sride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  conduct — 
Arust  in  yoti — a  patriarchal  love, 
Al  not  a  doting  homage — friendship,  faith — 
?}-h  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
P»ht  claim,  I  hoped  for." — 
"  trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano 
Pe  in  your  veins;  I  trusted  to  the  soul        [you — 
Gl  gave  vou — to  the  truths   your  fitlier   taught 
1  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  virtues — 
^  your  own  faith  and  honour,  for  my  own. — 
Miere  li^'h;  thuughis  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Clworldlv  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart, 
rjsensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I  know 
"  vere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
I  .honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 
.Aii.iuiih  'twere  wed  lo  him  it  covets  moat : 
^  "! -irnation  of  the  poet'.s  god 
i  lii  '.  •^  marble-chiseii'd  l»cauty,  or 
I     M'  'lu-deiiv.  Alcidcs.  in 
':  f:'  ■  .  -'y  of  «nperhiiman  manhood. 
■•'  ■:'■•>    .It  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not." 

pp,  50—53. 

h  ■  f'lirth  Act  opens  with  the  most  pocti- 
;i  !  brilliantlv  written  scene  in  the  play — 
=  ;a::li  it  is  a  soliloquy,  and  altogether  alien 
;;!n  the  business  of  the  j)iece.  Lioni,  a 
ylng  nobleman,  returns  home  from  a  splen- 
d(  assembly,  rather  out  of  spirits;  and, 
owning  his  palace  window  for  air,  a)ntra.sts 
tl|  tranquillity  of  the  night  scene  which  lies 
("Ore  him,  with  the  feverish  turbulence  and 
-'  tering  enchantments  of  that  which  he  has 
Jul  quitted.  Nothing  can  be  finer  than  this 
pjure  in  both  its  compartmentP.     There  is  I 

I 


a  truth  and  a  luxuriance  in  the  description  of 
the  rout,  which  mark  at  once  the  hand  of  a 
master,  anil  niise  it  to  a  vet\  hii;h  nuik  a.-*  u 
piece  of  (xietical  painting — while  the  niiKjri. 
Ii;;ht  view  from  the  window  is  tHjually  ^rund 
and  beautiful,  aiid  reminds  tis  of  those  ning- 
iiKiceiit  and  enchanting  lookings  forth  in 
Manfred,  which  have  left,  we  will  c()iifcs.s 
far  deejx'r  traces  on  our  fancy,  than  any  thing 
in  the  more  elaborate  work  before  us.  Lion] 
says, 

" 1  will  try 

U'hother  the  air  will  calm  my  apirjis:  'ii« 
.V  goodly  night ;  the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  has  crept  into  ita  cave.         [ncss! 
And  the  broad  moon  hasbriKliien'd.     What  a  atill- 
HfO>»  to  an  ourn.  bittice. 
And  what  a  contrast  with  the  scene  I  left, 
\\'hcre  the  (all  torches'  glare,  and  silver  lamps' 
More  pallid  gleam,  along  the  ia(>«-8tri<d  wails, 
Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
I'liose  vast  and  dinily-latticcd  galleries 
.\  dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light,  [6lc. 

Which  sliow'd  .ill  tilings,  but  nothing  as  they  were, 

The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wint — 
The  garlands,  the  rose  odours,  and  the  llowera — 
The  sparkling  eyes  and  Hashing  ornamenis — 
The  white  arms  and  the  raven  hair — ihe  braids 
And  bracelets  ;  swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace, 
An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 
The  eye  like  what  it  circled  ;  the  thin  robes 
Floating  like  light  clouds  'twixi  our  gaze  and  heaven* 
'I'he  inany-twinkling  feet,  so  small  and  sylphlikc, 
Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
01  the  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well ! 
.All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  sceue. 
Its  false  and  true  enchantments — art  and  nature, 
Which  swain  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parch'd  piltfrim's 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  inirnge,  which  olfera 
-A  lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst, 
.Arc  gone. — Around  me  are  the  stars  and  watere— 
Worlds  niirror'd  in  the  ocean!  goodlier  sight 
Than  torches  glared  back  by  a  gaudy  glass ; 
And  the  great  element,  which  is  lo  t-pace 
What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 
Sofien'd  wiih  the  first  breathings  of  the  epnng  ; 
The  high  nionn  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way, 
f^renely  sinootliing  o'er  the  lofty  walls 
<ir  those  tall  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces, 
\yh  ise  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts, 
Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles. 
Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  cnnuj, 
Seem  each  a  trophy  olsonie  miglity  deed 
Rear'd  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce  less  strangely 
Than  those  more  massy  and  my.Hteriuus  giaiiis 
Ot'archiifCiure,  those  Tiiaiiiaii  lal)rict<, 
Whifh  point  in  Egypt's  plains  to  times  that  have 
No  other  record  I     All  is  gentle:  nought 
Siirs  riidfly ;  hut,  congenial  with  the  night. 
Whatever  walks  is  gliding  tike  a  spirit. 
The  linklingH  of  some  vigilant  guitars 
Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a  wakeful  mistress. 
And  coutious  opening  of  the  casement,  showing 
That  he  is  not  unheard  ;  while  her  young  han<L 
Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part, 
So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 
The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice. 
'I'o  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 
Thrill  like  his  Ivre-sirings  at  the  sight  I — ihe  dash 
Phosphoric  of  the  oar.  or  rapid  twinkle 
Ol  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas, 
And  the  responsive  voices  oflne  choir 
Of  boaini'-n,  answering  back  with  verse  for  verse  ; 
.*^ome  dusky  shadow  chequering  the  Rialto; 
•Some  glimmering  palace  roof,  or  tapering  spire, 
Areallthe  sights  and  sounds  whicli  lure  i>ervade 
The  ocean-born  and  earih-commanding  my." 

pp,  9»— lOL 
2C 


326 


POETRY. 


We  can  now  afford  but  one  other  extract ; 
— and  we  take  it  from  the  grand  and  prophetid 
rant  of  which  the  unhappy  Doge  dehvers  him4 
self  at  the  place  of  execution.  He  asks 
whether  he  may  speak ;  and  is  told  he  may, 
but  that  the  people  are  too  far  off  to  hear  him. 
He  then  says, 

"  I  speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity, 
Of  which  I  grijw  a  portion — not  to  man  ! 
Ye  elements  !  in  which  to  be  resolved 
I  hasten  1   Ye  bhie  waves  !  which  bore  my  banner, 
Ye  winds  !  which  flutter'd  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it, 
And  fill'd  my  swelling  sails,  as  they  were  wafted 
To  many  a  triumph  !   Thou,  my  native  earth,        <■ 
Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth,     '<  ' 
Which   drank   this  willing    blood    from    many    a 

wound  !  [Thou  ! 

Thou  sun !    which   shinest   on   these   things,   and 
Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns  ! — Attest  I 
I  am  not  innocent — But  are  these  guiltless  ? 
I  perish  :  But  not  unavenged  :  For  ages 
Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 
And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 
Of  this  proud  city  ! — Yes,  the  hours 
Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 
When  she,  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 
Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield 
Unto  a  bastard  Attila  ;  without 
Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 
As  these  old  veins,  oft  drain'd  in  shielding  her. 
Shall  pour  in  sacrifice. — She  shall  be  bought  ! 
Then,  when  the  Hebrews  in  thy  palaces. 
The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  arid  the  Greek 
Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his  ; 
When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 
In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 
Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity  ; — when 
Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being. 
Slaves  turn'd  o'er  to  the  vanqiiish'd  by  the  victors, 
Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice, 
And  scorn' d  even  by  the  vicious  for  their  vices. 
When  all  the  ills  of  conquer'd  states  shall  cling  thee, 
Vice  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief; 
When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 
Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  plea- 
Youth  without  honour,  age  without  respect,  [sure, 
Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a  sense  of  woe 
'Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar'st  not 

murmur, 
Have  made  thee  last  and  worst  of  peopled  deserts. 
Then — in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 
Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine! 
Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  ! 
Gehenna  of  the  waters !  thou  sea  Sodom  I 
Thus  I  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods  ! 
Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  ! 

[Here   the  Doge   turns,  and   addresses    the  Exe- 
cutioner. 
Slave,  do  thine  office  ! 
Strike  as  I  struck  the  foe  !     Strike  as  I  would 
Have   struck   those  tyrants  !     Strike  deep  as  my 

curse  ! 
Strike— and  but  once  !— pp.  162—165. 

It  will  not  now  be  difficult  to  estimate  the 
character  of  this  work. — As  a  play,  it  is  defi- 
cient in  the  attractive  passions ;  in  probability, 
and  in  depth  and  variety  of  interest;  and 
revolts  throughout,  by  the  extravagunt  dis- 
proportion which  the  injury  bears  to  the 
unmeasured  resentment  with  which  it  is 
f  pursued.  Lord  Byron  is,  undoubtedly,  a  poet 
of  the  very  first  order — and  has  tale«its  to 
reach  the  very  highest  honours  of  the  tlrama. 
But  he  must  not  again  disdain  love  and  am- 
bition and  jealousy.  He  must  not  substitute 
what  is  merely  bizarre  and  extraordinary,  for 
;what  is  naturally  and  universally  interestiilg — 
I 


nor  expect,  by  any  exaggerations,  so  to  rou 
and  rule  our  sympathies,  by  the  sensek 
anger  of  an  old  man,  and  the  prudish  propr 
ties  of  an  untempted  woman,  as  by  t 
agency  of  the  great  and  .simple  passions  w  ' 
which,  in  some  of  their  degrees,  all  men  i 
familiar,  and  by  which  alone  the  Drama 
Mu.se  has  hitherto  wrought  her  miracles. 

Of  '•Cain,  a  JMystery,'' we  are  constrain 
to  say,  that,  though  it  abounds  in  beanti; 
passages,  and  shows  more  poicer  perhaps  th 
any  of  the  author's  dramatical  compositio 
Sve  regret  very  much  that  it  should  everhf 
been  published.  It  will  give  great  seam; 
and  offence  to  pious  persons  in  general — a 
may  be  the  means  of  suggesting  the  m 
painful  doubts  and  distressing  perplexities, 
hundreds  of  minds  that  might  never  oth 
I  wise  have  been  e.vposed  to  such  dangeri , 
disturbance.  It  is  nothing  less  than  absu 
in  such  a  case,  to  observe,  that  Lucifer  can  ; 
well  be  expected  to  talk  like  an  orthod: 
divine — and  that  the  conversation  of  the  t'\ 
Rebel  and  the  first  Murderer  was  not  lik  • 
to  be  very  unexceptionable — or  to  plead  i| 
authority  of  Milton,  or  the  authors  of  the  \ 
mysteries,  for  such  ofiensive  colloquies.  '.  • 
fact  is,  that  here  the  whole  argument — aji;i 
verj'  elaborate  and  specious  argument  it  i'- 
is  directeif  ag-ainst  the  goodness  or  the  po'r 
of  the  Deity,  and  against  the  reasonabler'S 
of  religion  in  general;  and  there  is  no  aiis  r 
.so  much  as  attempted  to  the  offensive  (,- 
trines  that  are  so  strenuously  inculcated.  '-3 
Devil  and  his  pupil  have  the  field  entirel  !tt 
themselves — and  are  encountered  withn.;'* 
ing  but  feeble  obtestations  and  unreasoijg 
horrors.  Nor  is  this  argumentative  blasphty 
a  mere  incidental  defomiity  that  arises  ine 
course  of  an  action  directed  to  the  com],n 
sympathies  of  our  nature.  It  fonns,  on  e 
contrary,  the  great  staple  of  the  piece— d 
occupies,  we  should  think,  not  less  than  'o 
thirds  of  it ;  so  that  it  is  really  difficult  tc  5- 
lieve  that  it  was  written  for  any  other  pur  6 
than  to  inculcate  these  doctriiie,s — or  at  lea  0 
discuss  the  question  on  which  they  bear.  >  r. 
we  can  certainly  have  no  objection  to  fu 
Byron  writuig  an  Essay  on  the  Origin  of  .il 
— and  sifting  the  whole  of  that  vast  and  r« 
plexing  subject  with  the  force  and  the  ?• 
dom  that  would  be  expected  and  allowcin 
a  fair  philosophical  discussion.  But  wijo 
not  think  it  fair,  thus  to  argue  il  partially  id 
con  amove,  in  the  nairie  of  Lucifer  and  C'l; 
without  the  responsibility  or  the  liabili  to 
answer  that  would  attach  to  a  philosop  al 
dis})utant — and  in  a  form  which  both  doi  e» 
the  danger,  if  the  sentiments  are  pernio, is, 
and  almost  precludes  his  opponents  fron  he 
possibility  of  a  reply.  > 

»  Philosophy  and  Poetry  are  both  very  pd 
things  in  their  way  ;  but,  in  our  opinion,  ley 
do  not  go  very  well  together.  It  is  but  a  lor 
and  pedantic  .'^ort  of  poetry  that  seeks  cl  fly 
to  embody  melaiihysicalfubtilties  and  ah;  ret 
deductions  of  reason — anil  a  very  susp.  'U* 
philo.sophy  that  aims  at  establishing  its  )C- 
trines  by  appeals  to  the  passions  aiich" 
fancy.     Though   such  argnmentSj  how  er, 


LORD  BVRONS  TR.\GEDIES. 


827 


^[^»lii  al  worth  little  in  the  schools,  it  does  not 
•  ^  f)  fcpw  that  their  etFect  is  inconsiderable  in  the 
\\i\d.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  mischief  of 
a!  poetical  jxirailoxes,  that,  I'roni  the  very 
lijits  and  end  of  poetry,  which  deals  only  in 
opt 'US  and  jjlancinir  views,  they  are  never 
biuu-^lit  to  the  fair  test  of  arjrument.  An  al- 
lijKMi  to  a  donbtfnl  topic  will  oflen  jkiss  for  a 
dinitive  conclusion  on  it ;  and.  wiien  cloth«'d 
npeautifnl  lanii-inure.  may  li'ave  the  most 
p|nici()us  impressions  behind.  In  tlie  cunrts 
olinoraiity,  jxM-ts  are  unexceptionaI)le  tril- 
likes:  they  may  izive  in  the  evidence,  and 
diose  to  facts  whether  good  or  ill;  but  we 
d|iur  to  their  arbitrary  and  self-plea.'^ing 
sijimincs  up.  They  are  susinx'ted  judges, 
atl  not  very  otten  s;ife advocates;  where l'i eat 
q»stions  are  concerned,  ami  univcrs;d  prin- 
cies  bron<rht  to  issue.  But  we  shall  not 
])ip  this  ix)int  farther  at  pre.si'iit. 

I'e  shall  irive  but  one  sjiecimen.  and  that 

"  liieioaitli  leasl  ofiensive  we  can  find,  of  the  pre- 

-t?;a;i«jiiiV!  ing  tone  of  this  extraordinary  drama.     It 

■;   is  lie  address  (for  we  cannot  call  it  prayer] 

wi  which  Cain  accomjxmies  the  offering  of 

hi  sheaves  on  the  altar — and  directed  to  be 

d(  vered,  standing  erect. 

"'■  lirii  I  whatc'er  or  whosoe'er  diou  an, 
Okiipoteni,  it  may  be — and.  itcood, 
SKmi  in  ihe  exemption  ol  thy  deeds  from  evil ; 
Juvah  upon  enrih!  and  God  in  heaven  ! 
A    it  may  be  with  other  names.  l>eeause 
'1'  le  aiiributes  seem  many,  as  ihy  works: — 
If  ou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 
'J'e  iheni  1    If  ihou  must  be  induced  with  altars, 
A    soften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them  I 
T  )  beings  here  erect  them  unto  ihee.       [smokes 
IfitMi  iov'si  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine,  which 
O  ny  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service, 
Inie  first  ol  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 

'  Inkincuiiiary  incense  to  ihy  skies ; 


weet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earih, 
der  seasons,  which  the  unsiain'd  turf 
I'nd  them  on  now  otVers  in  the  face 

road  sun  which  ripen'd  theni,  may  seem 
Gd  to  the«.  masnnich  as  they  have  not 
St  _r'd  in  limb  or  lite,  and  rather  form 
A  iinple  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 
ook  on  ours  '.    If  a  shrine  without  viciini, 
aliar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour, 
on  it  I  and  fir  hnn  who  dn  sseili  it, 
— such  as  ihoii  mad'si  him  ;  and  seeks  noihing 
■h  miisi  be  won  by  kneeling.     If  he's  evil, 
iKc  iiiin  !   thou  art  omrupoient.  and  may'sl. — 
what  can  he  oppose  1     If  he  be  Rood, 

hiiii,  or  spare  him,  ns  ihnu  wilt  !  since  all 
jj'on  tlicc;  .ind  griod  and  evil  seeni 
luve  no  power  themselves,  nave  in  thy  will ; 

heiher  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 
l)eing  ommpoieni.  nor  fit  to  judge 
P'lience  ;  but  merely  to  endure 
jnda;t — which  thus  lar  I  have  endured." 
pp.  424.  425. 

he  catasttophe  follows  soon  after,  and  i«» 

briL'ht  alioul  with  'jrciil  dramatic  skill  and 

ff-t.     The  murderer  i»  sorrowful  and  con- 

' •'! — his  parents  reprobate  and  reimnnce 

his  wife  dmas  to   him  with  eairer  and 

-itatinir  affection;  and  they  wander  forth 

ih'^r  into  the  vast  solitude  of  th»'  universe. 

'e  have  now   gone  throti:rh  the   poetical 

pal  of  this  volume,  and  ought  here,  jvrhaps, 

to  lose  our  account  of  it.     But   tln-re  arc  a 

ft  pages  in  prose  that  are  more  talked  of 


than  all  the  rest;  nnd  whicn  ieail  irresistibly 
to  topics,  ujion  which  it  seems  at  last  iiccci*- 
.s'lry  that  we  should  express  an  opinion  We 
allude  to  the  concluding  jiart  of  the  Ap|>etidix 
to  ••  The  Two  Foscan,"  in  whiih  I.ohI  Hvton 
resumes  his  habitual  ctimjilaint  of  the  lio.ntil- 
ity  which  lie  ha.s  exjH'rienccd  fitnii  the  wri- 
ters of  his  own  country — makes  reprisals  on 
those  who  have  assjiih-d  his  reputation — uiid 
inHicts,  ill  jvirticulur.  a  memorable  chastise- 
ment ujion  the  tinhap])y  Lnureat*-,  inlers|MTs««d 
with  sonic  jvditical  rctlcctioiis  of  great  weiyht 
and  autliority. 

It  is  not  however  with  tiiem',  or  the  merits 
of  (ho  livatment  which  Mr.  Soulhey  has  cither 
given  or  received,  that  we  have  now  any  con- 
cern. But  we  have  a  word  or  two  to  .miy  oii 
the  griefs  of  Lord  Byron  him.-M-lf.  He  com- 
plains bitterly  of  the  detraition  by  which  he 
has  been  assiiled — and  intimates  that  his 
works  have  lx'«'ii  received  by  the  public  with 
far  less  cordiality  and  favour  than  he  was  en- 
titled to  expect.  We  are  con.Hlrained  to  s;iy 
that  this  apjM-ars  to  us  a  very  extraordinary 
mistake.  In  the  w  hole  course  of  our  exi)eri- 
ence.  we  cannot  recollect  a  single  author  who 
has  nnd  .-^j  little  iens<m  to  complain  of  his 
reception — to  whose  genius  the  public  has 
been  poearlv  and  so  constantly  just — to  wlio.se 
laults  they  have  bi-eii  so  long  and  so  signally 
indulgent.  From  the  very  lirst,  he  must  have 
been  aware  that  he  ofFeiided  the  princijiles 
and  shocked  the  prejudices  of  the  majoiity. 
by  his  sentiments,  as  much  as  lie  deh;:hteil 
them  by  his  talents.  Yet  there  never  was  an 
author  so  univers;illy  ami  warmly  aiiplauded, 
so  gently  admonished — so  kiiully  enlreated  to 
look  more  heedfully  to  his  opinions.  He  look 
the  praise,  as  u.suar,  and  rejectetl  the  advice. 
As  he  grew  in  fame  and  authority,  he  ai.'gra- 
vated  all  his  offences — clung  more  fondly  to 
all  he  had  been  reproacheii  with — and  only 
took  leave  of  Childe  Hitiold  to  ally  himself  to 
Don  Juan!  That  he  has  since  been  talked 
of,  in  public  and  in  private,  with  less  utimin- 
sled  admiration — that  his  name  is  now  men- 
tioned as  oflen  for  censure  as  for  praise — iind 
that  the  exultation  with  which  his  country- 
!  meti  once  hailed  the  greatest  of  our  living 
I  poets,  is  now  alloyed  by  the  recollection  of 
I  the  tendency  of  his  w  ritings — is  matter  of 
j  notoriety  to  all  the  world;  but  matter  of  sur- 
prise, we  should  imagine,  to  nobody  but  Lonl 
Byron  himwif. 

He  would  fain  persuade  himself,  indeeil, 
that    for   this  decline  of   his   popularity— or 
rather  this  stain  uixjii  its  lustre — lor  he  is  still 
I  jxinular  beyond  all  other  example — and  it  is 
'  only  because  he  is  s<j  tliat  we  feel  any  interest 
1  in  this  discussion, — he  is  indebted,  not  to  any 
[  actual  demerits  of  his  own,  but  to  tin'  jealousy 
I  of  those  he  has  supplanted,  the  envy  of  lho«« 
I  he  lias  outshone,  or  the  jwrty  rancour  of  those 
.urainsl  w  ho«c  corruptions  lie  has  teslilied  ;  — 
while,  at  other  times,  he  seems  inclined  to 
insinuate,  that  it  is  chielly  becau.se  he  is  a 
Gentleman  and  a  Nobleman  that  plebeian  cen- 
sors h'lve  conspired  to  bear  him  il»)wri  I     Wo 
scarcely  think,  howevei.  tkit   thes<!  theories 
will  pass  with  Lord  Byron  hinisell — wu  sue 


na 


POETRY. 


sure  they  will  pass  with  no  other  person. — 
They  are  so  manifestly  inconsistent,  as  mutu- 
ally to  destroy  each  other — and  so  weak,  as 
to  be  quite  insufhcient  to  account  for  the  fact, 
even  if  they  could  be  eliectually  combined 
for  that  purpose.  The  party  that  Lord  Byron 
has  chielly  offended,  bears  no  malice  to  Lords 
and  Gentlemen.  Against  its  rancour,  on  the 
contrary,  these  qualities  have  undoubtedly 
been  his  best  protection;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  them,  he  may  be  assured  that  he  would, 
long  ere  now,  have  been  shown  up  in  the 
pages  of  the  Quarterly,  with  the  same  candour 
and  liberality  that  has  there  been  exercised 
towards  his  friend  Lady  Morg-an.  That  the 
base  and  the  bigoted — those  whom  he  has 
darkened  by  his  glory,  spited  by  his  talent, 
or  mortified  by  his  neglect — have  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  prevailing  disaffection,  to  vent 
their  puny  malice  in  silly  nicknames  and  vul- 
gar scurrility,  is  natural  and  true.  But  Lord 
Byron  may  depend  upon  it,  that  the  dissatis- 
faction is  not  confined  to  them — and,  indeed, 
that  they  would  never  have  had  the  couiage 
to  assail  one  so  immeasurably  their  superior, 
if  he  had  not  at  once  made  himself  vulneia- 
ble  by  his  errors,  and  alienated  his  natural 
defenders  by  his  obstinate  adherence  to  them. 
We  are  not  bigots  or  rival  poets.  We  have 
not  been  detractors  from  Lord  Byron's  fame, 
nor  the  friends  of  his  detractors ;  and  we  tell 
him — far  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger — that 
we  verily  believe  the  great  body  of  the  Eng- 
lish nation — the  religious,  the  moral,  and  the 
candid  part  of  it — consider  the  tendency  of 
his  writings  to  be  immoral  and  pernicious — 
and  look  upon  his  perseverance  in  that  strain 
of  composition  with  regret  and  reprehension. 

He  has  no  priestlike  cant  or  priestlike  revil- 
ing to  apprehend  from  us.  We  do  not  charge 
him  with  being  either  a  disciple  or  an  apostle 
j)f  Satan ;  nor  do  we  describe  his  poetry  as  a 
mere  compound  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity. 
On  the  contrary,  we  are  inclined  to  believe 
that  he  wishes  well  to  the  happiness  of  man- 
kind— and  are  glad  to  testify,  that  his  poems 
abound  with  sentiments  of  great  dignity  and 
tenderness,  as  well  as  passages  of  infinite 
sublimity  and  beauty.  But  their  general 
tendency  we  believe  to  be  in  the  highest 
degree  pernicious ;  and  we  even  think  that  it 
is  chiefly  by  means  of  the  fine  and  lofty  sen- 
timents they  contain,  that  they  acquire  their 
most  fatal  power  of  corruption.  This  may 
sound  at  first,  perhaps,  like  a  paradox;  but 
we  are  mistaken  if  we  shall  not  make  it  in- 
telligible enough  in  the  end. 

We  think  there  are  indecencies  and  indeli- 
cacies, seductive  descriptions  and  profligate 
representations,  which  are  extremely  repre- 
hensible; and  also  audacious  speculations, 
and  erroneous  and  uncharitable  assertions, 
equally  indefensible.  But  if  these  had  stood 
alone,  and  if  the  whole  body  of  his  works 
had  been  made  up  of  gaudy  ribaldry  and 
flashy  scepticism,  the  mii^chief,  we  "think, 
would  have  been  much  less  than  it  is.  He  isi 
not  more  obscene,  perhai)s,  than  Dryden  or 
Prior,  and  other  classical  and  pardoned  wri- 
ters ;  nor  is  there  any  passage  in  the  history 


even  of  Don  Juan,  so  offensively  degrading: 
Tom  Jones'  afl'air  with  Lady  Bellaston.  ' 
is  no  doubt  a  wretched  apology  for  the  in 
cencies  of  a  man  of  genius,  that  equal  ii: 
cencies  have  been  forgiven  to  his  piedec 
sors:  But  ihe  precedent  of  lenity  might  h; 
been  followed ;  and  we  might  have  pas 
both  the  levity  and  the  voluptuousness- 
dangerous  warmth  of  his  romantic  siluatic 
and  the  scandal  of  his  cold-blooded  di&si 
tion.  It  might  not  have  been  so  easy  to 
over  his  dogmatic  scepticism — his  hard-h« 
ed  maxims  of  misanthropy — his  cold-blowlj 
and  eager  expositions  of  the  non-existence 
virtue  and  honour.  Even  this,  however,  mi 
have  been  comparatively  harmless,  if  it  i 
not  been  accompanied  by  that  which  i 
look,  at  first  sight,  as  a  palliation — the  Jre(]i 
presentment  of  the  most  touching  picture; 
tenderness,  generosity,  and  faith. 

The  charge  we  bring  against  Lord  Byi!' 
in  short,  is,  that  his  writings  have  a  tende: 
to  destroy  all  belief  in  the  reality  of  vi; 
— and    to    make    all    enthusiasm   and  ( 
stancy  of  affection  ridiculous ;  and  thi.<. 
so  much  by  direct   maxims   and   exanij 
of  an   imposing  or   seducing  kind,  as  by 
constant   exhibition   of    the   most    proli . 
heartlessness   in  the  persons  w  ho  had  I 
transiently  represented   as  actuated  b) 
purest  and  most  exalted  emotions— iand  in  , 
lessons  of  that  very  teacher  wh</had  b' 
hut  a  moment  before,  so  beautifully  path 
in  the  expression  of  the  loftiest  conceptii 
When  a  gay  voluptuary  descants,  somev 
too  freely,  on    the  intoxications  of  love 
wine,  we  ascribe  his  excesses  to  the  tiler 
cence  of  youthful  spirits,  and  do  not  cons 
him  as  seriously  impeaching  either  the  v: 
or  the  reality  of  the  severer  virtues;  ai. 
the  same  way,  when  the  satirist  deals  cut 'i 
sarcasms  against  the  sincerity  of  human  [■ 
fessions,  and  unmasks  the  secret  infirmn 
of  our  bosoms,  we  consider  this  as  aimi  : 
hypocrisy,   and   not   at  mankind  :   or,  at  . 
events,  and   in  either  case,  we  consider  • 
Sensualist  and  the  Misanthrope  aswandci  , 
each  in  his  own  delusion — and  are  conlci  I 
to   pity  those    who   have   never   known  v 
charms  of  a  tender  or  generous  aiiectio  '• 
The  true  antidote  to  such  seductive  or  re  • 
iiig  views  of  human  nature,  is  to  turn  tO|J 
scenes  of  its  nobleness  and  attraction  ;  ar.) 
reconcile  ourselves  again  to  our  kind,  by  '• 
ening  to  the  accents  of  pure  alftction  am  • 
corrnjitiblc  honour.    But  if  those  accents !  i' 
flowed  in  all  their  sweetness,  from  the  '  * 
lips  that  instantly  open  again   lo  mock   i 
blaspheme  them,  the  antidote  is  mingled   li 
the  poison,  and  the  draught  is  the  more  d  ifl 
ly  for  the  mixture  !  ji 

The  leveller  may  juirsue  his  orgies,  anc* 
wanton  display  her  enchantmcnt.s,  with  (li- 
parative  safety  to  those  around  tlum,  as  loi  j» 
they  know  or  believe  that  there  are  pureri;a 
higher  enjoyments,  and  teachers  and  fol  j'* 
ers  of  a  happier  way.  But  if  the  Priest  f 
from  the  altar,  with  persuasive  exhortatioi;* 
peace  and  pui  ity  still  trembling  on  his  ton  |f| 
to  join  familiarly  hi  the  grossest  and  most  > 


LORD  BVKON-S  TRAdKOIKS. 


82f 


fai    debauchery — if  the   Matron,   who  has 

cluneil  all  hearts  by  the  lovely  siuietimo- 

II 11  of  her  coiiju;jral  aiul   nuitenial  eiuiear- 

imits.  glides  out  from  the  circle  of  her  dul- 

dii.  and  iiives  bolil  and  shameless  way  to 

thtimost  abandoned  and  degradinji;  vices — 

ounolions  of  riitht  and  wrong  are  at  once 

coijDUnded — our  confidence  in  virtue  shaken 

■-%  to  [e  foundation — and  our  reliance  on  truth 

^'^nsossanltidelity  at  an  end  for  ever. 

^^ik     his  is  the  charge  which  we  bring  against 

~liij((4^Lo  Byron.   We  say  that,  under  some  strange 

'^MB.fgmilppreheiision  as  to  the  truth,  and  the  duty 

■    of  ]f)claiining  it.  he  has  exerted  all  the  jxjwers 

of  ;s  powerful  mind  to  convince  his  readers, 

bol,directly  and  indirectly,  that  all  ennobling 

-  pui|.uts,  and  disinteresteil  virtues,  are  mere 

.  de(|its  or  illusions — liollow  and  despicable 

.  mo.ceries  for  the  most  part,  and,  at  best,  but 

-aiiistyab  ious  follies.     Religion,  love,  jmtriotism, 

:-beaivalir,  devotion,  constancy,  ambition — all  are 

-  ifaliliito  e    laughed    at,   disbelieved  in,    and    de- 

ic-W^i  d  ! — iind  nothing  is  really  good,  so  far  as 

.:3:(Wean  irather.  but  a  succession  of  danirers  to 

Ptiijlie  blood,  and  of  banquets  and  intrigues 

to  f|jthe  it  ag-ain  !    If  this  doctrine  stood  alone, 

,  wii  its  examples,  it  would  revolt,  we  believe 

mo  than  it  would  seduce : — But  the  author 

of    has  the  unlucky  gift  of  personating  all 

,_tho'  sweet  and  lofty  illusions,  and  that  with 

,  sut  trrace  and  force,  and  truth  to  nature,  that 

it  i-mpossible  not  to  suppose,  for  the  time,  that 

.   he  amon:;  the  most  devoted  of  their  votaries — 

till  it'  casts  otf  the  character  with  a  jerk — and, 

,  theriument  after  he  has  moved  and  exahed  us 

^jljll^io  lie  very  height  of  our  conception,  resumes 

,iJji,i(,his{iockery  at  all  things  serious  or  sublime — 

.  aiuiets  us  down  at  once  on  some  coarse  joke, 

-hearted  sarcasm,  or  fierce  and  relentless 

■aality — as  if  on  purpose  to  show 

...J  i  -       Whoe'er  was  edified,  himself  was  not  " — 

or  I  demonstrate  practically  as  it  were,  and 

by  :aniple.  how  possible  it  is  to  have  all  fine 

'^''""  aninoble  feelings,  or  their  appearance,  for  a 

' '''"moent.  and  yet  retain  no  particle  of  respect 

'  for  lem — or  of  belief  in  their  intrinsic  worth 

or  I  rmanent  reality.     Thus,  we  have  an  iii- 

del  lie  but  very  clever  scene  of  young  Juan's 

coiealment  in  the  bed  of  an  amorous  matron, 

aiii  >f  the  torrent  of  "rattling  and  audacious 

'"I'Mice"  with  which  she  repels  the  too 

-  suspicions  of  her  jealous  lord.     All  this 

-    'rely  comic,  and  a  little  coarse: — Hut 

till,"  Mie  ])oet  chooses  to  make  this  shameless 

am  abandoned  woman  address  to  her  young 

gal  lit  an  epistle  breathing  the  very  spirit  of 

wa  J,  devoted,  pure,  and  unalterable  love — 

tin;  profaning   the  holiest   language  of   the 

.•-   hei,aiid  indirectly  associating  it  with  the 

mo   hateful  and  degratling  sensuality.     In 

*^<t*Iiki manner,  the  sublime  and  terrific  descrip- 

'  "' of  the  Shipwreck  is  strangely  and  dis- 

•igly  broken  by  traits  of  low  humour  anil 

I'Hiery; — ;ind  we  pass  immediately  from 

lii'lioansuf  an  aironismg  father  fainting  ovr-r 

liisimished  son,  to  facetious  .stories  of  Juan's 

bi'fing  a  paw  of  his  father's  dog — and  re- 

■^ik  fusLj  a  slice  of  his  tutor! — as  if  it  were  a 

^isi'  fin|thing  to  be  hard-hearted — and  pity  and 


fiiiiijii; 


comiMission  were  fit  only  to  be  laughed  at. 
In  the  same  spirit,  the  glorious  CXle  on  the 
aspirations  of  lireece  after  Liberty,  is  iiistuiil- 
ly  followed  up  by  a  strain  of  dull  and  cold- 
blooiled  ribalilry  ; — and  we  are  hurrnd  on 
from  the  distraclion  and  ch-alh  ol  Fhudee  to 
merry  scenes  of  intri^'ue  and  inasi|Ufiailing 
in  the  seniuho.  Thus  all  gmul  leeliii;:s  are 
excited  only  to  accustom  us  to  their  speedy 
and  comph'te  extinction  ;  and  we  are  brought 
back,  Irom  their  tninsieiit  and  theatrical  ex- 
hibition, to  the  staple  and  subMantial  doctrine 
of  the  work — the  non-existence  of  constancy 
in  women  or  honour  in  men,  and  the  folly  of 
expecting  to  meet  with  any  such  virtues,  or  of 
cultivating  them,  for  an  undeserving  world  • 
— and  all  this  mixed  up  with  so  nnu-h  wit  ana 
cleverness,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
as  to  make  it  irresistibly  pKa.HJint  and  plausi- 
ble— while  there  is  not  only  no  antidote  sup- 
plied, but  every  thing  that  might  liave  operated 
in  that  way  has  been  anticiiuited,  ami  pre- 
sented already  in  as  strong  and  engyging  a 
form  as  possible — but  under  such  associations 
as  to  rob  it  of  all  elhcacy,  or  even  turn  it  into 
an  auxiliary  of  the  poison. 

This  is  our  sincere  opinion  of  much  of  Lord 
Byron's  most  splendid  poetry — a  little  exagge- 
rateil  perhaps  in  the  expression,  from  a  desire 
to  make  our  exposition  clear  and  impressive 
— but,  in  substance,  we  think  merited  and 
correct.     We  have  already  said,  and  we  de- 
liberately repeat,  that  we  have  no  notion  that 
Lord  Byron  had  any  mischievous  intention  in 
these  publications — and  readily  accjuit  him  of 
any  wish  to  corrupt  the  morals  or  impair  the 
happiness  of  his  readers.     Such  a  wish,  in- 
deed, is  in  itself  altogether  inconceivable ;  but 
it  is  our  duty,  nevertheless,  to  say.  that  much 
of  what  he  has  published  appears  to  us  to  have 
this  tendency — and  that  we  are  ac(|uainted 
with  no  writings  so  well   calculated  to  ex- 
tinguish in  young  minds  all  generous  enthu- 
siasm and   gentle  affection — all    respect  for 
I  them.selves,  and  all  love  for  their  kind — to 
make  them  practise  and  profess  hardily  what 
it    teaches   them  to   suspect  in  others — and 
j  actually  to  persuade  them  that  it  is  wise  and 
manly  and  knowing  to  laugh,  not  only  at  self- 
I  denial  and  restraint,  but  at  all  aspiring  ambi- 
i  tion,  and  all  warm  and  constant  alfection. 
!      How  opp<Jsite  to  this  is  the  system,  or  the 
;  temp«'r,  of  the  great  author  of  Waverley — the 
'  only  living  individual  to  whom  Lord  Byron 
j  must  submit  to  be  ranked  as  inferior  in  genius 
'  — and  .still  more  de|)lorably  inferior  in  all  tliat 
I  makes    genius   either  amiable   in   its^df,   or 
us«>ful   to  s<icietv  !     With  all   his   unrivalled 
power  of  invention  ami  jmlijint'iit,  of  pathos 
ami  pleasjuitry,  the  tenor  of  his  s«-iitiments 
I  is  uniformly  generou.s,  indulgent,  and  i:ood- 
hurnonred  ;  and  so  remote  from  the  biltrrness 
I  of  misjinthropy,  that  he  never  indulges  in  sar- 
casm, and   ."carctdy,  in  any  case,  carries  his 
merriment  so  far  as  derision.     But  the  pecu- 
liaritv  by  which  lie  stands  mn.st  broadly  and 
j)rondly  distinguished   from    Litfd    Byron    is, 
that,  bef'inning  as  hi;  freijufiilly  dots,  with 
some  ludicrous  or  satirical  them<!,  he  never 
I  fails  to  raise  out  of  it  some  feehngs  of  a  gener- 
2  c  2 


330 


POETRY, 


ous  or  gentle  kind,  and  to  end  bj'  exciting  our 
tender  pity,  or  deep  respect,  for  ihose  very 
individuals  or  classes  of  persons  who  seemed 
at  lirst  to  be  brought  on  the  stage  for  our  mere 
sport  and  amusement — thus  making  the  ludi- 
crous itself  subservient  to  the  cause  of  be- 
nevolence— and  inculcating,  at  every  turn, 
and  as  the  true  end  and  result  of  all  his  trials 
and  e.\perirnents.  the  love  of  our  kind,  and 
the  duty  and  delight  of  a  cordial  and  geimine 
symputhy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  every 
condition  of  men.  It  seems  to  be  Lord  Byron's 
way,  on  the  contrary,  never  to  excite  a  kind 
or  a  noble  sentiment,  without  making  haste  to 
obhterate  it  by  a  torrent  of  unfeeling  mockery 
or  relentless  abuse,  and  taking  pains  to  show- 
how  well  those  passing  fantasies  may  be  re- 
conciled to  a  system  of  resolute  misanthropy, 


[  or  so  managed  as  even  to  enhance  its  mt  j 

I  or  confirm  its  truth.    With  what  different  i! 

sations;  accordingly,  do  we  read  the  work  if 

;  those  two  great  writers! — With  the  one  e 

.  seem  to  share  a  gay  and  gorgeous  banqu  - 

j  with  the  other,  a  wild  and  dangerous  in  i- 

cation.     Let  Lord  Byron  bethink  him  of  i3 

I  contrast — and  its  causes  and  effects.    Thdh 

j  he  scorns  the  precepts,  and  defies  the  ceii  e 

I  of  ordinary  men,  he  may  yet  be  moved  b  u 

example  of  his  only  superior! — In  the  n  n 

.time,  we  have  endeavoured  Ic  joint  ouie 

canker  that  stains  the  splend.il  llowersoljs 

I  poetry — or,  rather,  the  serp(  nt  that  lurk;> 

neath  them.     If  it  will  not  listen  to  the  \-e 

of  the  charmer,  that  brilliant  garden,  gav  id 

glorious  as  it  is,  must  be  deserted,  an  tg 

existence  deplored,  as  a  snare  to  the  unv  y. 


(:?lugust,   1S17.) 

Manfred ;  a  Dramatic  Poem.     By  Lord  Bvron.     8vo.  pp.  75.     London:   ISH. 


This  is  a  very  strange — not  a  very  pleasing 
— but  unquestionably  a  very  powerful  and 
most  poetical  production.  The  noble  author, 
we  find,  still  deals  with  that  dark  and  over- 
awing Spirit,  by  whose  aid  he  has  so  often 
subdued  the  minds  of  his  readers,  and  in 
whose  might  he  has  wrought  so  many  won- 
ders. In  Manfred,  we  recognise  at  once  the 
gloom  and  potency  of  that  soul  which  burned 
and  blasted  and  fed  upon  itself  in  Harold,  and 
Conrad,  and  Lara — and  which  comes  again  in 
this  piece,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger — 
more  proud,  perhaps,  and  more  awful  than 
ever — but  with  the  fiercer  traits  of  its  misan- 
thropy subdued,  as  it  were,  and  quenched  in 
the  gloom  of  a  deeper  despondency.  Man- 
fred does  not.  like  Conrad  and  Lara,  wreak 
the  anguish  of  his  burning  heart  in  the  dan- 
gers and  daring  of  desperate  and  predatory 
war — aor  seek  to  drown  bitter  thoughts  in  the 
tumult  of  perpetual  contention — nor  yet,  like 
Harold,  does  he  sweep  over  the  peopled  scenes 
of  the  earth  with  high  disdain  aird  aversion, 
and  make  his  survey  of  the  business  and 
pleasures  and  studies  of  man  an  occasion  for 
taunts  and  sarcasms,  and  the  food  of  an  im- 
measurable spleen.  He  is  fixed  by  the  genius 
of  the  poet  in  the  majestic  solitudes  of  the 
central  Alps — where,  from  his  youth  up.  he 
has  lived  in  proud  but  calm  seclusion  from 
the  ways  of  men;  conversing  only  with  the 
magnificent  forms  and  aspects  of  nature  by 
which  he  is  surrounded,  and  with  the  Spirits 
of  the  Elements  over  whom  he  has  acquired 
dominion,  by  the  secret  and  unhallowed  stu- 
dies of  Sorcery  and  Magic.  He  is  averse 
indeed  from  mankind,  and  scorns  the  low  and 
frivolous  nature  to  which  he  belongs:  but  he 
cherishes  no  animosity  or  hostility  to  that 
feeble  race.  Their  concerns  excite  no  inter- 
est— their  pursuits  no  sympathy — their  joys 
no  envy.  It  is  irksome  and  vexatious  for  him 
to  be  crossed  by  them  in  his  melancholy  mus- 


:  ings, — but  he  treats  them  withgentlenesd 
pity ;  and,  except  when  stung  to  impat  xt 

!  by  too  importunate  an  intrusion,  is  kirn  nd 
considerate  of  the  comforts  of  all  around  m. 
This  piece  is  properly  entitled  a  Dra  tic 
Poem — for  it  is  merely  poetical,  and  is  ai 
all  a  drama  or  play  in  the  modern  accep  'on 

;  of  the  term.  It  has  no  action  :  no  plot-  nd 
no  characters:  Manfred  merely  muse;nd 
suffers  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  ;Ii8 
distresses'are  the  same  at  the  opening  (ie 
scene  and  at  its  closing — and  thetemlin 
which  they  are  borne  is  the  same.  A  I  ter 
and  a  priest,  and  some  domestics,  are  r'fed 
introduced  ;  but  they  have  no  oonnectioi  ith 
the  passions  or  sufferings  on  which  the  er- 
est  depends  ;  and  Manfred  is  substai 
alone  throughout  the  whole  piec^.  He 
no  communion  but  with  the  memory  i 
B(Mng  he  had  loved  ;  and  the  immortal  1  rilj 
whom  he  evokes  to  reproach  wiih  his  n  ;ry, 
and  their  inability  to  relieve  it.  The  "un- 
earthly beings  approach  nearer  to  thec'tic- 
ter  of  persons  of  the  drama — but  stil  if)' 
are  but  choral  accompaniments  to  th.H-r- 
formance;  and  Manfred  is.  in  reality,  lli'iiiy 
actor  and  sufferer  on  the  scene.    Todel'falf 

I  his  character  indeed — to  render  roncc  ible 
his  feelings — is  plainly  the  whole  see;  and 
design  of  the  poem  :  and  the  conceptii  and 
execution  are,  in  this  respect,  equal!)-  nif- 
able.  It  is  a  grand  and  terrific  visk  )f  a 
being  invested  with  superhuman  aftr'lef, 
in  order  that  he  maybe  capableof  mm  han 
human  sufferings,  and  be  sustained  la*' 
them  by  more  than  human  force  and  iiae. 
To  object  to  the  improbability  of  the  ^tion 
is,  we  think,  to  mistake  the  end  and  iiof 
the  author.  Probabilities,  we  apprehej ,  a'^ 
not  enter  at  all  into   his  consideratio -lu« 


object  was,  to  produce  effect — to  exa 


and 


lilate  the  character  through  whom  he  ,i8tc 
interest  or  appal  us — and  To  raise  our  c  oep- 


LORD  BVRONS  MANKIiKO. 


88! 


:':<.  of  it,  by  all  the  helps  that  couKl  be  di-riveil 

i;ti  the  majesty  of  nature,  or  the  dread  of 

-<  fLitrslitioii.     It  is  eiioii>,'li.  tlierefore,  if  the 

|"^!«ll!|^  siLtiou  ill  which  he  has  placed  him  is  con- 

i  ilj!;»;-  cciibU — and  if  the  supposition  of  its  reality 

c    ances  our  emotions  and  kindles  our  im- 

i .  uition  ; — for  it  is  Manfred  only  that  we  are 

;iii'd   to  ffar,  to  pity,  or  ailniire.     If  \vi' 

.1  oiR-e  conceive  of  him  as  a  real  existiMicc, 

enter  into  the  depth  and  the  hei-^ht  of  his 

;    e  and  his  sorrows,  we  may  deal  as  we 

sy  withtiie  means  thai  have  been  used  to 

iiish  us  with  this  impression,  or  to  enable 

i.>|ii  attain  to  this  conception.     We  may  re- 

■^d  them  but  as  types,  or  metaphors,  or  allc- 

.    i:.ies:    But  he  is  the  thing  to  be  expressed; 

i;et(i|j(;a!ithe  feehnjj  and  the  intellect,  of  which  all 

ih  1'  are  but  shadows. 

lie  enents,  such  as  they  are,  upon  which 
thipiecp  may  he  said  to  turn,  have  all  taken 
Ion:;   before    its   openiiiir.  and  aie  but 


tic<  nf  the   agonising  being   to  whom  they 


re 

>M(!oii:l? 


V  shadowed  out  in  the  casual  communica- 


Nobly  born  and  tniined  in  the  castle 
s  ancestors,  he  had  very  soon  sequestered 


M^POpij, 


s.'lf  from  the  society  of  men  ;  and,  after 

ling  through  the  common  circle  of  hurn.in 

Hi's.  had  dfdiciited  himself  to  the  worship 

1-'  wild  magniticence  of  nature,  and  to 

e    forbiddt-n    studies   by   which   he   had 

ifd  to  command  its  presiding  powers. — 

companion,  however,  he  had,  in  all  his 

s  and  enjoyments — a  female  of  kindred 

us,  taste,  and  capacity — lovely  too  beyond 

oveliness;  but,  as  we  gather,  too  nearly 

rcked  to  be  lawfully  beloved.     The  catas- 

tifhe  of  their  unhappy  passion  is  insinuated 

le  darkest  and  most  ambiguous  terms — 

that  we  make  out  is,  that  she  died  un- 

i'ly  and    by  violence,  on  account  of  this 

tl  attachment — though  not  by  the  act  of 

Ibject.     He  killed   her.  he  .says,  not  with 

iiaiul — but  his  heart ;  and   her  bUnid  was 

.-a  1.  though  not  by  him!     From  that  hour, 

WetKlil  is  a  burden  to  him,  and  memory  a  torture 

kijiffg  — 1,1  ihc'  e.\tent  of  his  power  and  knowledge 

-  •  es  only  to  show  him  the  hopelessness  and 

|!i  ssness  of  his  mis»'ry. 

j!ie  j)iece  opens  with  his  evocation  of  the 

jits  of  the  Elements,   from  whom  he  de- 

ijds  the  boon  of  foriretfulness — and  ques- 

'-  th-'m  as  to  his  own   immortality.     The 

•iie  is  in  his  Gothic  tower  at  midnight — and 

with  a    solilo!]iiy  that   reveals  at  once 

i!  !  of  the  speaker,  and  the  genius  of 

author. 


uiJllie"''! 


in  hmp  mii«i  h-"  replfnish'd — hut  pven  ihen 
'.  will  noi  burn  bo  loni;  O"  I  mii"l  wnicli  I 
lilosophy  niiH  srience.  and  ilii'  ppririgo 
wonder,  nnd  the  wisdum  of  ihr  world, 
inve  cis/ivi-d.  and  in  my  mind  there  in 
power  lo  make  tlifse  guiiifrt  to  iieclf — 
It  they  avail  not :  I  have  ih 
!>d  I  have  m^t  with  citnri 
lit  thin  avail'd  not  :  I  have  had  mv  f<H'i<. 
|id  none  have  hatflpd,  many  fallen  before  me — 
ill  this  avail'd  not  : — fJood,  or  evil,  lil'<:. 
I)wer8,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beingu, 
jive  been  to  me  as  rain  iinio  the  sandii, 
rficfi  that  all-nnmclps.")  hour  I     I  have  no  dread, 
ad  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  naiural  fear, 


one  men  good, 
n  amonp  mrn- 


Nor  fluittriiiK  throb,  that  benn    with  hopes  or 

winhus. 
Or  lurking  love  oraomoihing  on  liie  earth.— 
Now  to  my  nuik." — pp.  7,  H. 

When  his  evocation  is  completed,  a  ntnr  in 
seen  at  the  far  end  of  a  gJillery.  and  celestial 
voice,- are  heard  reciting  u  gnat  deal  of  jMK-try. 
.Mter  they  have  answered  that  tlie  nift  of 
oblivion  is  not  at  their  diiipoMil.  and  iiitimuted 
that  death  itself  could  not  be(*low  it  on  him, 
thev  a^«k  if  he  has  any  further  demand  lo 
make  of  them.     Me  answers, 

"No,   none:    yet   »tay ! — one   niomeni.  ere  wo 
I  would  l)ihold  ye  tare  to  lai-e.      I  hear         (part — 
Yo\ir  voici »,  jtwcet  and  nirliiiirholy  Miinds 
.As  music  on  the  waters  ;  nnd  I  are 
The  steady  aapcrt  of  a  rlrar  iar^e  star; 
Bill  noihiiip  more.     Apfiroarh  me  as  ve  are. 
Or  one.  or  nil.  in  your  uocuMoin'd  lornis. 

Spirit.  We  have  no  lorms  t.ryoi.d  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  prinriplc  : 
Bui  «-ho<is<-  a  torm — in  lint  we  will  npi>«ar. 

Man.   I  have  no  choire  ;  iht  re  is  no  form  onennh 
Hideous  or  heautiliil  to  me.     l^i  him 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fining. — Come! 

Sevnlh  Sjiiril.      {ApfM-ariiip  in  Ihr  rhape  of  a 
hitnili/ulfimiilt  fif;iin-.)     Rehold  I 

?[.  Oh  Ood'l  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
An  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  iiiieht  be  mo'Jt  hiippy. — I  will  clasp  thoe. 
And  we  again  will  be —  [Tlir  figiirr  ranifhes. 

My  heart  is  crush'd  ! 
[!\lA.VFnED/<i//.<  scnsclesii." — pp.  15,  16. 

The  first  scene  of  this  e.vtraordinary  per- 
formance ends  with  a  long  poetical  imninta- 
tion,  sung  by  the  invisible  spirits  over  the 
sen.seless  victim  before  them.  The  second 
shows  him  in  the  bri^^ht  suii?hiiie  of  morning, 
!  on  the  top  of  the  Jungtiau  mountain,  medi- 
I  fating  self-destruction — and  uttering  forth  in 
■  solitude  as  usual  the  voice  of  his  habitual 
j  desj)air,  and  those  intermingled  feelings  of 
I  love  and  admiration  for  the  irratid  and  beauti- 
ful objects  with  which  he  is  environed,  that 
I  unconsi'iously  win  him  back  lo  a  certain 
kindly  symiialhy  with  Jiuman  enjoyments. 

"  .Vrtw.  The  -ipiriis  I  liav"  ruined  abandon  me — . 
The  spells  uhi-  h  I  hive  studied  baffle  me — 
The  remedy  I  ri  ck'd  ol  tortured  me  ; 
I  lian  no  more  on  superhuman  aid  : 
It  haih  no  pow«r  upon  ihe  prist,  and  for 
I  'I'll'  liiiiire,  nil  the  past  be  );ull  'd  in  darkness, 
',  It  IS  not  of  my  iwarch. — Mv  moiher  Rarih  ! 
And  thou  lrfnh  brcriKin),'  Day.  and  you.  ye  Mnun- 
\Shv  are  ye  beamitiil  ?     I  cannot  love  ye.      [tains 
And  thou,  the  lineht  eve  of  ilie  universe. 
That  opi  nest  over  nil.  and  unto  all 
Art  adeliifht — thou  siiin'si  not  on  my  heart. 
And  vou.  ye  f raps,  upon  whose  e.xirem>-  edj;o 
I  H'and.  find  on  ibe  torrent's  brink  buiieiilli 
Ifehold  ihe  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  slirulis 
In  di7.zuiess  of  (iisianri- ;  when  a  leap. 
A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 
My  brenot  upon  |is  rocky  Ixisom's  bed 
■|'o  resi  for  ever — wherefore  do  I  pmise  f 

Thou  win^'ed  and  cioud-clcaving  minmter. 

\,^n  rnsir  patMrt 
Whose  happy  flishi  is  hichesi  into  heaven. 
Well  may's!  thou  swoop  so  near  n»e— I  should  b» 
Tbv  prey,  and  Koriru  tliine  ea(jlcls!   thou  nr!  gona 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  ihee  ;  but  thino  ejra 
Yet  piercc«i  downward,  onward,  or  above 
With  a  pervading  vision. —  Heautidil ! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 


332 


POETRY. 


How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself ! 

But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 

To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence  make 

A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 

The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride, 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are — what  they  name  not  to  themselves. 

And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark  !  the  note, 

[The  fhtpheriV x  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  day-s  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable— pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes ! — Oh,  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  livins;  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment — born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me  1" — pp.  2(3 — 22. 

At  thi.s  period  of  his  soliloquy,  he  is  de- 
scried by  a  Chamois  hunter,  who  overhears 
its  continuance. 

"  To  be  thus — 
Grey-hair'd  with  anguish.  like  these  blasted  pines, 
Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 
A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root. 
Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay — 
And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus, 
Having  been  otherwise ! 

Ye  f  opting  crags  of  ice! 
Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me! 
I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath. 
Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict;  but  ye  pass, 
And  only  fall  on  things  which  still  would  live; 
On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 
The  mists  boil  up  aro\ind  the  glaciers  !  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore. 
Heaped  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles — I  am  siddy!" 
pp.  23,  24. 

Ju«t  as  he  is  about  to  sprin^r  from  the  clifT, 
he  is  seized  by  the  hunter,  who  forces  him 
away  from  the  dangerous  place  in  the  midst 
of  the  rising  tempest.  In  the  second  act,  we 
fiiid  him  in  the  cottage  of  this  peasant,  and  in 
a  still  wilder  state  of  disorder.  His  host 
offers  him  wine  ;  but,  upon  looking  at  the  cup, 
he  exclaims — 

"  Away,  away  !  there's  blood  upon  the  brim  ! 
Will  it  then  never — never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

C.  Hun.    What   dost   thou    mean  ?    thy   senses 
wander  frotn  thee. 

3Ian.  I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood  1  the  pure  warm 
stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart. 
And  loved  each  other — as  we  should  not  love  ! — 
And  this  was  shed :  but  still  it  rises  up, 
Colouring  the  clouds  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven. 
Where  them  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be  ! 

C.  Hun.   Man  of  strange  words,  and  some  half- 
maddening  sin,  ^c. 

Mati.  Think'st  thou  e.xistence  doth  depeiia  on 
It  doth  ;  but  actions  are  our  epochs:  mine       [time  ? 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable, 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  .«ands  on  the  shore. 
Innumerable  atoms  ;  and  one  desert. 
Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves  break. 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks. 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness. 

C.Hun.  Alas!   he's  mad — but  yet    I   must  not 
leave  him. 

Ma7i.  I  would  I  were — for  then  the  things  I  see 
Would  be  but  a  distempered  dream. 


C.Hun.  What  is  ■ 

That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st  upon 

Man.  Mvself.  and  thee — a  peasant  of  the  Al  - 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home. 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud  and  free  ; 
Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep;  thy  u\ 
By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless ;  hopes 
Of  cheerlul  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave, 
With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf, 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph; 
This  do  1  see — and  then  I  look  within — 
It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch'd  alreadyi 
pp.  27— 
The  following  scene  is  one  of  the  jjt 
poetical   and   most  sweetly  written   in  e 
poem.    There  is  a  still  and  delicious  wile  y 
in  the  tranquillity  and  seclusion  of  the  pi ;, 
I  and  the  celestial  beauty  of  the  Being  » 
reveals  herself  in  the  midst  of  these  vie 
enchantments.     In  a  deep  valley  among  « 
mountains,  Manfred  appears  alone  befc  a 
lofty  cataract,  pealing  in  the  quiet  suns  le 
down   the   still  and   everlasting  rocks  j  d 
says — 

"  It  is  not  noon — the  sunbow's  rays  still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 
.-^nd  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along. 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.     No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness ;    I 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude,  ( 

And  with  the  .Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call  her.; 

[He  takes  same  of  the  water  into  the  palm .  » 
hand,  andfliiiss  it  in  the  air,  muttering  tii- 
juration.  After  a  pause,  the  Witch  01  tl 
Ai.rs  rises  hcnealh  the  arch  of  the  sunlx  ^ 
the  torrerit.]  I 

Mdji.  Beautiful  Spirit !  with  thv  hair  of  lig,' 
And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory  !  in  whose  form    I 
The  charms  of  Earth's  least-mortal  daughters  m 
To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 
Of  purer  elements  ;  while  the  hues  of  youth,- 
Carnaiion'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 
Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  Tier  mother's  heart. 
Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  le  i 
I'pon  the  lolty  glacier's  virgin  snow, 
^1  he  blush  of  earth  embracing  with  her  heave  - 
Tinge  ihy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 
The  bcnuiies  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  •«! 
Beautitul  .Spirit !  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 
Wherein  is  glass'd  serenity  of  soul. 
Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 
I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  Son 
Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  Powers  permi 
At  limes  to  commune  with  them — if  that  he 
AvaW  him  of  his  spells — to  call  thee  thus. 
And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  Powers  which  give  thee  p  «r! 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts. 
And  deeds  of  good  and  ill.  extreme  in  both. 
Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufTerings. 
I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou  will  le' 

Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty  !—nothiii'ur- 
ther."— pp.  31,  32. 

There  is  something  exquisitely  beauti;  J" 
our  taste,  in  all  this  passage;  and  bot  hj" 
apparition  and  the  dialogue  are  so  man  ?'. 
that  the  sense  of  their  improbability  is  al- 
lowed up  in  that  of  their  beauty ; — and,  ih- 
I  out  actually  believing  that  such  spirit"  a«' 
or  communicate  themselves,  we  feel  fc  n^ 
moment  as  if  we  stood  in  their  precce- 


>«iloot'i 


\  \A.at    follows,   though   extiomely  i-H)\\<riul, 


mil  ci 
il 
h 


'toctii 


LORD  RVrxONS  MANFRRP. 


333 


more  laboiin-il   iii  tht*  writiiiL',   has  li'ss 

.^.rm  for  us.     He  tells  his  celestial  auditor 

u  jf'    ih  brief  story  of  his  misfortune  ;  and  when 

'"  ^mentions  "the  death  of  the  onJv  beini:  he 


0(4  j  hi  ever  loveil.  the  beauteous  Spirit  breaks  in 
^;lio|i  wh  her  superhuman  pride. 


'one  of) 
If  W8  B' 

'Jelicioin 


"  And  ti->r  tliis — 
A|<'ing  of  ihe  race  ihoii  dost  ijespise, 

order  which  ihiiie  own  would  rise  nbo%-e, 
;\\ng  svith  us  and  ours,  ihou  dus!  forepo 
eifis  of  our  prent  knowledge,  and  shrink'st  hack 

irecreant  morialiiy Away  I  [hour — 

'an.  Dau?liicr  of  .\ir  I    I  loll  ihee.  since  that 
words  arc  breaih  ! — I^ook  on  ine  in  my  sleep, 
vaich  my  waichings — Come  and  sit  by  me  I 


Msoliiude  is  solitude  no  more. 


[wopled  with  the  Furies  ! — I  have  guash'd 
teeili  ill  darkne.es  till  returnint;  morn, 
n  cursed  myself  till  simsct  ; — I  have  pray'd 
madness  as  a  l>Us.«in<: — 'tis  denied  me. 


'    I  live  affronted  Death — hut  in  the  war 


O  lemrn'8  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 

fatal  things  pass'd  harmless." — pp.  M.  37. 


ar!  aid 

Aeqiiitii  A 
tetinjtii 

he  third  scene  is  the  boldest  in  the  exhi- 

bi)n   of  supernatural    persons.     The   three 

mti    f^''"'^*'  '^"'^'  ^f'mesis  meet,  at  mitlniijht,  on 

\j,,jjjthtop  of  the  Alps,  on  their  way  to  the  hall 

iiitulj  of[^rimanes.  and  sinp  stranpe  ililties  to  the 

II,  of  their  mischiefs  wrought  among  men. 

.\i  lesis  being  rather  late,  thus  apologizes  for 

^^   kilning  them  waiting. 

iiofbliu*' 'vas  detain'd  repairing  shattered  thrones, 
i»We,  M Tying  fools,  restoring  dynasties, 
wdiviit  Amsing  men  upon  their  enemies. 
1.-1  ill  ai  A I  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge; 
(rffll()ll()iG<lin2  the  wise  to  madness  ;  from  the  dull 
(jirtiillflShiing  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
j(,  lileWjAlsh;  tor  they  were  waxing  out  of  date, 
srdi«/li(i  Ai  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves, 
Tiveigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
rhiiflii  ^1  eedom.  the  forbidden  Iruit. — Away  ! 

niwkii  ^^  ^'^e  ouieiaid  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds !" 
.Muli?  P-  '14. 

,"2j  his  we  think  is  out  of  place  at  least,  if  we 
iLi'iti  *"' '  "°^  ^>  *'"'  ^^  character ;  and  though  the 
..jioilertiau  or  may  tell  us  that  human  calamities  are 
■mer'suSna  r;illy  subjects  of  derision  to  the  Ministers 
!iisiio»,  of  engeance,  yet  we  cannot  be  persuaded 
M«iikwthi  satirical  and  political  allusion^  are  at  all 

kits  ^*^  P^^'t>Je  with  the  feelings  and  impressions 
'y,„  wl;h  it  was  here  his  business  to  maintain. 
%4,  ^^^"  ^^^  Fatal  Sisters  are  ainiiii  assembled 
yiliiv,  be  re  the  throne  of  Arimanes,  Manfred  suil- 
iniJoi  (ley  appears  among  them,  and  refuses  the 
»(rPo««f  pMrations  which  they  require.  The  first 
ixH^Dt  iny  thus  loftily  announces  him. 

t;,         "  lince  of  the  Powers  invi.oible  !     This  man 
m'  In    no  common  order,  as  his  port 


ifWf  A I 


'i0  ^v 


Ii 

p¥,  Tl 


presence  here  denote  ;  his  sufferings 


ari^^i//^  Hf J  been  of  an  iminonal  nature,  like 

(rtH**  f^^  own  ;  his  knowledge  and  his  powers  and  will. 

Afar  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 

I'll  clogs  the  eihcrial  essence,  have  been  such 
Jiflij!-*  Af  lay  hath  seldom  borne;  his  aspiration* 

"■    been  beyond  the  dwellers  o(  ihc  eanh, 


Ai  ihey  have  only  taucht  him  what  we  know— 


M  lb-  hill)  n  thing,  which  I,  wlio  pity  not. 
Yei  pard'iii  iho«o  whr)  pity.      He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  ii  may  be — bi-  i(  so,  or  not, 
No  other  ,'^|iirii  m  tlii.t  region  haih 
A  >oui  like  h  ^ — or  |>ower  upon  liii  soul." 

pp.  •»:,  IH. 

.•\t  his  desire,  tin-  L'host  of  hii4  beloved  A»- 
t.irte  is  liieii  eallid  up,  uiid  appeals — but  re- 
liises  to  sjieak  at  the  romiiuuul  of  thi-  I'owi'r.s 
who  luive  niis«'d  her.  till  ^hlllfred  breaks  out 
into  this  pafwioiiHte  and  a'^oniHing  add[es.<t. 

"  Hear  me,  hear  me — 
.\ninrte '  my  beloved  '  sprnk  to  me  I 
I  have  8<i  much  cndiirtd — so  much  endure^ 
Look  on  me  '  the  isravr  Inth  luii  .  hnni.'<  d  thee  more 
Than  I  niii  changed  l^.r  thee.      Ihou  lovedsl  me 
T»K)  much,  ns  1  loved  tin  e  :   we  were  nul  made 
To  tenure  thus  each  oihtr,  ihoiigii  it  were 
Tlie  deaillie.xt  sin  to  love  n»  we  have  loved. 
Say  ihnt  ihou  loadi'si  me  not — that  I  do  bear 
This  piininhtuenl  for  boih — ihai  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  l)lissed — and  that  1  shall  die! 
F'or  biiberio  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  l)ind  me  in  e.xistence — in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  Irom  inimorlnliiy — 
A  future  like  the  i>Bst  I  I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  apk,  nor  what  I  seek  : 
I  feel  but  what  thou  an — and  wlial  I  am  ; 
.\nd  I  would  hear  yet  once,  before  I  perish. 
The  voice  which  was  my  music.— Speak  to  me ! 
F'or  I  have  call'd  on  ihec  in  the  still  night, 
.Startled    the   slumbering   birds   from    the    hush'd 

boughs, 
.\nd  woke    ihe  mountain  wolves,  and  made  ihc 
-Ai^quninied  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name,      [caves 
Which  answered  me — many  ilimcs  answered  nic — 
.''pirits  and  men — but  thou  wen  silent  still  I 
Yet  speak  to  me!  I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 
.\nd  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  ihee. 
.Speak  to  me  I  1  have  wandered  o'er  ihe  eanh 
And  never  found  thy  likeness. — Speak  10  me! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  lor  me  : 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone. — 
Speak  to  me  !  though  it  be  in  wrath  ;— but  say — 
I  reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 
This  once  ! — once  more  ' 

Phiinlom  of  Atlartf.  Manfred  ! 

Man.  Say  on.  Bay  on — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice  !  [ill». 

Phan.  Manfred !  To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly 
Farpwell ! 

^ftln.        Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven  f 

Phnn.  Farewell  ! 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

riiiin.    Farewell  ! 

Man.  <  )iie  word  for  mercy  !   Soy,  thou  lovest  me  ! 

Phau.   Manfred  ! 

[Thr  Spirit  of  AsTARTE  flifamyrari. 

Nrm.  She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recalled." 
pp.  50— .12. 

The  last  act,  though  in  many  passages  verv 
beautifully  written,  »«'ems  to  us  less  jKJwerfuI. 
It  passes  altogether  in  Manfred's  castle,  and 
is  chieHy  occupied  in  two  loim  conver!«iitions 
between  him  and  a  holy  abbot,  who  comes  to 
exhort  and  absolve  him.  and  whose  counsel 
he  np'ls  with  thi"  most  reverent  srentleness, 
and  bill  few  bursts  of  dignity  and  priiie.  The 
following  passages  are  full  of  jKietry  ami 
feeling. 

"  .\y — father!  1  have  had  those  earthly  visions. 

.•\nil  noble  Bspirsiioiis  in  iiiv  yoiiili ; 

To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  ruber  mc.i, 

'I'he  cnli^hlener  of  nations:  and  to  rinr 

F  knew  not  whither — il  might  bo  lo  fn'l ; 

But  fall,  even  as  tlie  mouniain-eainm.'. 

Wh'rii  hiiTing  leapt  from  its  ni'-re  daxzlr  :•  .>•  ..;ht, 

Bven  in  ihe  loaiiiing  ■■.rengib  of  iia  ubyu, 


JB« 


334 


POETRY, 


(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  thai  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  re-ascended  skies), 
Lies  low  hut  mighty  siill.— But  this  is  past! 
My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Ahbott.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men  ? 

M'ln.  Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life  ; 
And  yet  n;U  cruel;  for  I  would  iioi  make, 
But  find  a  desolation  : — like  the  wind, 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  Simoom, 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o'er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast. 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves, 
And  set'kcih  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought. 
But  being  met  is  deadly  !     Such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  c.xist'ence  ;  but  there  came 
ThiuHS  in  my  path  which  are  no  more." — 

pp.  59,  60. 

There  is  also  a  fine  address  to  the  setting 
sun — and  a  singular  miscellaneous  soliloquy; 
in  which  one  of  the  authors  Roman  recol- 
lections is  brought  in,  we  must  say  somewhat 
annaturally. 

"  The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. —  Beautiful ! 
[  lintrrr  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hnth  been  to  me  a  tnore  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world  ! 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering — upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Colosseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Roine  ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watchdog  bayed  beyond  the  'fiber;  and 
More  near,  from  out  the  Coesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon  ;  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon  !  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light. 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 
.\s  'twere,  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  I" — 

pp.  68,  69. 

In  his  dying  hour  he  is  beset  with  Demons, 
who  pretend  to  claim  him  as  their  forfeit; — 
but  he  indignantly  and  victoriously  disputes 
their  claim,  and  asserts  his  freedom  from 
their  thraldom. 

"  Must  crimes  be  punish'd  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals  ? — Back  to  thy  hell  ! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel ; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know  : 
What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  I'rom  thine  : 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  ill — derives 
No  colour  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 
But  is  al)sorb'd  in  suflcrancc  or  in  joy. 
Born  from  the  knowledge  ot  its  own  desert. 
ThoiL  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not 

tempt  me : 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hcrenfter — Back,  ye  Innicd  fiends  ! 
The  hand  of  death  i?!on  me — but  not  yours! 

[The  Demons  disappear." — pp.  74,  75. 

There  are  great  faults,  it  must  be  admitted, 


in  this  poem  ; — but  it  is  undoubtedly  a  rfc 
jof  genius  and  originality.  Its  worst  \\ 
perhaps,  is,  that  it  fatigues  and  overaw(  us 
by  the  uniformity  of  its  terror  and  solem  y, 
Another  is  the  painful  and  offensive  nalu  of 
the  circumstance  on  which  its  distress  is  tj. 
mately  founded.  It  all  springs  from  th( ig. 
appointment  or  fatal  issue  of  an  inces;  us 
passion  ;  and  incest,  according  to  our  mt  m 
ideas — for  it  was  otherwise  in  antiquit  -is 
not  a  thing  to  be  at  all  brought  befon  he 
imagination.  The  lyrical  songs  of  the  S  its 
are  too  long;  and  not  all  excellent.  ']>n 
is  something  of  pedantry  in  them  now  nd 
then  ;  and  even  Manfred  deals  in  cla  \'A 
allusions  a  little  too  much.  If  we  we  to 
consider  it  as  a  proper  drama,  or  ever  j a 
finished  poem,  we  should  be  obliged  to  id, 
that  it  is  far  too  indistinct  and  unsatisfain-. 
But  this  we  take  to  be  according  to  the  dgn 
and  conception  of  the  author.  He  coi  tn- 
plated  but  a  dim  and  magnificent  sketclfa 
subject  which  did  not  admit  of  a  more  iju- 
rate  drawing,  or  more  brilliant  colouring  Its 
obscurity  is  a  part  of  its  grandeur; — ai  (he 
darkness  that  rests  upon  it,,  and  thes''ky 
distance  in  which  it  is  lost,  are  all  devi  j  to 
increase  its  majesty,  to  stimulate  our.iri' 
osity.  and  to  impress  us  Avith  deeper  aw 

It  is  suggested,  in  an  ingenious  pape'ni 
late  Number  of  the  Edinburgh  Mag  ne, 
that  the  general  conception  of  thispieciind 
much  of  what  is  excellent  in  the  maniiof 
its  execution,  have  been  borrowed  fron:;the 
Tragical  History  of  Dr.  Faustus"  of  Mai^e; 
and  a  variety  of  passages  are  quoted,  jich 
the  author  considers  as  similar,  and,  in  any 
respects,  superior  to  others  in  the  poem  '"oi* 
us.  We  cannot  agree  in  the  general  ifin.* 
of  this' conclusion  ; — but  there  is,  no  d(''t,  a 
certain  resemblance,  both  in  some  ithe 
topics  that  are  suggested,  and  in  the  (t  of 
the  diction  in  which  they  are  e.vpijSed 
Thus,  to  induce  Faustus  to  persist  in  1,  un- 
lawful studies,  he  is  told  that  the  Sp;  3  ci 
the  Elements  will  serve  him — 

"  Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  m;  , 
Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  ayrie  brow 
Than   have  the  svhite  breasts  of  the  Qu('8  ol 
Love." 

And  again,  when  the  amorous  sorcere  oiti- 
mands  Helen  of  Troy  to  be  revived. ;  his 
paramour,  he  addresses  her,  on  her  f  ■  Sf 
pearance,  in  these  rapturous  lines —     ' 

"  VVns  this  the  face  that  launcht  a  thousan  liip«' 
And  burn'd  the  toplesse  towers  of  Ilium?    \ 
Sweet  Helen  !  make  me  immortal  with  a  k  ! 
Her  lips  siicke  forth  my  soule  ! — see  where  i  f  ■ 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  souleagi  '! 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  that  lip,  ; 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
O  !  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  ayre,    ' 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thotisand  siarres;   , 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  skye;; 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms  !"  | 

The  catastrophe,  too,  is  bewailed  in  vfiSBOl 
great  elegance  and  classical  beauty.    ! 

"  Ctit  is  ihe  branch  that  might  have  gro' e  fun 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bougii  l^W' 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  i  »• 


TOtnk 

:i  escela 


mkmk 
ikitolaii 
rllaDtcok 
i  gnniieiii'i- 
tflit,aiiilS 

0  stimiililfi 


RELIQl'ES  OK  KOBKIH'  iUIINS. 


usiiis  is  2!one  t — regard  his  hellish  liill. 
hose  fieiidlul  tenure  may  exhort  ihe  wise, 
(ily  lo  wonder  at  unlawlul  things." 

But  these,  ami  many  other  smooth  and 
hciful  verses  in  this  curious  old  dniina, 
]jve  nothing,  we  think,  against  the  orij^i- 
liitv  of  Manfred  ;  for  there  is  nolhini;  to  be 
tjnil  there  of  the  pride,  the  ahstnictiim,  and 
t'  heart-rooted  misery  in  which  that  oriiji- 
1  lity  consists.  Fau^^tus  is  a  vulipir  sorcerer, 
tnpted  to  sell  his  soul  to  the  Hevil  for  the 
cliuary  price  of  sensual  pleasure,  and  earthly 
I  iver  ami  glory — and  who  shrinks  aiul  shutf- 
i  -s  in  agonv  when  the  forfeit  comes  to  be 
e  icted.  The  style,  too.  of  Marlowe,  thousjh 
eitint  and  scholarlike,  Is  weak  atid  childish 
chipared  with  the  (lepth  and  force  of  much 

what  we  have  quoted  from  Lord  Byron; 
.i|i  the  di.^irusling  bulfoonery  and  low  farce 
ol which  his  piece  is  princiitally  made  up. 


place  it  much  ruore  in  conlrn^t,  than  in  any 
terms  of  com{NiriM)n.  with  that  of  hi!«  nobh? 
sncces«ur.  In  the  tone  and  pitch  of  the  com- 
position, a(«  well  us  in  the  character  of  the 
diction  in  the  more  sol*  mn  jmrts,  the  piece 
belbre  us  n-mind*  n*  much  more  of  the  Pro- 
metheus of  it'schylus.  tlum  of  any  moro 
modern  performance  'I'lw  In-meiidous  soli- 
tude of  the  principal  ]M'riM>ii  — ihe  «tipertiatnral 
beiiiirs  with  whom  iilune  h<  holdn  rntnmnnion 
— the  ■luilt — the  tinnness -the  mi.'M'iN — are 
all  jHiints  of  resemblance,  to  whicli  the 
irratult  ur  of  the  jXH-tic  imagery  only  given  a 
more  striking  eflecf.  The  thief  ititieri*nces 
are.  that  the  subject  of  the  (Jreek  jwet  wn» 
s;incti(ied  ami  exalted  by  the  established  be- 
lief of  his  connIr\  ;  and  that  his  teiioit  are 
nowhere  tempered  with  the  sweetness  which 
breathes  tVoin  so  many  pus.s;iges  of  hiH  Eng- 
lish rival. 


{3annavv,,  ISCIH.) 

lHqties  of  Robert  Burns,  fo;i5i.'!ri«£r  chicjly  of  (hi'sinal  Letters.  Poems,  and  Cntud  Ubser- 
atious  on  Scottish  Songs.  Collected  and  publisficd  by  R.  H.  Cromkk.  8vo.  pp.  450. 
,ondon:  1808. 


i£iiiW|ai». 
Ltrsintlieiii 
>  ID  the  pi 
3tlhereis,» 
tolhiiia 
;4a»JiiiS 
;  they  aiti 
Bsto'peis^! 
loidliialfe 

ITfllllll- 

ailieiiifB* 


l^- 


jk'Rxs  is  certainly  by  far  the  greatest  of  our 

[tical  prodigies — from  Stephen  Duck  down 

iThomas    l)ermody.     They  are   forgotten 

ady;   or  only  remembered   for  derision. 

the  name  of  Burns,  if  we  are  not  mis- 

tifcn,  has  not  yet  "gathered  all  its  fame;" 

I  will  endure  long  after  those  circumstan- 

are  forgotten  which  contributed  to  its  fust 

nfjricly.    So  much  indeed  are  we  impressed 

h  a  sense  of  his  merit.s,  that  we  cannot 

ii  ->  thinking  it  a  deroixation  from  them  to 

ctf^ider  him  as  a  prodiiry  at  all :  and  are  con- 

\\  thai  he  will  never  be  ri:.'htly  estimated 

jvjet.  till  that  vulgar  wonder  be  entirely 

ritessed   which  was  raised  on   his   having 

bin  a  ploughman.     It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that 

h  ivas  bom  in  an  humble  station  :  and  that 

m;h  of  his  early  life  was  devoted  to  severe 

la)nr,  ami  to  the  society  of  his  fellow-labour- 

et|    But  he  was  not  himself  either  unedu- 

d  or  illiterate;  and  was  placed  in  asitua- 

more  favourable.  perhap.s,  to  the  develop- 

it  of  CTfat  poetical  talents,  than  any  other 

ch  could  nave  been  assigned  him.     He 

taught,  at  a  ver)-  early  age,  to  read  and 

p;  a-id  soon  after  acquired  a  com[x>lent 

'  '    '  >•  of  French,  together  with  the  ele- 

I>atin  and  Geometry.     His  taste  for 

as  encouraged  by  "his  parents  and 

Ills  associates:  and,  before  he  had 

.rK)3"d  a  sint'le  stanza,  he  was  not 

.'iar  with  many  prose  writers,  but 

•   intimately  acquainted   with    Pope, 

lire,  and  Thomson,  than  nine  tenths 

;..      .  )\\{\i  that  now  leave  our  schools  for 

ih|im!versity.     Those  authors,  indeed,  with 

sii  t»  oil  oolfeclionsof  soni's,  and  the  lives  of 

Hrnibal  and  of  Sir  William  Wallace,  were 

.................... 


I  childhood  :  and,  co-operating  with  the  solitude 
i  of  his  rural  occupations,  were  sufficient  to 
I  rouse  his  ardent  and  ambitious  mind  to  tlie 
!  love  and  the  practice  of  poetry.  He  had  about 
!  as  much  scholarship,  in  short,  we  imagine,  as 
Shakespeare;  and  far  belter  models  to  foim 
his  ear  to  harmony,  and  train  his  fancy  to 
'  graceful  invention. 

We  ventured,  on  a  former  occasion,  to  say 
.somethini:  of  the  effects  of  regular  education, 
and  of  the  general  diffusion  of  literature,  in 
repressing  the  vigour  and  originality  of  all 
kinds  of  mental  e.xertion.  That  sj)ecuIation 
'  was  jierhaps  carried  somewhat  too  fat :  but 
I  if  the  mradox  have  proof  any  where,  it  is  in 
its  application  to  poetry.  Among  well  edu- 
caleil  people,  the  standard  writers  of  this 
;  description  are  at  once  so  venerat«>d  and  so 
familiar,  that  it  is  thout;ht  equally  minossible 
to  rival  them,  as  lo  write  vertes  without  at- 
tempting it.  If  there  be  one  dt-gree  of  fame 
I  which  excites  emulation,  there  is  another 
I  w  hich  leads  to  despair :  Nor  can  we  conceive 
;  any  one  less  likely  to  be  added  to  the  short 
lisi  of  original  poets,  than  a  young  man  of  fine 
fancy  and  delicate  taste,  who  has  acquired  a 
hiv'h  reli.'^h  for  poetry,  by  jHTUsing  the  most 
celebrated  writers,  and  eonversii.g  with  the 
most  intelligiMit  judges.  The  head  of  such  a 
jX'rs<in  is  filleil,  of  coursi*,  wiih  all  the  splendid 
j)ass.i:fe8  of  ancient  and  modern  aiilhois.  and 
with  the  fiiii>  and  fastidious  remarks  which 
have  been  maile  even  on  those  pas.siges. 
When  he  turns  his  eyes,  therefore,  on  hid 
own  conceptions  or  designs,  they  can  scarro- 
ly  fail  to  apiM'ar  rude  and  contemptible.  He 
is  ivr|»etually  haunted  and  dej-re^H  d  by  the 
idc-al  present?  of  thos*-  ;iriat  niasli  rs,  «i;d 
,  their  exacting  critics.    He  is  aworu  to  uhat 


336 


POETRY. 


comparisons  his  productions  \vill  be  subjected 
among  his  own  friends  and  associates;  and 
recollects  the  derision  with  which  so  many 
rash  adventurers  have  been  chased  back  to 
their  obscurity.  Thus,  the  merit  of  his  great 
predecessors  chills,  instead  of  encouraging  his 
ardour ;  and  the  illustrious  names  which  have 
already  reached  to  the  summit  of  excellence, 
act  like  the  tall  and  spreading  trees  of  the 
forest,  which  overshadow  and  strangle  the 
saplings  which  may  have  struck  root  in  the 
soil  below — and  afford  etlicient  shelter  to 
nothing  but  creepers  and  parasites. 

There  is,  no  doubt,  in  some  few  individuals, 
•■'that  strong  divinity  of  soul" — that  decided 
and  irresistible  vocation  to  glory,  wliich,  in 
spite  of  all  these  obstructions,  calls  oat.  per- 
haps once  or  twice  in  a  century,  a  bold  and 
original  poet  from  the  herd  of  scholars  and 
academical  literati.  But  the  natural  tendency 
of  their  studies,  and  by  far  their  most  com- 
mon effect,  is  to  repress  originality,  and  dis- 
courage enterprise  ;  and  either  to  change  those 
whom  nature  meant  for  poets,  into  mere  read- 
ers of  poetry,  or  to  bring  them  out  in  the  form 
of  witty  parodists,  or  ingenious  imitators.  In- 
dependent of  the  reasons  which  have  been 
already  suggested,  it  will  perliaps  be  found, 
too,  that  necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention, 
in  this  as  well  as  in  the  more  vulgar  arts ;  or. 
at  least,  that  inventive  genius  will  frequently 
slumber  in  inaction,  where  the  preceding  in- 
genuity has  in  part  supplied  the  wants  of  the 
owner.  A  solitary  and  uninstructed  man. 
with  lively  feelings  and  an  inflammable  imagi- 
nation, will  often  be  irresistibly  led  to  exer- 
cise those  gifts,  and  to  occupy  and  relieve  his 
mind  in  poetical  composition  :  But  if  his  edu- 
cation, his  reading,  and  his  society  supply 
him  with  an  abundant  store  of  images  and 
emotions,  he  will  probably  think  but  little  of 
those  internal  resources,  and  feed  his  mind 
contentedly  with  what  has  been  provided  by 
the  industry  of  others. 

To  say  nothing,  therefore,  of  the  distractions 
and  the  dissipation  of  mind  that  belong  to  the 
commerce  of  the  world,  nor  of  the  cares  of 
minute  accuracy  and  high  finishing  which  are 
I  imposed  on  the  professed  scholar,  there  seem 
\to  be  deeper  reasons  for  the  separation  of 
Wgiiiality  and  accomplishment:  and  for  the 
partiality  which  has  led  poetry  to  choose 
almost  all  her  prime  favourites  among  the  re- 
cluse and  uninstructed.  A  youth  of  quick 
parts,  in  short,  and  creative  fancy — with  just 
so  much  reading  as  to  guide  his  ambition,  and 
roughhew  his  notions  of  excellence — if  his  lot 
be  thrown  in  humble  retirement,  where  he 
has  no  reputation  to  lose,  and  ^^here  he  can 
easily  hope  to  excel  all  that  he  sees  around 
him,  is  much  more  likely,  we  think,  to  give 
himself  up  to  poetry,  and  to  train  himself  to 
habits  of  invention,  than  if  he  had  been  en- 
cumbered by  the  pretended  helps  of  extended 
study  and  literary  society. 

If  these  observations  "should  fail  to  strike 
of  themselves,  they  may  perhaps  derive  ad- 
ditional weight  from  considering  the  very  re- 
markable fact,  that  almost  al!  the  great  poets 
of  every  country  have  appeared  in  an  early 


stage  of  their  history,  and  m  a  period  c  . 
paratively  rude  and  unlettered.  Homer  v'l 
forth,  like  the  morning  star,  before  the  J;  j 
of  literature  in  Greece,  and  almost  all  ^ 
great  and  sublime  poets  of  modern  Euie 
are  already  between  two  and  three  hui^  j 
years  old.  Since  that  time,  although  big 
and  readers,  and  oiiponnuities  of  itadiiijr,  e 
multiplied  a  thousand  told,  we  have  imprc  d 
chiefly  in  point  and  terseness  of  expres;  j 
in  the  art  of  raillery,  and  in  clearness  J 
simplicity  of  thought.  Force,  richness,  J 
variety  of  invention,  are  now  at  least  as  e 
as  ever.^  But  the  literature  and  relinemei  f 
the  age'  does  not  exist  at  all  for  a  rustic  d 
illiterate  uidividual :  and,  consequently,  e 
present  time  is  to  him  what  the  rude  !;•« 
of  old  were  to  the  vigorous  writers  w  h 
adorned  them. 

But  though,  for  these  and  for  other  rca:  j, 
we  can  see  no  propriety  in  regjirdir.g  e 
poetry  of  Burns  chieliy  as  the  v  onderful '  k 
of  a  peasant,  and  thus  admiring  it  muc  n 
the  same  way  as  if  it  had  been  written  b 
his  toes;  yet  there  are  peculiarities  ii  u 
works  which  remind  us  of  the  lowness  o  ii 
origin,  and  faults  for  w  hich  the  defects  o  ii 
education  aflord  an  obvious  cause,  if  i  ,i 
'  legitimate  apology.  In  forming  a  corret  * 
timate  of  these  works,  it  is  necessary  to  e 
I  into  account  tho.se  peculiarities. 
I  The  first  is,  the  undiciplined  harshnessjdj 
i  acrimony  of  his  invective.  The  great  Isll 
!  of  polished  life  is  the  delicacy,  and  eveiie 
generosity  of  its  ho.<til;ty — that  quality  vh 
is  still  the  characteristic,  as  it  furnishiMf 
denomination,  of  a  gentleman — that  prii.  le 
which  forbids  us  to  attack  the  defencelt;U 
;  strike  the  fallen,  or  to  mangle  the  slain-  id 
enjoins  us.  in  forging  the  shafts  of  sati 'lo 
j  increase  the  polish  exactly  as  we  add  to  'ir 
keenness  or  their  weight.  For  lliis,  a.*  fU 
I  as  for  other  things,  we  are  indebttd  to  clil- 
ry  ;  and  of  this  JBurns  had  none.  His  in  li- 
ons and  amiable  biographer  has  spoke  e- 
peatedly  in  praise  of  his  talents  for  s;n  - 
we  think,  with  a  most  unhappy  parti  )'• 
His  epigrams  and  lampoons  appt  ar  to  uj  ne 
and  all,  unworthy  of  him ; — oflensive  ,m 
their  extreme  coarseness  and  violence- fld 
contemptible  from  their  want  of  wit  or  il- 
liancy.  They  seem  to  have  been  writte  lol 
out  of  playful  malice  or  virtuous  indigi:  on, 
but  out  of  "fierce  and  ungovernable  anger  jis 
whole  raillery  consists  in  railing;  ain  iw 
satirical  vein  displays  itself  chiefly  in  c  ng 
names  and  in  swearing.  We  .«ay  this  n  il)' 
with  a  reference  to  his  personalitic  s.  In  ny 
of  his  more  general  representations  of  Ii  li 
manners,  there  is  no  doubt  much  that  m.be 
called  satirical;  mixed  up  with  adniiiab  tu- 
mour, and  description  of  inimitable  viv'ty- 
There  is  a  similar  want  of  polish,  or  at,«l 
of  respectfulnes.*,  in  the  geneial  tone  ,'M 
gallantry.  He  has  writtenVitli  more  pa  onl 
perhaps,  and  more  variety  of  natural  It  "?J 
on  the  subject  of  love,  than  any  other  oef 
whatever— but  with  a  fervour  that  is  ne- 
times  indelicate,  and  seldom  accommc  iw  , 
to  the   timidity' and   ••sweet    austere  'in- 


RELIOrr.S  OF  ROHKUT  BURNS. 


337 


ire"'  of  women  of  refiiuMiient.     Hf 
isseil  ailinirablv  the  iVt-Iin^s  of  an 


■^ltliiifini[ 


..  Im.Iiu 


rdly  cviT  be  justly 
1  peasiuit,   who,  howevt-r  rcliiu'il  or  [  lu'^rh-cl   tht'  oriliiiary  ^. 


ami  that  thi>  i'xcur<»  of  im]v>tiiouB  fcelinj;  inn 


it  he  may  be.  always  approai-hcs  his 

ess  on  a  fooling  of  equality  :   but  has 

r  caupht  that  tone  of  chivalions  p;-allantry 

oinj  wt?!!  uniformly  abiises  itself  m  the  presence 

b  of^U'  object  of  its  devotion.     Accordingly, 

rill  of  suinir  for  a  smile,  or  mt'ltiiiir  in  a 

his  mu.se  deals  in  iiothin:;  but   locked 

1   aces  anil  inidnijrhl  rencontres;  juid.  even 

complimentary  effusions  to  ladies  of 

hest  mnk.  is  for  straining  them  to  the 

of  her  impetuous  votary.     It   is  easy. 

rlingly.  to  see  from  his  correspondence, 

many  of  his  female  jxitronessj's  shrunk 

,i    iiu:  the  vehement  familiarity  of  his  admini- 

lioj:  and  there  are  even  .-Hime  traits  in   the 

;  I  vojmes before  us.  from  which  we  can  trather. 

I,  he  resented   the  .•shyness  and  estran^re- 

:  to  which  those  feelinirs  srave  rise,  with 

.;  a>t  as  little  chivalry  as  he  had  .shown  in 

,fjl,ji.^      It  the  leadinir  vice  ni  Burns    character, 
"  anJlhe  cardinal  detonnity,  indeed,  of  all  his 
I  r([nctions.  was  his  contempt,  or  atfectation 
•itempt.  for  prudence,  decencv,  and  reg- 
y;   and  his  admiration  of  thoushtless- 
oddity,  and  vehement  sensibility; — his 
;".   in  short,  in  (he  dispensing  power  of 
i<  and  social   feeliiijj.  in  all  matters  of 
ity  and    common    sense.     This   is    the 
slang  of  the  worst  German   plays,  and 
•  west  of  our  town-made'  novels  :  nor  can 
hine  be  more  lamentable,  than  that    it 
I  have  found  a  |Kitron  in  such  a  man  .is 
-.  and  communicated  to  many  of  his  pro- 
Mis  a  character  of  immorality,  at  once 
.nptible  and  hateful.     It  is  but  too  true, 
<M'n  of  the  highest  genius  have  frequently 
iiiirried  by  their  jxissions  into  a  violation 
udence  and  duty ;  and  there  is  .s«)me- 
irenerous.  at  huist.  in  the  ajwlogy  which 
admirers  may  make  for  them,  on  the 
of   their  keener  feelings  and  habitual 
of  redeetion.     But  this  apolojiv.  which 
le  unsatisfactory  in  the  month  ofanother. 
incs  an  insult  a'ld  an  absurdity  whenever 
iceeds  from  their  own.     A  man  may  s:iy 
ril'i'of  k  friend,  that  he  is  a  noble-hearted  fellow 
t)  generous  to  be  just,  and  with  too  much 
to  be  always  prudent  and  lecular.    But 
mot  be  allowed  to  say  even  this  of  him- 
j  and  still  less  to  represent  himself  ns  a 
'•rained  sentimental  soul,  constantly  car- 
■I'.vay  by  fnie  fancies  and  visions  of  love 
iihilanthropy.  and  born  to  confound  and 
•ie   the  colil-blootled   sons  of  prudencf 
iibriety.  This  apolo^'y,  indeed,  evidently 
)ys  its"lf :    For  it  shows  that  conduct  to 
!•  result  of  delilierate  Ry.«tem,  which  it 
s  at  the  sjimi 


ilcadi'd  for  thoM-  who 

utu-H  of  life,  must   be 

•t- 


uJeWllii 


.v^b:!spi 


sjime  time  to  justify  as  the  fruit    indejx-ndenoe.    which   is  obtruded   U| 
i-re  lhou::hlless;iess  and  cjisnal  iniimlse.  I  ri'aders  of  Bums  in  almost  every  ]y.ii:i 
protestation's,  iherffore,  will  always  b< 
d.  as  they  deserve,  not  only  with  con- 


appjirent,  we  think,  even  to  the  legist  retli 
int»  of  tlio.oe  sons  of  fancy  and  song.  It  re- 
(|«ires  no  habit  of  deep  ihjnkini:.  nor  any  thing 
more,  indet-il.  than  the  inlormalionof  anhoneal 
heart,  to  |vn-cive  that  it  is  eniel  and  U\m'  to 
s|H'n<l.  in  vain  .su[K'tlluities,  that  moiity  which 
belon:.'sof  right  to  tin- pale  industrious  trades- 
man and  his  tamishiiig  infants:  or  that  it  in  a 
vile  pmstitution  of  laiiirnage,  to  talk  of  that 
mans  generosity  or  ^o<Minc,*s  of  Iwarl.  who 
sits  niving  about  triend.ship  and  |>hilanlhroj>y 
in  a  tavern,  while  his  wife-s  In-art  is  breakmg 
at  her  chi>erless  lire.side,  and  his  children 
pininil  in  s<ilitary  poverlv. 

This  pitiful  cant  of  careless  feeling  and 
ecct-nlric  genius,  accordiniriv.  has  never  found 
much  favour  in  the  eyes  of  knulish  .xcnte  ajid 
morality.  The  most  signal  ellcct  which  it 
ever  produced,  was  on  the  muddy  brains  of 
some  (Jerman  youth,  who  are  said  tti  have 
left  college  in  a  body  to  rob  on  the  highway  ! 
becau.se  Schiller  had  repreaentetl  the  captain 
of  a  gang  as  so  very  noble  a  creature. — But 
in  this  country,  we  iVdieve,  a  pre<lilection  for 
that  honourable  profession  must  have  pre- 
ceded this  admiration  of  the  charJicter.  The 
style  we  have  been  siH-nking  of,  accordingly, 
is  now  the  heroics  only  of  the  hulks  and  the 
house  of  correction:  ami  h.is  no  chance,  we 
suppose,  of  beini:  L'reatly  admired,  except  in 
the  farewell  speech  of  a  young  gentleman 
prepariiiiT  for  Botany  Bay. 

It  is  humiliating  to  think  how  deeply  Burns 
has  fallen  into  this  debasing  error.  He  is  jk-T- 
petually  makins  a  panule  of  his  thouchlless- 
ness.  inllammability.  and  imprudence,  and 
talking  with  much  complacency  and  e.\ulta- 
tion  of  the  oflence  he  has  occasioned  to  the 
sober  and  correct  }iart  of  mankind.  This 
odious  slaiiy  infects  almost  all  his  prose,  and 
a  very  great  pro|X)rtion  of  his  poetry  ;  and  is, 
we  are  persuaded,  the  chief,  if  not  the  only 
source  of  the  di.«giist  with  which,  in  snite  of 
his  genius,  we  know  that  he  is  reg;iriled  by 
many  very  competent  and  liberal  judi'es.  His 
ajwlo^y,  too.  we  are  willinc  to  believe,  is  to 
be  found  in  the  orieinal  lowness  of  his  situa- 
tion, and  the  slii:hl:iess  of  his  acquaintance 
with  the  world.  With  h'.s  talents  and  powers 
of  obs<?rvation,  he  could  not  have  8«*«'n  much 
of  the  b«»ings  who  echoed  this  ravinc-  without 
feeling  for  them  that  distrust  and  contempt 
which  would  have  made  him  blush  to  think 
he  had  ever  stretched  over  them  the  protect- 
ing shiehl  of  his  genius. 

.Akin  to  this  most  lamentable  trait  of  vul- 
;nirity,  and  inde<>d  in  srtmi'  measure  arising 
ut  of  it,  is  th;it  ix'nwtual  Ixiast  of  his  own 
H  obtruded   \i\w\   the 
ol  hi« 
writing's.     The  sentiment   itself  is  noMe.  an 
it  is  often  finely  e.vpres.sed  :— but  a  genth  rn... 


It  j.;n>. 
which 


but  with  incredulity;  and  their  mag- |  would  only  have  expressed  it  when  he  was 
nous  authors  set  down  as  determined  |  insidted  or  pn)Voked  ;  and  wouM  never  have 
^'ates,  who  seek  to  distruise  their  selfish-  I  maile  it  a  spontaneous  theme  to  thow  friends 

in  whose  estimation  he  felt  that  hi«  hoi.our 

8t(xxl  dear.     It  is  mixed   up,  too,   ui    Burns 

2D 


ler  a  name  somewhat  less  revolting, 
ost 
43 


'■  '^Tlijproliigacy  is  almost  always  selfishiies 


338 


POETRV, 


with  too  fierce  a  tone  of  defiance ;  and  indi- 
cates rather  the  pride  of  a  sturdy  peasant, 
than  the  cahn  and  natural  elevation  of  a 
generous  mind. 

The  last  of  the  symptoms  of  rusticity  which 
we  think  it  necessary  to  notice  in  the  works 
of  this  extraordinary  man,  is  that  frequent 
mistake  of  mere  exaggeration  and  violence. 
for  force  and  sublimity,  which  has  defaced 
80  much  of  his  prose  composition,  and  given 
an  air  of  heaviness  and  labour  to  a  good  deal 
of  his  .i^erious  poetry.  The  truth  is,  that  his 
forlc  was  in  humour  and  in  pathos — or  rather 
in  tenderness  of  feeling;  and  that  he  has  very 
seldom  succeeded,  either  where  mere  wit 
and  sprightliness,  or  where  great  energy  and 
■weight  of  sentiment  were  requisite.  He  had 
evidently  a  very  false  and  crude  notion  of 
what  constituted  strength  of  writing ;  and  in- 
stead of  that  simple  and  brief  directness 
which  stamps  the  character  of  vigour  upon 
every  syllable,  has  generally  had  recourse  to 
a  mere  accumulation  of  hyperbolical  expres- 
sions, which  encumber  the  diction  instead  of 
exalting  it.  and  show  the  determination  to  be 
impressive,  without  the  power  of  executing 
it.  This  error  also  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe 
entirely  to  the  defects  of  his  education.  The 
value  of  simplicity  in  the  expression  of  pas- 
sion, is  a  lesson,  we  believe,  of  nature  and  of 
genius ; — but  its  importance  in  mere  grave 
and  impressive  writing,  is  one  of  the  latest 
discoveries  of  rhetorical  experience. 

With  the  allowances  and  exceptions  we 
have  now  stated,  we  think  Burns  entitled  to 
the  rank  of  a  great  and  original  genius.  He 
has  in  all  his  compositions  great  force  of  con- 
ception; and  great  spirit  and  animation  in  its 
expression.  He  has  taken  a  large  range 
through  the  region  of  Fancy,  and  naturalized 
him.self  in  almost  all  her  climates.  He  has 
great  humour — great  powers  of  description — 
great  pathos — and  great  discrimination  of 
character.  Almost  every  thing  that  he  says 
has  spirit  and  originality  ;  and  every  thins'  that 
he  says  well,  is  characterized  by  a  charming 
facility,  which  gives  a  grace  even  to  occa- 
sional rudeness,  and  communicates  to  the 
reader  a  delightful  sympathy  with  the  sponta- 
neous soaring  and  conscious  inspiration  of  the 
poet. 

Considering  the  reception  which  these 
works  have  met  with  from  the  public,  and  the 
long  period  during  which  the  greater  part  of 
them  have  been  in  their  possession,  it  may 
appear  superflous  to  say  any  thing  as  to  their 
characteristic  or  peculiar  merit.  Though  the 
ultimate  judgment  of  the  public,  however,  be 
always  sound,  or  at  least  decisive  as  to  its 
general  result,  it  is  not  always  very  apparent 
upon  what  grounds  it  has  proceeded ;  nor  in 
conse(iuence  of  what,  or  in  spite  of  what,  it 
has  been  obtained.  In  Burns'  works  there  is 
much  to  censure,  as  well  as  much  to  praise ; 
and  as  time  has  not  yet  separated  his  ore  from 
its  dross,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  state,  in  a 
very  general  way.  what  we  presume  to  antici- 
pate as  the  result  of  this  se})aration.  Without 
pretending  to  enter  at  all  into  the  comparative 
merit  of  particular  passages  we  may  venture 


to  lay  it  down  as  our  opinion — that  hispoei 
is  far  superior  to  his  prose  ;  that  his  Scolt 
compositions  are  greatly  to  be  preferred  to 
English  ones ;  and  that  his  Songs  will  pro 
bly  outlive  all  his  other  productions.  Av(' 
few  remarks  on  each  of  these  subjects  v 
comprehend  almost  all  that  we  have  to  saj 
the  volumes  now  before  us. 

The  prose  works  of  Burns  consist  .aim 
entirely  of  his  letters.  They  bear,  as  well 
his  poetry,  the  seal  and  the  impress  of 
genius;  but  they  contain  much  more  ] 
taste,  and  are  written  with  far  more  appani 
labour.  His  poetry  was  almost  all  writ., 
primarily  from  feeling,  and  only  secondaij 
from  ambition.  His  letters  seem  to  havelx! 
nearly  all  composed  as  exercises,  and  for  c 
play.  There  are  few  of  them  Avrittenw' 
simplicity  or  plainness;  and  though  natu' 
enough  as  to  the  sentiment,  they  are  genera! 
very  strained  and  elaborate  in  the  expressi; 
A  very  great  proportion  of  them,  too,  rel 
neither  to  facts  nor  feelings  peculiarly  c 
nected  with  the  author  or  his  corresponuer 
but  are  made  up  of  general  declamat 
moral  reflections,  and  vagne  discussioiis- 
evidenlly  composed  for  the  sake  of  effect, 
frequently  introduced  with  long  complaint! i 
having  nothing  to  say,  and  of  the  neces, 
and  difficulty  of  letter-writing. 

By  far  the  best   of  those  comi^ositions. . 
such  as  we  should  consider  as  exceptions  t 
this  general  character — such  as  contain  si 
specific  infonnation  as  to  himself,  or  are;' 
gested  by  events  or  observations  directly 
plicable   to   his  correspondent.     One  p! 
best,  perhaps,  is  that  addressed  to  Dr.  ]M 
containing  an  account   of  his  early  liii 
which  Dr.  Currie  has  made  such  a  juiln 
use  in  his  Biogiapby.     It  is  written  with . 
clearness  and  characteristic  effect,  and 
tains  many  touches  of  easy  humour  and  i 
ral  eloquence.     We  are  struck,  as  we  ■ 
the    book    accidentallj-,   with   the    follo' . 
original  application  of  a  classical  imairt  ■ 
this  unlettered  rustic.     Talking  of  the  ' 
vague  aspirations  of  his  own  gigantic  n 
he  says — we  think  very  finely — '"1  h.M 
some  early  stirrings  of  ambition ;  but 
were  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  C; 
round  the  walls  of  his  cave!''     Of  his  ' 
letters,  those  addressed  to  Rlrs.  Dunlopjf; 
in  our  opinion,  by  far  the  best.     He  apf  |ti 
from  first  to  last,"  to  have  stood  somewhlin 
awe  of  this  excellent  lady ;  and  to  have  i* 
no  less  sensible  of  her  sound  judgTneni:iti 
strict  sense  of  proprietj-,  than  of  her  si'ij 
and  generous  partiality.     The  following!* 
sasrewe  think  is  striking  and  characteristi- 

.  1, 
"I  own  mypelf  80  little  a  Presbyterian,  h' 
approve  of  set  times  and  seasons  of  more  ihm  f" 
nary  acts  of  devotion,  for  breaking  in  on  thni  j'"' 
iiated  routine  of  life  and  thought  wiiich  isso,W 
reduce  our  exi-'ienre  to  a  kind  of  instinct,  oi;f 
sotnetiines.  and  with  some  minds,  to  a  sianl^'J 
little  superior  to  mere  machinery.  1 1 

"  This  dny  ;  the  fii-.st  Sunday  of  May;  a  bfl. 
bluo-.-sUyed  noon,  soinc  time  about  the  becil* 
and  a  hoary  moniintr  nvd  calm  sunny  day  alH'"* 
end  of  auiunin  ;— these,  time  out  of  mind  i»>» 
been  with  me  a  kind  of  holiday. 


RELIQUKS  OF  ROBERT  lU'R.VS. 


899 


1 1  believe  T  owe  ihis  to  that  plorious  pnpor  in  the 
S  ctaior.  ' 'I'he  Vision  of  Miraa;'  a  piece  that 
SI  ok  my  yoiiii!?  fjncy  l)cl"ore  I  was  onpaSlo  ol  li.\- 
i;  an  idea  lo  a  word  nl"  ihreu  sylinbles.  '  On  ihc 
■'  ijay  of  the  moon,  whii-h,  acoording  to  ihf  custom 
liny  forefathers.  I  iilways  kc<p  holy,  nlicr  ha\iiig 
willed  myself,  and  cfTiTed  iip  my  ntoniinij  devo- 
fjis.  I  ftsrended  ilie  hiyli  hill  of  Ra'^diit.  in  order  to 
pfji  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditmicni  and  prayer.' 

i  \\°e  know  nothing,  or  next  lo  iiothmg,  of  (he 
-, -lance  or  sirueiure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot  ae- 
■t  for  those  seeming  caprices  in  them,  that  tme 
ilJ  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  ihi^c.  or 
-  k  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  n  difl'rent 
a.  makes  no  e.\irai>rdinary  impression.  I  liavc 
s,>r>  favourite  tlowers  in  spring  ;  among  whicii  ure 
ihlriountain-diiisy,  the  harebell,  (he  fox-glovi',  tin- 
w  j  brier-rose,  the  budding  birch,  iind  Die  hoary 
liaihorii.  that  I  view  and  hang  over  with  particular 
iitht.  I  never  hear  the  loud,  solitary  wliisijc  of 
\\  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mi.xinjr 
a  nee  of  a  troop  of  grey  plover  in  an  auiumn;!! 
lining,  without  teeling  an  elevaiion  of  soul,  like 
i,>nthu.-iasni  of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my 
;.  friend,  lo  what  can  this  be  ow  iu^;  f  Are  wo  ii 
11?  of  machinrry.  which,  like  the  Kolian  liarp, 
,  live,  takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  acci- 
'■  I  Or  do  these  workings  argue  someihitiii 
^  :]in  us  above  the  trodden  clodf" — Vol.  ii.  pp. 

;',\-i97. 

0  thie  we  may  add  the  following  j-assage, 
is'  part,  indeed,  of  the  same  picture  : — 

There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me 
I  i — I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  pleasure — 
iforneihinff  which  exalts  me.  something  which 
■  ptures  me — than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered  side 
•  wood,  or  high  plantation,  in  a  cloudy  winier- 
I'and  hear  the  stormy  wind  howling  among  the 
■■■:•,  and  raving  over  the  plain  I  It  is  my  best 
rnn  for  devotion  :  my  mind  is  wrapt  up  in  a  kind 
I  ,iihugiasni  to  Him.  who,  in  the  pompous  lan- 
je  of  the  Hebrew  bard.  "  walks  on  the  wings 
L-  wind." — Vol.  ii.  p.  11. 

le  following  is  one  of  the  best  and  most 
tig  of  a  whole  series  of  eloquent  h3-po- 
i  riasra. 

■>Vfter  six  weeks'  confinement,  1  am  beginning 
'  '  alk  across  liie  room.     They  have  been  six  hor- 

1  weeks  ; — anguish   and   low  spirits   made  mc 
to  read,  write,  or  t'  ink, 
have  a  hundred  times  wished  that  one  could 
-pi  life  as  an  officer  resigns  a  cominission  :  for  I 
Id  not  lake  in  any  poor,  ignorant  wretch,  by 
/iff  out.     Lately  I  was  a  sixpenny  private  ;  and. 
.i]  knows,  a   miserable   soldier  enough:  now  I 
nh  to  the  campaign,  a  starving  cadet — a  little 
' !  conspicuously  wri'tchcd. 
!  am  ashamed  of  all  this  ;  for  thoimh  I  do  want 
'  irry  for  the  warfare  of  life,   I  could  wish,  like 
ij  other  soldiers,  to  have  as  much   fortitude  or 
nlng  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal  mv  cowardice." 
[  Vol.  ii.  pp.  127,  128. 

'he  of  the  most  strikins  loiters  in  the  col- 
'  hn.  and.  to  us.  one  of  the  most  inlpresi- 
-|is  the  earlii;«t  of  the  whole  scries;  bciii^ 
1  jessed  to  his  father  in  1781.  si\  or  seven 
:1>  before  his  name  had  been  heard  of  out 
:  I's  own  family.  The  author  was  then  a 
I'lnon  (kx-dre.sscr.  and  his  father  ^  poor 
;Q.nt; — yet  there  is  not  one  trail  of  vul- 

I'lrly.  either  in  the  thoueht  or  the  expression  ; 

'  ijon  the  contrary,  a  diiniitv  and   elevaiion 

jMitimeiit.   which   must   have   bi-en  con- 

Ijcd  as  of  good  omen  in  a  youth  of  much 

.  ii'3r  condition.     The  letter  is  as  follows: — 


"  Honoured  Sir, — I  have  purposelv  delayed  wri- 
ting, in  the  hope  that  I  should  havo  the  pb  inure  oi 
.SOCIO!;  vou  on  New-year's  Day;  but  work  conio« 
so  linrJ  upon  \\»,  that  I  do  not  choutie  to  be  nbHcni 
on  that  account,  as  well  as  for  nome  other  little 
reasons,  which  I  shall  tell  you  at  meeting.  ,My 
heahh  is  nearly  the  name  nn  when  vou  were  here, 
only  my  sleep  is  a  li'ile  notmdnr.  and,  on  the  w  hole. 
I  Qoi  rather  better  than  otherwise,  thoii|j;h  I  mend 
t\v  very  slow  dcgiec!*.  The  weakncM  of  my  nerves 
has  so  debiliiated  my  mind,  that  I  dare  neither  re- 
view pnsi  wants,  iinr  look  forward  into  (uiuriiy ;  for 
the  least  nnxieiy  or  perturbation  in  my  liream  pro- 
duces mosi  unhappy  rllV'cia  on  my  whole  Iranie. 
Someiimes,  indeed,  when  lor  an  limir  or  two  my 
spirits  are  a  liille  lij;hieiied,  1  glimmir  a  little  inti> 
futurity  :  but  my  principal,  and  indeed  my  only 
pleasurable  cmplovment.  is  looking  backwiirds  and 
for«  ards,  in  a  moral  and  relieious  way.  I  urn  qui'e 
triinsporied  at  the  ihoughi,  that  ere  long,  perhaps 
very  soon,  I  shiill  bid  an  eternal  ndieu  to  all  ilie 
p<iris,  and  iiuea<«iiu'8<«es,  and  disniiictudrii  of  tin* 
weary  life;  tor  I  assure  you  1  am  heartily  tired  (it 
it  ;  and,  if  1  d>>  not  very  much  deceive  mjself,  I 
could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  it. 

•The  soul,  unP8!>y,  ami  confin'd  al  lionio 
Kostii  and  expaUau-s  In  n  life  lo  ronir.' 

'It  is  tor  this  reason  I  am  more  pleaded  with 
•he  l.')tli,  Kith,  and  17th  versus  of  the  7th  chapter 
of  the  Krvflations.  tlian  with  any  ten  times  as 
many  verses  in  the  whole  Bibb-,  and  would  not  ex- 
change the  noble  enthu.'iiasm  with  which  they  in- 
spire ine  for  all  that  this  word  has  to  oiler.  .As  for 
this  world,  I  despair  of  ever  making  a  figure  in  it. 
I  am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the 
flutter  of  the  gay.  I  shall  never  apain  be  capnble 
of  entering  into  such  scenes.  Indeeil  I  am  alto- 
gether unconcerned  for  the  thoughts  of  (his  life.  I 
Ibresee  that  poverty  and  obscurity  probably  await 
me;  and  1  am  in  some  measure  prepared,  and 
daily  preparing  to  meet  them.  I  have  but  just  time 
and  paper  to  return  to  you  my  grateful  thanks  (or 
the  lessons  of  virtue  and  piety  you  have  given  me  ; 
which  were  too  mtich  neglected  at  the  lime  of 
giving  them,  but  which.  I  hope,  have  been  remem- 
bered ere  it  is  yet  loo  late." — Vol.  i.  pp.  '.'!• — 101. 

Before  proceeding  to  take  any  particular 
notice  of  his  jwetical  compositions,  we  mu5t 
take  leave  to  apprise  our  Southern  readers, 
that  all  his  best  pieces  are  written  in  Scotch; 
and  that  it  is  impossilde  for  them  to  form  any 
adeijuate  judgment  of  their  merits,  without  a 
pretty  long  residence  among  those  who  still 
use  that  lanjruage.  To  be  able  to  translate 
the  words,  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  know- 
ledfri'  that  is  necessary.  The  whole  yeiiius 
anti  idiom  of  the  lancuage  must  Ix;  familiar ; 
and  the  characters,  and  habit.s  and  as.<ocia- 
tiona  of  those  who  speak  it.  We  bey  leave 
too,  in  passing,  to  obse^^•e,  that  this  Scotch  is 
not  to  be  considered  as  u  provincial  dialect — 
the  vehicle  only  of  rustic  vulgarity  and  rude 
local  humour.  It  ib  the  language  of  a  v.  hole 
country — lontr  an  itidenfiideiit  kingdom,  and 
still  s»'paratn  in  laws,  character,  and  manners 
It  is  by  no  means  peculiar  lo  the  vulgar ;  but 
is  the  common  speech  of  the  whole  nation  in 
early  life — and,  with  many  of  its  most  ex- 
alted and  accomplished  individuals,  through- 
out iheir  whole  existence ;  and,  thouuh  it  be 
true  that,  in  later  times,  it  ha,s  been,  in  nomc 
measure,  laid  aside  by  the  more  ambitious 
ami  aspiring  of  the  present  genenition,  it  i.s 
still  recollected,  even  by  them,  as  the  larnilinr 
languafre  of  their  childhood,  and  of  ihuse  who 
were  the  earliest  objects  of  iheir  love  and 


340 


POETRY. 


veneration.    It  is  connected,  in  their  imagi- ' 
nation,  not  only  ^rith  that  olden  time  which  ' 
is  uniformly  conceived  as  more  pure,  lofty 
and  simple  than  the  present,  but  also  with  all 
the  soft  and  brieht  colours  of  remembered 
childhood   and   domestic  affection.      All    its 
phrases  conjure  up  images  of  schoolday  inno- 
cence, and  sports,  and  friendships  which  have 
no  pattern  in  succeeding  years.     Add  to  all 
this,  that  it  is  the  language  of  a  great  body  [ 
of  poetry,  with  which  almost  all  Scotchmen  j 
are  familiar ;   and,  in  particular,  of  a  great  | 
multitude  of  songs,  written  with  more  tender-  j 
nesS;  nature,  and  feeling,  than  any  other  lyric  i 
compositions  that  are  extant — and  we  may  , 
perhaps  be  allowed  to  say,  that  the  Scotch  is.  | 
in  reality,  a  highly  poetical  language ;  and  : 
that  it  is  an  ignorant,  as  well  as  an  illiberal  j 
prejudice,  which  would   seek  to  confound  it  j 
with  the  barbarous  dialects  of  Yorkshire  or  i 
Devon.     In   composing  his  Scottish  poems,  ; 
therefore.  Burns  did  not  merely  make  an  in-  ; 
stinctive  and  necessary  use  of  the  only  dialect  j 
he  could  employ.     The  last  letter  v."hich  we  ' 
have  quoted,  proves,  that  before  he  had  penned  | 
a  single  couplet,  he  could  write  in  the  dialect 
of  England  with  far  greater  purity  and  pro- 
prietylhan  nine  tenths  of  tho«e  who  arp  called 
well  educated  in  that  country.     He  wrote  in 
Scotch;  because  the  writings  which  he  most 
aspired  to   imitate  were   composed   in   that  j 
language :  and  it  is  evident,  from  the  varia-  ' 
tions  preserved  by  Dr.  Currie,  that  he  took 
much  greater  pains  with  the  beauty  and  purity 
of  his  expressions  in  Scotch  than  in  English: 
and,  every  one  who  understands  both,  must 
admit,  with  infinitely  better  success. 

But  thouirh  we  have  ventured  to  say  thus 
much  in  praise  of  the  Scottish  poetry  of  JBums. 
'.ve  cannot  presume  to  lay  many  specimens  of 
it  before  our  readers;  and.  in  the  few  extracts 
we  ma  v  be  tempted  to  make  from  the  volumes 
before  us,  shall  be  guided  more  by  a  desire  to 
pxhibit  what  may  be  intelligible  to  all  our 
readers,  than  by  a  feeling  of  what  is  in  itself 
of  the  highest  excellence. 

We  have  said  that  Bums  is  almost  equally 
distinguished  for  his  tenderness  and  his  hu- 
mour T — we  might  have  added,  for  a  faculty 
of  combining  them  both  in  the  same  subject, 
not  altogether  without  parallel  in  the  older 
poets  and  ballad-makers,  but  altoirether  sin- 
gular, we  think,  among  modern  writers.  The 
passases  of  pure  humour  are  entirely  Scot- 
tish— and  untranslateable.  They  consist  in 
the  most  picturrsque  representations  of  life 
and  manners,  enlivened,  and  even  exalted  by 
traits  of  exquisite  sagacity,  and  unexpected 
reflection.  His  tenderness  is  of  two  sorts ; 
that  which  is  combined  with  circumstances 
and  characters  of  humble,  and  sometimes  lu- 
dicrous simplicity:  and  that  which  is  pro- 
iluced  by  gloomy  and  distressful  impressions 
acting  on  a  mind  of  keen  sensibility.  The 
passages  which  belong  to  the  former  descrip- 
tion are,  we  think,  the  most  exquisite  and 
orijrinal,  and.  in  our  e.stimation,  indicate  the 
<rreatest  and  most  amiable  turn  of  genius; 
both  as  being  accompanied  by  fine  and  feeling 
pictures  of  humble  hfe,  and  as  requiring  that 


delicacy,  as  well  as  justness  of  conception  • 
which  alone  the  fastidiousness  of  an  ordin  • 
reader  can  be  reconciled  to  such  represei. 
tions.  The  exquisite  description  of  "'. 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night  '■  affords,  peihaps,  .. 
finest  example  of  this  sort  of  pathetic.  ; 
whole  beauty  cannot,  indeed,  be  discer  1 
but  by  those  whom  experience  has  enal  i 
to  judge  of  the  admirable  fidelity  and  ci . 
pleteness  of  the  picture.  But.  indepeni  t 
altogether  of  national  pecnliarities.  and  elj 
in  spite  of  the  obscurity  of  the  language.:; 
think  it  impossible  to  peruse  the  follov.j 
stanzas  without  feeling  the  force  of  ten- . 
ness  and  truth : — 

"  November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  SDgh; 

The  shorrning  w  inter-day  is  near  a  c'f»«e; 

The  miry  beasts  reireaiing  trae  the  pleiiali; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  ihnrrep': 
The  toil-worn  Cniicr  irae  his  labour  gees, 
Thif  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  h( 
Hoping  the  mom  in  ease  and  rest  to  spent 
And  weary,  o'er  ilie  moor,  his  course  does  b;  • 
ward  bend. 

"  At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view,.,  i 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree;         ! 

Th'  expectant  wee-thinss.  toddling,  stacher  V 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flicherin  noise  an' t;. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily, 

His  clean  hcarth-stane,  his  thriilie  wljie'ss  !, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  w^eary  carking  cares  beguile,  , 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  |. 

"  Belyve  the  eld'T  bairns  come  drapping  in,   ; 
At  service  out,  amang  ihe  tarmers  roun',' 
.Some  ca'  the  pleugh.  some  herd,  some  teni  ■ 

A  canna  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  gro', 
In  yoiithfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her^ 
Conies  hame, perhaps,  tosliew  a braw new|.ii. 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship' 

'  But  hark  I  a  rap  comes  genily  to  the  door;' 
Jenny,  wha  kens  ihe  meaning  o'  ihesan' 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  ihe  moo 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hai 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flaine 

Sparkle  in  Jeiniy'n  e'e.  and  flush  her  ch  .; 
With  heart-struck  an.xious  care. inquires  his  m. 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  atraid  to  speak ; 
Wecl  pleas'd,  the  mother  hears  its  nae  wild,  \}»- 

less  rake. 
"  Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  be 
A  srappan  youth  ;  he  laks  the  mother's  ;; 
Blvihe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  anje. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erffows  w  >)■• 

But  blate  and  laithfn',  -scarce  can  weelb<  «• 

The  mother,  wi"  a  woman's  wiles,  can  sp 

What   makes  the  youth  sae  bashtu'  a  s« 

grave ;  i'li !" 

Weel   pleas'd   to  think  her  bairn's  respect,  m 

•'  The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  fac 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wi,. 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace. 
The  big  ha'-Bihle,  ance  his  fathePs  pn 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lynrt  hafi'ets  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  «i 
{le  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care    W 
And  '  I.et  us  worship  GoD  !'  he  says,  wiih  «"» 

"  Thev  ohaunt  their  artless  notes  in  simple  •»■ 
They  tune   their  hearts,  by  far  the  'ftl*'- 
aim,'  &c. 


'  Bti.  jj^ 
"Ike  hip 


rxKLIQUKS  OF  ROIJKKT  HrRNS. 


«i  is  II  III 

S"«k!,II|i| 

"itdiesiiii 


ipjwfsiiiw 
Kueiilifi; 


rouf(ll)p)Jl|l 
r'tefwi!! 
.teM,!iS 

'WWIOIDI 

jiktjW 

INlklOllii 
■MniBit'i 


ijiiniJiif 


itiiiwli 


kli»«'"' 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  (heir  sev'ral  uny  ; 

The  youngling  coiiaijers  retire  to  rest : 
The  pareni  uuir  their  jtccnY  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Henven  the  wnrin  rciiue;)! 
Thai  [[f  who  stills  the  raveii'p  clnm'rons  nesi, 

And  decks  the  lilv  fair  in  How'ry  pridi-. 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  host, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  oiie«  provide  ; 
tft  chiefly,  in  their  hearts,  with  gmce  divine  pre- 
side." Vol.  liii  pp.  174 — 181. 

The  charm  of  the  fijie  lines  written  on  turn- 
ip up  a  mouse's  nest  with  a  plouirh,  will  al.-io 
qlound  to  consist  in  the  simple  tenderness 
othe  delineation. 

■  Thy  wee  hit  Jtounie,  too,  in  ruin  I 
Its  silly  wa's  the,  wins  are  sirewin  ! 
An'  naething,  now.  to  big  a  new  ane. 

O'  fog^nce  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  and  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
All'  weary  winter  comin  last. 
An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast. 

Thou  ihoimht  to  dwell, 
'Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  <>'  leaves  an'  stihble, 
Has  cost  ilH?e  inony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turned  out.  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  tliole  the  winters  sleety  dribble, 

An  cranreuch  cauld !" 

Vol.  iii.  pp.  147. 

'he  verses  to  a  Mountain  Daisy,  though 
re  elegant  and  picturesque,  seem  to  derive 

tJ^r  chief  beauty  from  the  same  tone  of  sen- 

tilent. 

Wee.  modest,  crimson-lipped  flow'r, 
I  Thon's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  ainang  the  sioure 

Tliv  .'ilender  stem  ; 
I  To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 
Thou  bonnie  gem  I 

Alas  !  it's  no  ihv  netbor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  Lark.  c<>nifianion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet  I 

\Vi'  spreckl'd  breast, 
I  V  hen  upwanl-sprinuing,  blyihe  to  greet 
j  The  purpling  eaai. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  t<irth 

.Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  eanh, 

Thy  lender  form. 

'There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  elad. 

iThy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread,  . 

jThou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

'  In  humble  guise  ; 

;Biit  now  the  share  upienrs  thy  b<-d. 

I  And  low  ihou  lies  I" 

Vol.  iii.  pp.  201.  202. 

here  are  many  touches  of  the  same  kind 
lost  of  the  jKjpiilar  and  beautiful  {xx-mn  in 
collection,  especially  in  the  Winter  \ieht 
|ie  address  to  nifl  old  Mare — iheaddn-.'W  to 
Devil,  &c.;— in  all  which,  tliouidi  the 
ter  part  of  the  [)ie(e  be  niendv  ludirrou** 
pioturesfjue,  there  are  traits  of  a  <Ielicale 
tender  feelintr,  iiidicalin:r  tliat  unatTecteil 
less  of  heart  which  is  always  so  fiichant- 
In  the  humorous  adilress  to  the  Devil, 
V  Lh  we  have  jufit  meatioaed,  ever)-  Scottish 


rt-a.ler  niusi  have  felt  the  efleot  of  thi«  relent- 
ing nature  in  the  foUowuig  stiuizas:  — 

"  Lbmc  syne,  in  Edrm't  bonie  yard, 
When  vouihlu'  lovem  firnt  were  pttir'd, 
All'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  fhar^d. 

The  rapiur'd  hour, 
J>«eei  on  the  frogrnni,  lluw'ry  nwaird, 

III  Hhady  bower: 

'■  Then  yon.  ye  niild,  nnio-drawing  dog  I 
Ye  (nme  to  ruradim-  iiirng, 
.\n'  (jied  the  tntant  warld  a  nhoj;, 
'.Maist  ruin'd  a. 

'•  Hut,  tare  you  wcel,  auld  .\irkir  hi^  .> 
II  wad  v«r  Ink  ■  thought  an"  men'! 
Ve  aibhns  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Siill  h.-ie  a  gtah, — 
I'm  wae  to  thuik  upo'  yon  den, 

Kv'n  for  your  iiak«!" 

Vol.  ui.  pp.  74 — 76. 

The  tiiie-t  examples,  however,  of  this  simple 
and  tiiipietciidii,^  tenderness  is  to  bo  found  in 
those  .-ion^s  which  are  likely  to  transmit  the 
name  of  Bums  to  all  future  generations.  He 
found  this  deliirhtfnl  trait  in  the  old  Scottiiih 
ballads  which  hn  took  for  his  model.  uii.Tupoii 
wliich  ho  has  improved  with  a  felicilv  and 
delicacy  of  imitation  altosether  unrivalled  iu 
the  history  of  literature.  Sometimes  it  is  the 
brief  and  simple  pathos  of  the  genuine  old 
ballad  ;  as, 

"  But  I  look  to  the  West  when  I  lie  down  to  rest. 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may  be; 

For  lar  in  the  West  lives  he  I  love  best, 
The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  baby  and  me." 

Or,  as  in  this  other  specimen — 

"  Druniossie  moor.  Drumossie  day ! 
A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me  ; 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
iMy  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

"  Their  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay. 

Their  trraves  are  growing  green  to  see  ; 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 

That  ever  hiest  a  woman's  e'e  ! 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trnw  thou  lie  ; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 
That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee." 
Vol.  iv.  p.  337. 

Sometimes  it  is  animated  with  airy  narrative, 
and  adorned  with  imaues  of  thr  utmost  ele- 
gance and  beauty.  As  a  specimen  taken  at 
random,  we  insert  the  following  stanzas: — 

'■  And  av  she  wroueht  her  mainmic's  wark  : 
And  ny  xhe  iMni;  sae  mernhe  : 
The  biythesl  bird  upon  the  Imsh 
i{ad  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

■'  But  hawks  will  rob  the  lender  joya 

That  bless  the  little  lintwhiie's  nest ; 
.\nd  frodi  will  blieht  the  fairest  flowem. 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

"  Younj;  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad. 
The  (lower  and  pride  of  a'  the  glcn  ; 
.\nd  be  had  owscn.  sheep,  and  kyo, 
And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ton. 

"  Me  gsed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  irysie. 

Ho  ilnnc'd  wi'  Jeanie  on  tne  down  ; 
And  Inng  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist, 
Her  heart  woa  tint,  her  peace  waaslown. 
2d2 


342 


POETRY, 


"  As  in  the  bosom  o'  the  stream 

The  moon-beam  dwells  at  dewy  e  en; 
So  trembliti^,  pure,  was  infant  love 
Within  the  breast  o   bonieJean  . 

Vol.  IV.  p.  80. 

Sometimes,  again,  it  is  plaintive  and  mourn- 
ful—in  the  same  stram  ot  unaffected  sim- 
nlicity. 

"  O  stay,  Bweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay, 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray  ! 
A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay. 
Thy  soothing  fond  complannng. 

"  Again,  again  that  tender  part 
That  I  may  catch  ihy  meltmg  art ; 
For  surely  that  would  touch  her  heart, 
Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 
"  Say   was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wmd  ? 
Oh.  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join  d, 
Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken. 
"  Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care  ; 
O'  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair  ; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair  . 
Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  !" 

Vol.  IV.  pp.  220,  ^~/. 


We  add  the  following  from  Mr.  Cromek's 
new  volume ;  as  the  original  form  of  the  very 
popular  song  given  at  p.  325,  of  Dr.  Currie's 
fourth  volume : — 

"  Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ! 
"  Thou' 11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird 
That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 
"  Thou'Il  break  mv  heart,  thou  bonie  bird 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 
"  Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love, 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
"  Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 
And  mv  fausc  hiver  staw  the  rose, 
But  left  the  ihorn  wi'  me." 

Vol.  v.  pp.  17,  18. 

Sometime.s  the  rich  imagery  of  the  poet's 
fancy  overshadows  and  almost  overcomes  the 
leading  sentiment. 

"  The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks, 
But  life  to  me's  a  weary  dream. 
A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

•  The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 
Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 
The  stalely  swan  majestic  swims, 
And  every  thing  is  blest  but  I. 
"  The  sheep-herd  sleeks  his  fauUiing  slap. 
And  owre  the  moorlands  whistles  shrill ; 
Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wand'ring  step 
I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 
"  And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 
Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side, 
And  mounts  and  sing-  on  flittering  wingSj 
A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide.    — 
Vol,  iii.  pp  !i84,  285. 


The  sensibility  which  is  thus  associate! 
with  simple  imagery  and  gentle  melanchol; 
is  to  us  the  most  winning  and  attractive.  Bi 
Burns  has  also  expressed  it  when  it  is  merel 
the  instrument  of  torture — of  keen  reraorsi 
and  tender  and  agonising  regret.  There  ar 
some  strons  traits  of  the  tbrmer  feeling,  iutb 
poems  entitled  the  Lament,  Despondency,  &c 
when,  looking  back  to  the  times 

"  When  love's  luxurious  pulse  heat  high,"  ' 
he  bewails  the  consequences  of  his  own  i 
regularities.  There  is  something  cumbroil 
and  inflated,  however,  in  the  diction  of  thes 
pieces.  We  are  infinitely  more  moved  wili 
his  Elegy  upon  Highland  ]Mary.  Of  thisliri 
love  of  the  poet,  we  are  indebted  to  M 
Cromek  for  a  brief,  but  very  striking  accour 
from  the  pen  of  the  poet  himself.  In  a  no 
on  an  early  song  inscribed  to  this  mistress,  1 
had  recorded  in  a  manuscript  book— 

"My  Hishland  lassie  was  a  warm-hearie| 
charmincr  young  creature  as  ever  blessed  a  m 
with  generous  love.  After  a  pretty  long  tract  of  i 
mnst  ardent  reciprocal  attarhment,  we  met,  by  « 
poiniment.  on  the  second  Sunday  of  May.  in  a  r 
nuesiered  spot  bv  the  Banks  ot  Ayr,  >vhere  > 
•spent  the  day  in  lakins  a  farewell  betore  she  sh.ii 
embark  for  the  West  Highlands,  to  arrange  matt, 
among  her  friends  for  our  projected  change  ol  li 
\t  the  close  of  Autumn  following,  she  crossed  i 
sea  to  meet  me  al  Greenock  :  where  she  had  scai 
landed  when  she  was  seized  with  a  malignant  feV 
which  hurried  my  dear  girl  to  the  grave  in  a_t 
days  '.—before  1  could  even  hear  of  her  dlness. 
^  Vol.  v.  pp.  2J/,23C 


Mr.  Cromek  has  added,  in  a  note,  the  f 
lowino-  interesting  particulars ,;  though  w-ith' 
specifying  the  authority  upon  which  he  del. 
them : — 

"  This  adieu  was  performed  with  all  those  sim] 
and  striking  ceremonials  which  rustic  sentiment  j 
devised  to  "prolong  tender  emotions  and  to  insj. 
awe  The  lovers  stood  on  each  side  ol  a  sn: 
purling  brook  ;  they  laved  their  hands  in  its  lini 
stream,  and  holding  a  Bible  between  them,!: 
nounced  their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  each  oti, 
Thev  parted— never  to  meet  again  ! 

"  The  anniversary  of  Mary  Cawpbell  a  ieaitt  ■ 
thai  was  her  name)  awakening  in  the  sensitive  ro; 
of  Burns  the  most  lively  emotioii.  he  reiirejJ  ft- 
his  family,  then  residing  on  the  farm  of  Misto 
and  wandered,  solitary,  on  the  banks  of  the  ^ 
and  about  the  farm  yard.  ^-  ■}^l^^''''ll';''^?'^J 
of  mind,  nearly  the  ^:.  We  of  'he  .""sh  J  H  s«g. 
lion  was  so  great,  that  he  threw  himsclt  on  the  , 
of  a  corn  stack,  and  there  conceived  his  subhme  i 
tender  elegy— his  address  To  Nnryin  Heaven. 
\  ol.  V.  p.  2.5b.  I 


;ows  :- 


The  poem  itself  is  as  foil 
"  Thou  lingering  star,  with  les.-'ning  ray,         ; 
That  tov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
A"ain  thou  usherst  in  the  day  ; 

Iviy  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn  . 

"  O  .Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  ihv  place  of  blis.sful  rest  ?  | 

See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid?  , 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  this  bret! 

"  That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  1  forget  the  hallowed  grove. 

Where  hv  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ! 

"  Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 


RELIQUKS  OF  ROnERT  lUIJNS. 


343 


'hy  ima^e  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

kh!  little  thoiisht  we  'twas  our  last  I 

j\t  gurjjling  kiss'd  his  pebblt-d  shore, 
O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening,  green, 

'le  Irasrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hour. 
Twin  d  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 

'  e  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  ho  prest, 
1^  I'he  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
W  'II  too,  too  soi»ii,  the  glowing  west 

tittll        ^rociaiin'd  the  speed  of  winged  day  ! 

!«fi    "  ^"  "^''  ''^P"*"  scenes  my  inem'ry  wakes, 
!,.  *         \iid  ("ondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 
^i      'Ine  but  the  impression  stronger  make,", 
itfei        ^s  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
diet  ••  >  :\!ary.  dear  departed  shade! 
IJ.  d!        tVhere  is  thy  place  ol  !)lis«fMl  rest  f 
Iiielli      i^""  'I'""  'hy  lover  lowly  laid  f 

"ear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  brensi  t" 
Vol.  i.  pp.  ir.,  1J6. 

his  pieces  of  humour,  the  tale  of  Tatn 

titer  is  proKibiy  the  best  :  thotiirh  there 

arejniits  of  intiiiite  merit    in  Seotch   Drink, 

'"  llieSoly  Fair,   the  Hallow  E'en,  and  several 

■  soiiirs ;  in  all  of  which,  it   is  very  re- 

.ble.   that   he  rises  occasionally  itito  a 

.^iLiji  of  beautiful  description  or  lofty  senti- 

i'AFimei  far  above  the  pitch  of  his  original  con- 

'l-*«CPj-J)n.     The  jviems  of  ob.'servation   on  life 

'•  aiidpharacters,  are    the  Twa   IVi^s  and  the 

v;u  lis  Epistles — all  of  which  show  verv  ex- 

'    •<  Unary  s.iiracity  and  powers  of  expression. 

are  written,  however,  in  so  broad  a  diii- 

liat   we  dare  not  venture  to  (piote  any 

,      :<(  them.     The  only  pieces  that  can  be 

fr■cla^l'd  under  the  head  of  pure  fiction,  are 

]3Bthejwo  Bridffes  of  Ayr.  and  the  Vision.     In 

i  ytheUt,  there  are  some  viirorous  and  strikini; 

,^ij[|line     We  select  the  passage  in  which  the 

Mu!  describes  the  early  propensities  of  her 

i"av<;rite.  rather  as  beinpr  more  generally  in- 

1  ble,  than  as  superior  to  the  rest  of  the 


.P"' 


saw  ihee  seek  the  soundin?  shore, 
elighied  with  the  d:ishing  roar; 
r  when  the  North  bis  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  'he  skj 
saw  grim  Nature's  vis;ige  hoar 

Struck  thy  voung  eye. 
r  when  the  deep-ereen  manil'd  ennh 
arm  cherish'd  ev'ry  flow'ret's  birth, 
nd  joy  and  music  pouring  forih 

In  ev'ry  grove, 
saw  thee  eye  the  gen'ral  mirth 

With  boundles.s  love. 
,'hrn  ripen'd  fields,  and  aznre  skies, 
iill'd  forth  ihi-  reapi-rs'  rusilinir  noise, 
saw  thee  leave  their  ev'nins  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk, 
o  vent  thy  bosom's  swellint;  rise 

In  pensive  wnlk. 


^0     "  'hen  youthful  love,  warm,  blushing,  strong. 


fen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 
hose  accents  grateful  to  thy  I'lncne, 

Th'  adored  .Vnmf, 
taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  som;. 

To  sooth  thy  flame. 
>nw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
.'ild  send  thee  Pleasurp's  devious  way, 
lisled  by  Fancy's  meienr-ray. 

I?y  I*ns!<iOM  driven  ; 
ut  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  liehl  from  hraven  I 
Vol.  III.  pp.  1(>9,  110. 


Tlicie  is  another  fnipnent,  called  also  a 
Vision,  which  belon;,'s  to  a  hi;,'her  ord.T  of 
jKu-try.  If  Hums  had  never  wnttt-ii  iiii\  iliiinj 
el.scj  the  jKJwerof  des<Tiption,  ami  tin-  Vi;,'(iur 
of  the  whoK'Com|Hisition,  would  havi*  i-ntitlid 
him  to  the  renicmbr.uiee  of  jHrnti-rity. 

■  The  winds  were  laid.  iIk»  air  was  hiiII, 
The  Slurs  ihcy  >\\»t  nhing  iln'  sky  ; 
The  fox  WHS  howling  on  the  hill. 

.And  (he  diMiuiil -echoing  glens  reply. 

■'  The  stream  adown  its  iinzcllv  path, 
Wiis  rushing  liy  the  ruin'il  wn's, 
Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nitli, 
Wh.tfC  distant  roaring  swells  an'  fa's. 

•  The  ciiiild  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing  eerie  din  ; 
.\ihort  the  lift  ihev  start  and  shilt. 
Like  fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win  ! 

"  By  hredle-ss  chance  I  iiirn'd  mine  eyes. 
And  l)y  the  moon-benm,  shook,  to  see 
A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 
Attir'd  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

"  Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane. 

His  d:irin'  look  had  daunted  me  ; 
And  on  his  bonnet  grav'd  wns  plain, 
The  sacred  posy — Liberty  ! 

'■  And  frne  hts  harp  si^  strains  did  flow. 

Might  roiis'd  the  slumbering  dead  to  hear; 
But  oh,  it  WHS  II  lAle  of  woe, 
.As  ever  met  a  Uriion's  ear  I 

"  He  sang  wi'  joy  the  former  day, 

lb-  weeping  wail'd  his  Utter  limes — 
But  what  he  said,  it  wnsnae  play, 
I  winna  veiiiur'lin  my  rhymes." 

Vol.  iv.  344— 346. 

Some  verses,  written  for  a  Hermita^ze.  sound 
j  like  the   best  jKirts  of   Grongar   Hill.      The 
reader  may  take  these  few  lines  as  a  speci- 
men : — 

I 

"  .As  thy  day  crows  warm  and  high, 
Lite's  meridian  fl.iining  nigh. 
Dost  thou  smirn  the  hiiinlile  vale? 
Life's  proun  summits  wnuldst  thou  scale  f 
Dangers,  ejinle-pinion'd,  bold. 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold. 
While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song. 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among." — Vol.  iii.  p.  299. 

There  is  a  little  copy  of  Verses  upon  a  Newp- 
jKipcr  at  p.  355,  of  Or.  Cnrrie's  fourth  volume. 
written  in  the  «ame  condensi'd  style,  and 
only  wanting  tninslation  into  English  to  he 
worthy  of  Swift. 

The  finest  piece,  of  the  ."^tronirand  nervoufi 
sort,  however,  is  undoubtedly  the  address  of 
Robert  Brtice  to  his  army  at  Bannockbum, 
betjiniiinir.  '"St'ots.  wha  liae  wi'  Wallacj-  Bled. 
The  D»*ath  Song,  beginning, 

"  Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth  and  ye 
skies. 
Now  pay  with  the  bright  setting  sun.'* 

is  to  us  less  pleasing.  There  are  specimens, 
however,  of  such  vi^fnur  and  emphasis  s<at- 
tered  through  his  whole  works,  as  are  sure 
to  make  themselves  and  their  author  remem- 
bered ;  for  instance,  that  noble  description  of 
a  living  s<jldier. 

•  Nae  caiild.  faint-hearted  doubtincs  teaze  him: 
Death  comes  !   wi'  fearlean  eye  he  w  cs  him; 
Wr  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gi'es  him  ; 
An'  when  he  fa's. 


344 


POETRY. 


His  latest  draucht  o'  breathin  lea'es  him 

'In  faint  huzzas  '."—Vol.  iii.  p.  27. 

The  whole  song  of  "  For  a'  that,"  is  written 
with  extraordinary  spirit.  The  first  stanza 
ends — 

"  For  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp  ; 
The  man's  the  goud,  for  a'  that." 

— All  the  songs,  indeed,  abound  with  traits  of 
this  kind.   We  select  the  following  at  random : 

"  O  woman,  lovely  woman,  fair  ! 
An  angel  form's  faun  to  thy  share  ; 
'Twad  been  o'er  meikle  to've  gi'en  thee  mair, 
1  mean  an  angel  mind." — Vol.  iv.  p.  330. 

We  dare  not  proceed  further  in  specifying 
the  merits  of  pieces  which  have  been  so  long 
published.  Before  concluding  upon  this  sub- 
ject, however,  we  must  beg  leave  to  express 
our  dissent  from  the  poet's  amiable  and  judi- 
cious biographer,  in  what  he  says  of  the  gene- 
ral harshness  and  rudeness  of  his  versification. 
Dr.  Currie,  we  are  afraid,  was  scarcely  Scotch- 
man enough  to  comprehend  the  whole  prosody 
of  the  verses  to  which  he  alluded.  5lost  of 
the  Scottish  pieces  are,  in  fact,  much  more 
carefully  versified  than  the  English ;  and  we 
appeal  to  our  Southern  readeis,  whether  there 
be  any  want  of  harmony  in  the  following 
stanza : — 

"  Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 
Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore. 
Thro'  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps, 

Old  Scotia  s  bloody  lion  bore: 
Even  /  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 
And  fac'd  grim  danger'e  loudest  roar, 
Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led  I" 

Vol.  iii.  p.  233. 

The  following  is  not  quite  English ;  but  it 
is  intelligible  to  all  readers  of  English,  and 
may  satisfy  them  that  the  Scottish  song-writer 
was  not  habitually  negligent  of  hisnumbers: — 

"  Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 
reckon,  [fume ; 

Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  per- 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  breckan, 
Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 
broom. 
Far  dearer  to  me  are  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 
Where  the  blue  bell  and  gowan  Inrk  lowly  un- 
seen : 
For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the  wild  flowers, 
A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

"  Tho'  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  vailies, 
And  cauld,  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave  ; 
Their  sweet-scented   woodlands    that    skirt   the 
proud  palace,  [slave  ! 

What  are  they  ?     The  haunt  o'  the  tyrant  and 
The   slave's    spicy    forests,    and    gold-bubbling 
fountains. 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  disdain  ; 
He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  mountains, 
Save    love's   wiilins;  fetters,  the  chains  o'  his 
Jean."— Vol.  iv.  pp.  228,  229. 

If  we  have  been  able  to  inspire  our  readers 
with  any  portion  of  our  own  admiration  for 
this  extraordinary  writer,  they  will  readily 
forgive  us  for  the  irregularity  of  which  we 
have  been  guilty,  in  introducing  so  long  an 
account  of  his  whole  works,  under  colour  of 
the  additional  volume  of  which  we  have  pre- 
fixed the  title  to  this  article.    The  truth  is, 


however,  that  unless  it  be  taken  in  conne  ,)n 
with  his  other  works,  the  present  volumt  as 
little  interest,  and  could  not  be  made  the  b- 
ject  of  any  intelligible  observations.  ij 
made  up  of  some  additional  letters,  of  i. 
dling  merit — of  complete  copies  of  oi  •?, 
of  which  Dr.  Currie  saw  reason  to  pu  sb 
only  extracts — of  a  number  of  remark;  ov 
Burns,  on  old  Scottish  songs — and,  finall  jt 
a  few  additional  poems  and  songs,  cert  jy 
not  disgraceful  to  the  author,  but  sea  ly 
fitted  to  add  to  his  reputation.  Theui, 
however,  is  indebted,  we  think,  to  Ir! 
Cromek's  industry  for  this  addition  1  so 
popular  an  author ; — and  the  friends  o  he 
poet,  we  are  sure,  are  indebted  to  his  od 
taste,  moderation,  and  delicacy,  lor  h;  ng 
confined  it  to  the  pieces  which  are  w 
{printed.  Burns  wrote  many  rash — my 
I  violent,  and  many  indecent  things;  of  vcb 
I  we  have  no  doubt  many  specimens  ist 
I  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  so  diligi  a 
I  collector.  He  has,  however,  carefully  .p. 
pressed  every  thing  of  this  description  :  nd 
shown  that  tenderness  for  his  author's  i  n- 
ory,  which  is  the  best  proof  of  the  veia- 
tion  with  which  he  regards  his  talents.  \'e 
shall  now  see  if  there  be  any  thing  ii  he 
volume  which  deserves  to  be  partici'rly 
noticed. 

The  Preface  is  very  amiable,  and  .ell 
written.  Mr.  Cromek  speaks  with  beet  n? 
respect  and  affection  of  Dr.  Currie,  the  le  .eJ 
biographer  and  first  editor  of  the  poeltid 
with  great  modesty  of  his  own  qualifica  ns. 

"  As  an  apology  (he  says)  for  any  defects  mj 
own  that  may  appear  in  this  publication,  I  to 
observe  that  I  am  by  profession  an  artist,  and  ,  u 
author.  In  the  manner  of  laying  thein  befo.ihe 
public,  I  honestly  declare  that  I  have  doiiny 
best  ;  and  I  trust  I  may  fairly  presume  io''()e, 
that  the  man  who  has  contribted  to  extei  ihf 
bounds  of  literature,  by  adding  anoiher  glint 
volume  to  the  writings  of  Robert  Burns,  hat  um 
claim  on  the  gratitude  of  his  countrymen,  t  liu' 
occasion,  I  certainly  feel  something  of  that  s  inte 
and  heart-swelling  gratification,  which  he  •  «n- 
ences  who  casts  another  stone  on  the  caif  )l  > 
great  and  lamented  chief." — Preface,  pp.  xi.  i- 

Of  the  Letters,  which  occupy  near)  jalf 
the  volume,  we  cannot,  on  the  whole,  e  ref? 
any  more  favourable  opinion  than  that  urb 
we  have  already  ventured  to  pronoui ;  o" 
the  prose  compositions  of  this  author  i  !Pn- 
era].  Indeeil  they  abound,  rather  mor'han 
those  formerly  published,  in  ravings  abo  Sfn- 
sibility  and  imprudence — in  coninioii  ev- 
ing.  and  in  professions  of  love  for  w  ^i^.v 
By  far  the  best,  are  those  which  are  ndd  'S*'*! 
to'  Mi.ss  Chalmers;  and  that  chieliy  b  iK*^ 
they  seem  to  be  written  with  lessefl'ort.'iilal 
the  same  time  with  more  respect  for  1, cor- 
respondent. The  following  was  writt  ala 
most  critical  period  of  his  life;  and  thLw' 
feelings  and  good  sense  which  it  di'a)»i 
only  rnake  us  regret  more  deeply  thilh'') 
were  not  attended  with  greater  firmne 

"  Shortlv  after  mv  last  return  to  Ayr  re,  1 
iTiarried  '  my  Jean.'  'This  was  not  in  cons>ien'-e 
of  the  attachment  of  romance  perhaps  ;  buftisda 
long  and  much  lov'd  fellow-creature's  happ  »« "' 


RKLIQUKS  OF  ROHKKT  lU'RXS. 


US 


miry  in  my  Jeterniinaiion,  mid  I  durst  not  inllf 

\s\[  so   iinporinni  a  doposiie.      Ni>r  hnvo  I  any 

I  aje  to  repent  it.     If  I  have  not  i;ot  polite  tatile, 

..,^1,,.    niilish  manners,  and  lasliionable  dresx.  1  am  not 

^      leJcpned  and  distrusted   wiili  the  niuliilorni  luruo 

;'-!"  ol  purding-school  alleciaUon  ;  and  I  liuve  got  the 

liaisoiucst  figure,  the  sweeiist  temper,  the  mnind- 

'  s 'onstitution,  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  county  I 

M    Burns  helieves,  as  firmly  as  her  creed,  ihat   I 

n\]te  plu»  bel  rsprit.  rt  le  plus  honnrlf  kommr  in 

ttitiiiiverse  ;  althoujfh  she  scarcely  ever  in  her  hie, 

txipt  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and   New  'resin- 

.jUi<|t,  and  the  I'snimsol"  David  in  metre,  spent  live 

■  ''■  tlunnv' — 1. --    -  -:.i 1  - 


^  k  [ 


W«j,(,no 
MOV  vi\\ 


lies  together  on  either  prose  or  verse. — I  muMt 

pt  also  from  this  last,  a  certain  late  publication 

cots  Poeins,  which  she  has  perused  very  de- 

. ,   ,    TO  Iv,  and  all  the  ballads  in  the  counirv.  as  she  hnn 

™™Mlll(0|ic  partial  lover  I   you  will  cry)  the  finest  "  wikhI- 

wild  "  1  ever  heard. — I  am  the  more  imriiciilar 

is  lady's  character,  as  I  know  she  will  hcncclonh 

the  honour  of  a  share   in  your  best  wi.shes. 

9  still  at  Mauchliiie,   as   I    am  building  my 

li'Ve:  for  this  hovel  that  I  shelter  in  while  occii- 

.  illy  here,  is  pervious  to  every  blast  that  blows, 

..:i(every  shower  that  falls;  and   I  am  only   pre- 

•  id  from  beiii"  chilled  to  death,  by  being  sutfo- 

.1,1  with  smoke.      I  do  not  find  my  larm  thai 

,    iiyworth  I  was  tauijht  to  expect ;  but  I  believe, 

111  ne.  it  may  be  a  saving  bargain.      You  will  be 

,   Jollip|,3ed   to   hear   that  I  have  laid  aside  idle  fclat. 

ijJiilislalaanbiiid  every  day  after  my  reaper. 

'  l^  aoill;      'I'o  save  me  trom  that  horrid  situation  of  at  any 

«  lo  fciil*'1  R'^'i'S  down,  in  a  losing  bargain  of  a  farm,  to 

■^mi  ry,  I  have  taken  my  excise  instructions,  and 

^,   ha   my  commission  in  my  pocket  for  any  emerg- 

"'  -en   of  fortune  I     If  I  could  set   all  before  your 

vit  .  whatever  disrespect  you.  in  common  with  the 

,  .\v(d,  have  for  this  business,  I   know  you  would 

yjijllljBpoveof  my  idea." — Vol.  v.  pp.  74,  75. 

mu\t     re  may  add  the  following  for  the  sake  of 
.  ,    co^ection. 

I  know  not  how  the  word  exciseman,  or  still 

'    m?  opprobrious,  gauger,  will  sound  in  your  ears. 

jiii'iDtiil    J  have  seen  the  day  when  my  auditory  nerves 

f«  tiai  llii  vn\ii  have  felt  very  delicately  on  this  subject ;  but 

■  Hvrwiia   fp  and  children  are  things  which  have  a  won- 

—  rlf  il  power  in  blunting  these  kind  of  senRations. 

1  ij,  pounds  a   year  for  lile.  and  a  provision  for 

^'  i'ws  and  orphans,  vou  will  allow,  is  no  bad  sci- 

•.,iy-'.r.  for  a  poil.     for  the  ignominy  of  the  pro- 

I'tlnn,   I   have   the  encouriigemcnt  which   I  once 

'     he  d  a  recTui'iiig  serjcant  give  to  a  numerous,  if 

.     ,     net  respectable  audience,  in  the  streets  of  Kilmar- 

-Fietel  ncw — '  Gentlemen,  for  your  further  and  better  en- 

co  agcment.  I  can  assure  you  that  our  regiment  is 

floccfMh  most  blackguard  corps  tinder  the  cmwn,  and 

I  onilftfe  CO  equenlly  with  us  an  honest  fellow  hasthe  surest 

"   oalbi  chice  of  preferment.'  " — Vol.  v.  pp.  99,  10). 

timitop  would  have  been  as  well  if  Mr.  Cromek 
iOt'Jiisis*  hi  left  out  the  history  of  Mr.  Hamiitonsdis- 
ocwi.i'll"  nc^ioiis  witli  his  parish  milliliter, — Burns' 
fi.a0$  ajloL'v  to  a  f^entlemaii  with  whom  he  had  a 
iV-iiW*'  dr  ikeii  jujuabble, — and  the  anecdote  of  hi.s 
,  fliTP  b«]^  u.«ed  to  cLfk  for  more  Uiftior,  when  visil- 
in  in  the  country,  under  the  prete.vt  of  forli- 
V-:.'  hiin.self  a;.'ainst  the  terrors  of  a  lillle 
■  U  h«*  had  to  pa.«is  through  in  poing  home. 
if'  most  interesting  pa»j*at(e!«,  indeed,  in  this 
of  the  volume,  are  those  for  which  we  are 
>btr-d  lo  Mr.  Crf-mek  himself.  He  informs 
,^tlii(l*  Uffor  instance,  in  a  note. 


n  liiuil  and  ai-complwhed  Woman  wan  ■  hoinu  al. 
most  nesv  to  him.  mid  of  which  he  had  toriiit>il  but 
a  Very  mndei)uale  idea." — Vol.  v.  pp   f>8,  i)'.». 

He  adds  al.HO,  in  another  place,  that  ''the 
jKH»t,  when  questioned  alniut  his  habits  of 
connHi.siliDii,  replied, — 'All  my  jxH'lry  is  the 
ellcct  (>l  easy  c«im]>ositi(Mi.  but  of  lulnirioiis 
correction."  "  It  is  pUusin^  to  know  thus*- 
things — even  if  ihry  were  reall)  as  tntiiii::  !l^ 
to  a  fiiperlicial  ol>,H«>tver  thi'y  ma\  probably 
anpear.  There  is  a  very  amiable  letter  from 
Mr.  Mur«UK-h,  the  jH)els  early  preceptor,  at 
1).  Ill;  and  a  very  splendid  one  from  Mr. 
nloointield,  at  p.  135.  As  nuthiii^  is  muTH 
rare,  anions  the  miiior  |mi(<Is,  than  a  caiulid 
ackiiowledinneiil  of  their  own  iiileriority,  wc 
think  Mr.  |{l(M)nilield  well  entitled  to  have  his 
magnatiimity  recorded . 

"  The  illusirioiiaaoiil  that  haa  Irit  nmonnst  us  the 
name  of  Burns,  has  olien  been  lowi  red  uuwn  lo  a 
c«imparison  wiih  me  ;  but  the  conipari!«4>n  p.Mi»t8 
more  in  circumst.nnces  than  in  ehceiiiials.  Thai 
man  stood  up  with  the  siatnp  of  superior  inipllert 
on  his  brow  ;  a  visible  greatness  :  and  great  and 
patriotic  subjects  would  only  have  called  into  action 
the  powers  of  his  mind,  which  lay  iniiciive  w  hile  he 
played  calmly  and  exquiHiiely  the  pastoral  pi|M). 

"  Thi!  letters  to  winch  I  have  alluded  in  my  pre- 
face to  the  '  Rural  Tales,'  were  friendly  warnings, 
pointed  with  immediate  reference  to  the  fate  of 
that  extraordinary  man.  '  Remember  Burns,'  has 
been  the  watchword  of  my  friends.  I  do  remember 
Burns;  but  I  am  not  Burns!  I  have  neither  his 
lire  lo  Ian,  or  to  (lueiich  ;  nor  his  passions  to  control  I 
Where  ihcn  is  my  merit,  if  1  make  a  peaceful 
voyage  on  a  smooth  sea,  and  with  no  mutiny  on 
board?"— Vol.  v.  pp.  135,  13r,. 

The  observations  on  Scotti.sh  sonps,  which 
fill  nearly  one  hundred  and  fifty  pa^jes,  are, 
on  the  whole,  minute  and  trilling;  though  the 
exquisite  justness  of  the  poet's  taste,  and  his 
fine  relish  of  simplicity  in  this  species  of  com- 
position, is  no  less  remarkable  here  than  in 
nis  correspondence  with  Mr.  Thomson.  Of 
all  other  kinds  of  jKietry,  he  was  so  indulgent 
a  juilge.  that  he  may  almost  be  termed  an  in- 
dist;riininate  admiier.  We  find,  too,  from 
these  observations,  that  sevenil  songs  and 
pieces  of  .-iongs,  which  he  printed  as  genuine 
antifjues,  wert?  really  of  his  owi'i  comjKi.sition. 
The  commonplace  b<K»k,  from  whiih  Dr. 
Currie  had  foimerly  s<-lected  all  that  he 
thought  \\orlh  publication,  isne.xt  given  entire 
by  Mr.  Cromek.  Wi-  were  tjuite  as  well,  we 
I  think,  with  the  extracts; — at  all  events,  there 
was  no  need  for  reprinting  what  had  been 
;  given  by  Dr.  Currie  ;  a  remark  which  isetjiially 
j  applicable  to  the  letters  of  which  we  had  for- 

mt-rlv  e.xtracts. 

I      or  the  additional   jxiems  which   form   the 

,  coiicliiding  part  of  the  volume,  we  have  but 

.  little  to  siiy.      We  have  little  doubt  of  llnir  au- 

!  thiiiticity  ;  for,  thou;.'h  the  editor  has  omitted, 

j  in  almost  every  instance,  lo  specify  the  source 

from  which  they  were  derived,  they  certainly 

bear  the  slamj)  of  the  author's  manner  and 

genius.     They  are  not,  however,  of  his  purewt 

metal,  nor  marked  with  his  finest  die:  s<-verul 

of  ihern  have  appeared  in  print  already;  and 

the  s<ings  are,  as  usual,  the  bi'st.     This  little 

lamentation  of  a  desolate  damsel,  is  tender 

and  pretty. 


346 


POETRY. 


"  M}'  father  put  me  frae  his  door, 

-My  friends  they  hae  disown'd  me  a'; 
But  I  hae  ane  will  lak  my  part, 
The  bomiie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

"  A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gave  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gave  me  twa  ; 
And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 
The  boiinie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

"  The  weary  winter  soon  will  pass, 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birken-shaw  ; 
And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born. 
And  he'll  come  hame  that's  far  awa." 

Vol.  V.  pp.  432,  433. 

We  now  reluctantly  disnaiss  this  subject. — 
We  scarcely  hoped,  when  we  began  our  critic- 
al labours,  that  an  opportunity  would  ever 
occur  of  speaking  of  Burns  as  we  wished  to 
speak  of  him ;  and  therefore,  we  feel  grate- 
ful to  Mr.  Cromek  for  giving  us  this  opportu- 
nity. As  we  have  no  means  of  knowing, 
with  precision,  to  what  extent  his  writings  are 
known  and  admired  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  kingdom,  we  have  perhaps  fallen  into  the 
error  of  quoting  passages  that  are  familiar  to 
most  of  our  readers,  and  dealing  out  praise 
which  every  one  of  them  had  previously 
awarded.  We  felt  it  impossible,  however,  to 
resist  the  temptation  of  transcribing  a  few  of 
the  passages  which  struck  us  the  most,  on 
turning  over  the  volumes;  and  reckon  with 
confidence  on  the  gratitude  of  those  to  whom 
they  are  new, — while  we  are  not  without 
hopes  of  being  forgiven  by  those  who  have 
been  used  to  admire  them. 

We  shall  conclude  with  two  general  re- 
marks— the  one  national,  the  olher  critical. — 
The  first  is,  that  it  is  impossible  to  read  the 
productions  of  Burns,  along  with  his  histor}-. 
without  forming  a  higher  idea  of  the  intelli- 
gence, taste,  and  accomplishments  of  our 
peasantry,  than  most  of  those  in  the  higher 
ranks  are  disposed  to  entertain.  Without 
meaning  to  deny  that  he  himself  was  endow- 
ed with  rare  and  extraordinary  gifts  of  genius 
and  fancy,  it  is  evident,  from  the  whole  details 
of  his  history,  as  well  as  from  the  letters  of 
his  brother,  and  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Murdoch 
and  others,  to  the  character  of  his  father,  that 
the  whole  family,  and  many  of  their  asso- 
ciates, who  never  emerged  from  the  native 
obscurity  of  their  condition,  possessed  talents, 
and  taste,  and  intelligence,  which  are  little 
suspected  to  lurk  in  those  humble  retreats. — 
His  epistles  to  brother  poets,  in  the  rank 
of  small  farmers  and  shopkeepers  in  the  ad- 
joining villages, — the  existence  of  a  book- 
society  and  debating-club  among  persons  of 
that  (ie.scription,  and  many  other  incidental 
traits  in  his  sketches  of  his  youthful  compan- 
ions,— all  contribute  to  show,  that  not  oidy 
good  sense,  and  enlightened  morality,  but 
literature,  and  talents  for  speculation,  are  far 
more  generally  diflused  in  society  than  is 
commonly  imagined;  and  that  the  delights 


and  the  benefits  of  those  generous  and  i. 
manising  pursuits,  are  by  no  means  conf  j 
to  those  whom  leisure  and  afHuence  !  a 
courted  to  their  enjoyment.  That  niuc  ,( 
this  is  peculiar  to  Scotland,  and  may  be  >. 
perly  referred  to  our  excellent  institution:  if 
parochial  education,  and  to  the  natural  sob>  v 
and  prudence  of  our  nation,  may  certainly 
allowed  :  but  we  have  no  doubt  that  the'u 
a  good  deal  of  the  same  principle  in  Engl  |, 
and  that  the  actual  intelligence  of  the  k"r 
orders  will  be  found,  there  also,  veryj&o 
exceed  the  ordinary  estimates  of  theirs;;, 
riors.  It  is  pleasing  to  know,  that  the  souig 
of  rational  enjoyment  are  so  widt  ly  diss  ^j. 
nated  ;  and  in  a  free  country,  it  is  comfort  e 
to  think,  that  so  great  a  proportion  of  e 
people  is  able  to  appreciate  the  advant  ^ 
of  its  condition,  and  fit  to  be  relied  oji,  i  H 
emergencies  where  steadiness  and  in  j. 
gence  may  be  required. 

Our  other  remark  is  of  a  more  limitet  > 
plication  ;  and  is  adtlressed  chiefly  to  le 
followers  and  patrons  of  that  nev,-  scho  )fl 
poetry,  against  which  we  have  thought  i-ul 
duty  to  neglect  no  opporlmiity  of  testif  j. 
Those  gentlemen  are  outrageous  for  siir  c- 
ity  ;  and  we  beg  leave  to  recommend  to  im 
the  simplicity  of  Burns.  He  has  copiet'ie 
spoken  language  of  passion  and  affection,  ih 
infinitely  moie  fidelity  than  they  have  .er 
done,  on  all  occasions  w  hich  properly  adff'jd 
of  such  adaptation  :  But  he  has  not  rej'fd 
the  helps  of  elevated  language  and  hal  lal 
associations  ;  nor  debased  his  compositii  by 
an  affectation  of  babyish  interjections,  qo 
all  the  puling  expletives  of  an  old  nui;y- 
maid's  vocabulary.  They  may  look  ng 
enough  among  his  nervous  and  manly  ;;8, 
before  they  find  any  "Good  lacks  !" — •■  sir 
hearts !"' — or  "As  a  body  may  says."  in  1  'n; 
or  any  stuff  about  dancing  daffodils  and  ter 
Emmelines.  Let  them  think,  \vith  ■nb  in- 
finite contempt  the  powerful  mind  of  mi 
would  have  perused  the  story  of  Alic'  'eH 
and  her  duffle  cloak, — of  Andrew  Jont  JiJ 
the  half-crown,— or  of  Little  Dan  w  )ut 
breeches,  and  his  thievish  grandfather.  '/Cl 
them  contrast  their  own  fantastical  perse 'ne? 
of  hysterical  school-masters  and  sente'ros 
leechgatherers,  with  the  authentic  rust  of 
Burns's  Cotters'  Saturday  Night,  and  1. in- 
imitable songs;  and  rellect  on  thedil'enl 
reception  which  those  personifications 'We 
met  with  from  the  public.  Though  thcA'ill 
not  be  reclaimed  from  their  puny  affed  ons 
by  the  example  of  their  learned  prrdt  o  off, 
they  may,  perhaps,  submit  to  be  admo;  hed 
by  a  self-taught  and  illiterate  poet,  wh(  rew 
from  Nature  far  more  directly  than  ih  m 
do,  and  produced  something  so  mud*" 
the  admired  copies  of  the  masters  whoi  W) 
have  abjured. 


CAMPBELLS  GERTRUDE  01-  WV()ML\(J. 


847 


(,lpiil,  180^1.) 


f  .'iin/(f^  o/  ?f'i/0'n'«g)  «  Pinnsylvanian  Talc ;  and  other  Pttrms.  Bv  Ti 
!o/  "  The  PUasiires  of  Hope,^!  ffc.      4to.  pp.  136.    Loiulon  :  I.oiij. 


Thomas  Ca.mpbei.i..  mi(hoT 
,TTiaii  &  to. :   |H0«>. 


•'e  rejoice  once  more  to  see  a  polished  aiul  admiration  of  tittering  parlie?,  un<l  of  whicli 

I  etic  poem — in  the  old  style  of  English  even  the  busy  niuM   turn   aside   to  catch  a 

I  OS  and  poelrv.     This  is  of  the  pilch  of  transient  plance:   Hut  'the  haunted  Mreain" 

v'astle  of  Indolence,  and  the  liner  parts  of  steals  throuij;ti  a  still  and  a  solitary  landscape; 

-piser;  with  more  feeliji>;,  in  many  places,  and   its  beauties  are  never  revialed,  but   to 

:;.   the   first,  and   more   conden.sition   and  him  who  strays,  in  calm  contemplation,  by  its 

ilent  linishing  than  the  latter.     If  tiie  true  course,  an«l   follows  its  wandernij^s  with  un- 

'i  of  nature  be  not  everywhere  maintained,  distracted  and  unimpatient  admirntion.  There 


jves  place,  at  least,  to  art  only*,  and  not  to 

-  aifctation — and,,  least  of  all,  to  affectation  of 

BiiJularity  or  rudeness. 

«  jimkIi      hiuiiful  as  the  greater  part  of  this  volume 

-.[le  public  taste,  we  are  afraid,  has  of  late 

.1   too  much  accustomed  to  beauties  of  a 

.!.' obtrusive  and  glaring  kind,  to  be  fully 

i;bleof  its  merit.    Without  supposing  that 

ijiaste  has  been  in  any  great  degree  vitiattd, 

ui  sen  imjxjsed  upon,  by  the  babyism  or  the 

I  lltiiinan]uarianism  which  have  lately  Wen  versi- 

MaiiJiii  fie  for  its  improvement,  we  may  be  allowed 

to  ispect,  that  it  has  been  somewhat  dazzled 

;  '.  he  splendour,  and  bustle  and  variety  of 

[most  popular  of  our  recent  poems:  and 

iijthc  more  modest  colourini:  of  truth  and 


s  a  reason,  too,  for  all  this,  which  may  be 
made  more  plain  than  by  metaphors. 

The  highest  delight  w  hich  ixxtry  produco«, 
does  not  aris«>  from  the  mere  p^is.sivr  perc<»p- 
tion  of  the  images  or  .sentiments  which  it  pre- 
sents to  the  miiul ;  but  from  the  «xcitemenl 
which  is  given  to  its  own  internal  activity, 
and  the  character  which  is  imprc^.^i'd  on  the 
train  of  its  sjwntaneous  conceptions.  Even 
the  dullest  n-ader  generally  sees  more  than 
is  directly  presented  to  him  by  the  poet;  but 
a  lover  of  poetry  always  pees  infinitely  more; 
and  is  often  indebted  to  his  author  lor  little 
more  than  an  impulse,  or  the  key-note  of  a 
meloiiy  which  his  fancy  makes  out  for  itself. 
Thus,  the  effect  of  jjoetry,  depends  more  on 
the//Hj7/w/HC5.sof  the  impres,sions  to  which  it 


ijre  may,  at  this  moment,  seem  somewhat 

111  and  I'eeble.     We  have  endeavoured,  on    gives  rise,  than  on  their  own  individual  force 

..ijiais  foiicr  occ^isions.  to  do   justice  to  the  force   or  novelty  :  and  the  writeisvho  po.-M  ss  the 

yiifl  j,i,l  an  originality  of  some  of  those  brilliant  pro-  '  greatest  powers  of  fascination,  arc  not  those 

.  dn  ions,  as  well  as  to  the  genius  (fitted  for    who  present  us  with  the  greatest  number  of 

!  h  higher  things)  of  their  authors — and    lively  images  or   lofty  sentirnent.s.   but  who 

little  doubt  of  being  soon  called  upon  I  most  successfully  impart  their  own  impulse 


\   renewed 


)t  ol  t>eing  soon  called  upon  I  most  successlully  impart  tlieir  own  impulse 
ribute  of  applause.  But  we  I  to  the  current  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings, 
jiol  help  sa}-ing,  in  the  mean  time,  that  and  give  the  colour  of  their  brighter  concep- 
I work  before  us  belongs  to  a  class  which  '  tions  to  tho!»e  which  they  excite  in  their 
|es  nearer  to  our  conception  of  pure  and    readers.     Now,  upon  a  little  consideration,  it 


)ert  iKietr)-.  Such  productions  do  not. 
.  ed.  strike  so  .«;trong  a  blow  as  the  vehe- 
t  fflusions  of  our  modern  Trouvcurs ; 
I  they  are  calculated,  vre  think,  to  please 
e  deeply,  and  to  call  out  more    perma- 


\ull  probably  appear   that  the  dazzling,  and 

the  busy  and  marvellous  scenes  which  con- 

.•ititute  the  whole  charm  of  sonie  j denis.  are 

not  so  well  calculated  to  produce  lliis  effect, 

as  those  more  intelligible  d»  lineatinns  which 

Iv,  those  trains  of  emotion,  in  which  the    are  Iwrrowed  from  ordinary  life,  arul  coloured' 

,'ht  of  iwetr}'  will  probably  be  found  to    from    familiar   affections.     The   object  is,  to'. 

ist.     Tney  may  not  be  so  loudly  nor  so  ,  iiwaken  in  our  mincUa  train  of  kindled  emo- 

er«si!Iy  applauded;    but  their  fame  will    tions,  and  to  excite  our  imaginations  to  work 

ablv  endure    lorger,  and    they   will   be    out  for  themselves  a  tissue  of  pleasii.g  or  im- 

ler  recalled  to  mnigle  with  the  reveries   pressive  conceptions.     But  it  M'«-mi' obvious. 

)litary  leisure,  or  the  consolations  of  real    that  this  is  more  likely  to  be  accomplished 

nv.  by  surroundinir  us  L'radually  with   those  ob- 

here  is  a  sort  of  poetry,  no  doubt,  as  there    jects.  an<i   involving   as   in    those   situations 

sort  of  flowers,  which  can  bi-ar  the  broad    with  which  we  liave  long  been   aeru.Momed 

and  the  rufllinti  winds  of  the  world. —    to  asso<-iale  the  feelinysof  the  jioet, — than  by 

1  -h  thrive  under  the  hands  and  eyes  of  in   I  startling  us  with  some  tale  of  wonder,  or  at- 

'riminatingmultitudes.  and  please  as  much    tcmptinir   to   enirage  cur  affections  for  per- 

1  ot  and  crowded  saloon.*,  as  in  their  own    sonages.  of  whose   chaiacter   ajid   condition 

hfered  repositories:  but  the  finer  and  the    we  are  unable  to  form  any  distinct  concep- 

,  IT  s<jrt8  olossom  only  in  the  shside ;  and    tion.     Thest?,  indeed,  are  more  mnc  than  the 

I  .'i-r  give  out  their  sweets  but  to  thow;  who    other  to  protlnce  a  momentary  wn^ation.  by 

-'•Ic  them  amid  the  rjuiet  and  seclusion  of    the  novelty  and  exagceralioii  with  which  theyr 

thi  .scenes  which  gave  them   birth.     There  ^  are  commonly  attendi'd  ;    but  their  jwwer  i* 

ar  torrents  and  ca.'Krades  which  attract  the  i  sj)ent  at  the  first  impulse:  they  do  not  ^triko 


348 


POETRY. 


root  and  germinate  in  the  mind,  like  the  seeds 
of  its  native  feeUngs ;  nor  propagate  through- 
out the  imagination  that  long  series  ot  delight- 
ful movements,  which  is  oidy  excited  when 
the  song  of  the  poet  is  the  echo  of  our  familiar 
feelings. 

It  appears  to  us,  therefore,  that  by  far  the 
most  powerful  and  enchanting  poetry  is  that 
which  depends  for  its  effect  upon  the  just 
representation  of  common  feelings  and  com- 
^non  situations;  and  not  on  the  strangeness 
bf  its  incidents,  or  the  novelty  or  exotic  splen- 
dour of  its  scenes  and  characters.  The  diffi- 
culty is,  no  doubt,  to  give  the  requisite  force, 
elegance  and  dignity  to  these  ordmary  sub- 
jects, and  to  win  a  way  for  them  to  the  heart, 
by  that  true  and  concise  expression  of  natural 
emotion,  which  is  among  the  rarest  gifts  of 
inspiration.  To  accomplish  this,  the  poet 
must  do  much;  and  the  reader  somelliing. 
The  one  must  practise  enchantment,  and  the 
other  submit  to  it.  The  one  must  purify  his 
conceptions  from  all  that  is  low  or  artificial ; 
and  the  other  must  lend  himself  gently  to  th& 
impression,  and  refrain  from  disturbing  it  by 
any  movement  of  worldly  vanity,  derision  or 
hard  heartedness.  In  an  advanced  state  of 
society,  the  expression  of  simple  emotion  is 
so  obstructed  by  ceremony,  or  so  distorted  by 
affectation,  that,  though  the  sentiment  itself 
be  still  familiar  to  the  greater  part  of  man- 
kind, the  verbal  representation  of  it  is  a  task 
of  the  utmost  difficulty.  One  set  of  writers,  ac- 
cordingly, finding  the  whole  language  of  men 
and  women  too  sophisticated  for  this  purpose, 
have  been  obliged  to  go  to  the  nursery  for 
a  more  suitable  phraseology ;  another  has 
adopted  the  style  of  courtly  Arcadians;  and 
a  third,  that  of  mere  Bedlamites.  (  So  much 
more  difficult  is  it  to  express  natural  feelings, 

■^   than  to  narrate  battles,  or  describe  prodigies ! 

But  even  when  the  poet  has  done  his  part, 

there  are  many  causes  which  may  obstruct 

his  immediate  popularity.     In  the  first  place. 

,^it  requires  a  certain  degree  of  sensibility  to 
perceive  his  merit.  There  are  thousands  of 
people  who  can  admire  a  florid  description, 
or  be  amused  with  a  wonderful  story,  to 
whom  a  pathetic  poem  is(juite  unintelligible. 
In  the  second  place,  it  requires  a  certain  de- 
gree of  leisure  and  tranquillity  in  the  reader. 
A  picturesque  stanza  may  be  well  enough 
relished  while  the  reader  is  getting  his  hair 
combed :  but  a  scene  of  tenderness  or  emo- 
tion will  not  do,  even  for  the  corner  of  a 
crowded  drawing-room.  Finally,  it  requires 
a  certain  degree  of  courage  to  proclaim  the 
merits  of  such  a  writer.  Those  who  feel  the 
most  deeply,  are  most  given  to  disguise  their 
feelings;  and  derision  is  never  so  agonising 
as  when  it  pomices  (jm  the  wanderings  of 
misguided  sensibility. ,  Considering  the  habits 
of  the  age  in  which  \ve  live,  therefore,  and 
the  fashion,  which,  though  not  immutable, 
has  for  some  time  run  steadily  in  an  opposite 
directionTJwe  should  not  be  much  surprised 
if  a  poem,  whose  chief  merit  consisted  in  its 
pathos,  and  in  the  softness  and  excjuisite  ten- 
derness of  its  representations  of  domestic  life 
and  romantic  seclusion,   should  meet  with 


less  encouragement  than  it  deserves.  If  thif 
volume  before  us  were  the  work  of  an  ua 
known  writer,  indeed,  we  should  feel  no  li^ 
tie  apprehension  about  its  success ;  but  Mi 
Campbell's  name  has  power,  we  are  peri 
suaded,  to  msure  a  very  partial  and  a  vef 
general  attention  to  whatever  it  accompanief; 
and,  we  would  faui  hope,  influence  enough  ti 
reclaim  the  public  taste  to  a  juster  staiularj 
of  excellence.  The  success  of  his  forme 
work,  indeed,  goes  far  to  remove  our  an.\ieti; 
for  the  fortune  of  this.  It  contained,  perhapj' 
more  brilliant  and  bold  passages  than  are  ti 
be  found  in  the  poem  before  us :  But  it  waj 
inferior,  we  think,  in  softness  and  beautyl 
and.  being  necessarily  of  a  more  desultor' 
and  didactic  character,  had  far  less  patho; 
and  interest  than  this  very  simple  tale.  Thosj 
who  admired  the  Pleasures  of  Hope  for  ih 
passages  about  Brama  and  Kosciusko,  mal 
perhaps  be  somewhat  disappointed  with  tb 
gentler  tone  of  Gertrude  ;  but  those  who  love! 
that  charming  work  for  its  pictures  of  infajiol 
and  of  maternal  and  connubial  love,  may  rea 
on  here  with  ihe  assurance  of  a  still  nigbi 
gratification.  '■ 

The  story  is  of  very  little  consequence  in ' 
poem  of  this  description;  and  it  is  here, 5' 
we  have  just  hinted,  extremely  short  an' 
simple.  Albert,  an  English  gentleman  i 
high  character  and  accomplishment,  had  in, 
grated  to  Pennsylvania  about  the  year  174 
and  occupied  himself,  after  his  wife's  deal , 
in  doing  good  to  his  neighbours,  and  in  ed 
eating  his  infant  and  only  child,  Gertrud 
He  had  fixed  himself  in  the  pleasant  town^li 
of  Wyoming,  on  the  banksof  the  Susquehaiii: 
a  situation  which  at  that  time  might  ha' 
passed  for  an  earthly  paradise,  with  very  liii 
aid  from  poetical  embellishment.  The  beau 
and  fertility  of  the  country, — the  simple  ai 
unlaborious  plenty  which  reigned  among  i; 
scattered  inhabitants, — but,  above  all,  tl, 
singular  purity  and  innocence  of  their  ma' 
ners,  and  the  tranquil  and  unenvious  equali' 
in  which  they  pa.'^sed  their  days,  form  all. 
gether  a  scene,  on  which  the  eye  of  phila; 
throjiy  is  never  wearied  with  gazing,  and  J 
I  which,  perhaps,  no  parallel  can  be  found 
;  the  annals  of  the  fallen  world.  The  hr 
I  turns  with  delight  from  the  feverish  sci-i 
of  European  history,  to  the  sweet  repose  j 
I  this  true  Atlantis;  but  sinks  to  reflect,  tl^ 
j  though  its  reality  may  still  be  attested 
surviving  witnesses,  no  such  spot  is  now  U| 
on  the  whole  face  of  the  earth,  as  a  refiij 
I  from  coriuption  and  misery  !  _     1 

I      The  poem  opens  with  a  fine  description / 
[  this  enclianting  retirement.     One  calm  su; 
I  mer  morn,  a  friendly  Indian  arrives  in  hi? 
noe,  bringing  whh.  him  a  fair  boy.  who,  « ■ 
I  his   mother,  were   the  sole  survivors  of  ^ 
I  English  garrison  which  had  been  stormed  . 
a  hostile-tribe.     The  dying  mother  had  co! 
I  mended  her  boy  to  the  care  of  her  wild   ' 
I  liverers  ;  and  their  chief,  in  obedience  to 
solemn  bequest,  now  delivers  him  into 
hands  of  the  most  respected  of  the  adjoin 
I  settlers.     Albert  recognises  the  unhappy 
!  phan  as  the  son  of  a  beloved  friend ;  ; 


CAMPBELLS  GERTRUDK  OF  WVOMLXG. 


fefs  young  Henry  Waldeurave  as  tlie  happy 

plimate  of  GerUiuie,  and  shan-r  with  ht-r  in 

th|  joys  of  their  romantic  solitiuic,  and  the 

ieions  of  their  venerable  instructor.     When 

htis  scarcely  entered  upon  manhood,  Henry 

jsient  for  bv  his  friends   in   En<rland,  ami 

ropis  over  Europe  in  search  of  impiovement 

foL'iirht  or  nine  years, — while  lhe(;uiet  hours 

an  sliding  over  the  father  and  ilau^hter  in 

thlunbroken  tranquillity  of  their  IViinsylva- 

iii^  retreat.     At   last,   Henry,  whose   heart 

hai  found  no  restinjl  place  in  all  tin-  world 

bt|des,  returns  in  all  the  mature  graces  of 

mjihood,  and  marries  his  beloved  (Jertruile. 

Tijn  there  is  bliss  beyond  all  that  is  blissful 

onfarth,-Sind  more  feeliniily  described  than 

1  e  genms  can  ever  hope  to  liescribe  any 

!  'J.     But  the  war  of  emancipation  hejrins; 

i    the    dream  of  love   and   enjoj-ment   is 

:  :en  by  alarms   and   dismal   forebodings. 

\  le  they  are  sitting  one  evening  enjoying 

e  tranquil  delights,  now  more  endeared 

^  he  fears  which  gather  around   them,  an 

j,i  Indian  rushes  into  their  habitation,  and. 

a  disclosing  himself  for  Henry's  ancient 
e  and  preserver.*  informs   them,   that  a 
jle    tribe   which   had    exterminated    his 
lie  family,  is  on  its  march  towards  their 
ted  dwellings.     With  considerable  diffi- 
iiv  thev  elTect  their  escape  to  a  fort  at  some 
nice  in  the  woods:  and  at  sunrise.  Ger- 
i  '.  and  her  father  and  husband.  look  from 
...-^pattlements  over  the  scene  of  desolation 
with   the  murderous   Indians  had   already 
spUd  over  the  pleasant  groves  and  eardens 
''t  /yoming.    While  they  are  standing  wrapit 
'  ;iis  sad  contemplation,  an  Indian  mark.'=- 
n,  fires  a  mortal  shot  from  his  ambush  at 
Aij*rt :  and  as  Geitnule  clasps  him  in  agony 
to  pr  heart,  another  discharge  lays  her  bleed- 
iniby  his  side  !     She  then  takes  farewell  of 
'  husband,  in  a  speech  more  sweetly  pa- 
c  than  any  thins  ever  written  in  rhyme. 
.1  :rv   prostrates   him.self   on   her   grave   in 
lorulsed   and   speechless  airony :    and   his 
lii'fin  deliverer,   throwing   his  mantle  over 
i:i   watches  by  him  awhile  in  gloomy  si- 
.  ' :  and  at  la.st  addresses  him  in  a  sort  of 
M;  and  eneriretic  descant,  e.vciting  him.  by 
hi>>.\ample,  to  be  revenged,  and  to  die  !   The 
po  a  closes  with  this  vehement  and  impas- 
skid  exhortation. 

?fore  proceeding  to  lay  any  part  of  the 
po  :i  itself  before  our  readers,  we  should  try 
to  ve  them  some  idea  of  that  delighfnl  har- 
lm(y  of  colouring  and  of  expression,  which 
seies  to  unite  every  part  of  it  for  the  pro- 
du  ion  of  one  effect ;  and  to  make  the  de- 
sciition,  narrative,  and  reflections,  conspire 
to  reathe  over  the  whole  a  certain  air  of 
pu  and  tender  enchantment,  which  is  not 
on  dispelled,  through  the  whole  Icnqlh  of 
thooera,  by  the  intru.sion  of  any  diwordant 
imession.  "  All  that  \vf  can  now  do.  how- 
ev,  is  to  tell  th'-m  that  this  wti«  il-^  effect 
•ipi  our  feelincs:  and  to  give  them  their 
Kce  of  partakinir  in  it,  by  a  pretty  copious 
•  Vtion  of  extracts. 

le  descriptive  stanzas  in  the  beginning, 
v\ ;h set  out  with  an  invocation  to  Wyoming, 


,  though  in  some  places  a  little  obscure  and 
overlaboured,  are,  to  our  taste,  very  soft  ami 
I  beautiful. 

"  On  .'^iis(|ui'liiiiHin'.'i  nidi!,  fnir  Wyoming! 

.Xlilioiii;))  the  wiKl-nowcr  on  ihy  niiiiM  wall 

.\ncl  nxifloRs  lioincd,  a  S4iil  rrmiiiilirnnca  bring 
.  of  what  ihy  Kriitic  people  did  (irfnll, 
,  Yfi  thou  Wirt  once  ihe  invflicst  land  of  all 
,  That  soe  the  .\tiantir  wnvp  tlxir  morn  restore. 
'  Swct't  land  I   may  I  lliy  lost  diiitjht»  rf-cnll. 
I  Anil  pjinii  thy  tieririide  m  hrr  Lwiwirs  ut  yore. 

Whose   tieoiiiy   was  the   love  of    Pennsylvania's 
shore  I 

"  It  was  beneath  thy  skies  thnl.  hut  to  prune 
IIls  aiiiiiniii  fruits,  or  xkim  tin-  IikIii  ranoc. 
Peri  hnni'e,  aloinf  thy  river  calm,  at  iiixin, 
The  happy  shepherd  swain  hud  nought  lo  do, 
Vt«\u  nmrii  till  evenmc's  sweeter  pnsiime  grew  ; 
Their  liiiihrol,  in  the  dance  of  forests  brow  n 
When  lovely  maidens  pranki  in  flowrets  new  ; 
And  ave,  lhos«  sunny  inouiiiaiiis  hall  way  down 
Would  echo  tlagehi  Irom  some  romantic  town. 

"  Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  iiow  might  you  the  Ihimingo  see 
Disponing  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  phiylul  8<iuirrel  on  his  nut -crown  tree  : 
And  ev'ry  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee, 

I  From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men; 

j  \\  hile  heark'ning.  fearing  nought  their  revelry. 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades — and, 

liien 
Unhunied,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

■  And  scjuce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard  but  in  transatlantic  story  rung,"  Sec. 

pp.  ')— 7. 

The  account  of  the  German,  Spanish,  Scot- 
ti.sh,  and  Etigli.sh  settlers,  and  of  the  patri- 
I  archal  harmony  in  which  they  were  all  united, 
\  is  likewise  given  with  great  spirit  and  brevity, 
I  as  well  as  the  portrait  of  the  venerable  Albert 
their  own  elected  judge  and  adviser.  A  sud 
den  transition  is  then  made  to  Gertrude. 

"  Young,  innocent  I  on  who?e  sweet  forehead  mild 

The  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise, 

An  inmate  in  ine  home  of  Albert  smild. 

Or  blest  his  noonday- walk — siic  was  hm  only  child  ' 

"  The  rose  of  England  bloom'd  on  Gertrude's 

iheek— 
What  thoui;h  these  shades  had  seen  her  birth,"  &.c. 
p.  11. 

After  mentioning  that  she  was  left  the  only 
child  of  her  mother,  the  author  goes  on  in 
i  these  sweet  verses. 

"  A  lov'd  bequest  I  and  I  may  lialf  imparl, 
i  To  ilM-m  ihoi  leel  the  strung  paternal  no, 
I  low  like  a  new  existence  to  his  heart 
I 'prose  that  living  flower  beneath  his  eye  I 
Dear  as  she  was,  (rom  cherub  inlancy, 
From  hours  when  she  would  round  his  garden  play. 
To  time  when,  as  tlic  rip'ning  years  went  by, 
Her  l.>V(ly  mind  could  culture  well  reptiv. 
And  more  engaging  grew  from  pleasing  day  to  day 

■'  I  may  not  paint  those  thousand  infant  charms; 
ll'iicoiis<-ious  la»<  inniion,  undeMgn'd  I) 
I  he  nri<uin  repeated  in  his  arm*. 
For  f  J>»d  to  bless  hrr  sire  and  al!  mankind  '. 
'F'he  l>ook.  ihe  bo^om  on  his  kiee  reilin'il, 
Or  how  sweei  fairy-lore  he  heard  her  con. 
(The  playmate  ere  the  teacher  of  her  mind) ; 
All  iiiieompanion'i!  else  lur  yenrs  hnd  j;<iiie 
Till  :'.ow  in  ffcrrudc's  'yes  iheir  i  tn'li  blue  ftin 
mcr  shone. 

2E 


350 


POETRY. 


"  And  Pummer  was  the  tide,  and  sweet  the  hour, 
When  sire  and  daughter  saw,  with  fleet  descent, 
An  Indian  irom  his  bark  approach  iheir  bow  r,     &.c. 
pp.  12,  13. 

This  is  the  guide  and  preserver  of  young- 
Henry  Waldegrave  ;  who  is  somewhat  fantas- 
tically described  as  appearing 
"Led  hv  his  duskv  guide,  hke  Morning  brought 

'by  Night." 
The  Indian  tells  his  story  with  great  anima- 
tion—the storming  and  blowing  up  of  the 
£ngli.sh  fort— and  the  tardy  arrival  of  his 
frie°ndly  and  avenging  warriors.  They  found 
all  the  soldiers  slaughtered. 

"  '  And  from  the  tree  we  with  her  child  unbound 
A  lonely  mother  of  the  Christian  land— 
Her  lord— the  captain  of  the  British  band- 
Amidst  the  slaughter  of  his  soldiers  lay  ; 
Scarce  knew  the  widow  onr  delivering  hand  : 
Upon  her  child  she  sobl>'d,  and  swoon'd  away  ; 
Or  shriek'd  unto  the  God  to  whom  the  Christians 

pray.— 
"  '  Our  virgins  led  her  with  their  kindly  bowls 
Of  lover  balm,  and  sweet  sagamite ; 
But  she  was  journeying  to  the  bmd  of  souls, 
And  lilted  up  her  dying  head  to  pray 
That  we  should  bid  an  antient  friend  convey 
Her  orphan  to  his  home  of  England's  shore  ; 
And  take,  she  said,  this  token  far  away 
To  one  that  will  remember  us  of  yore,        _ 
When  he  beholds  the  ring  that  Waldegrave  s  Julia 
wore.—'  "  PP-  16,  17. 

Albert  recognises  the  child  of  his  murdered 
friend,  with  great  emotion  ;  which  the  Indian 
witnesses  with  characteristic  and  picturesque 
composure. 

'•  Far  differently  the  Mute  Oneyda  took 
His  calumet  of  peace,  and  cup  of  joy  ; 
As  monumental  bronze  unchang'd  his  look  : 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook  : 
Train'd,  from  his  trcc-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
'Fhe  fierce  extremes  of  aood  and  ill  to  brook 
j.mpassivc — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods— a  man  without  a  tear. — " 
p.  20. 

This  warrior,  however,  is  not  without  high 
feelings  and  tender  afTections. 

"  He  scorn'd  his  own,  who  felt  another's  woe  : 
And  ere  the  wolf-skin  on  his  back  he  flung. 
Or  laced  his  mocasins,  in  act  to  go, 
A  song  of  parting  to  the  boy  he  sung,  . 

Who  slept  on  Albert's  couch,  nor  heard  his  friend- 
ly tongue. 

"  '  Sleep,  wearied  one!  and  in  the  dreaming  land 
Should'st  thou  the  spirit  of  thy  mother  greet 
Oh  !  say,  to-morrow,  that  the  white  man's  hand 
Hath  pluck'd  the  thorns  of  sorrow  from  thy  feet; 
While  T  in  lonely  wilderness  shall  meet 
Thy  httle  foot-prints— or  by  traces  know 
The  founiain,  svhere  at  noon  I  thought  it  sweet 
To  feed  thee  with  the  quarry  of  my  bow, 
Vnd  pour'd  the  lotus-horn,  or  slew  the  mountain  roe. 

(fcc. 


"  A  valley  from  the  river  shove  withdrawn  [ 

Was  Albert's  home  two  quiet  woods  between, 
Whose  loftv  verdure  overlook'd  his  lawn; 
And  waters  to  their  resting-place  serene, 
Came,  fresh'ning  and  reflecting  all  the  scene: 
(A  mirror  in  the  depth  of  flowery  shelves;) 
So  sweet  a  spot  of  earth,  you  might  (I  ween)  • 
Have  guess'd  some  congregation  of  the  elves      i 
To   sport   by  summer    moons,  had    shap'd  it  fo 
themselves." — p.  27. 

The  effect  of  this  seclusion  on  Gertrude  i 
beautifully  represented. 

"  It  seeni'd  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  influence  had 
On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their  own 
Inspir'd  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 
That  seeni'd  lo'love  whate'er  they  look'd  upon! 
W bother  with  Hebe's  mirth  her  features  shone, 
Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 
(As  if  for  heav'nly  musing  meant  alone  ;)  j 

Yet  so  becominglv  the  expression  past,  | 

That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  ihelatj 
"  Nor  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvanian  home, 
With  ah  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace,  ^ 

And  fields  that  were  a  lu.vury  to  roam, 
Lost  on  the  soul  that  look'd  from  such  a  face! 
Enthusiast  of  the  woods  !  when  years  apace 
Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's  zone, 
The  sunrise  path,  at  morn.  I  see  iheo  trace 
To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrown  ;      _ 
And   joy   to    breathe    the   groves,    romantic  at, 
alone."— pp.  29,  30'.  | 

The  morning  scenery,  too,  is  touched  \ri 
a  delicate  and  masterly  hand. 


Adieu' 


,eet  scion  of  the  rising  sun 


pp.  21,22. 


The  Second  part  opens  with  a  fine  descrip 
tion  of  Albert's  sequestered  dwelling.  It  re- 
minds lis  of  that  enchanted  landscape  in  which 
Thomson  has  embosomed  his  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence. We  can  make  room  only  for  the  first 
Btanza. 


"  While  yet  the  wild  deer  trod  in  spangling  dew- 
While  boatman  caroll'd  to  the  fresh-blown  air, 
And  woods  a  horizontal  shadow  threw,        _^ 
And  early  fox  appear' d  in  momentary  view, 
p.  32. 

The  reader  is  left  rather  too  much  in  i 
dark  as  to  Henry's  depaittire  for  Europe; 
nor,  indeed,  are  we  apprised  of  his  abseiu, 
till  we  corne  to  the  scene  of  his  une.xped , 
return.  Gertrude  was  used  to  spend  the  i 
part  of  the  day  in  reading  in  a  lonely  :. 
rocky  recess  in  those  safe  woods;  which 
described  with  Mr.  Campbell's  usual  felici    j 

"  Rocks  sublime 

To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  wore  ; 
And  yellow  lichens  colour'd  all  the  clime,         j 
Like  inoonliaht  battlements,  and  towers  deca;, 
by  time.  • 

"  But  high,  in  amphitheatre  above. 
His  arms  the  everlasting  aloes  threw : 
Bicath'd  but  an  air  of  lieav'n,  and  all  the  grove  ■ 
As  if  instinct  with  living  spirit  grew,  j 

Rolling  its  verdant  gulls  of  every  hue  ;  \ 

A  nd  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din,        j 
Now  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swcli'd  anew,       j 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  heard  wiihm      .   J 
Cathedral  aisles— ( re  yet  its  symphony  bepin. 
p.  3.V 

In  this  retreat,  which  is  represented  V' 
solitary,  that  except  her  own,  | 

"  scarce  an  ear  had  heard         j 

The  stock-dove  plaining  ihrough  iis  gloom  proloi 
Or  winglct  of  the  fairy  humming  bird,  ,  [ 

Like  atoms  of  the   rainbow  fluiienng  round.; 
p.  J, 

—a  strancer  of  lofty  port  and  gentle  manij 
snrprisrs^her,  one  morning,  and  is  condW; 
to  her  father.  They  enter  into  converW|i 
on  the  subject  of  his  travels.  [ 


CAMPBPXLS  (JERTRrOK  OV  WVDMIXC. 


891 


"  And  imich  they  lov'd  his  fervid  strain — 
W;>'  lie  each  fair  variety  rctrac'd 
(  M  iinr?.  and  manners,  o'er  the  eastern  main. 
"\:>  l!ii()py  Swiizer's  hills — romantic  S(^)ain — 

I  liiied  fields  of  France — or,  more  retni'd, 
.  ,.#ofi  Ausonia's  monumental  reign  ; 
iSiiiless eai'h  rural  image  he  desisrn'd, 
'Mk   '^  ''I  ^^^  '''^  city's  pomp  and  iiouie  of  liumun  kind. 
•*  .^on  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws  I 
Of  jnture's  savage  glories  he  would  speak — 
"'^■k   Th|<>nelines9  ot  earth  that  overawes  !  — 

Wife,  res'ing  by  some  tomh  of  old  cacique 
Thiama-driver  on  Fenivia's  peak, 
\i>>(iire  nor  livinsi  moMon  marks  around  ; 
l>iiiiorks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek  ; 
I  *r  ild-cane  arch  high  tlung  o'er  gulf  profound, 
I.   flnctuates   when   the  storms  of  El  Dorado 
sound." — pp.  3(),  37. 

-bert.  at  last,  bethinks  him  of  inquiring 
I  his  stray  ward  youiisi  Hem y  ;  ami  enter- 
'   his  guest  with  a  short  summary  of  his 

-  ry. 

il  tare  tlie  wand'rer  hid  ; — but  could  not  hide 
A  •  r.  a  smile,  upon  his  cheek  that  dwell  ! — 
'  A  I  speak,  mysterious  stranger  !'  (Gertrude  cried) 
li   '—it  is! — I  knew — I  knewhim  well! 
"I'iAValdegrave's  self,  of  Waidegrave  come  to 
J^^Ji"  A  b-st  of  joy  the  father's  lips  declare  ;  [tell !' 

,^-'  ■   ButJertrnde  speechless  on  his  bosom  fell : 
"^'^  At   ce  his  open  arms  embrac'd  the  pair  ; 

Wa  never  group  more  blest,  in  this  wide  world  of 
^*i,  care!"— p.  39 

le  fir.«t  overflowing  of  their  joy  and  art- 
•love  is  represented  with  all  the  fine 
rs  of  tmfh  and  pnetiy;  but  we  cannot 
Tiake  room  for  it.  The  Second  Part  ends 
this  stanza : — 

'Tn  would  that  home  admit  them — happier  far 


t.Mi  wit 


:IM5  Th 


grandeur's  most  niajrnificent  saloon — 


Wh'.  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star 

'd  in  the  dark'ning  firmament  of  June  ; 
Jiltv'ce  brought  the  soul-felt  hour  full  goon, 
:S'e — which  I  may  not  pnurlray  ! 
jiner  did  theHymenean  mooii 
■  l-idise  of  hearts  more  sacred  sway, 
i|ihat  slept  beneath  her  soft  voluptuoua  rny." — 
I  p.  43. 

'l]e   Last   Part  sets  out  with  a  soft  but 

"piipd  sketch  of  their  short-lived^ felicity. 

'rpp  little  moons.  hnwsh'Tt !  amidst  the  grove, 
tastoral  savannas  ihev  consume  ! 

he,  beside  her  buskin'd  youth  to  rove, 


Dc 


:s.  in  fancifully  wild  costume. 


C>^'-    Her  vely  brow  to  shade  with  Indian  plume  ; 
.All  irtii  in  hunter-seeming  vest  they  fare; 
to  cha.'^e  the  deer  in  forest  gloom  ! 
-•It  the  breath  of  heav'n — the  blessed  air — 
■.i.tPTrhnnse  of  hearts,  unknown,   unseen  to 
i      share. 

"(at  tiiongh  the  sportive  dog  oft  round  them  note, 
^    ik  n.  or  wild  bird  bursting  on  the  wine; 
Yf"  ho.  ill  love's  own  presence,  would  dcvoie 
To  iith    ho-e  gentle  throats  that  wake  the  spring  ? 
Or  'jih:i  .?  Ironi  the  brook  its  victim  bring  7 
No  '-lor  let  fear  one  little  warbler  rouse  ; 
Rii'lfd  tiy  Gertrude's  hand.  B"i!l  let  them  sing. 
Aer]jiniance  of  her  path,  amidst  the  boughn. 
''''nthade  ev'n  now  her  love,  and  witness'd  first 
lier  vows.'" — pp.  IS,  49. 

T 
slor 
diirr 


;^'< 


,sit'..B 


'  transition  to  the  melancholy  part  of  the 
s  introduced  with  Great  tetiderness  and 


mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth  1 


t'it  The  irrent'a  smoothness  ere  it  dash  below 


Sweet  W'yomit^p!  the  day.  when  thou  win  dooni'd, 
Guililiss,  to  niourn  thy  lovehcst  bow'rH  Inid  low  ! 
When,  wli<  reof  yesteniny  n  garden  bloom'd. 
Death  overspread   his  pall,  and  block'iiing  ashes 
gloom'd  f  — 

"  Slid  WHS  the  vear,  by  proud  Oppression  driv'n, 
When  'rrntisailnntic  l.ilirriy  nrom' ; 
Not  m  the  sunshine,  and  tlie  Hinile  of  htfav'ii. 
Hut  wrapt  in  vhirlwmds,  and  Ix'^irl  wiih  woes: 
Amidst  the  strife  of  fratricidal  foes. 
Iler  birth  star  was  the  liuht  ol  burning  plains  ; 
Her  baptism  is  the  weight  of  IiKhk!  that  (lows 
From  kindred  hearts — the  blond  ot  Itriii^li  veins!— 
And  famiiie^racksiiur steps,  niid  pCHiileniinl  pains  I" 
pp  :.(».  51. 

Gertrude's  alarm  and  dejection  at  the  pros- 
pect of  hostilities  are  well  described; 

"  O,  meet  not  thou,"  she  cries,  "thy  kindred  foe  ! 
But  peaceful  let  us  srek  fr.ir  Kngland's  strand,"  &,c. 

— as  well  as  the  arpumentB  and  peneroua 
.sentiments  by  which  her  husband  labours  to 
reconcile  her  to  a  necesMry  evil.  The  noc- 
turnal irruption  of  the  old  Indian  is  jriven  with 
crreat  .spirit : — Aijeand  misery  luul  so  chani^cd 
his  appearance,  tluit  he  was  not  at  iirst  recog- 
nised by  any  of  tlie  party. 

■' '  And  hast  thou  then  forgot ' — he  cried  forlorn. 
And  ey'd  the  group  with  half  indicnant  air). 
'  Oh  !  hast  thou,  Christian  chief,  forgot  the  mom 
When  I  with  thee  the  cnp  of  peace  did  share  ? 
Then  stately  was  this  head,  and  dark  this  hair, 
That  now  is  white  as  Appalncliia's  snow  ! 
But,  if  the  weiirht  of  fifteen  years'  despair. 
And  nge  hath  bow'd  me,  and  the  tort'ring  foe. 
Bring    ine   my    Boy — and    he    will    his  deliverer 
know  !' — 

"It  was  not  long,  with  eyes  and  heart  of  flame, 
Ere  Henry  to  his  lov'd  Oneyda  flew:  [came, 

'  Bless  thee,  iny  guide  !' — but,  backward,  as  he 
The  chief  his  old  bewilder'd  head  withdrew. 
And  grasp'd  his  arm,  and  look'd  and  lonk'd  him 

through. 
'Twasstrangr — nor  could  the  group  a  smile  control, 
Tlie  long,  the  doubtful  scrutiny  to  view : — 
At  last  delight  o'er  all  his  features  stole,       [.^nul. — 
'  It  is — my  own  !'  he  cried,  and  clasp'd  him  to  his 

"  '  Yes  !  thou  rccall'st  my  pride  of  years  ;  for  then 
The  bowstring  of  my  spirit  was  not  slack.       [men. 
When,  spite  of  woods,  and  floods,  and  anibush'd 
I  bore  thee  like  the  quiver  on  my  back. 
Fleet  as  the  whirlwind  hurries  on  the  rack  ; 
.\or  focman  then,  nor  cougar's  crouch  I  fear'd. 
For  I  was  strong  as  mountain  cataract ; 
And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  wc  ch'  er'd 
Upon  the  last  hill-top,  when  white  men's  hu's  ap- 
pear'd  f  " — pp.  .54—56. 

After  waniine  them  of  the  approach  of  their 
terrible  foe,  the  conflafrration  is  seen,  and  the 
whoops  and  scatterinf(  shot  of  tlie  enemy  heard 
at  a  distance.  The  motley  militia  of  the 
neifrl)ourhood  flock  to  the  defence  of  Albert, 
the  effect  of  their  shouts  and  music  on  the  old 
Indian  in  fine  and  striking. 

"  Rous'd  by  their  warlike  pomp,  oiid  niirih.  and 
Old  Oiiiali^Hi  woke  his  battle  song,  [cheer, 

And  beating  with  his  war-dub  carlence  s'roi'i:. 
Tells  how  liis  dcep-Biung  indignation  sniar'ii,"  dec. 
p.  61. 

Xor  is  the  contrast  of  this  savage  enlhusiaam 
with  the  venerable  comi>nro  :•  ■  •  *  '  ••  '■  "^^ 
beautifully  represented. 


352 


POETRY. 


"  Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  Father  rose, 
Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
Otiiiariyr  light  the  conflagration  throws; 
One  hand  upjn  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 
And  one  ili'  uncovered  crowd  to  silence  sways; 
\Vhile,  though  the  battle  flash  is  faster  driv'n — 
UnawM,  with  eye  unsiarlied  by  the  blaze, 
He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven — 
Prays  that  the  men  ol  blood  themselves  may  be 
forgiven." — p.  62. 

They  then  speed  their  night  march  to  the 
distant  fort,  whose  wedged  ravelins  and  re- 
doubts 

"  Wove  like  a  diadem,  its  tracery  r^und 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  " — 

and  look  back  from  its  lofty  height  on  the 
desolated  scenes  around  them.  We  will  not 
separate,  nor  apologize  for  the  length  of  the 
fine  passage  that  follows ;  which  alone,  we 
think,  might  justify  all  we  have  said  in  praise 
of  the  poem. 

"  A  scene  of  death  !   where  fires  beneath  the  sun. 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow  ; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done. 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seem'd  to  blow. 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  woe  ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm. 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasp'd  her  hands  of  snow- 
On  VValdegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclos'd,  that  felt  her  heart  and  hush'd  its  wild 
alarm  ! 

•'  But  short  that  contemplation  !  sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-lov'd  scene  adieu  ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort,  [flew, 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners 
Ah  I  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near  ?  —  Yet  there,  with  lust  of  murd'rous 

deeds, 
(Jleam'd  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view. 
The  ambush'd  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds! 
And  Albert  —  Albert  —  falls!  the  dear  old  father 

bleeds ! 

"  And  tranc'd  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swoon'd  ! 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrow'd  from  her  father's  wound. 
Those  drops  ? — 0  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own  ! 
Andfali'ring,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown — 
'Weep   not,    O   Love  I'  —  she  cries,   'to    see  me 

bleed — 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone — 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate  I  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds! — Yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is 

death  indeed. 

"  '  Clasp  me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 

And,  when  this  heart  hath  ceas'd  to  beat — oh!  think, 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess. 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness. 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness. 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust,  [dust! 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  in 

"  '  Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart ! 

The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 

Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart. 

And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 

With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 

Ol  peace — imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

In  heav'n  !   for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love ! 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ?       [past. — 

No!   I  shall   love  thee  still,   when  death   itself  is 

"  '  Half  could  I  hear,  niethinks.  to  leave  this  earth —  , 

And  thee,  more  lov"d  than  aught  beneath  the  sun!  ] 

Cmild  I  have  liv'd  to  smile  hut  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  p'edgc  1 — But  shall  there  then  be  none,  | 


Iri  future  times — no  gentle  little  one, 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembhng  me!  ' 

Yet  seems  u,  ev'n  while  life's  last  pulses  ruii 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be. 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love  1  to  die  beholding  th( 

"  Hush'd  were  his  Gertrude's  lips!  but  still    j 

bland 
And  beautiful  expression  seem'd  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die  !  and  still  his  han 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
.\h  heart !  where  once  each  fond  aflecuondwi. 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair!' 
pp.  64- 1. 

The  funeral  is  hurried  over  with  pat!  c 
brevity;  and  the  desolate  and  all-eiidug 
Indian  brought  in  again  with  peculiar  bea-. 

"Touch'd  by  the  music,  and  the  melting  seen 
Was  scarce  one  tearle.-^s  eye  amidst  the  crowd- 
Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  n 
To    veil   their   eyes,  as    pass'd    each   much-  d 

shroud — 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolv'd  a  L 

"  Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid        , 
Its  farewell  o'er  the  grave  ot  worth  and  iruih.| 
Prone  to  the  dust,  afflicted  Waldegrave  hid 
His  face  on  earth  ? — Him  waich'd  in  gloomy  i„ 
His  woodland  guide;  but  words  had  none  to  'i 
The  grief  that  kiiew  not  consolation's  name!; 
Castiiig  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth. 
He  watch'd  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  ibat  |k 
Convulsive, ague-like,  across  his  shuddering  fra." 
P- 
After  some  tim'e    spent  in  this  nnjtejKJ 
awful  pause,  this  stern  and  heart-struck  a- 
forter  breaks  out  into  the  following  torn  ig 
and  energetic  address,  with  which^lhe  )  m 
closes,  with  great  spirit  and  abruptness:- 

"  '  And  /  could  weep  ;' — th'  Oneyda  chief 
His  descant  wildly  thus  began  : 
'  But  that  I  may  no;  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  mv  father's  son  ! 
Or  bow  his  head  in  woe  ; 
F'or  by  my  wrongs,  and  l)y  my  wrath ! 
To-morrow  Areouski's  breath 
(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  deail 
Shall  light  us  to  the  foe: 
And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy! 
The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  !— 

"  '  But  thee,  my  flow'r  I  whose  breath  was   ■ 
By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep. 
The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heav'n         ', 
Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  I  — 
Nor  will  the  Christian  host. 
Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve. 
Lamenting  take  a  mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  lov'd  thee  most : 
She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 
Thy  sun — thy  heav'n — of  lost  delight  !— 

"  '  To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die ! 
But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hiirl'd. 
Ah  !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly. 
Shall  Onlalissa  roam  the  world  ? 
Seek  we  thy  once-lov'd  home  ? — 
The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers  ' 
Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours. — 
Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bow'rs ! — 
And  should  we  thither  roam. 
Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread, 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead  ! 

"  '  But  hark,  the  trump  ! — to-morrow  thou 
In  alory's  fires  shah  dry  thy  tears: 
Ev'n  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  sppears. 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll  I 


CAMPBELLS  GERTrxUDE  OF  WVOMLNG 


•^ik 


'   bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 

iiuis  me  dry  lii'-  last — ilie  first — 
!:■  onlif  tfHrs  tlini  ever  burst — 
Flini  I  lutnlissi's  soul ! — 
&aiise  I  may  not  stniii  with  ltu  f 
Ip  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief  I'   ' — pp.  7(>-73. 

V*L    ^i'*  needless,  after  these  extracts,  to  en- 

ij„i2|1arij  upon  the  beauties  of  this  poem.     They 

idi{if,coiil5t  chietly  in  the  feeHiii;  and  tendernesV 

ikjuitispf  ¥  whole  delineation,  and  the  laP!e  and 

jJelncj-  with  which  all  the  suboidinate  parts 

ire  hade  to  contribute  to  the  <renenil  etfect. 

'  '""flef^e  dismissing  it.  however,  we  mvist  sav  a 

''tliof  its  faults,  which  are  sutlicienlly  ob- 

1  and  undeniable.     In  the  first  place,  the 

I  Live  is  extremely  obs<'u re  and  imjicrftH't ; 
t  Kis  greater  blanks  in  it  than  could  be 
■  ted  even  in  Ivric  poetry.     We  hear  ab- 

II  !y  nothinir  of  Henry,  from  the  day  the 
ndii  first  brincrs  him  from  the  back  coiintry. 

a»«iaij]I  }  returns  from  Europe  fifteen  years  there- 
:3ae;iftei    It  is  likewise  a  sireat  oversifrhl  in  Mr. 
'anibell  to  se^xirate  his  lovers,  when  only 
LTfh  years  of  a^e — a  period  at  which  it  is 
iitt'V  inconceivable  that  any  permanent  at- 
;icl|ient   could    have    been    formed.      The 
.    rcapst  fault,  however,  of  the  work,  is  the 
•  wik-iccaoiial  constraint  and  obscuritv  of  the  dic- 
ilsikii^on Proceeding  apparently  from  tcxj  laborious 
Ji  fort  at  emphasis  or  condensation.     Th'^ 
,.,  jp|pet[  seems  in  several  places  to  have  been 
j,]l,^^^  tnch  overworked,  as  to  have  lost  not  only 
Is  ([ctility.  but  its  lustre:  and,  while  there 
ssages  which  can  scarcely  be  at  all  un- 
tied after  the  most  careful  consideration, 
irrare  others  which  have  an  air  so  elaborate 
■  Owimd  -tificial,  as  to  destroy  all  appearance  of 
«ii(i:  latii!  in  the  sentiment.     Our  readers  may 
-n,;hp«iav<  remarked  somethinjr  of  this  sort,  in  the 


*irst  xtracts  with  which  we  have  pre.«ented 
her  but  there  are  specimens  still  more  e.v- 
nable.  In  order  to  inform  us  that  Albert 
)st  his  wife,  Mr.  Campbell  is  pleased  to 
ay,iat 

iww'i' '  '^*'*  ^"^  '^*^'  *'''  """"^'  ^^^^  I 

"'!    order  to  tell  ns  somethins;  else — thonirh 
iiwe  are  utterly  unable  to  conjecture — 
(licludes  a  stanza  on  the  delights  of  mu- 
-     uaUve,  with  these  three  lines  : — 

— .iw? '  •  Fll  on,  ye  diys  of  raptiir'H  influence,  shine  f 
N".  blind  with  ersiofv's  celestial  fire,     [pire.'  " 
:i;  love  behold  the  spark  of  earth-born  timeex- 

■ihole  twenty-second  stanza  of  the  first 
•  U  extremely  incorrect ;  and  the  three 
'jdinir  lines  are  almost  unintelligible. 

I !    where  waa   I   when  Wnldegrave  was  no 

more  f 
\ij  thou  didst  pale  ihy  gentle  head  extend, 
'  ijops.  that  ev'n  the  tribe  of  deserts  was  ihy 
'    friend  !'  " 

i?'llr.  Campbell  had  duly  considered  the 
nv  necessity  of  perspicuity — especially 

'  'jipositions  which  aim  only  at  pleasintr — 

•    :b  persuaded  that  he  would  never  have 

liese  and  some  oth<'r  jia.'i'iages  in  .so  very 

-pnable  a  state.     There  is  still  a  goo<l 

1  or  him  to  do,  indeed,  in  a  new  fdition  : 

■'  lorking — as  he  mu.**!  work — in  the  true 
1  45 


spirit  and  pattern  of  what  is  Ix'fore  him,  we 
hope  he  will  yj«t  be  induced  to  make  ciuifiidi'r- 
able  adilitions  to  a  work,  which  will  plt'a?*«> 
those  most  will)  are  most  worthy  to  be  plf.isi'd  ; 
ami  always  .•:ccm  most  bcautilul  to  tho.so  who 
give  it  the  i;ri'at»-st  .share  of  their  allcnlinn. 

Of  the  smaller  pieces  which  lill  up  the  vol- 
ume, wc  have  si-arce  h'ft  ours<'lv«'s  riM)m  to 
say  any  thing.  The  greater  jwrt  of  them  have 
been  jirinted  lH'fiir<< ;  and  there  are  probably 
tew  readers  of  English  j»oetry  who  are  not  al- 
ready familiar  with  the  I.,<H'}iiel  ajid  the  Ho- 
hinlintleii — the  one  by  far  the  most  spirit«'d 
and  jxietical  denunciation  of  comitui  woo, 
since  the  days  of  Ca.ssandta  ;  the  oilier  th«» 
only  representation  of  a  m«Klern  battle,  which 
jwssesses  either  interi'st  or  sublimity.  The 
.song  to  '-the  Mariners  of  Englaiul,'"  is  also 
very  generally  known.  It  is  a  splendid  in- 
.stance  of  the  most  matniificent  diction  adapted 
to  a  familiar  and  ev»'n  trivial  metre.  Notnini.' 
can  be  finer  than  the  first  and  the  last  stanzas. 

"  Ye  manners  of  P^ngland  I 
'I'hat  guard  our  native  8cas  ; 
Whose  tlag  has  l)ravcd,  a  thousand  years, 
The  battle,  and  the  breexe  I 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  matrh  another  foe  I 
And  sweep  through  the  deep,"  &,c. — p.  101. 

"  The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 
And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ve  ocean  warriors  ! 
Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
'l"o  the  lame  of  your  name. 
When  the  storm  has  ceas'd  to  blow  ; 
When  the  fiery  tight  is  litard  no  more, 
And  the  storm  has'ceas'd  to  blow."— pp.  I(t3,  104. 

'■  The  Battleof  the  Baltic."  though  we  think 
it  has  been  printed  before,  is  much  less  known. 
ThoUL'h  written  in  a  stranije,  and  we  think  an 
unfortunate  metre,  it  has  great  force  and 
iinuideur,  bothof  conceptiiui  and  expres,>.ion — 
that  8t)rt  of  force  and  graiuieur  which  results 
from  the  simple  and  conci.se  expression  of 
iXreat  events  and  natural  emotions,  alto::ether 
unassisted  by  any  splendour  or  amplification 
of  expre.ssion.  The  characteristic  merit,  in- 
deed, both  of  this  piece  and  of  Hohinlinden. 
is,  that,  by  the  forcible  delineation  of  one  or 
two  great  circumstances,  they  give  a  clear 
and  most  enertretic  representation  of  events 
as  complir'ated  as  they  are  impressive — and 
thus  impress  the  mind  of  the  reader  with  all 
the  tf^rror  and  sublimity  of  the  subject,  while 
they  rescue  him  from  the  fatigue  and  [M-rplex- 
ity  of  its  details.  Nothing  in  our  jiidumient 
can  be  more  impressive  than  the  followins: 
very  short  and  simple  description  of  the  British 
fleet  bearing  up  to  clos<'  action  : 

"  As  they  drifted  on  their  path. 
There  was  sib  nre  de«  p  an  death  ! 
And  ihc  boldest  held  his  bnath 
For  a  lime. — " — p.  lO'.t. 

The  description  of  the  battle  itwif  (ihoii-h  it 
begins  with  a  tremendous  line)  is  in  the  samo 
spirit  of  homely  sublimity  ;  and  worth  a  thou- 
sand stanzas  of  thun<ler,  shriek*,  shouts,  tri- 
dents, and  heroes. 

a«2 


354 


POETRY. 


■'  '  Hearts  of  oak,'  our  caplams  cried!  when 
From  its  adamantine  lips  [each  gun  , 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships  !  ' 

Like  the  hurricane  ecUpse 
Of  the  sun. —  i 

"Again!  again  I  again!  ] 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack,  | 

Till  a  feebler  cheer  the  Dane  I 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ;—  | 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  :—  j 
Then  cease  I— and  all  is  wail,  i 

As  they  strike  the  shaiter'd  sail  ;  i 

Or,  in  contlagraiion  pale. 
Light  the  gloom. — " 
There  are  two  little  ballad  pieces,  published 
for  the  first  time,  in  this  collection,  which 
have  both  very  considerable  merit,  and  attord 
a  favourable 'specimen  of  Mr.  Campbells 
powers  in  this  new  line  of  exertion.  Ihe 
loncrest  is  the  most  beautiful ;  but  we  give  our 
readers  the  shortest,  because  we  can  give  it 
entire. 

"  O  heard  ye  yon  pibrach  sound  sad  in  the  gale, 
Where  a  band  coineth  slowly  with  wetpin"  and  wail? 
'Tis  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear; 
And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  called  to  her  bier. 
"  {;ienara  came  fir.st  with  the  mourners  and  shroud  ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  foUow'd.  but  mourn'd  not  aloud  : 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  tolded  around  : 
They  march'd  all  in  silence— they  look  d  on  the 

ground. 
"  In  silence  they  reach'd  over  mountain  and  moor. 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lone.y  and 

hoar ;  r  l         ■ 

Now  here  let  us  place  the  grey  stone  of  her  cairn : 
'  Why  speak  ye  no  word  ?'— said  Glenara  the  stern. 
"  '  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you !  ye  clan  of  my  spouse. 
Why  fold  you  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your 

brows  V  . 

So  spake  the  rude  chieftain -.—no  answer  is  made. 
But  each  mantle  unfolding,  a  dagger  display  d. 
"  'I  dreamt  of  my  ladv,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud,' 
tried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and 

'  And  empty  that  shroud,  and  that  coffin  did  seem  ; 
Glenara!  Glenara!  now  read  me  my  dream  !' 
"  O  !  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween. 
When  the^shroud  was  unclos'd,  and  no  lady  was 
seen ; 


When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  londin 

scorn. 


scorn, 
Twas  the  youth  who  had  lov'd  the  tair  Elli  j( 
Lorn: 

"  '  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief; 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem ; 
Glenara!  Glenara!  now  read  me  my  dream!'! 

"  In  dust  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  grou 
And  the  desert  reveal'd  where  his  lady  was  foj; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  born€ 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  ot  Lorn !" 
pp.  105 — ;• 

We  close  this  volume,  on  the  whole,  ih 
feelings  of  regret  for  its  shortness,  and  c  d- 
1  miration  for  the  genius  of  its  author.    '  te 
I  are  but  two  noble  sorts  of  poetry— the  pai  lie 
i  and  the  sublime ;  and  we  think  he  has  ea 
1  very  extraordinary  proofs  of  his  talen  fw 
;  both.     There  is  something,  too,  we  wil  -n. 
j  ture  to  add,  in  the  style  of  many  of  hi  in- 
1  ceptions,  which  irresistibly  impresses  ui  ilk 
i  the  conviction,  that  he  can  do  much  g  let 
things  than  he  has   hitherto   accomphd, 
and  leads  us  to  regard  him,  even  yet  i » 
poet  of  still  greater  promise  than  perfora  «, 
It  seems  to  us,  as  if  the  natural  forcjiti 
boldness  of  his  ideas  were  habitually  chied 
by  a  certain  fastidious  timidity,  and  an  i- 
ety  about  the  minor  graces  of  corretind 
chastened  composition.    Certain  it  is,artfl, 
that  his  greatest  and  most  lofty  fligntf  m 
been   made   in   those  smaller  pieces.  m\ 
which,  it  is  natural  to  think,  he  musne 
felt  least  solicitude;  and  that  he  ha  «• 
ceeded  most  splendidly  where  he  muj  a" 
been  most  free  from  the  fear  of  failure  Wf 
wish  any  praises  or  exhortations  of  ou  h»>: 
the  power  to  give  him  confidence  in  hi" 
great  talents  Tand  hope  earnestly,  that  \m 
now  meet  with  such  encouragement,  a  na* 
set  him  above  all  restraints  that  procee  roB 
apprehension :  and   induce  him  to  gi'  Ire- 
scope  to  that  genius,  of  which  we  a  pf  ■ 
suaded  that  the  world  has  hitherto  seen  iH^r 
1  the  grace  than  the  richness. 


( lanuanj,  lS2o.)  ' 

Theodric,  a  Domestic  Tale:  with  other  Pocm^.     By  Thomas  Campbell.     l2mo.    p. 

London  :   1824. 

those  relics  to  which  it  excludes  th- 1 
bility  of  any  future  addition.     At  all  ' 
he  has  better  proof  of  the  permanent  J 
the  public  take  in  his  productions,  tha^ 
ever  can  have  who  are  more  diligent 
multiplication,  and  keep  themselves 
recollection  of  their  great  patron  by  n 
quent   intimations   of  their   e.xistein 
i  e.xperiment,  too,  though  not  without 
I  ards.  is  advantageous  in  another  resp- 
the  re-appearance  of  such  an   aiill! 
those  lone  periods  of  occullalion.  is  i 
hailed    as  a  novelty— and  he  recei 
I  double  welcome,  of  a  celebrated  etrac 


If  Mr.  Campbell's  poetry  was  of  a  kind 
that  could  be  forgotten,  his  long  fits  of  silence 
would  put  him  fairly  in  the  way  of  that  mis- 
fortune. But,  in  truth,  he  is  safe  enough;— 
and  has  even  acquired,  by  virtue  of  his  ex- 
emplary laziness,  an  assurance  and  pledge  ot 
immortality  which  he  could  scarcely  have 
obtained  without  it.  A  writer  who  is  still 
fresh  in  the  mind  and  favour  of  the  public, 
after  twenty  years'  intermission,  may  reason- 
hblv  expect  to  be  remembered  when  death 
.cshall  have  finally  sealed  up  the  fountains  of 
h's  .nspiration;  imposed  silence  on  the  cavils 
of  envious  rivals,  and  enhanced  the  value  of 


8  IBM 


■Ml 


w 

>ii»Illt!l| 

ofiital 
«L«  o[  til 

^,  100,11 

::llyi|ia 

uiknoiM 
filiii,eij 
nnselkf! 
liemtiiil' 

•  tiiiiiitf,'ii 
mail 
I,  CwtiiiS 
raosMtii 
snaleip! 
:o  ihiililil 
inJihili 
IvAield 
if  tools 
il»tai«i 

l«Dfillfl«i 

vmS 


^    I 


C.ViMPBELL  S  TIIKODRIC. 


355 


aemembered  fripiiil.     There  is.  acconlinsly. 

living  poet,  we  believe,  w  hose  ailvertij^e- 

ikil   excites   gcealer   e.vpeclatiou  than   Mr. 

npbeJI's; — ami  a  new  poem  from  him  is 

ileil  for  with  even  more  eagernetw  (a.s  it  is 

taiiily  for  a  mueh  loiurer  time)  than  a  new 

el  from  the  autliur  of  Waverley.     Like  all 

er  human  felix:itie.>«,  however,  this  hiL'h  e.\- 

tation  and  nre]xirej  homaire  lias  its  liiaw- 

tHs  anil  its  danirers.     A  popular  anlhi>r,  as 

V  have  been  led  to  remark  on   tormer  oeca- 

slis.  has  no  rival  so  formidable  as  his  former 

s|l — ajid  no  comjuirison  to  sustain   half  m 

rous  as  that  wliich  is  always  made  be- 

ien  the  average  merit  of  his  now  work,  and 

remembered  beauties — for    little  else  is 

r  remembered — of  his  old  ones. 

low   this   c-oinjviri.s<}n    will   result   in   the 

sent  instance,  w*-  do  not  presume  to  pre- 

t  with  coiilidence — but  we  doubt  whether 

ill  be,  at  lea.st  in  the  beirinninsr.  altoirether 

favour   of    the    volume    before    us.     The 

ptms  of  this  author,  indeed,  are  ;renerallv 

nre  admired  the  more  thevare  studied,  and 


Ibttfii^ 


in  our  estimation   in  proportion  as  they 
ome  familiar.     Their  noveltv.  theret'ore.  is 


ays  rather  mi  obstruction  than  a  help  to 

ir  popularity; — and  it  may  well  be  ques- 

tiied.   whether  there  be  any   thin-j  in   the 

elties  now  before  us  that  can  rival  in  our 

auctions  the  long  remembered  beauties  of 

tn    Pleasures    of    Hope — of    Gertrude — of 


Ofonnor's  Child — the  Song  of  Linden — The 

riners  of   England — and   the  many  other 

banting  melodies  that  are  ever  present  to 

minds  of  all  lovers  of  poetry. 

"he  leading  piece  in  the  present  volume  is 

aj&ttempt  at  a  very  difficult  kind  of  poetry : 

ai    one  in  which  the  most  complete  success 

hardly  ever  be.«o  spleiidid  and  striking  as 

tcfnake  amends  for  the  difficulty.     It  is  en- 

•1   --a    Domestic   Story" — anc'l  it  is  so; — 

mm  upon  few  incidents — embmcing  few 

meters — dealing   in   no   marvels   and    no 

itjors — di.splayini:  no  stormy  passions.  With- 

oi  complication  of  plot,  in  short,  or  hurry  of 

•with  no  atrocities  to  shudder  at,  or 

'    s  of  noble  daring  to  stir  the  .«pirits  of  the 

iipitiffus — it  pa.oses  quietly  on,  through  the 

-Kdtii  path.s  of  private  life,  conversing  with 

/title  natures  and  patient  sufferings — and  un- 

ilini.  withsprenc  pitv  and  sol>er  triumph, 

tlj  paii2s  which  are  fated  at  times  to  wrinir 

th  l)rHast  of  innocence  and   iienerusity.  and 

ll|  courage  and  comfort  which  generosity  and 

inpcence   can    never   fail    to    bestow.     The 

lak;  and  the  feeling  which  leil   to  the  wlec- 

»i'  of  such  topics,  could  not  but  impress  their 

ilracter  on    the   style   in   which    thev  are 


ted.     It  is  distinguished  accordingly  by  a 


I  and  tender  finish.  lK)lh  of  thought  and  of 


-bv 


chastened   r-legancr*  of  worrls 
a    mild   di;mily  and   tcnqK-red 


;^; 


:ii!  image: 

p.'jifi'^  in  the  sentiments,  antl  a  ueneml  tonr 
ofimplicity  and  directness  in  the  conduct  of 
story,  which,  joined  lo  its  great  brevity, 
•is  at  first  perhaps  to  disguise  both  tKe 
iiess  and  the  force  of  the  genius  required 
ts  production.  But  though  not  calculated 
rike  at  once  on  the  dull  palled  ear  of  an 


I  idle  and  occupied  world,  if  is  of  all  others 
I  {M'thaps  the  kind  of  jwetry  best  fittetl  to  wm 
,  on  our  .softer  hour.s,  and  to  sink  deep  luio  va- 
cant bosom.H — unlcH'king  all  the  »ource»  of 
toiul  recollfction,  and  leadiiiL'  us  gently  on 
through  the  ma/i-s  of  tle<-])  and  iiigros-Hing 
meditation — and  thus  ministerinir  to  a  deejH-r 
'  enchantment  and  mon-  la>ting  delight  than 
I  caii  v\oi  bf  in.»pired  by  the  more  imix)rtuiiato 
strains  ot  more  umbilious  authors. 

Thi-re  aif  no  doubt  peculiar  and  jx-rhnpii 
in.-up«'mble  dilliculties  m  the  managennnt  of 
j  themes  ho  delicate,  and  reipiiring  .ho  tine  and 
I  so  lestrained  a  hand — nor  are  we  pre|);ired  to 
j  sny  that   Mr.  Campbell  has  on  ihi.-*  occasion 
entirely  escaped   them.     There  are  imssjiges 
that  are  somewhat  Jade: — then-  ar»-  «\pre6- 
sioris  that    are    trivial : — But    the    prevailing 
character  is  sweetne.is  and   beauty  :   ami   it 
prevails  ov«'r  all  that  i.s  opjxis*  tl  to  it.     The 
story,  thouuh  abundantly  simjile.  as  our  read- 
ers will   immediately  see.   has    two   distinct 
comuirtments  —  one    relating   to    the    Swi.h* 
maiden,  the  other  lo  the  English  wife.     The 
former,  with  all  itsaccomj'animents,  we  think 
nearly  i)erfecl.     It  is  full  of  lendernes,",  purity, 
and  pity  ;  and  tbiished  w  ilh  the  most  exquisite 
elegance,  in   few  and  simple  louchi's.     The 
other,   which   is  the   least  considerable,   ha« 
more  decided  blemishes.     The  diction  is  in 
many  places  too  familiar,  and   the  incidentn 
too  common — and  the  cause  ol  dislr(V>i,s  has 
the  double  misfortune  of  being  unpoitical  in 
its  nature,  and  improbable  in  its  result.     But 
the  shortest  way  is  to  give  our  readers  a  slight 
account  of  the  {)oem,  with  such  specimens  as 
may  enable   them  lo  judge   fairly  of  it  for 
themselves. 
j      It  opens,  poetically,  with  the  description 
of  a  fine  scene  in  Switzerland,  and  of  a  rustic 
church-yard  ;  where  the  friend  of  the  author 
I  points   out    to    him    the    flowery  grave  of  a 
I  maiden,  w  ho.  though  gentle  and  tair.  had  died 
of  unrequited  love  : — and  so  they  proceetl,  be- 
I  tween  them,  for  the  matter  is  left  ptx-tically 
obscure,  to  her  historv.     Her  fancy  had  Ixen 
1  early  captivated  by  tfie  tales  of  lu-roic  daring 
;  and  chivalric  pride,  with  which  her  country's 
I  annals  abouiuled — and  she  dis<lained  to  give 
her  love  to  any  one  who  was  not  gniced  with 
'  the  virtues  and  glories  of  tlios*-  heroic  times. 
This  exalted  ino<xl  was  unluckily  fostered  by 
her  bmther's  youthful  ardour  in  pnii.«e  of  the 
conmiandtr    under    whom    he    was    .serving 
I  abroad — by  whom  he  was  kintily  tnided  wh»*ii 
i  wounded,  and  w  hose  picture  he  brought  back 
wilh  him  on  his  return  to  his  paternal  home, 
'  to  renew,  and  seemingly  to  realize,  the  day- 
dreams of  his  romantic  sister.     This  picture, 
and  llie  stories  her  brother  told  of  the  noble 
Theodric,  completed   the  iMior  girl's  fascina- 
tion     Her  hf-art  was  kin<ile»l   by  her  fancy; 
and  her  love  was  already  fixed  on  a  being  j>fie 
had  tK'ver  seen  !     In  the  mean  tinn".  Thu  drir, 
who  had  promised  a  visit  to  his  younu  JToltfit, 
;  pass<'s  over  to  England,  and  is  l»etrothi(i  to  a 
lady  of   thai   country  of  infinite  worth   and 
'  amiableness.     He  then  repairs  to  Sw  itzcrlai.d, 
I  where,  after  a  little  time,  he  disccvurs  thu 
I  love  of  Julia,  which  he  gently,  but  firmly  re- 


356 


POETRY. 


bukes — returns  to  England,  and  is  married. 
His  wife  ha?  uncomfortable  relations — quarrel- 
some, selfish,  and  envious :  and  her  peace  is 
sometimes  wounded  by  their  dissensions  and 
unkindness.  War  breaks  out  anew,  too,  in 
Theodric's  country;  and  as  he  is  meditating 
a  journey  to  that  tjuarter,  he  is  surprised  by  a 
visit  from  Julia's  brother,  who  informs  him. 
that,  after  a  long  struggle  with  her  cheri.«he(l 
love,  her  health  had  at  last  sunk  under  it,  and 
that  she  now  prayed  only  to  see  him  once 
more  before  she  died  !  His  wife  generously 
urges  him  to  comply  with  this  piteous  request. 
He  does  so ;  and  arrives,  in  the  midst  of  wintry 
tempests,  to  see  this  pure  victim  of  too  warm 
an  imagination  expire,  in  smiles  of  speechless 
Sfratitude  and  love.  While  mourning  over 
her.  he  is  appalled  by  tidings  of  the  dangerous 
illness  of  his  beloved  Constance — hurries  to 
England — and  finds  her  dead  ! — her  fate  hav- 
ing been  precipitated,  if  not  occasioned,  by 
the  harsh  and  violent  treatment  she  had  met 
with  from  her  heartless  relations.  The  piece 
closes  with  a  very  touching  letter  she  had  left 
for  her  husband — and  an  account  of  its  sooth- 
ing effects  on  his  mind. 

This,  vve  confess,  is  .sliirht  enough,  in  the 
way  of  fable  and  incident :  But  it  is  not  in 
those  things  that  the  merit  of  such  poems 
consists  :  and  what  we  have  given  is  of  course 
a  mere  naked  outline,  or  argument  rather, 
intended  only  to  explain  and  connect  our 
e.xtracts. 

For  these,  we  cannot  possibly  do  better 
than  begin  with  the  beginning. 

""Twas  sunset,  and  the  Ranzdes  Vaches  was  sung, 
And  lights  were  o'er  th'  Helvetian  mountains  flung, 
Thai  gave  the  glacier  tops  their  richest  glow, 
And  ling'd  'he  lakes  like  molten  sjold  below. 
Warmth  flush'd  the  wonted  rcsions  of  the  storm, 
Where,  PhcEnix-like,  you  saw  the  eagle's  form, 
That  high  in  Heav'ns  vermilion  wheel'd  and  soar'd  I 
Woods  nearer  frown'd;  and  cataracts  dash'd  and 

roar'd, 
From  heights  bronzed  by  the  hounding  bouquetin  ; 
Herds  tiiiKling  roam'd  the  long-drawn  vales  be- 
tween, [green. 
And  hamlets  glitter'd  white,  and  gardens  flourish'd 
'Twas  transport  to  inhale  the  brinlit  sweet  air ! 
The  mountain-bee  was  revelling  in  its  glare, 
And  roving  with  his  minstrelsy  across 
The  scented  wild  weeds,  and  enamcU'd  mos.«. 
Rarth's  features  so  harmoniously  were  link'd. 
She  seem'd  one  great  glad  form,  with  life  instinct. 
That  felt  Heav'n's  ardent  breath,  and  smil'd  below 
Its  flush  of  love  with  consentaneous  glow. 
\  Gothic  church  was  near;  the  spot  around 
Wa.e  beautiful,  ev'n  though  sepulchral  ground  ; 
For  there  nor  yew  nor  cypress  spread  their  gloom. 
But  roses  blossom'd  by  each  rustic  tomb. 
.\midst  them  one  of  spotless  marble  shone — 
A  maiden's  grave — and  'twas  inscrib'd  thereon. 
That  young  and  lov'd  she  died  wliose  dust  was 

there  : 
"  '  Yes,'  said  my  comrade,  'young  she  died,  and 

fair  I 
(Jrace  form'd  her,  and  the  soul  of  gladness  play'd 
Once  in  the  blue  eyes  of  that  mountain-maid  ! 
Her  fingers  witch'd  the  chords  they  passed  along. 
And  her  lips  seem'd  to  kiss  the  sou!  in  song  : 
Yet  woo'd  and  worshipp'd  as  she  was,  till  few 
Aspir'd  to  hope,  'twas  sadly,  strangely  true. 
That  heart,  the  martyr  of  its  fondness  burn'd 
And  died  of  love  that  could  not  be  return'd. 

"  '  Her  father  dwelt  where  yonder  Castle  shines 


O'er  clust'ring  trees  and  terrace-mantling  vin* 
As  gay  as  ever,  the  laburnum's  pride  Igli,  . 

Waves  o'er  each  walk  where  she  was  woe  o 
And  still  the  garden  whence  she  grac'd  her  br , 
.\s  lovely  blooms,  though  trode  by  strangers  i '. 
How  oft  from  yonder  window  o'er  the  lake. 
Her  song,  of  wild  Helvetian  swell  and  shake, 
Has  made  the  rudest  fisher  bend  his  ear, 
-And  rest  enchanted  on  his  oar  to  hear  1 
Thus  bright,  accomplish'd,  spirited,  and  bland 
Well-born,  and  wealthy  for  that  simple  land,  , 
Why  had  no  gallant  native  youth  the  art 
To  win  so  warm — so  exquisite  a  heart  f 
She,  midst  these  rocks  inspir'd  with  feeling  gt  g 
By  mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, 
Herself  descended  from  the  brave  in  arms. 
And  conscious  of  romance-inspiring  charms,   j 
DreanU  of  Heroic  beings  ;  hoped  to  find  ' 

Some  extant  spirit  oi  chivalric  kind  ; 
And  scorning  wealth,  look'd  rold  ev'n  on  ibe  i  m 
Of  manly  worth,  that  lack'd  the  wreath  of  Fatr  " 
pp.3- 
VVe  pass  over  the  animated  picture  oi  « 
brother's  campaigns,  and  of  the  fame  of  1  j. 
dric,  and  the  affectionate  gratitude  of  paitt 
and   sister  for  his  care  and  praises  of   it 
I  noble  boy.     We  must  make  room,  how  ti, 
for  this  beautiful  sketch  of  his  return.     ; 

"  In  time,  the  stripling,  vigorous  and  heal'd, 
Resum'd  his  barb  and  banner  in  the  field. 
And  bore  himself  right  soldier-like,  till  now    ' 
The  third  campaign  had  manlier  bronz'd  hisb > ; 
When  peace,  though  but  a  scanty  pause  forbre  — 
A  curtain-drop  between  the  acts  of  death — 
A  check  in  frantic  war's  unfinished  game. 
Yet  dearly  bought,  and  direly  welcome,  cam^ 
The  camp  broke  up,  and  L'dolph  left  his  chit. 
As  with  a  son's  or  younger  brother's  grief:    ' 
But  journeying  home,  how  rapt  his  spirits  rot 
Hovv  light  his  footsteps crush'd  St.  Goihard'ssi  i! 
How  dear  seem'd  ev'n  the  waste  and  wild  SI  i- 

^horn. 
Though  wrapt  in  clouds,  and  frov\-ning  as  in  n. 
Upon  a  downward  world  of  pastoral  charms; 
Where,  by  the  very  smell  of  dairy-farms, 
And  fragrance  from  the  mountain-herbage  bin, 
Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  know 

"  His  coming  down  yon  lake — his  boat  in  * 
Of  windows  where  love's  flutt'ring  kerchief  r- 
The  arms  spread  out  for  him — the  tears  that  h  I- 
('Twas  Julia's,  'twas  his  sister's  met  him  fir 
Their  pride  to  see  war's  medal  at  his  breast. 
And  all  their  rapture's  greeting,  may  be  gu«  i ' 
pp.  12 '. 

At  last  the  generous  warrior  appears  i  ler- 
son  among  those  innocent  beings,  to  wb  ^ 
had  so  long  furnished  the  grand  theme-  li*- 
I  course  and  meditation. 
i  "  The  hoy  was  half  beside  himself— the  sire 
1  All  frankness,  honour,  and  Helvetian  fire. 
j  (")f  speedy  parting  would  not  hear  him  speal 
I  And  tears  bedew'd  and  brighien'd  Julia's  c  k. 

I      "  Th\i9.  loth  to  wound  iLrir  hospitable  pr . 

!  A  month  he  promis'd  with  them  to  abide; 
As  blithe  he  trod  the  mountain-sward  as  th< 
And  felt  his  joy  make  ev'n  the  young  more  J 
How  jocund  was  their  breaktasi  parlour,  fa  i 
By  yon  blue  water's  breath !— their  wall'no* 

bland! 
Fair  Julia  seem'd  her  brother's  soften'd  sp  ~ 
A  gem  reflecting  Nature's  purest  light — 
And  with  her  graceful  wit  there  was  inwro  il 
A  wildly  sweet  unworldliness  of  thought. 
That  alrnost  child-like  to  his  kindness  dre^ 
And  twain  with  Udolph  in  his  friendship  gr  • 
But  did  his  thoughts  to  love  one  moment  r;  er; 
No!  he  who  had  lov'd  Consiaiire  could  not  IV 
Besides,  till  grief  betray'd  her  undesign'd. 


CAMPBELL'S  THEODRIC 


M7 


'i'  unlikely  ihou|;ht  could  sciurrely  readi  liis  mind, 
~  at  eyes  so  youn^  un  years  like  his  sliouid  beam 
ftwoy'd  devouon  bacK  lor  pure  esleeiii.  " 

pp.  17.  18. 

Symptoms  Still  more  uiiequivoeal,  howi'vi-r, 
ajlast  make  explaiiatioiis  i»'c»'ss;iry  ;  aiul  he 
ijoblifjed  to  ilisclose  to  her  the  st'ori't  of  his 
Ire  ami  engaiienu'iit  in  Kiii^Maml.  The  eH«'ots 
dthis  disclosure,  and  all  the  intermediate 
esnts,  are  described  with  the  same  amce 
ajl  delicacy.  But  we  jxiss  at  once  to  the 
dee  of  poor  Julias  pure-hearteil  rumaiice. 

'Thni  winier's  eve  how  d.irkly  Nnture's  brow 
Sjwl'd  on  ihe  scenes  ii  iJKhis  so  lovely  now  ! 
le  tempest,  riiging  o'er  ihe  realms  of  ice, 
Sx)k  Iraginents  from  the  ritied  precipu-e; 
"  whiL-t  their  failing  cchin-d  to  the  wind, 

wolf's  long  howl  m  dismal  discord  ioin'd, 
ile  white  yon  water's  foam  was  riiis'd  in  clouds 
t  whirl'd  like  spirits  wailing  in  (heir  shrouds  : 
hout  was  Nature's  elemenial  dm — 
Beauty  di«d.  and  Fnend.'^hip  wept  within  ! 

Sweet  Julia,  though  her  faie  was  finish'd  half. 
I  knew  him — smil'd  on  him  with  tceble  laugh— 
Afi  blest  him,  till  she  drew  her  laiest  eigh  ! 
But  lol  while  Tdolph's  bursts  of  agony, 
age's  tremulous  wniiings,  rouml  him  rose, 
iai  accents  pierced  him  deejier  ye!  than  those  I 
"Ivas  tidings — by  his  English  messenger 
Constance — brief  and  terrible  they  were,"  &.c. 
pp.  3."),  36. 

hese  must  suflice  as  specimens  of  the 
Siss  part  of  the  jx)em,  which  we  have  al- 
rdy  said  we  consider  as  on  the  whole  the 
n-«t  perfect.  The  English  portion  is  un- 
d.  btedly  liable  to  the  imputation  of  beine 
oiupied  with  scenes  too  familiar,  and  events 
tc  trivial,  to  admit  of  the  higher  embellish- 
ir  Its  of  pwelry.  The  occasion  of  Theo<iric's 
fi  ;  seeing  Constance— in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
d  on  a  night  of  public  rejoicing— certainly 
tr  passes  on  the  borders  of  this  wilful  stoop- 
ir  of  the  Muses'  tli^'ht — though  the  scene 
it  If  is  described  with  great  force  and  beauty. 

"I.*  eight  I 
n  lignt, 
r'J  out  triumphant  multiiudes  lo  ga/e; 
ith.  age,  wealth,  penury,  smiling  in  ihe  blaxe! 
illumin'd  atmosfihere  was  w:irm  and  binnd, 
Al  Beauty's  groups  the  fairest  of  the  land, 
Ctspicuoiis.  as  in  some  wide  festive  room, 
Irpen  chariots  pasa'd,  with  pearl  and  plume, 
idst  them  he  remark'd  a  lovelier  mien,"  Sec. 
p.  15. 

he  description  of  Constance  herself,  how- 
-.  is  not  liable  to  thi.s,  or  to  any  other  ob- 
](^ion. 

"  And  to  know  her  well 

P  ong'd.  exalted,  bound,  eiichantnient'ti  spell  ; 
with  affections  warm,  iniensc.  retln'd, 
mix'd  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind, 
t,  like  Heav'n's  image  iii  the  smiling  bro«)k, 
;siial  peace  was  pictur'd  in  her  look. 
Hb  was  the  brow,  in  mala  unperplex'd, 
X  cheer'd  the  sad  and  tranquilliz'd  the  vcx'd. 
studied  not  the  meanest  to  eclipse, 
A I  yet  the  wi.sest  listen'd  to  her  lips  ; 
SI  sang  not.  knew  not  .Music's  magic  skill, 
yet  her  voice  had  tones  that  sway'd  the  wilL" 

p.  16. 
ITo  paint  that  being  to  a  grov'ling  mind 
1^re  like  pourtraying  pictures  to  the  blind. 
"Ifas  needful  ev'n  infectiously  to  feel 

leiuper's  fond,  giui  firm,  and  gladsome  zeal, 


'Twas  a  glorious  sight  I 
Afeve  stupendous  I^ndon.  clad  in  ligfi 

Y 

T 


To  share  exmtoric*  with  her.  and  lo  gain 
Sparks  Ironi  her  love's  electritviiig  chain, 
iH  that  pure  pride,  whicli,  Icm'iiiiig  to  her  breast 
I, lie's  ills,  gnve  all  its  joys  a  inble  leot. 
Before  (hi-  inmd  romplcirly  undrrsitXHl 
'i'hat  might V  truth— how  happy  are  the  good  '" 
p.  W. 
All  thi.-^  we  think,  is  dignified  enough  for 
jwetry  of  any  de.«M'riptinn  ;  i)Ut  we  really  nui- 
not  extend  ihe  s;»me  indulgence  to  th«!  smiili 
I  tnuatMinrs  of  this*  noble  creature's  unworthy 
relalKiiis— their    jx'evish    tiuarrels,    and    her 

Ciinful  attempt.s  to  rec«»iicile  them— her  hus- 
ind'."*  "riidi;es  n\  her  absence  on  lho-*o  er- 
rands— their  teazing  visit.n  to  him — uiid  his 
vexation  at  their  false  rejxirt.s  that  she  wa.s  to 
,si>rnd  "yet  a  fortnight  "  away  from  him.  Wo 
object  e<mally  to  the  substance  anil  the  dic- 
tion t)f  tne  juis.miges  to  which  we  now  refer. 
There  is  .something  questionable  even  in  the 
fatal  indications  by  which,  on  approaching 
his  home,  he  was  first  maile  aware  of  the 
calamity  which  hail  befallen  him — though 
undoubtedly  there  is  a  terrible  tmth  and  im- 
pressive brevity  in  the  jxis-stige. 

"  Nor  hope  left  utterly  his  breast. 
Till  reaching  home,  lernfu:  omen  I   tin  ro 
The  siraw-hiid  street  preluded  his  drspnir — 
The  servant's  look — the  table  that  revoal'd 
His  letter  sent  to  Constance  Inst,  still  seal'd, 
Tliouch  speech  and  hearing  left  him,  told  loo  clear 
That  he  had  now  to  suffer — not  to  fear  !" — p.  37. 

We  shall  only  add  the  pathetic  letter  in 
which  thi>  noble  spirit  .sought,  from  her  death- 
bed, to  .soothe  the  beloved  husluind  she  was 
leaving  with  so  much  reluctance. 

"  '  Theodric  !  this  is  destiny  above 
Our  power  to  baffle  !     Bear  it  then,  my  love ! 
Your  soul,  I  know,  as  firm  is  knit  to  mine 
As  these  clusp'd  hands  in  blessing  you  now  join  : 
Shape  not  iningin'd  horrors  in  my  faie — 
Ev'n  now  my  suff'rings  are  not  very  great ; 
And  when  your  griel  s  first  transports  shall  sub- 
I  call  upon  your  sireni»th  of  soul  and  pnde      (side, 
To  pay  my  memory,  if  'lis  worth  the  debt 
Love's  tlorilyiiig  tribute — not  forlorn  regret : 
I  charge  my  name  with  power  lo  conjure  up 
Reflection's  balmy,  not  us  bitter  cup. 
.■Vf y  nnrd'iiing  angel,  at  the  gates  ol  ffeaven. 
Shall  look  not  more  regard  than  you  have  given 
To  me:  and  our  life's  union  has  been  clad 
In  smiles  of  bliss  as  swi-et  as  life  e'er  had. 
.Shall  gl<Kim  be  from  such  l>right  remembrance  cast  f 
."^liall  biiiernens  outflow  from  sweetness  past  f 
.No!  imaged  in  the  sanctuary  of  your  breast. 
There  let  me  smile,  amidst  liij;h  thoughts  at  rest ; 
.And  let  contentment  on  your  spirit  shine, 
.\s  if  its  peace  were  siill  a  part  of  mine  : 
For  if  you  war  not  proudly  wnh  your  pain. 
For  von  I  shall  have  worse  than  liv'd  in  vain. 
Bui  I  conjure  your  mrinlini'i«  to  bear 
My  lows  with  noble  spirit — not  de^iiair  : 
I  ajik  you  by  our  love  to  promise  ihu  I 
And  kiss  ihese  words,  wliere  1  have  left  a  kisa — 
The  latest  from  my  living  lifia  lor  yours?'  " 

pp.  39—41. 

The  tone  of  this  tender  farewell  must  re- 
rniml  all  our  readers  of  the  catastrophe  of 
Gertrude  ;  and  certainly  e.\|)o»«'s  the  author  to 
the  charge  of  some  jKivetly  of  invention  in 
the  structure  of  his  pathetic  narnitives— a 
charge  from  which  we  are  not  at  this  moment 
[KUtu-ularly  solicitous  to  defend  hiin. 

The  minor  poems  which  occupy  the  reot  of 


358 


POETRY. 


the  volume  are  of  various  character,  and  of 
course  of  unequal  merit ;  though  all  of  them 
are  marked  by  that  exquisite  melody  of  ver- 
sification, and  general  felicity  of  diction, 
which  makes  the  mere  recitation  of  their 
words  a  luxury  to  readers  of  taste,  even  when 
they  pay  but  little  attention  to  their  sense. 
Most  of  them,  we  believe,  have  already  ap- 
peared in  occasional  publications,  though  it  is 
quite  time  that  they  should  be  collected  and 
engrossed  in  a  less  perishable  record.  If 
they  are  less  brilliant,  on  the  whole,  than  the 
most  exquisite  productions  of  the  author's 
earlier  days,  they  are  generally  marked,  we 
think,  by  greater  solemnity  and  depth  of 
thought,  a  vein  of  deeper  reflection,  and  more 
intense  sympathy  with  human  feelings,  and, 
if  possible,  by  a  more  resolute  and  entire  de- 
votion to  the  cause  of  liberty.  Mr.  Campbell, 
we  rejoice  to  say,  is  not  among  those  poets 
whose  hatred  of  oppression  has  been  cliilled 
by  the  lapse  of  years,  or  allayed  by  the  sug- 
gestions of  a  base  self-interest.  He  has  held 
on  his  course  through  good  and  through  bad 
report,  unseduced,  unterrified )  and  is  now 
found  in  his  duty,  testifying  as  fearlessly 
against  the  invaders  of  Spain,  in  the  volume 
before  us,  as  he  did  against  the  spoilers  of 
Poland  in  the  very  first  of  his  publications.  It 
is  a  proud  thing  indeed  for  England,  for  poetry, 
and  for  mankind,  that  all  the  illustrious  poets 
of  the  present  day — Byron,  Moore,  Kogers, 
Campbell — are  distinguished  by  their  zeal  for 
freedom,  and  their  scorn  for  courtly  adula- 
tion; while  those  who  have  deserted  that 
manly  and  holy  cause  have,  from  that  hour, 
felt  their  inspiration  withdrawn,  their  harp- 
strings  broken,  and  the  fire  quenched  in  their 
censers  I  Even  the  Laureate,  since  his  un- 
happy Vision  of  Judgment,  has  ceased  to 
sing;  and  fallen  into  undutiful  as  well  as 
ignoble  silence,  even  on  court  festivals.  As 
a  specimen  of  the  tone  in  which  an  unbought 
Muse  can  yet  address  herself  to  public 
themes,  we  subjoin  a  few  stanzas  of  a  noble 
ode  to  the  Memory  of  the  Spanish  Patriots 
who  died  in  resisting  the  late  atrocious  inva- 
sion. 

"  Brave  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell 
Beside  your  cannons — conquer'd  not,  though  slain  I 
There  is  a  victory  in  dying  well 
For  Freedom — and  ye  have  not  died  in  vain  ; 
For  come  what  may,  there  shall  be  hearts  in  Spain 
To  honour,  ay,  embrace  your  martyr'd  lot. 
Cursing  the  Bigot's  and  the  Bourbon's  chain. 
And  looking  on  your  graves,  though  trophied  not. 
As  holier,  hallow'd  ground  than  priests  could  make 
the  spot  !" 

"  Yet  laugh  not  in  your  carnival  of  crime 
Too  proudly,  ye  oppressors! — Spain  xt)a$.  free  ; 
Her  soil  has  felt  the  foot-prints,  and  her  clime 
Been  winnow'd  by  the  wines  of  Liberty  ! 
And  these,  even  parting,  scatter  as  they  flee 
Thoughts — influences,  to  live  in  hearts  unborn, 
Opinions  that  shall  wrench  the  prison-key 
From  Persecution — show  her  mask  off-torn, 
And  tramp  her  bloated  head  beneath  the  foot  of 
Scorn. 

"  Glory  to  them  that  die  in  this  great  cause  ! 
Kings,  Bigots,  can  inflict  no  brand  of  shame. 
Or  shape  of  death,  to  shroud  them  from  applause  : — 
No ! — manglers  of  the  martyr's  earthly  frame  ! 


Your  hangman  fingers  cannot  touch  his  fame. 
Still  in  your  prostrate  land  there  shall  be  some 
Proud  hearts,  the  shrines  of  Freedom's  vestal  flame 
Long  trains  of  ill  may  pass  unheeded,  dumb, 
But  Vengeance  is  behind,  and  Justice  is  to  come.' 
pp.78— 81. 

Mr.  Campbell's  muse,  however,  is  by  nc 
means  habitually  political;  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  pieces  in  this  volume  have  a  purely 
moral  or  poetical  character.  The  e.xquisiu 
stanzas  to  the  Rainbow,  we  believe,  are  ii 
every  body's  hands ;  but  we  cannot  resist  tht 
temptation  of  transcribing  the  latter  part  oi 
them. 

"  When  o'er  the  gteen  nndelug'd  earth        | 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 
How  came  the  world's  grey  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ? 

"  And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smil'd 

O'er  mountains  yet  nntrod. 

Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God  ! 

"  Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep. 

The  first-made  anthem  rang,  J 

On  earth  deliver'd  from  the  deep. 
And  the  first  poet  sang.  | 

"  Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Unraptur'd  greet  thy  beam  : 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  poet's  theme  ! 

"  The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields. 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings. 
When  glitt'ring  in  the  fieshen'd  fields      , 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs'. 

"  How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast  ; 

O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town. 
Or  mirror'd  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

"  As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 
As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

"  For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page. 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span. 
Nor  lets  thy  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man." 

pp.  52—55. 

The  beautiful  verses  on  Mr.  Kemble's; 
tirement  from  the  stage  afford  a  ver>' 
markable  illustration  of  the  tendency  of  ^, 
Campbell's  genius  to  raise  ordinary  then 
into  occasions  of  pathetic  poetry,  and  to  inv 
trivial  occurrences  with  the  mantle  of  solei 
thought.     We  add  a  fpw  of  the  stanzas. 

"  His  was  the  spelt  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  acting  lends — 
The  yoimgest  of  the  sister  Arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends: 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express. 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  mule  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  lime. 
But  by  the  mighty  Actor  brought. 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come — 
Verse  erases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpttire  to  be  dumb." 

"  High  were  the  task — too  liigh. 
Ye  conscious  bosoms  here  ! 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 
Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear  ! 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head,   ,_ 
Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half-e.xiinguish'd  gl  i 


SCOTT'S  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  AHNSTREL 


The  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  ehed, 
Iiloubt  more  touching  than  despair, 
f  'twas  reahty  he  feh  f" 

And  tliere  was  many  an  hour 
I     Of  blendtd  kindred  fame, 
IVVheii  Siddons's  aujt.liiir  power 
I    And  sister  magic  o;iiiie. 
jl'o^iher  at  the  Nluse's  side 
j    '1  he  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
fl'bey  were  the  cliildren  ol  her  pride, 
j     I'he  columns  ol  her  liirone  I 
|An  i  imdivideJ  lav^iur  ran 
''^•'         I    From  heart  to  heart  in  iheir  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man. 
In  lovelier  woman's  cause." — pp.  (<4 — 1>7. 

'Uit  ^'  have  great  difficulty  in  rt'sistiiig  the 
ncijiteiTitation  to  go  on:  But  in  c^n.^t^-ieiicf  we 
E>!i!»muii  stop  heie.  ^\'c  are  ashanu-il.  intleeii, 
'f'!  to  tjnk  how  considerable  a  projwrlion  of  this 
(7(551  litUi volume  ^^•^  have  already  iransferred  into 
.;;ii  our  xtiacts.  Nor  have  we  much  to  s;iy  of 
;ii  the;x)eras  we  have  not  extracted.  -The 
'^  Ritt'  Bann"'  and  "Reullura"  are  the  two 
<m  loii^st  pieces,  after  Thcodric — but  we  think 
aii|  not  lie  most  successful.  Some  of  the  son>jrs 
^iaare 'xquisite — and  most  of  the  occa-sional 
?  poe^s  too  good  for  occasions. 
um  T|:>  volume  is  very  small — and  it  contains 
>»::  all  ^it  the  distinguished  author  has  written 
■'^  for  ijany  years.  We  regret  this  certainly: — 
'  but|ve  do  not  presume  to  complain  of  it. 
.  ..Th'-^Tvice  of  the  Muses  is  a  free  service — 
!  II  that  we  receive  from  their  votaries  is 
!  gift,  for  which  we  are  bound  to  them 
in  atitude — not  a  tribute,  for  the  tardy 
1(08  rendring  of  which  they  are  to  be  threatened 
lawot  aUnmed.  They  siand  to  the  public  it; 
f "-';  the  plation  of  benefactors,  not  of  debtors-. 
Thei  shower  their  largesses  on  unthankful 
■  ^"  hea.| ;  and  disclaim  the  trammels  of  any 
^f^,  6ord|l  contract.  They  are  not  articled  clerks. 
in  6»rt,  whom  we  are  entitled  to  scold  for 
idleness,  but  the  liberal  donors  of  im- 
1  possessions;  for  which  they  require 
he  easy  quit-rent  of  our  praise.  If  Mr. 
bell  is  lazy,  therefore,  he  has  a  right  to 
his  laziness,  unmolested  by  our  impor- 
?s.      If,  as  we  rather  presume  is  the 


case,  he  i)r«fer  other  employment.'*  to  the 
feverish  oci-ui>atioii  of  jH>elr\ ,  he  has  a  rii.'ht 
I  surely  to  cluiose  his  emnloynieiits — and  is 
,  more  lik«'ly  to  chmise  welt,  than  llx-  henl  of 
I  his  olHcious  advis<TS.  p'or  our  own  jKirtH, 
j  we  are  reatly  at  ail  times  to  hail  his  apjM'ar- 
(ances  with  delight — but  we  wait  for  them 
\vith  respect  and  luitience  ;  and  conceive  that 
!  we  have  no  title  to  accelerate  them  by  our 
j  reproaches. 

I  Kefore  coiichiding,  wc  would  wish  alw)  to 
I  protect  him  against  another  kind  of  injustice, 
roiiijxiriii;:  the  Miiall  bulk  of  his  publications 
with  the  leiiglh  ol  tiiiu-  that  elap^es  between 
ihem.  people  are  apt  to  wonder  that  so  little 
has  been  produced  after  so  long  an  incula- 
tion.  and  that  poims  are  not  bettir  which  are 
the  work  of  sti  many  years — tib>urdly  suppo- 
sing, that  the  ingi'iiious  author  is  actually 
lalM)uriiig  all  the  while  at  what  he  at  latst 
produces,  and  has  been  diligently  at  work 
during  the  whole  interval  in  perfecting  that 
w  hich  is  at  last  discovered  to  fall  short  of 
perfection!  To  those  wlio  know  the  habits 
of  literary  men.  nolhitig  how  ever  can  be  more 
ridiculous  than  tliis  supix>sition.  Your  true 
drudges,  with  whom  all  that  is  intellectual 
moves  most  w  retchedly  slow,  are  the  (juickest 
and  most  regular  w  ith  their  publications ; 
while  men  of  genin.s,  whose  thoughts  play 
with  the  ease  and  rapiilily  of  lightning,  otten 
seem  tardy  to  the  public,  because  there  are 
long  intervals  betw  een  the  flashes  !  We  are 
far  from  undervaluing  that  care  and  labour 
without  which  no  finished  performance  can 
ever  be  produced  by  mortals  ;  and  still  farther 


from  thinking  it  a  reproach  to  any  author, 
that  he  takes  pains  to  render  his  w  orks  w  orlhy 
of  his  fame,    hut  w  hen  the  slow  ness  and  the 


■ifll; 


the 

■^^mor 

?^onh 

'>*;:cai^ 

""renjr 
tuni 

ifoir 

»<>ir 

^   The  ay  of  the  Last  Minstrel :  a  Poem.     Bv  \V 
Constable  and  Cu. :  LonJi 


size  of  his  publications  are  invidiously  put 
together  in  order  to  depreciate  their  merits, 
or  to  raise  a  doubt  as  to  the  force  of  the  ge- 
nius thiit  produced  them,  we  think  it  right  to 
enter  our  caveat  against  a  conclusion,  which 
is  as  rash  as  it  is  ungenerous;  and  indicates 
a  spirit  rather  of  detraction  than  of  reasonable 
juilgmcnt. 


:ipril,    ISOo.) 


consider  this  poem  as  an  attempt  to  ' 
•r  the  refinements  of  modern  poetry  to 
latter  and   the  manner  of   the  ancient 

'*j,  *  he  Novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  have,  no 
•Jjllj^doull  cast  his  Poetry  into  ihe  shade:  And  ii  is  { 
*  beycp  qui'Bijon  that  ihry  must  always  omipy  the 
^  highit  and  most  conspirijoiis  place  in  thai  tiplemiid 
'^  tTopt  wh  fh  his  ccfinis  has  r  ared  to  his  niemnry. 
^_  Yetjihen  I  recollect  the  vehement  admiration  it 
'^'  oncejxciied.  I  cannot  part  with  the  belief  that 
■^  iherAs  much  in  his  poetry  also,  which  our  bl'c 
•^  shouj  not  allow  to  be  forgotten.  And  it  is  under 
'V^iOiis  ipression  that  I  now  venture  to  reprint  my  . 


.\\.ry.n  Scott,  Es<j.  .Jto.  pp.  318.  Edinburgh, 
Longman  and  Co. :   1H05.* 

metrical  romance.  The  author,  enamoured 
of  the  lofty  visions  of  chivalry,  ami  juirtial 
to  the  strains  iti  which  they  were  formerly 

conif-niporary  notice*  of  the  two  poems  which  I 
think  produced  the  greatest  eflect  at  the  lime :  the 
one  BH  the  firii  and  moM  strikinsly  original  of  the 
whole  serien :  the  other  as  bfing  on  the  whule 
ihe  bent  ;  and  also  as  haviiit'  led  me  to  make  some 
remarks,  not  only  on  the  general  charactrr  nf  the 
au'hor'  R  genniH,  but  on  the  peculiar  perils  oi 
vrry  jxtjiular  poetry — o(  which  the  lime  that  ha* 
since  elapsed  has  afforded  some  curious  illuslra- 
tioDS. 


360 


POETRY. 


embodied,  seems  to  have  emplojed  all  the 
resources  of  his  genius  in  endeavouring  to 
recall  them  to  the  "favour  and  admiration  of 
the  public  :  and  in  adapting  to  the  taste  of 
modern  readers  a  species  of  poetry  which 
was  once  the  delight  of  the  courtly,  but  has 
long  ceased  to  gladden  any  other  eyes  than 
those  of  the  scholar  and  the  antiquary.  This 
is  a  romance,  therefore,  composed  by  a  min- 
strel of  the  present  day ;  or  such  a  romance 
as  we  may  suppose  would  have  been  written 
in  modern  times,  if  that  style  of  composition 
had  continued  to  be  cultivated,  and  partaken 
consequently  of  the  improvements  which 
every  branch  of  literature  has  received  since 
the  time  of  its  desertion. 

Upon  this  supposition,  it  was  evidently  Mr. 
Scott's  business  to  retain  all  that  was  good, 
and  to  reject  all  that  was  bad  in  the  models 
upon  which  he  was  to  form  himself;  addinir. 
at  the  same  time,  all  the  interest  and  beauty 
which  could  possibly  be  assimilated  to  the 
manner  and  spirit  of  his  originals.  It  was  his 
duty,  therefore,  to  refomi  the  rambling,  ob- 
scure, and  interminable  narratives  of  the  an- 
cient romancers — to  moderate  theirdigressions 
— to  abridge  or  retrench  their  unmerciful  or 
needless  descriptions — and  to  expunge  alto- 
gether those  feeble  and  prosaic  passages,  the 
rude  stupidity  of  which  is  so  apt  to  excite  the 
derision  of  a  modern  reader.  At  the  same 
time,  he  was  to  rival,  if  he  could,  the  force  and 
vivacity  of  their  minute  and  varied  representa- 
tions— the  characteristic  simplicity  of  their 
pictures  of  manners — the  eijerg)-  and  concise- 
ness with  which  they  fre(juently  describe 
great  events — and  the  lively  colouring  and  ac- 
curate drawing  by  which  they  give  the  effect 
of  reality  to  every  scene  they  undertake  to 
delineate.  In  executing  this  arduous  task,  he 
was  permitted  to  avail  himself  of  all  that 
variety  of  style  and  manner  which  had  been 
sanctioned  by  the  ancient  practice  ;  and  bound 
to  embellish  his  performance  with  all  the 
graces  of  diction  and  versification  which  could 
be  reconciled  to  the  simplicity  and  familiarity 
of  the  minstrel's  song. 

With  what  success  Mr.  Scott's  efforts  have 
been  attended  in  the  execution  of  this  adven- 
turous undertakinsr,  our  readers  will  be  better 
able  to  judge  in  the  secjuel :  but,  in  the  mean 
time,  we  may  safely  venture  to  assert,  that  he 
has  produced  a  very  beautiful  and  entertain- 
ing poem,  in  a  style  which  may  fairly  be  con- 
sidered as  original ;  and  which  will  be  allowed 
to  afford  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  genius 
of  the  author,  even  though  he  should  not  suc- 
ceed in  converting  the  public  to  his  own 
opinion  as  to  the  interest  or  dignity  of  the  sub- 
ject. We  are  ourselves  inclined  indeed  to 
suspect  that  his  partialitv  for  the  strains  of 
antiquity  has  imposed  a  little  upon  the  sever- 
ity of  his  judgment,  and  impaired  the  beauty 
of  the  present  imitation,  by  directing  his  at- 
tention rather  to  what  was  characteristic,  than 
to  what  was  unexceptionable  hi  his  originals. 
Though  he  has  spared  too  many  of  their  faults, 
however,  he  has  certainly  improved  upon 
their  beauties :  and  while  we  can  scarcely 
help  regretting,  that  the  feuds  of  Border  chief- 


tains should  have  monopolised  as  much  ... 
iry  as  might  have  served  to  unmortalise  e 
kvhole  baronage  of  the  empire,  we  are  e 
more  inclined  to  admire  the  interest  and  r  -. 
nilicence  which  he  has  contrived  to  comnii. 
cate  to  a  subject  so  unpromising. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  con  -t 
of  the  main  story,  the  manner  of  introdu  <y 
it  must  be  allowed  to  be  extremely  poet  f 
An  aged  minstrel  who  had  ^'harped  to  1  a 
Charles  the  Good,"  and  learned  to  love  hi  n 
at  a  time  when  it  was  honoured  by  all  u 
was  distinguished  in  rank  or  in  genius,  ha  » 
fallen  into  neglect  and  misery  in  the  evilni 
of  the  usurpation,  and  the  more  frivolous{:>w 
ties  or  bitter  contentions  of  the  succee » 
reigns,  is  represented  as  wandering  abou  « 
Border  in  poverty  and  solitude,  a  few  \ « 
after  the  Revolution.  In  this  situation  Vii 
driven,  by  want  and  weariness,  to  seek  sh  rt 
in  the  Border  castle  of  the  Duchess  of  > 
clench  and  Monmouth;  and  being  cheere  r 
the  hospitality  of  his  reception,  offers  to  4 
'"an  ancient  strain,'"  relating  to  the  old  r- 
riors  of  her  family ;  and  after  some  fnji;ji 
attempts  to  recall  the  long-forgotten  me  jr, 
pours  forth  "The  Lay  of  Ihe  Last  Minst,'" 
in  six  cantos,  verj'  skilfully  divided  by  :  le 
recurrence  to  his  own  situation,  and  :ie 
complimentary  interruptions  from  his  lit 
auditors. 

The  construction  of  a  fable  seems  b  10 
means  the  forte  of  our  modern  poetical  > 
ters  ;  and  no  great  artifice,  in  that  respect  u 
to  be  expected,  perhaps,  from  an  imitat  if 
the  ancient  romancers.  Mr.  Scott,  mji^ 
has  himself  insinuated,  that  he  considere.M 
story  as  an  object  of  very  subordinatfu- 
portance ;  and  that  he  was  less  solicitoao 
deliver  a  regular  narrative,  than  to  coi,ct 
such  a  series  of  incidents  as  might  enable  m 
to  introduce  the  manners  he  had  under:  'n 
to  delineate,  and  the  imagery  with  v >h 
they  were  associated.  Though  the  conceM 
of  the  fable  is,  probably  from  these  ca  ■*, 
exceedingly  defective,  it  is  proper  to  a 
short  sketch  of  it  before  our  readers,  bo:  or 
the  gratification  of  their  curiosity,  and  a- 
cilitate  the  application  of  the  remarks wf. 'ay 
be  afterwards  tempted  to  olTer. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Buccleuch.  the  Lo  of 
Branksome,  was  slain  in  a  skirmish  wil;he 
Cars,  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  n- 
tury.  He  left  a  daughter  of  matchless  bi  :)'i 
an  infant  son,  and  a  high-minded  widow.  10, 
though  a  very  virtuous  and  devout  persoi  a« 
privately  addicted  to  the  study  of  Maj.  in 
which  she  had  been  initiated  byhertjer. 
Lord  Cranstoun  their  neiehbour  was  at  ud 
with  the  whole  clan  of  Scott ;  but  had  en 
desperately  in  love  with  the  daughter  .ho 
returned  his  passion  with  equal  sinceril  nJ 
ardour,  though  withheld,  by  her  duly  t»« 
mother,  from  uniting  her  destiny  will  "»• 
The  poem  opens  with  a  description  of  th(  »'• 
like  establishment  of  Branksome-hall  aJ 
the  first  incident  which  occurs  is  a  dia  rue 
between  the  Sprits  of  the  adjoin nr^r  m'n  H'n 
and  river,  who,  after  consuhing  the  starJe- 
clare  that  no  good  fortune  can  ever  ble  IM 


SCOTTS  LAV  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTRKL 


361 


'"^ima^iou  "  till  pride  be  quelleil,  and  love  be 

;:ii'tfrp''     The   lady,  whose   forbidden   sluilies 

'  1   auitht  her  to  understaml  the  lan<fua;,'e  of 

>l)«>akerR,  overhears  this  conversHtioii  ; 

..>\vs,  if  jKJSsible,  to  retain  her  piir|)o<ie  in 

^,>;  of  It.     She  rails  a  <rallaMt  knight  of  her 

K.i    therefore,  ami  directs  liini  to  ride  ini- 

::i    .uely  to  the  abbey  of  Melrose,  and  there 

k,  from  the  monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle,  the 

•y  lHX)k  that  was  hid  in  the  tomb  ot  the 

1  Michael  Seott.    The  remainder  of  the 

anto  IS  occupied  with  the  niirht  journey 

•  warrior.     When  he  delivers  his  mes- 

.-ij^  the  monk  apjiears  filled  with  consterna- 

t:.i;iiul  terror,  but  leads  him  at  last  throii^di 

[ii.i!  :ralleries  and  chant-Is  to  the  si)ot  where 

tii'l  izard  was  interred:  autl,  after  .some  ae- 

c  )U:   of  his  life  and  character,  the  warrior 

iuM's  up  the  tomb-stone,  and  is  dazzled  by 

till"  irpamin>r  splendour  of  an  ever-burnini:r 

l.uii;  which  illuminates  the  s«'pulchre  of  the 

Ciicjuiter.     With  tremhiina  hand  he   takes 

ihej.'ok  from  the  side  of  the  deceased,  and 

'    liur  's  home  with  it  in  his  bosom. 

.,.^,;     lith-'  mean  time.  Lord  Cranstoun  and  the 

'  "^iovA-  Marc:aret   have  met    at  dawn   in   the 

0(|s  adjacent  to  the  castle,  ami  are  repeat- 

Lrh'Mr  vows  of  true  love,  when  they  are 

d  by  the  approach  of  a  horseman.    The 

laJietreats;  and  the  lover  advaneinir,  finds 


hU 


it  toe  the  messen<ier  from  Branksome,  with 
"whci,  as  an  hereditary  enemy,  he  thinks  it 


i'bec' 


sary  to  enter  immediately  into  combat. 


'™'TheK)or  knight,  fatiirued  with  his  nocturnal 

"""■adyMures,  is  dismoimted  at  the  first  shock, 

lis  desperately  wounded  to  the  ground  ; 

\'.  mi  [jord  Cran.'stoun,  relenting  towards  the 

:-'ian  of  his  beloved,  directs  his  page  to 

!  him  to  the  castle,  and  gallops  home 

■  any  alarm  can  be  given.     Lord  Cran- 

1-  p;ure  is  something  unearthly.     It  is  a 
misshapen  dwarf,  whom  he  found  one 
hen  he  was  hunting,  in  a  solitary  glen, 
lok  home  with  him.     Il  never  speaks. 
'.   now  and   then    to   cry  "Lost!   lo.-^t  ! 
and  is.  on  the  whole,  a  hateful,  mali- 
little  urchin,  with  no  one  irood  (juaiity 
-  unaccountable  attachment  and  fidelity 
naster.  This  personaire,  on  anproachleg 
unded  Borderer,  discover.^  tne  mi^'hly 
his  bosom,  which  he  finds  some  difii- 
opening,  and  has  scarcely  had  time 
!  a  single  spell  in  it,  when  he  is  stnick 
Sy  an  invisible  hand,  and  the  clasps  of 
(a_MC  volume  shut  suddenly  moreclos<'ly 
i'Vfr.     This  one  spell,  however,  enables 
I '  practice  every  kind  of  illusion.     M<' 
llie  wounded   knitrhl  on  his  horse,  and 
iilrm  into  the  castle,  while  the  warders 
li'.hing  but  a  wain  of  hay.     He  throws 
i!'iwn.  unp<^rceivpd.  at  the  door  of  the 
.  chamber,  and  turns  to  make  trf>f)d  his 
,;.     In  {Kissing  throntrh  th»*  court,  how- 
iihe  sees  the  yr)ung  heir  of  Buccleueh  at 
iand,  a.s.suming  the  form  of  one  of  his 
Anions,  tempts  him  to  iro  out  with  him 
woo<ls,  where,  as  soon  as  thev  paiw  a 
;,  he  resumes  his  own  shape,  and  bounds 
'      The  bewildered  child  is  met  by  two 
-h  archers,  who  make  prize  of  liim,  and 


,140001  n  1 

-•■ill  i„ 


46 


carry  him  otl,  while  the  goblin  pa^e  returns 
to  the  castle;  wheie  he  i»ers«innlih  :he)outii{ 
baron,  to  the  ureal  annoyance  of  the  whole 
iiihabitniit.>. 

The  lady  finds  the  wounded  knighl,  and 
eagerly  employs  chainis  for  hih  reiover)  ,  tluit 
she  tniw  liarn  the  sloiy  o|  Ins  dimtsler.  1  he 
lovely  Alaigaret,  in  the  nieun  lime,  is  sittii-g 
in  her  tuirel,  gazing  on  the  wesleni  star,  and 
musing  on  the  scenes  of  the  morning,  when 
she  discovers  the  blazing  beacons  that  an- 
nounce the  approach  of  an  Knglish  enemy. 
The  alarm  is  imnie.lialelv  given,  and  bustling 
prejviration  made  througfunil  the  mansion  for 
defence.  The  Kiiglish  foice  umler  the  com- 
mand of  ihe  Loiils  lh)wnrd  and  I>acre  speedily 
appears  before  the  castle,  leaiiing  with  them 
the  young  Hiiccleuch  ;  anil  ptojKi.-M'  that  the 
lady  should  either  give  up  Sir  William  of 
Deforaine  (who  had  lH«'n  her  messenger  to 
Melro.«e),  as  havini:  iiicnrred  the  guilt  of 
march  lrea.«on,  or  receive  an  Ki  glish  rairison 
within  her  walls.  She  answers,  with  much 
spirit,  that  her  kinsman  will  clear  himself  of 
the  im|nitation  of  treastin  by  single  conduit 
and  that  no  foe  shall  ever  get  admittance  into 
her  fortress.  The  Knirlish  Lords,  being  se- 
cretly apprised  of  the  appioach  of  powerful 
succours  to  the  besieged,  agree  to  the  projioijal 
of  the  combat;  and  .stipulate  that  the  Iniy 
shall  be  restored  to  liberty  or  detained  ir> 
bondage,  according  to  the  issue  of  the  battle. 
The  lists  are  appointed  for  the  ensuing  day  ; 
and  a  truce  being  proclaim*  d  in  the  mean 
time,  the  opposite  bands  mingle  in  hospitality 
and  friendship. 

Deloraine  being  wounded,  was  expected  to 
appear  by  a  champion  ;  and  some  contention 
arises  for  the  honour  of  that  substitution. — 
This,  however,  is  speedily  terminated  by  a 
person  in  the  armour  of  the  warrior  himself, 
who  encounters  the  Engli.sh  champion,  slays 
him,  and  leads  his  captive  young  chieftain  to 
the  embraces  of  his  mother.  At  this  moment 
Deloraine  himself  appears,  half-clothed  and 
unarmed,  to  claim  thecoml^t  which  has  been 
terminated  in  his  abs<Tice  I  and  ail  flock 
around  the  stranger  who  had  personated  him 
so  successfully.  He  unclasps  his  helmet  ; 
and  behold  !  Lord  Cranstoun  of  Teviotside  ! 
The  lady,  overcome  with  tjratitiide,  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  spirits'  prophecy,  con- 
.•ients  to  forego  the  feud,  and  to  give  t)ie  fair 
hand  of  Margaret  to  that  of  the  enamoured 
Baron.  The  rites  of  betrothment  are  then 
celebrated  with  great  m:igni(ic«'nce  ;  and  a 
splendid  entertainment  given  to  all  the  Kiig- 
lish and  S<-ottish  chieftains  whom  the  alarm 
hail  as.<»4'mbled  at  Brank.-ome.  Lord  ("raii- 
stoun's  paue  plajs  s<'veral  nnhicky  tricks 
duriiii;  tfie  festival,  luid  bri'eds  .some  dissi-n. 
sioii  amon::  the  warriors.  To  s<Kithe  their 
ireful  mood,  the  minstrels  are  intriMiuce«l, 
who  recite  three  ballad  pieces  of  ron.sidenible 
merit.  Just  as  their  song's  are  ended,  a  super- 
natural darkness  spreads  itwlf  through  the 
ludl  ;  a  tremendous  flash  of  liLdjIniiiff  and  peal 
of  ihuniler  ensue,  which  break  just  on  the 
sjMJt  where  the  gf)blin j>age  had  In'cn  seaJ^nl, 
w  ho  is  heard  to  cry  '•  Found  !  found  !  found  I" 
2V 


362 


POETRY. 


and  is  no  more  to  be  seen,  when  tho  darkness 
clears  away.  The  whole  party  is  chilled  with 
terror  at  "this  extraordinary  incident;  and 
Deloraine  protests  that  he  distinctly  saw  the 
tigiire  of  the  ancient  wizard  Michael  Soolt  in 
the  middle  of  the  lightning.  The  lady  re- 
nounces for  ever  the  unhallowed  study  of 
magic :  and  all  the  chieftains,  struck  with 
awe  and  consternation,  vow  to  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Melrose,  to  implore  rest  and  for- 
giveness for  the  spirit  of  the  departed  sorcerer. 
With  the  description  of  this  ceremony  the 
minstrel  doses  his  "  Lay."' 

From  this  little  sketch  of  the  story,  our 
readers  will  easily  perceive,  that,  however 
well  calculated  it  may  be  for  the  introduction 
of  picturesque  imagerj-.  or  the  display  of  ex- 
traordinary incident,  it  has  but  little  preten- 
sion to  the  praise  of  a  regular  or  coherent 
narrative.  The  magic  of  the  lady,  the  mid- 
night visit  to  Melrose,  and  the  mighty  book 
of  the  enchanter,  which  occupy  nearly  one- 
third  of  the  whole  poem,  and  engross  the 
attention  of  the  reader  for  a  long  time  after 
the  commencement  of  the  narrative,  are  of 
no  use  whatsoever  in  the  subsequent  develop- 
ment of  the  fable,  and  do  not  contribute,  in 
any  degree,  either  to  the  production  or  ex- 
planation of  the  incidents  that  follow.  The 
whole  character  and  proceedings  of  the  goblin 
page,  in  like  manner,  may  be  considered  as 
merely  episodical :  for  though  he  is  employed 
in  some  of  the  subordinate  inridents.  it  is 
remarkable  that  no  material  part  of  the  fable 
requires  the  intervention  of  supernatural 
agency.  The  young  Buccleuch  might  have 
wandered  into  the  wood,  although  he  had  not 
been  decoyed  by  a  goblin ;  and  the  dame 
might  have  given  her  daughter  to  the  deliverer 
of  her  son,  although  she  had  never  listened 
to  the  prattlement  of  the  river  and  mountain 
spirits.  There  is.  besides  all  this,  a  great  deal 
of  gratuitous  and  digressive  description,  and 
the  whole  sixth  canto  may  be  said  to  be  re- 
dundant. The  story  should  naturally  end 
with  the  union  of  the  lovers  ;  and  the  account 
of  the  feast,  and  the  minstrelsy  that  solem- 
nised their  betrothment  is  a  sort  of  epilogue, 
superadded  after  the  catastrophe  is  complete. 

But  though  we  feel  it  to  be  our  duty  to 
point  out  these  obvious  defects  in  the  struc- 
ture of  the  fable,  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
conceding  to  the  author,  that  the  fable  is  but 
a  secondary  consideration  in  performances  of 
this  nature.  A  poem  is  intended  to  please  by 
the  images  it  suggests,  and  the  feelings  it 
inspires;  and  if  it  contain  delightful  images 
and  affecting  sentiments,  our  pleasure  will  not 
be  materially  impaired  by  some  slight  want 
of  probability  or  coherence  in  the  narrative 
by  which  they  are  connected.  The  callida 
jiinctina  of  its  members  is  a  grace,  no  doubt, 
which  ought  always  to  be  aimed  at ;  but  the 
quality  of  the  members  themselves  is  a  con- 
.eideration  of  far  higher  importance;  and  that 
by  which  alone  the  success  and  character  of 
the  work  must  be  ultimately  decided.  The 
adjustment  of  a  fable  may  indicate  the  indus- 
try or  the  judgment  of  the  writer ;  but  the 
jOenius  of  the  poet  can  only  be  shown  in  his 


inanagement  of  its  successive  incidents, 
these" more  essential  particulars.  Mr.  Scot 
merits,  we  think,  are  unequivocal.    He  wrii, 
throughout  with  the  spirit  and  the  force  ol, 
poet ;  and  though  he  occasionally  discover: 
little  too  much,  perhaps,  of  the  '•  brave  nt 
lect,"    and  is   frequently  inattentive   to  t 
delicate  propriety  and  scrupulous  correctm 
of  his  diction,  he  compensates  for  those  ( 
fects  bv  the  fire  and  animation  of  his  \\h- 
composition,  and  the  brilliant  colournig  a 
prominent  features  of  the  bsin-  s  with  wh 
he  has  enlivened  it.     We  shall  now  proct 
to  lay  before  our  readers  some  of  the  passai 
which  have  made  the  greatest  impression 
our  own  minds  :  subjoining,  at  the  .-iame  tin 
such  observations  as  they  have  most  forcil 
suggested. 

In  the  very  first  rank  of  poetical  excellen< 
we  are  inclined  to  place  the  introductory  a 
concluding  lines  of  every  canto ;  in  which  t 
ancient  strain  is  suspended,  and  the  feelii 
and  situation  of  the  Minstrel  himself  c 
scribed  in  the  words  of  the  author.  T 
elegance  and  the  beauty  of  this  setting,  if 
may  so  call  it,  though  entirely  of  modt 
workmanship,  appears  to  us  to  be  fully  mc 
worthy  of  admiration  than  the  boUler  rel. 
of  the  antiques  which  it  encloses  ;  and  Ic; 
us  to  regret  that  the  author  should  have  wa 
ed,  in  imitation  and  anti(iuarian  research 
so  much  fif  those  powers  which  seem  fu 
equal  to  the  task  of  raising  hiin  an  indepondi 
reputation.  In  coiiHrmation  of  these  ivmar 
we  give  a  considerable  jail  of  the  introdi 
tion  to  the  whole  poem  : — 

"  The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old  ; 
His  wither'd  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seem'd  lo  have  known  a  better  day  ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry  ; 
For,  well-aday  !  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tunelul  brethren  all  were  dead; 
And  he.  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wish'd  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest ! 
No  more,  on  prancing  pallrey  borne, 
He  caroll'd,  ligbt  as  lark  at  morn  ; 
No  longer,  courted  and  caress'd. 
High  plac'd  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest. 
He  poiir'd.  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay  I 
Old  linie.s  were  chang'd,  old  manners  gone ! 
A  stranger  fill'd  the  Stuarts'  throne; 
'I'he  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  call'd  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wand'ring  harper,  scorn'd  and  poor, 
He  begg'd  his  bread  from  door  to  door; 
And  tun'd,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear. 
The  harp,  a  King  had  lov'd  to  hear."— pp.  3, 

After  describing  his  introduction  to  ' 
presence  of  the  Duchess,  and  his  offer  ' 
entertain  her  with  his  music,  the  dcscript  i 
proceeds : — 

"  Tiie  humble  boon  was  soon  obtain'd  ; 
The  aged  Minstrel  audience  gain'd. 
But,  when  he  reach'd  the  room  of  state. 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate, 
Perchance  he  wish'd  his  boon  denied  '. 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried. 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease 


SCOTT'S  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


363 


Which  marks  security  to  please  ; 

And  scenes,  long  past,  ot  joy  and  pain, 

Came  wild'ring  o'er  his  aged  brain — 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  stray'd, 

And  an  uncertain  warbling  made — 

And  ol't  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 

But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild, 

The  old  man  rais'd  his  face  and  smil'd  ; 

And  lighten'd  up  his  laded  eye, 

With  all  the  poet's  ecstasy  I 

In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 

He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along  ; 

The  present  scene,  the  future  lot. 

His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot ; 

Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 

In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost. 
j  Each  blank,  in  faithless  mem'ry  void. 

The  p6et's  glowing  thought  supplied  ; 
?  And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
i  'Twas  thus  the  latest  Minstrel  sung." 
I  p.  6.-8. 

!  We  add,  chiefly  on  account  of  their  brevity. 
ke  following  lines,  which  immediately  suc- 
ceed the  description  of  the  funeral  rites  of 
lie  English  champion  : — 

j  The  harp's  wild  notes,  though  hush'd  the  song, 
The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong  ; 

f  Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  a-near, 

I  Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear  ; 

I  Now  seems  some  mountain's  side  to  sweep, 

\  Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep ; 

I  Seems  now  as  if  the  Minstrel's  wail, 

,  Now  the  sad  requiem  loads  the  gale ; 
Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave, 
Rings  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave." 

pp.  155,  156. 

j  The  close  of  the  poem  is  as  follows  : — 

j  Hush'd  is  the  harp — the  Minstrel  gone. 
j  And  did  he  wander  forth  alone  ? 
Alone,  in  indigence  and  age. 
To  linger  out  his  pilgrimage  ? 
No  ! — closp  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower, 
Arose  the  Minstrel's  lowly  bower  ; 
A  simple  hut ;  but  there  was  seen 
The  little  garden  hedg'd  with  green, 
The  cheerful  hearth  and  lattice  clean. 
There,  slielter'd  wand'rers,  by  the  blaze, 
Ofi  heard  ilie  tale  of  other  days  ; 
For  much  he  lov'd  to  ope  his  door. 
And  give  the  aid  he  begg'd  before. 
So  pass'd  the  winter's  day — but  still. 
When  summer  smil'd  on  sweet  Bowhill, 
And  July's  eve,  with  balmy  breath, 
Wav'd  the  blue-bells  on  Newark's  heath  ; 
.^nd  floiirish'd.  broad,  BInckandro's  oak, 
The  aged  Harper's  soul  awoke  ! 
Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high, 
And  circumstance  o'  Chivalry; 
I  Till  the  rapt  traveller  would  stay. 
Forgetful  of  the  closing  day  ; 
JAnd  Yarrow,  as  he  roll'd  along, 
iBore  burden  to  the  Minstrel's  song." 

pp.  193,  194. 
[Besides   these,  v.'hich  are   altogether   de- 
iched  from  the  lyric  effusions  of  the  min- 
Irel,  some  of  the  most  interesting  passages 
I  the  poem  are  those  in  which  he  drops  the 
jisiness  of  the  story,  to  moralise,  and  apply 
^  his  own  situation  the  images  and  reflec- 
ts it  has  suggested.     After  concluding  one 
nto  with  an  account  of  the  warlike  array 
epared  for  the  reception  of  the  English  in- 
ders,  he  opens  the  succeeding  one  with  the 
Slowing  beautiful  verses:  — 
Sweet  Teviot !  by  thy  silver  tide, 
'    The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more  ! 


No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 
Along  thy  wild  and  willow'd  shore  ; 

Where'er  thou  wind'st,  by  dale  or  hill, 

All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still, 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  Time  was  born, 

Since  first  they  roU'd  their  way  to  Tweed, 

Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed, 
Nor  started  at  the  bugle-horn  ! 

"  Unlike  the  tide  of  human  lime, 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  flow, 
Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime, 

It's  earliest  course  was  doom'd  lo  know  ; 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears, 
Is  stain'd  with  past  and  present  tears  ! 

Low  as  that  tide  has  ebb'd  with  me, 
It  siill  reflects  to  Mem'ry'a  eye 
The  hour,  my  brave,  my  only  boy, 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  play'd 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade, 
Why  was  not  I  beside  liiin  laid  I — 
Enough — he  died  the  death  of  lame; 
Enough — he  died  with  conquering  Graeme." 
pp.  93,  94. 

There  are  several  other  detached  passages 
of  equal  beauty,  which  might  be  quoted  in 
proof  of  the  effect  which  is  produced  by  this 
dramatic  interference  of  the  narrator  :  but  we 
hasten  to  lay  before  our  readers  some  of  the 
more  characteristic  parts  of  the  performance. 

The  ancient  romance  owes  much  of  its 
interest  to  the  lively  picture  which  it  affords 
of  the  times  of  chivalry,  and  of  those  usages, 
manners,  and  institutions  which  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  associate  in  our  minds, 
with  a  certain  combination  of  magnificence 
with  simplicity,  and  ferocity  with  romantic 
honour.  The  representations  contained  in 
those  performances,  however,  are  for  the 
most  part  too  rude  and  naked  to  give  com- 
plete satisfaction.  The  e.\ecution  is  always 
extremely  une(|ual ;  and  though  the  writei 
sometimes  touches  upon  the  appropriate  feel- 
ing with  great  effect  and  felicity,  still  this 
appears  to  be  done  moie  by  accident  than 
design  ;  and  he  wanders  away  immediately 
into  all  sorts  of  ludicrous  or  uninteresting  de- 
tails, without  any  apparent  consciousness  of 
incongruity.  These  defects  Mr.  Scott  has 
corrected  with  admirable  address  and  judg- 
ment in  the  greater  part  of  the  work  now 
before  ns ;  and  while  he  has  exhibited  a  very 
striking  and  impressive  picture  of  the  old 
feudal  usages  and  institutions,  he  has  shown 
still  greater  talent  in  engrafting  upon  those 
descriptions  all  the  lender  or  magnanimous 
emotions  to  which  the  circumstances  of  the 
story  naturally  give  rise.  Without  impairing 
the  antitjue  air  of  the  whole  piece,  or  violating 
the  simplicity  of  the  ballad  style,  he  has  con- 
trived in  this  way.  to  impart  a  much  greater 
dignity,  and  more  powerful  interest  to  his 
production,  than  could  ever  be  attained  by 
the  unskilful  and  unsteady  delineations  of 
the  old  romancers.  Nothing,  we  think,  can 
afford  a  finer  illustration  of  this  remark,  than 
the  opening  stanzas  of  the  whole  poem  :  they 
transport  us  at  once  into  the  days  of  knightly 
daring  and  feudal  hostility  ;  at  the  same  time 
that  they  suggest,  and  in  a  very  interesting 
way,  all  those  softer  sentiments  whicli  arise 
out  of  some  parts  of  the  description. 


364 


POETRY 


"  The  feast  was  over  in  Branksome  tower  ; 
And  the  Ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret  bower  ; 
Her  bower,  that  was  guarded  l)y  word  and  by 
Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell —  [apeil 

Jesu  .Slaria,  shield  us  well  I 
No  living  wight,  save  the  Litdye  alone, 
Had  dar'd  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 
"  The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  ati ; 

Knight,  and  page,  and  household  squire, 
Loiter  d  through  Ihe  lofty  hall, 

Or  crowded  round  the  ample  fire. 
The  siag-houiids,  weary  with  the  chase, 

Lay  stretch'd  upon  the  rushy  floor. 
And  urg'd  in  dreams  the  forest  race. 

From  Teviot-stone  to  Eskdale-moor." 

pp.  9,  10. 

After  a  very  picturesque  representation  of 
the  military  establishment  of  this  old  baronial 
fortress,  the  minstrel  proceeds, 

"  !\Iany  a  valiant  knight  is  here; 
But  he,  the  Chieftain  of  them  all. 
His  sword  hang.s  rusting  on  the  wall, 

Beside  his  broken  spear  ! 
Bards  lone  shall  tell. 
How  Lord  Walter  fell ! 
When  startled  burghers  fled,  afar, 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war  ; 
When  the  streets  of  high  Duncdin 
Saw  lances  trleam,  and  falchions  redden. 
And  heard  the  slogan's  deadly  yell — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Braaksome  fell  I 

"  Can  piety  the  discord  heal, 

Or  staunch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal. 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity  ? 
No!  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine. 

In  mutual  pilgrimage,  they  drew  ; 
Implor'd,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs,  their  own  red  falchions  slew. 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Car, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughter'd  chiefs,  the  tnortal  jar, 
The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war, 

Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

"  In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier. 
The  warlike  foresters  had  bent ; 
And  many  a  flower  and  many  a  tear. 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matron's  lent  : 
But,  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier. 
The  Ladye  dropp'd  nor  sigh  nor  tear  I 
Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 

Had  lock'd  the  source  of  softer  woe; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain. 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow  ; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan, 

Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee — 
'  And,  if  I  live  to  be  a  man. 

My  father's  death  reveng'd  shall  be  !' 
Then  fast  the  moiher'.^  tears  did  seek 
Todew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek." — pp.12 — 15. 

There  are  not  many  passages  in  English 
poetry  more  impressive  than  some  parts  of 
this  extract.  As  another  illustration  of  the 
prodigious  improvement  which  the  style  of  the 
old  romance  is  capable  of  receiving  from  a 
more  liberal  admixture  of  pathetic  sentiments 
and  gentle  affections,  we  insert  the  following 
passage ;  where  the  effect  of  the  picture  is 
finely  assisted  by  the  contrast  of  its  two  com- 
partments. 

"  So  pass'd  the  day — the  ov'ning  foil, 
'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell ; 
The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm. 
The  stream  was  smooth,  the  dew  was  balm  ; 
Ev'n  the  rude  watchman,  on  the  tower, 
Enjoy'd  and  blessed  the  lovely  hour. 


n 


Far  more  fair  Margaret  lov'd  and  bless'd 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 

On  the  high  turret,  sitting  lone, 
She  wak'd  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone  ; 
Touch'd  a  wild  note,  and  all  between 
Thouglit  of  the  bower  of  hawthorns  green  ; 
Her  golden  hair  stream'd  free  from  band, 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand. 
Her  blue  eye  sought  the  west  afar, 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 

''  Is  yon  the  star  o'er  Penchryst-Pen, 
That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken. 
And,  spreading  broad  its  wav'ring  light, 
Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night  ? 
Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star  ? — 
Ah!  'tis  the  beacon-blaze  of  war  ! 
Scarce  could  she  draw  her  tighten'd  breath ; 
For  well  she  knew  the  fire  ot  death  ! 

"  The  warder  view'd  it  blazing  strong, 
And  blew  his  war-note  loud  and  long. 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound. 
Rock,  wood,  and  river,  rung  around  ; 
The  blast  alarm'd  the  festal  hall. 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all ; 
Far  downward  in  the  castle-yard. 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cresset  glar'd  ; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  toss'd, 
Were  in  the  blaze  half  seen,  half  lost; 
And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook. 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 

"  The  Seneschal,  whose  silver  hair, 
Was  redden'd  by  the  torches'  glare. 
Stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud. 
And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud — 
'  On  Penchryst  glows  a  bale  of  fire, 
And  three  are  kindhng  on  Priesthaughswire,' 
&,c.— pp.  83—85. 

In  these  passages,  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Scott  i 
entitled  to  a  decided  preference  over  that  o 
the  earlier  minstrels;  not  only  from  th 
greater  consistency  and  condensation  of^h 
imagery,  but  from  an  intrinsic  superiority  i 
the  nature  of  his  materials.  From  the  in 
provement  of  taste,  and  the  cultivation  of  th 
finer  feelings  of  the  heart,  poetry  acquires,  i 
a  refined  age,  many  new  and  invaluable  eK 
ments,  which  are  necessarily  unknown  in 
period  of  greater  simplicity.  The  descriptio 
of  external  object.s,  however,  is  at  all  timt 
equally  inviting,  and  equally  easy  ;  and  man 
of  tlir  pictures  which  have  been  left  by  th 
ancient  romancers  must  be  admitted  to  po; 
sess,  along  with  great  diffuseness  and  homt 
liness  of  diction,  an  e.\actness  and  vivacit 
which  cannot  be  easily  exceeded.  In  th 
part  of  his  undertaking,  INIr.  Scott  therefor 
had  fewer  advantages ;  but  we  do  not  thin 
that  his  success  has  been  less  remarkablt 
In  the  following  description  of  Melrose,  whic 
introduces  the  second  canto,  the  reader  wi 
observe  how  skilfully  he  calls  in  the  aid  o 
sentimental  associations  to  heighten  the  effet 
of  the  picture  which  he  presents  to  the  eye : 

"  If  thou  wouldsl  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight : 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 
,\nd  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruin'd  central  lower; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seem  fram'd  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 


isiif' 


^SflfOJ 


SCOTTS  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MNSTREL. 


365 


And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die  ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave  ; 

Then  go  ! — but  go  alone  the  while — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile  ! 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fairl" — pp.  35,  36. 

In  the  following  passage  he  is  less  ambi- 
tious; and  confines  himself,  as  an  ancient 
minstrel  would  have  done  on  the  occasion,  to 
a  minute  and  picturesque  representation  of 
the  visible  object  before  him  : — 

"  When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain, 
The  stately  Ladye's  silken  rein 

Did  noble  Howard  hold  ; 
Unarmed  by  her  side  he  walk'd. 
And  much,  in  courteous  phrase,  ihey  taik'd 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb — his  Flemish  rufl' 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet  shap'd  of  buff. 

With  satin  slash'd,  and  lin'd  ; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur. 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur, 

His  hose  with  silver  twm'd  ; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt ; 
Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Bord'rers  still 
Call'd  noble  Howard,  Belted  Will."— p.  141. 

The  same  scrupulous  adherence  to  the  style 
jf  the  old  romance,  though  greatly  improved 
in  point  of  brevity  and  selection,  is  discernible 
in  the  following  animated  description  of  the 
least,  which  terminates  the  poem  : — 

"  The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon  ; 
'Twas  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon. 
And  in  the  lofty-arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival : 
Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste, 
Mai-shall'd  the  rank  of  every  guest ; 
Pages,  \vith  ready  blade,  were  there, 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share. 
O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane. 
And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train. 
And  o'er  the  boar's  head,  garnish'd  brave. 
And  cygnet  from  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison, 
The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison. 
Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din. 
Above,  beneath,  without,  within  ! 
For,  from  the  lofty  balcony, 
Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery; 
Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quaff 'd. 
Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laugh'd  ; 
Whisper'd  young  knights,  in  tone  more  mild. 
To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smil'd. 
The  hooded  hawks,  high  perch'd  on  beam. 
The  clamour  join'd  with  whistling  scream, 
And  flapp'd  their  wings,  and  shook  their  bells, 
In  concert  with  the  staghound's  yells. 
Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine, 
From  Bourdeaux,  Orleans,  or  tlie  Rhine  ; 
Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply, 
And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry." — pp.  166,  167. 

The  following  picture  is  sufficiently  antique 
a  its  conception,  though  the  execution  is  evi- 
iently  modern : — 

"  Ten  of  them  were  sheath'd  in  steel, 
With  belted  sword,  and  spur  on  heel : 
They  quilted  not  their  harness  bright. 
Neither  by  day,  nor  yci  by  night  ; 

They  lay  down  to  rest 

With  corslet  laced. 
Pillow'd  on  buckler  cold  and  hard  ; 

They  carv'd  at  the  meal 

With  doves  of  steel.  [met  barr"d.'' 

And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  hel- 


The  whole  scene  of  the  duel,  or  judicial 
combat,  is  conducted  according  to  the  strict 
ordinances  of  chivalrj-,  and  delineated  with 
all  the  minuteness  ot  an  ancient  romancer. 
The  modern  reader  will  probably  find  it  ratlier 
tedious;  all  but  the  concluding  stanzas,  which 
are  in  a  loftier  measure. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tia  done  !  that  fatal  blow 

Has  stretch'd  him  on  the  bloody  plain  ; 

He  strives  to  rise— -Brave  Musgrave,  no ! 
Thence  never  sliali  thou  rise  again  ! 

He  chokes  in  blood — some  friendly  hand 

Undo  the  visor's  barred  band, 

Unfi.\  the  gorget's  iron  clasp, 

And  give  him,  room  for  life  to  gasp! — 

In  vain,  in  vain — haste,  holy  friar, 

Haste,  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire! 

Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven, 

And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  to  heaven  ! 
"  In  haste  the  holy  friar  sped  ; 

His  naked  foot  was  dyed  with  red, 
As  through  the  lists  he  ran  ; 

Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high. 

That  hail'd  the  conqueror's  victory. 
He  rais'd  the  dying  man  ; 

Loose  wav'd  his  silver  beard  and  hair. 

As  o'er  him  he  kncel'd  down  in  prayer. 

And  still  the  crucifix  on  high. 

He  holds  before  his  dark'ning  eye, 

.A.nd  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear. 

His  falt'ring  penitence  to  hear  ; 
Still  props  him  from  (he  bloody  sod. 

Still,  even  when  soul  and  body  part. 

Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart, 
And  bids  him  trust  in  God  ! 

Unheard  he  prays  ;  'tis  o'er,  'tis  o'er  ! 

Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more." 

p.  145—147. 

We  have  already  made  so  many  e.xtracts 
from  this  poem,  that  we  can  now  only  afford 
to  present  our  readers  with  one  specimen  of 
the  songs  Avhich  Mr.  Scott  has  introduced  in 
the  mouths  of  the  minstrels  in  the  concluding 
canto.  It  is  his  object,  in  those  pieces,  to 
exemplify  the  different  styles  of  ballad  narra- 
tive which  prevailed  in  this  island  at  different 
periods,  or  in  different  conditions  of  society. 
The  first  is  constructed  upon  the  rude  aiid 
simple  model  of  the  old  Border  ditties,  and 
produces  its  effect  by  the  direct  and  concise 
narrative  of  a  tragical  occurrence.  The  se- 
cond, sung  by  Fitztraver,  the  bard  of  the  ac- 
complished Surrey,  has  more  of  the  richness 
and  polish  of  the  Italian  poetry,  and  is  very 
beautifully  written,  in  a  stanza  resembling 
that  of  Spenser.  The  third  is  intended  to 
represent  that  wild  style  of  composition  which 
prevailed  among  the  bards  of  the  northern 
continent,  somewhat  softened  and  adorned 
by  the  minstrel's  residence  in  the  south.  We 
prefer  it.  upon  the  whole,  to  either  of  the  two 
former,  and  shall  give  it  entire  to  our  readers; 
who  will  probably  be  struck  v,-ith  the  poetical 
effect  of  the  dramatic  form  into  which  it  is 
thrown,  and  of  the  indirect  description  by 
which  every  thing  is  most  expressively  told, 
without  one  word  of  distinct  narrative. 

■'  O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  .=ad  the  lay, 
That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

"  — Miicr,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew! 
And,  gentle  Ladye,  deign  to  siay  I 
2ir  2 


366 


POETRY. 


Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 
Nor  tempt  the  stormy  Iriih  to-day. 

"  The  hlack'ning  wave  is  edg'd  with  white  ; 
To  inch*  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly  ; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 
Whose  screams  forbode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"  Last  night  the  gifit  d  seer  did  view 

A  wet  shroud  roll'd  round  Ladye  gay  : 
Tlien  slay  ihee,  fair,  in  Ravensheuch  ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  frith  to-day  ?" 

— "  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lind'say's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  Ladye-moiher  there 

.Sits  lonely  in  her  castle  hall. 

'  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lind'say  at  the  ring  rides  well ! 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle." — 

'  O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam  ; 
'Twns  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light, 
And  brighter  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

"  It  glar'd  on  Roslin's  castled  rock. 

It  redden'd  all  the  copse-wood  glen ; 
'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak. 
And  seen  trom  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

'  Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud. 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncotfin'd  lie  ; 
Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheath'd  in  his  iron  panoply. 

"  Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
Both  vaulted  crypt  and  altar's  pale; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound. 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead-men's  mail. 

"  Blaz'd  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blaz'd  every  rose-carv'd  buttress  fair — 
So  still  they  blaze  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair  I 

"  There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle  ; 
Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle  ! 

"  And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there. 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 
But  the  Kclpv  rung,  and  the  Mermaid  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle  !"— pp.  181-184. 

From  the  various  extracts  we  have  now 
given,  our  readers  will  be  enabled  to  form  a 
tolerably  correct  judgment  of  this  poem  ;  and 
if  they  are  pleased  with  these  portions  of  it 
which  have  now  been  exhibited,  we  may 
venture  to  assure  them  that  they  will  not  be 
disappointerl  by  the  perusal  of  the  whole. 
The  whole  night-journey  of  Deloraine — the 
opening  of  the  wizard's  tomb — the  march  of 
the  Enirlish  battle — and  the  parley  before 
the  walls  of  the  castle,  are  all  executed  with 
jthe  .same  spirit  and  poetical  energy,  which 
we  think  is  conspicuous  in  the  specimens  we 
have  already  extracted  ;  and  a  great  variety 
of  short  passages  occur  in  every  part  of  the 
poem,  which  are  still  more  striking  and  meri- 
torious, though  it  is  impossible  to  detach 
them,  vvithout  injury,  in  the  form  of 


to  hear  "of  the  Gallant  Chief  of  Otterburnc 
or  "the  Dark  Knight  of  Liddisdale,"  and  it 
the  elevating  power  of  great  names,  wh 
we  read  of  the  tribes  that  mustered  to  t 
war,  •'  beneath  the  crest  of  old  Dunbar,  a' 
Hepburn's  mingled  banners."  But  we  real 
cannot  so  far  sympathise  with  the  local  pj, 
tialities  of  the  author,  as  to  feel  any  glow 
patriotism  or  ancient  virtue  in  hearnig  of  t 
Todrig  or  Johnston  clans,  or  of  Elliots,  Ar 
strongs,  and  Tinlinns;  still  less  can  we  reli 
the  introduction  of  Black  John  of  Athelsta 
Whitsladc  the  Hawk,  Arthur-fire-thc-hraes,  h 
Roland  Forstcr,  or  any  other  of  those  w 
thies  who 

"  Sought  the  beeves  that  made  their  broth. 
In  Scotland  and  in  England  both," 

into  a  poem  which  has  any  pretensions  > 
seriousness  or  dignity.    The  ancient  metri  1 
romance  might  have  admitted  those  honvr 
personalities;  but   the  present  age  will    t 
endure   them:    And   Mr.  Scott   must    eitir 
sacrifice  his  Border  prejudices,  or  oti'eud  I 
his  readers  in  the  other  parts  of  the  empin 
There  are   many  passages,   as   we   hr  > 
already  insinuated,  which  have  the  genel 
character  of  heaviness,  such  is  the  minstrts 
account  of    his   preceptor,   and    Delorair 
lamentation   over   the   dead    body   of 
grave  :  But  the  goblin  page  is,  in  our  opir 
the  capital  deformity  of  the  poem.    We  ' 
already  said  that  the  whole  machinery  is  i 
less :  but  the  magic  studies  of  the  lady,  i\ 
the  rifled  tomb  of  Michael  Scott,  give 
sion  to  so  much  admirable  poetry,  that 
can  on  no  account  consent  to  part  with  thfl 
The  page,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  perpetj 
burden   to  the  poet,  and  to  the  reader  : 
an  undignified  and  improbable  fiction,  w'r 
excites  neither  terror,  admiration,  nor  asll 
ishment ;  but  needlessly  debases  the  straiii 
the  whole  work,  and  excites  at  once  ouri 
credulity  and  contempt.    He  is  not  a  •' tricj 
spirit,"  like  Ariel,  with  whom  the  ima 
tion   is   irresistibly  enamoured;    nor 
monarch,  like  Oberon,  disposing  of  the  dil 
nies  of  mortals :  He  rather  appears  to  u| 
be  an  awkward  sort  of  a  mongrel  betv 
Puck  and  Caliban ;   of  a  servile  and   br 
nature;  and  limited  in  his  powers  to  the 
dulgeiice  of  petty  malignity,  and  the  inHic 
of  despicable  injuries.    Besides  this  obje 
to  his  character,  his  existence  has  no  sut 
from  any  general  or  established  supersti^ 
Fairies  and  devils,  ghosts,  angels,  and  witc' 
are  creatures  with  whom  we  are  all  famiil 
and  who  excite  in   all   classes   of  manli 
emotions  with  which  we  can  easily  be  : 
to  sympathise.     But  the  story  of  Gilpin  li 
ner  can  never  have  been  believed  out  off 
village  where  he  is  said  to  have  made! 
appearance  ;  and  has  no  claims  upon 


~ J--J7 "- -•  -  ..uota  .-                .                                      -     11 

t.on.     It  is  but  fair  to  apprise  the  reader,  on  ''"I'^Y  of  those  ^vllo  were  not  originally 

the  other  hand,  that  he  will  meet  with  very  acquaintance.     There  is  nothing  at  ail  ir 

heavy  passages,  and  with  a  variety  of  details  ^^ting  or  elegant  in  the  scenes  of  wlu.li  1 

which  are  not  li'kelv  to  interest  any  one  but  a  •he  hero:  and  in  reading  those  pas.siLM  s 

Borderer  or  an  antiquary.    We  like  very  well  ''^^lly  could  not  help  suspecting  th:it  lln  ^ 

. not  stand  in  the  romance  when  the  aged  :' 

•Isle.  Istrel  recited  it  to  the  royal  Charlca  and' 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


367 


mighty  earls,  but  were  inserted  afterwards  to 
'suit  the  taste  of  the  cottagers  among  whom 
'he  begged  his  bread  oii  the  Border.  VVe  en- 
' treat  Mr.  Scott  to  inquire  into  the  grounds  of 
Jthis  suspicion;  and  to  take  advantage  of  any 
decent  pretext  he  can  lay  hold  of  for  purging 
'■The  Lay"  of  this  ungraceful  intruder.  We 
iivoiild  also  move  for  a  Quo  Warranto  against 
'the  .-ipirits  of  the  river  and  the  mountain  ;  for 
■thouiih  ihey  are  come  of  a  very  high  lineag-e, 
we  do  not  know  what  lawful  business  they 
'could  have  at  Branksome  castle  in  the  year 
'1550. 

'  Of  the  diction  of  this  poem  we  have  but 
little  to  .*;ay.  From  the  extracts  we  have 
already  given,  our  readers  will  perceive  that 
the  versification  is  in  the  highest  degree  ir- 
regular and  capricious.  The  nature  of  the 
work  entitled  Mr.  Scott  to  some  licence  in  this 
respect,  and  he  often  employs  it  with  a  very 
pleasing  effect ;  but  he  has  frequently  ex- 
coedeil  its  just  limits,  and  presented  us  with 
'such  combinations  of  metre,  as  must  put  the 
leeth  of  his  readers,  we  think,  into  some 
jeopardy.  He  has,  when  he  pleases,  a  very 
i'.neiodious  and  sonorous  style  of  versification, 
;3ut  often  composes  with  inexcusable  negli- 
'jence  and  rudeness.  There  is  a  great  number 
)f  lines  in  which  the  verse  can  only  be  made 
but  by  running  the  words  together  in  a  very 
'uuisual  manner ;  and  some  appear  to  us  to 
'lave  no  pretension  to  the  name  of  verses  at 
'dl.  Wh'at  apology,  for  instance,  will  Mr. 
'^cott  make  for  the  last  of  these  two  lines  ? — 
"  For  when  in  studious  mood  he  pac'd 
St.  Kentigern's  hall." 
hT  for  these  1 — 

,      "  How  the  brave  boy  in  future  war, 
'  Should  tame  the  unicorn'c  pride."  I 


1  We  have  called  the  negligence  which  could 
I  leave  such  lines  as  these  in  a  poem  of  this 
iiature  inexcusable;  because  it  is  perfectly 
,  evident,  from  the  general  strain  of  his  com- 
position, that  Mr.  Scott  has  a  very  accurate 
ear  for  the  harmony  of  versification,  and  that 
he  composes  with  a  facility  which  must  lighten 
j  the  labour  of  correction.  There  are  some 
!  smaller  faults  in  the  diction  which  might  have 
been  as  well  corrected  also :  there  is  too  much 
alliteration  ;  and  he  reduplicates  his  words  loo 
often.  We  have  "never,  never,"  several 
times;  besides  "'tis  o'er,  'tis  o'er"  —  "in 
vain,  in  vain" — "'tis  done,  'tis  done;"  and 
several  other  echoes  as  ungraceful. 

We  will  not  be  tempted  to  say  any  thing 
more  of  this  poem.  Although  it  does  not 
contain  any  great  display  of  w  hat  is  i)roperlv 
called  invention,  it  indicates  perhaps  as  much 
vigour  and  originality  of  poetical  genius  as  any 
performance  which  has  been  lately  offered  to 
the  public.  The  locality  of  the  subject  is 
likely  to  obstruct  its  popularity;  and  the  au- 
thor, by  confining  himself  in  a  great  measure 
to  the  description  of  manners  and  personal 
adventures,  has  forfeited  the  attraction  which 
might  have  been  derived  from  the  delineation 
of  rural  scenery.  But  he  has  manifested  a 
degree  of  genius  which  cannot  be  overlooked, 
and  given  indication  of  talents  that  seem  well 
worthy  of  being  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the 
epic  muse. 

The  notes,  which  contain  a  great  treasure  of 
Border  history  and  antiquarian  learning,  are 
too  long,  we  think,  for  the  general  reader. 
The  form  of  the  publication  is  also  too  ex- 
pensive ;  and  we  hope  soon  to  see  a  smaller 
edition,  with  an  abridgement  of  the  notes, 
for  the  use  of  the  mere  lovers  of  poetry. 


i  (^ttgnst,   ISIO.) 

f he  Lady  of  the  Lake :  a  Poem.    By  Walter  Scott.    Second  Edition.    8vo.  pp,  434  :  1810, 

I  proof  of  extraordinary  merit, — a  far  surer  one, 
j  we  readily  admit,  than  would  be  afforded  by 
i  any  praises  of  ours:  and,  therefore,  though 
'  we  pretend  to  be  privileged,  in  ordinary  cases, 
to  foretell  the  ultimate  reception  of  all  claims 
j  on  public  admiration,  our  function  may  be 
thought  to  cease,  where  the  event  is  already 
I  so  certain  and  conspicuous.  As  it  is  a  sore 
!  thing,  however,  to  be  deprived  of  our  privi- 
:  leges  on  so  important  an  occasion,  we  hope  to 
be  pardoned  for  insinuating,  that,  even  in  such 
j  a  case,  the  office  of  the  critic  m.ay  not  be  al- 
j  together  superfluous.  Though  the  success  of 
the  author  be  decisive,  and  even  likely  to  be 
permanent,  it  still  may  not  be  without  its  use 
to  point  out,  in  consequence  of  what,  and  in 
spite  of  what,  he  has  succeeded  ;  nor  alto- 
gethpr  uninstructive  to  trace  the  preci.se  limits 
of  the  connection  which,  even  in  this  did! 
world,  indisputably  subsists  between  success 


i  Mr.  Scott,  though  living  in  an  age  unusu- 
jlly  prolific  of  original  poetry,  has  manifestly 
i'utstripped  all  his  competitors  in  the  race  of 
liopularity ;  and  stands  already  upon  a  height 
|o  which  no  other  writer  has  attained  in  the 
|nemory  of  any  one  now  alive.  We  doubt, 
^rdeed.  whether  any  English  poet  ever  had  so 
hany  of  his  books  sold,  or  so  many  of  his 
erses  read  and  admired  by  such  a  multitude 
If  persons  in  so  short  a  time.  We  are  credibly 
jiformed  that  nearly  thirty  thousand  copies 
if  "The  Lay"  have  been  already  disposed 
'i  in  this  country ;  and  that  the  demand  for 
flarmion.  and  the  poem  now  before  us,  has 
|cen  still  more  considerable, — a  circulation 
j."e  believe,  altogether  without  example,  in 
he  case  of  a  bulky  work,  not  addressed  to 
ji"'  bigotry  of  the  mere  mob,  either  religious 
ir  political. 
I  A  Dopularity  so  universal  is  a  pretty  sure 


368 


POETRY. 


and  desert;  and  to  ascertain  how  far  \mex- 
umpled  popularity  does  really  imply  unrival- 
led" talent. 

As  It  It!  the  object  of  poetry  to  give  pleasure, 
It  would  seem  to  be  a  pretty  safe  conclusion, 
that  that  poetry  must  be  the  best  which  gives 
.lie  greatest  pleasure  to  the  greatest  number 
of  persons.  Vet  we  must  pause  a  little,  be- 
;ore  we  give  our  assent  to  so  plausible  a  pro- 
position. It  would  not  be  quite  correct,  we 
fear,  to  say  that  those  are  invariably  the  best 
judges  who  are  most  easily  pleased.  The 
great  multitude,  even  of  the  reading  world, 
must  necessarily  be  uninstructed  and  inju- 
dicious; and  will  frequently  be  found,  not 
only  to  derive  pleasure  from  what  is  worthless 
in  finer  eyes,  but  to  be  quite  insensible  to 
those  beauties  which  atibrd  the  most  exquisite 
delight  to  more  cultivated  understandings. 
True  pathos  and  sublimity  will  indeed  charm 
every  one :  but,  out  of  this  lofty  sphere,  we 
are  pretty  well  convinced,  that  the  poetry 
which  appears  most  perfect  to  a  very  refined 
taste,  will  not  often  turn  out  to  be  very  popular 
poetry. 

This,  indeed,  is  saying  nothing  more,  than 
4  that  the  ordinary  readers  of  poetry  have  not 
a  very  refined  taste  ;  and  that  they  are  often 
insensible  to  many  of  its  highest  beauties, 
while  they  still  more  frequently  mistake  its 
imperfections  for  excellence.,  The  fact,  when 
stated  in  this  simple  way.  Commonly  excites 
neither  opposition  nor  surprise  :  and  yet,  if  it 
be  asked,  why  the  taste  of  a  few  individuals, 
who  do  not  perceive  beauty  where  many 
others  perceive  it,  should  be  exclusively  dig- 
nified with  the  name  of  a  good  taste ;  or  why 
poetry,  which  gives  pleasure  to  a  very  great 
number  of  readers,  should  be  thought  inferior 
to  that  which  pleases  a  much  smaller  num- 
ber,— the  answer,  perhaps,  may  not  be  quite 
so  ready  as  might  have  been  expected  from 
the  alacrity  of  our  assent  to  the  first  propo- 
sition. That  there  is  a  good  answer  to  be 
given,  however,  we  entertain  no  doubt :  and  if 
that  which  we  are  about  to  offer  should  not 
appear  very  clear  or  satisfactory,  we  must 
submit  to  have  it  thought,  that  the  fault  is  not 
altogether  in  the  subji'ct. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered, that  though  the  taste  of  very  good 
judges  is  necessarily  the  taste  of  a  few,  it  is 
implied,  in  their  description,  that  they  are  per- 
sons eminently  qualified,  by  natural  sensi- 
;bility,  and  long  experience  and  refiection,  to 
(perceive  all  beauties  that  really  exist,  as  well 
as  to  settle  the  relative  value  and  importance 
of  all  the  different  sorts  of  beauty  ; — they  are 
in  that  very  state,  in  short,  to  which  all  who 
are  in  any  degree  capable  of  tasting  those  re- 
fined pleasures  would  certainly  arrive,  if  their 
sensibility  were  increased,  and  their  experi- 
ence and  reflection  enlarged.  It  is  difficult, 
therefore,  in  following  out  the  ordinary  analo- 
gies of  laML'uau-c.  to  avoid  consitieringlhem  as  [ 
in  thi;  riirht,  and  calling  their  taste  the  true 
and  the  just  one  ;  when  it  ai)pears  that  it  is  | 
8uch  a*  is  uniformly  prodiiceil  by  the  cultiva-  j 
tion  of  those  faculties  upon  which  all  our  per- 
pptions  of  taste  s-j  obviously  depend.  | 


It  is  to  he  considered  also,  that  though  it  • 
the  end  of  poetry  to  please,  one  of  the  pa.rt  i 
whose  pleasure,  and  whose  notions  of  exc- 
leiice,  wdl  always  be  primarily  consulted  i 
its  composition,  is  the  poet  himself:  and  as  i 
must  necessarily  be  more  cultiA'ated  than  1  • 
great  body  of  his  readers,  the  presumption  , 
that   he  will   always   belong,   compaiativi' 
speaking,  to  the  class  of  good  judges,  and  <J., 
deavour,  consequently,  to  produce  that  sort|[ 
excellence  which  is  likely  to  meet  with  th ' 
approbation.     When   authors,  therefore,  a! 
those   of  whose  sufirages  authors  are  m'; 
ambitious,  thus  conspire  to  fix  upon  the  sai; 
standard  of  what  is  good  in  taste  and  com] 
sition,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  it  should  comei 
bear  this  name  in  society,  in  preference  \ 
what  might  aflbrd  more  pleasure  to  individu  i 
of  less  influence.     Besides  all  this,  it  is  d, 
vious  that  it  must  be  infinitely  more  diffic 
to  produce  any  thing  conformable  to  this  i 
alted  standard,  than  merely  to  fall  in  with  tl 
current  of  jwpular  taste.  To  attain  the  fom 
object,  it  is  necessary,  for  the  most  part,! 
understand   thoroughly  all    the  feelings 
associations  that  are  modified  or  created  | 
cultivation: — To  accomplish  the  latter,  it 
often  be  sufficient  merely  to  have  obser 
the  course  of  familiar  preferences.     Succe 
however,  is  rare,  in  proportion  as  it  is  diffici 
and  it  is  needless  to  say,  what  a  vast  addi 
rarity  makes  to  value, — or  how  exactly 
admiration  at  success  is  proporlioneil  to 
sense  of  the  difficulty  of  the  undertaki 

Such  seem  to  be  the  most  general  and  i| 
mediate  causes  of  the  apparent  paradox, 
reckoning  that  which  pleases  the  greatj 
number  as  irderior  to  that  which  pleases  \ 
few  ;  and  such  the  leading  grounds  for  ti 
the  .standard  of  excellence,  in  a  queslioni 
mere  feeling  and  gratification,  by  a  differ 
rule  than  that  of  the  quantity  of  gratificatij 
produced.  With  reg-ard  to  some  of  the 
arts — for  the  distinction  between  popular  ; 
actual  merit  obtains  in  them  all — there  are| 
other  reasons,  perhaps,  to  be  assigned  : 
in  Music  for  example,  when  we  have-  said  ll: 
it  is  the  authority  of  those  who  are  best  i|U!  • 
fied  by  nature  and  study,  and  the  Jijj.nti 
and  rarity  oi  {he  attainment,  that  entnK  s  i' • 
tain  exquisite  performances  to  rank  liii:]- 
than  others  that  give  far  more  general  ilrh- 
we  have  probably  said  all  that  can  be  -i.d 
explanation  of  tfiis  mode  of  speakiii-  ;.! 
judging.  In  poetry,  however,  ami  in  so:) 
other  departments,  this  familiar,  though  i 
what  extraordinary  rule  of  estimation,  is  ju^ 
fied  by  other  considerations. 

As  it  is  the  cultivation  of  natural  and  j)! 
haps  universal  capacities,  that  produces  tij 
refined  taste  which  takes  away  our  plea 
in  vulgar  excellence,  so.  it  is  to  be  consider 
that  there  is  an  universal  teiulency  to  the] 
pagation  of  such  a  taste;  and  that,  in  til 
tolerably   lavonrable    to    Imnian    happine 
there  is  a  continual  progress  and  improveml] 
in  this,  as  in  the  other  faculties  of  nations  i 
large  assemblages  of  men.  fThe  number^ 
intelligent  judges  may  therefore  be  regar 
as  perpetually  on  the  increase,  j  The   inl 


SCOTTS  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


369 


circle,  to  which  the  poet  delights  chiefly  to 
pitch  his  voice,  is  perpetually  enlarging-  and, 
looking  to  that  great  futurity  to  which  his  am- 
bition is  constantly  directed,  it  may  be  found, 
that  the  most  refined  style  of  composition  to 
which  he  can  attain,  will  be,  at  the  last,  the 
most  extensively  and  permanently  popular, 
rhis  holds  true,  we  think,  with  regard  to  all 
the  productions  of  art  that  are  open  to  the 
inspection  of  any  considerable  part  of  the 
community;  but,  with  regard  to  poetry  in 
particular,  there  is  one  circumstance  to  be  at- 
tended to,  that  renders  this  conclusion  pecu- 
liarly safe,  and  goes  far  indeed  to  reconcile 
the  taste  of  the  multitude  with  that  of  more 
jultirated  judges. 

As  it  seems  difficult  to  conceive  that  mere 
cultivation  should  either  absolutely  create  or 
jtterly  destroy  any  natural  capacity  of  enjoy- 
ment, it  is  not  easy  to  suppose,  that  the  qual- 
ties  which  delight  the  uninstructed  should 
3e  substantially  different  from  those  which 
rive  pleasure  to  the  enlightened.  They  may 
je  arranged  according  to  a  different  scale, — 
md  certain  shades  and  accompaniments  may 
)e  more  or  less  indispensable  ;  but  the  quali- 
ies  in  a  poem  that  give  most  pleasure  to  the 
efiaed  and  fastidious  critic,  are  in  substance, 
ve  believe,  the  very  same  that  delight  the 
nost  injudicious  of  its  admirers: — and  the 
-ery  wide  difference  which  exists  between 
heir  usual  estimates,  may  be  in  a  great  de- 
Tee  accounted  for,  by  considering,  that  the 
ne  judges  absolutely,  and  the  other  relatively 
-that  the  one  attends  only  to  the  intrinsic 
ualities  of  the  ivork,  while  the  other  refers 
iiore  immediately  to  the  merit  of  the  author. 
["he  most  popular  passages  in  ^wpular  poetry, 
jTe  in  fact,  for  the  most  part,  very  beautiful 
ind  striking;  yet  they  are  very  often  such 
passages  as  could  never  be  ventured  on  by 
ny  writer  who  aimed  at  the  praise  of  the 
.idicious;  and  this,  for  the  obvious  reason, 
liat  they  are  trite  and  hackneyed. — that  they 
;ave  been  repeated  till  they  have  lost  all 
irace  and  propriety, — and.  instead  of  exalting 
le  imagination  by  the  impression  of  original 
[enius  or  creative  fancy,  only  nauseate  and 
ffend,  by  the  association  of  paltry  jilagiarism 
(.id  impudent  inanitj-.  It  is  only,  however, 
p  those  who  have  read  and  remembered  the 
figinal  passages,  and  their  better  imitations, 
lat  this  effect  is  produced.  To  the  ignorant 
,id  the  careless,  the  twentieth  imitation  has 
d  the  chami  of  an  original;  and  that  which 
impresses  the  more  experienced  reader  with 
jeariness  and  disgust,  rouses  them  with  all 

['le  force  and  vivacity  of  novelty.  It  is  not 
en,  because  the  ornaments  of  popular  poetry 
e  deficient  in  intrinsic  worth  and  beaut}-, 
at  they  are  .slighted  by  the  critical  reader, 
!t  because  he  at  once  recogiiises  them  to  be 
plen,  and  perceives  that  they  aie  arranged 
tithout  taste  or  congruitv.  In  his  indignation 
I  the  dishonesty,  and  his  contempt  for  the 
[•verty  of  the  collector,  he  overlooks  alto- 
fther  the  value  of  what  he  has  collected,  or 
imembers  it  only  as  an  aggravation  of  his 
^ence, — as  converting  larceny  into  sacrilege, 
;d  adfliig  the  guilt  of  profanation  to  the  follv 
47 


of  unsuitable  finery.  There  are  other  features, 
no  doubt;  that  distinguish  the  idols  of  vulgar- 
admiration  from  the  beautiful  exemplars  of 
pure  taste;  but  this  is  so  much  the  mo.<t  char- 
acteristic and  remarkable,  that  we  know  no 
way  in  which  we  could  so  shortly  describe  the 
poetry  that  pleases  the  multitude,  and  dis- 
pleases the  select  few,  as  by  saying  that  it 
consisted  of  all  the  most  known  and  most 
brilliant  parts  of  the  most  celebrated  authors, 
— of  a  splendid  and  unmeaning  accumulation 
of  those  images  and  phrases  which  had  long 
charmed  every  reader  in  the  works  of  their 
original  inventors. 

The  justice  of  these  remarks  will  probably 
be  at  once  admitted  by  all  who  have  attended 
to  the  history  and  effects  of  what  may  be 
called  Poetical  diction  in  general,  or  even  of 
such  particular  phrases  and  epithets  as  have 
been  indebted  to  their  beauty  lor  too  great  a 
notoriety.  Our  associations  with  all  this  class 
of  expressions,  which  have  become  trite  only, 
in  consequence  of  their  intrinsic  excellence.' 
now  suggest  to  us  no  ideas  but  those  of' 
schoolboy  imbecility  and  childish  affectation. 
We  look  ujx)n  them  merely  as  the  common, 
hired,  and  tawdry  trappings  of  all  who  wish 
to  put  on,  for  the  hour,  the  masquerade  habit 
of  poetry:  and,  instead  of  receiving  from  them 
any  kind  of  delight  or  emotion,  do  not  even 
distinguish  or  attend  to  the  signification  of 
the  words  of  which  they  consist.  The  ear  is 
so  palled  with  their  repetition,  and  so  accus- 
tomed to  meet  with  them  as  the  habitual  ex- 
pletives of  the  lowest  class  of  versifiers,  that 
they  come  at  last  to  pass  over  it  without  ex- 
citing any  sort  of  conception  whatever,  and 
are  not  even  so  much  attended  to  as  to  expose 
their  most  gross  incoherence  or  inconsistency 
to  detection.  It  is  of  this  quality  that  Swift 
has  availed  himself  in  so  remarkable  a  man- 
ner, in  his  famous  "Song  by  a  person  of 
qualit}',"  which  consists  entirely  ui  a  selection 
of  some  of  the  most  trite  and  well-sounding 
phrases  and  epithets  in  the  poetical  lexicon 
of  the  time,  strung  together  without  any  kind 
of  meaning  or  consistency,  and  yet  so  dis- 
posed, as  to  have  been  perused,  perhaps  by 
one  half  of  their  readers,  without  any  suspi- 
cion of  the  deception.  Most  of  those  phrases, 
however,  which  had  thus  become  sickening, 
and  almost  insignificant,  to  the  intelligent 
readers  of  poetry  in  the  flays  of  Queen  Anne, 
are  in  themselves  beautiful  and  expressive, 
and,  no  doubt,  retain  much  of  their  native 
grace  in  those  ears  that  have  not  been  alien- 
ated by  their  repetition. 

But  it  is  not  merely  from  the  use  of  much 
excellent  diction,  that  a  modern  poet  is  thus 
debarred  by  the  lavishnessof  his  predecessors. 
There  is  a  certain  range  of  subjects  and  char- 
acters, and  a  certain  manner  and  tone,  which 
were  probably,  in  their  origin,  as  graceful  and 
attractive,  which  have  been  proscribed  by  the 
same  dread  of  imitation.  It  would  be  too 
long  to  enter,  in  this  place,  into  any  detailed 
examination  of  the  peculiarities — originating 
chiefly  in  this  source — which  distinguish  an- 
cient from  modern  poetry.  It  may  be  enough 
just  to  remark,  that,  as  the  elements  of  poet- 


370 


POETRY. 


ical  emotion  are  necessarily  limited,  so  it  was 
natural  for  those  who  first  sought  to  excite  it, 
to  avail  themselves  of  those  subjects,  situa- 
tions, and  images,  that  were  most  obviously 
calculated  to  produce  that  effect ;  and  to  assist 
them  by  the  use  of  all  those  aggravating  cir- 
cumstances that  most  readily  occurred  as 
likely  to  heighten  their  operation.  In  this 
'.vay.  they  may  be  said  to  have  got  possession 
of  ail  the  choice  materials  of  their  art:  and, 
working  without  fear  of  comparisons,  fell 
naturally  into  a  free  and  graceful  .style  of 
execution,  at  the  same  time  that  the  profusion 
of  their  resources  maile  them  somewhat  care- 
less and  inexpert  in  their  application.  After- 
poets  were  in  a  very  difFerenl  situation.  They 
could  neithei'take  the  most  natural  anil  gene- 
ral topics  of  interest,  nor  treat  them  with  the 
ease  and  inilifference  of  those  who  had  the 
whole  store  at  their  command — because  this 
was  precisely  what  had  been  already  done  bj- 
those  who  hail  gone  before  them  :  A\n\  they 
were  therefore  put  upon  various  expedients 
for  attaining  their  object,  ami  yet  preserving 
their  claim  to  origijiality.  Some  of  them  ac- 
cordingly set  themselves  to  observe  and  de- 
lineate both  characters  and  external  objects 
with  greater  minuteness  and  fidelity. — and 
others  to  analyse  more  carefully  the  mingling 
passions  of  the  heart,  and  to  feed  and  cherish 
a  more  limited  train  of  emotion,  thiou^h  a 
longer  and  more  artful  succession  of  incidents. 
— while  a  third  sort  distorleil  both  nature  and 
passion,  according  to  some  fantastical  theory 
of  their  own;  or  took  such  a  narrow  corner 
of  each,  and  dissected  it  with  such  curious 
and  microscopic  accuracj-.  that  its  original 
form  was  no  longer  discernible  by  the  eyes 
of  the  uninstructed.  In  this  way  we  think 
that  modern  poetry  has  both  been  emiched 
■with  more  ex(|uisite  pictures,  and  deeper  ami 
more  sustained  strains  of  pathetic,  than  were 
known  to  the  less  elaborate  artistsof  antiquity ; 
at  the  same  time  that  it  has  been  defaced 
with  more  afTectation,  and  loaded  with  far 
more  intricacy.  But  whether  they  faileil  or 
succeeded, — and  whether  they  distinguished 
themselves  from  their  predecessors  by  faults 
or  by  excellences,  the  later  poets,  we  conceive, 
must  be  admitted  to  have  almost  always 
written  in  a  more  constrained  and  narrow 
manner  than  their  ori<riiials.  and  to  have  de- 
,  parted  farther  from  ^\•hat  was  obvious,  easy, 
land  natural.  Modern  poetry,  in  this  respect, 
may  be  compared,  perhaps,  without  any  great 
impropriety,  to  modern  sculpture.  It  is  greatly 
inferior  to  the  ancient  in  freedom,  giace,  a)ul 
simplicity;  but.  in  return,  it  frequently  pos- 
sesses a  more  decided  expression,  and  more 
tine  finishing  of  less  suitable  embellishments. 
Whatever  may  be  gained  or  lost,  however, 
by  this  change  of  manner,  it  is  obvious,  that 
poetry  must  become  less  popular  by  means 
of  it :  For  the  most  natural  and  obvious  man- 
ner, is  always  the  most  taking ; — and  what- 
ever costs  the  author  much  pains  and  labour, 
is  usually  found  to  require  a  corresponding 
effort  on  the  part  of  the  reader, — which  all 
reiiders  aie  not  disposed  to  make.  That  they 
Avho  seek  to  be  origiuul  by  means  of  affecta- 


tion, should  revolt  more  by  their  affeclatic 
than  they  attract  by  their  originality,  is  ju. 
and  natural ;  but  even  the  nobler  devices  th 
win  the  suffrages  of  the  judicious  by  their  i: 
trinsic  beauty,  as  well  as  their  novelty,  a 
apt  to  repel  the  multitude,  and  to  obslru 
the  popularity  of  some  of  the  most  exquisi 
productions  of  genius.  The  beautiful  but  n: 
note  delineations  of  such  admirable  observe 
as  Crabbe  or  Cowper,  are  apt  to  appear  tedio 
to  those  who  take  little  interest  in  their  su 
jects.  and  have  no  concern  about  their  art  ;• 
and  the  refined,  deep,  and  sustained  pathei 
of  Campbell,  is  still  more  apt  to  be  mislakt 
for  monotony  and  languor  by  those  who  a 
either  devoid  of  sensibility,  or  impatient 
c]uiet  reflection.  The  most  popular  style  u 
cioubtedly  is  that  which  has  great  variety  a; 
brilliancy,  rather  than  exquisite  finish  m 
images  and  descriptions ;  and  which  touch 
lightly  on  many  passions,  without  raising  a. 
so  high  as  to  transcend  the  comprehension 
ordinary  mortals — or  dwelling  on  it  so  long 
to  exhaust  their  patience. 

Whether  ]\lr.  Scott  holds  the  same  opini' 
with  us  upon  these  matters,  and  has  intentic' 
ally  conformed  his  practice  to  this  theory,— 
whether  the  peculiarities  in  his  compositic 
have  been  produced  merely  by  following  ( 
the  natural  bent  of  his  genius,  we  do  not  p- 
same  to  detennine  :  But,  that  ^e  has  actual 
made  use  of  all  our  recipes  for  popularity, 
think  very  evident  :  and  conceive,  that  ftl 
things  are  more  curious  tlian  the  singular 
or  good  fortune,  w  ith  which  he  has  reconci]| 
his  claims  on  the  favour  of  the  multitude, 
his  pretensions  to  more   select  admirat 
Confident  in  the  force  and  originality  of 
own  genius,  he  has  not  been  afraid  to 
himself  of  common-places  both  of  diction 
of  sentiment,  whenever  they  appeared 
beautiful  or  impressive, — using  them,  htj 
ever,  at  all  times,  with  the  skill  and  spiriti 
an  inventor;  and,  quite  certain  that  he  coi 
not  be  mistaken  for  a  plagiarist  or  imitator^ 
has  made  free  use  of  that  great  treasv 
character-s,   images,  and    expressions,  wj 
had  been  accumulated  by  the  most  celebf 
of  his  predecessors, — at  the  same  time 
the  rapidity  of  his  transitions,  the  noveltj 
his  combinations,  and  the  spirit  and  vari| 
of  his   own    thoughts  and   inventions, 
plainly  that  he  was  a  borrower  from  any  i 
but  poverty,  and  took  only  what  he 
have  ghc7i,  if  he  had  been  born  in  an  et 
generation.     The  great  secret  of  his 
iarity.  however,  and  the  leading  characten| 
of  his  poetry,  appear  to  us  to  coisist  eviderl 
in  thi.x,  that  he  has  made  more  nso  of  comr 
topics,  images,  and  expressions,  than  anyol 
inal  poet  of  later  times;  and.  at  the 
time,  displayed  more  genius  and  origina 
than  any  recent  author  who  has  workec 
the  same  materials.     By  the  latter  jieculis 
he  has  entitled  himself  to  the  adniiratiOE 
every  description  of  readers ; — by  the  for 
he  is  recom.mended  in  an  especial  mannel 
the  inexperiei.ctd— at  the  hazard  of  .s(  nie  lij 
ofl'ence  to  the  more  cultivated  and  fastidirt 

In  the  choice  of  his  subjects,  for  eiLatoiT 


SCOTTS  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


371 


le  dops  not  attempt  to  interest  merelj-  bj-  fine 
ibservatjo'.i  or  piithetic  sentiment,  but  takes 
he  assistance  of  a  story,  and  enlists  tlie  read- 
t's  curiosiiy  among  his  motives  for  attention, 
rheii  his  characters  are  ail  selected  from  the 
nost  common  dramatis  pers07^cB  of  poetry: — 
lings,  warriors,  knishts,  outlaws,  nuns,  min- 
trels,  secluded  damsels,  wizards,  and  true 
overs.  He  never  ventures  to  carry  us  into 
he  cottaae  of  the  modern  peasant,  like  Crabbe 
ir  Cowper;  nor  into  the  bosom  of  domestic 
irivacy,  like  Campbell;  nor  among  creatures 
if  the  imagination,  like  Southey  or  Darwin. 
Such  personages,  we  readily  admit,  are  not  in 
hemselves  so  interesting  or  striking  as  those 
0  whom  Mr.  Scott  has  devoted  himself;  but 
hev  are  far  less  familiar  in  poetry — and  are 
herefore  more  likely,  perhaps,  to  engage  the 
ttention  of  those  to  whom  poetry  is  familiar. 
II  the  mannirement  of  the  passions,  again,  Mr. 
'COtt  appears  to  us  to  have  pursued  the  same 
lopular,  and  comparatively  easy  course.  He 
las  raised  all  the  most  familiar  and  poetical 
■motions,  by  the  most  obvious  aggravations, 
,nd  in  the  most  compendious  and  judicious 
rays.  He  has  dazzled  the  reader  with  the 
plendour,  and  even  warmed  him  with  the 
ransient  heat  of  various  affections ;  but  he 
as  nowhere  fairly  kindled  him  with  enthu- 
iasm.  or  melted  him  into  tenderness.  Writ- 
ig  for  the  world  at  large,  he  has  wisely  ab- 
;tained  from  attempting  to  raise  any  passion 
b  a  height  to  which  worldly  people  could  not 
|e  transported ;  and  contented  himself  with 
jiving  his  reader  the  chance  of  feeling,  as  a 
[rave,  kind,  and  affectionate  gentleman  must 
iften  feel  in  the  ordinary  course  of  his  exist- 
jnce.  without  trying  to  breathe  into  him  either 
iiat  lofty  enthusiasm  which  disdains  the  oi-- 
linary  business  and  amusements  of  life,  or 
liat  quiet  and  deep  sensibility  which  unfits 
l>r  most  of  its  pursuits.  With  regard  to  dic- 
jon  and  imagery,  too,  it  is  quite  obvious  that 
jlr.  Scott  has  not  aimed  at  writing  either  in  a 
;i?ry  pure  or  a  very  consistent  style.  He 
j?ems  to  have  been  anxious  only  to  strike, 
iid  to  be  easily  and  universally  understood; 
[id,  for  this  purpose,  to  have  culled  the  most 
littering  and  conspicuous  expressions  of  the 
■est  popular  authors,  and  to  have  interwoven 
i^em  in  splendid  confusion  with  his  own  ner- 
pus  diction  and  irregular  versification.  In- 
ifferent  whether  he  coins  or  borrows,  and 
(■awing  with  equal  freedom  on  his  memory 
|id  his  imagination,  he  goes  boldly  forward. 
I  full  reliance  on  a  never-failing  abundance  : 
jid  dazzles,  with  his  richness  and  variety, 
j'en  those  who  are  most  apt  to  be  offended 
jith  his  glare  and  irregularity.  There  is 
thing,  in  Mr.  Scott,  of  the  severe  and  ma- 
(Stic  style  of  Milton — or  of  the  terse  and 
|.e  composition  of  Pope — or  of  the  elaborate 
jjgance  and  melody  of  Campbell — or  even 
j  the  flowing  and  redundant  diction  of 
^uthey.— But  there   is  a  medley  of  bright 

iages  and  glowing  words,  set  carelessly  and 
,isely  together — a  diction,  tinged  successive- 
I'with  the  careless  richness  of  Shakespeare, 
t:  harshness  and  antique  simplicity  of  the 
A  romance.s,  the  homeliness  of  vulgar  bal- 


]  lads  and  anecdotes,  and  the  sentimental  glitter 
I  of  the  most  modern  poetry, — passing  from 
the  borders  of  the  ludicrous  to  those  of  the 
sublime — alternately  minute  and  energetic — 
sometimes  artificial,  and  frequently  negligent 
j  — but  always  full  of  spirit  and  vivacity, — 
j  abounding  in  images  that  are  striking,  at  first 
;  sight,  to  minds  of  every  contexture — and 
!  never  expressing  a  sentiment  which  it  can 
cost  the  most  ordinary  reader  an)*  exertion  to 
comprehend. 

!  Such  seem  to  be  the  leading  qualities  that 
,  have  cor.tributed  to  Mr.  Scott's  popularity ; 
'  and  as  some  of  them  are  obviously  of  a  kind 
[  to  diminish  his  merit  in  the  eyes  of  more 
fastidions  judges,  it  is  but  fair  to  complete 
this  view  of  his  peculiarities  by  a  hasty  no- 
tice of  such  of  them  as  entitle  him  to  unquali- 
fied admiration  ; — and  here  it  is  impossible 
not  to  be  struck  with  that  vivifying  spirit  of 
strength  and  animation  which  pervades  all 
the  ine(]nalities  of  his  composition,  and  keeps 
constantly  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  im- 
pression of  great  power,  spirit  and  intrepidity. 
There  is  nothing  cold,  creeping,  or  feeble,  in 
all  Mr,  Scott's  poetry; — no  laborious  littleness^ 
or  puling  classical  affectation.  He  has  his  fail- 
ures, iii(l(>cd.  Iik(^  other  people  ;  but  he  always 
attemjits  viiioronsiy :  And  never  fails" in  his  im- 
mediate object,  without  accomplishing  some- 
thing far  beyond  the  reach  of  an  ordinary 
writer.  Even  when  he  wanders  from  the 
paths  of  pure  taste,  he  leaves  behind  him  the 
footsteps  of  a  powerful  genius;  and  moulds 
the  most  humble  of  his  materials  into  a  form 
worthy  of  a  nobler  substance.  Allied  to  this 
inherent  vigour  and  animation,  and  in  a  great 
degree  derived  from  it,  is  that  air  of  facility 
and  freedom  which  adds  so  peculiar  a  grace 
to  most  of  Mr.  Scott's  compositions.  There 
is  certainly  no  living  poet  whose  works  seem 
to  come  from  him  with  so  much  ease,  or  who 
so  seldom  appears  to  labour,  even  in  the  most 
burdensome  parts  of  his  performance.  He 
seems,  indeed,  never  to  think  either  of  him- 
self or  his  reader,  but  to  be  completely  identi- 
fied and  lost  in  the  personages  with  whom  he 
is  occupied  ;  and  the  attention  of  the  reader 
is  consequently  either  transferred,  unbroken, 
to  their  adventures,  or,  if  it  glance  back  for  a 
moment  to  the  author,  it  is  only  to  think  how 
much  more  might  be  done,  by  putting  forth 
that  strength  at  full,  which  has,  without  ef- 
fort, accomplished  so  many  wonders.  It  is 
owing  partly  to  these  qualities,  and  partly  to 
the  great  variety  of  his  style,  that  Mr.  Scott 
is  much  less  frequently  tedious  than  any  other 
bulky  poet  with  whom  we  are  acquainted. 
His  store  of  images  is  so  copious,  that  he 
never  dwells  upon  one  long  enough  to  pro- 
duce weariness  in  the  reader;  and,  even 
^^•here  he  deals  in  borrowed  or  in  tawdry 
wares,  the  rapidity  of  his  transitions,  and  the 
transient  glance  with  which  he  is  satisfied  as 
to  each,  h  ave  the  critic  no  time  to  be  offend- 
ed, and  hurry  him  forward,  along  with  the 
multitude,  enchanted  with  the  brilliancy  of 
the  exhibition.  Thus,  the  very  frequency  of 
his  deviations  from  pure  taste,  comes,  in  some 
sort,  to  constitute  their  apology ;  and  the  pro- 


87* 


POETRY. 


fusion  and  variety  of  his  faults  to  afford  a  new 
proof  of  his  genius. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  general  character- 
istics of  iVIr.  Scotts  poetry.  Among  his  minor 
peculiarities,  we  might  notice  his  singular 
talent  for  description,  and  especially  for  the 
description  of  scenes  abounding  in  motion  or 
aclioa  of  any  kind.  In  this  department,  in- 
deed, we  conceive  him  to  be  almost  without 
a  rival,  either  among  modem  or  ancient  poets: 
and  the  character  and  process  of  his  descrip- 
tions are  as  e.xtraordinary  as  their  effect  is 
astonishing.  He  places  before  the  eyes  of 
his  readers  a  more  distinct  and  complete  pic- 
ture. perhap.s,  than  any  other  artist  ever  pre- 
sented by  mere  words;  and  vet  he  does  not 
(like  Crabbe)  enumerate  all  tKe  visible  parts 
of  the  subjects  with  any  degree  of  minute- 
ness, nor  confine  himself  by  any  means,  to 
what  is  visible.  The  singular  merit  of  his 
delineations,  on  the  contrary,  consists  in  this, 
that,  with  a  few  bold  anil  abrupt  strokes,  he 
finishes  a  most  spirited  outline. — and  then  in- 
stantly kindles  it  by  the  sudden  light  and  co- 
lour of  some  moral  affection.  There  are  none 
of  his  fine  descriptions,  accordingly,  which  do 
not  derive  a  great  part  of  their  clearness  and 
picturesque  effect,  as  well  as  their  interest, 
from  the  quantity  of  character  and  moral  e.\- 
pression  which  is  thus  blended  with  their  de- 
tails, and  which,  so  far  from  interrupting  the 
concept  if)n  of  the  external  object,  very  power- 
fully stimulate  the  fancy  of  the  reader  to 
complete  it:  and  give  a  grace  and  a  spirit  to 
the  whole  representation,  of  which  we  do  not 
know  where  to  look  for  any  other  example. 

Another  very  striking  peculiarity  in  Mr. 
Scott's  poetry,  is  the  air  of  freedom  and  na- 
ture which  lie  has  contrived  to  impart  to  most 
of  his  distinguished  characters:  and  with 
which  no  poei  more  modern  than  Shakespeare 
has  ventured  to  represent  personages  of  such 
dignity.  We  do  not  allude  here  merely  to  the 
genuine  familiarity  and  homeliness  of  many 
of  his  scenes  and  dialogues,  but  to  that  air  of 
gaiety  and  playfulness  in  v^-hich  pensons  of 
high  rank  seem,  from  time  immemorial,  to 
have  thouirht  it  necessary  to  array,  not  their 
courtesy  only,  but  their  generosity  and  their 
hostility.  This  tone  of  good  society.  Mr. 
Scott  hiis  shed  over  his  higher  characters  with 
great  grace  and  effect :  and  has,  in  this  wa)-, 
not  only  made  his  representations  much  more 
faithful  and  true  to  nature,  but  has  very  agree- 
ably relieved  the  monotony  of  that  tragic  so- 
lemnity which  ordinary  writers  appear  to  think 
indispensable  to  the  dignity  of  poetical  heroes 
and  heroines.  We  are  not  sure,  however, 
whether  he  has  not  occasionally  exceeded  a 
little  in  the  use  of  this  ornament :  and  given, 
now  and  then,  too  coquettish  and  triflinara  tone 
to  discussions  of  weight  and  moment. 

M:-.  Scott  has  many  other  characteristic  ex- 
cellences:— But  we  have  already  detained 
our  readers  too  ]an<x  with  this  imperfect  sketch 
of  his  poetical  character,  and  must  proceed, 
without  further  delay,  to  give  them  some  ac- 
count of  the  work  which  is  now  before  us. 
Of  this,  upon  the  whole,  we  are  inclined  to 
think  more  highly  than  of  either  of  his  former 


publications.    We  are  more  sure,  however 
that  it  has  fewer  faults,  than  that  it  nas  greate 
beauties;  and  as  its  beauties  bear  a  stron 
resemblance  to  those  with  which  the  publi 
has  already  been  made  familiar  in  those  cek 
brated  works,  we  should  not  be  surprised  i 
its  popularity  were  less  splendid  and  remark 
able.     For  our  own  parts,  however,  we  are  o 
opinion,  that  it  will  be  oftener  read  hereaitt 
than  either  of  them  :  and,  that,  if  it  had  aj 
j  peared  first  in  the  series,  tluir  reception  wcui 
have  been  liss  favourable  than  that  which  i 
has  experienced.     It  is  more  polished  in  it 
diction,  and  more  regular  in  its  versification 
the  story  is  constructed  with  inlhiitely  moi 
skill  and  address  :  there  is  a  greater  piopo 
tion  of  pleasing  and   tender  passages,  wit 
much  less  antiquarian  detail ;  and.  nj  on  tb 
whole,  a  larjrer  variety  of  characters,  moi 
artfully  and  judiciously  contrasted.     There 
nothing  so  tine,  perhaps,  as  the  battle  in  jVla 
mion — or  so  picturesque  as  some  of  the  sea 
tered  sketches'  in  the  Lay  ;  but   there  is 
richness  and  a  spirit  in  the  whole  piece,  whit 
{  does  not  pervade  either  of  these  poems- 
profusion  of  incident,  and  a  shifting  brillianc 
I  of  colouring,  that  reminds  us  of  the  witche: 
j  of  Ariosto — and  a  constant  elasticity,  and  o 
casional  energy,  wliich  seem  to  belong  mo 
i  peculiarly  to  the  author  now  before  us. 
j      It  may  appear  superfluous,  perhaps,  for 
to  present  our  readers  with  any  analysis  of 
work,  which  is  probably,  by  this  time,  in  tJ 
hands  of  as  many  persons  as  are  likely  to  s 
our  account  of  it.     As  these,  however,  m; 
not   be  the  same   persons,  and   as.   witho 
making   some   such   abstract,  we  could   i: 
easily  render  the  few   remarks  we  have 
offer'intelligible.  we  shall  take  the  liberty 
j  beginning  with  a  short  summary  of  the  fab 
I    ^  The  first  canto,  which  is  entitled  The  Cha: 
'  begins  with  a  pretty  long  description  of  a  stf 
I  hunt  in  the  Highlands  of  Perthshire.     As  t 
j  chase  lengthens,  the  .sportsmen  drop  off; 
!  at  last  the  foremost  huntsman  is  left  aloi 
and  his  horse,  overcome  with  fatigue,  stu 
bles,  and  dies  in   a  rocky  valley.     The  i 
venturer  pursues  a  little  wild  path,  througl 
deep  ravine  ;  and  at  last,  climbing  up  a  crag 
[  eminence,  discovers,  by  the  light  of  the  evi. 
ing   sun,   Loch   Katrine,  with  all  its  woe 
i  islands  and  rocky  shores,  spread  out  in  gli 
!  before  him.     After  gazing  whh  admiration: 
j  this  beautiful  scene,  which  is  described  \v 
j  greater  spirit  than   accuracy,   the  huntsn  i 
winds  his  horn,  in  the  hope  of  being  he;  ^ 
by  ."^ome  of  his  attendants;  and  sees,  to   - 
infinite  surprise,  a  little  skiff,   guided  b}  • 
lovely  woman,  glide  from  beneath  the  tr  ' 
'  that  overhang  the  water,  and  approach  , 
,  shore  at  his  feet.    The  lady  calls  to  her  fatb' 
I  and,  upon  the  stranger's  approach,  pushes  •• 
•  shallop  from  the  shore  in  alarm.     After  h(,- 
I  ing  a  xhon  parley  with  him.  however,  fi'" 
!  the  water,  she  take?  him  into  the  boat,  ■.-'■ 
\  carries  him   to  a   woody  island  ;  where   |i 
I  leads  him  into  a  .'^ort  of  s\  Ivan  mansion,  rui'- 
ly  constructed  of  trunks  of  trees,  moss,  JlJ 
thatch,  and  hung  round,  within,  with  tropi > 
'  of  war,  and  of  the  chase.     An  elderly  lad  \*- 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


3T* 


ntroJuced  at  supper ;  and  ihe  stranger,  after 
lisclosing  himself  to  be  ••James  Filz-James, 
he  knight  of  Snowdoun,"  tries  in  vaia  to  dis- 
■over  the  name  and  history  of  the  laiJies, 
vhose  manners  discover  them  to  be  of  high 
ank  and  quality.  He  then  retires  to  sleep, 
aid  is  disturbed  with  distressful  visions — 
ises  and  tranquillises  himself,  by  lookhig  out 
m  the  lovely  moonlight  landscape — says  his 
jravers,  and  sleeps  till  the  heathcock  crows 
m  the  mountains  behind  him : — And  thus 
.•loses  the  fast  canto. 

The  second  opens  with  a  fine  picture  of  the 
iged  harper,  Allan-bane,  sitting  on  the  island 
>each  with  the  damsel,  v^tching  the  skiff 
,vhich  carries  the  stranger  back  again  to  land. 
rhe  minstrel  sings  a  sweet  song ;  and  a  con- 
(•ereation  ensues,  from  which  the  reader  gath- 
ers, that  the  lady  is  a  daughter  of  the  house 
)f  Douglas,  and  that  her  father,  having  been 
?xiled  by  royal  displeasure  fiom  the  court, 
lad  been  fain  to  accept  of  this  asylum  from 
Mr  Roderick  Dhu,  a  Highland  chieftain,  who 
lad  long  been  outlawed  for  deeds  of  blood, 
3ut  still  maintained  his  feudal  sovereignty  in 
he  fastnesses  of  his  native  mountains.     It 
ippears  also,  that  this  dark  chief  is  in  love 
.vith  his  fair  protegee ;  but  that  her  affections 
ire  eng-aged  to  Malcolm  Graeme,  a  younger 
md  more  amiable  mountaineer,  the  companion 
md  guide  of  her  father  in  his  hunting  excur- 
sions.    As  they  are  engaged  in  this  discourse, 
he  sound  of  distant  music  is  heard  on  the 
ake ;  and  the  barges  of  Sir  Roderick  are  dis- 
■overed,  proceeding  in  triumph  to  the  island, 
ler  mother  calls  Ellen  to  go  down  with  her 
0  receive  him  ;  but  she,  hearing  her  father's 
lorn  at  that  instant  on  the  opposite  shore, 
lies  to  meet  him  and  Malcolm  Graeme,  who 
5  received  with  cold  and  stately  civility  by 
he  lord  of  the  isle.     After  some  time.  Sir 
toderick  informs  the  Douglas,  that  his  retreat 
as  been  discovered  by  the  royal  spies,  and 
lat  he  has  great  reason  to  believe  that  the 
'.ing  (James  V.),  who,  under  pretence  of  hunt- 
ig,  had  assembled  a  large  force  in  the  neigh- 
ourhood,  was  bent  upon  their  destruction, 
(e  then   proposes,    somewhat    impetuously, 
lat  they  should  unite  their  fortunes  indis- 
ilubly  by  his  marriage  with  Ellen,  and  rouse 
le  whole  Western  Highlands  to  repress  the 
ivasiou.     The  Douglas,  with  many  expres- 
ons  of  gratitude,  declines  both  the  war  and 
lie  alliance  ;  and,  intimating  that  his  daughter 
;i3  repugnances  which  she  cannot  overcome, 
[id  that  he,  though  ungratefully  used  by  his 
•vereign.  will  never  lift  his  arm  against  him, 
iclares  that  he  will  retire  to  a  cave  in  the 
?ighbouring  mountains,  till  the  issue  of  the 
reat  is  seen.     The  strong  heart  of  Roderick 
■  wrung  with  agony  at  this  rejection ;  and, 
hen  Malcolm  advances  to  offer  his  services, 
.  Ellen  rises  to  retire,  he  pushes  him  violent- 
back — and  a  scuffle  ensues,  of  no  very  dig- 
iied  character,  which  is  with  difficulty  ap- 
•ased  by  the  giant  arm  of  Douglas.   Malcolm 
en  withdraws  in  proud  resentment ;   and, 
fusing  to  be  indebted  to  the  surly  chief 
,en  for  the  use  of  his  boat,  plunges  into  the 
Iter,  and  swims  over  by  moonJight  to  the 


mainland  : — And,  with  the  description  of  this 
feat,  the  second  canto  concludes. 

The  third  canto,  which  is  entitled  "The 
Gathering,'  opens  with  a  long  and  rather 
tedious  account  of  the  ceremonies  employed 
by  Sir  Roderick,  in  pre})aring  for  the  sum- 
moning or  gathering  of  his  clan.  This  is  ac- 
complished by  the  consecration  of  a  small 
wooden  cross,  which,  with  its  points  scorched 
and  dipped  in  blood,  is  circulated  with  in- 
credible celerity  through  the  whole  territory 
of  the  chieftain.  The  eag'er  fidelity  with 
which  this  fatal  sigiial  is  hurried  on  and 
obeyed,  is  represented  with  great  spirit  and 
felicity.  A  youth  starts  from  the  side  of  his 
father's  coffin,  to  bear  it  forward  ;  and  having 
run  his  stage,  delivers  it  into  the  hands  of  a 
young  bridegroom  returning  fiom  church; 
who  instantly  binds  his  plaid  around  him, 
and  rushes  onward  from  his  bride.  In  the 
mean  time.  Douglas  and  his  daughter  had 
taken  refuge  in  the  mountain  cave;  and  Sir 
Roderick,  passing  near  their  retreat  in  his 
way  to  the  muster,  hears  Ellen's  voice  sing- 
ing her  evening  hymn  to  the  Virgin.  He  does 
not  obtrude  on  her  devotions,  but  hurries  to 
the  place  of  rendezvous,  where  his  clan  re- 
ceive him  with  a  shout  of  acclamation,  and 
then  couch  on  the  bare  heath  for  the  night. — 
This  terminates  the  third  canto. 

The  Iburth  begins  with  more  incantations. 
Some  absurd  and  disgusting  ceremonies  are 
gone  through,  by  a  wild  hermit  of  the  clan, 
with  a  view  to  ascertain  the  issue  of  the  im- 
pending war: — and  this  oracular  response  is 
obtained — -'that  the  party  shall  prevail  which 
first  sheds  the  blood  of  its  adversary."  We 
are  then  introduced  to  the  minstrel  and  Ellen, 
whom  he  strives  to  comfort  for  the  alarming 
disappearance  of  her  father,  by  singing  a  long 
fairy  ballad  to  her;  and  just  as  the  song  is 
ended,  the  knight  of  Snowdoun  again  appears 
before  her,  declares  his  love,  and  urges  her 
to  put  herself  under  his  protection.  Ellen, 
alarmed,  throws  herself  on  his  generosity — 
confesses  her  attachment  to  Grame — and 
with  difficulty  prevails  on  him  to  seek  his 
own  safety  by  a  speedy  retreat  from  those 
dangerous  confines.  The  gallant  stranger  at 
last  complies ;  but,  before  he  goes,  presents 
her  with  a  ring,  which  he  says  he  had  re- 
ceived from  the  hand  of  King  James,  with  a 
promise  to  grant  any  boon  that  should  be 
asked  by  the  person  producing  it.  As  he  is 
pursuing  his  way  through  the  wild,  his  sus- 
picions are  excited  by  the  conduct  of  his 
guide,  and  confirmed  by  the  musical  warn- 
ings of  a  mad  woman,  who  sings  to  him  about 
the  toils  that  are  set,  and  the  knives  that  are 
whetted  against  him.  He  then  threatens  his 
false  guide,  \vho  discharges  an  arrow  at  him, 
which  kills  the  maniac.  The  knight  slays  the 
murderer;  and  learning  from  the  expiring 
victim  that  her  brain  had  been  turned  by  the 
cruelty  of  Sir  Roderick,  he  vows  vengeance 
on  his  head  ;  and  proceeds  with  grief  and  ap- 
prehension along  his  dangerous  way.  When 
chilled  with  the  midnight  cold,  and  exhausted 
with  want  and  fatigue,  he  suddenly  comes 
upon  a  chief  reposing  by  a  lonely  watch-fire  j 
o  n. 


374 


POETRY. 


and.  though  challenged  in  the  name  of  Rod- 
erick Dhu,  boldly  avows  himself  his  enemy. 
The  clansman,  however,  disdains  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  woni-out  wanderer  ;  and  pledges 
himself  to  escort  him  safe  out  of  Sir  Roderick's 
territory ;  after  which,  he  tells  him  he  must 
answer  with  his  sword  for  the  defiance  he 
had  uttered  against  the  chieftain.  The  stran- 
ger accepts  his  courtesy  upon  those  chivalrous 
terms  ;  and  the  warriors  sup,  and  sleep  to- 
gether on  the  plaid  of  the  mountaineer. 

They  rouse  themselves  by  dawn,  at  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  canto,  entitled  "  The 
Combat,"  and  proceed  towards  the  Lowland 
frontier ;  the  Highland  warrior  seeking,  by 
the  way.  at  once  to  vindicate  the  character 
of  Sir  Roderick,  and  to  justify  the  predatory 
habits  of  his  clan.  Filz-James  expresses 
freely  his  detestation  of  both  ;  and  the  dis- 
pute growing  warm,  he  says,  that  never  lover 
longed  so  to  see  the  lady  ol'  liis  heart,  as  he 
to  see  before  him  this  murderous  chief  and 
his  myrmidons.  "Have  then  thy  wish!" 
answers  his  guide  ;  and  giving  a  loud  whistle, 
a  whole  legion  of  armed  men  start  up  at 
once  from  their  mountain  ambush  in  the 
heath ;  while  the  chief  turns  proudly,  and 
sa)s,  those  are  the  warriors  of  Clan-Alpine — 
and '-I  am  Roderick  Dhu!"' — The  Lowland 
knight,  though  startled,  repeats  his  defiance  ; 
and  Sir  Roderick,  respecting  his  valour,  by  a 
signal  dismisses  his  men  to  their  conceal- 
ment, and  assures  him  anew  of  his  safely 
till  they  pass  his  frontier.  Arrived  on  this 
equal  ground,  the  chief  now  demands  satis- 
faction ;  and  forces  the  knight,  who  tries  all 
honourable  means  of  avoiding  the  combat 
with  so  generous  an  adversary,  to  stand  upon 
his  defence.  Roderick,  after  a  tough  combat, 
is  laid  wounded  on  the  ground  ;  and  Fitz- 
James,  sounding  his  bugle,  brings  four  squires 
to  his  side ;  and  after  giving  the  wounded 
chief  into  their  charge,  gullops  rapidly  on 
towards  Stirling.  As  he  ascends  the  hill  to  the 
castle,  he  descries  the  giant  form  of  Douglas 
approaching  to  the  same  place;  and  the 
reader  is  then  told,  that  this  generous  lord 
had  taken  the  resolution  of  delivering  him- 
self up  voluntarily,  with  a  view  to  save  IMal- 
colm  GiiEme,  and  if  possible  Sir  Roderick 
also,  from  the  impending  danger.  As  he 
draws  near  to  the  castle,  he  sees  the  King 
and  his  train  descending  to  grace  the  hcjlyday 
sports  of  the  commonalty,  and  resolves  to 
miiiijle  in  them,  and  present  himself  to  the 
eye  of  his  alienated  sovereign  as  victor  in 
tho.se  humbler  contentions.  He  w'ins  the 
prize  accordingly,  in  archery,  wrestling,  and 

f (itching  the  bar;  and  receives  his  reward 
rom  the  hand  of  the  prince ;  who  does  not 
condescimd  to  recognise  his  former  favourite 
by  one  glance  of  nfrection.  Roused  at  Inst 
by  an  insult  from  one  of  the  royal  grooms,  he 
proclaims  himself  alouil  ;  is  ordered  into  cus- 
tody by  the  King,  and  represses  a  tumult  of 
the  populace  which  is  excited  for  his  rescue. 
At  this  instant,  a  messenger  arrives  with 
tidings  of  an  approaching  battle  between  the 
clan  of  Roderick  and  the  King's  lieutenant, 
the  Earl  of  Mar ;  and  is  ordered  back  to  pre- 


liei 


vent  the  combat,  by  announcing  that  both 
Sir  Roderick  and  Lord  Douglas  are  in  the 
hands  of  their  sovereign. 

The   sixth  and  last"  canto,   entitled   "The 
Guard  Room,''  opens  with  a  very  animated 
description  of   the  motley  mercenaries  that 
formed  the  royal  guard,  as  they  appeared  at 
early  dawn,  after  a  night  of  stern  debauch 
While  they  are  quarrelling  and  singing,  the 
sentinels   introduce  an   old   minstrel   and   e 
veiled  maiden,  who  had  been  Ibrwarded  b) 
Mar  to  the  royal  presence  ;  and  Ellen,  disclos- 
ing her  countenance,  awes  the  rufiian  soldiery 
into  respect  and  pity,  by  her  grace  and  liber 
ality.    She  is  then  conducted  to  a  more  seeral 
waiting-place,  till  the  Kiiig  should  be  visible 
and  Allan-bane,  asking  to  be  taken   to 
prison  of  his  captive  lord,  is  led,  by  mistake 
the  sick  chamber  of  Roderick  Dhu,  who 
dying  of  his  wounds  in  a  gloomy  apartment 
the  castle.   The  hJgh-souled  chieftain  inqu 
eagerly  after  the    fortunes  of  his  clan, 
Douglas,  and  Ellen  :  and.  when  he  learns  t 
a  battle  has  been  fought  with  a  doubttul  su 
cess,  entreats  the  minstrel  to  sooth  his  parti 
spirit  with  a  description  of  it,  and  with 
victor   song   of   his  clan.      Allan-bane 
plies:  and  the  battle  is  told  in  very  animal 
and  irregular  verse.      When    the   vehemi 
strain  is  closed,  Roderick  is  found  cold 
Allan  mourns  him  in  a  pathetic  lament.     It 
the   mean   time,    Ellen    hears   the   voice 
Malcolm  Gra;me  lamenting  his  captivity  fi 
an  adjoining  turret  of  the  palace ;  and,  bef< 
she  has  recovered  from  her  agitation,  is  s 
led  by  the  appearance  of  Fitz-James,  wh 
comes  to  inform  her  that  the  court  is  asseiE 
bled,  and  the  King  at  leisure  to  receive  he 
suit.     He  conducts  her  trembling  steps  to  th 
hall  of  presence,  round  A\hich  Ellen  casts 
timitl  and  eager  glance  lor  the  monarch;  B 
all  the  glittering  figures  are  uncovered,  am 
James  Fitz-James  alone  wears  his  cap 
plume  in  the  brilliant  assembly  !    The  trut 
immediately  rushes  on  her   imagination 
The  knight  of  Snowdoun  is  the  King  of  Scoi 
land  !    and.  struck  with  av.e  and  terror,  sb 
falls  speechless  at  his  feet,  clasping  her  handi 
and  pointing  to  the  ring  in  breathless  agitJ 
tion.     The  prince  raises  her  with  eager  kin( 
ness — declares  aloud   that  her  father  is  foj 
given,  and  restored   to  favour — and   bids  h( 
ask  a  boon  lor  .some  other  person.    The  naitij 
of   GiEeme    trembles  on    her    lips;   but   et\ 
cannot  trust  herself  to  utter  it.  and"  begs  tt 
grace  of  Roderick  Dhu.     The  king  answer 
that  he  woulil  give  his  be;?!  earldom  to  restoil 
him  to  life,  and   presses  her  to  name  soir 
other  boon.     She  blushes,  and  hesitates;  ar 
the   king,    in  playful   vengeance,  condemt 
Malrnlm  GicTcme  to  fetters — takes  a  chain  c 
nold  from  his  own  neck,  and  throwing  it  ovij 
that  of  the  yonuiz  chief,  puts  the  clasp  inl  ^Hjii'l 
the  hand  of  Ellen!  '  .         ' 

Such  is  the  brief  and  naked  outline 
the  story,  which  Mr.  Scott  has  embellishfci 
with  such  ex(iuisite  imagery,  and  enlarge 
by  so  many  characteristic  incidents,  as  i] 
have  rendered  it  one  of  the  most  attracti^j 
poems  in    the   lai.^uagi-.      That  the  storj 


mljtoi 


"■■ '  ej 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


375 


ipon  the  whole,  is  well  digested  and  happily 
jarrit'd  on,  is  evident  from  the  hold  it  keeps 
)f  the  reader's  attention  throuirh  every  part 
)f  its  progress.  It  has  the  fault,  indeed,  of 
ill  stories  that  turn  upon  an  anagiwrisis  or 
•ecognition,  that  the  curio.sity  which  is  ex- 
ited during  the  first  reading  is  extinguished 
"or  ever  when  we  arrive  at  the  discovery. 
rhis.  however,  is  an  objection  which  may  be 
nade,  in  some  degree,  to  almost  every  story 
)f  interest;  and  we  must  say  for  Mr.  Scott, 
;hat  his  secret  is  very  discreetly  kept,  and 
•nost  felicitously  revealed.  If  we  were  to 
scrutinize  the  fable  with  malicious  severity. 
ive  might  also  remark,  that  Malcolm  Gramme 
las  too  insigTiificant  a  part  assigned  hun,  con- 
sidering the  favour  in  which  he  is  held  both 
by  Ellen  and  the  author;  and  that,  in  bring- 
ing out  the  shaded  and  imperfect  character 
jf'Roderick  Dhu,  as  a  contrast  to  the  purer 
virtue  of  his  rival,  Mr.  Scott  seems  to  have 
fallen  into  the  common  error,  of  making  him 
more  interesting  than  him  whose  virtues  he 
ivas  intended  to  set  off,  and  converted  the 
i-illain  of  the  piece  in  some  measure  into  its 
tiero.  A  modern  poet,  however,  may  perhaps 
be  partloneJ  for  an  error,  of  which  Milton 
Liimself  is  thought  not  to  have  kept  clear; 
ind  for  which  there  seems  so  natural  a  cause, 
in  the  difierence  between  poetical  and  amia- 
ble characters.  There  are  several  improba- 
bilitie.'^.  too,  in  the  story,  which  might  disturb 
I  scrupulous  reader.  Allowing  that  the  king 
if  Scotland  might  have  twice  disappeared  for 
^several  days,  without  exciting  any  disturb- 
iince  or  alarm  in  his  court,  it  is  certainly  rather 
^extraordinary,  that  neither  the  Lady  Margaret, 
lor  old  Allan-bane,  nor  any  of  the  attendants 
it  the  isle,  should  have  recognised  his  person  ; 
md  almost  as  wonderful,  that  he  should  have 
:'ound  any  difficulty  in  discovering  the  family 
if  his  entertainers.  There  is  something  rather 
..wkward,  too.  in  the  sort  of  blunder  or  mis- 
understanding (for  it  is  no  more)  which  gives 
■ecasion  to  Sir  Roderick's  Gathering  and  all 
;ts  consequences;  nor  can  any  machinery  be 
|;onceived  more  clumsy  for  eiBecting  the  de- 
liverance of  a  distressed  hero,  than  the  intro- 
.roduction  of  a  mad  woman,  who.  without 
aiou'ing  or  caring  about  the  wanderer,  warns 
;.ira,  btf  a  song,  to  take  care  of  the  ambush 
hat  was  set  fur  him.  The  Maniacs  of  poetry 
;.ave  indeed  had  a  prescriptive  right  to  be 
imsicai,  since  the  days  of  Ophelia  down- 
prds;  but  it  is  rather  a  rash  extension  of  this 
Irivilege,  to  make  them  sing  good  sense,  and 
b  make  sensible  people  be  guided  by  them. 
•  Before  taking  leave  of  the  fable,  we  must 
e  permitted  to  express  our  disappointment 
jnd  regret  at  finding  the  general  cast  of  the 
jharactersand  incidents  so  much  akin  to  those 
)!"Mr.  Scott's  former  publications.  When  we 
,eard  that  the  author  of  the  Lay  and  of  Mar- 
lion  was  employed  upon  a  Highland  story, 
e  certainly  expected  to  be  introduced  to  a 
ew  creation  :  and  to  bid  farewell,  for  awhile, 
!>_  the  knights,  squires,  courtiers,  and  chivalry 
j'  the  low  country : — But  here  they  are  all 
oon  us  again,  in  their  old  characters,  and 
Jarly  in  their  old  costume.   The  same  age — 


the  same  sovereign — the  same  manners — the 
same  ranks  of  society — the  same  tone,  both 
for  courtesy  and  for  defiance.  Loch  Katrine, 
indeed,  is  more  picturesque  than  St.  Mary's 
Loch:  and  Rotlerick  Dhu  and  his  clan  have 
some  features  of  novelty : — But  the  Douglas 
and  the  King  are  the  leacling  personages ;  and 
the  whole  interest  of  the  story  turns  upon  per- 
sons and  events  having  precisely  the  same 
character  and  general  aspect  with  "those  which 
gave  their  peculiar  colour  to  the  former  poems. 
It  is  honourable  to  Mr.  Scott's  genius,  no 
doubt,  that  he  has  been  able  to  interest  the 
public  so  deeply  with  this  third  presentment 
of  the  same  chivalrous  scenes:  but  we  cannot 
help  thinking,  that  both  his  glory  and  our  grati- 
fication would  have  been  greater,  if  he  had 
changed  his  hand  more  completely,  and  ac- 
tually given  us  a  true  Celtic  story,  with  all  its 
drapery  and  accompaniments  in  a  correspond- 
uig  style  of  decoration. 

Such  a  subject,  we  are  persuaded,  has  very 
great  capabilities,  and  only  wants  to  be  in- 
troduced to  public  notice  by  such  a  hand  as 
Mr.  Scott's,  to  make  a  still  more  powerful  im- 
pression than  he  has  already  eflected  by  the 
resurrection  of  the  tales  of  romance.  There 
are  few  persons,  we  believe,  of  any  degree  of 
poetical  susceptibility,  who  have  wandered 
among  the  secluded  valleys  of  the  Highlands, 
and  contemplated  the  singular  people  by 
whom  they  are  still  tenanted — with  their  love 
of  music  and  of  song — their  hardy  and  irregu- 
lar life,  so  unlike  the  unvarying  toils  of  the 
Saxon  mechanic — their  devotion  to  their  chiefs 
— their  wild  and  lofty  traditions — their  na- 
tional enthusiasm — the  melancholy  graiideur 
of  the  scenes  they  inhabit — and  the  multi- 
plied superstitions  which  still  linger  among 
them, — without  feeling,  that  there  is  no  exist- 
ing people  so  well  adapted  for  the  purpcses 
of  poetry,  or  so  capable  of  furnishing  the  oc- 
casions of  new  and  striking  inventions.*  The 
great  and  continued  popularity  of  Macpher- 
son's  Ossian  (though  discredited  as  a  memorial 
of  antiquity,  at  least  as  much  as  is  warranted 
by  any  evidence  yet  before  the  public),  proves 
how  very  fascinating  a  fabric  might  be  raised 
upon  that  foundation  by  a  more  powerful  or 
judicious  hand.  That  celebrated  translation, 
though  defaced  with  the  most  childish  and 
offensive  affectations,  still  charms  with  occa- 
sional gleams  of  a  tenderness  beyond  all  other 
tenderness,  and  a  sublimity  of  a  new  charac- 
ter of  dreariness  and  elevation  ;  and,  though 
patched  with  pieces  of  the  most  barefaced  pla- 
giarism, still  maintains  a  tone  of  originality 
which  has  recommended  it  in  every  nation  of 
the  civilised  world.  The  cultivated  literati 
of  Enoland,  indeed,  are  struck  with  the  affec- 
tation and  the  plagiarism,  and  renounce  the 
whole  work  as  tawdry  and  factitious;  but  the 
multitude  at  home,  and  almost  all  classes  of 
readers  abroad,  to  whom  those  defects  are 
less  perceptible,  still  continue  to  admire ;  and 

*  The  Tnrtaji  fever  e\chcd  in  the  South  (and  not 
yet  eradicnted)  by  the  Highland  scenes  and  charac- 
iers  of  Waverlyi  seems  fully  to  justify  this  suir£;es- 
tioii ;  and  makes  it  rather  surprisine;  that  no  odier 
great  writer  has  since  repeated  the  experiment. 


376 


POETRY. 


few  of  our  classical  poets  have  so  sure  and 
regular  a  sale,  both  in  our  own  and  in  other 
laniruaires,  as  the  singular  collection  to  which 
we\ave  just  alluded.  A  great  part  of  its 
charm,  we  think,  consists  in  the  novelty  of 
its  Celtic  characters  and  scenery,  and  their 
singular  aptitude  for  poetic  combinations ;  and 
thel-efore  it  is  that  we  are  persuaded,  that  if 
Mr.  Scott's  powerful  and  creative  genius  were 
to  be  turned  in  good  earnest  to  such  a  subject, 
something  might  be  produced  still  more  im- 
pressive and  original  than  even  this  age  has 
yet  witnessed. 

It  is  now  time,  however,  that  we  should  lay 
before  our  readers  some  of  the  passages  in 
the  present  poem  which  appear  to  us  most 
characteristic  of  the  peculiar  genius  of  the 
author ; — and  the  first  that  strikes  us,  in  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves,  is  the  following  fine  de- 
scription of  Sir  Roderick's  approach  to  the 
isle,  as  described  by  the  aged  minstrel,  at  the 
close  of  his  conversation  with  Ellen.  The 
moving  picture— the  effect  of  the  sounds — 
and  the  wild  character  and  strong  and  pecu- 
liar nationality  of  the  whole  procession,  are 
given  with  inimitable  spirit  and  power  of  ex- 
pression. 

"  But  hark,  what  sounds  are  these  ? 

My  dull  ears  catch  no  falt'ring  breeze, 
No  weeping  birch  nor  aspen's  wake  ; 
Nor  breath  is  dimphng  in  the  lake  ; 
Still  is  the  canna's  hoary  beard, 
Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard — 
And  hark  again !  some  pipe  of  war 
Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar." — 

"  Far  up  the  lengthen'd  lake  were  spied 
Four  dark'ning  specks  upon  the  tide, 
That,  slow,  enlarging  on  the  view, 
Four  mann'd  and  masted  barges  grew. 
And  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 
Steer'd  full  upon  the  lonely  isle  ; 
The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  pass'd, 
And,  to  the  windward  as  they  cast. 
Against  the  sun  they  eave  to  shine 
The  bold  Sir  Rod'rick's  banner'd  Pine  ! 
Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear. 
Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 
Now  nii^ht  you  sec  the  tartans  brave. 
And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave  ; 
Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise, 
As  his  tough  oar  the  rower  plies  ; 
See  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke 
The  wave  ascending  into  smoke  I 
See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow. 
And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  flow 
From  their  lond  chanters  down,  and  sweep, 
The  furrow'd  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain. 
They  plied  the  ancient  Highland  strain. 

"  Ever,  as  on  they  bore,  more  loud 
And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. 
At  first  the  sounds,  by  distance  tame, 
IVleilow'd  along  the  waters  came, 
And  hng'ring  Ions  by  cape  and  bay, 
Wail'd  every  harsher  note  away  ; 
Then,  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear, 
The  clan's  shrill  Galh'ring  thev  could  hear  ; 
Those  ilirilling  sounds,  that  call  ihe  might 
Of  old  Clan-.A.lpine  to  the  fight. 
Tliiik  iieat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 
The  inust'ring  hundreds  shake  the  glen, 
And,  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread. 
The  baiter'd  earth  returns  their  tread  ! 
Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 
Express'd  their  merry  marching  on, 


Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose, 
With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows  ; 
And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward. 
As  broad-sword  upon  target  jarr'd  ; 
And  groaning  pause,  ere  yet  again, 
Condens'd,  the  battle  yell'd  amain; 
The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout. 
Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout. 
And  bursts  of  triumph  to  declare 
Clan-Alpine's  conquest — all  were  there! 
Nor  ended  thus  the  strain  ;  but  slow, 
Sunk  in  a  moan  prolong' d  and  low. 
And  clmng'd  the  conquering  clarion  swel 
For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 

"  The  war-pipes  ccas'd  ;  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  still ; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again, 
While  loud  an  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  Chieiiain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar. 
With  measur'd  sweep  the  burthen  bore, 
In  such  wild  cadence,  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allan  know, 
'  Rod'righ  Vich  .Alpine,  ho  !  iero  !' 
And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  row'd, 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flow'd. 

"  Boat  Song. 

"  Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 

Honour'd  and  bless'd  be  the  ever-green  Pine! 
Lona  may  the  Tree  in  hi3  banner  that  glances, 

Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line  !"- 

"  Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fount 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  wititer  to  fade  ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripp'd  ev'ry  leaf  on 
mountain, 

The  more  shall  Clan- Alpine  exult  in  her  shad«' 
Moor'd  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  10  the  tempest's  shock. 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow  ; 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  agen, 
'  Rod'righ  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  1' 
"  Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highland 
Stretch  to  vour  oars,  for  the  ever-green  Pine! 
0  !  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  islands. 
Were  wreaih'd  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twini 
0  that  some  seedling  gem. 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honour'd  and  bless'd  in  their  shadow  might  grov 
Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Rinc  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
'  Rod'rich  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  no  !  ieroe  !'  " 

pp.  65— 71.  ■ 

The  reader  may  take  next  the  followi 
general  sketch  of  Loch  Katrine  : — 

"One  bumish'd  sheet  of  living  gold, 
Loch  Katrine  lay  beneath  him  roll'd  ; 
In  all  her  length  far  winding  lav, 
With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 
And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright. 
Floated  amid  the  livelier  light ; 
And  mountains,  that  like  giants  siand. 
To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 
High  on  the  south,  huge  Benvenue 
Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 
Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurl  d 
The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world  ! 
A  wild'rina  forest  feather'd  o'er 
His  ruin'd  sides  and  sumtnii  boar  ; 
While  on  the  north,  throush  middle  nir, 
Ben-an  heav'd  high  his  forehead  bare.' '-pp.  18, 

The  next  is  a  more  minute  view  of  the  i 
scenery  in  a  summer  dawn — closed  witha  1 
picture  of  its  dark  lord. 


SCOTTS  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


377 


'  The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 
To  purple  chang'd  Loch  Katrine  blue  ; 
IMildiy  and  soft  the  wesiern  breeze 
Just  kiss'd  the  lake,  just  stirr'd  the  trees  ; 
And  the  piras'd  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 
Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy  ! 
The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest ; 
In  brijjht  uncertainty  they  lie, 
Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye  I 
The  water  lily  to  the  lia;ht 
Her  chalice  rear'd  of  silver  bright ; 
The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 
Begemm'd  with  dew-drops,  led  lier  fawn  , 
The  grey  mist  left  the  mountain  side. 
The  torrent  show'd  its  glistening  pride  ; 
Invisible  in  flecked  sky, 
The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry  ; 
The  hlack-bird  and  the  speckled  thrush 
Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush  ; 
In  answer  coo'd  the  cushat  dove 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 
No  thought  of  peace,  no  thoueht  of  rest, 
Assuag'd  the  storm  in  Rod'rick's  breast. 
With  sheathed  broad-sword  in  his  hand, 
Abrupt  he  pac'd  the  islet  strand  : 
The  shrinking  band  stood  oft  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast  ; — 
Such  glance  the  mountain  eagle  threw. 
As,  from  the  cliffs  of  Ben-venue, 
She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind, 
And,  high  in  middle  heaven  reclin'd, 
With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake, 
Silenc'd  the  warblers  of  the  brake.'" — pp.  98-100. 

!  The  following  description  of  the  starting  of 
the  fiery  cross,"  bears  more  marks  of  labour 
'an  most  of  ]\Ir.  Scott's  poetry,  and  borders, 
■rhaps,  upon  straining  and  exaggeration; 
!t  it  shows  great  power. 

Then  Rod'rick,  with  impatient  look. 
From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took  : 
'  Speed,  Malise,  speed !'  he  said,  and  gave 
The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 
'The  nmster-place  be  Lanric  mead— 
•Iiisiant  the  time— speed,  Mahse,  speed  !' 
Like  heath-bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 
The  barge  across  Loch  Katrine  flew  ; 
High  s:ood  the  henchman  on  the  prow; 
^^0  rapidly  the  bargemen  row, 
The  bubbles,  where  they  launch'd  the  boat, 
Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 
Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still. 
When  it  had  near'd  the  mainland  hill ! 
And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 
?till  was  the  prow  three  fathom  wide, 
When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land, 
r^he  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  the  dun  deer's  hide 

)n  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. 

j^peed,  Malise,  speed  !  such  cau.se  of  haste 

Thine  active  sinews  never  brac'd. 

^end  'gainst  the  steepy  hill  thy  breast, 

5urst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest  ; 

'^  ith  short  and  springing  footstep  pass 

he  trembling  bog  and  false  morass  ; 
Across  the  brook  like  roe-buck  bound, 
^nd  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound  ; 

he  crag  is  high,  the  scaur  is  deep, 
'  et  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap  ; 

■  arch'd  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow, 
et  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now  ; 

lerald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear, 

tretfth  onward  in  thy  fleet  career! 

he  wounded  hind  thou  track'st  not  now, 

iirsu  st  not  maid  through  greenwood  bough, 

■  or  phest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace 

^  ith  rivals  in  the  mountain  race  ; 

ut  dancrer,  death,  and  warrior  deed, 

re  m  thy  course— Speed,  Malise,  speed !'  " 

pp.  112—114. 


The  following  reflections  on  an  ancient  field 
of  battle  afford  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
instances  of  false  taste  in  all  Mr.  Scott's  wri- 
tings. Yet  the  brevity  and  variety  of  the 
images  serve  well  to  show,  as  we  have  for- 
merly hinted,  that  even  in  his  errors  there  are 
traces  of  a  powerful  genius. 

"  a  dreary  glen. 

Where  scatter'd  lay  the  bones  of  men, 

111  some  forgotten  battle  slain. 

And  bleach'd  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 

It^  tnight  have  tam'd  a  warrior's  heart. 

To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art ! 

The  knot-grass  fetter'd  there  the  hand. 

Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band ; 

Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone. 

That  buckler'd  heart  to  fear  unknown, 

A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest. 

The  field-fare  fram'd  her  lowly  nest ! 

There  the  slow  blind-worm  left  his  slime 

On  the  fleet  limbs  that  niock'd  at  time  ; 

And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull. 

Still  wreath'd  witli  chaplet  flush'd  and  full. 

For  heath-bell,  with  her  purple  bloom, 

Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume."-pp.  102,  103 

But  one  of  the  most  striking  passages  ir 
the  poem,  certainly,  is  that  in  which  Sir 
Roderick  is  represented  as  calling  up  his  men 
suddenly  from  their  ambush,  when  Fitz-James 
expressed  his  impatience  to  meet,  face  to 
face,  that  murderous  chieftain  and  his  clan. 

"  '  Have,  then,  thy  wish  !'— He  whistled  shrill: 

And  he  was  answer'd  from  the  hill ! 

Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew. 

From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 

Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 

Bonnets  and  spears  and  bended  bows  I 

On  right,  on  left,  above,  below. 

Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe  ; 

From  shingles  grey  their  lances  start. 

The  bracken-bush  sends  forth  the  dart. 

The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 

Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand. 

And  ev'ry  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 

To  plaided  warrior  arm' J  for  strife. 

That  whistle  garrison'd  the  glen 

At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men  ! 

As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 

A  subterranean  host  had  given. 

Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will. 

All  silent  there  they  stood  and  still. 

Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threat'ning  mass 

Lay  tott'rifig  o'er  the  hollow  pass. 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge. 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung. 

Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 

The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  living  side  ; 

Then  fix'd  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full  on  Fitz-James — "  How  say'st  thou  now? 

These  are  Clan-Alpine's  warriors  true  ; 
.  And,  Saxon,— 7  am  Roderick  Dhu!"— 

'  Fitz-James  was  brave  :— Though  to  his  heart 
The  life-blood  thrill'd  with  sudden  start. 
He  niann'd  himself  with  dauntless  air, 
Return'd  the  Chief  his  haughty  stare. 
His  back  against  a  ro<!k  he  bore. 
And  firinly  plac'd  his  foot  before: — 
'  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I.' — 
Sir  Roderick  mark'd — and  in  his  eyes 
Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise. 
And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 
In  focman  worthy  of  their  steel. 
Short  space  he  stood — then  wav'd  his  hand: 
Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band  I 
Each  warrior  vanish'd  where  he  stood. 


4"S 


POETRY. 


In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood  ; 
Sunk  brand  and  spear  and  bended  bow, 
In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low  ; 
It  seeni'd  as  il  iheir  mother  Earth 
Had  swaliow'd  up  her  warlike  birth  I 
The  wind's  last  breath  had  toss'd  in  air, 
Pennon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair — 
The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill-side. 
Where  lieaih  and  fern  were  waving  wide  ; 
The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back. 
From  spear  rnd  glaive,  from  tange  and  jack — 
'I'he  iK.\i,  all  uiircflected,  shone 
On  bracken  green,  and  cold  grey  stone." 

pp.  202—205. 

The  following  picture  is  of  a  very  difTerent 
character;  but  touched  also  with  the  hand  of 
a  true  poet : — 

"  Yet  ere  his  onward  way  he  took. 
The  S^iranger  cast  a  ling' ring  look, 
Where  easily  his  eye  might  reach 
The  Hiirper  on  the  islet  beach, 
Reclin'd  against  a  blighted  tree. 
As  wasted,  grey,  and  worn  as  he. 
To  minstrel  meditation  given. 
His  rev' rend  brow  was  rais'd  to  heaven, 
As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 
A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 
His  hand,  reclin'd  upon  the  wire, 
Seein'd  watching  the  awak'ning  tire  ; 
So  still  he  sale,  as  those  who  wait 
Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate  ; 
So  snll,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 
To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair ; 
So  still,  as  life  itself  were  fled. 
In  the  last  sound  his  harp  had  .=ped. 
Ipon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild. 
Beside  him  Ellen  sate  and  smil'd,"  &c. 

pp.  50,  51. 

Though  these  extracts  have  already  ex- 
tended this  article  beyond  all  reasonable 
bounds,  we  cannot  omit  Ellen's  introduction 
to  the  court,  and  the  transformation  of  Fitz- 
James  into  the  Kins?  of  Scotland.  The  un- 
known prince,  it  will  be  recollected,  himself 
conducts  her  into  the  royal  presence : — 

"  With  beating  heart,  and  bosom  wrung. 
As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 
Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear. 
And  eenily  whisper'd  hope  and  cheer; 
Her  (ali'ring  steps  half  led.  half  staid, 
Through  gallery  fair  and  hich  arcade. 
Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 
A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 

"  Within  'twas  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright; 
It  glow'd  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 
And,  from  iheir  tissue  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Siill  by  Fiiz-Jaines  her  fooling  staid  ; 
A  few  faint  steps  .'-he  forward  made. 
'J'hen  slow  her  drooping  head  she  rais'd, 
And  ftiirlul  romid  the  presence  gaz'd  ; 
For  him  she  sought,  who  own'd  this  state. 
The  dreaded  prince,  whose  will  was  fate  ! 
She  gaz'd  on  many  a  princely  port, 
Might  Weil  have  rul'd  a  royal  court ; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gaz'd — 
Then  lurn'd  bewilder'd  and  amaz'd, 
For  all  stood  bare  ;  and.  in  the  room, 
Fiiz- James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume  I 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent. 
On  him  each  counier's  eye  was  bent  ; 
Midst  furs  and  silks  and  jewels  sheen. 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green. 
The  centre  of  the  gliti'ring  rnig  I — 
And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King ! 


"  As  wreath  of  snow  on  mountain  breast, 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest, 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay, 
A  lid  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay  ; 
No  word  her  choking  voice  commands — 
She  shoWd  the  ring — she  clasp'd  her  hands. 
O  !  not  a  moment  could  he  brook, 
The  gen'rous  prince,  ihat  suppliant  look  ! 
Gently  he  rais'd  hei^ — and  the  while 
Check'd  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile; 
Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kiss'd, 
And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismiss'd  : — 
'  Yes,  Fair  !  the  wandering  poor  Fitz- James 
The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 
To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  l.ring  ; 
He  will  redeem  his  signet  ring,'  "  &,c. 

pp.  281— 2£ 

We  cannot  resist  adding  the  graceful  w -J 
mg  up  of  the  whole  story : — 

"  '  Malcolm,  come  forih  I' — And,  and  at  the  wd 
Down  kneel'd  ihe  Graeme  to  Scotland's  Lor^ 
'  For  thi-e.  rash  vouth.  no  suppliant  sues. 
From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nuriur'd  underneath  our  smile. 
Has  paid  our  care  by  treach'rous  wile, 
And  sought,  amid  thy  faiihful  clan,  ; 

A  refuge  for  an  outlaw'd  man,  ' 

Dishonouring  thus  thy  loyal  name. —  '. 

Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Grasme  !'  j; 

His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstruns,  , 

The  links  o'l  r  iNIabolm's  neck  he  flung, 
Then  gently  drew  the  gliit'ring  band  ; 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand  I" — p.  2i 

There  are  no  separate  introductions  toV' 
cantos  of  this  poem;  but  each  of  them.e 
gins  with  one  or  two  stanzas  in  the  mea  ii 
of  Spenser,  usually  containiiiij  some  re  r- 
tions  connected  with  the  subject  about  t> 
entered  on  :  and  written,  for  the  most  ~ 
with  great  tenderness  and  beautv.  Tl 
lowing,  we  think  is  among  the  most  strikir 

"  Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course  I  The  race  ( 

Who  danc'd  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 
And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends  sia 

Of  their  strange  ventures  happ'cl  by  land  oc^ 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  be! 

How  few,  all  weak  and  wiiher'd  of  their 
Wait,  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity, 

Like  stranded  wrecks — the  tide  returning  I 
To  sweep  them  from   our  sight !     Time  roll 
ceaseless  course  I 

"  Yet  live  there  still  who  can  remember  we! 
How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle 
«fcc,— pp.  97,  9S. 

There  is  an  invocation  to  the  Harp  ^ 
North,  prefixed  to  the  poem  :  and  a  far 
subjoined  to  it  in  the  same  measure,  \VT% 
and  versified,  it  appears  to  us,  with  more 
Mr.  Scott's  usual  care.     We  give  two  i  ' 
three  stanzas  that  compose  the  last : — 

"Harp  of  the  North,  farewell !     The  hills  ^ 
dark, 

On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descendir 
In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights  \.i  ;  s;  ^ 

The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert  \.        .■ 
Resume  thy  wizard  elm  !  the  fountain  Imi  ,>:: 

And  the  wild  breeze,  ihv  wilder  minsirolsy 
Thy  numbers  sweet  wiihNature's  vespers  blenjg' 

With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea. 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  humof  i^..-.   - 
ing  bee.  j  nj'««r 

"  Hark  !  as  my  ling' ring  footsteps  slow  retire'  ^JTrJ* 

Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  wak'd  ihy  string' 
'Tis  now  a  Seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire  ;    ■ 

'Tis  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frolic  wing.   ■ 


SCOTT'S  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


379 


Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 

Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell ! 
And  now  ilie  mountain  breezes  scarcely  brine 

A  wand'ring  witch-note  of  the  disiant  spell — 
And  now,  'tis  silent  all ! — Enchantress,  fare  thee 
well  !"— pp.  289,  290. 
These  passages,  though  taken  with  very 
little  selection,  are  favourable  specimens,  we 
think,  on  the  whole,  of  the  execution  of- the 
work  before  us.  We  had  marked  several  of 
an  opposite  character;  but,  fortunately  for 
3Ir.  Scott,  we  have  already  extracted  so  much, 
that  we  shall  scarcely  have  room  to  take  any 
notice  of  them;  and  must  condense  all  our 
vituperation  into  a  very  insignificant  compass. 
One  or  two  things,  however,  we  think  it  our 
duty  to  point  out.  Though  great  pains  have 
eviiliMitly  been  taken  with  Brian  the  Hermit, 
we  think  his  whole  character  a  failure,  and 
mere  deformity — hurting  the  interest  of  the 
story  by  its  improbability,  and  rather  heavy 
md  disagreeable,  than  sublime  or  terrible  in 
its  details.  The  quarrel  between  INIalcolm 
md  Roderick,  in  the  f«econd  canto,  is  also 
angraceful  and  offensive.  There  is  something 
foppish,  and  out  of  character,  in  Malcolm's 
rising  to  lead  out  Ellen  from  her  own  parlour; 
md  the  sort  of  Mrestling  match  that  takes 
jlace  between  the  rival  chieftains  on  the 
occasion  is  humiliating  and  indecorous.  The  j 
zreatest  blemish  in  the  poem,  however,  is  the  \ 
ibaldry  and  dull  vulgarity  which  is  put  into 
(he  mouths  of  the  soldiery  in  the  gnard-room. 
[Mr.  Scott  has  condescended  to  write  a  song 
for  them,  which  will  be  read  with  pain,  we 
[ire  persuaded,  even  by  his  warmest  admirers: 
iind  his  whole  genius,  and  even  his  power 
pf  versification,  seems  'to  desert  him  when  he 
jittempts  to  repeat  their  conversation.  Here 
IS  some  of  the  stuff  which  has  dropped,  in 
•his  inau.^picious  attempt,  from  the  pen  of  one 
|)f  the  first  poets  of  his  age  or  country  : — 

I  " '  Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp  ; 
Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp, 
Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land, 
The  leader  of  a  juggler  band.' — 

j"  '  No,  comrade  I — no  such  fortune  mine. 

After  the  fight,  these  sought  our  line.  • 

.     That  aged  harper  and  the  srirl  ; 
'    And.  having  audience  of  the  Earl, 
:     Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  ihem  sieed. 
I     And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 
I     Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm, 
j    For  none  shall  do  ihem  shame  or  harm.' — 

'  Hear  ye  his  boast  !'  oried  John  of  Brent, 

Ever  to  strife  and  jangling  bent  : 
)    '  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 
I    And  yet  the  jealous  i.igg:\rd  grudge 

'I'o  pay  the  forester  his  fee  ! 
!     I'll  have  mv  share,  liowe'er  it  be.'  " 

pp.  250.  251. 
,  His  Highland  freebooters,  indeed,  do  not 
tse  a  much  nobler  style.     For  example  : — 

'"'It  is.  because  last  evening-tide 
■    Brian  an  augury  hath  tried, 

Of  that  dread  kind  whi(h  must  not  be 

Unless  in  dread  extremity. 

The  Taghairm  call'd  ;   by  which,  afar, 

Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war. 
.    Duncragean's  milk-white  bull  they  slew.'— 

'  Ah  !  well  the  arallant  brute  I  knew  ; 

The  choicest  of  the  prey  we  had. 

When  swept  our  merry-men  Gallangad. 

Sore  did  he  j^umber  our  retreat ; 


And  kept  our  stoutest  kernes  in  awe. 
Even  atthepassof  Beal'maha.'"— pp.  146, 147. 
Scarcely  more  tolerable  are  such  expres- 
sions as — 

"For  life  is  Hugh  of  Larbert  lame  ;"— 
Or   that   unhappy   couplet,  where  the   King 
himself  is  in  such  distress  for  a  rhyme,  as  to 
be  obliged  to  apply  to  one  of  the  most  obscure 
sahits  on  the  calendar. 

"  'Tis  James  of  Douglas,  ht/  Snint  Serle  ; 
'i'he  uncle  of  the  ba'nish'd  Earl."  ' 

We  would  object,  too,  to  such  an  accumu- 
lation of  strange  words  as  occurs  in  these 
three  lines : — 

"  '  Fleet  foot  on  the  roirci; 
Sage  counsel  in  Cumber; 
Red  hand  in  the  forai/,'  "  &,c. 

Nor  can  we  relish  such  babyish  verses  as 
"  '  He  will  return  : — dear  lady,  trust : — 
With  joy,  return.     He  will— he  must.'  " 

"  '  Nay,  lovely  Ellen  !  Dearest  !  nay.'  " 
These,  however,  and  several  others  that 
might  be  mentioned,  are  blemishes  which 
may  well  be  excused  in  a  poem  of  more  than 
five  thousand  lines,  produced  so  soon  after 
another  still  longer:  and  though  they  are 
blemishes  which  it  is  proper  to  notice,  be- 
cause they  are  evidently  of  a  kind  that 'may 
be  corrected,  it  would  be  absurd,  as  well  as 
unfair,  to  give  them  any  considerable  weight 
in  our  general  estimate'of  the  work,  or  of  the 
powers  of  the  author.  Of  these,  we  have 
already  spoken  at  sulTicient  length;  and  must 
now  take  an  abrupt  leave  of  Mr.  Scott,  by 
expressing  our  hope,  and  tolerably  confident 
expectation,  of  soon  meeting  withhim  again. 
That  he  may  injure  his  popularity  by  the 
mere  profusion  of  his  publications,  is  no  doubt 
possible  ;  though  many  of  the  most  celebrated 
poets  have  been  among  the  most  voluminous  : 
but,  that  the  public  must  gain  by  this  libe- 
rality, does  not  seem  to  admit  of  any  ques- 
tion. If  our  poetical  treasures  were  increased 
by  the  publication  of  Marmion  and  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake,  notwithstanding  the  existence 
of  great  faults  in  both  those  works,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  we  should  be  still  richer  if  we  pos- 
sessed fifty  poems  of  the  same  merit ;  and, 
therefore,  it  is  for  our  interest,  whatever  it 
may  be  as  to  his.  that  their  author's  muse 
should  continue  as  prolific  as  she  has  hitherto 
been.  If  Mr.  Scott  will  only  vary  his  sub- 
jects a  little  more,  indeed,  v.e  think  we  might 
engage  to  insure  his  own  reputation  against 
any  material  injury  from  their  rapid  parturi- 
tion ;  and,  as  we  entertain  very  great  doubts 
whether  rnuch  greater  pains  would  enable 
him  to  write  much  better  poetry,  we  would 
rather  have  two  beautiful  poerns,  with  the 
present  quantum  of  faults — than  one,  with 
ordy  one-tenth  part  le.ss  alloy.  He  will  always 
be  a  poet,  we  fear,  to  whom  the  fastidious 
will  make  great  objections;  but  he  may 
easily  find,  in  his  popularity,  a  compensation 
for  their  scruples.  He  hns'the  jury  hollow  in 
his  favour  ;  and  though  ihe  court  may  think 
that  its  directions  have  not  been  sufficiently 
attended  to,  it  will  not  quarrel  with  the  verdict. 


380 


POETRY. 


(2lpi-U,  180S.) 

Poems.    By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe.     8vo.  pp.  260.     London,  1807.* 


We  receive  the  proofs  of  Mr.  Crabbe's 
poetical  existence,  which  are  contained  in 
this  volume,  with  the  same  sort  of  feeling 
that  would  be  excited  by  tidings  of  an  ancient 
friend,  whom  we  no  longer  expected  to  hear 
of  in  this  world.  We  rejoice  in  his  resurrec- 
tion, both  for  his  sake  and  for  our  own  :  But 
we  feel  also  a  certain  movement  of  self-con- 
demnation, for  having  been  remiss  in  our  in- 
quiries after  him,  and  somewhat  too  negligent 
of  the  honours  which  ought,  at  any  rate,  to 
have  been  paid  to  his  memory. 

It  is  now,  we  are  afraid,  upwards  of  twenty 
years  since  we  were  first  struck  with  the  vig- 
our, originality,  and  truth  of  description  of 


usurp  the  attention  which  he  was  sure  of 
commanding,  and  allowed  himself  to  be" 
nearly  forgotten  by  a  public,  which  reckonsl 
upon  being  reminded  of  all  the  claims  which] 
the  living  have  on  its  favour.  His  foimer 
publications,  though  of  distinguished  ment,j  j 
were  perhaps  too  small  in  volume  to  remain' 
long  the  objects  of  general  attention,  and 
seem,  by  some  accident,  to  have  been  jostled 
aside  in  the  crowd  of  more  clamorous  com- 
petitors. 

Yet,  though  the  name  of  Crabbe  has  not 
hitherto  been  very  common  in  the  mouths  of 
our  poetical  critics,  we  believe  there  are  few- 
real  lovers  of  poetry  to  whom  some  of  his 
"The  Village;"  and  since,  we  regrettetl  that  ',  sentiments  and  descriptions  are  not  secretly 
an  author,  who  could  write  so  well,  should  i  familiar.  There  is  a  truth  and  a  force  in  many 
have  written  so  little.  From  that  time  to  the  of  his  delineations  of  rustic  life,  which  is  cal- 
present,  we  have  heard  little  of  Mr.  Crabbe;  culated  to  sink  deep  into  the  memory;  and, 
and  fear  that  he  has  been  in  a  great  measure  being  conlirmed  by  daily  observation,  they 
lost  sight  of  by  the  public,  as  well  as  by  us.  are  recalled  upon  innumerable  occasions — 
With  a  singular,  and  scarcely  pardonable  in-  when  the  ideal  pictures  of  more  fanciful  au- 
difference  to  fame,  he  has  remained,  during  thors  have  lost  all  their  interest.  For  our- 
this  long  interval,  in  patient  or  ' 
pose ;  and,  without  making  a  smi 
ment  to  maintain  or  advance  the  reputation 


imeu,  uuruig    mors  nave  losi  an  ineir  nueresi.     ror  our- 
indolent  re-    selves  at  least,  we  profess  to  be  indebted  to!  J,™"!,' 
ingle   move-    Mr.  Crabbe  for  many  of  these  strong  impres-j  M" ''! 
le  reputation  ,  sions:  and  have  known  more  than  one  of  our     ®"-''' 


he   had   acquired,   has   permitted   others   to 


*  I  have  given  a  larger  .space  to  Crabbe  in  this 
repubhcation  than  to  any  of  his  contemporary  poets  ; 
not  merely  because  I  think  more  highly  ot  him 
than  of  most  of  ihem,  but  also  because  I  fancy  that 
he  has  had  less  justice  done  him.  The  nature  of 
his  subjects  was  not  such  as  to  attract  either  imita- 
tors or  admirers,  from  among  the  ambitious  or  fan- 
ciful lovers  of  poetry  ;  or,  consequently,  to  set  him 
at  the  head  of  a  School,  or  let  him  surround  him- 
self with   the  zealots  of  a  Sect :   And  it  must  also 


unpoetical  acquaintances,  who  declared  ihey 
could  never  pass  by  a  parish  workhouse  with- 
out thinking  of  the  description  of  it  ihey  had 
read  at  .school  in  the  Poetical  Extracts.  The 
volume  before  us  will  renew,  we  trust,  and 
extend  many  such  ii;npressions.  It  contains 
all  the  former  productions  of  the  author,  with 
about  double  their  bulk  of  new  matter ;  most 
of  it  in  the  same  taste  and  manner  of  com- 
position with  the  former ;  and  some  of  a  kind, 
of  which  we  have  had  no  previous  examplt 
"lor.  The  whole,  however,  is  of  nc 
merit,  and  will  be  found,  we  have 


be  admitted,  that  his  claims  to  distinction  depend  ,  . 
fully  as  much  on  his  great  powers  of  observation,  i'l  yiis  autli 
his  skill  in  touching  the  deeper  sympaihies  of  our  ordinary  m 
nature,  and  his  power  of  inculcating,  by  iheir  means,  '  jittle  doubt,  a  sufficient  warrant  for  Mr.  Crabbf 
the  most  impressive  lessons  of  humarnty,  ason  any  to  take  his  place  as  one  of  the  most  original. 
lin:a£s"'te'?rr^ai,^h"hot%^^^^  -^^  P^'hetic  poets  of  the   present 

trinsic  worih  and  ultimate  success  of  those  more    centuij.  .   ,       .     . 

substantial  attributes ;  and  have,  accnrdinuly,  the  His  characteristic,  certamly,  is  force,  ano 
etrongfst  impression  that  the  citations  I  have  here  I  truth  of  description,  joined  for  the  most  pari 
given  from  Crabbe  will  strike  more,  and  sink  deeper  1  to  great  selection  and  condensation  of  expres- 
sion ; — that  kind  of  strength  and  originalit\ 


into  the  minds  of  readers  to  whom  they  are  new 

(or  by  whom  they  may  have  been  partially  forgot-       ,•  i  .      -.i,  ■     /->  *  i  .v.„.  -«,., 

ten),  than  any  I  have  been  able  to  present  from  1  ^^hich  we  meet  with  in  Cowper,  and  that  son 
other  writers.     It  probably  is  idle  enough  (as  wef 


ae  a  liiile  presumptuous)  to  suppose  that  a  publica- 
tion like  litis  will  afford  many  opportunities  of  test- 
ing the  truth  of  this  prediction.  But,  as  the  ex- 
periment is  to  be  made,  there  can  be  no  harm  in 
mentioning  this  as  one  of  its  objects. 

It  is  but  candid,  however,  after  all.  to  add,  that 
my  concern    for    iMr.  Crabbe's  reputation   would 


jII    of  diction  and  versification  which  we  atlmirt 


■in  "The  Deserted  Village"  of  Goklsniith,  oi 
"The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"  of  Johnson 
If  he  can  be  said  to  have  imitated  the  manne 
of  any  author,  it  is  Goldsmith,  indeed,  whc 
has  been  the  object  of  his  imitation  ;  and  ye 
his  general  train  of  thinking,  and  his  view: 


scarcely  have  led  me  to  devote  near  one  hundred  :  of   society,   are   so   extremely  opposite, 


pages  to  the  estimate  of  his  poetical  meri's,  had  I 
not  eel  some  value  on  the  speculations  as  to  the 
elements  of  poetical  excellence  in  general,  and  its 
moral  bearings  and  afliniiies — for  the  introduction 
of  which  this  estimate  seemed  to  present  an  occa- 
sion, or  apology. 


when  "The  Village"  was  first  published,  i 
was  commonly  considered  as  an  antidote  o 
an  answer  to  the  more  captivating  representa 
tioiis  of  "  The  Deserted  Village."  Comparei 
with  this  celebrated  author,  he  will  be  found' 


k 


CRABBE'S  POEMS. 


381 


«re  think,  to  have  more  vigour  and  less  deli- 
cacy; and  while  he  must  be  admitted  to  be 
nferior  in  the  fine  finish  and  unifbim  beauty 
)f  his  composition,  we  cannot  help  consitlering 
lim  as  superior,  both  in  the  variety  and  the 
ruth  of  his  pictures.  Instead  of  that  uniform 
iut  of  pensive  tenderness  which  overspreads 
he  whole  poetry  of  Goldsmith,  we  find  in  Mr. 
Iliabbe  many  gleams  of  gaiety  and  humour, 
rhough  his  "habitual  views  of  life  are  more 
jloomy  than  those  of  his  rival,  his  poetical 
'emperament  seems  far  more  cheerful  ;  and 
,vhen  the  occasions  of  sorrow  and  rebuke  are 
rone  by,  he  can  collect  himself  for  sarcastic 
pleasantry,  or  unbend  in  innocent  playfulness, 
ilis  diction,  though  generally  pure  and  pow- 
erful, is  sometimes  harsh,  and  sometimes 
juaint ;  ami  he  has  occasionally  admitted  a 
•Duplet  or  two  in  a  state  so  unfinished,  as  to 
rive  a  character  of  inelegance  to  the  passages 
n  which  they  occur.  With  a  taste  less  dis- 
Mplined  and  less  fastidious  than  that  of  Gold- 
smith, he  has.  in  our  apprehension,  a  keener 
eye  for  observation,  and  a  readier  hand  for 
he  delineation  of  what  he  has  observed, 
riiere  is  less  poetical  keeping  in  his  whole 
jerformance  ;  but  the  groups  of  which  it  con- 
sists are  conceived,  we  think,  with  equal 
jenius,  and  drawn  with  greater  spirit  as  well 
IS  far  greater  fidelity. 

It  is  not  quite  fair,  perhaps,  thus  to  draw  a 
letailed  parallel  between  a  living  poet,  and 
me  whose  reputation  has  been  sealed  by 
leath,  and  by  the  immutable  sentence  of  a 
;urviving  generation.  Yet  there  are  so  few 
)f  his  contemporaries  to  whom  Mr.  Crabbe 
;)ears  any  resemblance,  that  we  can  scarcely 
•xplain  our  opinion  of  his  merit,  without  com- 
laring  him  to  some  of  his  predecessors. 
There  is  one  set  of  writers,  indeed,  from 
vhose  works  those  of  Mr.  Crabbe  might  re- 
eive  all  that  elucidation  which  results  from 
ontrast,  and  from  an  entire  opposition  in  all 
loints  of  taste  and  opinion.  We  allude  now 
9  the  Wordsworths,  and  the  Southeys,  and 
.'oleridges,  and  all  that  ambitious  fraternity, 
hat,  with  good  intentions  and  extraordinary 
ilents,  are  labouring  to  bring  back  our  poetry 
j  the  fantastical  oddity  and  puling  childish- 
ess  of  Withers,  Quarles,  or  Marvel.  These 
entlemen  write  a  great  deal  about  rustic  life, 
s  M'ell  as  Mr.  Crabbe  ;  and  they  even  agree 
dthhim  in  dwelling  much  on  its  discomforts; 
ut  nothing  can  be  more  opposite  than  the 
lews  they  take  of  the  subject,  or  the  manner 
!i  which  they  execute  their  representations  of 
lem. 

Mr.  Crabbe  exhibits  the  common   people 

'  England  pretty  much  as  they  are,  and  as 

ley  must  appear  to  every  one  who  will  take 

le  trouble  of  examining  into  their  condition  ; 

,  the  same  time  that  he  renders  his  sketches 

1  a  very  high  degree  interesting  and  beautiful 

-by  selecting  what  is  most  fit  for  descrip- 

Pn — by  grouping  them  into   such  forms  as 

,  |Ust  catch  the  atteiition  or  awake  the  mem- 

ly — and  by  .scattering  over  the  whole  such 

I  lits  of  moral  sensibility,  of  sarcasm.  a;;d  of 

I  'Pp  reflection,  as  every  one  must  feel  to  be 

,   lural;  and  own  to  be  powerful.  The  gentle- 


men of  the  new  school,  on  the  other  hand, 
scarcely  ever  condescend  to  take  their  sub 
jects  from  any  description  of  persons  at  a. 
known  to  the  common  inhabitants  of  the 
world ;  but  invent  for  themselves  certain 
whimsical  and  unheard-of  beings,  to  whom 
they  impute  some  fantastical  combination  of 
feelings,  and  then  labour  to  excite  our  sym- 
pathy lor  them,  either  by  placing  them  in  in- 
credible situations,  or  by  some  strained  and 
exaggerated  moralisation  of  a  vague  and  tra- 
gical description.  Mr.  Crabbe,  in  short,  shows 
us  something  which  we  have  all  seen,  or  may 
see,  in  real  life  :  and  draws  from  it  such  feel- 
ings and  such  reflections  as  every  human  be- 
ing must  acknowledge  that  it  is  calculated  to 
excite.  He  delights  us  by  the  truth,  and  vivid 
and  picturesque  beauty  of  his  representations, 
and  by  the  force  and  pathos  of  the  sensations 
with  which  we  feel  that  they  are  connected. 
Mr.  Woidsworth  and  his  associates,  on  the 
other  hand,  introduce  us  to  beings  whose  ex- 
istence was  not  previously  suspected  by  the 
acutest  observers  of  nature ;  and  excite  an 
interest  for  them — where  they  do  excite  any, 
interest — more  by  an  eloquent  and  refined 
analysis  of  their  own  capricious  feelings,  ihaii 
by  any  obvious  or  intelligible  ground  of  sym- 
pathy in  their  situation. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  or  the  more  recent  publications  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  will  scarcely  deny  the  jus- 
tice of  this  representation ;  but  in  order  to 
vindicate  it  to  such  as  do  not  enjoy  that  ad- 
vantage, we  must  beg  leave  to  make  a  few 
hasty  references  to  the  former,  and  by  far  the 
least  exceptionable  of  those  productions. 

A  village  schoolmaster,  for  instance,  is  a 
pretty  common  poetical  character.  Goldsmhh 
has  drawn  him  inimitably;  so  has  Sheiistone, 
with  the  slight  change  of  sex;  and  Mr.  Crabbe, 
in  two  passages,  has  followed  their  footsteps. 
Now,  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  a  village  school- 
master also — a  personage  who  makes  no  small 
figure  in  three  or  four  of  his  poems.  But  by 
what  traits  is  this  worthy  okl  gentleman  de- 
lineated by  the  new  poet  1  No  pedantry — no 
innocent  vanity  of  learning — no  mixture  of 
indulgence  with  the  pride  of  power,  and  of 
poverty  with  the  consciousness  of  rare  ac 
quircments.  Every  feature  which  belongs  to 
the  situation,  or  marks  the  character  in  com- 
mon apprehension,  is  scornfully  discarded  by 
Mr.  Wordsworth:  who  represents  his  grey- 
haired  rustic  pedagogue  as  a  sort  of  half  crazy, 
sentimental  person,  overrun  with  fine  feel- 
ings, constitutional  merriment,  and  a  mosi 
humorous  melancholy.  Here  are  the  two 
stanzas  in  which  this  consistent  and  intelli- 
gible character  is  pourtrayed.  The  diction  is 
at  least  as  new  as  the  conception. 

"  Thp  sighs  which  Mntthew  heav'd  were  s\t;hs 
Of  one  lir'd  out  with/;/?/  and  mndvess  ; 
TliH  loars  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light — the  oil  of  <rladni(.s. 

'•  Yc'  «imetim«'?.  when  the  secret  cup 

0(  still  and  s^frious  ilinimht  went  round, 

He  seein'd  a.«  if  he  dravl<  it  vp. 
Uc  feh  wiih  spirit  po  profound. 

Thou  soul,  of  God's  best  earthly  mould,' ^  &c. 


S82 


POETRV. 


A  frail  damsel  again  is  a  character  common 
enough  in  all  poems;  and  one  upon  which 
many  fine  and  palhctic  lines  have  been  ex- 
pended. Mr.  Wordsworth  has  written  more 
than  three  hundred  on  the  subject:  but,  in- 
stead of  new  images  of  tenderness,  or  deli- 
cate representation  of  intelligible  feelings,  he 
has  contrived  to  tell  us  nothing  whatever  of 
the  unfortunate  fair  one.  but  that  her  name  is 
Martha  Ray;  and  that  she  goes  up  to  the  top 
of  a  hill,  in  a  red  cloak,  and  cries  ■•  0  misery  I"' 
All  the  rest  of  the  poem  is  filled  with  a  de- 
scription of  an  old  thorn  and  a  pond,  and  of 
the  sill)-  stories  which  the  neighbouring  old 
woinon  told  about  them. 

The  sports  of  childhood,  and  the  untimely 
death  of  promising  youth,  is  also  a  common 
topic  of  poetry.  Sir.  Wordsworth  has  made 
some  blank  verse  about  it;  but.  instead  of 
the  delightful  and  picturesque  sketches  with 
which  so  many  authors  of  moderate  talents 
have  presented  us  on  this  inviting  subject,  all 
that  he  is  pleased  to  communicate  of  his  rustic 
child,  is,  that  he  used  to  amuse  himself  with 
shouting  to  the  owls,  and  hearing  them  an- 
swer. To  make  amends  for  this  brevity,  the 
process  of  his  mimicry  is  most  accurately  de- 
scribes!. 

"  Wi;h  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 

Press'd  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him." — 

This  is  all  we  hear  of  him ;  and  for  the 
sake  of  this  one  accomplishment,  we  are  told, 
that  the  author  has  frequently  stood  mute,  and 
gazed  on  his  grave  for  half  an  hour  together ! 

Love,  and  the  fantasies  of  lovers,  have  af- 
forded an  ample  theme  to  poets  of  all  ages. 
j\Ir.  Wordsworth,  however,  has  thought  fit  to 
compose  a  piece,  illustrating  this  copious  sub- 
ject by  one  single  thought.  A  lover  trots 
away  to  see  his  mistress  one  fine  evening, 
gazing  all  the  way  on  the  moon ;  when  he 
comes  to  her  door, 

"  O  mercy  !  to  myself  I  cried. 
If  Lucy'should  be  dead!" 

And  there  the  poem  ends  ! 

Now,  we  leave  it  to  any  reader  of  common 
candour  and  discernment  to  say,  whether 
these  representations  of  character  and  senti- 
ment are  drawn  from  that  eternal  and  uni- 
versal standard  of  truth  and  nature,  which 
every  one  is  knowing  enough  to  recognise, 
and  no  one  great  enough  to  depart  from  with 
impunity;  or  whether  they  are  not  formed, 
as  we  have  ventured  to  allege,  upon  certain 
fantastic  and  affected  peculiarities  in  the 
mind  or  fancy  of  the  author,  into  which  it  is 
most  improbable  that  many  of  his  readers 
will  enter,  and  which  cannot,  in  some  cases, 
be  comprehended  without  much  effort  and 
explanation.  Instead  of  multiplying  instances 
of  these  wide  and  wilful  aberrations  from  or- 
dinary nature,  it  may  be  more  satisfactory  to 
produce  the  author's  own  admission  of  the 
narrownes.s  of  the  ])!an  upon  \\  hich  he  writes, 
and  of  the  very  extraordinary  circumstances 
which  he  himself  sometimes  thinks  it  neces- 


sary for  his  readers  to  keep  in  view,  if  the_i 
would  wish  to  understand  the  beauty  or  pro 
priety  of  his  delineations. 

A  pathetic  tale  of  guilt  or  superstitio:,    :  •., 
be  told,  we  are  apt  to  fanc)-,  by  the  poe;      :- 
self,  in  his  general  character  of  poet,  wii.i     .: 
as  much  effect  as  by  any  other  persois.     .V; 
old  nurse,  at  any  rate,  or  a  monk  or  par; si 
clerk,  is  always  at  hand  to  give  grace  to  sucl 
a  narration.     None  of  these,  however.  wuuK 
satisfy  Mr.  Wordsworth.     He  has  wriiiiu  : 
long  poem  of  this  sort,  in  which  he  tliii  :- 
indispensably  necessary  to  apprise  the  k  li 
that   he   has  endeavoured   to   represent 
language  and  sentiments  of  a  particular  c 
acter — of  which   character,    he   adils.    "tl 
reader  will  have  a  general  notion,  if  he 
ever  known  a  man.  a  captain  of  a  small  tradi^ 
vessel,  for  example,  who  being  past  the  midS 
age  of  life,  has  retired  upon  an  ai  nniiy, 
small  independent  income,  to  some  rUlage 
country,  of  which  he  was  not  a  native,  or 
which  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  live!^ 

Now,    we  must    be   permitted    to   dout 
whether,  among  all  the  readers  of  ^Ir.  Wor 
worth  (few  or  many),  there  is  a  single  icS 
vidual  who  has  had  the  happiness  of  knowffl 
a  person  of  this  very  peculiar  description: 
who  is  capable  of  forming  any  sort  of 
jecture  of  the  particular  disposition  and  tui 
of  thinking  which  such  a  combination  of  a] 
tributes  would  be  apt  to  produce.    To  us, 
will  confess,  the  annonce  appears  as  ludici 
and  absurd  as  it  would  be  in  the  author  of 
ode  or'  an  epic  to  saj-,  "Of  this  piece 
reader  will  necessarily  form  a  very  erronei 
judgment,  unless  he  is  apprised,  that  it  w^HJe,^P" 
written  by  a  pale  man  in  a  green  coat — sittir^r '"^^ 
cross-leiTged  on  an  oaken  stool — with  a  scrat 
on  his  nose,  and  a  spelling  dictionary  on  t 
table."'* 


[tciot 

lOl. 

J 

Ijstej 

Irifreii 

(tSliiTll 


*  Pome  of  our  readers  may  have  a  curiosity 
know  ill  what   maimer  tliis  old  annuitant  capia 
does  actually  express  himself  in  the  village  of  I 
adoption.  For  their  graiificaiion,  we  anne.x  the  t» 
first  stanzas  of  his  story  ;  in  which,  with  all  the  i 
teniion  we  have  been  able  to  bestow,  we  have  be 
utterly  unable  to  detect  any  traits  that  can  be  ^^^_. 
posed  to  characterise  either  a  seaman,  an  annuitai^'N 
or  a  stranger  in  a  country  town.     It  is  a  style, 
the   contrary,  which  we   should    ascribe,   withi 
hesitation,   to  a  certain   poetical  fraternity  in  t^t., 
West  of  England  ;  and  which,  we  verily  belie^B®;^ 
never  was,  and  never  will  be,  used  by  any  one 
of  thai  fraternity. 


There  is  a  thorn — it  looks  so  old. 

In  truth  you'd  find  it  hard  to  say. 
How  it  could  ever  have  been  young! 

It  looks  so  old  and  grey. 
Not  hik'hor  than  a  iwo-years'  child. 

It  slandx  erect;  this  aged  thorn  ! 
No  leaves  it  has.  no  thorny  points ; 
It  is  a  mass  of  knotted  joints  : 

A  wretched  thing  forlorn, 
It  .iiands  erect  ;  and  like  a  stone. 
With  lichens  it  is  overgrown. 

Like  rock  or  atone,  it  is  overgrown 

With  lichens;— to  the  very  lop ; 
.^nd  hung  with  heavy  tufts  of  moss 

A  melanolioly  crop. 
Up  liom  the  earth  these  mosses  creep,       Hig. 

And  this  poor  thorn,  they  clasp  it  round  ^  '" 


sjiniij 


CRABBE'S  POEMS. 


383 


From  the>se  childie^h  and  absurd  affecta- 
)!is.  we  turn  with  pleasure  to  the  manly 
use  and  correct  picturing-  of  Mr.  Crabbe ; 
iJ,  after  bemg  dazzled  and  made  giddy 
ilh  the  elaborate  raptures  and  obscure  origi- 
ilities  of  these  new  artists,  it  is  refreshing  to 
eet  again  with  the  spirit  and  nature  of  our 
\  masters,  in  the  nervous  pages  of  the 
ithor  now  before  us. 

The  poem  that  stands  first  in  the  volume, 
that  to  which  we  have  already  alluded  as 
iving  been  first  given  to  the  public  upwards 
tweTnty  years  ago.  It  is  so  old,  and  has  of 
le  been  so  scarce,  that  it  is  probably  new 
many  of  our  readers.  We  shall  venture, 
erefore,  to  give  a  few  extracts  from  it  as  a 
lecimen  of  Mr.  Crabbe's  original  style  of 
imposition.  We  have  already  hinted  at  the 
iscription  of  the  Parish  Workhouse,  and  in- 
rt  it  as  an  example  of  no  common  poetry  : — 

I'heirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish  poor, 
hose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door  ; 
Here,  where  the  putrid  vapours  flagging  play, 
lid  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day  ; 
liere  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents'  care  ; 
irents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell  there  ; 
eart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
)rsaken  wives,  and  mothers  never  wed  ; 
ejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears, 
id  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood-fears  ; 
le  lame,  the  blind,  and,  far  the  happiest  they  ! 
18  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay. 
"  Here,  too,  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive, 
!re  brought  amid  the  scenes  of  grief,  to  grieve  ; 
here  the  loud  groans  from  some   sad  chamber 
.\t  with  the  clamours  of  the  crowd  below,     [flow, 
i '  Say  ye,  opprest  by  some  fantastic  woes, 
fme  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose; 
iho  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease, 
!>name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease  ; 
Iw  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 
fspis'd,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 
iw  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath, 
Viere  all  that's  wretched  paves  the  way  for  deaih  ? 
i'  Such  is  that  room  which  one  rude  beam  divides, 
fd  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  sides  ; 
V^ere  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch  are  seen, 
^d  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between  ; 
'\e  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patch'd,  gives 
1  (he  rude  temi)est,  yet  e.xcludes  the  day  :     [way 
B-e.  on  a  matted  flock,  with  dust  o'erspread, 
i;  drooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head  ; 
n  him  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies,"  &c. 
j  pp.  12-14. 

The  consequential  apothecary,  who  gives 
ijimpatient  attendance  in  these  abodes  of 
Itiery,  is  admirably  described  ]  but  we  pass 
t(|he  last  scene  : — 

",nw  to  the  church  behold  the  mourners  come, 

PJitely  torpid  and  devoutly  dumb  ; 

T.  viilnge  children  now  their  games  suspend, 

I'-ee  the  bi.^r  tha'  bears  their  ancient  friend  ; 

F'he  was  one  in  all  their  idle  sport, 

A|  like  a  monarch  rul'd  their  linJe  cotirt  ; 

J'l  pliant  bow  he  form'd,  the  flying  ball, 

Fj  bat,  the  wicket,  were  his  labours  all ; 

H|  now  they  follow  to  his  grave,  and  stand, 

So  close,  you'd  say  that  they  were  bent, 
I   With  plnhi  and  manifest  i7itcnt  '. 

To  drag  it  to  the  ground  ; 
■  .\nd  all  had  join'd  in  one  endeavour. 

To  bury  Ihh  poor  thorn  for  ever." 

[1  id  this  it  seems,  is  Nature,  and  Pathos,  and 
Pcry ! 


Silent  and  sad,  and  gazing,  hand  in  hand  ; 
While  bending  low,  iheir  eager  eyes  o.xplore 
The  niingird  relics  of  the  parish  poor  ! 
The  bell  tolls  lale.  the  moping  owl  flics  round, 
Fear  marks  ihe  Hmht  and  magnifies  the  sound  ; 
The  busy  priest,  detain'd  by  weightier  care, 
Deiers  his  duty  till  the  day  of  prayer  ; 
And  wailing  long,  the  crowd  reiire  distrest. 
To  think  a  poor  man'.s  bones  should  [w.  unble,-!!." 
pp.  Iti.  17. 

The  scope  of  the  poem  is  to  show,  that  the 
villagers  of  real  life  have  no  resemblance  to 
the  villagers  of  poetry  ;  that  poverty,  in  sober 
truth,  is  very  uncomlortable  ;  and  vice  by  no 
means  confined  to  the  opulent.  The  following 
passage  is  powerfully,  and  finely  written  : — 

"  Or  will  you  deem  them  amply  paid  in  health. 
Labour's  fair  child,  that  languishes  with  wealth  ? 
do  then  1  and  see  them  rising  w-iih  the  sun. 
Through  a  long  course  of  daily  toil  to  run  ; 
See  them  beneaih  the  dog-siar's  raging  heat. 
When  the  knees  tremble  and  the  temples  beat ; 
Behold  them,  leaning  on  their  scythes,  look  o'er 
The  labour  past,  and  toils  to  come  e.xplore  ; 
Through  fens  and  marshy  moors  their  sieps  pursue, 
When  their  warm  pores  imbibe  the  evening  dew. 

"  There  may  you  see  the  youih  of  slender  frame 
Contend  widi  weakness,  weariness,  and  shame  ; 
Yet  urg'd  along,  and  proudly  loaih  lo  yield, 
He  strives  to  join  his  fellows  of  the  field  ; 
Till  long-contending  nature  droops  at  last; 
Declining  health  rejects  his  poor  repast ! 
His  cheerless  spouse  the  coming  danger  sees. 
And  mutual  murmurs  urge  the  slow  disease. 

"  Yet  grant  them  heahh,  'tis  not  for  us  to  tell. 
Though  the  head  droops  not,  that  the  heart  is  well ; 
Or  will  you  praise  that  homely,  healthy  fare. 
Plenteous  and  plain,  that  happy  peasants  share  ? 
Oh  !  trifle  not  with  wants  you  cannot  feel  ! 
Nor  mock  the  misery  of  a  stinted  meal  ; 
Homely  not  wholesome — plain  iiol  plenieous — such 
As  you  who  praise  would  never  de:gn  to  louch! 

"  Ye  gentle  souls,  who  dream  of  rural  ease. 
Whom  the  smooth  stream   and  smoother  sonnet 
do  !  if  the  peaceful  cot  your  praises  share,    [please  ; 
Go  look  within,  and  ask  if  peace  be  there : 
If  peace  be  his — that  drooping,  weary  sire, 
Or  theirs,  that  offspring  round  their  feeble  fire  I 
Or  hers,  that  matron  pale,  whose  trembling  hand 
Turns  on  the  wretched  hearth  th'  expiring  brand." 
pp.  8— 10. 

We  shall  only  give  one  other  extract  from 
this  poem ;  and  we  select  the  following  fine 
description  of  that  peculiar  sort  of  barrenness 
which  prevails  along  the  sandy  and  thinly 
inhabited  shores  of  the  Channel : — 

"  Lo  !  where  the  heath,  with  with'ring  brake  grown 
o'er,  [poor ; 

Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  appears. 
Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  wither'd  ears  ; 
There  thistles  stretch  iheir  prickly  arms  afar. 
And  to  the  ragged  infanf  threaten  war  ; 
There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil, 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil  : 
Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf. 
The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 
O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a  shade. 
And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade  ; 
With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 
And  a  sad  splendour  vainly  sliines  around." 

jjp.  5,  6. 

The  next  poem,  and  the  longest  in  the 
volume,  is  now  presented  for  the  first  time  to 
the  public.  It  is  dedicated,  like  the  former, 
to  the  delineation  of  rural  life  and  characters, 


384 


POETRY. 


and  is  entitled,  ''The  Village  Register ;"'  and, 
upon  a  very  simple  but  singular  plan,  is  divi- 
ded into  three  parts,  viz.  Baptisms.  Marriages, 
and  Burials.  After  an  introductory  and  gen- 
eral view  of  village  manners,  the  reverend 
author  proceeds  to  present  his  readers  with 
an  account  of  all  the  remarkable  baptisms, 
marriages,  and  funerals,  that  appear  on  his 
register  for  the  preceding  year ;  with  a  sketch 
of  the  character  and  behaviour  of  the  respect- 
ive parties,  and  such  reflections  and  exhorta- 
tions as  are  suggested  by  the  subject.  The 
poem  consists,  therefore,  of  a  series  of  por- 
traits taken  from  the  middling  and  lower 
ranks  of  rustic  hfe,  and  delineated  on  occa- 
sions at  once  more  common  and  more  inter- 
esting, than  any  other  that  could  well  be 
imagined.  They  are  selected,  we  think,  with 
great  judgment,  and  drawn  with  inimitable 
accuracy  and  strength  of  colouring.  They 
are  finished  with  much  more  minuteness  and 
detail,  indeed,  than  the  more  general  pictures 
in  "The  Village  :■"  and,  on  this  account,  may 
appear  occasionally  deficient  in  comprehen- 
sion, or  in  dignity.  They  are,  no  doubt,  e.\e- 
cuted  in  some  instances  with  too  much  of 
a  Chinese  accuracy;  and  enter  into  details 
which  many  readers  may  pronounce  tedious 
and  uimecessary.  Yet  there  is  a  justness 
and  force  in  the  representation  which  is 
entitled  to  something  more  than  indulgence  : 
and  though  several  of  the  groups  are  com- 
posed of  low  and  disagreeable  subjects,  still. 
we  think  that  .'^ome  allowance  is  to  be  made 
for  the  author's  plan  of  giving  a  full  and  exact 
view  of  village  life,  which  could  not  possibly 
be  accomplished  without  including  those  baser 
varieties.  He  aims  at  an  important  moral 
efTect  by  this  exhibition  ;  and  must  not  he 
defrauded  either  of  that,  or  of  the  praise  which 
is  due  to  the  coarser  efforts  of  his  pen.  out  of 
deference  to  the  sickly  delicacy  of  his  more 
fastidious  readers.  We  admit,  however,  that 
there  is  more  carelessness,  as  well  as  more 
^uaintness  in  this  poem  than  in  the  other  ; 
and  that  he  has  now  and  then  apparently 
heaped  up  circumstances  rather  to  gratify 
his  own  ta.ste  for  detail  and  accumulation, 
than  to  give  any  additional  effect  to  his  de- 
scription. With  this  general  observation,  we 
beg  the  reader's  attention  to  the  following 
abstract  and  citations. 

The  poem  begins  with  a  general  view,  first 
of  the  industrious  and  contented  villager,  and 
then  of  the  profligate  and  disorderly.  The 
first  compartment  is  not  so  striking  as  the  last. 
Mv.  Crabbe,  it  seems,  has  a  set  of  smugglers 
amono-  his  liock,  who  inhabit  what  is  called 
the  Street  in  his  village.  There  is  nothing 
comparable  to  the  following  description,  but 
some  of  the  prose  sketches  of  Mandeville : — 

"  Here,  in  cabal,  a  disputntious  crew 
Each  pvening  nieer ;  the  sot,  the  cheat,  the  shrew  ; 
Riots  are  nish'ly  heard — the  curse,  the  cries 
Of  be.iteii  wife,  pervrrsc  in  her  replit-s  : 
Boy.<  ill  their  firs:  stoPn  rngs.  to  steal  hegin. 
And  iflils,  who  know  not  sex.  are  skill'd  in  gin  I 
Sriaier.'  and  smngclers  here  their  gains  divide. 
lMisnarin<;  females  here  their  victim?  hide  ; 
And  here  is  one.  the  Sibyl  of  the  Rcnv, 
Wiiu  liiio-.va  all  secrets,  or  affecis  to  know. — 


"  See  !  on  the  floor,  what  frowzy  patches  rest 
What  nauseous  fragments  on  yon  tractur'd  ches 
What  downy-dust  beneath  yon  window-seat ! 
And  round  these  posts  thai  serve  this  bed  for  fee 
This  bed  where  ail  those  tatter'd  garments  lie, 
Worn  by  each  se.x,  and  now  perforce  thrown  by. 

"  See  !  as  we  gaze,  an  infant  lifts  its  head, 
Left  by  neglect,  and  burrow'd  in  thai  bed  ; 
The  mother-gossip  has  the  love  supprest, 
An  infant's  cry  once  waken'd  in  her  breast,"  & 

"  Here  are  no  wheels  for  either  wool  or  flax. 
But  packs  of  cards — made  up  of  sundry  packs  ; 
Here  are  no  books,  but  ballads  on  the  v\all. 
Are  some  abusive,  and  indecent  all ; 
Pistols  are  here,  unpair'd  ;  with  nets  and  hooks. 
Of  every  kind,  for  rivers,  ponds,  and  brooks  ; 
An  ample  flask  that  nightly  rovers  fill, 
With  recent  poisoti  from  the  Dutchman's  still; 
A  box  of  tools  with  wires  of  various  size. 
!  Frocks,  wigs,  and  hats,  for  nighi  or  day  disguise 
!  And  bludgeons  stout  to  gain  or  guard  a  prize. — 

"  Here  his  poor  bird,  th'  inhuman  cockrr  brir 
Arms  his  hard  heel,  and  clips  his  golden  v.  ;r_'^ 
Whh  spicy  food  th'  impatient  spirit  feeds. 
And  shouts  and  curses  as  the  battle  bleed.- : 
Struck  through  the  brain,  depriv'd  of  both  1   -  '  y 
The  vanquisli'd  bird  must  combat  till  he  d  ■  -  ' 
Must  faintly  peck  at  his  victorious  loe. 
And  reel  and  stagger  at  each  feeble  blow  ; 
When  fall'n,  the  .ravage  erasps  his  dabbled  pltii 
His  biood-stain'd  arms,  for  other  deaths  assunii 
And  damns  the  craven-fowl,  that  lo.«i  his  stake, 
And  o?i/y  bled  and  perish'd  for  his  sake  I" 

pp.  40 — 44, 

Mr.  Crabbe  now  opens  his  chronicle; 
the  first  babe  that  appears  on  the  list 
natural  child  of  the  miller's  daughter 
dam.sel  fell  in  love  with  a  sailor;  but 
father  refused  his  consent,  and  no 
would  unite  them  whhout  if.  The  poor 
yielded  to  her  passion  ;  and  her  lover  wei 
sea,  to  seek  a  portion  for  his  bnde : — 

"  Then  came  the  days  of  shame,  the  grievous 
The  varying  look,  the  wand'ring  ap|)eiiie;      , 
The  jciy  assum'd,  while  sorrow  dimm'd  theej 
The  torc"d  sad  smiles  that  follow'd  sudden  sigl 
And  every  art,  long  us'd,  but  us'd  in  vain. 
To  hide  thy  progress.  Nature,  and  thy  nain. 

"  Dfiy  after  day  were  past  in  grief  aiid  pain, 
Week  after  week,  nor  came  the  youth  again  ; 
Her  boy  was  born  : — No  lads  nor  lasses  came 
To  grace  the  rite  or  give  the  child  a  name  ; 
Nor  grave  conceited  nurse,  of  office  proud. 
Bore  the  young  Christian,  roaring  through 
In  a  small  chamber  was  my  office  done.  [cro» 
Where  blinks,  through  paper'd  panes,  the 

sun  ; 

Where  noisy  sparrows,  perch'don  penthouse  n 
Chirp  tuneksa joy,  and  mock  the  frequent  tear. 

'■  Throughout  the  lanes,  she  glides  at  cvenii 
There  softly  lulls  her  infant  to  repose  ;  [cli 

Then  sits  and  gazes,  but  w  ith  viewless  look. 
As  gilds  the  moon  the  rimpling  of  the  brook  ; 
Then  sings  her  vespers,  but  in  voice  so  low, 
She  hears  their  murmurs  as  the  waters  flow; 
And  she  too  murmurs,  and  begins  to  find 
The  solemn  wand'rings  of  a  wounded  mind  ! 
pp.  47- 

We  pass  the  rest  of  the  Baptisms;  i' 
proceed  to  the  more  interesting  chapter 
Marriages.  The  first  pair  here  is  an  old 
bachelor,  who.  in  the  first  days  of  do' 
had  married  his  maid-servant.  The  revei 
^Ir  Crabbe  is  very  facetious  on  this  mat 
and  not  very  scrupulously  delicate 

The  following  picture,  though  liable  in  ], 
to  the  same  objection,  is  perfect,  v.e  thin' 
that  .style  of  drawing: — 


!jsep»ii 


irt^l 


CRABBE'S  POEMS. 


885 


'  Next  al  our  aliar  stood  a  luckless  pair, 

brought  by  strong  passions — and  a  warrant — there  ; 

!y  long  rent  cloak,  hung  loosely,  strove  the  bride, 

'rom  ev'ry  eye,  what  all  perceiv"d  to  hide ; 

Vhile  the  boy-bridegroom,  shuffling  in  his  pace, 

fow  hid  awhile,  and  then  expos'd  his  face  ; 

Ls  shame  alternately  with  anger  strove 

'he  brain,  contused  with  muddy  ale,  to  move  ! 

n  haste  and  stainm'riiig  he  perlorm'd  his  part, 

ind  look  d  the  rage  that  rankled  in  his  heart. 

,ow  spake  the   lass,   and   lisp'd  and    minc'd  the 

while ; 
lOok'd  on  the  lad.  and  faintly  try'd  to  smile; 
V'iih   soft'nened    speech    and    humbled  tone   she 
'o  stir  the  embers  of  departed  love;  [strove 

^'hile  he  a  tyrant,  frowning  walk'd  before, 
elt  the  poor  purse,  and  sought  the  public  door; 
he  sadly  following  in  submission  went, 
.nd  saw  the  final  shilling  foully  spent  ! 
'hen  10  her  father's  hut  the  pair  withdrew, 
.nd  bade  to  love  and  comfort  long  adieu  !" 

pp.  74,  75 
The  next  bridal  is  that  of  Phoebe  Dawson, 
le  most  innocent  and  beautiful  of  all  the 
illag^e  maidens.      We    give    the  following 
retty  description  of  her  courtship  : — 

Now,  through   the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross  the 
ieen  but  by  few,  and  blushing  to  be  seen —   [green, 
ejected,  thoughtful,  an.vious  and  afraid.) 
ed  by  the  lover,  walk'd  the  silent  maid: 
ow  through  the  meadows rov'd  they,  many  a  mile, 
oy'd  by  each  bank,  and  trifled  at  each  stile ; 
'here,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view, 
Vid  highly  colour'd  what  he  strongly  drew, 
'le  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
mm'd  the  fair  prospect  with  prophetic  tears." 

pp.  76,  77. 
This  is  the  taking  side  of  the  picture  :  At 
13  end  of  two  years,  here  is  the  reverse, 
bthing  can  be  more  touching,  we  think,  than 
i  quiet  suffering  and  solitary  hysterics  of 
is  ill-fated  young  woman: — 

;jO  !  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet  black, 
^d  torn  green  gown,  loose  hanging  at  her  back, 
I'e  who  nn  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 
d  seems,  with  patience,  striving  with  her  pains  : 
lich'd  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for  bread 


The  ardent  lover,  it  seems,  turned  out  a 
brutal  husband  : — 

"  If  present,  railing,  till  he  saw  her  pain'd  ; 
If  absent,  spending  what  their  labours  gain'd  : 
Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pin'd. 
And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind." 

p.  79. 

It  may  add  to  the  interest  which  some 
readers  will  take  in  this  simple  story,  to  be 
told,  that  it  was  the  last  piece  of  poetry  that 
was  read  to  Mr.  Fo.x  during  his  fatal  i]lnes«; 
and  that  he  examined  and  made  .some  flatter- 
ing remarks  on  the  manuscript  of  it  a  few- 
days  before  his  death. 

We  are  obliged  to  pass  over  the  rest  of  the 
Marriages,  though  some  of  them  are  extreme- 
ly characteristic  and  beautiful,  and  to  proceed 
to  the  Burials.  Here  we  have  a  great  variety 
of  portraits, — the  old  drunken  innkeeper — 
the  bustling  farmer's  wife — the  infant — and 
next  the  lady  of  the  manor.  The  following 
description  of  her  deserted  mansion  is  strik- 1 
ing,  and  in  the  good  old  taste  of  Pope  and  1 
Dryden :—  " 

"  Forsaken  stood  the  hall. 

Worms  ate  the  floors,  the  tap'stry  fled  the  wall; 
No  fire  the  kitchen's  cheerless  grate  display'd  ; 
No  cheerful  light  the  long-clos'd  sash  convey'd  ; 
The  crawling  worm  that  turns  a  summer  fly, 
Here  spun  his  shroud  and  laid  him  up  to  die 
The  winter-death: — upon  the  bed  of  state. 
The  bat.  shrill-shrieking,  woo'd  hisflick'ring  mate: 
To  empty  rooms,  the  curious  came  no  more. 
From  empty  cellars,  turn'd  the  angry  poor, 
And  surly  beggars  curs'd  the  ever-bolted  door. 
To  one  small  room  the  steward  found  his  way, 
Where  tenants  follow'd,  to  complain  and  pav." 
pp.  ]04,'l05. 

The  old  maid  follows  next  to  the  shades  of 
mortality.  The  description  of  her  house,  fur- 
niture, and  person,  is  admirable,  and  affords 
a  fine  specimen  of  Mr.  Crabbe's  most  minute 
finishing  ;  but  it  is  too  long  for  extracting.   We 


Mose  cares  are  growing,  and  whose  hopes  are  fled  1    rather  present  our  readers  with  a  part  of  the 
le  her  parch'd  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low.      |  character  of  Isaac  Ashford  : — 
td  tears  itnnotic'd  from  their  channels  flow  ;  i 

■  ene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain  "  Ne.\t  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nought  allied, 

[vts  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again  ! —    A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 

:  Noble  he  was — contemning  all  thines 


I';  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes. 

f\i  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes  ; 

B  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms, 

i  nearer  cause,  maternal  fear,  alarms  I 

'>'h  water  burden'd.  then  she  picks  her  way, 

"•vly  and  cautious,  in  the  clinging  clay  ; 

h  in  niitl-grecn  she  trusts  a  place  unsound. 

Ai  deeply  plunges  in  th'  adhesive  ground  ; 

I'm   whence    her    slender   foot    with    pain    site 

takes,"'  &,c. 
'  nd  now  her  path,  but  not  her  peace,  she  gains, 
'■  from  her  task,  but  shiv'ring  with  her  pains; — 
4  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door. 
\  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor. 


ng  all  things  mean, 
His  trnih  unquestion'd,  and  his  soul  serene  : 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid  : 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  look'd  dismay'd: 
Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace,"  &,c. 
"  \Vere  others  joyful,  he  look'd  smiling  on. 
And  eave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 
Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic-pride  remov'd  ; 
He  felt,  with  many,  and  he  warmly  lov'd  : 
I  mark'd  his  action,  when  his  infant  died. 
And  an  old  neighbour  for  offence  was  tried  ; 
The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrow'd  cheek, 
Spoke  pity,  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak,"  &c. 
pp.  Ill,  112. 


The  rest  of  the  character  is  drawn  with 


ares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits, 
^j  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits! 

r  ..;„  1     .|,gy  come — she  feels  th'  inflaming  grief,  j  equal  spirit ;  but  we  can  only  make  room  for 

the  author's  final  commemoration  of  him. 


r;'  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief 

I  I  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distrest. 

'  he  sad  !a\igh  that  cannot  be  represt ; 

r  neighhour-rnatron  leaves  her  wheel,  and  flies 

^Vi  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies  ; 

_  e'd,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys. 

Vied  by  profit,  nor  allur'd  by  praise; 

^*  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease, 

'ispeaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace." 

pp.  77,  78 


"  I  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer. 
And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there  I 
I  see,  no  more,  those  white  locks  thinly  spread. 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  thai  honour'd  head  ; 
No  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight, 
Compeli'd  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  (he  sight ; 
To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while. 
Till  Mr.  Ashford  sotten'd  to  a  smile  ! 


386 


POETRY. 


No  more  that  meek,  that  suppliant  look  in  prayer, 
Nor  ihit  niire  faith,  ihii  gave  it  force — are  there  : — 
But  he  is  biest ;  atid  I  iMiiieiit  no  more, 
A  wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor." — p.  114. 

We  then  bury  the  village  midwife,  super- 
seded ill  her  old  ai^e  bj'  a  volatile  doctor: 
then  a  siiriv  rustic  niistin'thrope  :  and  last  ot 
ail,  the  reverend  author's  ancient  sc.\ton, 
whose  chronicle  of  his  various  pastors  is  given 
rath<^r  at  too  great  length.  The  poem  ends 
with  a  simple  recapitulation. 

We  think  this  the  most  important  of  the 
new  pieces  in  the  volume;  and  have  ex- 
tended our  account  of  it  so  much,  lliat  we  can 
afford  to  say  but  little  of  the  others.  "The 
Library'"  and  "The  Newspaper""  are  republi- 
cations. They  are  written  with  a  gooil  deal 
of  tersenes.s,  sarcasm,  and  beauty ;  but  the 
subjects  are  not  very  interesting,  and  they  will 
rather  be  approved,  we  think,  than  admired 
or  delighted  in.  We  are  notjnuch  taken  either 
with  "The  Birth  of  Flattery."  With  many 
nervous  lines  and  ingenious  allusions,  it  has 
samething  of  the  languor  which  seems  insep- 
arable from  an  allegory  which  exceeds  the 
length  of  an  epigram. 

"Sir  Eustace  Grey""  is  quite  unlike  any  of 
the  preceding  compositions.  It  is  written  in 
a  sort  of  lyric  measure  :  and  is  intended  to 
represent  the  perturbed  fancies  of  the  most 
terrible  msanity  settling  by  degrees  into  a 
sort  of  devotional  enthusiasm.  The  opening 
stanza,  spoken  by  a  visiter  in  the  madhouse, 
is  very  striking. 

"  I'll  see  no  more ! — the  heart  is  torn 
By  views  of  woe  we  cannot  heal ; 

Long  shall  I  see  tlie«<>  tliimrs  forlorn. 
And  oft  again  their  a^riefs  shall  feel. 
As  each  upon  the  mind  shall  steal ; 

That  wan  projector's  mystic  style, 
That  lumpish  idiot  leering  by. 

That  peevish  idler's  ce;iseless  wile. 

And  Ihaf  poor  niiiidrn':'  halffomCd  fmih, 

While  slrucrslins;  for  the  full-drawn  sigh  .' 
I'll  know  no  more!" — p.  217. 

There  is  great  force,  both  of  language  and 
conception,  in  the  wild  narrative  Sir  Eustace 
gives  of  his  frenzy  :  though  we  are  not  sure 
whether  there  is  not  something  too  elaborate, 
and  too  much  worked  up,  in  the  picture.  We 
give  only  one  image,  which  we  think  is  orig- 
itial.  He  supposed  himself  hurried  along  by 
two  tormenting  demons. 

"  Throngh  lands  we  lied,  o'er  seas  we  flew, 
.■\nd  halted  on  a  boundle-^s  plain  ; 
Where  nothing  fed,  nor  breath'd.  nor  grew, 
But  silence  rul'd  the  still  domain. 

"  I'pon  that  boundlips  plain,  below, 

'i'he  selling;  sun'.^  last  rays  were  shed. 
And  gave  a  mild  and  sober  glow. 

Where  all  were  still,  asleep,  or  dead  ; 
Vast  ruins  in  the  midst  were  spread, 

Pillar.'!  and  pedinients  sublime. 
Whore  the  crcy  moss  had  form'd  a  bed. 

And  cloih'd  the  cnmibling  spoils  of  Time. 

•  There  was  I  fix'd,  I  know  not  how, 
Condemn'd  for  untold  years  to  slay; 
Ypf  ypar.->  were  nut ; — one  dreadful  noir, 

Kiuhir'd  no  rbanee  of  night  or  day  ; 
'I'he  same  mild  evening's  sleeping  ray 


Shone  softly-solemn  and  serene, 
And  all  that  time  I  gaz'd  away. 

'I'he  setting  sun's  sad  ravs  were  seen.'' 

p.  226. 

'•'  The  Hall  of  Justice,"  or  the  story  of  ih 
Gipsy  Convict,  is  another  experiment  of  M 
Crabbe's.  It  is  very  nervous — ver\-  shockii; 
— and  very  powerfully  represented.  Th 
woman  is  accused  of  stealing,  and  tells  hi 
story  in  impetuous  and  lofty  language. 

"  My  crime  !  this  sick'ning  child  to  feed, 
I  seiz'd  the  food  your  witness  saw; 
I  knew  your  laws  forbade  the  deed, 
But  yielded  to  a  stronger  law  I" — 

"  But  I  have  griefs  of  other  kind. 

Troubles  and  sorrows  more  severe  ; 

Give  me  to  ease  my  tortur'd  mind. 
Lend  to  my  woes  a  patient  ear ; 

And  let  me — if  I  may  not  find 
A  friend  to  help — Hiid  one  to  hear. 

"  Mv  mother  dead,  my  father  lost, 
1  wander'd  with  a  vagrant  crew ; 
A  common  care,  a  common  cost. 

Their  sorrows  and  their  sins  I  knew  ; 
With  them  on  want  and  error  forc'd, 
Like  them,  I  base  and  guilty  grew  ! 
"  So  through  the  land  I  wand'ring  went. 
And  little  found  of  grief  or  joy  ; 
But  lost  my  bosom's  sweet  content, 
When  first  I  lov'c^the  gypsy  boy. 

"  A  stuidy  youth  he  was  and  tall. 

His  looks  would  all  his  soul  declare. 

His  piercing  eyes  were  deep  and  small. 

And  strongly  curl'd  his  raven  hair. 

"  Yes,  Aaron  had  each  manly  charm, 

.AH  in  the  May  of  youtht'"ul  pride; 

He  scarcely  fear'd  his  fathfir's  arm, 

.And  every  other  arm  defied. — 
Oft  when  they  grew  in  anger  warm, 

(Whom  will  not  love  and  power  divide f)| 
1  rose,  their  wrathful  souls  to  calm. 
Not  vet  in  sinful  combat  tried." 

pp.  210- 

The  father  felon  falls  in  love  with  the 
trothed  of  his  son,  whom   he  despatch 
some  distant  errand.     The  consummationi 
his  horrid  passion  is  told  in  these  powe 
stanzas : — 

"  The  night  was  dark,  the  lanes  were  deertM 
.And  one  by  one  they  took  their  way ;  €l 
He  bade  me  lay  me  down  and  sleep! 
I  only  wept,  and  wish'd  for  day. 

Accursed  be  the  love  he  bore — 
Arrnrffd  was  thr  force  lie  us'd — 

So  let  him  of  his  God  implore 

For  mercy  .' — and  he  so  refused  .''' — J 

It  is  painful  to  follow  the  story  out 
sou  return.s,  and  privately  murders  his  fal 
and  then  marries  his  widow  !    The  prof 
barbarity  of  the  life  led  by  tho.'^e  outci 
forcibly  expressed  by  the  simple  narrati 
the  lines  that  follow  : — 

"  I  brought  a  lovely  daughter  forth, 

His  lather's  child,  in  Aaron's  bed  I  , 

He  look  her  from  me  in  his  wrath.  I 

'  Where  is  my  child  ?'— '  Thy  child  is  del 

"  'Twas  false  I     We  wander'd  far  and  wide! 
Through  town  and  country,  field  and  fe^ 
Till  .Aaron  fighting,  fell  and  died.  < 

And  I  became  a  wife  again." — p.  21.". 

VVe  have  not  room  to  give  the  sequel  of  * 
dreadful  ballad.     It  certainly  is  not  pleat'l 


CRABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


387 


eading;  but  it  is  written  with  very  unusual 
)Ower  of  language,  and  shows  Mr.  Crabbe  to 
lave  great  mastery  over  the  tragic  pas-sioius  of 
)ity  and  horror.  The  volume  closes  with  some 
rerses  of  no  great  value  in  praise  of  Women. 
We  part  with  regret  from  Mr.  Crabbe;  but 
,vc  hope  to  meet  with  him  agam.  If  his  muse, 
:o  be  sure,  is  prolific  only  once  in  twenty-four 
irearS;  we  can  scarcely  expect  to  live  long 


enough  to  pass  judgment  on  her  future  pro- 
geny :  But  we  trust,  that  a  larger  portion  of 
public  favour  than  has  hitherto  been  dealt  lo 
hiin  will  encourage  him  to  greater  efTorts  :  and 
that  ho  will  soon  appear  again  among  the 
worthy  supporters  of  the  old  poetical  estab- 
lishment, and  come  in  time  to  surpass  the 
revolutionists  in  fa.st  firing,  a.s  well  as  in  weight 
of  metal. 


(2pril,   ISUi 


The  Borovgh :  a  Poem,  in  Twenty-four  Letters.     By  the  R( 
"  '  Svo.  pp.  3-f4.     London:   1810. 


George  Cuabbe.  LL.  B. 


We  are  very  glad  to  meet  with  Mr.  Crabbe 
io  soon  agciin ;  and  particularly  glad  to  find,  that 
lis  early  return  has  been  occasioned,  in  part, 
Dy  the  encouragement  he  received  on  his  last 
ippearance.  This  late  spring  of  public  favour. 
.ve  hope,  he  will  yet  live  to  see  ripen  into  ma- 
ure  fame.  We  scarcely  know  any  poet  who 
ieserves  it  better :  and  are  quite  certain  there 
s  none  who  is  more  secure  of  keeping  with 
josterity  ^^'l^atevel•  h^  ma}-  win  from  his  con- 
;emporaries. 

The  present  poem  is  precisely  of  the  char- 
icter  of  The  Village  and  The  Parish  Register. 
t  has  the  same  peculiarities,  and  the  same 
ault.*  and  beauties;  though  a  severe  critic 
[night  perhaps  add,  that  its  peculiarities  are 
Inore  obtrusive,  its  faults  greater,  and  its  beau- 
lies  less.  However  that  be,  both  faults  and 
iieauties  are  so  plainly  produced  by  the  pe- 
uliaiity,  that  it  may  be  worth  while,  before 
living  anymore  particular  account  of  it,  to  try 
i"  we  can  ascertain  in  what  that  consists. 

And  here  we  shall  very  speedily  discover, 
oat  iSIr.  Crabbe  is  distinguished  from  all  other 
oets,  both  by  the  choice  of  his  subjects,  and 
y  his  manner  of  treating  them.  All  his  per- 
pns  are  taken  from  the  lower  ranks  of  life  : 
lud  all  his  scenery  from  the  most  ordinary 
itul  familiar  objects  of  nature  or  art.  His 
Uaracters  and  incidents,  too,  are  as  common 
Ivlhe  elements  out  of  which  they  are  com- 
punded  are  humble.;  and  not  only  has  he 
pthing  prodigious  or  astonishing  in  any  of 
;s  representations,  but  he  has  not  even  at- 
inpted  to  impart  any  of  the  ordinary  colours 
\  poetry  to  those  vulgar  materials.  He  has 
|i  moral;.5ing  swains  or  sentimental  trades- 
-len;  and  scarcely  ever  seeks  to  charm  us  by 
ie  artless  graces  or  lowly  virtue.s  of  his  per- 
inages.  On  the  contrary,  he  has  represented 
Is  villagers  and  humble  burghers  as  alto- 
,  ther  as  dissipated,  and  more  dishonest  and 
'Seontented,  than  the  profligates  of  higher 
2;  and,  instead  of  conducting  us  through 
poming  groves  and  pastoral  meadows,  has 
il  us  along  filthy  lanes  and  crowded  wharfs, 
Ijhospilals.  alms-houses,  and  gin-shops.  In 
fine  of  these  delineations,  he  may  be  con- 
fjered  as  the  Satirist  of  low  life — an  occupa- 
tt:i  sufficiently  arduous,  and.  in  a  great  de- 
8:e,  new  and  original  in  our  language.     But 


I  by  far  the  greater  part  of  his  poetry  is  of  a 
different  and  a  higher  character :  and  aims 
at  moving  or  delighting  us  by  lively,  touch- 

!  ing,  and  finely  contrasted  representations  of 
the  dispositions,  sufferings,  and  occupations 
of  those  ordinary  persons  who  form  the  i'ar 

;  greater  part  of  our  fellow-creatures.  This, 
too.  he  has  sought  to  effect,  merely  by  placing 
before  us  the  clearest,  most  brief,  and  most 
striking  sketches  of  their  external  condition — 

[  the  most  sagacious  and  unexpected  strokes 
of  character — and  the  truest  and  most  pathetic 

1  pictures  of  natural  feeling  and  cornmon  .suffer- 

I  ing.  By  the  mere  force  of  his  art,  and  the 
novelty  of  his  .style,  he  forces  us  to  attend 
to  objects  that  are  usually  neglected,  and  to 
enter  into  feelings  from  which  we  are  in  gene- 
ral but  too  eager  to  escape; — and  then  trusts 
to  nature  for  the  effect  of  the  representation. 
It  is  obvious,  at  first  sight,  that  this  is  not  a 
task  for  an  ordinary  hand  ;  and  that  many  in- 
genious writer.s,  who  make  a  very  good  figure 
with  battles,  nymphs,  and  moonlight  land- 
scapes, would  find  themselves  quite  helpless, 
if  set  down  among  streets,  harbours,  and 
taverns.  The  difficulty  of  such  subjects,  in 
short,  is  sufficiently  visible — and  some  of 
the  causes  of  that  difficulty ;  But  they  have 
their  advantages  also ; — and  of  these,  and 
their  hazard.s,  it  seems  natural  to  say  a  few 
words,  before  entering  more  minutely  into  the 
merits  of  the  work  before  us. 

The  first  great  advantage  of  such  familiar 
subjects  is.  that  every  one  is  necessarily  well 
acquainted  with  the  originals;  and  is  there- 
fore sure  to  feel  all  that  pleasure,  from  a 
faithful  representation  of  them,  which  results 
from  the  perception  of  a  perfect  and  success- 
ful imitation.  In  the  kindred  art  of  painting, 
we  find  that  this  single  consideration  has  been 
sufficient  to  stamp  a  very  high  value  upon 
accurate  and  lively  delineations  of  objects,  in 
themselves  uninteresting,  and  even  disagree- 
able :  and  no  very  inconsiderable  part  of  the 
pleasure  which  may  be  derived  from  Mr. 
Crahbe's  poetry  may  probably  be  referred  to 
its  mere  truth  and  fidelity;  and  to  the  brevity 
and  clearness  with  which  he  sets  before  his 
readers,  objects  and  characters  with  which 
they  have  vken  all  their  days  familiar. 

In  his  happier  passages,  however;  he  has  a 


POETRY. 


higher  merit,  and  imparts  a  far  higher  grati- 
fication. The  chief  delight  of  poetry  consists, 
not  so  much  in  what  it  directly  supplies  to 
the  imagination,  as  in  what  it  enables  it  to 
supply  to  itself; — not  in  warming  the  heart 
by  its  passing  brightness,  but  in  kindling  its 
own  latent  stores  of  light  and  heal : — not  in 
hurrying  the  fancy  along  by  a  foreign  and  ac- 
cidental impulse,  but  in  setting  it  agoing,  by 
touching  its  internal  springs  and  principles  of 
activity.  Now.  this  h]ght'^;t  and  must  delight- 
ful effect  can  only  be  produced  by  ihe  pool's 
5triknig  a  note  to  which  the  heart  and  the  atfec- 
lions  naturally  vibrate  in  unison  ; — by  rousing 
oneof  a  large  family  of  kindred  impressions: — 
by  dropping  the  rich  st^ed  of  his  fancy  upon  the 
fertile  and  sheltered  places  of  the  imagination. 
But  it  is  evident,  that  the  emotions  connected 
with  common  and  familiar  object.^ — with  ob- 
jects which  fill  every  man's  memory,  and  are 
necessarily  associated  with  all  that  he  has 
ever  really  felt  or  fancied,  are  of  all  others 
the  most  likely  to  answer  this  description,  and 
to  produce,  where  they  can  be  raised  to  a  suf- 
ficient height,  this  great  effect  in  its  utmost 
perfection.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  images 
and  affections  that  belong  to  our  universal  na- 
ture, are  always,  if  tolerably  represented,  in- 
finitely more  captivating,  in  spite  of  their 
apparent  commonness  and  simplicity,  than 
those  that  are  peculiar  to  certain  situations, 
however  they  may  come  recommended  bv 
novelty  or  grandeur.  The  familiar  feeling  of 
maternal  tenderness  and  anxiety,  which  is 
every  day  before  our  eyes,  even  in  the  brute 
creation — and  the  encKantment  of  youthful 
love,  which  is  nearly  the  same  in  all  charac- 
ters, ranks,  and  situations — still  contribute  far 
more  to  ihe  beaaty  and  interest  of  poetry  than 
all  the  misfortunes  of  princes,  the  jealousies  of 
heroes,  and  the  feats  of  giants,  mafficians.  or 
ladies  in  armour.  Every  one  can  enter  into 
the  former  set  of  feelings:  and  but  a  few 
into  the  latter.  The  one  calls  up  a  thousand 
familiar  and  long-remembered  emotions — 
which  are  answennl  and  refiected  on  every 
side  by  the  kindred  impressions  which  e.v- 
perience  or  observation  have  traced  upon 
every  memory:  while  the  other  lights  up  but 
a  transient  and  unfruitful  blaze,  and  passes 
away  without  perpetuating  it.self  in  any  kin- 
dred and  native  sensation. 

Now,  the  delineation  of  all  that  concerns 
the  lower  and  most  numerous  cla^si  s  of  so- 
ciety, is,  in  this  respect,  on  a  foolinsr  with  the 
pictures  of  our  primary  affections— that  their 
originals  are  necessarily  familiar  to  all  men. 
and  are  inseparably  associated  with  their  owii 
most  interesting  impressions.  Whatever  may 
be  our  own  condition,  we  all  live  surrounded 
with  the  poor,  from  infancy  to  ase  ; — we  hear 
daily  of  their  sufferuigs  and  misfortunes: — 
and  their  toils,  their  crimes,  or  their  pastimes, 
are  our  hourly  spectacle.  Many  diligent 
readers  of  i>oetry  know  little,  by  "their  own 
e.vperience,  of  palaces,  castles,  or'camps  ;  and 
still  less  of  tyrants,  warriors,  and  banditti  • — 
but  every  one  understands  about  cottages, 
streets,  and  villages ;  and  conceives,  pretty 
corrfeCtly,  the  character  and  conditioTi  cf  sivil- 


lors,  ploughmen,  and  artificers.  If  tlie  poe 
can  contrive,  therefore,  to  create  a  sutficien 
I  interest  in  subjects  like  these,  they  will  infal 
I  libly  sink  deeper  into  the  mind,  and  be  mori 
I  prolific  of  kindred  trains  of  emotion,  than  sub 
'  jects  of  greater  dignity.  Nor  is  the  difiicnlt 
I  of  exciting  such  an  interest  by  any  means  s 
I  great  as  is  generally  inia'jined.  For  it  i 
!  common  human  nature,  and  common  huma: 
feelings,  after  all.  that  form  the  true  ^ourc 
of  interest  in  poetry  of  every  description  ;- 
and  the  splendour  and  the  marvels  by  whic 
it  is  sometimes  surrounded,  serve  no  othe 
purpose  than  to  fix  our  attention  on  thos 
workines  of  the  heart,  and  those  energies  o 
the  understanding,  which  alone  comn)aiid  a 
the  genuine  sympathies  of  human  beings- 
and  w  hich  may  be  found  as  abundantly  in  th 
breasts  of  cottagers  as  of  kings.  "VVht  levf 
there  are  human  being.s.  therefore,  w  iih  fee 
ings  and  characters  to  be  represented,  our  a 
tention  may  be  fixed  by  the  art  of  the  poet- 
by  his  judicious  selection  of  circumstanceg- 
by  ihe  force  and  vivacity  of  his  style,  and  lb' 
clearness  and  brevity  of  his  representations. 
In  point  of  fact,  we  are  all  tO€<-hed  mdi 
deeply,  as  well  as  more  frequently,  in 
life,  with  the  sufl'erings  of  peasants  than 
princes;  and  sympathise  much  oftener. 
more  heartily,  with  the  successes  of  the 
than  of  the  rich  and  di.stinguished.  The 
casions  of  such  feelings  are  indeed  so  m 
and  so  common,  that  they  do  not  often  lea' 
j  any  very  permanent  traces  behind  them, 
j  pass  away,  and  are  effaced  by  the  very  rapidi: 
of  their  succession.  The  business  and 
cares,  and  the  pride  of  the  world,  obstruct  tl 
development  of  the  emotions  to  which  th 
would  naturally  give  rise:  and  press  so  clo| 
and  thick  upon  the  mind,  as  to  shnt  it.  at  m^ 
seasons,  against  the  reflections  that  are 

Eetually  seeking  for  admission.     When 
are  leisure,  however,  to  look  quietly  into 
hearts,  we  shall  find  in  them  an  infinite  m 
tiludc  of  little   fragments  of  sympathy  ^ 
our  brethren  in  humble  life — abortive  m 
I  ments  of  compassion,  and  embryos  of  kindni 
,  and  concern,  which  had  once  fairly  begtm 
j  live  and  germinate  within  them,  though  wi 
i  ered  and  broken  off  by  the  selfish  bustle 
j  fever  of  our  daily  occupations.    Now.  all  th( 
maybe  revived  and  carried  0!i  to  maturity 
^  the  art  of  the  poet  : — and.  there  fore,  a  po'W'^ 
,  ful  effort  to  inteiest  ns  in  the  feelings  of  ti 
:  humble  and  obscure,  will  usually  call  fo: 
'  more  deep,  more  numerous,  and  niore  pern 
I  nent  emotions,  than  can  ever  be  excited 
the  fate  of  princesses  and  heroes.     Indi 
]  dent  of  the  circumstances  to  which  we 
;  already  alluded,  there  are  causes  which  m 
us  at  all  times  more  ready  to  enter  into 
i  feelin<;s  of  the  humble,  than  of  the  exaM 
:  part  of  our  species.     Our  sympathy  \\  ith  ih 
'  enjoyments  is  enhanced  by  a  certain  mixti 
:  of  pity  for  their  general  condition,  which. 
I  purifying  it  from  that  taint  of  envy  wIli  li 
most  always  adheres  to  our  admiration  ol 
great,  renders  it  more  welcome  and  .satisft 
toi-y  to  our  bosoms  :  while  our  concern  for^ 
n^nering"  is  at  once  softened  and  endeajiSdl 


CR ABBE'S  BOROUGH. 


3J?9 


us.  by  the  recollection  of  our  own  exemption 
from  them,  and  by  the  feeling,  that  we  fre- 
quently have  it  in  our  power  to  relieve  them. 
From  the-se,  and  from  other  cau.ses,  it  ap- 
pears to  us  to  be  certain,  that  where  subjects, 
taken  from  humble  life,  can  be  made  sutii- 
ciently  interesting  to  overcome  the  distaste 
and  the  prejudices  with  which  the  usages  of 
polished  society  too  generally  lead  us  to  re- 
gard them,  the  interest  which  they  excite  will 
commonly  be  more  profound  and  more  lasting 
than  any  that  can  be  raised  upon  loftier 
themes  •  ami  the  poet  of  the  Village  and  the 
Borough  be  oftener.  and  longer  read,  than  the 
poet  of  the  Court  or  the  Camp.  The  most 
[popular  passages  of  Shakespeare  and  Cowper, 
we  think,  are  of  this  description:  and  there  is 
much,  both  in  the  volume  before  us,  and  in 
Mr.  Crabbe"s  former  publications,  to  which 
we  might  now  venture  to  refer,  as  proofs  of 
the  same  doctrine.  When  such  representa- 
tions have  once  made  an  impression  on  the 
iraatiination.  they  are  remembered  daily,  and 
for  ever.  VVe  can  neither  look  around,  nor 
within  us,  without  being  reminded  of  their 
truth  and  their  importance  j  and,  while  the 
more  brilliant  effusions  of  romantic  fancy  are 
recalled  only  at  long  intervals,  and  in  rare 
situations,  we  feel  that  we  cannot  walk  a  step 
from  our  own  doors,  nor  cast  a  glance  back  on 
3ur  departed  years,  without  being  indebted  to 
the  poet  of  vulgar  life  for  some  striking  image 
or  touching  reflection,  of  which  the  occasions 
were  always  before  us,  but — till  he  tauaht  us 
how  to  improve  them — were  almost  always 
allowed  to  escape. 

■  Such,  we  conceive,  are  some  of  the  advan- 
:ages  of  the  subjects  which  iVIr.  Crabbe  has 
in  a  great  measure  introduced  into  modern 
Doetry : — and  such  the  grounds  upon  which 
|A-e  venture  to  predict  the  durability  of  tlie 
reputation  which  he  is  in  the  couise  of  ac- 
[juiring.  That  they  have  their  disadvantages 
jilso.  is  obvious:  and  it  is  no  less  obvious,  that 
It  is  to  these  we  must  ascribe  the  greater  part  | 
j)f  the  faults  and  deformities  with  which  this  [ 
(luthor  is  fairly  chargeable.  The  two  great 
i^rrors  into  which  he  has  fallen,  are — that  he 
iias  described  many  things  not  worth  describ- 
ing;— and  that  he  has  frequently  excited  dis- 
jrust;  instead  of  pity  or  indignation,  in  the 
|>reasts  of  his  readers.  These  faults  are  ob- 
,'ious — and,  we  believe,  are  popularly  laid  to 
iiis  charge  :  Yet  there  is,  in  so  far  as  we  have 
i'bservcd,  a  degree  of  misconce})tion  as  to  the 
|rue  grounds  and  limits  of  the  charge,  which 
xe  think  it  worth  while  to  take  this  opportu- 
ity  of  correcting. 
.:  The  poet  of  humble  life  mtiM  describe  a 
aeat  deal — and  must  even  describe,  minutely, 
iiany  things  which  possess  in  themselves  no 
jeauty  or  grandeur.  The  reader's  fancy  must 
|e  awaked — and  the  power  of  his  own  pencil 
displayed: — a  distinct  locality  and  imaginary 
Jality  must  be  given  to  his  characters  and 
, gents:  and  the  ground  colour  of  their  com- 
iion  condition  must  be  laid  in,  before  his  pe- 
ialiar  and  selected  groups  can  be  presented 
lith  any  effect  or  advantage.  In  the  same 
j  a}-,  he  must  study  characters  with  a  minute 


and  anatomical  precision ;  and  must  make 
both  hmiself  and  his  readers  familiar  with  the 
ordinary  traits  and  general  family  features  of 
ihe  beings  among  whom  they  are  to  move,  be- 
fore they  can  either  understand,  or  take  much 
interest  in  the  individuals  w  ho  are  to  engross 
their  attention.  Thus  far,  there  is  no  excess 
or  unnecessary  minuteness.  But  this  faculty 
of  observation,  and  this  power  of  description, 
hold  out  great  temptations  to  go  furthei. 
Tlu're  is  a  pride  and  a  delight  in  the  exeicise 
of  all  peculiar  power;  and  the  poet,  who  has 
learned  to  describe  external  objects  exqui- 
sitely, with  a  view  to  heighten  the  effect  of 
his  m.oral  designs,  and  to  draw  cliaraclers 
with  accuracy,  to  help  forward  the  interest  or 
the  pathos  of  the  picture,  will  be  in  great;  dan- 
ger of  describing  scenes,  and  drawing  char- 
acters, for  no  other  purpose,  but  to  indulge  his 
taste,  and  to  display  his  talents.  It  cannot  be 
denied,  we  think,  that  Mr.  Crabbe  has,  on 
many  occasions,  yielded  to  this  temptation. 
He  is  led  away,  every  now  and  then,  by  his 
lively  conception  of  external  objects,  and  by 
his  nice  and  sagacious  observation  of  human 
character;  and  v/antons  and  luxuriates  in  de- 
scriptions and  moral  portrait  painting,  wliile 
his  readers  are  left  to  wonder  to  what  end  so 
much  industry  has  been  exerted. 

His  chief  fault,  however,  is  his  frequent 
lapse  into  disgusting  representations ;  and 
this,  we  will  confess,  is  an  error  for  which  we 
find  it  far  more  difficult  either  to  account  or 
to  apologise.  VVe  are  not,  however,  of  the 
opinion  which  we  have  often  heard  stated, 
that  he  has  represented  human  nature  under 
too  unfavourable  an  aspect ;  or  that  the  dis- 
taste which  his  poetry  sometimes  produces, 
is  owing  merely  to  the  painful  nature  of  the 
scenes  and  subjects  with  which  it  abounds. 
On  the  contrary,  we  think  he  has  given  a  just- 
er,  as  well  as  a  more  striking  picture,  of  the 
true  character  and  situation  of  the  lower  or- 
ders of  this  country,  than  any  other  writer, 
whether  in  verse  or  in  prose;  and  that  he  has 
made  no  more  use  of  painful  emotions  than 
was  necessary  to  the  production  of  a  pathetic 
effect. 

All  powerful  and  pathetic  poetry,  it  is  ob-i 
vious,  abounds  in  images  of  distress.  Thej 
delight  which  it  bestows  partakes  strongly  of 
pain ;  and,  by  a  sort  of  contradiction,  which 
has  long  engaged  the  attention  of  the  reflect- 
ing, the  compositions  that  attract  us  most 
powerfully,  and  detain  us  the  longest,  are 
those  that  produce  in  us  most  of  the  effects  of 
actual  suffering  and  wretchedness.  The  so- 
lution of  this  paradox  is  to  be  found,  we  think, 
in  the  simple  fact,  that  pain  is  a  far  stronger 
sensation  than  pleasure,  in  human  existence; 
and  that  the  cardinal  virtue  of  all  things  that 
are  intended  to  delight  the  mind,  is  to  produce 
a  strong  sensation.  Life  itself  appears  to  con- 
sist in  sensation;  and  the  universal  passion 
of  all  beings  that  have  life,  seems  to  be.  lb;it 
they  should  be  made  intensely  conscious  oi 
it;  by  a  succession  of  powerful  and  engrossing 
emotions.  All  the  mere  gratifications  or  natu- 
ral pleasnres  that  are  in  the  power  even  of  the 
most  fortunate,  are  quite  insufficient  to  fill  this 


390 


POETRY. 


vast  craving  for  sensation  :  And  accordingly, 
we  see  every  day,  that  a  more  violent  stimu- 
lus is  sought  for  by  those  who  have  attained 
the  vulgar  heights  of  life,  in  the  pains  and 
dangers  of  war — the  agonies  of  gaming — or 
the  feverish  toils  of  ambition.  To  ihose  who 
have  tasted  of  those  potent  cups,  where  the 
bitter,  however,  so  obviously  predominate.**, 
the  security,  the  comforts,  and  what  are  call- 
ed the  enjoyments  of  common  life,  are  intol- 
erably insipid  and  disgusting.  Nay,  we  think 
we  have  observed,  that  even  those  who.  with- 
out any  effort  or  exertion,  have  experienced 
unusual  misery,  frequently  appear,  in  like 
manner,  to  acquire  a  .sort  of  taste  or  craving 
for  it;  and  come  to  look  on  the  tranquillity  of 
ordinary  life  with  a  kind  of  indilference  not 
unmingled  with  contempt.  It  is  certain,  at 
least,  that  they  dwell  with  most  apparent  satis- 
faction on  the  memory  of  those  days,  which 
have  been  marked  by  the  deepest  and  most 
agonising  sorrows;  and  derive  a  certain  de- 
light from  the  recollections  of  those  over- 
whelming sensations  which  once  occasioned 
so  fierce  a  throb  in  the  languishing  pulse  of 
their  existence. 

If  any  thing  of  this  kind,  however,  can  be 
traced  in  real  life — if  the  passion  for  emotion 
be  so  strong  as  to  carry  us.  not  in  imagination, 
but  in  reality,  over  the  rough  edge  of  present 
pain — it  will  not  be  difficult  to  explain,  why  it 
should  be  so  attractive  in  the  copies  and  fic- 
tions of  poetry.  There,  as  in  real  life,  the 
great  demand  is  for  emotion  ;  while  the  pain 
with  which  it  may  be  attended,  can  scarcely, 
by  any  possibility,  exceed  the  limits  of  en- 
durance. The  recollection,  that  it  is  hut  a 
copy  and  a  fiction,  is  quite  snflicient  to  keep  it 
down  to  a  moderate  temperature,  and  to  make 
it  welcome  as  the  sign  or  the  harbinger  of  that 
agitation  of  which  the  soul  is  avaricious.  It 
is  not,  then,  from  any  peculiar  quality  in  pain- 
ful emotions  that  they  become  capable  of 
afi^ording  the  delight  which  attends  them  in 
tragic  or  pathetic  poetry — but  merely  from  the 
circumslurice  of  their  being  more  intense  and 
powerful  than  any  other  emotions  of  which 
the  mind  is  susceptible.  If  it  was  the  consti- 
tution of  our  nature  to  feel  joy  as  keenly,  or  to 
sympathise  with  it  as  heartily  as  we  do  with 
sorrow,  we  have  no  doubt  that  no  other  sensa- 
tion would  ever  be  intentionally  excited  by 
the  arti.sts  that  minister  to  delight.  But  the 
fact  is.  that  the  pkasitres  of  which  we  are  ca- 
pable are  slight  and  feeble  compared  with/Ac 
pains  that  we  may  endure:  and  that,  feeble 
as  they  are,  the  sympathy  which  they  e.xcite 
falls  much  more  .short  of  the  original  emotion. 
When  the  object,  therefore,' is  to  obtain  sen- 
.eation,  there  can  be  no  doubt  to  which  of  the 
two  fountains  we  should  repair;  and  if  there 
be  but  few  pains  in  real  life  which  are  not,  in 
some  measure,  endeared  to  us  by  Ihe  emo- 
tions with  which  ihcy  are  attended,  we  may 
be  pretty  sure,  lliat  the  more  di.stress  we  in- 
troduce into  poetry,  th«>  more  we  shall  rivet 
the  attention  and  attract  the  admiration  of  the 
reader. 

There  is  but  one  exception  to  ih's  lulf — 
and  it  brings  us  back  from  the  apology  of  Mr. 


Crabbe.  to  his  condemnation.  Every  form  of 
distress,  whether  it  proceed  from  passion  or 
from  fortune,  and  whether  it  fall  upon  vice  ori 
virtue,  adds  to  the  interest  and  the  charm  of 
poetry — except  only  that  which  is  coBhected 
with  ideas  of  Disgust — the  least  taint  of  which 
disenchants  the  whole  scene,  and  puts  an  end 
both  to  delight  and  sympathy.  13ut  what  isi 
it,  it  may  be  asked,  that  is  the  proper  object) 
of  disgust?  and  what  is  the  precise  descrip-l 
tion  of  things  w  hich  we  think  ]\lr.  Crabbe  sol 
inexcusable  for  admitting  ?  It  is  not  easy  tbi 
define  a  term  at  once  so  simple  and  so  signifi- 
cant: but  it  may  not  be  without  its  use,  t» 
indicate,  in  a  general  way,  our  c 
its  true  force  and  comprehensioi 

It' is  needless,  we  suppose,  to  explain  what 
are  the  objects  of  disgust  in  physical  or  exter-i 
nal  existences.  These  are  sufiiciently  plain  an " 
unequivocal :  and  it    is  universally  admitted 
that  all  mention  of  them  must  be  carefully  ex. 
eluded  from  every  poetical  description 
regard,  again,  to  tinman  characler.  action,  ajik*™!,-  , 
feeling,  we  should  be  inclined  to  term  every     f^J 
thing  disgusting,  which  represented  misery^     * 
without  making  any  appeal   to  our  love,  res- 
pect, or  admiration.     If  the  surt'ering  persOT         .  , 
be  amiable,  the  delightful  feeling  of  love  aiUW.""? 
afTrction  tempers  the  pain  which  the  contei 
plation  of  su  fie  ring  has  a  tendency  to  exci.,,^  ,. 
and  enhances  it  into  the  stronger,  and  iherei-     J'  ?; 

If     kf, 


fore  more  attractive,  sen 
there  be  crreat 


I  dale 


iiwnler 
tfh: 


m 

(odoot 

foi 
telkt 
uJof; 


ation   of  pity 
uiic-ic  LPc  g.cai  power  or  energy.  nowL,v.^, 
united  to  guilt  or  wretchedness,  the  mixtureW^  ,!. 
of  admiration  exalts  the  emotion  into  som 
thing  that  is  sublime  and  pleasing:  and  even 
in  cases  of  mean  and  atrocious,  but  efficieni 
iruilt,   our  sympathy  with  the  victims  u 
whom  it  ispractised.andouractiveindignatii 
and  desire  of  vengeance,  reconcile  us  to  th 
humiliating  display,  and  make  a  compound' 
that,  upon  the  whole,  is  productive  of  pleasure, 
The  onlj-  sufiVrers,  then,  upon  whom  wCi 
cannot  bear  to  look,  are  those  that  excite  paf 
by  their  wn-etchedness.  while  they  are  too  di 
piaved  to  be  the  objects  of  afiection,  and  t 
weak  and  insignificant  to  be  ihe  causes 
misery  to  others,  or,  con.'<equently,  of  indigna- 
tion  to  the  spectators.    Such  are  the  depraved 
abject,  diseased,  and  neglected    poor — crea^ 
tures  in  whom  every  thing  amiable  or  rei 
pectable  hns  been  extinguished  by  sordid  _ 
sions  or  brulal  debauchery: — who  have 
means  of  doing  the  mischief  of  which  thejl' 
are  capable — whom  every  one  despises,  anr. 
no  one  can  either  love  or  fear.     On  the  char 
aclers,   the  miseries,  and   the  vices  of  sucl 
beings,   we  look  with  disgust   meiely:  and 
though  it  mav  perhaps  serve  some  moral  pur^ 
pose,  occasionally  1o  .set  before  us  this  hui 
liating  spectacle   of  human  nature  sunk  tr 
utter  woithle.ssness  and   insignificance,  it  ii 
altogether  in  vain  to  think  of  exciting  eithe 
pity  or  honor,  by  the  truest  and  most  forcibJi 
representations   of  their-  suflerings   or   thei 
enormities.     They  have  no  hold  upon  any  olj 
the  feelings  that  lead  us  to  take  ai^  interest' 
our    fellow-creatures: — we  turn   away  fi 
them,  therefore,  with  loathirg  and  dis}  assior^ 
ale  aversion  ; — we  t'eil  our  imaginations  po' 


Nate- 

[Ife  licit 

■ciui; 

\k 

■  I 

lb 

,*iw 

"iiiellB 


CRABBES  BOROUGH. 


391 


luted  by  the  intrusion  of  any  images  con- 
nected with  them;  and  are  offeuded  and 
disgusted  when  we  are  forced  to  look  closely 
upon  those  festering  heaps  of  moral  tilth  and 
corruption. 

It  is  with  concern  we  add,  that  we  know  no 
iwriter  who  has  sinned  so  deeply  in  this  re- 
^spect  as.JMr.  Crabbe — who  has  so  often  pre- 
i^eiited  us  with  spectacles  which  it  is  purely 
painful  and  degiading  to  contemplate,  and 
bestowed  such  powers  of  conception  and  ex- 
pression in  giving  us  distinct  ideas  of  what 
we  nuisl  ever  abhor  to  remember.  If  Mr. 
Crabbe  had  been  a  person  of  ordinary  talents. 
we  might  have  accounted  for  his  error,  in 
■•onie  degree,  by  supposing,  that  his  frequent 
,>uccess  in  treating  of  subjects  which  had  been 
.jsually  rejected  by  other  poets,  had  at  length 
ed  him  to  disregard,  altogether,  the  common 
mpressionsof  mankind  as  to  what  was  allow- 
ible  and  what  inadmissible  in  poetry  ;  and  to 
•eckon  the  unalterable  laws  by  which  nature 
las  regulated  our  sympathies,  among  the 
prejudices  by  Mhich  they  were  shackled  and 
mpaired.  It  is  ditficult,  however,  to  conceive 
,iow  a  writer  of  his  quick  and  exact  observa- 
tion should  have  failed  to  perceive,  that  there 
|S  not  a  single  instance  of  a  serious  interest 
;)eing  excited  by  an  object  of  disgust:  and 
hat  Shakespeare  himself,  who  has  ventured 
•very  thing,  has  never  ventured  to  shock  our 
eeliiigs  with  the  crimes  or  the  sufferings  of 
leiu^is  absolutely  without  power  or  principle, 
independent  of  universal  practice,  too,  it  is 
,till  more  difiicult  to  conceive  how  he  should 
iiave  overlooked  the  reason  on  which  this 
liractice  is  founded;  for  though  it  be.gener- 
■  lly  true,  that  poetical  representations" of  suf- 
fering and  of  guilt  produce  emotion,  and  con- 
equently  delight,  yet  it  certainly  did  not 
;equire  the  penetration  of  Mr.  Crabbe  to  dis- 
over,  that  there  is  a  degree  of  depravity 
vhich  counteracts  our  sympathy  with  sufler- 
pg,  and  a  degree  of  insignificance  which  ex- 
jinguishes  our  interest  in  guilt.  We  abstain 
|rora  giving  any  extracts  in  .support  of  this 
jecusation  :  but  those  who  have  perused  the 
[olume  before  us,  will  have  already  recol- 
lected the  .story  of  Frederic  Thompson,  of 
|.bel  Keene,  of  Blaney,  of  Benbow,  and  a 
lood  part  of  those  of  Grimes  and  Ellen  Orford 
;-hesi(les  many  shorter  passages.  It  is  now 
I  me.  however,  to  give  the  reader  a  more 
.articular  account  of  the  work  which  contains 
pem. 

j  The  Borough  of  Mr.  Crabbe,  then,  is  a 
ietailed  and  minute  account  of  an  ancient 
inglish  sea-port  town,  of  the  middling  order; 
Jiitaining  a  series  of  pictures  of  its  scener}-, 
ml  of  the  different  classes  and  occupations 
|f  its  inhabitants.  It  is  thrown  into  the  form 
|f  letters,  though  without  any  attemjit  at  the 
jpi.stolary  character;  and  treats  of  the  vicar 
(ud  curate — the  sectaries — the  attornies — the 
ipothecaries :  and  the  inns,  clubs,  and  stroll- 
|ig-playerS;  that  make  a  figure  in  the  place: 
|-but  more  particularly  of  the  poor,  and  their 
haracters  and  treatment ;  and  of  almshouses, 
lisoiis,  and  schools.  There  is.  of  course,  no 
,uity  or  method  in  the  poem — which  consists 


altogether  of  a  succession  of  unconnected 
descriptions,  and  is  still  more  miscellaneous 
in  reality,  than  would  be  conjectured  from  the 
titles  of  its  twenty-four  separate  compart- 
ments. As  it  does  not  admit  of  analysis, 
therefore,  or  even  of  a  much  more  particular 
description,  we  can  only  give  our  readers  a 
just  idea  of  its  c.vecution,  by  extracting  a 
few  of  the  passages  that  appear  to  us  most 
characteristic  in  each  of  the  many  styles  it 
exhibits. 

One  of  the  first  that  strikes  us,  is  the 
tbllowing  very  touching  and  beautiful  picture 
of  innocent  love,  misfortune  and  resignation — 
all  of  them  taking  a  tinge  of  additional  sweet- 
ness and  tenderness  from  the  humble  con- 
dition of  the  parties;  and  thus  affording  a 
striking  illustration  of  the  remarks  we  have 
ventured  to  make  on  the  advantages  of  such 
subjects.  The  passage  occurs  in  the  second 
letter,  where  the  author  has  been  surveying, 
with  a  glance  half  pensive  and  half  sarcasti- 
cal,  the  monuments  erected  in  the  churchyard. 
He  then  proceeds  : — 

"  Yes  !  there  are  real  Mourners — I  have  seen 
A  fair  sad  (iirl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claini'd, 
And  to  tie  useful  as  resigti'd  she  aini'd  ; 
Neatly  she  dress'd,  nor  vainly  seeni'd  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect ; 
But  when  her  wearied  Parents  sunk  to  sleep, 
She  sought  this  place  to  meditate  and  weep; 
7'hen  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  display'd, 
'I'hat  faithful  Meinory  brings  to  Sorrow's  aid : 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  Youth, 
Her  lender  trust,  fuid  his  unquestion'd  truth  ; 
In  ev'ry  place  she  wander'd,  where  they'd  been. 
And  sadly-sacred  held  the  pariing-scene 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave  ; — that  place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace,"  <Scc. 

"  Happy  he  sail'd  ;  and  great  the  care  she  took, 
That  he  should  softly  sleep,  and  smartly  look; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
U"as  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck; 
And  every  comfort  Men  at  Sea  can  know, 
^Vas  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow : 
For  he  to  Greenland  sail'd,  and  much  she  told. 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's  cold  ; 
Yet  saw  not  danger;  dangers  he'd  withstood, 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  Fever  in  his  blood  : 
His  Messmates  smil'd  at  flushings  in  his  cheek. 
And  he  too  smil'd.  hut  seldom  would  he  speak; 
For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain. 

"  He  cali'd  his  friend,  and  prefac'd  vvitli  a  sigh 
.•\  Lover's  message — '  Thomas  !  I  must  die  ! 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally  !  and  could  rest 
IMy  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 
.A.nd  gazing  20! — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say  till  death,  I  wore  it  for  her  sake  : 
Yes  I  I  nnist  die  !  blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on  ! 
Give  me  one  look,  before  my  life  be  gone, 
Oh  !  2ive  me  that  !  and  let  nie  not  despair — 
One  last  fond  look  I — and  now  repeat  the  prayer.' 

"  He  had  his  wish;  had  more;  I  will  not  paint 
The  Lover's  meeting:  she  beheld  him  faint — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view. 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
He  tried  to  smile,  and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
'  Yes  !  I  must  die  ; — and  hope  for  ever  fled  I 

"Still   long   she  nurs'd   him;   tender   thoughts 
meantime 
Were  interchang'd,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die  ;  and  every  day 
She  look  some  portion  of  the  dread  away  ! 
With  him  she  pray'd,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 
Sooth'd  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head : 


392 


POETRY 


She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer ; 
Apart  she  sijjh'd  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear  ; 
Then,  as  H"  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  L'ilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

"  One  day  he  lighter  seem'd.  and  ihey  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot ; 
They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seem'd  to  think. 
Yet  said  not  so — '  perhaps  he  will  not  sink.' 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appear'd, — 
A  sudden  vignur  in  his  voice  was  heard  ; 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  Book  of  Prayer, 
And  led  him  fortli.  and  plac'd  him  in  his  chair; 
Lively  he  seem'd,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew. 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favourite  few; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 
But  slie  has  treasur'd,  and  she  loves  them  all ; 
Wheri  ill  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people — death  has  made  them  dear! 
He  nam'd  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  prest, 
And  fondly  whisper'd,   '  Thou  must  go  to  rest.' 
'  I  go  !'  he  said  ;  but,  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  flutt'ring  was  the  sound  ; 
Then  gaz'd  afTrighten'd;  but  she  caught  at  last 
A  dying  look  of  love — and  all  was  past ! — 

"  She  plac'd  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above. 
Neatly  engrav'd — an  offering  of  her  Love  ; 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  ihe  dead  ; 
She  would  have  griev'd,  had  friends  presum'd  to 

spare 
The  least  assistance — 'twas  her  proper  care. 

"  Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit, 
Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit  ; 
But  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round, 
And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found  ; 
Then  come  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ, 
While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy." 
pp.  23—27. 

There  is  a  passage  in  the  same  tone,  in  the 
letter  on  Prisons.  It  describes  the  dream  of 
a  felon  under  sentence  of  death ;  and  thouirh 
the  exquisite  accuracy  and  beauty  of  the 
landscape  painting  are  such  as  must  have 
recommended  it  to  notice  in  poetry  of  any 
order,  it  seems  to  us  to  derive  an  uspeakable 
charm  from  the  lowly  simplicity  and  humble 
content  of  the  characters — at  least  we  can- 
not conceive  any  walk  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
tliat  should  furnish  out  so  sweet  a  picture  as 
terminates  the  following  extract.  It  is  only 
doing  Mr.  Crabbe  justice  to  present  along 
with  it  a  part  of  the  dark  foreground  which 
he  has  drawn,  in  the  waking  existence  of  the 
poor  dreamer. 

"  When  first  I  came 
Within  his  view,  I  fancied  there  was  shame, 
I  judg'd  Resentment ;  1  mistook  the  air — 
These  fainter  passions  live  not  with  Despair ; 
Or  but  e.xist  and  die : — Hope,  Fear  and  Love, 
Joy,  Doubt,  and  Hale,  may  other  spiri's  move. 
But  touch  not  his,  who  every  waking  hour 
Has  one  fix'd  dread,  and  always  feels  its  power. 
fie  takes  his  tasteless  food;  and,  when  'tis  done, 
Counts  up  his  meals,  now  lessen'd  by  that  one  ; 
For  Expectation  is  on  Time  intent. 
Whether  he  brings  us  Joy  or  Punishment. 

"  Yes!  e'en  in  sleep  tli'  impressions  all  remain; 
He  hears  the  sentence,  and  he  feels  the  chain  ; 
He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to  see. 
And  dreams  the  very  thirst  which  then  will  be! 
A  priest  attends — it  seems  the  one  he  knew 
In  his  best  days,  beneath  whose  care  he  grew. 

"  At  this  his  terrors  take  a  sudden  flight — 
He  sees  his  native  villaere  with  delight ; 
The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he  once  array'd 
His  youthful  person  :  w^here  he  knelt  and  pray'd  : 
Then  too  the  comforts  he  enjoy'd  at  home. 
The  days  of  joy  ;  the  joys  themselves  are  come ; — 


The  hours  of  innocence  ; — the  timid  look 
Of  his  lov'd  maid,  when  first  her  hand  he  took  • 
And  told  his  hope  ;  her  trembling  joy.  appears, 
Her  forc'd  reserve,  and  his  retreating  fears. 

"Yes!  all  are  with  him  now.  and  all  the  whih 
Life's  early  prospects  and  his  Fanny  smile  : 
Then  come  his  sister  and  his  village  friend. 
And  he  will  now  the  sweetest  moments  spend 
Life  has  to  yield : — No  1   never  will  he  find 
Again  on  earth  such  pleasure  in  his  mind,   [anion;', 
He   goes   through   shrubby    walks    these    frienc]' 
Love  in  their  looks  and  pleasure  on  the  tongue. 
Pierc'd  by  no  crime,  and  urg'd  by  no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts  require, 
They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus  proceed        ij 
Through  the  green  lane, — then  linger  in  the  mead,-'d 
Stray  o'er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple  bloom, 
And  pluck  the  blossom  where  the  wild-bees  hur 
Then  through  the  broomy  bound  with  ease  the 

pass, 

And  press  the  sandy  sheep-walk's  slender  grass,! 
Where  dwarfish  flowers  among  the  gorse  arespre 
AjkI  the  himb  brou-ea  hq  the  hnneCf  led!  [v 

Then  'cross  the  bounding  brook  ihey  make  th 
O'er  its  rough  bridge — and  there  behold  the  bay! 
The  ocean  smiling  to  the  fervid  sun — 
The  waves  that  faintly  tall  and  slowly  run — 
The  ships  at  distance,  and  the  boats  at  hand : 
And  now  ihey  walk  upon  the  sea-side  sand, 
Ccuinting  the  number,  and  what  kind  ihey  be, 
Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea: 
Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they  behold 
The  glitt'ring  waters  on  the  shingles  roll'd  : 
The  timid  girls,  half  dreading  their  design, 
Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  retarded  brine. 
And  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which  spreadin 
Or  lie  like  pictures  on  the  sand  below ;  [flo 

With  all  those  brioht  red  pebbles,  that  the  sun 
Through  the  small  waves  so  softly  shines  upon  ; 
And  those  live  lucid  jellies  which  the  eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  iliey  swim  glin'ring  by  : 
Pearl-shells  and  rubied  star-fish  they  admire, 
And  will  arrange  above  the  parlour  fire — 
Tokens  of  bhss'."— pp.  323—326. 

If  these  extracts  do  not  make  the  read^ 
feel  how  deep  and  peculiar  an  interest 
be  excited  by  humble  subjects,  we  shot 
almost  despair  of  bringing  hitn  over  to.O 
opinion,  even  by  Mr.  Crabbe's  inimitable  ' 
scription  and  pathetic  pleading  for  the  par 
poor.  The  subject  is  one  of  those,  wkicl 
many  will  appear  repulsive,  and,  to 
fastidioii.s  natures  perhaps,  disgusting, 
if  the  most  admirable  painting  of  extei 
objects — the  most  minute  and  thorough  kn<i 
ledge  of  human  character — and  that 
glow  of  active  and  rational  benevolence  wl 
lends  a  guiding  light  to  observation,  and  i 
enchanting  colour  to  eloquence,  can  entitle  j 
poet  to  praise,  as  they  do  entitle  him  to  mo 
substantia]  rewards,  we  are  persuailed 
the  following  passage  will  not  be  speedil| 
forgotten. 

"  Your  plan  1  love  not : — wi'h  n  number  yo« 
II:ive  plac'd  your  poor,  your  pitiable  few; 
There,  in  one  house,  for  all  their  lives  to  be. 
The  pauper-palace,  which  they  hale  to  see  ! 
Thai  giant  building,  that  hiu'h  bounding  wall. 
Those  bare-worn  walks,  that  lofty  ihund'ringhallj 
That   lartie   loud  clock,  which  tolls  each  dreade 

hour. 
Those  gates  and  locks,  and  all  those  signs  of  po^ 
It  is  a  pri.son.  wiih  a  milder  name. 
Which  few  inhabit  without  dread  or  shame.' 

"  Alas  !  their  sorrows  in  their  bosoms  dwell. 
They've  much  to  suffer,  but  have  nought  to  tell 
They  have  no  evil  in  the  place  to  state. 
And  dare  not  say,  it  is  the  house  they  bate : 


CRABBES  BOROUGH. 


hey  own  there's  grantpd  all  such  place  can  give, 
ut  live  repining, — for  'tit)  there  they  hve  !  [see, 
"  Grandsires  are  there,  who  now  no  more  must 

0  more  must  nurse  upon  the  irembHiig  knee, 
he  lost  lov'd  daughter's  irjfant  progeny  ! 

ike  death's  dread  mansion,  this  allows  not  place 
or  joylul  meetings  ol'  a  kindred  race. 
'■  Is  not  the  inairon  there,  to  whom  the  son 
,''as  wont  at  each  declining  day  to  rim  ; 
e  (when  his  toil  was  over)  gave  delight, 
y  lifting  up  the  latch,  and  one  '  (Jood  night  ?' 
es,  she  is  here  ;  but  nightly  to  her  door 
he  son,  still  lab' ring,  can  return  no  more. 
"  Widows  are  here,  who  in  their  huts  were  left, 
f  hu.-<ba!ids.  children,  plenty,  ease,  bereft; 
et  all  that  grief  within  the  humble  shed 
I'as  sofien'd,  softeii'd  in  the  humbled  bed  : 
ut  here,  in  all  its  force,  remains  the  grief, 
nd  not  one  sott'ning  object  for  relief. 
"  Who   can,  when  here,  the   social   neighbour 
'ho  learn  the  story  current  in  the  street  ?   [meet  ? 
'^ho  to  the  long-known  intimate  impart 
Ids  they  have  learn'd,  or  feelings  of  the  heart  ? — 
hey  talk,  indeed;  but  %vho  can  choose  a  friend, 
rseek  companions,  at  their  journey's  end?" — 
"  What,  if  no  grievous  fears  ijieir  hves  annoy, 
it  not  worse,  no  prospects  to  enjoy  ? 
"is  cheerless  living  in  such  bounded  view, 
'iih  nothing  dreadful,  but  with  nothing  new; 
othiiiL^  to  bring  them  joy,  (o  make  them  weep — 
he  day  itself  is,  like  the  night,  asleep; 
roll  the  sameness,  if  a.  break  be  made, 
'is  by  some  pauper  to  his  grave  convey 'd  ; 
y  smuggled  news  from  neighb'ring  village  told, 
ews  never  true,  or  truth  a  twelvemonth  old! 
/  some  new  inmate  doom'd  with  them  to  dwell,' 
r  justii'e  come  to  see  that  all  goes  well  ; 
r  change  of  room,  or  hour  of  leave  to  crawl 
n  the  black  footway  winding  with  the  wall, 
'ill  the  siern  bell  forbids,  or  master's  sterner  call. 
"  Here  the  good  pauper,  loosing  all  the  praise 
•  worthy  deeds  acquir'd  in  better  da.ys, 
eathes  a  few  months;  then,  to  his  chamber  led, 
i:pires — while  strangers  prattle  round  his  bed." — 
)  pp.  241—244. 

iThese  we  take  to  be  specimens  of  Mr. 
fabbe's  best  style ; — but  he  has  great  variety ; 
land  some  readers  may  be  better  pleased 
'!th  his  satirical  vein — which  is  both  copious 
Li  oriiiiiial.  The  Vicar  is  an  admirable 
i'?tch  of  what  must  be  very  difficult  to  draw ; 
••1  good,  easy  man,  with  no  character  at  all. 
b  little,  humble  vanity; — his  constant  care 
1,'offend  no  one; — his  mawkish  and  feeble 
:'lantry — indolent  good  nature,  and  love  of 
[isippitig  and  triliing — are  all  very  exactly, 
bI  very  pleasingly  delineated. 
To  the  character  of  Blaney,  we  have  already 
piectetl,  as  offensive,  from  its  extreme  and 
iSotent  depravity.  The  first  part  of  his 
hitory,  however,  is  sketched  with  a  masterly 
hhd  ;  and  affords  a  good  specimen  of  that 
s  teiitious  and  antithetical  manner  by  which 
R.  Ciabbe  sometimes  reminds  us  of  the  style 
a  versification  of  Pope. 

Blaney.  a  wealthy  heir  at  twenty- one, 
A:wentv-five  was  ruin'd  and  undone  : 
i!se  years  with  grievous  crimes  we  need  not  load, 
nfonnd  his  ruin  in  the  common  road  ; 
unVi  without  skill,  without  inquiry  bought, 
Li  without  love,  and  bnrrow'd  without  thought. 
R .  srav  and  handsome,  he  had  soon  the  dower 
0;i  kind  wealthy  widow  in  his  power; 

1  n  hf'  nspir'd  to  loftier  flights  of  vice  ! 
1  rinrfii.g  harlots  of  enormous  price: 

A  took  a  jockey  in  his  gig  to  buy 
A,horsc,  so  valued,  that  a^duke  was  shy: 
i  50 


To  gain  the  plaudits  of  the  knowing  few. 
Gamblers  and   grooms,  what   wouid   not    Blaney 
do?"— 
"  Cruel  he  was  not. — If  he  left  his  wife, 
He  left  her  to  her  own  pursuits  in  life  ; 
Deaf  to  reports,  to  all  expenses  blind. 
Profuse,  not  just — and  careless  but  not  kind." 

pp.  193,  194. 

Clelia  is  another  worthless  character,  drawn 
with  infinite  spirit,  and  a  thorough  knowledge 
of  human  nature.  She  began  life  as  a  spright- 
ly, talking,  flirting  girl,  who  passed  for  a  wit 
and  a  beauty  in  the  half-bred  circles  of  the 
borough;  and  who.  in  laying  herself  out  to 
entrap  a  youth  of  better  condition,  unfortu- 
nately fell  a  victim  to  his  superior  art.  and 
forfeited  her  place  in  society.  She  then  be- 
came the  smart  mistress  of  a  dashing  attor- 
ney— then  tried  to  teach  a  school — lived  as 
the  favourite  of  an  innkeeper — let  lodgings — 
wrote  novels — set  up  a  toyshop — and,  finally, 
was  admitted  into  the  almshouse.  There  is 
nothing  very  interesting  perhaps  in  such  a 
story ;  but  the  details  of  it  show  the  wonderful 
accuracy  of  the  author's  observation  of  char- 
acter; and  give  it,  and  many  of  his  other 
piece-s,  a  value  of  the  same  kind  that  some 
pictures  are  thought  to  derive  from  the  truth 
and  minuteness  of  the  anatomy  which  they 
display.  There  is  something  original,  too, 
and  well  conceived,  in  the  tenacity  with  which 
he  represents  this  frivolous  person,  as  ad- 
heruig  to  her  paltry  characteristics,  under 
every  change  of  circumstances.  The  con- 
cluding view  is  as  follows. 

"  Now  friendless,  sick,  andold,and  wantingbread, 
The  first-born  tears  of  fallen  pride  were  shed — 
True,  bitter  tears  ;  and  yet  that  wounded  pride, 
Among  the  poor,  for  poor  distinctions  sigh'd  ! 
Thouiih  now  her  tales  were  to  her  audience  fit ; 
Though  loud  her  tones,  and  vulgar  grown  her  wit ; 
'rhough  now  her  dress — (but  let  ^ne  not  explain 

The  piteous  patchwork  of  the  needy  vain, 
The  fliriish  form  to  coarse  materials  lent. 
And  one  poor  robe  through  fifty  fashions  sent); 
Though  all  within  was  sad,  without  was  mean — 
Still  'twas  her  wish,  her  comfort  to  be  seen: 
She  would  to  plays  on  lowest  terms  resort. 
Where  once  her  box  was  to  the  beau.x  a  court  ; 
And,  strange  delight !  to  that  same  house,  where 
Join'd  in  the  dance,  all  gaiety  and  glee,  [she 

Now  with  the  menials  crowding  to  the  wall. 
She'd  see,  not  share,  the  pleasures  of  the  ball, 
And  with  degraded  vanity  unfold. 
How  she  too  triumph'd  in  the  years  of  old." 

pp.  209,  210. 

The  graphic  powers  of  Mr.  Crabbe,  indeed, 
are  too  frequently  wasted  on  unworthy  sub- 
jects. There  is  not,  perhaps,  in  all  English 
poetry  a  more  complete  and  highly  finished 
piece  of  painting,  than  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  a  vast  old  boarded  room  or  warehouse, 
which  was  let  out,  it  seems,  in  the  borough, 
as  a  kind  of  undivided  lodging,  for  beggars 
and  vagabonds  of  every  description .  No  Dutch 
painter  ever  presented  an  interior  more  dis- 
tinctly to  the  eye ;  or  ever  gave  half  such  a 
group  to  the  imagination. 

"  That  window  view  ! — oil'd  paper  and  old  glass 
Stain  the  strong  rays,  which,  though  impeded,  pass, 
And  give  a  dusty  warmth  to  that  huge  room. 
The  conquer'd  sunshine's  melancholy  gloom  j 


394 


POETRY. 


When  all  those  western  rays,  without  so  bright, 
Within  become  a  ghastly  giimm'ring  light, 
As  p:ile  ar.d  faint  upon  the  floor  ihey  fall, 
Or  leebly  gleam  on  the  opposiiiji  wall : 
That  floor,  <jnce  oak,  now  piec'd  with  fir  unplan'd, 
Or.  whcTe  not  piec'd,  m  places  bor'd  and  stain'd  ; 
That  wall  one*  wliiien'd,  now  an  odious  sight, 
Stain'd  with  nil  lines,  except  its  ancient  white. 

"  Where'er  the  floor  allows  an  even  space. 
Chalking  and  marks  of  various  games  have  place  ; 
Boys,  wTihoiit  foresight,  pleas'd  in  halters  swing! 
On  a  t'lx'd  hook  men  cast  a  Hying  ring  ; 
While  gin  and  snuff  their  female  neighbours  share. 
And  the  black  beverage  in  the  fractur'd  ware. 

"  On  swinginsisheU  are  things  incongruous  stor'd; 
Scraps  of  their  food — the  cards  and  cribbage  board — 
With  pipes  and  pouches;  while  on  peg  below. 
Hang  a  lost  member's  (iddle  and  its  bow  : 
That  still  reminds  them  how  he'd  dance  and  play. 
Ere  sent  untimely  to  the  Convict's  Bay  I 

"  Here  by  a  curtain,  by  a  blanket  there. 
Are  various  beds  conceal'd,  but  none  with  care; 
Where  some  by  day  and  some  by  night,  as  best 
Suit  their  emplovmenis,  seek  uncertain  rest; 
i'iie  drowsy  children  at  their  pleasure  creep 
To  the  known  crib,  and  there  securely  sleep. 

"  Each  end  contains  a  gra;e.  and  these  beside 
Are  hung  utensils  for  their  boii'd  and  Iry'd — 
All  ns'd  at  any  hour,  by  night,  by  day. 
As  suit  the  purse,  the  person,  or  the  i)rey. 

"  Above  the  fire,  the  mantel-shelf  contains 
Of  china-ware  some  poor  unmatcli'd  remains; 
There  many  a  tea-cup's  gaudy  fragment  stands, 
AH  plac'd  by  Vanity's  unwearied  hands  ; 
For  here  she  lives,  e'en  here  she  looks  about, 
To  fiid  small  some  consoling  objects  out. 

'■  High  hung  at  either  end.  and  next  the  wall. 
Two  ancient  mirrors  show  the  forms  of  all." 

pp.  24'.)— 251. 

The  followiiis  picttire  of  a  calm  sea  fog  is 
by  the  same  powerful  hand : — 

"  When  all  you  see  through  densest  fog  is  seen; 
When  you  can  hear  the  fishers  near  at  hand 
Distinctly  speak,  yet  see  not  where  they  stand  ; 
Or  sometimes  them  and  not  their  boat  discern, 
Or  half-conceal'd  .«oine  figure  at  the  stern  ; 
Boys  who,  on  shqre,  to  sea  the  pebble  east. 
Will  hear  it  strike  agninsi  the  viewless  mast  ; 
While  the  stern  boaiman  growls  his  fierce  disdain, 
At  whom  he  knows  not.  whom  he  threats  in  vain. 
"  'Tis  pleasant  then  to  view  the  nets  float  past, 
Net  after  net  till  you  have  seen  the  last ; 
And  as  you  wait  till  all  beyond  you  slip, 
A  boat  comes  gliding  from  an  anchor'd  ship, 
Breaking  the  silence  with  the  dipping  oar. 
And  their  own  tones,  as  labouring  for  the  shore  ; 
Those  measur'd  tones  wiiii  which  the  scene  agree. 
And  give  a  sadness  to  serenity. — pp.  123,  124. 

We  add  one  other  sketch  of  a  similar  char- 
acter, which  thonirh  it  be  introduced  as  the 
haunt  and  accompaniment  of  a  desponding 
spirit,  is  yet  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  singu 
lar  clearness  and  accuracy  with  which  it 
represents  the  dull  scenery  of  a  common  tide 
river.  The  author  is  speaking  of  a  solitary 
and  abandoned  fisherman,  who  was  com- 
pelled— 

-  *'  At  the  same  times  the  same  dull  views  to  .see, 
The  bounding  marsh-bnnk  and  the  blighted  tree  ; 
The  water  only,  when  the  tides  were  high. 
When  low,  the  mud  half-covered  and  half-dry; 
The  sun-huni'd  tar  that  blisters  on  the  planks, 
And  bank-side  stakes  in  their  uneven  ranks  : 
Heaps  of  entangled  weeds  that  slowly  float. 
As  the  tide  rolls  by  the  impeded  boat! 

"  When  tides  were  neap,  and.  in  the  sultry  day, 
ThroMuh  the  tall  bounding  miid-banks  made  their 
Which  on  each  side  rose  swelling,  and  below   [way. 


The  dark  warm  flood  ran  silently  and  slow  ; 
There  anchoring,  Peter  chose  from  man  to  hide, 
There  hang  his  head,  and  view  the  lazy  tide 
In  its  hot  slimy  channel  slowly  glide; 
Where  the  small  eels  that  left  the  deeper  way 
For  the  warm  shore,  within  the  shallows  play, 
Where  gaping  muscles,  left  upon  the  mud. 
Slope  their  slow  passage  to  the  fallen  flood  ; — 
Here  dull  and  hopeless  he'd  he  down  and  trace 
How  sidelong  crabs  had  scrawl'd  then-  crooked  ra< 
Or  sadly  listen  to  the  tuneless  cry 
Of  fishing  Gull  or  clanging  Goldtfi  Eye.'" 

pp.  305,  306 

Under  the  head  of  Amusements,  we  hav^ 
spirited  account  of  the  danger  and  escape 
a  j)art}-  of  pleasure,  who  landed,  in   a  fi 
evening,  on  a  low  sandy  island,  which 
covered  with  the  tide  at  high  water,  and 
left  upon  it  by  the  drifting  away  of  their  boJ 

"  On  the  bright  sand  ihev  irode  with  nimble  f© 
Dry  shelly  sand  thai  made  the  summer  seal ; 
The  wond'rinsr  mews  flew  flutt'ring  o'er  their  hfl      |(f|((|i( 
And  waves  ran  softly  up  their  shining  bed. "-p.  ) 


While  engaged  in  their  sports,  they  discoi 
their  boat  floating  at  a  distance,  and  are  strl 
with  instant  terror. 


"  Alas',  no  shout  the  distant  land  can  reach. 
Nor  eye  behold  them  from  the  foggy  beach  ; 
Again  they  join  in  one  loud  powerful  cry, 
Then  cease,  and  eager  listen  for  reply. 
None  came — the  rising  wind  blew  sadly  by. 
They  shout  once  more,  and  then  they  turn  ai 
To  see  how  quickly  flovv'd  the  coming  tide : 
Between  each  cry  they  find  the  waters  steal 
On  iheir  strange  prison,  and  new  horrors  feel 
Foot  after  foot  on  the  contracted  ground 
The  billows  tall,  and  dreadful  is  the  sound  ! 
I/Css  and  yet  less  the  sinking  isle  became. 
And  there  was  wailing,  weeping,  wrath,  and  b 
Had  one  been  there,  with  spirit  strong  and  h; 
Who  could  observe,  as  he  prepar'd  to  die. 
He  might  have  seen  of  hearts  the  varying  ki 
And  trac'd  the  movement  of  each  diflierent  r 
He  might  have  seen,  that  not  the  gentle  maid 
Was  more  than  stern  and  haughty  man  afraid," 

"  Now  rose  the  water  through  the  iess'nino 
.And  theyseem'd  sinking  while  tlicy  yet  could  sH 
The  sun  went  down,  they  look'd  irom  side  to  i 
Nor  aught  except  the  gath'ring  .'■ea  descry'd  : 
Dark  and  more  dark,  more  wet,  more  cold  it( 
And  the  most  Uvely  bade  to  hope  adieu  ; 
Children,  by  love,  then  lifted  from  the  seas, 
Felt  not  the  waters  at  the  parent's  knees, 
But  wept  aloud  ;  the  wind  increas'd  the  soun 
And  the  cold  billows  as  they  broke  around. 

But  hark  !  an  oar, 

That  sound  of  bliss  !  comes  dashing  to  ihein 
Still,  still  the  water  rises,  '  Haste  !'  they  cry,^ 
'Oh!  hurry,  seamen,  in  delay  we  die!' 
(Seamen  were  these  who  in  their  ship  perceiT'CJ 
The  drifted  boat,  and  thus  her  crew  relicv'd.) 
And  now  the  keel  just  cuts  the  cover'd  sand, 
Now  to  the  gunwale  stretches  every  hand  ; 
With  trembling  pleasure  all  confus'd  embark, 
And  kiss  the  tackling  of  their  welcome  ark  ; 
W'hile  the  most  giddy,  as  they  reach  the  shor 
Think  of  their  danger,  and  their  God  adore." 

pp.  Y2i-n 

In  the  letter  on  Education,  there  are  i 
fine  descrii)tions  of  boarding-schools  for  1 
sexes,  and  of  the  irksome  and  useless  restr 
which  they  impose  on  the  bounding 
and  open  afTections  of  early  yoiilh.     Tfiil 
followed  by  some  excellent  remaiks  on| 
ennui  which  so  often  falls  to  the  lot  ofj 
learned — or  that  description  at  least  of* 


is  oil 


Hiiril 

(«* 
;iiatto 
10  us  I 


iitliat 


;»illie£ 

6dHc 

Th 


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Mi. 
side  0 

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Sllvl 

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Nlie 


CRABBES  BOROUGH. 


395 


jarned  that  are  bred  in  English  univer- 
ities.  But  we  have  no  longer  left  room  for 
nv  considerable  extracts;  though  we  should 
a've  wished  to  lay  before  our  readers  some 
art  of  the  picture  of  the  secretaries — the  de- 
cription  of  the  inns — the  strolling  players — 
nd  the  clubs.  The  poor  man's  club;  which 
artakes  of  the  nature  of  a  friendly  society. 
>  described  with  that  good-hearted  indulgence 
,-hich  marks  all  Mr.  Crabbe's  writings. 

The  printed  rules  he  guards  in  painted  frame, 
And  shows  his  children  where  to  read  his  name." 

We  have  now  alluded,  we  believe,  to  what 
;  best  and  most  striking  in  this  poem  ;  and, 
lougli  we  do  not  mean  to  quote  any  part  of 
rhaf  we  consider  as  less  successful,  we  must 
ay,  that  there  are  large  portions  of  it  which 
ppear  to  us  considerably  inferior  to  most  of 
le  author's  former  productions.  The  letter 
n  the  Election,  we  look  on  as  a  complete 
lilure — or  at  least  as  containing  scarcely  any 
ling  of  what  it  ought  to  have  contained. — 
'he  letters  on  Law  and  Physic,  too,  are  tedi- 
us ;  and  the  general  heads  of  Trades,  Amuse- 
lents.  and  Hospital  Government,  by  no  means 
mnfiiis.  The  Parish  Clerk,  too,  we  find  dull. 
nd  without  eflect :  and  have  already  given 
ur  opinion  of  Peter  Grimes,  Abel  Keene,  and 
enbow.  We  are  struck,  also,  with  several 
missions  in  the  picture  of  a  maritime  borough. 
Ir.  Crabbe  might  have  made  a  great  deal  of 

press-gang;  and.  at  all  events,  should  have 
iveii  us  some  wounded  veteran  sailors,  and 
)me  voyasers  with  tales  of  wonder  from 
jireign  lands. 

i  The  style  of  this  poem  is  distinguished, 
Ike  all  r\ir.  Crabbe's  other  performances,  by 
leat  force  and  compression  of  diction — a  sort 
j"  sententious  brevity,  once  thought  essential 
!■  poetical  composition,  but  of  which  he  is 
|)vv  the  only  living  example.  But  though  this 
I  almost  an  unvarying  characteristic  of  his 
lyle,  it  appears  to  us  that  there  is  great 
'uiety.  and  even  some  degree  of  misteadi- 
pss  and  inconsistency  in  the  tone  of  his  ex- 
fession  and  versification.     His  taste  seems 

arcely  to  be  sufficiently  fixed  and  settled  as 
;  these  essential  particulars;  and,  along  with 
'certain  quaint,  broken,  and  harsh  manner 
'  his  own,  we  think  we  can  trace  very  fre- 
jient  imitations  of  poets  of  the  most  opposite 
iiaracter.  The  following  antithetical  and 
;.lf-punning  lines  of  Pope,  for  instance  : — 

!  'Sleepless  himself,  to  give  his  readers  sleep  ;" 


Whose  trifling  pleases,  and  whom  trifles  plenfe  ; — 
\ve  evidently  been  copied  by  Mr.  Crabbe  in 
te  following,  and  many  others  : — 

And  in  the  restless  ocean,  seek  for  rest."' 
'Denying  her  who  taught  thee  to  deny." 
'iJcrapinsr  they  liv'd,  but  not  a  scrap  they  gave." 
'3ound  for  a  friend,  whom  honour  could  not  bind." 
'Imong  the  poor,  for  poor  distinctions  sigh'd." 

In  the  same  way.  the  common,  nicely  bal- 
2;ed  line  of  two  members,  which  is  so  char- 
-J^erigtic  of  the  same   author,  has  obviously 


been  the  model  of  our  author  in  the  follow- 

nij3  • 

"  That  woe  could  wish,  or  vanity  devise." 

"  Sick  witliout  pity,  sorrowing  without  hope." 

"  Gloom  to  the  night,  and  pressure  to  the  chain" — 

and  a  great  multitude  of  others. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  appears  to  us  to  be 
freijuently  misled  by  Darwui  into  a  sort  of 
mock-heroic  magnificence,  upon  ordinary  oc- 
casions. The  poet  of  the  Garden,  for  instance, 
makes  his  nymphs 

"  Presen!  the  fragrant  quintessence  of  tea." 

And  the  poet  of  the  Dock-yards  makes  his 
carpenters 

"Spread  the  warm  pungence  ot  o'trboiling  tar." 

Mr.  Crabbe,  indeed,  dors  not  scruple,  on 
some  occasions,  to  adopt  the  mock-heroic  in 
good  earnest.  When  the  lai;dlord  of  the 
Grilfin  becomes  bankrupt,  he  says — 
"  The  insolvent  Griffin  struck  her  wings  sublime," 
and  introduces  a  very  serious  lamentation 
over  the  learned  poverty  of  the  curate,  with 
this  most  misplaced  piece  of  buffoonery  : — 

"  Oh  !  had  he  learn'd  to  make  the  wig  he  wears  !" 

One  of  his  letters,  too,  begins  with  this 
wretched  quibble — 

"  From  Law  to  Physic  stepping  at  our  ease, 
We  find  a  way  to  finisii — t)y  Degrets.'" 

There  are  many  imitations  of  the  peculiar 
rhythm  of  Goldsmith  and  Campbell,  too,  as 
our  readers  must  have  observed  in  some  of 
our  longer  specimens  ;  —  but  these,  though 
they  do  not  always  make  a  very  harmonious 
combination,  are  better,  at  all  events,  than 
the  tame  heaviness  and  vulgarity  of  such 
verses  as  the  following  : — 

"As  soon 

Could  lie  have  thought  gold  issued  from  the  moon." 

"A  seaman's  body — there'll  he  wore  to-night." 

"  Those  who  will  not  to  any  guide  submit. 
Nor  find  one  creed  to  iheir  concepiii>ns  fit — 
True  litdependrnls:   while  they  Ctilrin  hate. 
They  heed  as  little  what  Socltiians  siaie." — p.  54. 

"  Here  pits  of  crag,  with  spongy,  plashy  base, 
To  some  enrich  th'  unculiivaied  space,"  &c.  &c. 

Of  the  suddei,,  nar^h  turns,  and  broken  con- 
ciseness which  we  think  peculiar  to  himself, 
the  reader  may  take  the  following  speci- 
mens : — 

"  Has  yoiu'  wife's  brother,  or  )'0ur  uiu-le's  son, 
Done   aught    amiss;    or    is    he  thought  t'  have 
done  ?" 

"  Stepping  from  post  to  pnfit  he  rearh'd  the  chair ; 
And  there  he  now  refjoses  : — that's  the  Mayor  I" 

He  has  a  sort  of  jingle,  too,  which  we  think 
is  of  his  own  invention; — for  instance, 

"  For  forms  and  feasts  that  sundry  limes  have  past, 
And  formal  feasts  that  will  for  ever  last." 

"  We  term  it  free  and  easy;  and  yet  we 
Find  it  no  easy  matter  to  be  free." 

We  had  more  remarks  to  make  upon  the 
i  taste  and  diction  of  this  author  :  and  had  noted 
;  several  other  little  blemishes,  which  we  meant 


396 


POETRY. 


io  have  pointed  out  for  hiscoireciion:  but  we  i  mirable  account  in  maintaining  tke  interei 
have  no  longer  room  for  such  minute  criticism  and  enhancing  the  probabilitj-.  of  an  extend 
-from  which;  indeed,  neither  the  author  nor  train  of  adventures.  At  present,  it  is  impo»| 
the  reader  would  be  likely  to  derive  any  great  sible  not  to  regret,  that  so  much  genius  shou" 
benefit.  We  take  our  leave  of  Mr.  Crabbe,  !  be  wasted  in  making  us  perfectly  acquaintej 
therefore,  by  expressing  our  hopes  that,  since  1  with  individuals,  of  whom  we  are  to  kncj 
1'  is  proved  that  he  can  write  fast,  he  will  not  nothing  but  the  characters.  In  such  a  poen* 
allow  his  powers  to  languish  for  want  of  exer-  however.  Mr.  Crabbe  must  entirely  lay  asid 
(.  ise  :  and  that  we  shall  soon  see  him  ag^in  the  sarcastic  and  jocose  style  to  which  he  ha 
ippaying  the  public  approbation,  by  entitling  i  rather  too  great  a  propensity:  but  which  \v 
himself  to  a  still  larger  share  of  it.  An  author  know,  fiiim  what  he  has  done  in  Sn  Eu.stac 
generally  knows  his  own  forte  so  much  better  Grey,  that  he  can.  when  he  pleases,  entirel 
than  any  of  his  readers,  that  it  is  commonly  |  relinqui.^h.  That  very  powerful  and  origini, 
a  very  foolish  kind  of  presumption  to  offer  performance,  indeed,  the  chief  fault  of  whi 
any  advice  as  to  the  direction  of  his  efforts;  |  is,  to  be  set  too  thick  with  images — to  bt;  to 
but  we  own  we  have  a  very  strong  desire  to  ,  strong  and  undiluted,  in  short,  for  the  digeg 
see  Mr.  Crabbe  apply  his  great  powers  to  the  i  tion  of  common  readers — makes  us  regre' 
construction  of  some  interesting  and  connected  |  that  its  author  should  ever  have  stopped  to  bi 
story.  He  has  great  talents  for  narration  ;  and  trifling  and  ingenious — or  condescended  t( 
that  unrivalled  gift  in  the  delineation  of  char-  ;  tickle  the  imaginations  of  his  readers,  hi  steal 
acter.  which  is  now  used  only  for  the  creation  [  of  touching  the  higher  passions  of  their  ni 
of  detached  portraits,  might  be  turned  to  ad-  I  ture. 


Tales. 


(^'oDcmbcr,  1S12.) 

By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe.     8vo.  pp.  398.     London  :   1812. 


We  are  very  thankful  to  Mr.  Crabbe  for 
these  Tales ;  as  we  must  always  be  for  any 
thing  that  comes  from  his  hands.  But  they 
are  not  e.xactly  the  tales  which  we  wanted. 
We  did  not;  however,  wish  him  to  write  an 
Epic — as  he  seems  from  his  preface  to  have 
imagined.  We  are  perfectly  satisfied  with 
the  length  of  the  pieces  he  has  given  us ;  and 
delighted  with  their  number  and  variety.    In 


lush 
i!T:a3i 


IS*  Jim 
dk 
itllesc 
•dm 

itiiren 


their  venial  offences,  contrasted  with  a  stronj 
sense  of  their  frequent  depravity,  and  to* 
constant  a  recollection  of  the  sufferings  it  prcj 
duces; — and,  finally,  the  same  honours  pai> 
to  the  delicate  affections  and  ennobling  pai 
sions  of  humble  life,  with  the  same  generou' 
testimony  to  their  frequent  existence;  mixe^  '•■T 
up  as  before,  with  a  reprobation  sufficientlj  f  * 
rigid,  and  a  ridicule  sufficiently  severe,  oj 


could  have  wished  it.     But  we  should  have        If  we  were  required  to  make  a  comparativ    ^^»ik 


these  respects  the  volume  is  exactly  as  we    their  excesses  and  affectations. 


liked  a  little  more  of  the  deep  and  tragical    estimate  of  the  merits  of  the  present  pnbli 


passions ;  of  those  passions  which  exalt  and  ;  tion.  or  to  point  out  the  shades  of  differenc     Sf'fce 

by  which  it  is  distinguished  from  those  thai    tenani 
have  gone  before  it.  we  should  say  that  then    ^iufcl 


dk 
in  lleii 


iiiliii' 


ifKiinii 


overwhelm  the  soul — to  whose  stormy  seat 
the  modern  muses  can  so  rarely  raise  their 

flight — and  which  he  has  wielded  with  such  |  are  a  greater  number  of  instances  on  whic' 
terrific  force  in  his  Sir  Eustace  Grey,  and  the    he  has  combined  the  natural  language  an^ 
Gipsy  Woman.     What  we  wanted,  in  short,    manners  of  humble  life  with  the  energy  oi^liiriioii 
were  tales  something  in  the  style  of  those  j  true   passion,   and    the   beauty   of  generoa'    pownf 
two    singular   compositions — with  less  jocu- ;  affection  ; — in  which  he  has  traced  out  th^^'"'" 
larity  than  prevails  in  the  rest  of  his  writings   course  of  those  rich  and  lovelv  veins  in  th 
— rather   more  incidents — and  rather  fewer  i  rude  and  unpolished  masses  tliat  lie  at  th 
details.  I  bottom  of  society  ; — and  unfolded,  in  the  mid 

The  pieces  before  us  are  not  of  this  descrip-  (lling  orders  of  the  people,  the  workings  o 
tion  ; — they  are  mere  supplementary  chapters  those  finer  feelings,  and  the  stirrings  of  thos 
to  "The  Borough.''  or  "The  Parish  Register.''  j  loftier  emotions  which  the  partiality  of  othe' 
The  .same  tone — the  same  subject,s — the  same  :  poets  had  attributed,  almost  exclusively,  t 
style,  measure,  and  versification  ; — the  same  j  actors  on  a  higher  scene, 
finished  and  minute  delineation  of  things  j  We  hoi>e.  too,  that  this  more  amiable  an 
ordinary  and  common — generally  very  eai-  consoling  view  of  human  nature  will  hav 
gaging  when  employed  upon  external  objects,  the  effect  of  rendering  Mr.  Crabbe  still  mor' 
but  often  fatijiruing  when  directed  merely  to  jiopular  than  we  know  that  he  already  if 
insiirnificantcharactersand  habits; — the  same  among  that  great  body  of  the  people,  fror 
stranire  mixture  loo  of  feelings  that  tear  the  among  \\hom  almost  all  his  subjects  are  taker 
heart  and  darken  th(>  imagination,  with  starts  and  for  w  hose  use  his  lessons  are  chiefly  ii 
of  low  humour  and  patches  of  ludicrous  ima-  tended  :  and  we  say  this,  not  only  on  accour 
gery  : — the  same  kindly  sympathy  with  the  of  the  moral  benefit  which  we  think  the 
humble  and  innocent  pleasures  of  the  poor  .  may  derive  from  them,  but  because  we  ar 
and  inelegant,  and  the  same  mdulgence  for  I  persuaded  that  they  will  derive  more  pleasur 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


397 


from  them  than  readers  of  any  other  descrip- 
tion. Those  who  do  not  belong  to  that  rank 
oi  society  with  which  this  powerful  writer  is 
chieliy  conversant  in  his  poetry,  or  who  have 
not  at  least  gone  much  among  them,  and  at- 
tended diligently  to  their  characters  and  occu- 
pations, can  neither  be  half  aware  of  the 
exquisite  fidelity  of  his  delineations,  nor  feel 
in  their  full  force  the  better  part  of  the  emo- 
tions which  he  has  suggested.  Vehement 
passion  indeed  is  of  all  ranks  and  conditions; 
and  its  language  and  external  indications 
nearly  the  same  in  all.  Like  highly  rectified 
spirit,  it  blazes  and  inflames  with  equal  force 
and  brightness,  from  whatever  materials  it  is 
extracted.  But  ail  the  softer  and  kindlier 
afiVctions,  all  the  social  anxieties  that  mix 
with  our  daily  hopes,  and  endear  our  homes, 
and  colour  our  existence,  wear  a  different 
liverv.  and  are  written  in  a  dilTerent  character 
in  almost  every  great  caste  or  division  of 
society  ;  and  the  heart  is  warmed,  and  the 
spirit  touched  by  their  delineation,  exactly  in 
the  proportion  in  which  we  are  familiar  with 
the  types  by  \\hich  they  are  represented. — 
When  Burns,  in  his  better  days,  walked  out 
in  a  fine  summer  morning  with  Dugald  Stew- 
art, and  the  latter  observed  to  him  what  a 
beauty  the  scattered  cottages,  with  their  white 
walls  and  curling  smoke  shining  in  the  silent 
sun.  imparted  to  the  landscape,  the  present 
poet  answered,  that  he  felt  that  beauty  ten 
times  more  strongly  than  his  companion  could 
do;  and  that  it  was  necessary  to  be  a  cottager 
to  know  what  pure  and  tranquil  pleasures 
often  nestled  below  those  lowly  roofs,  or  to 
read,  in  their  external  appearance,  the  signs 
of  so  many  heartfelt  and  long-remembered 
enjoyments.  In  the  same  way,  the  humble 
xnd  patient  hopes — the  depressing  embarrass- 
:inents — the  little  mortifications — the  slender 
/riumphs,  and  strange  temptations  which  arise 
!in  middling  life,  and  are  the  theme  of  Mr. 
Crabbe's  finest  and  most  touching  represen- 
atioiis — can  only  be  guessed  at  by  those  who 
.^litter  in  the  higher  walks  of  existence  ;  while 
hey  must  raise  many  a  tumultuous  throb  and 
nany  a  fond  recollection  in  the  breasts  of 
hose  to  whom  they  reflect  so'ti*ily  the  image 
)f  their  own  estate,  and  reveal  so  clearly  the 
>ecrets  of  their  habitual  sensations. 
I  We  cannot  help  thinking,  therefore,  that 
hough  such  writings  as  are  now  before  us 
nust  give  great  pleasure  to  all  persons  of  taste 
uid  sensibility,  they  will  give  by  far  the  irreat- 
>st  pleasure  to  those  whose  condition  is  least 
emote  from  that  of  the  beings  with  whom 
hey  are  occupied.  But  we  think  also,  that 
t  was  wise  and  meritorious  in  Mr.  Crabbe  to 
'ccupy  himself  with  such  beings.  In  this 
■ountry.  there  probably  are  not  less  tlian 
hree  hundred  thousand  persons  who  read  for 
iTnusement  or  instruction,  among  the  mid- 
?.ling  classes*   of    society.      In   thi»    hiirher 

*  By  ilie  middlinji  olassBs,  we,  moan  alrnn.«i  nil 
hose  who  are  below  the  =phprp  of  what  i.-;  f-alli  (1 
ish'onahle  or  piihlic  life,  and  wlio  do, not  aim  ar 
isiinciion  or  noiorieiy  bc-yond  ihf  circle  ot  tlicir 
.(jualsin  fortune  and  eitua-iosi. 


classes,  there  are  not  as  many  as  thirty 
thousand.  It  is  easy  to  see  therefore  which 
a  poet  should  choose  to  please,  for  his  own 
glory  and  emolument,  and  which  he  shouitl 
wish  to  delight  and  amend,  out  of  mere 
philanthropy.  The  fact  too  we  believe  is, 
that  a  great  part  of  the  larger  body  are  to  the 
full  as  well  educated  and  as  high-minded  as 
the  smaller :  and,  though  their  taste  may  not 
be  so  correct  and  fastidious,  we  are  persuaded 
that  their  sensibility  is  greater.  The  mis- 
fortune is,  to  be  sure,  that  they  are  extremely 
apt  to  affect  the  taste  of  their  superiors,  and 
to  counterfeit  even  that  absurd  disdain  of 
which  they  are  themselves  the  objects ;  and 
that  poets  have  generally  thought  it  safest  to 
invest  their  interesting  characters  with  all 
the  trappings  of  splendid  fortune  and  high 
station,  chiefiy  because  those  who  know  least 
about  such  matters  think  it  unworthy  to  sym- 
pathise in  the  adventures  of  those  who  are 
without  them  !  For  our  own  part.s,  however, 
we  are  quite  positive,  not  only  that  persons 
in  middling  life  would  naturally  be  most 
touched  with  the  emotions  that  belong  to 
their  own  condition,  but  that  those  emotions 
are  in  themselves  the  most  powerful,  and 
consequently  the  best  fitted  for  poetical  or 
pathetic  representation.  Even  with  regard 
to  the  heroic  and  ambitious  passions,  as  the 
vista  is  longer  which  leads  from  humble 
privacy  to  the  natural  objects  of  such  pas- 
sions ;  so,  the  career  is  likely  to  be  more  im- 
petuous, and  its  outset  more  marked  by  strik- 
ing and  contrasted  emotions : — and  as  to  all 
the  more  tender  and  less  turbulent  affections, 
upon  which  the  beauty  of  the  pathetic  is 
altogether  dependant,  we  apprehend  it  to  be 
quite  manifest,  that  their  proper  soil  and 
nidus  is  the  privacy  and  simplicity  of  humble 
life; — that  their  very  elements  are  dissipated 
by  the  variety  of  objects  that  move  for  ever 
in  the  world  of  fashion  :  and  their  essence 
tainted  by  the  cares  and  vanities  that  are 
diffused  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  lofty  reaion. 
But  we  are  wa.'uleriiiL;-  into  a  long  disserta- 
tion, instead  oi  maiviiiL;  <iur  readers  acquainted 
with  the  book  lu'iurc  us.  The  most  satisfac- 
tory thing  we  can  do,  we  believe,  is  to  give 
them  a  plain  acconnt  of  its  contents,  with 
such  quotations  and  remarks  as  may  occur  to 
US  as  we  proceed. 

The  volume  contains  twenty-one  tales; — 
the  first  of  M'hich  is  called  •■  The  Dumb  Ora- 
tors.'" This  is  not  one  of  the  most  engaaing; 
and  is  not  judiciously  placed  at  the  portal,  to 
lempt  hesitating  readers  to  go  forward.  The 
second,  however,  entitled  -'The  Parting 
Hour,'"  is  of  a  far  higher  character,  and 
contains  some  passages  of  great  beauty  and 
pathos.  The  story  is  simply  that  of  a  youth 
arid  a  maiden  in  humble  fife,  who  had  loved 
each  other  from  their  childhood,  but  were  too 
poor  to  marry.  The  youth  uoes  to  the  We^t 
Indies  to  push  ins  fortune  ;  but  is  capluied 
by  the  Spaniards  anrl  carried  to  Mexico, 
where,  in  the  course  of  time,  though  still 
sijhing  for  his  first  love,  he  marr'es  a  Span- 
ish girl;  and  lives  twenty  years  with  her  and 
h'S  children— he  is  then  iin pressed,  and  car- 
2  1 


398 


POETRY. 


lied  round  the  world  for  twenty  years 
longer;  and  is  at  last  moved  by  an  irre- 
sistible impulse,  when  old  and  shattered  and 
lonely,  to  seek  his  native  town,  and  the 
scene  of  his  youthful  vows.  He  comes  and 
liiids  his  Judith  hke  himself  in  a  state  of 
widowhood,  but  still  brooding,  like  himself, 
over  the  memory  of  their  early  love.  She 
lud  waited  twelve  anxious  years  without 
tidings  of  him,  and  then  married:  and  now 
when  all  passion,  and  fuel  for  passion,  is 
extiuLTuished  within  them,  the  memory  of 
their  young  attachment  endears  them  to  each 
olhT,"and  they  still  cling  together  in  sad  and 
subdued  atlection,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the 
rest  of  the  world.  The  history  of  the  growth 
and  maturity  of  their  innocent  love  is  beauti- 
fully given:  but  we  pass  on  to  the  scene  of 
their  parting. 

"  AH  things  prepar'd,  on  the  e.xpected  day 
Was  seen  the  vessel  anchor'd  in  the  hay. 
From  her  would  seamen  in  the  evening  come, 
To  take  ih'  ndvent'rons  AJlen  from  his  home  ; 
With  his  own  friends  the  tinalday  he  pass'd, 
And  every  painful  hour,  except  the  last. 
The  grieving  Father  urg'd  the  cheerful  glass, 
To  make  the  moments  with  less  sorrosv  pass ; 
Intent  the  Mother  look'd  upon  her  son. 
And  wish'd  ih'  assent  withdrawn,  the  deed  undone  ; 
The  younger  Sister,  as  he  took  his  way, 
Hun?  on  his  coat,  and  besrg'd  for  more  delay  ; 
But  his  own  Judith  call'd  him  to  the  shore, 
Whom   he  must  meet — for  they   might    meet  no 

more  ! — 
And  there  he  found  her — faithful,  mournful,  true. 
Weeping  and  waiting  for  a  last  adieu  ! 
The  ebbing  tide  hadleft  the  sand,  and  there 
JVIov'd  with  slow  steps  the  melancholy  pair: 
Sweet  were  the  painful  moments — but  how  sweet, 
And  without  pain,  when  thev  again  should  mem  I" 

p.  20. 

The  sad  and  long-delayed  return  of  this 
ardent  adventurer  is  described  in  a  lone  of 
srenuine  pathos,  and  in  .some  places  with  such 
truth  and  force  of  colouring,  as  to  outdo  the 
efforts  of  the  first  dramatic  representation. 

"  But  when  return'd  the  Youth  ? — the  Yonlh  no 
Return'd  exulting  to  his  native  shore  !  [more 

But  forty  years  were  past;  and  then  there  came 
A  worn-out  man,  w  th  wiihcr'd  limbs  and  lame  ! 
Yes  !  old  and  gricv'd,  and  trembling  with  decay, 
Was  Allen  landing  in  his  na'ive  bay: 
In  an  autumnal  eve  he  left  the  beach. 
In  such  an  eve  he  chanc'd  the  port  to  reach : 
lie  was  alone  ;  he  press'd  the  very  place 
Of  the  sad  parting,  of  the  last  embrace  : 
There  stood  his  parents,  there  retir'd  the  !\Iaid, 
So  fond,  so  tender,  and  so  much  afraid  ; 
And  on  that  spot,  through  many  a  year,  his  mind 
Turn'd  mournful  back,  half  sinking,  half  resign'd. 

"  No  one  was  present  ;  of  its  crew  bereft, 
A  single  boat  was  in  the  billows  left ; 
Sent  from  some  anchor'd  vessel  in  the  bay, 
At  the  returning  tide  to  sail  away : 
O'er  the  bl-ick  stern  the  moonlight  softly  play'd. 
The  loosen'd  f  Tcsail  flapping  in  the  shade 
All  silent  else  on  shore  ;  but  from  the  town 
A  drowsy  peal  of  distant  bells  came  down  : 
From  the  tall  houses,  here  and  there,  a  light 
Serv'd  some  confus'd  remembrance  lo  excite: 
'There,'  he  observ'd,  and  new  emotions  felt, 
'  Was  my  firs!  home — and  yondcT.hutilli  dwell, '&.c. 
A  swarthy  matron  hu  beheld,  and  thotigl-.i 
She  niiffht  unfold  the  very  iriiihs  he  souirhi  ; 
Confus'd  and  trembling,  he  the  dame  address'd: 


'  The  Booths  .'   yet   live    they  ?'    pausing    and  op.' 

press'd: 
Then  spake  again  : — '  Is  there  no  ancient  man 
David  his  name  ? — assist  me.  if  you  can. — 
Fhrniniat  there  were  I — and  Judith!  doth  she  live f 
I'be  woman  gaz'd,  nor  could  an  answer  give; 
Yet  wond'ring  stood,  and  all  were  silent  by,  ( 

Feeling  a  strange  and  soleum  syinpaihv." 

pp'31,3'2. 

The  meeting  of  the  lovers  is  briefly  told| 

"  Ru'  now  a  \^'idow,  in  a  village  near,  | 

Chanc'd  of  the  melancholy  man  lo  hear:  j 

Old  as  she  was,  to  Judith's  bosom  came 
■Some  strong  emotions  at  the  well-known  name} 
He  was  her  much-lov'd  Alhn  !  she  had  siay'd   f 
Ten  troubled  years,  a  sad  afflicted  maid,"  &c. 

"  The.once-fond  Lovers  met :  Nor  grief  nora 
Sickness  or  pain,  their  hearts  could  disengage  : 
Each  had  immediate  confidence  ;  a  friend 
Both  now  beheld,  on  whom  ihey  might  depend 
'  Now  is  there  one  to  whom  I  can  express 
My  nature's  weakness,  and  my  soul's  distress.' 


and  in  a  higher  vein  of  poetry,  in  the  st 
which  he  tells  to  Judith  of  all  his  adveutu 
and  of  those  other  tics,  of  which  it  still  wri 
her  bosom  to  hear  him  speak. — We  can  afToi 
but  one  little  extract. 


ptoraia 
Bceit. 

eHo: 

i'ltis 

M] 

^■jtEptevei 

o\  EmxJnnd,  nor  could  sigfh     ifnasy, 

mnnded'Whv?'  j^r 


"  There,  hopeless  ever  to  escape  the  land, 
He  to  a  Spanish  maiden  gave  fits  hand  ; 
In  collage  sheltered  from  the  blaze  of  day. 
He  saw  his  happy  infants  round  him  play; 
Where  -summer  shadows,  made  by  k)fiy  trees 
Wav'd  o'er  his  seal,  and  sooih'd  his  reveries 
E'en  then  he  though 
But  hi''  fond  hahel  dema 
Griev'd  by  the  story,  she  the  sigh  repaid. 
And  wept  in  piiv  for  the  English  Maid." 

pp.  35,  36, 

The  close  is  extremely  beautiful,  and  lea^ 
upon  the  mind  just  that  impression  of  sadi 
which  is  both  salutary  and  delightful,  bet 
it  is  akin  to  pity,  and  mingled  with 
tion  and  esteem. 

"  Thus  silent',  musing  through  ihe  day,  he  seea- 
His  children  sporiing  by  those  lofiy  trees, 
Their  mother  singing  in  the  shady  scene. 
Where  the  fresh  springs  burst  o'er  ihe  lively  | 
So  siro;ig  his  eager  fancy,  he  affrights 
The  faithful  widow  by  its  pow'rful  flights  ; 
For  what  disli^rbs  him  he  aloud  will  tell. 
And  cry — '  'lis  she.  my  wife  I  my  Isabel : 
'  Where  are  my  children  V — Judith  grieves  to  I 
How  the  soul  works  in  sorrows  so  severe  ; — 
\Vatch'd  by  her  care,  in  sleep,  his  spirit  takes 
Its  flight,  and  watchfu!  finds  her  when  he  wa 

"  'Tis  now  her  office  ;  fier  atiention  seel 
While  her  friend  sleeps  beneath  that  shading 
Careful,  she  guards  him  from  the  glowing  heat, 
And  pensive  muses  at  her  AUeri's  feet.        [s 

"And  where  is  he?      Ah!  doubdess  in  tho 
Of  his  best  days,  amid  ihi  vivid  greens. 
Fresh  with  unnumber'd  rills,  where  ev'ry  gale 
Breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  the  neighb'ring  vol^ 
.'^miles  not  his  wife? — and  listens  as  ihere  comes  ■ 
The  night-bird's  music  from  the  thick'ning  gloomy 
And  as  he  siis  with  all  these  treasures  nigh, 
frleams  not  with  fairy-lii-'ht  the  phosphor  fly. 
W^hen  like  n  sparkling  gem  ii  wheels  illumin'dtj 
This  is  the  joy  that  now  so  plainly  speaks 
In  ihc  warm  iransieni  flushing  of  hi.s  cheeks; 
For  he  is  list'ning  lo  the  fancied  noise 
Of  his  own  children,  eager  in  their  joys! — 
All  this  he  feels  :  a  dream's  delusive  liliss 
Oivos  the  expression,  and  tho  glow  like  this. 
And  now  his  Judith  lays  her  knitting  by, 


fm. 


mk 
irais. 

yiniti 
liiisj&i 
ttiei 

inmei 


!  tan  to 
ilialiia 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


399 


These  strong  emotions  in  her  friend  to  spy  ; 

For  she  <;uii  I'lilly  of  their  nature  deem 

Bui  seel  he  breaks  ihe  long  proiracied  iheme, 
And    wakes  and  cries — '  My    God  I    'twas  but  a 
drea:n  :'  " — pp.39,  40. 

The  third  talo  is  '-The  Gentleman  Farmer," 
and  i?  of  a  coarser  texture  than  that  we  have 
just  been  considej-ing — though  full  of  acute 
observation,  and  graphic  delineation  of  ordi- 
nary characters.  The  hero  is  not  a  farmer 
turned  gentleman,  but  a  gentleman  turned 
farmer — a  conceited;  active,  talking,  domi- 
iieerinu'  sort  of  person — who  plants  and  eats 
ind  diinks  with  great  vigour — keeps  a  mis- 
tress, and  speaks  with  audacious  scorn  of  the 
tyi-aniiy  of  wives,  and  the  impositions  of 
priests,  lawyers,  and  physicians.  Being  but 
I  shallow  fellow  however  at  bottom,  his  con- 
idence  in  his  opinions  declines  gradually  as 
lis  health  decays;  and,  being  seized  with 
<ome  maladies  in  his  stomach,  he  ends  with 
narryinsf  his  mistress,  and  submitting  to  be 
riply  governed  by  three  of  her  confederates ; 
n  the  respective  characters  of  a  quack  doctor, 
t  methodist  preacher,  and  a  projecting  land 
iteward .  We  cannot  afford  any  extracts  from 
his  performance. 

The  next,  which  is  called  •'•' Procrastina- 
ion.''  has  something  of  the  character  of  the 
•Parting  Hour;"  but  more  painful,  and  less 
efined.     It  is  founded  like  it  on  the  story  of 

betrothetl  youth  and  maiden,  whose  mar- 
iage  is  prevented  by  their  poverty;  and  this 
outh,  too.  goes  to  pursue  his  fortune  at  sea; 
.•hile  the  damsel  awaits  his  return,  with  an 
;ld  female  relation  at  home.  He  is  crossed 
\nih  many  disasters,  and  is  not  heard  of  for 
iiany  years.  In  the  mean  time,  the  virgin 
'radually  imbibes  her  aunt's  paltry  love  for 
[.•ealth  and  finery  ;  and  when  she  comes,  after 
)ng  .sordid  expectation,  to  inherit  her  hoards, 
jels  that  those  new  tastes  have  supplanted 
very  warmer  emotion  in  her  bosom ;  and. 
?creth^  hoping  never  more  to  see  her  youth- 
il  lover,  gives  herself  up  to  comfortable  gos- 
puig  and  formal  ostentatious  devotion.  At 
ist,  when  she  is  set  in  her  fine  parlour,  with 
er  china  and  toys,  and  prayer-books  around 
er,  the  impatient  man  bursts  into  her  pres- 
nce.  and  reclaims  her  vows !  She  answers 
l^ldly.  that  she  has  now  done  with  the  world, 
lid  only  studies  how  to  prepare  to  die  !  and 
J^horts  him  to  betake  himself  to  the  same 
'?edful  meditations.  We  shall  give  the  con- 
[usion  of  the  scene  in  the  author's  own  words, 
he  faithful  and  indignant  lover  replies: — 

H€av"n'=;  sponse  thou  art  not :  nor  can  I  believe 
imi  God  accepts  her.  wlio  will  Man  deceive : 
rue  I  am  sdaiter'd,  I  have  service  seen, 
nd  service  done,  and  have  in  trouble  been  ; 
y  cheek  (ii  shames  me  not)  has  lost  its  red, 
ltd  the  blown  buff  is  o'er  my  features  spread  ; 
^rchance  my  speech  is  rude  ;  for  I  among 
h'  untani'd  have  been,  in  temper  and  in  tongue; 
It  speak  my  fate  !     For  these  my  sorrows  past, 
(Tie  lost,  youth  fled,  hope  wearied,  and  at  last 
Ills  doubt  of  thee — a  childish  thine  to  tell. 
It  certain  truth — my  verv  throat  they  swell  ; 
ley  Slop  the  breath,  and  but  for  shame  could  I 
ve  way  to  weakness,  and  v.i;h  passion  cry  ; 
lese  are  unmanly  struggles,  but  I  feel 
lis  hour  must  eni  them,  and  perhaps  will  heal." —  ', 


'•  Here  Dinah  sigh'd  as  if  afraid  to  speak— 
.A.nd  then  repeated — '  'I'hey  were  frail  and  weak  ; 
His  soiJ  she  lov'd;  and  hop'd  he  had  the  grace 
To  fi.x  his  ihoughis  upon  a  better  place.'  " 

pp.  72,  73. 

Nothing  can  be  more  forcible  or  true  to  na- 
ture, than  the  description  of  the  effect  of  thif* 
cold-blooded  cant  on  the  warm  and  unsuspect- 
ing nature  of  her  disappointed  suitor. 

"  She  ceased: — With  steady  glance,  as  if  to  see 

The  very  root  of  ihis  hypocrisy, — 

He  her  small  fingers  moulded  in  his  hard 

And  brunz'd  broad  hand;  then  told  her  his  regard. 

His  best  respect  were  gone,  but  Love  had  still 

Hold  in  his  heart,  and  govcrn'd  yet  the  will — 

Or  he  would  curse  her  I — Saving  this,  he  threw 

The  hand  in  scorn  away,  and  bade  adieu 

To  every  ling'ring  hope,  with  every  care  in  view. 

"  In  health  declining  as  in  mind  distress'd, 
To  some  in  power  his  troubles  he  confess'd. 
And  shares  a  parish-gift.     At  prayers  lie  sees 
The  pious  Dinah  dropp'd  upon  her  knees; 
Thence  as  she  walks  the  street  with  stately  air, 
As  chance  du'ccTs,  oft  meet  the  parted  pair! 
When  he,  with  ihickset  coat  of  Badge-man's  blue, 
Moves  near  her  shaded  silk  of  changeful  hue  ; 
When  his  thin  locks  of  grey  approach  her  braid 
(A  costly  purchase  made  in  beauty's  aid); 
When  his  frank  air,  and  his  unstudied  pace, 
Are  seen  with  her  soft  manner,  air,  aiui  grace. 
And   his  plain  artless  look  with  her  siiarp  meaning 
It  might  some  wonder  in  a  stranger  move,      [face; 
How  these  together  could  have  talk'd  of  love  I" 
pp.  73,  74. 

"■  The  Patron,"  which  is  next  in  order,  is 
also  very  good ;  and  contains  specimens  of 
very  various  excellence  The  story  is  that 
of  a  young  man  of  humble  birth,  who  shows 
an  early  genius  for  poetry  :  and  having  been, 
with  soip.e  inconvenience  to  his  parents,  pro- 
vided with  a  frugal,  but  regular  education,  is 
at  last  taken  notice  of  by  a  nobleman  in  the 
neinhbourhood,  who  promises  to  promote  him 
in  the  church,  and  invites  him  to  pass  an  au- 
tumn with  him  at  his  seat  in  the  country. 
Here  the  youth,  in  spite  of  the  admirable  ad- 
monitions of  his  father,  is  gradually  overcome 
by  a  taste  for  elegant  enjoyments,  and  allows 
himself  to  fall  in  love  with  the  enchanting 
sister  of  his  protector.  When  the  family 
leave  him  with  indifference  to  return  to  town, 
he  feels  the  first  pang  of  humiliation  and  dis- 
appointment; and  afterwards,  when  he  finds 
that  all  his  noble  friend's  fine  promises  end 
in  obtaining  for  him  a  poor  drudging  place  in 
the  Customs,  he  pines  and  pines  till  he  falls 
into  insanity ;  and  recovers,  only  to  die  pre- 
maturely in  the  arms  of  his  disappointed  pa- 
rents. We  cannot  make  room  for  the  history 
of  the  Poet's  progress— the  father's  vv^arnings 
— or  the  blandishments  of  the  careless  syren 
by  whom  he  was  enchanted — though  all  are 
excellent.  We  give  however  the  scene  of  the 
breaking  up  of  that  enchantment ; — a  descrip- 
tion which  cannot  fail  to  strike,  if  it  had  no 
other  merit;  from  its  mere  truth  and  accuracy. 

"  Cold  grew  the  foggy  morn  ;  the  day  was  brief ; 
Loose  on  the  cherry  hung  the  crimson  leaf; 
The  desv  dwell  ever  on  the  herb  ;  the  woods 
Ro:ir'd  with  strong  blasts,    with  mightv  showers 

the  floods; 
All  green  was  vanish'd,  save  of  pine  and  yew, 
That  still  displny'd  thtir  melancholy  hue  ; 


400 


POETRY. 


S!ave  the  green  holly  with  its  berries  red,  I 

And  the  green  moss  thai  o'er  the  gravel  spread.        ] 

••  To  puhlic  views  niv  Lord  must  soon  attend  ; 
And  soon  the  Ladies— would  they  leave  their  friend? 
The  time  was  fix'd— approach' d— was  near— was 

come  I 
The  trying  lime  that  fill'd  his  soul  with  gloom  ; 
Thoit^htiiil  our  Pont  in  the  morning  rose, 
And  cried,  "  One  hour  my  fortune  will  disclose.' 

"  The  morning  meat  was  past ;  and  all  around 
The  mansion  rang  with  each  discordant  sound  ; 
Haste  was  in  every  foot,  and  every  look 
The  trav'llers"  joy  for  London-journey  spoke  : 
Not  so  our  Youth  ;  whose  feelings  at  the  noise 
Of  preparation  had  no  touch  of  joys  ; 
He  pensive  stood,  and  saw  each  carriage  drawn, 
With  lackies  mounted,  ready  on  the  lawn  : 
The  Ladies  came  ;  and  John  in  terror  threw 
One  painful  glance,  and  then  his  eyes  withdrew  ; 
Not  with  such  speed,  hut  he  in  other  eyes 
With  anguish  read — 'I  pity,  but  despise — 
Unhappy  boy!  presumptuous  scriblder  ! — you, 
To  dream  such  dreams— be  sober,  and  adieu  !'  " 
pp.  93,  94. 

'•The  Frank  Courtship,"'  which  is  the  next 
in  order,  is  rather  in  the  nierry  vein  ;  and  con- 
tains even  less  than  Mr.  Ciabbe's  usual  mod- 
erate allowance  of  incident.  The  whole  of 
the  story  is,  that  the  daughter  of  a  riirid 
Quaker,  "having-  been  educated  from  home, 
conceives  a  slight  prejudice  against  the  un- 
gallant  manners  of  the  sect,  and  is  prepared 
to  be  very  contemptuous  and  uncomplying 
when  her  "father  proposes  a  sober  youth  of  the 
persuasion  for  a  husband; — but  is  so  much 
struck  with  the  beauty  of  his  person,  and  the 
cheerful  reasonableness  of  his  deportment  at 
their  first  interview,  that  she  instantly  yitilds 
her  consent.  There  is  an  excellent  descrip- 
tion of  the  father  and  the  unbending  elders  of 
his  tribe ;  and  some  fine  traits  of  natural  co- 
quet rv. 

"  The  Widow's  Tale"  is  also  rather  of  the 
facetious  order.  It  contains  the  history  of  a 
farmer's  daughter,  v.-ho  comes  home  from  her 
boarding-school  a  great  deal  too  fine  to  tolerate 
the  gross  habits,  or  submit  to  the  filthy  drud- 
gery of  her  father's  house  ;  but  is  induced,  by 
the  warning  history  and  sensible  exhortations 
of  a  neighbouring  widow,  in  whom  she  ex- 
pected to  find  a  sentimental  companion,  to 
ifMoncile  herself  to  all  those  abominations, 
and  marry  a  jolly  young  farmer  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  account  of  her  horror.s,  on 
first  coining  down,  is  in  Mr.  Crabbe's  best 
style  of  Dutch  painting — a  little  coarse,  and 
needlessly  minute — but  perfectly  true,  and 
marvellously  coloured. 

"  ('s'd  to  spare  meals,  disposed  in  manner  pure, 
IFer  futher's  kitchen  slie  could  ill  endure  ; 
Where  by  the  steaming  heel' he  hungry  sat. 
And  laid  at  once  a  pound  upon  his  plaie  ; 
flot  from  the  field,  her  eager  brothers  seiz'd 
An  cqun!  part,  and  himger's  rage  appeas'd; — 
When  one  huge  wooden  bowl  before  them  stood, 
Fill'd  with  huge  balls  of  farinaceous  food  ; 
With  bacon,  mass  saline,  where  never  lean 
Henealh  the  brown  and  t)ristly  rind  was  seen; 
When  from  n  sin^'le  horn  ihe  party  drew 
Their  copious  diauffhis  ol  Iieavy  aje  and  new  ; 
r-^he  could  not  breathe;  but.  witii  a  heavv  sigli, 
Rein'd  the  fair  neck,  and  .xhm  the  offended  eye  ; 
She  minc'd  the  sanguine  flesh  in  frustums  fine, 
.\iid  wonder'd  inucn  ;o  'ive  :hc  creatures  dine." 
pp.  1'28,  129. 


'■'The  Lover's  Journey"  is  a  pretty  fancy  ; I 
and  very  well  executed — at  least  as  to  th=!  I 
descriptions  it  contains. — A  lover  takes  a  lon§i 
ride  to  see  his  mistress ;  and  passing,  in  ful ; 
hope  and  joy,   through  a  barren  and  fehn)_ 
country,  finds  beauty  in  every  thing.     Bein^ 
put  out  of  humour,  "however,  by  missing  thf 
lady  at  the  end   of  this  stage,"  he  proceed; 
through  a  lovely  landscape,  and  finds  everj,  i 
thins  ugly  and  disagreeable.    At  last  he  meetfi  I 
his  fair  one — is  reconciled — and  returns  alone"  1 
with  her ;  when  the  landscape  presents  neithei  j 
beauty  nor  deformity  ;  and  excites  no  emotior^  ' 
whatever   in   a  mind   engrossed    \\\\\\   mort 
lively  sensations.     There    is  iiothiiiir  in  thi^ 
volume,  or  perhaps  in  any  part  of  'S\  r.  Crabbe'; 
writings,  more  exquisite  than  some  ol  thede- 
scriptiotis  in  this  story.    The  fblluwing.  thougl 
by  no  means  the  best,  is  too  characteristic  of 
the  author  to  be  omitted  : — 

"  First  o'er  a  barren  heath  beside  ihe  coa'-i 
Orlando  rode,  and  joy  began  to  boasi.  iblootiij  , 

"  'This  neat  low  gorsre,'  said  he,   '  with  goideii 
Delights  each  sense,  is  beauty,  is  perfume  ; 
And  this  gay  ling,  with  all  its  purple  flowers, 
A  man  at  leisure  might  admire  for  hours;  |] 

This  green-fring'd  cup- moss  has  a  scarlet  tip. 
That  yields  to  nothing  but  my  Laura  s  lip ; 
And  then  how^  fine  this  herbage  :  men  may  say. 
A  heath  is  barren  ;  nothing  is  so  gay.' 

"  Onward  he  went,  and  fiercer  grew  the  heat, 
Dust  rose  in  clouds  beneath  the  horse's  feet ; 
For  now  he  pass'd  thrnitgh  lanes  of  liunnng  sand,' 
Bounds  to  ihin  crops  or  yet  miculiur'd  land  ; 
Where  the  dark  poppy  flouri.^h'd  on  the  drv 
And  sterile  soil,  and  mock'd  the  ihin-set  rye. 

"  The  Lover  rode  as  hasiy  lovers  ride, 
.A.nd  reach'd  a  eonnnon  pasture  wild  and  wide; 
Small  black-lecc'd  sheep  devour  with  hiniger  keet 
The  meager  herbage  ;  fieshless,  lank  and  lean  : 
He  saw  some  scaiier'd  hovels  ;  turf  was  piCd 
In  square  brown  slacks  :  a  prospeci  lileak  and  wild  , 
A  mill,  indeed,  "as  in  ihe  centre  found. 
Wiib  short  sear  herbage  withering  all  around  ;       ' 
A  smith's  black  ^lied  oppos'd  a  wrisrhi's  lone  shopj 
.And  inin'd  an  inn  where  humble  travellers  stop.'   I 
pp.  170.  177.   ' 

The  features  of  the  flue  country  me  ItSf 
perfectly  draw  n  :  But  what.  inde<>d".  could  be 
made  of  the  vulgar  fine  countiy  of  Enghm 
If  Mr.  Crabbe  had  had  the  g"ood  fortune  t( 
live  among  ovr  Highland  hills,  and  lakes,  aiif 
upland  woods — our  livii.g  floods  sweepiiu' 
through  forests  of  pine — oin-  lonely  vale*  aru 
rough  copse-covered  clifls;  what  a  deliciou! 
picture  would  his  unrivalled  powers  have  eiia' 
bled  him  to  give  to  the  work!  ! — But  we  hayi 
no  right  to  complain,  while  we  have  such  pic 
tures  as  this  of  a  group  of  Gipsies.  It  is  evi 
dently  finished  conamorc;  and  does  appear  t< 
us  to  be  absolutely  perfect,  both  in  its  mora 
and  its  physical  expression. 

"  .'\gain  the  country  was  enclos'd  ;  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  .aide  ; 
Where,  lo  !  n  hollow  on  the  left  appear'd,  _ 
And  there  a  Gipsy-tribe  their  lent  had  rear'd  ; 
'Twas  open  spread,  to  catch  the  morning  siin, 
.\nd  ihev  had  now  their  early  meal  begun. 
When  two  l)rown  Boy.'^  just  leli  iheir  grassy  seat,! 
The  early  Trav'llcr  with  their  pray'rs  lo  greet :     i 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand. 
He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand  ; 
Some  twelve  years  old.  demure,  afTeeied,  f'lv, 
Prepar'd  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try  : 


Urn 

ft„i* 


as 

t'Cft 

t:W'!"  ■ 


n'siiiia 
•staptiv! 

'h  too 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


401 


Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries, 
And  well-ieign'd  apprehension  in  her  eyes  ; 
Train'd,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speakina;  face, 
He  mark'd  ilie  features  of  lier  vagrant  race  ; 
When  a  light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  express'd 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast  I 
Withui,  the  Father,  who  from  fences  nigh 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply,         [by  : 
Watch'd  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected 
On  ragged  rug,  iust  borrow'd  from  the  bed, 
And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed. 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dress'd, 
Reclin'd  the  Wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remain'd, 
Of  vigour  palsied  and  of  beauty  stain'd  ; 
Her  blood-shot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate    [state. 
Were  wrathful   turn'd,  and  seem'd  her  wants  to 
Ciirsingr  his  tardy  aid — her  Mother  there 
With  Gipsy-state  engross'd  the  only  chair; 
Solemn  and  dull  her  look:  with  such  she  stands, 
\nd  reads  the  Milk-maid's  fortune,  in  her  hands, 
Pracinff  the  lines  of  life  ;  assum'd  through  years, 
5ach  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wear?  ; 
iVith  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 
^nd  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood  ! 
jast  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  Grandsire  sits 
ieglecied.  Tost,  and  living  but  bv  fi's  ; 
Iseless,  despis'd,  his  worthless  labours  done, 
ind  half  protected  by  the  vicious  Son, 
Vho  half  supports  him  !     He  with  heavy  glance, 
''iews  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance  ; 
>nd,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
'o  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years; 
'hrough  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice,  deceit, 
fust  wildly  wander  each  unpractis'd  cheat; 
/hat  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain, 
p6rt  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain — 
're  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end, 
■'^ithout  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend  !" 

pp.  180—182. 
The  next  story,  which  is  entitled  "  Edward 
lore.''  also  contains  many  passages  of  ex- 
lisite  beauty.  The  hero  is  a  young  man  of 
pirinar  irenins  and  enthusiastic  temper,  with 
,.  ardent  love  of  virtue,  but  no  settled  prin- 
Iples  either  of  conduct  or  opinion.  He  first 
jflceives  an  attachment  for  an  amiable  girl, 
.fto  is  captivated  with  his  conversation  ;. — 
fl  being  too  poor  to  marry,  soon  comes  to 
t'snd  more  of  his  time  in  the  family  of  an  el- 
irly  sceptic  (though  we  really  see  no  object 
i  giving:  him  that  character)  of  his  acquaint- 
{j3e,  who  had  recently  married  a  young  wife, 
J;i  placed  unbounded  confidence  in  her  vir- 
tj!.  and  \h.9.  honour  of  his  friend.  In  a  mo- 
lint  of  temptation,  they  abuse  this  confi- 
f|ice.  The  husband  i-enounces  him  with  dig- 
ripd  composure  :  and  he  falls  at  once  from 
1    romantic  pride  of  his  virtue.     He  then 


"  Then  as  the  Friend  repos'd,  the  younger  Pair 
Sat  down  to  cards,  and  play'd  beside  his  chair  ; 
Till  he  awaking,  to  his  books  applied, 
Or  heard  the  niiisic  of  th'  obedient  bride : 
If  mild  th'  evening,  in  the  fields  they  stray'd, 
.And  their  own  tlock  with  partial  eye  survcy'd  ; 
But  oft  the  Husband,  to  indulgence  prone, 
Resum'd  his  book,  and  bade  them  walk  alone. 

"  This  was  obey'd;  and  oft  when  this  was  done 
They  calmly  gaz'd  on  the  declining  sun ; 
In  silence  saw  the  glowing  landscape  fade. 
Or,  sitting,  sang  beneath  the  arbour's  shade: 
Till  rose  the  moon,  and  on  each  youthful  face. 
Shed  a  soft  beauty,  and  a  dangerous  grace." 

pp.  198,  199. 

The  ultimate  downfall  of  this  lofty  mind, 
with  its  agonising  gleams  of  transitory  recol- 
lection, form  a  picture,  than  which  we  do  not 
know  if  the  whole  range  of  our  poetry,  rich  as 
it  is  in  representations  of  disordered  intellect, 
furnishes  any  thing  more  touching,  or  delin- 
eated with  more  truth  and  delicacy. 

"  Harmless  at  length  th'  unhappy  man  was  found, 
The  spirit  settled,  but  I  he  reason  drown'd  ; 
And  all  the  dreadful  tempest  died  away. 
To  the  dull  stillness  of  the  misty  day  ! 

"  And  now  his  freedom  he  attain'd — if  free 
The  lost  to  reason,  truth  and  hope,  can  be; 
The  playful  children  of  the  place  he  meets ; 
Playful  with  them  he  rambles  through  the  streets; 
In  all  they  need,  his  stronger  arm  he  lends. 
And  his  lost  mind  to  these  approving  friends. 

"  That  gentle  Maid,  whom  once  the  Youth  had 
Is  now  with  mild  religious  pity  niov'd  ;  [lov'd, 

Kindly  she  chides  his  boyish  flights,  while  he 
Will  for  a  moment  fi.v'd  and  pensive  be  ; 
And  as  she  trembhng  speaks,  his  lively  eyes 
E.xplore  her  looks,  he  listens  to  her  sighs; 
Chann'd  by  her  voice,  th'  harmonious  soundsinvade 
His  clouded  mind,  and  for  a  time  persuade : 
Like  a  pleas'd  Infant,  who  has  newly  caught 
From  the  maternal  glance,  a  gleam  of  thought ; 
He  stands  enrapt,  the  half-known  voice  to  hear, 
And  starts,  half-conscious,  at  the  falling  tear! 

"  Rarely  from  town,  nor  then  unwatch'd,  he  goes, 
In  darker  mood,  as  if  to  hide  his  woes  ; 
But  soon  returning,  with  impatience  seeks  [speaks  ; 
His  youthful   friends,  and  shouts,  and  sings,  and 
Speaks  a  wild  speech,  with  action  all  as  wild^ 
The  children's  leader,  and  himself  a  child  ; 
He  spins  their  top.  or  at  their  bidding,  bends 
His  hack,  while  o'er  it  leap  his  laughing  friends; 
Simple  and  weak,  he  acts  the  boy  once  more. 
And  heedless  children  call  him  Silly  Shore." 

"pp.  206,  207.  r 

"Squire  Thomas  "  is  not  nearly  so  interest- 
ing. This  is  the  history  of  a  mean  domineer- 
ing spirit,  who,  having  secured  the  succession 
of  a  rich  relation  by  assiduous  flattery,  looks 


ks  the  companv  of  the  dissipated  and  gay  ;  i  about  for  some  obsequious  and  yielding  fair 
I  ruins  his  health  and  fortune,  without  re-  \  one,  from  whom  he  may  exact  homage  in  his 
gining  his  tranquillity.     When  in  gaol,  and  '  turn.     He  thinks  he  has  found  such  a  one  in 
"a  lowly  damsel   in  his  neighbourhood,  and 
marries  her  without  much  premeditation- — 


niisrable.  he  is  relieved  by  an  unknown  hand 
a ;  traces  the  benefaction  to  the  friend  whose 
f'ner  kindness  he  had  so  ill  repaid.     This 


when  he  discovers,  to  his  consternation,  not 


hniliation  falls  upon  his  proud  spirit  and  '  only  that  she  has  the  spirit  of  a  virago,  but 
elttered  nerves  with  an  overwhelming  force;  that  she  and  her  family  have  decoyed  him 
a*  his   reason  fails   beneath  it.     He  is  for    '  '      ''^'  '      '  '    ' 

Wie  lime  a  raving  maninc:  and   then  falls 


j  into   the  match,   to   revenge,   or  indemnify 
themselves  for  his  having  mn  away  with  the 


state  of  gay  and  compassionable  im-  ,  whole  inheritance  of  their  common  relative. 

wility.  which  is  described  with  inimitable  i  She  hopes  to  bully  him  into  a  separate  main- 

nty  in  the  close  of  this  story.     We  can  J  tenance — but  his  avarice  refu.ses  to  buy  his 

'  hut  a  few  extracts.     The  nature  of  the  1  peace  at  such  a  price;  and  they  continue  to 

ictions  which  led  to  his  first  fatal  lapse  ;  live  together,  on  a  very  successful  system  of 

at  well  intimated  in  the  following  short  pas   j  mutual  tormenting. 

^T  : —  I      "  Jesse  and  Colin  "  pleases  us  much  better 

51  2  I  2 


402 


POETRY. 


Jesse  is  the  orphan  of  a  poor  clerg}'manj  who 
goes,  upon  her  father's  death,  to  live  with  a 
rich  old  lady  who  had  been  his  friend ;  and 
CoHn  is  a  young  farmer,  whose  father  had 
speculated  away  an  handsome  property :  and 
who.  though  living  in  a  good  degree  "by  his 
own  labour,  yet  wished  the  damsel  (who  half 
wished  it  also)  to  remain  and  share  his  hum- 
ble lot.  The  rich  lady  proves  to  be  suspicious. 
overbeaririiT.  and  selfish;  and  sets  Jesse  upon 
the  ignoble  duty  of  acting  the  spy  and  informer 
over  the  other  dependents  of  her  household  : 
on  the  delineation  of  whose  characters  Mr! 
Crabbe  has  lavished  a  prodigious  power  of 
observation  and  correct  description  : — But  this 
not  suiting  her  pure  and  ingenuous  mind,  she 
suddenly  leaves  the  splendid  mansion,  and 
returns  to  her  native  village,  where  Coliri  and 
his  mother  soon  persuade  her  to  form  one  of 
their  happy  family.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  good-heartedne.ss  in  this  tale,  and  a  kind 
of  moral  beauty,  which  has  lent  more  than 
usual  elegance  to  the  simple  pictures  it  pre- 
sents. We  are  templed  to  e.xtract  a  good  part 
of  the  denouement. 

"  The  pensive  Colin  in  his  e^arden  stray'd, 
But  felt  not  then  the  beauties  he  di?play'd  ; 
There  many  a  pleasant  ohject  met  his  view, 
A  rising  wood  of  oaks  behind  it  grew  ; 
A  stream  ran  by  it.  and  the  villase-green 
And  public  road  were  from  the  garden  seen  ; 
Save  where  the  pine  and  larch  the  bound'ry  made, 
And  on  the  rose  beds  threw  a  soft'nin?  shade. 

"  The  Mother  sat  beside  the  garden-door. 
Dress'd  as  in  times  ere  she  and  hers  were  poor ; 
The  broad-lac'd  cap  was  known  in  ancient  days. 
When  Madam's  drcsscompeU'd  ilie  village  praise: 
And  siil!  she  look'd  as  in  the  times  of  old  ; 
Ere  his  last  farm  the  erring  husband  sold  ; 
While  yet  the  Mansion  stood  in  decent  state,  | 

And  paupers  waited  at  the  well-known  gate.  j 

•'  '  Alas  I  my  Son  !"  the  Mother  cried,  '  and  why 
That  silent  grief  and  oft-repeated  sigh  ? 
Fain  would  I  think  that  Je^ne  still  may  come  I 

To  share  the  comforts  of  our  rustic  home  :  I 

She  surely  lov'd  thee  ;  I  have  seen  the  maid.  , 

When  ihou  hast  kindly  brought  the  Vicar  aid — 
When  thou  hast  eas'd  his  bosom  of  its  pain.  j 

Oh  !  I  have  seen  her — she  will  come  again.' 

"  The  Matron  ceas'd  ;  and  Colin  stood  the  while  j 
Silent,  but  striving  for  a  grateful  smile  ;  i 

He  then  replied — '  Ah  I  .<iiro  had  Jesse  stay'd, 
And  siiar'd  the  comforts  of  our  sylvan  shade.'  &!•.  ; 

•'  Sighing  he  spake — but  hark  !  he  hears  th'  ap- 
proach I 
Of  rattling  wheels  !  and  lo  I  ihe  evening-coach  ;       ' 
Once  more  the  movement  of  the  horses'  feet  j 
Makes  the  fond  heart  with  strong  emotion  beat :      i 


Drawn  him  to  gaze  beside  his  gate  at  niirht ; 

And  when  with  rapid  wheels  it  hurried  by, 

He  griev'd  his  parent  with  a  hopeless  sigh  ;      [sum 

And  could  the  blessing  have  been  bought — what 

Had  he  not  offer' d,  to  have  Jesse  come  ? 

She  came  I — he  saw  her  bending  from  the  door. 

Her  face,  her  smile,  and  he  beheld  no  more  ; 

Lost  in  his  joy  1     The  mother  lent  her  aid 

T'  assist  and  to  detain  the  willing  Maid ; 

Who  thousrht  her  late,  her  present  home  to  make. 

Sure  of  a  wehtome  for  the  Vicar's  sake  ; 

But  the  uood  parent  was  so  pleas'd.  so  kind, 

So  pressing  Colin,  she  so  much  inclin'd. 

That  night  advanc'd  :  and  then  so  long  detain'd 

No  wi.shes  to  depart  she  fell,  or  feign'd  ;      [inain'd. 

Yci  Ion?  in  dmibt  she  stood,  and  then  perfor'e  re- 

"  In  ilif  iinid  eveinng.  in  the  scene  around, 
The  Maid,  now  free,  peculiar  beauties  found  ; 


Blended  with  village-tones,  the  evening  gale 
Gave  the  sweet  night-bird's  warblings  to  the  vale; 
The  youth  embolden'd,  yet  abash'd,  now  told 
His  fondest  wish,  nor  found  the  Maiden  cold,"'  &,c. 
pp.  240,  241. 

"The  Struggles  of  Conscience,"  though  visi- 
bly laboured,  and.  we  should  suspevt.  a  favour- 
ite with  the  author,  pleases  us  less  than  anj 
tale  in  the  volume.  It  is  a  long  account  of  a 
j  low  base  fellow,  who  rises  by  mean  and  dis- 
I  honourable  arts  to  a  sort  of  opulence  :  and. 
j  without  ever  committing  any  flagrant  crime 
sullies  his  mind  with  all  sorts  of  selli.-h,  heart- 
less, and  unworthy  acts,  till  he  becomes  a  pre\ 
to  a  kind  of  languid  and  loathsome  remorse.' 
"'  The  Squire  and  the  Priest "'  we  do  not  likf 
much  better.  A  free  living  and  free  think- 
ing squire  had  been  galled  by  the  public  re- 
bukes of  his  unrelentitig  pastor,  and  breed; 
up  a  dependent  relation  of  his  own  to  .succeec 
to  his  charge.  The  youth  drinks  and  joke; 
with  his  patron  to  his  heart's  content,  durinj 
the  progress  of  his  education; — but  jnst  a; 
the  old  censor  dies,  falls  into  the  society  oi 
Saints,  becomes  a  rigid  and  intolerant  JNIcthod^ 
ist,  and  converts  half  the  pari.'sh,  to  the  infi- 
nite rage  of  his  patron,  and  his  own  ultimatt 
affliction. 

"The  Confidant"  is  more  interesting 
though  not  altogether  pleasing.  A  fair  ont 
makes  a  slip  at  the  early  age  of  fifteen,  whic) 
is  concealed  from  every  one  but  her  mother 
and  a  sentimental  friend,  from  whom  sh( 
could  conceal  nothing.  Her  after  life  is  purt 
and  exemplary ;  and  at  twenty-live  she  i- 
married  to  a  worthy  man,  with  whom  sh( 
lives  in  perfect  innocence  and  concord  fo 
many  happy  years.  At  last,  the  confidant  oi 
her  childhood,  whose  lot  has  been  less  pros 
perous,  starts  up  and  importunes  her  fo 
money — not  forgetting  to  hint  at  the  fatal  se 
cret  of  which  she  is  the  depository.  Afte 
agonising  and  plundering  her  for  years,  sht 
at  last  comes  and  settles  herself  in  her  house 
and  embitters  her  whole  existence  by  her  sell 
ish  threats  and  ungenerous  extortions.  Tht 
husband,  who  had  been  greatly  disturbed  a 
the  change  in  his  wife's  temper  and  spirit* 
at  last  accidentally  overhears  enough  to  pu 
him  in  possession  of  the  fact ;  and  resolvin:. 
to  forgive  a  fault  so  long  past,  and  so  well  re 
paired,  takes  occasion  to  intimate  his  know 
ledge  of  it,  and  his  disdain  of  the  false  confi. 
dant,  in  an  ingenious  apologue — which,  how 
ever  is  plaiti  enough  to  drive  tlie  pestilcii 
visiter  from  his  house,  and  to  restore  ppac< 
and  confidence  to  the  bosom  of  his  gratefu 
wife. 

•■'  Resentment  "  is  one  of  the  pieces  in  whirl 
Mr.  Crabbe  has  exercised  his  extraordinar 
powers  of  giving  pain — though  not  gratuitous 
Iv  in  this  instance,  nor  without  inculcating  ■ 
strong  lesson  of  forgiveness  and  compassion 
A  middle-aged  merchant  marries  a  lady  o 
good  fortune,  and  persuades  her  to  make  i 
all  over  to  him  when  he  is  on  the  eve  of  bank 
ruptcy.  He  is  reduced  to  utter  bcfrirary;  am 
his  wife  bitterly  and  deeply  resenting  ih 
v/rong  lie  h:id  done  her,  renounces  all  con 
nection  with  him,  and  endures  her  own  re: 


CRABBE'S  TALES. 


403 


'verses  with  mainianiniity.  At  last  a  distant 
'relation  leaves  her  his  fortune;  and  she  re- 
jtums  to  the  enjoyment  of  moderate  wealth, 
land  the  exercise  of  charity — to  all  but  her 
miserable  husband.  Broken  by  age  and  dis- 
ease, he  now  begs  the  waste  sand  from  the 
stone-cutters,  and  sells  it  on  an  ass  through  the 
streets : — 

I  "  And  from  each  trifling  gift 

Made  shift  to  live — and  wretched  was  ihe  sliifi." 

The  unrelenting  wife  descries  him  creep- 
tng  through  the  wel  at  this  miserable  em- 
blojTnent ;  but  still  withholds  all  relief:  in 
.pite  of  the  touching  entreaties  of  her  com- 
nissionate  handmaid,  whose  nature  is  as  kind 
,nd  yielding  as  that  of  her  mistress  is  hard 
(jid  inflexible.  Of  all  the  pictures  of  mendi- 
[ant  poverty  that  have  ever  been  brought  for- 
|»ard  in  prose  or  verse — in  charity  sermons  or 
^itious  harangues — we  know  of  none  half  so 
(loving  or  complete — so  powerful  and  so  true 
^-as  is  contained  in  the  following  passages: — 

"  A  dreadful  winter  came  ;  each  day  severe, 
listy  when  mild,  and  icy-cold  when  clear; 
.nd  still  the  humble  dealer  look  his  load, 
.eturning  slow,  and  sliivering  on  the  road  : 
'he  Lady,  still  relentless,  saw  him  come, 
nd  said, — '  I  wonder,  has  the  Wretch  a  home  I' 
hut  I  a  hovel !' — '  Then  his  fate  appears 
suit  his  crime.' — '  Yes,  Lady,  not  his  years ; — 
nor  his  sufTerings — nor  that  form  decay'd.' — 
he  snow,'  quoth  Susa7t,  '  falls  upon  his  bed — 
blows    beside    the    thatch — it    melts    upon    his 
head.' — 
s  weakness,  child,  for  grievin.f;  guilt  to  feel.' 
es,  but  he  never  sees  a  wholesome  meal ; 
rough  his  bare  dress  appears  his  shiivel'd  skin, 
id  ill  he  fares  without,  and  worse  within  : 
iih  that  weak  body,  lame,  diseas'd  and  slow, 
hat  cold,  pain,  peril,  must  the  suff'rer  know  I — 
[i!  how  those  flakes  of  snow  their  entrance  win 
lirough  the  poor  rags,  and  keep  ihe  frost  within  ! 
its  very  heart  seems  frozen  as  he  goes, 
lading  that  starv'd  companion  of  his  woes  : 
1  tried  to  pray — his  lips,  I  saw  them  move, 
.lid  he  so  lurn'd  his  piteous  looks  above  ; 
It  the  fierce  wind  the  willing  heart  opposed, 
id,  ere  he  spoke,  the  lips  in  mis'ry  clos'd  ! 
^pien  reach'd  his  home,  to  what  a  cheerless  fire 
J'A  chilling  bed  will  those  cold  limbs  retire  ! 
^t  ragged,  wretched  as  it  is,  that  bed 
^kes  half  ihe  space  of  his  contracted  shed  ; 
Iiw  the  thorns  beside  the  narrow  grate, 
^ih  straw  collected  in  a  putrid  state  : 
"lere  will  he,  kneeling,  strive  the  fire  to  raise, 
/,d  that  will  warm  him  rather  than  the  blaze  ; 
l)e  sullen,  smoky  blaze,  that  cannot  last 
Cie  moment  after  hi.s  attempt  is  past : 
M  I  so  warmly  and  so  purely  laid, 
T  sink  to  rest  1 — indeed,  I  am  afraid  !'  " 

pp.  3-20— 322. 

The  Lady  at  last  is  moved,  by  this  pleading 
to  send  him  a  little  relief ;  but  has  no 
Winer  dismissed  her  delighted  messenger, 
Hfi  she  repents  of  her  weakness,  and  begins 
tcjiarden  her  heart  again  by  the  recollection 
oiiis  misconduct. 

"bus  fix'd.  she  heard  not  her  Attendant  ^lide 
V^  h  soft  slow  step — till,  standing  by  her  side, 
1    trembling  Servant  gasp'd  for  breath,  and  shed 
R  pving  tears,  then  uttered — '  He  is  dead  I' 

'  Dead  !'  said  the  startled  Lady.     '  Yes,  he  fell 
C  :e  at  the  door  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell. 
T're  his  sole  friend,  the  Ass,  was  standing  by, 
H:;'dead  himself,  to  see  his  Master  die.'  " 

pp.  324,  325. 


Vh 


'•The  Convert"  is  rather  dull — though  it 
teaches  a  lesson  that  may  be  useful  in  these 
fanatic  times.  John  Dighton  was  bred  a 
blackguard;  and  we  have  here  a  most  lively 
and  complete  description  of  the  items  that  go 
to  the  composition  of  that  miscellaneous  char- 
acter ;  but  being  sore  rt'duced  by  a  long  fever, 
falls  into  the  hands  of  the  Methodists,  and  be- 
comes an  exemplary  convert.  He  is  then  set 
up  by  the  congregation  in  a  small  stationer's 
shop;  and.  as  he  begins  to  thrive  in  business, 
adds  wotidly  literature  to  the  evangelical 
tracts  which  composed  his  original  stock  in 
trade.  This  scandalises  the  brethren  ;  and 
.Fohti,  having  no  principles  or  knowledge,  falls 
out  with  the  sect,  and  can  never  settle  in  the 
creed  of  any  other;  and  so  lives  perplexed 
and  discontented — and  dies  in  agitation  and 
terror. 

'■The  Brothers"  restores  us  again  to  human 
sympathies.  The  characters,  though  humble, 
are  atlmirably  drawn,  and  the  baser  of  them, 
we  fear,  the  most  strikingly  natural.  An 
open-hearted  generous  sailor  had  a  poor, 
sneaking,  cunning,  selfish  brother,  to  whom  he 
remitteti  all  his  prize-money,  and  gave  all  the 
arrears  of  his  pay — receiving,  in  return,  vehe- 
ment professions  of  gratitude,  and  false  pio- 
testations  of  regard.  At  last,  the  sailor  is  dis- 
abled in  action,  and  discharged  ;  just  as  his 
heartless  brother  has  secured  a  small  office 
by  sycophancy,  and  made  a  prudent  marriage 
with  a  congenial  temper.  He  seeks  the  shelter 
of  his  brother's  house  as  freely  as  he  would 
have  given  it;  and  does  not  at  first  perceive 
the  coldness  of  his  reception. — But  mortifica- 
tions grow  upon  him  day  by  day.  His  grog 
is  expensive,  and  his  pipe  makes  the  wife 
sick  ;  then  his  voice  is  so  loud,  and  his  man- 
ners so  rough,  that  her  friends  cannot  visit  her 
if  he  appears  at  table  !  So  he  is  banished  by 
degrees  to  a  garret ;  where  he  falls  sick,  and 
has  no  consolation  but  in  the  kindness  of  one 
of  his  nephew  s,  a  little  boy,  who  administers 
to  his  comforts,  and  listens  to  his  stories  with 
a  delighted  attention.  This  too,  however,  is 
at  last  interdicted  by  his  hard-hearted  parents ; 
and  the  boy  is  obliged  to  steal  privately  to 
his  disconsolate  uncle.  One  day  his  father 
catches  him  at  his  door ;  and,  after  beating 
him  back,  proceeds  to  deliver  a  severe  rebuke 
to  his  brother  for  encouraging  the  child  in 
disobedience — when  he  finds  the  unconscious 
culprit  released  by  death  from  his  despicable 
insults  and  reproaches  !  The  great  art  of  the 
story  consists  in  the  plausible  excuses  with 
which  the  ungrateful  brother  always  contrives 
to  cover  his  wickedness.  This  cannot  be  ex- 
emplified in  an  extract;  but  we  shall  give  a 
few  lines  as  a  specimen. 

"  Cold  as  he  grew,  still  Isaac  strove  to  show. 
By  well-feign'd  care,  that  cold  he  could  no!  grow; 
And  when  lie  saw  his  Brother  look  distress'd, 
Me  strove  some  petty  comforts  to  suggest; 
On  his  Wife  solely  their  neglect  to  lay. 
And  then  t'  excuse  it  as  a  woman's  way; 
He  loo  was  chidden  when  her  rules  he  broke, 
And  then  she  sickcn'd  at  the  scent  of  smoke  I     [find 

"  George,  though  in  doubt,  was  still  consol'd  lo 
His  Brother  wishing  to  be  reckon'd  kind  : 
1  hat  Isaac  eeem'd  concern'd  by  his  distress. 


464 


POETRY. 


Gave  to  his  injur'd  feelings  some  redress  ; 
But  none  he  (ound  dispos'd  to  lend  an  ear 
To  stories,  all  were  once  intent  to  hear  I 
Except  his  Nephew,  seated  on  his  knee, 
He  found  no  creature  car'd  about  the  sea ;       fboy, 
But  George  indeed — for  George  ihey'd  caii'd  the 
When  his  good  uncle  was  their  boast  and  jo> — 
Would  listen  long,  and  would  contend  with  sleep, 
To  hear  the  woes  and  wonders  of  the  deep  ; 
Till  the  fond  mother  cried — '  That  man  will  teach 
Tlie  foolish  bov  his  loud  and  boisterous  speech.' 
Sojudg'd  the  Father — and  the  boy  was  taught 
To  shun  the  Uncle,  whom  his  love  had  sought." 
pp.  368.  369. 

"  At  length  he  sicken'd,  and  this  duteous  Child 
Watch'd  o'er  his  sickness,  and  his  pains  beguil'd  ; 
The  Mother  bade  him  from  the  lofi  refrain, 
But.  though  wi'h  caution,  yet  he  went  again; 
And  now  his  tales  the  sailor  feehlv  told. 
His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  limbs  were  cold  ! 
The  tender  boy  came  olten  to  entreat 
His  good  kind  iriend  would  of  hi"  presents  eat : 
Purloin'd  or  purchased,  for  he  saw,  with  shame, 
The  food  untouch'd  that  to  his  Uncle  came  ; 
Who,  sick  in  body  and  in  mind,  rereiv'd 
The  Boy's  indulgence,  gratified  and  tiriev'd! 

"  Once  in  a  week  the  Father  came  to  say. 
'  George,  are  you  ill  V — and  hurried  him  away  ; 
Yet  to  his  wife  would  on  their  duties  dwell. 
And  often  cry,  '  Do  use  my  brother  well ;' 
And  something  kind,  no  question,  haac  meant. 
And  took  vast  credit  for  the  vague  intent. 

"  But,  truly  kind,  the  gentle  Boy  essay'd 
To  cheer  his  Uncle,  firm,  although  afraid  ; 
But  now  the  Father  caught  him  at  the  door. 

And,  swearing yes.  the  Man  in  Office  swore. 

And  cried.  '  Away  1 — How  I  Brother.  I'm  surpris'd, 
Tiiat  one  so  old  can  be  so  ill  advis'd,'  "  &.c. 

pp.  370 — 371. 

After  the  catastrophe,  he  endures  deserved 
remorse  and  anguish. 

"  He  takes  his  Son.  and  bids  the  boy  unfold 

All  the  good  Uncle  of  his  feelinss  told. 

All  he  lamenied — and  the  ready  t^>ar 

Falls  as  he  listens,  sooth'd,  and  griev'd  to  hear. 

"  '  Did  he  not  curse  me,  child  ?' — 'He  never  curs'd. 

But  could  not  breathe,  and  said  his  heart  would 

burst :' —  [pray  ; 

'And  so  will  mine!' — 'Then.  Father,  you  must 

My  Uncle  said  it  took  his  pains  away.'  " — p.  374. 

The  last  tale  in  the  volume,  entitled,  "The 
Learned  Boy."'  is  not  the  most  interesting  in 
the  collection  :  thoush  it  is  not  in  the  least  like 
what  its  title  would  lead  us  to  expect.  It  is 
the  history  of  a  poor,  weakly,  paltry  lad,  who 
i.*  sent  up  from  th^  country  to*  be  a  clerk  in 
town  ;  and  learns  by  slow  decrees  to  affect 
freethinkinjr,  and  to  practise  dissipation.  Upon 
the  tidings  of  which  happy  conversion  his 
father,  a  worthy  old  farmer,  orders  him  down 
again  to  the  country,  where  he  harrows  up 
the  soul  of  his  pious  ^randmotli»'r  by  his  in- 
fidel prating — and  his  fathiv  reforms  him  at 
once  by  burnin?  his  idle  books,  and  treating 
him  with  a  vigorous  course  of  horsewhipping. 
There  is  some  humour  in  this  tale: — and  a 
great  deal  of  nature  and  art.  especially  in  the 
delineation  of  this  slender  clerk's  gradual 
corruption — and  in  the  con.stant  and  constitu- 
tional predominance  of  weakness  and  folly, 
in  all  his  vice  and  virtue — his  piety  and  pro- 
faneness. 

We  have  thus  gone  lhrout!;h  the  belter  part 
of  this  volume  with  a  degree  of  minuteness 
for  which  we  are  not  .sure  that  even  our  poet- 


ical readers  will  all  be  disposed  to  thank  i. 
But  considering  Mr.  Crabbe  as,  upon  t- 
whole,  the  most  original  writer  who  has  e\ 
come  before  us :  and  being  at  the  .same  tit 
of  opinion,  that  his  writings  are  destined  to 
still  more  extensive  popularity  than  they  ha  • 
yet  obtained,  we  could  not  resist  the  temp  • 
tion  of  contributing  our  little  aid  to  the  ful  ■ 
ment  of  that  destiny.  It  is  chiefly  for  t- 
same  reason  that  we  have  directed  our  - 
marks  rather  to  the  moral  than  the  liter?  f 
qualities  of  his  works: — to  his  genius  at  leaj 
rather  than  his  taste — and  to  his  thouirll 
rather  than  his  figures  of  speech.  By  far  1) 
most  remarkable  thing  in  his  writinirs,  is  t  s 
prodigious  mass  of  original  observations  a  I 
reflections  they  every  where  exhibit :  and  tit 
extraordinary  power  of  conceiving  and  rep- 
sentingan  imag-inary  object,  whether  physi  1 
or  intellectual,  with  such  a  rich  and  coinpl  » 
accompaniment  of  circumstances  and  deta  , 
as  few  ordinary  observers  either  perceive  r 
remember  in  realities  :  a  power  which,  thoi  i 
often  greatly  misapplied,  must  for  ever  ent  > 
him  to  the  very  first  rank  among  descript  ■ 
poets;  and,  when  directed  to  worthy  objei 
to  a  rank  inferior  to  none  in  the  highest  - 
partments  of  poetry. 

In  such  an  author,  the  attributes  of  st  ■- 
and  versification  may  fairly  be  considered? 
secondary ; — and  yet,  if  we  were  to  go  • 
nutely  into  them,  they  would  afford  room  r 
a  still  longer  chapter  than  that  which  we  :' 
now  concluding.  He  cannot  be  said  to  > 
uniformly,  or  even  generally,  an  elegant  wri 
His  style  is  not  dignified — and  neither  \  \ 
pure  nor  very  easy.  Its  characters  are  fo  ', 
precision,  and  familiarity  : — now  and  t  n 
obscure — sometimes  vulgar,  and  sometii  s 
quaint.  With  a  great  deal  of  tenderness,  d 
occasional  fits  of  the  sublime  of  de.spair  J 
agony,  there  is  a  want  of  habitual  fire,  am  I 
a  tone  of  enthusiasm  in  the  general  teno  I 
his  writings.  He  seems  to  recollect  ra  t 
than  invent;  and  frequently  brings  forv  d 
his  statements  more  in  the  temper  of  a  ii- 
tious  and  conscientious  witness,  than  of  a  r- 
vent  orator  or  impassioned  spectator,  is 
similes  are  almost  all  elaborate  and  ingeni  s. 
and  rather  seem  to  be  furnished  from  thrf- 
forts  of  a  fanciful  mind,  than  to  be  e.\h.  d 
by  the  spontaneous  ferment  of  a  healed  )■ 
agination.  His  versification  again  is  freque  y 
harsh  and  heavy,  and  his  diction  flat  A 
prosaic; — both  seeming  to  be  altogether  ?• 
lected  in  his  zeal  for  the  accuracy  and  ( i- 
plete  rendering  of  his  conceptions.  T  -t' 
defects  too  are  infinitely  "reater  in  his  rent 
than  in  his  early  compositions.  "The  il- 
I  lage"  is  written,  upon  the  whole,  in  a  floMi: 
I  and  sonorous  strain  of  versification  ;  and  -i' 
Eustace  Crey,"  though  a  late  publicatio'if 
in  general  remarkably  rich  and  melod.i." 
It  is  chiefly  in  his  narratives  and  ctirioU!.«- 
scriptions  "that  these  faults  of  diction  i(i 
measure  are  conspicuous.  Where  he  isw  li- 
ed bv  his  subject,  and  becomes  fairly  ii  g- 
nant  or  pathetic,  his  language  is  often  ry 
sweet  antl  beautiful.  He  has  no  fixed  ."^y  m 
or  rnanuer  of  ver.sification  ;  but  mi.ves  se  n' 


CRABBES  TALES  OF  THE  HALL.  Mft 

!  rery  opposite  styles,  as  it  were  by  accident,  It  is  no  great  matter.  If  he  will  only  write  a 
''  and  not  in  ijeueral  very  judiciously  ; — what  is  i  few  more  Tales  of  the  kind  we  have  suggested 
''  peculiar  to  himself  is  not  good,  and  strikes  us  ;  at  the  beginning  of  this  article,  we  shall  en- 
''"  as  being  both  abrupt  and  alfected.  [  gage  for  it  that  he  shall  have  our  praises — and 

;"  He  may  prolit,  if  he  pleases,  by  these  hints  |  those  of  more  fastidious  critics — whatever  be 
Mil  _-and,  if  he  pleases,  he  may  laugh  at  them.  |  the  qualities  of  his  style  or  versification. 


(lulti,   1819.) 

Tales  of  the  Hall.     By  the  Reverend  George  Crabbe.  2  vols.  8vo.  pp.670.    London:  1819. 


*'n  Mr.  Crabbe  is  the  greatest  mannerist^  per 
I  [haps,  of  all  our  living  poets;  and  it  is  rather 
Vf  unfortunate  that  the  most  prominent  features 

■*?  of  his  mainierism  are  not  the  most  pleasing. 
^rrThe  homely,  quaint,  and  prosaic  style — the 
""alat,  and  often  broken  and  jingling  versification 
™  [—the  eternal  full-lengths  of  low  and  worth- 
'■™Ress  characters — with  their  accustomed  gar- 
''*pii8hingsof  sly  jokes  and  familiar  moralising — 
^''i*  \te  all  on  the  surface  of  his  writings ;  and  are 

#  ilmost  unavoidably  the  things  by  which  we 
^"'|ire  first  reminded  of  him,  when  we  take  up 


but  their  combination — in  such  proportions  at 
least  as  occur  in  this  instance — may  safely  be 
pronounced  to  be  original. 

Extraordinary,  however,  as  this  combination 
must  appear,  it  does  not  seem  very  difficult 
to  conceive  in  what  way  it  may  have  arisen ; 
and.  so  far  from  regarding  it  as  a  proof  of  sin- 
gular humoionsness.  caprice,  or  aflectation 
in  the  individual,  we  are  rather  inclined  to 
hold  that  something  approaching  to  it  must  be 
the  natural  result  of  a  long  habit  of  observa- 
tion in  a  man  of  genius,  possessed  of  that 
iny  of  his  new  productions.  Yet  they  are  not  j  temper  and  disposition  which  is  the  usual  ac- 
he things  that  truly  constitute  his  peculiar    companiment  of  such  a  habit :  and  that  the 

same  strangely  compounded  and  apparently 
incongruous  assemblage  of  themes  and  senti- 


■Ai 
M 
lojii; 
iiwii 
:hm 
aid  11 

^^''(.Uycharacterist 

to 


nanner ;  or  give  that  character  by  which  he 
vill,  and  ought  to  be,  remembered  with  future 

enerations.     It  is  plain  enough,  indeed,  that    ments  would  be  frequently  produced  under 

hese  are  things  that  will  make  nobody  re-  |  such  circumstances — if  authors  had  oftener 

nembered — and  can  never,  therefore,  ba  re-    the  courage  to  write  from  their  own  impres- 

iracteristic  of  some  of  the  most  original    si 


sions,  and  had  less  fear  of  the  laugh  or  won- 
der of  the  more  shallow  and  barren  part  of 
their  readers. 

A  great  talent  for  observation,  and  a  delight 
in  the  exercise  of  it — the  power  and  the  practice 
of  dissecting  and  disentangling  that  subtle  and 
ted  ;   an   unrivalled   and   almost   magical  !  complicated  tissue,  of  habit,  and  self-love,  and 
ajverof  observation,  resulting  in  descriptions  \  affection,  which  constitute  human  character — 
true  to  nature  as  to  strike   us  rather  as  ;  .seems  to  us,  in  all  cases,  to  imply  a  contem- 
scripts   than  imitations — an   anatomy  of  ■  plative,  rather  than  an  active  disposition.     It 
racter  and  feeling  not  less  exquisite  and  i  can  only  exist,  indeed,  where  there  is  a  good 
rohing — an  occasional  touch  of  matchless    deal  of  social  sympathy ;  for,  without  this,  the 
nderness — and  a  deep  and  dreadful  pathetic,  '  occupation  could  e.xcite  no  interest,  and  afford 
terspersed  by  tits,  and  strangely  interwoven  ,  no  satisfaction — but  only  such  a  measure  and 
ith  the  most  minute  and  humble  of  his  de-    sort  of  sympathy  as  is  gratitied  by  being  a 
'iJs.     Add  to  all  this  the  sure  and  profound    spectator,  and  not  an  actor  on  the  great  theatre 
Igacity  of  the  remarks  with  which  he  every    of  life — and  leads  its  possessor  rather  to  look 
a  tea    »w  and  then  startles  us  in  the  midst  of  very    with  etuierness  on  the  feats  and  the  fortunes 


eilheii  LJ  powerful  poetry  that  the  world  has  ever 
mt  een. 

™'l  Mr.  C,  accordingly,  has  other  gifts;  and 
^^^  hose  not  less  peculiar  or  less  strongly  marked 
^^^.  Kan  the  blemishes  with  which  they  are  con 
bpaii  ■  

'ralten, 

fau: 

1158  fc' 
letot'i 


lambitious  discussions ; — and  the  weight  and  of  others,  than  to  take  a  share  for  himself  iu 
rseness  of  the  maxims  which  he  drops,  like  the  game  that  is  played  before  him.  Some 
acular  responses,  on  occasions  that  give  no  stirring  and  vigorous  spirits  there  are,  no 
wraise  of  such  a  revelation; — and  last,  though  doubt,  in  which  this  taste  and  talopt  is  com- 
't  least,  that   sweet   and   seldom   sounded    bined  with  a  more    thorough  and   effective 

sympathy;  and  leads  to  the  study  of  men's 
characters  by  an  actual  and  hearty  partici- 
pation in  their  various  passions  and  pursuits; 
!  — thouo-h  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  when  such 
persons  embody  their  observations  in  writing, 
j  they  will  generally  be  found  to  exhibit  their 
These,  we  think,  are  the  true  characteristics  characters  in  action,  rather  than  to  describe 
'the  genius  of  this  great  writer;  and  it  is  in  them  in  the  abstract ;  and  to  let  their  various 
t'ir  mixture  with  the  oddities  and  defects  to  personages  disclose  themselves  and  their  pe- 
^lich  we  have  already  alluded,  that  the  pe-  culiarities,  as  it  were  spontaneously,  and  with- 
f  iarity  of  his  manner  seems  to  us  substan-  |  out  help  or  preparation,  in  their  ordinary 
ly  to  consist.  The  ingredients  may  all  of  conduct  and  speech — of  all  which  we  have  a 
:.T  be  found,  we  suppose,  in  other  writers;  I  very  splendid   and  striking  e.xample   ill  the 


')rdof  Lyrical  inspiration,  the  lightest  touch 
wKich  instantly  charms  away  all  harshness 
'in  his  numbers,  and  all  lowness  from  his 
■mes — and  at  once  exalts  him  to  a  level  ! 
ih  the  most  energetic  and  inventive  poets 
<  his  age. 


406 


POETRY. 


Tales  of  My  Landlord,  and  the  other  pieces 
of  that  extraordinary  writer.  In  the  common 
case,  however,  a  great  observer,  we  believe, 
will  be  found,  pretty  certainly,  to  be  a  person 
of  a  shy  and  retiring  temper — who  does  not 
mingle  enough  with  the  people  he  surveys,  to 
be  heated  with  their  passions,  or  infected  with 
their  delusions — and  who  has  usually  been 
led.  indeed,  to  take  up  the  office  of  a  looker 
on,  from  some  little  infirmity  of  nerves,  or 
weakness  of  spirits,  which  has  unfitted  him 
from  playing  a  more  active  pait  on  the  busy 
scene  of  existence. 

Now,  it  is  very  obvious,  we  think,  that  this 
contemplative  turn,  and  this  alienation  from 
the  vulgar  pursuits  of  mankind,  must  in  the 
fir.^t  place,  produce  a  great  contempt  for  most 
of  those  pursuits,  and  the  objects  tliey  seek 
to  obtain — a  levelling  of  the  factitious  distinc- 
tions which  human  pride  and  vanity  have  es- 
tablished in  the  world,  and  a  mingled  scorn 
and  compassion  for  the  lofty  pretensions  under 
which  men  so  often  disguise  the  nothingness 
of  their  chosen  occupations.  When  the  many- 
coloured  scene  of  life,  with  ail  its  petty  agi- 
tations, its  shifting  ])omps,  and  perishable 
passions,  is  surveyed  by  one  who  does  not 
mL\  in  its  business,  it  is  impossible  that  it 
should  not  appear  a  very  pitiable  and  almost 
ridiculous  affair  :  or  that  the  heart  should  not 
echo  back  the  brief  and  emphatic  exclama- 
tion of  the  mighty  dramatist— 

"  Lite's  a  poor  player, 

Who  frets  and  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  I" — 

Or  the  more  sarcastic  amplification  of  it,  in 
the  words  of  our  great  moral  poet — 

"Behold  the  Child,  by  Nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleas'd  with  a  rattle,  lickl'd  with  a  straw  ! 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  our  Youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite  : 
Scarfs,  garters,  gold  our  riper  years  engage  ; 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  Age  ! 
Pleas'd  with  this  bauble  still  as  that  before. 
Till  tir'd  we  sleep — and  Life's  poor  play  is  o'er!" 

This  is  the  more  solemn  view  of  the  sub- 
ject : — But  the  first  fruits  of  observation  are 
most  commoidy  found  to  issue  in  Satire — the 
unmasking  the  vain  pretenders  to  wisdom, 
and  worth,  and  happiness,  with  whom  society 
is  infested,  and  holding  up  to  the  derision  of 
mankind  those  meaniipssesof  the  great,  those 
miseries  of  the  fortunate,  and  those 

"  Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise," 
which  th^eye  of  a  dispassionate  observer  so 
quickly  dt'lects  under  the  glittering  exterior 
by  which  they  would  fain  be  disguised — and  | 
which  bring  pretty  much  to  a  level  the  iniel-  1 
lect,  and  morals,  and  enjoyments,  of  the  great 
mass  of  mankind. 

This  misanthropic  end  has  unquestionably  i 
bi'cn  by  far  the  most  common  result  of  a  habit  I 
of  observation  ;  and  that  in  which  its  effects 
have  most  generally  terminated: — Yet  we  j 
cannot  bring  ourselves  to  think  that  it  is  their  ! 
just  or  natural  termination.  Something,  no  ^ 
doubt,  will  depend  on  the  temper  of  the  indi-  | 
vidual.  and  ihe  proportions  in  which  the  gall 
atid  the  milk  of  human  knidness  have  been 


originally  mingled  in  his  composition. — Yet 
satirists,  we  think,  have  not  in  general  been 
ill-natured  persons — and  we  are  inclined  ra- 
ther to  ascribe  this  limited  and  uncharitable 
application  of  their  powers  of  observation  to 
their  love  of  fame  antl  popularity. — which  are 
well  known  to  be  best  secured  by  successfuj 
ridicule  or  invective — or,  quite  as  probably 
indeed;  to  the  narrowness  and  insuflrcienc) 
of  the  observations  themselves,  and  the  im- 
perfection of  their  talents  for  their  due  con 
duct  and  extension.  It  is  certain,  at  least,  W€ 
think,  that  the  satirist  makes  use  but  of  hall 
the  discoveries  of  the  observer  ;  and  teachet 
but  half — and  theworser  half — of  the  le-ssont 
which  may  be  deduced  from  his  occupation 
He  puts  down,  indeed,  the  proud  pretensioni 
of  the  great  and  arrogant,  and  levels  the  vaii 
distinctions  which  human  ambition  has  es 
tablished  among  the  brethren  of  mankind;— 
he 

"  Bares  the  mean  heart  that  lurks  beneath  a  Star,' 

— and   destroys   the    illusions  which  wooK 
limit  our  sympathy  to  the  lorward  and  figur 
iiig  persons  of  this  world — the  favourites  ol 
fame  and  fortune.     But  the  true  result  of  ob 
servation  should  be,  not  so  much  to  cast  dowi 
the  proud,  as  to  raise  up  the  lowU  : — not  S" 
much   to   diminish   our   sympathy  with  thi 
powerful  and  renowned,  as  to  extend  it  to  all 
who,  in  humbler  conditions,  have  the  same 
or  still  higher  claims  on  our  esteem  or  affec 
tion. — It  is  not  surely  the  natural  consequenc 
of  learning  to  judge  truly  of  the  characters  o 
men,  that  we  should  despise  or  be  indifleren 
about  them  all ; — and,  though  we  have  leame- 
to  see  through  the  false   glare  which   play| 
round  the  envied  summits  of  existence,  ao« 
to  know  how  little  dignity,  or  happiness,  ol 
worth,  or  wisdom,  may  sometimes  belong  n 
the   possessors  of   power,  and   fortune,  an^ 
learning  and  renown, — it  does  not  follow,  b' 
any  means,  ihal  we   should    look   upon  th 
whole  of.  human   life  as  a  mere  deceit  au 
imposture,  or  think  the  concerns  of  our  specie' 
fit  subjects  only  for  scorn  and  derision.     Ot'' 
promptitude  to  admire  and  to  envy  will  indee' 
be  corrected,  our  enthusiasm  abated,  and  ot! 
distrust  of  appearances   increased; — but  th- 
sympathies  and  affections  of  our  nature  wi 
continue,  and  be  better  directed — our  love  c 
our  kind  will  not  be  diminisheil — and  our  ii 
dulgence  for  their  faults  and  follies,  if  we  rea 
our  lesson  aright,  will  be  signally  strenglhei 
ed  and  confirmed.  The  true  and  proper  efiec 
therefore,  of  a   habit  of  observation,  and  i 
thorough  anil  penetiating  knowledge  of  hums) 
character,  will  be,  not  to  extinguish  our  syn 
pathy,  but   to  extend   it — to  turn,  no  dout 
many  a  throb  of  admiration,  and  many  a  sig 
of  love  into  a   smile  of  derision  or  of  pit)' 
but  at  the   same   time  to   reveal   much  th 
commands  our  homage  and  excites  our  afle 
tion,  in  those  humble  and  unexplored  regioi 
of  the  heart  and  under>tandin:r.  which  nev' 
engage  the  attention  of  the  incurious, — and 
briiig  the  whole  family  of  mankind  nearer 
a  level,  by  finding  out  latent  merits  as  well  :^ 
latent  defects  in  all  its  members,  and  cor' 


kw 


Mm 


-Mia 


CRABBE'S  TALES  OF  THE  HALL. 


407 


pensatinj?  the  flaws  that  are  detected  in  the 
boasted  oniamenls  of  life,  by  bringing  to  light 
the  richness  and  the  lustre  that  sleep  in  the 
mines  beneath  its  surface. 

We  are  afraid  some  of  our  readers  may  not 
at  once  perceive  the  application  of  these  pro- 
found remarks  to  the  subject  immediately  be- 
fore us.  But  there  are  others,  we  doubt  not, 
who  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  they  are 
intended  to  explain  how  ]\Ir.  Crabbe,  and  other 
persons  with  the  same  gift  of  observation, 
should  so  often  busy  themselves  with  what 
may  be  considered  as  low  and  vulgar  charac- 
ters :  and,  leclining  all  dealings  with  heroes 
and  heroic  topics,  should  not  only  venture  to 
seek  for  an  interest  in  the  concerns  of  ordinary 
mortals,  but  actually  intersperse  small  pieces 
of  ridicule  with  their  undignified  pathos,  and 
endeavour  to  make  their  readers  look  on  their 
books  with  the  same  mingled  feelings  of  com- 
passion and  amusement,  with  which — unnat- 
ural as  it  may  appear  to  the  readers  of  poetry 
' — ^they,  and  all  judicious  observers,  actually 
jlook  upon  human  life  and  huftian  nature. — 
This,  we  are  persuaded,  is  the  true  key  to  the 
i^eater  part  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  author 
pefore  us :  and  though  we  have  disserted 
apon  it  a  little  longer  than  was  necessary,  we 
eally  think  it  may  enable  our  readers  to  com- 
orehend  him,  and  our  remarks  on  him,  some- 
ihing  better  than  they  could  have  done  with- 
kt  it. 

[  There  is,  as  everybody  must  have  felt,  a 

jtrange  mixture  of  satire  and   sympathy  in 

LU  his  productions — a  great  kindliness  and 

iompassion   for  the  errors  and  sufferings  of 

jur  poor  human  nature,  but  a  strong  distrust 

if  its   heroic   virtues  and   high  pretensions. 

lis  heart  is  always  open  to  pity,  and  all  the 

lilder  emotions — but  there  is  little  aspiration 

fter  the  grand  and  sublime  of  character,  nor 

jery  much  encouragement  for  raptures  and 

cstasiesof  any  description.    These,  he  seems 

p  think,  are  things  rather  too  fine  for  the  said 

oor  human  nature:  and  that,  in  our  low  and 

rring  cojidition,  it  is  a  little  ridiculous  to  pre- 

snd,  either  to  very  exalted  and  immaculate 

irtue,  or  very  pure  and  exquisite  happiness. 

'e-  not  only  never  meddles,  therefore,  with 

le  delicate  distresses  and  noble  fires  of  the 

Bfoes  and  heroines  of  tragic  and  epic  fable, 

it  may  generally  be  detected  indulging  in  a 

rking  sneer  at  the  pomp  and  vanity  of  all 

ich  superfine    imaginations  —  and    turning 

om  them,  to  draw  men  in  their  true  postures 

id  dimensions,  and  with  all  the  imperfec- 

)n6  that  actually  belong  to  their  condition  : — 

,6  prosperous  and  happy  overshadowed  with 

ssing  clouds  of  ennui,  and  disturbed  with 

tie  flaws  of  bad  humour  and  discontent — 

e  great  and  wise  beset  at  times  with  strange 

'aknesses  and  meannesses  and  paltry  vexa- 

ne — and  even   the  most  virtuous  and  en- 

htencd  falling  far  below  the  standard  of 

letical  perfection — and  stooping  every  now 

d  then  to  paltry  jealousies  and  prejudices — 

sinking  into  shabby  sensualities — or  medi- 

on  their  own   excellence  and   import- 

with  a  ludicrous  and  lamentable  anxiety. 

is  is  one  side  of  the  picture ;  and  charac- 


terises sufficiently  the  satirical  vein  of  our 
author:  But  the  other  is  the  most  extensive 
and  important.  In  rejecting  the  vulgar  sources 
of  interest  in  poetical  narratives,  and  reducing 
his  ideal  persons  to  the  standard  of  reality, 
Mr.  C.  does  by  no  means  seek  to  extinguish 
the  sparks  of  human  sympathy  within  us,  or 
to  throw  any  damp  on  the  curiosity  with  which 
we  naturally  explore  the  characters  of  each 
other.  On  the  contrary,  he  has  aflbrded  new 
and  more  wholesome  ibod  for  all  those  pro- 
pensities— and,  by  placing  before  us  those 
details  which  oiu"  priile  or  fastidiousness  is  so 
apt  to  overlook,  has  disclosed,  in  all  their 
truth  and  simplicity,  the  native  and  unadul- 
terated workings  of  those  affections  which  are 
at  the  bottom  of  all  social  interest,  and  are 
really  rendered  less  touching  by  the  exagge- 
rations of  more  ambitious  artists — while  he 
exhibits,  with  admirable  force  and  endless 
variety,  all  those  combinations  of  passions  and 
opinions,  and  all  that  cross-play  of  selfishness 
and  vanity,  and  indolence  and  ambition,  an4 
habit  and  reason,  which  make  up  the  intel- 
lectual character  of  individuals,  and  present 
to  every  one  an  instructive  picture  of  his 
neighbour  or  himself.  Seeing,  by  the  per- 
fection of  his  art,  the  master  passions  in  their 
springs,  and  the  high  capacities  in  their  rudi- 
ments— and  having  acquired  the  gift  of  tracing 
all  the  propensities  and  marking  tendencies 
of  our  plastic  nature,  in  their  first  slight  indi- 
cations, or  even  from  the  aspect  of  the  dis- 
guises they  so  often  assume,  he  does  not 
need,  in  order  to  draw  out  his  characters  in 
all  their  life  and  distinctness,  the  vulgar  de- 
monstration of  those  striking  and  decided 
actions  by  which  their  maturity  is  proclaimed 
even  to  the  careless  and  inattentive  ; — but 
delights  to  point  out  to  his  readers,  the  seeds 
or  tender  filaments  of  those  talents  and  feel- 
ings which  wait  only  for  occasion  and  oppor- 
tunity to  burst  out  and  astonish  the  world — 
and  to  accustom  them  to  trace,  in  characters 
and  actions  apparently  of  the  most  ordinary 
description,  the  self-same  attributes  that,  un- 
der other  circumstances,  would  attract  uni- 
versal attention,  and  furnish  themes  for  the 
most  popular  and  impassioned  descriptions. 

That  he  should  not  be  guided  in  the  choice 
of  his  sullied  by  any  regard  to  the  rank  or 
condition  which  his  persons  hold  in  society, 
may  easily  be  imagined  ;  and,  with  a  view  to 
the  ends  he  aims  at,  might  readily  be  for- 
i  given.     But  we  fear  that  his  passion  for  ob- 
servation, and  the  delight  he  takes  in  tracing 
'  out  and  analyzing  all  the  little  traits  that  in- 
'  dicate  character,  and   all  the  little  circum- 
stances that  influence  it,  have  sometimes  led 
j  him  to  be  careless  about  his  selection  of  the 
instances  in  which  it  was  to  be  exhibited,  or 
at  least  to  select  them  upon  principles  very- 
different  from  those  which  give  them  an  in- 
1  terest  in  the  eyes  of  ordinary  readers.     For 
j  the  purpose  of  mere  anatomy,  beauty  of  form 
or  complexion   are  things  quite  indiflerent  j 
I  and    the   physiologist,  who  examines  plants 
I  oidy  to  study  their  internal  structure,  and  to 
i  make  himself  master  of  the  contrivances  by 
I  which  their  various  functions  are  performed, 


408 


POETRY. 


]>ay8  no  regard  to  the  brilliancy  of  their  hues, 
ihe  sweetness  of  their  odoui-s.  or  the  graces 
«»f  their  form.  Those  who  come  to  him  for 
the  sole  purjwse  of  acquiring  knowledge  may 
participate  perhaps  in  this  indifference  ]  but 
the  world  at  large  will  wonder  at  them — and 
he  will  engage  fewer  pupils  to  listen  to  his 
instructions,  than  if  he  had  condescended  in 
some  degree  to  consult  their  predilections  in 
the  beginning.  It  is  the  same  case,  we  think, 
in  many  respects,  with  Mr.  Crabbe.  Relying 
for  the  interest  he  is  to  produce,  on  the  curi- 
ous expositions  he  is  to  make  of  the  elements 
of  human  character,  or  at  least  tinding  his 
own  chief  gratification  in  those  subtle  inves- 
tigations; he  seems  to  care  very  little  upon 
what  particular  hidividuals  he  pitches  for  the 
purpose  of  these  demonstrations.  Almost 
every  human  mind;  he  seems  to  think,  may 
serve  to  display  that  fine  and  mysterious 
mechanism  which  it  is  his  delight  to  explore 
md  explain  : — and  almost  every  condition, 
and  every  history  of  life,  afford  occasions  to 
show  how  it  may  be  put  into  action,  and  pass 
through  its  various  combinations.  It  seems, 
therefore,  almost  as  if  he  had  caught  up  the 
first  dozen  or  two  of  persons  that  came  across 
him  in  the  ordinary  walks  of  life, — and  then 
fitting  in  his  little  window  in  their  breast.s, 
and  applying  his  tests  and  instruments  of  ob- 
servation, had  set  himself  about  such  a  minute 
and  curious  scrutiny  of  their  whole  habits, 
history,  adventures,  and  dispositions,  as  he 
thought  must  ultimately  create  not  only  a 
familiarity,  but  an  interest,  which  the  first 
aspect  of  the  subject  was  far  enough  from 
leading  any  one  to  expect.  That  he  suc- 
ceeds more  frequently  than  could  have  been 
anticipated,  we  are  very  willing  to  allow. 
But  we  cannot  help  feeliny,  also,  that  a  little 
more  pains  bestowed  in  the  selection  of  his 
characters,  would  have  made  his  power  of 
observation  and  description  tell  with  tenfold 
effect;  and  that,  in  spite  of  the  exquisite 
truth  of  his  delineations,  and  the  fineness  of 
the  perceptions  by  which  he  was  enabled  to 
make  them,  it  is  impossible  to  take  any  con- 
siderable interest  in  many  of  his  personages, 
or  to  avoid  feeling  some  degree  of  fatigue  at 
the  minute  and  patient  exposition  that  is 
made  of  all  that  belongs  to  them. 

These  remarks  are  a  little  too  general,  we 
believe — and  are  not  introduced  with  strict 
propriety  at  the  head  of  our  fourth  article  on 
Mr.  Crabbe's  productions.  They  have  drawn 
out,  however,  to  such  a  lenglh,  that  we  can 
afford  to  say  but  little  of  the  work  imme- 
diately before  us.  It  is  marked  with  all  the 
characteristics  that  we  have  noticed,  either 
now  or  formerly,  as  distinctive  of  his  poetry. 
On  the  whole,  however,  it  has  eertaiidy  fewer 
of  the  grosser  faults — and  fewer  too,  perhaps. 
of  the  more  exquisite  passages  which  occur 
in  his  former  publications.  There  is  nothing 
at  least  that  has  struck  us,  in  goincr  over  these 
volumes,  as  equal  in  elegance  to  Pho-be  I>aw- 
80n  in  the  Register,  or  in  pathetic  efiect  to  the 
Convict's  Dream,  or  Edward  Shore,  or  the 
Parting;  Hour,  or  the  Siiilor  dying  beside  his 
Sweetheart.    On  the  other  hand;  there  is  far 


less  that  is  horrible,  and  nothing  that  can  1 
said  to  be  absolutely  disgusting;  and  the  pi 
ture  which  is  afforded  of  society  and  hum? 
nature  is,   on  the  whole,  much  less  painf 
and  degrading.     There  is  both  less  misei,, 
and  less  guilt ;  and,  while  the  same  searchiij 
and  unsparing  glance  is  sent  into  all  the  dail 
caverns  of  the  breast,  and  the  truth  brougi'l 
forth  with  the  same  stern  impartiality,  ttJ 
result  is  more  comfortable  and  cheering.   Til 
greater  part  of  the  characters  are  rather  mo,l 
elevated   in   station,   and    milder   and   moj* 
amiable  in  disposition ;  while  the  acciden 
of  life  are  more  mercifully  managed,  and  fo 
tunate  circumstances  more  liberally  allowe 
It  is  rather  remarkable,  too.  that  ]\lr.  Crabl 
seems  to  become  more  amorous  as  he  grov 
older, — the  interest  of  almost  all  the  siori 
in  his  collection  turning  on  the  temlci  ]-a 
sion — and  many  of  them  on  its  most  rci   ;  iii 
varieties. 

The  plan  of  the  work, — for  it  has  rath, 
more  of  plan  and  unity  than  any  of  the  f( 
mer, — is  abundantly  simple.  Two  brothe: 
both  past  middle  age,  meet  together  lor  tl 
first  time  since  their  infancy,  in  the  Hall 
their  native  parish,  which  the  elder  and  rich 
had  purchased  as  a  place  of  retirement  1^ 
his  declining  age — and  there  tell  each  olh 
their  own  history,  and  then  that  of  their  gues 
neighbours,  and  acquaintances.  The  seni. 
is  much  the  richer,  and  a  bachelor — havii 
been  a  little  distasted  with  the  sex  by  t 
unlucky  result  of  an  early  and  very  <\\tra\ 


ilh 


gant   passion.     He    is,   moreover,    rat 
reserved  and  sarcastic,  anil  somcwiia 
ish,   though  with  an  excellent   hcait 
powerful  understanding.  The  youngt  i 
sensible  also,  but  more  open,  social,  ai 
ative — a  happy  husband  and   father, 
tendency  to  Whiiigism,  and   some  notion 
reform — and  a  disposition  to  think  well  be 
of  men  and  women.     The  visit  lasts  two 
three  weeks  in  autumn  ;  and  the  Tales,  w  hi 
make   up  the  volume,  are  told  in  the  afi 
dinner  tite  a  tetcs  that  take  place  in  tli;it  1:i 
between  the  worthy  brothers  over  their  I  oi; 
The  married  man,  however,  wearies  ai  Ithf; 
for  his  wife  and  children  ;  and  his  brother 
him  go,  with  more  coldness  than  he  had  ( 
pected.     He  goes  with  him,  however,  a  sta 
on  the  way  ;  and,  inviting  him  to  turn  asidi 
little  to  look  at  a  new  purchase  he  had  ma 
of  a  sweet  farm  with  a  neat  mansion,  he  fin 
his   wife   and    children   comfortably   setll 
there,  and  all  dressed  out  and   ready  to 
ceive  them  !  and  speedily  discoA-ers  ili;it 
is,  by  his  brother's  bounty,  the  pro})riti(ir 
a  fair  domain  within  a  morning's  ride  i  i  ! 
Hall — where  they  may  discuss  polii  <  -.  :i 
tell  tales  any  afternoon  they  think  pK;]  t  i. 
Though  their  own  stories  and  d('scii|'t:i 
are  not,  in  our  opinion,  the  best  in  tin'  u" 
it  is  but  fair  to  introduce  these  narrative  l> 
thers  and  their  Hall  a  little  more  particula 
to  our  readers.     The  history  of  the  elder  a: 
more  austere  is  not  particularly  i)robablej-.T 
nor  very  interesting;  but  it  affords  many 
sages  extremely  characteristic  of  the  autl 
He  was  a  spoiled  child,  and  grew  up  int 


CRABBE'S  TALES  OF  THE  HALL. 


409 


Jjuthof  a  romantic  and  contemplative  turn — 
ti-eaming,  in  his  father's  rural  abode,  of  di- 
'ne  nymphs  and  damsels  all  passion  and 
uitv.  One  day  he  had  the  good  luck  to 
•scue  a  fair  lady  from  a  cow,  and  fell  des- 
fjrately  in  love : — Though  he  never  got  to 
l)eech  of  his  charmer,  who  departed  from 
lie  place  where  she  was  on  a  visit,  and 
hided  the  eager  search  with  which  he  pur- 
Jed  her,  in  town  and  country,  for  many  a 
ng  year  :  For  this  foolish  and  poetical  pas- 
pn  settled  down  on  his  spirits;  and  neither 
Ime  nor  company,  nor  th,e  business  of  a  Lon- 
pn  banker,  could  effect  a  diversion.  At  last, 
[  the  end  of  ten  or  twelve  years — for  the  fit 
Bted  that  unreasonable  time — being  then  an 
iper  clerk  in  his  uncle's  bank,  he  stumbled 
wn  his  Dulcinea  in  a  very  unexpected  w^ay 
•and  a  way  that  no  one  but  Mr.  Crabbe 
(3uld  either  have  thought  of — or  thought  of 
jiscribing  in  verse.  In  short,  he  finds  her 
i  reablishcd  as  the  chere  amie  of  another  re- 
i  rectable  banker !  and  after  the  first  shock  is 
■  fer,  sets  about  considei-ing  how  he  may  re- 
lim  her.  The  poor  Perdita  professes  peni- 
ice  ;  and  he  ollVrs  to  assist  and  support  her 
she  will  abandon  her  evil  courses.  The 
lowing  passage  is  fraught  with  a  deep  and 
nelanclioly  knowledge  of  character  and  of 
,jnan  nature. 

,  She  vow'd — she  tried  ! — Alas!  she  did  not  know 

[)w  deeply  rooied  evil  habits  grow! 
e  felt  ihe  truth  upon  her  spirits  press, 
It  wanted  ease,  indulgence,  show,  excess; 
I'.uptuous  banquets  ;  pleasures — not  refin'd, 
it  such  as  soothe  to  sleep  th'  opposing  mind — 

;elook'd  for  idle  vice,  the  time  to  kill, 

.;d  subtle,  strong  apologies  for  ill ; 
id  thus  her  yielding,  unresisting  soul, 

Ink.  and  let  sin  confuse  her  and  control : 
'asures  that  brought  disgust  yet  brouglit  relief, 

,id  minds  she  hated  help'd  to  war  with  grief" 
Vol.  i.  p.  163. 

[As  her  health  fails,  however,  her  relapses 
Icome  less  frequent ;  and  at  last  she  dies, 
titet'ul  and  resigned.  Her  awakened  lover 
i  stunned  by  the  blow — takes  seriously  to 
hiiiess — and  is  in  danger  of  becoming  ava- 
iious;  when  a  severe  illness  rouses  him  to 
hher  thoughts,  and  he  takes  his  name  out 
f  the  firm,  and,  being  turned  of  sixty,  seeks 
iilace  of  retirement. 

'  le  chose  his  native  village,  and  the  hill 

I  clhnb'd  a  boy  had  its  attraction  still; 

^'h  that  small  brook   beneath,  where  he  would 

-'d  stooping  fill  the  hollow  of  his  hand,       [stand, 

'  quench  ih'  impatient  thirst — ihen  stop  awhile 

'  -ee  the  sun  upon  the  waters  smile, 

I  hat  sweet  weariness,  when,  long  denied, 

^'  drink  and  view  the  fountain  that  supplied 

1  ■  sparkling  bliss — and  feel,  if  not  express, 

(r  pertect  ease,  in  that  sweet  weariness. 

'"be  oaks  vet  flourished  in  that  fertile  ground, 
^<' re  still  ihp  church  with  lofty  tower  was  found  ; 
-  1  still  that  Hall,  a  first,  a  favourite  view,"  &.c. 

ho  {Tall  of  Binning  !  his  delight  ahoy, 
'ii  L'ave  his  fancy  in  her  flight  employ  ; 
I  e,  from  his  father's  modest  home,  he  gaz'd, 
I  grandeur  charm'd  him,  and  its  height  amaz'd: — 
^'V,  voting,  no  more,  reiir'd  to  views  well  known, 
I  finds  thai  object  of  his  awe  his  own  ; 
it  Hall  at  Binning  ! — how  he  loves  the  gloom 
52 


That  sun-excluding  window  gives  the  room  ; 
Those  broad   brown  stairs  on  which  he  loves  to 

tread  ; 
Those  beams  wilhiii  ;  without,  that  length  of  lead. 
On  which  the  names  of  wanton  boys  appear, 
VVho  died  old  men,  and  left  memorials  here. 
Carvings  of  feet  and  hands,  and  knots  and  Howers, 
The  fruits  of  busy  minds  in  idle  hours." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  4 — 6. 

So  much  for  Squire  George — unless  any 
reader  should  care  to  know,  as  Mr.  Crabbe 
has  kindly  told,  that — "The  Gentleman  was 
tall."  and,  moreover,  "Looked  old  when  fol- 
lowed, but  alert  when  met.'"  Of  Captairk 
Richard,  the  story  is  more  varied  and  ram- 
bling. He  was  rather  neglected  in  his  youth- 
and  passed  his  time,  when  a  boy,  very  much, 
as  we  cannot  help  supposing,  Mr.  Crabbe 
must  have  passed  his  own.  He  ran  wild  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  a  seaport,  and  found 
occupation  enough  in  its  precincts. 

"  Where  crowds  assembled  I  was  sure  to  run. 
Hear  what  was  said,  and  muse  on  what  was  done  ; 
Atieniive  list-ningin  the  moving  scene. 
And  often  wond'ring  what  the  men  could  mean. 

"  To  me  the  wives  of  seamen  lov'd  to  tell 
What  storms  endanger'd  men  esieem'd  so  well ; 
What  wondrous  things  in  foreign  parts  they  saw. 
Lands  without  bounds,  and  people  without  law. 

"  No  ships  were  wreck'd  upon  that  fatal  beach, 
But  I  could  give  the  luckless  tale  of  each  ; 
Eager  I  look'd,  till  I  beheld  a  face 
Of  one  dispos'd  to  paint  their  dismal  case  ; 
Who  gave  the  sad  survivors'  doleful  tale. 
From  the  first  brushing  of  the  mighty  gale 
Uiuil  they  struck  !  and,  suffering  in  their  fate, 
I  long'd  the  more  they  should  its  horrors  state  ; 
While  some,  the  fond  of  pity,  would  enjoy 
The  earnest  sorrows  of  the  feeling  boy. 

"  There  were  fond  girls,  who  took  me  to  their  side, 
To  tell  the  story  how  their  lovers  died  ! 
They  prais'd  my  tender  heart,  and  bade  me  prove 
Both  kind  and  constant  when  I  came  to  love  !" 

Once  he  saw  a  boat  upset ;  and  still  recol- 
lects enough  to  give  this  spirited  sketch  of  the 
scene. 

"Then   were  those  piercing  shrieks,  that  frantic 
All  hurried  '.  all  in  tumult  and  affright  !  [flight, 

A    gathering  crowd   from  different  streets  drew 

near. 
All  ask,  all  answer — none  attend,  none  hear  ! 

"  O  !  how  impatient  on  the  sands  we  tread. 
And  the  winds  roaring,  and  the  women  led  ! 
They  know  not  who  in  either  boat  is  gone, 
But  think  the  father,  husband,  lover,  one. 

"  And  who  is  s/(e  apart !     She  dares  not  come 
To  join  the  crowd,  yet  cannot  rest  at  home  : 
With  what  strong  interest  looks  she  at  the  waves. 
Meeting  and  clashing  o'er  the  seamen's  graves  ! 
'Tis  a  poor  girl  betroih'd — a  few  hours  more, 
And  he  will  lie  a  corpse  upon  the  shore  ! 
One  wretched  hour  had  pass'd  before  we  knew 
Whom  they  had  sav'd  !   Alas  !  they  were  but  two  ! 
An  orphan'd  lad  and  widow'd  man — no  more  ! 
Arid  they  unnoticed  stood  upon  the  shore. 
With  scarce  a  friend  to  greet  them — widows  view'd 
This  man  and  boy,  and  then  their  cries  renevv'd." 

He  also  pries  into  the  haunts  of  the  smug- 
glers, and  makes  friends  with  the  shepherds 
on  the  downs  in  summer ;  and  then  he  be- 
comes intimate  with  an  old  sailor's  wife,  to 
whom  he  reads  sermons,  and  histories,  and 
2K 


410 


POETRY. 


i<;st  books,  and  h)Tiins,  and  indelicate  bal- 
iJids  !  The  character  of  this  woman  is  one 
of  the  many  examples  of  talent  and  labour 
misapplied.  It  is  very  powerfully;  and.  we 
doubt  not,  very  truly  drawn — but  it  will 
attract  feu' readers.  Yet  the  story  she  is  at 
last  brouirht  to  tell  of  her  daughter  will  com- 
mand a  more  general  interest. 

"  Ruth— T  may  tell,  loo  oft  had  sho  been  told  I — 
Was  tall  and  tair,  and  comely  to  behold, 
Gentle  and  simple  ;  in  her  native  place 
Not  one  compared  wiih  her  in  form  or  face  ; 
She  was  not  merry,  but  she  ^ave  our  hearth 
A  cheertul  spirit  that  was  more  than  niirih. 

"  There  was  a  sailor  bny,  and  people  said 

He  was.  as  man,  a  hkeness  of  the  maid  ; 

But  not  in  this — lor  he  was  ever  glad, 

While  Ruth  was  apprehensive,  mild,  and  sad."  — 

They  are  betrothed — and  something  more 
than  betrothed — when,  on  the  eve  of  their 
wedding-day,  the  youth  is  carried  relent- 
lessly off  by  a  press-gang;  and  soon  after 
is  slain  in  battle  ! — and  a  preaching  weaver 
then  woos,  with  nauseous  perversions  of 
scripture,  the  loathing  and  widowed  bride. 
This  picture,  too,  is  strongly  drawn  ; — but 
we  hasten  to  a  .scene  of  far  more  power  as 
well  as  i^athos.  Her  father  urges  her  to  wed 
the  missioned  suitor;  and  she  agrees  to  give 
her  answer  on  Sunday. 

"  She  left  her  infant  on  the  Sunday  morn. 

A  creature  dooni'd  to  shame!  in  sorrow  horn. 

She  came  not  home  to  share  our  humhlc  meal, — 

Her  father  thinking  what  his  child  would  feel 

From  his  hard  sentence  ! — Still  she  came  not  home. 

The  niijht  t:rew  dark,  and  yet  she  was  not  come  ! 

The  east-wind  rnar'd,  the  sea  reitirn'd  the  sonnd. 

And  the  rain  fell  as  if  the  world  were  drown'd  : 

There  were  no  liahts  without,  and  my  2ood  man, 

To  kindness  frighten'd,  with  a  wroan  began 

To  talk  of  [luili,  and  pray  !  and  then  he  took 

The  Bible  down,  and  read  the  holy  book  ; 

For  he  had  learning :  and  when  that  was  done 

We  sat  in  silence — whither  conid  we  run, 

We  said — and  then  nish'd  frighten'd  from  the  door. 

For  we  could  bear  our  own  conceit  no  more  : 

We  cail'd  on  neighbours — there  she  had  not  been  ; 

We  met  some  wanderers — ours  they  had  not  seen  ; 

We  hurried  o'er  the  beach,  both  north  and  soutli. 

Then  join'd.  and  wander'd  to  our  haven's  mouth  : 

Where  rush'd  the  falling  waters  wildly  out. 

I  scarcely  heard  the  good  man's  fearful  shout. 

Who  saw  a  something  on  the  billow  ride. 

And — Heaven  have  mercy  on  our  sins!   he  cried. 

It  is  my  child  I — and  to  the  present  hour 

So  he  believes — and  spirits  have  the  power ! 

"  And  she  was  gone!  the  waters  wide  and  deep 
RoU'd  o'er  her  body  as  she  lay  asleep  I 
She  heard  no  more  the  angry  waves  and  wind. 
She  heard  no  more  the  threat'ning  of  mankind  ; 
Wrapt  in  dark  weeds,  the  refuse  of  the  storm. 
To  the  hard  rock  was  borne  her  comely  form  1 

"  But  O  !  what    storm  was  in    that   mind !    what 

strife. 
That  could  compel  her  to  lay  down  her  life  ! 
For  she  was  seen  within  the  sea  to  wade. 
By  one  at  distance,  when  she  first  had  pray'd ; 
Then  to  a  rock  within  the  hither  shoal. 
Softly,  and  with  a  fearful  step,  she  stole  ; 
Then,  when  she  gain'd  it,  on  the  top  she  stood 
A  moment  still — and  drnpt  into  the  flood  I 
'^riie  man  cried  loudly,  but  he  cried  in  vain. — 
She  heard  not  then — she  never  heard  again  1" — 


Richard  after\vards  tells  how  he  left  t 
sea  and  entered  the  army,  and  fought  a 
marched  in  the  Peninsula  ;  and  how  he  car 
home  and  fell  in  love  with  a  parson's  daug 
ter,  and  courted  and  married  her; — and 
tells  it  all  very  prettily, — and,  moreover,  tl 
he  is  very  happy,  and  very  fond  of  his  wi 
and  children.  But  we  must  now  take  t 
Adelphi  out  of  doors;  and  let  them  inti 
duce  some  of  their  acquaintances.  Amo 
the  tirst  to  whom  we  are  presented  are  t\ 
sisters,  still  in  the  bloom  of  life,  who  h 
been  cheated  out  of  a  handsome  indeper 
ence  by  the  cuiniing  of  a  speculating  banki 
and  deserted  by  their  lovers  in  conse(|uen 
of  this  calamity.  Their  characters  are  dra\ 
with  infinite  skill  and  minuteness,  and  thi 
whole  story  told  with  great  feeling  a: 
beauty: — but  it  is  difficult  to  make  e.\tracti 

The  pnident  suitor  of  the  milder  a, 
more  serious  sister,  .sneaks  pitifully  avr 
when  their  fortune  changes.  The  bold 
lover  of  the  more  elate  and  gay,  seeks  to  ta 
a  baser  advantage.  ' 

"  Then  made  he  that  attempt,  in  which  to  fail  I 

Is  shameful. — still  more  shameful  to  prevail.  ! 

Then  was  there  lightning  in  that  eye  that  shed  t 

Its  beams  upon  him. — and  his  frenzy  fled  ;  j 

Abject  and  trembling  at  her  feet  he  laid,  [ 

Despis'd  and  scorn'd  by  the  indignant  maid,  ' 
Whose  spirits  in  their  amtation  rose. 
Him,  and  her  own  weak  pity,  to  oppose: 
.As  liquid  silver  in  the  tube  mounts  high, 
Then  shakes  and  settles  as  the  storm  goes  by!" 

The  effects  of  this  double  trial  on  \hi 
different   tempers   are    also  very  finely 
scribed.      The  gentler  Lucy  is  the  most  , 
signed  and  magnanimous.     The  more 
ring  Jane    suffers   far   keener   anguish  aijJ 
fiei'cer  impatience  ;  and  the  task  of  soothilj 
and  cheering  her  devolves  on  her  generojj 
sister.     Her  fancy,   too,   is  at   times  a  liq] 
touched   by  her  alllictioiis — and   she  writ! 
wild  and  melancholy  verses.     The  wandi 
ings  of  her  reason  are  represented  in  a  ve 
alfecting  manner; — but  we  rather  choose 
quote  the  following  ver.^es,  which  appear 
us  to  be  eminently  beautiful,  and  makes 
regret  that  Mr.  Crabbe  should  have  indulg 
us  so  seldom  with  those  higher  lyrical  efl 


Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view, 

About  my  room,  around  my  l)ed  I 
But  morning  roses,  wet  with  dew. 

To  cool  my  burning  brows  instead. 
Like  flow'rs  that  once  in  Eden  grew. 

Let  them  their  fratrrant  spirits  shed, 
And  every  dav  the  sweets  renew. 

Till  I,  a  faditig  flower,  am  dead! 

•  I'll  have  my  grave  beneath  a  hill. 

Where  only  Lucy's  self  shall  know; 
Where  nms  the  pure  pellucid  rill 

Upon  its  sravrllv  bed  below; 
There  violets  on  the  borders  blow. 

And  insects  their  soft  light  di.=play, 
Till  as  the  morninir  sunbeams  glow. 

The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay. 

'  There  will  the  lark,  the  lamb,  in  sport. 
In  air,  on  earth,  securely  play, 
And  Lucy  to  my  grave  resort. 
As  innocent,  but  not  so  gay. 


fifie'ssi 
Kfikk 


CRABBES  TALES  OF  THE  HALL. 


411 


"  0  !  take  me  from  a  world  I  hate, 
Men  cruel,  selfish,  sensual,  cold  ; 
And.  in  some  pure  and  blessed  slate, 

Let  me  my  sister  minds  behold  : 
From  grcss  and  sordid  views  refin'd, 

Our  heaven  of  spoiless  love  to  share. 
For  only  generous  souls  design'd, 
And  not  a  Man  to  meet  us  there." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  212—215. 

The  Preceptor  Husband"  is  e.\ceecliiioly 
well  managed — but  is  rather  too  facetious  for 
our  present  mood.  The  old  bachelor,  who 
had  been  five  times  on  the  brink  of  matri- 
mony, is  mi.\ed  up  of  sorrow  and  mirth ; — 
but  we  cannot  make  room  for  any  e.xtracts, 
[except  the  following  inimitable  description 
of  the  first  coming  on  of  old  age, — though 
we  feel  assured,  somehow,  that  this  mali- 
•ious  observer  has  mistaken  the  date  of  these 
jgly  symptoms  ;  and  brought  them  into  view 
bine  or  ten,  or,  at  all  events,  six  or  seven  years 
too  early. 

i'  Six  years  had  pass'd,  and  forty  ere  the  si.x, 
When  Time  began  to  play  his  usual  tricks ! 
The  locks  once  comely  in  a  virgin's  sight,    [white  ; 

jOcks  of  pure  brown,  displ.Ty'd   th'  encroaching 
riie  blood  once  fervid  now  to  cool  began, 

^nd  Time's  strong  pressure  to  subdue  the  man  : 

rode  or  walk'd  as  I  was  wont  before, 
|Jut  now  the  bounding  spirit  was  no  more  ; 
'\  moderate  pace  would  now  my  body  heat, 
\\.  walk  uf  moderate  letigih  distress  my  feet. 
I'show'd  my  stranger-guest  those  hills  subliine, 
put  said,  '  the  view  is  piTor,  we  need  not  climb  !' 
Ma  friend's  mansion  I  began  to  dread 
The  cold  neat  parlour,  and  the  gay  glazed  bed  ; 
Kt  home  I  felt  a  more  decided  tasie, 
;Lnd  must  have  all  things  in  my  order  placed  ; 

ceas'd  to  hunt ;  my  horses  pleased  me  less, 

ly  dinner  more  !  I  learn'd  to  play  at  chess; 

look  my  dog  and  gun,  but  saw  the  brute 
fVas  disappointed  that  I  did  not  shoot ; 

ly  morninir  walks  I  now  could  bear  to  lose. 

Liid  bless'd  the  shower  that  gave  me  not  to  choose  : 

1  fact,  I  fell  a  langour  stealing  on  ; 

'he  active  arm,  the  agile  hand  were  gone  ; 

mall  daily  actions  into  habits  grew, 

nd  new  dislike  to  forms  and  fashions  new  ; 

lov'd  my  ireps  in  order  to  dispose, 

mimber'd  peaches,  look'd  how  stocks  arose, 
lold  ihe  same  story  oft — in  short,  began  to  prose." 
Vol.  i.  pp.  260,  261. 

"The  Maid's  Story  "  is  rather  long — though 
■has  many  passages  that  must  be  favourites 
;ith  Mr.  Crabbe's  aomirers.  "Sir  Owen 
ale  "  is  too  long  also ;  but  it  is  one  of  the  best 
■  the  collection,  and  must  not  be  discussed 
»  shortly.  Sir  Owen,  a  proud,  handsome 
an,  is  left  a  widower  at  forty-three,  and  is 
on  after  jilted  by  a  young  lady  of  twenty ; 
ho,  after  amusing  herself  by  encouraging  his 
jsiduities,  at  last  meets  his  iong-e.\pected 
fclaration  with  a  very  innocent  surprise  at 
Jding  her  familiarity  with  "such  an  old 
«nd  of  her  father's"  so  strangely  miscon- 
rued!  The  knight,  of  course,  is  furious  ; — 
id,  to  revenge  himself,  looks  out  for  a  hand- 
:me  young  nephew,  whom  he  engages  to  lay 
pge  to  her,  and.  after  having  won  her  aflec- 
pns,  to  leave  her,— as  he  had  been  left.  The 
ji  rashly  engages  in  th(;  adventure :  but  soon 
ids  his  pretended  passion  turning  into  a  real 
"e— and  entreats  his  uncle,  on  whom  he  is  j 
•pendent,  to  release  him  from  the  unworthy  | 


part  of  his  vow.  Sir  Owen,  still  mad  for  ven- 
geance, rages  at  the  proposal;  and,  to  confirm 
his  relentless  purpo.se,  makes  a  visit  to  one, 
who  had  bett(;r  cause,  and  had  formerly  ex- 
presseit  equal  thirst  for  revenge.  This  was 
one  of  the  higher  class  of  his  tenantry — an  in- 
telligent, manly,  good-humoured  farmer,  who 
had  married  the  vicar's  pretty  niece,  and  lived 
in  great  comfort  and  comparative  elegance, 
till  an  idle  youth  seduced  her  from  his  arms, 
and  left  him  in  rage  and  misery.  It  is  here 
that  the  interesting  part  of  the  story  begins; 
and  few  thhigs  can  be  more  powerful  or  strik- 
ing than  the  scenes  that  ensue.  Sir  Owen 
inquires  whether  he  had  found  the  objects  of 
his  just  indignation.  He  at  first  evades  the 
question;  but  at  length  opens  his  heart,  and 
tells  him  all.  We  can  afford  to  give  but  a 
small  part  of  the  dialogue. 

"  '  Twice  the  year  came  round — 
Years  hateful  now— ere  I  my  victims  found  : 
But  I  did  find  them,  in  the  dungeon's  gloom 
.Ofa  small  garret — a  precarious  home  ; 
The  roof,  unceil'd  in  patches,  gave  the  snow 
Entrance  within,  and  there  were  heaps  below  ; 
I  pass'd  a  narrow  region  dark  and  cold, 
The  strait  of  stairs  to  that  ini'ectious  hold  ; 
And.  when  I  enter'd,  misery  met  my  view 
In  every  shape  she  wears,  in  every  hue. 
And  the  bleak  icy  blast  across  the  dungeon  flew. 
There  frown'd  the  ruin'd  walls  that  once  were  white; 
There  gleam'd  the  panes  that  once  admitted  light ; 
There  lay  unsavory  scraps  of  wretched  food  ; 
And  there  a  measure,  void  of  fuel,  stood. 
But  who  shall,  part  by  part,  describe  the  state 
Of  these,  thus  lollow'd  by  relentless  fate  ? 
All,  too,  in  winter,  when  the  icy  air 
Breathed  its  black  venom  on  the  guilty  pair. 

"  '  And  could  you  know  the  miseries  they  endur'd, 
The  poor,  uncertain  pittance  they  procur'd  ; 
When,  laid  aside  the  needle  and  the  pen. 
Their  sickness  won  the  neighbours  of  their  den, 
Poor  as  they  are,  and  they  are  passing  poor. 
To  lend  some  aid  to  those  who  needed  more  ! 
Then,  too,  an  ague  with  the  winter  can)e. 
And  in  this  state — that  wife  I  cannot  name  ! 
Brought  forth  a  famish'd  child  of  suH'ering  and  of 
shame  ! 

"  '  This  had  you  known,  and  traced  them  to  this 
Where  all  was  desolate,  defiled,  unclean,      [scene, 
A  fireless  room,  and.  where  a  fire  had  place. 
The  blast  loud  howling  down  the  empty  space. 
You  must  have  felt  a  part  of  the  distress. 
Forgot  your  wrongs,  and  made  their  suffering  less  ! 

"  '  In  that  vile  garret — which  I  cannot  paint — 
The  sight  was  loathsome,  and  the  smell  was  faint} 
.And  there  that  wife, — whom  I  had  lov'd  so  well, 
.And  thought  so  happy  !  was  condemn'd  to  dwell ; 
The  gay,  the  grateful  wife,  whom  I  was  glad 
To  see  in  dress  beyond  our  station  clad. 
And  to  behold  among  our  neighbours,  fine,' 
.More  than  perhaps  became  a  wife  of  mine  : 
And  now  among  her  neighbours  to  explore. 
And  see  her  poorest  of  the  very  poor! 
'i'here  she  reclin'd  unmov'd,  her  bosom  bare 
To  her  companion's  unimpassion'd  stare. 
And  my  wild  wonder: — Seat  of  virtue  !  chaste 
As  lovely  once  !   O  !  how  wert  thou  disgrac'd  ! 
I'pon  that  breast,  by  sordid  rags  defil'd, 
Lay  the  wan  features  ofa  famish'd  child  ; — 
That  sin-born  babe  in  utter  misery  laid. 
Too  feebly  wretched  even  to  cry  for  aid  ; 
The  ragged  sheeting,  o'er  her  person  drawn, 
Serv'd  for  the  dress  that  hunger  placed  in  pawn. 

"  '  At  the  bed's  feet  the  man  reclin'd  his  frame: 
Their  chairs  had  perish'd  to  support  the  flame 


412 


POETRY. 


That  warm'd  his  agued  limbs;  and,  sad  to  see, 
'I'hat  shook  him  fiercely  as  he  gaz'd  on  me,  &.c. 

"  '  She  had  not  food,  nor  auglit  a  mother  needs, 
Who  for  another  life,  and  dearer,  feeds : 
I  saw  her  speechless  ;  on  her  wither'd  breast 
The  wither'd  child  e.xtended,  but  not  prest. 
Who  sought,  with  moving  hp  and  feeble  cry, 
Vain  instinct !  for  the  fount  without  supply. 

"  '  Sure  it  was  all  a  grievous,  odious  scene, 
Where  all  was  dismal,  melancholy,  mean. 
Foul  with  compell'd  neglect,  unwholesome,  and 

unclean  ; 
That  arm — that  eye — the  cold,  the  sunken  cheek — 
Spoke  all ! — Sir  Owen — fiercely  miseries  speak  !' 

"  'And  you  reliev'd?' 

"  '  If  hell's  seducing  crew 
Had  seen  that  sight,  they  must  have  pitied  too.' 

"  '  Revenge  was  thine — thou  hadst  the  power — the 

right ; 
To  give  it  up  was  Heav'n's  own  act  to  slight.' 

"  '  Tell  me  not,  Sir,  of  rights,  and  wrongs,   or 

powers  ! 
I  felt  it  written — Vengeance  is  not  ours !' — 

"  '  Then  did  you  freely  from  your  soul  forgive  ?' — 

"  '  Sure  as  I  hope  before  my  Judge  to  live, 

Sure  as  I  trust  his  mercy  to  receive. 

Sure  as  his  word  I  honour  and  beheve. 

Sure  as  the  Saviour  died  upon  the  tree 

For  all  who  sin— /or  that  dear  wretch,  and  me — 

Whom,  never  more  on  earth,  will  I  forsake — or  see!' 

"Sir  Owen  softly  to  his  bed  adjourn'd  ! 
Sir  Owen  quickly  to  his  home  return'd  ; 
And  all  the  way  he  meditating  dwelt 
On  what  this  man  in  his  affliction  felt ; 
How  he,  resenting  first,  forbore,  forgave  ; 
His  passion's  lord,  and  not  his  anger's  slave." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  36 — 46. 

We  always  quote  too  much  of  Mr.  Crabbe: 
— perhaps  because  the  pattern  of  his  arabesque 
is  so  large,  that  there  is  no  getting  a  fair  speci- 
men of  it  without  taking  in  a  good  space. 
But  we  must  take  warning  this  time,  and  for- 
bear— or  at  least  pick  out  but  a  few  little 
morsels  as  we  pass  hastily  along.  One  of  the 
best  managed  of  all  the  tales  is  that  entitled 
'•'  Delay  has  Danger :" — which  contains  a  very 
full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  the  way 
in  which  a  weakish,  but  well  meaning  young- 
man,  engaged  on  his  own  suit  to  a  very  amia- 
ble girl,  may  be  seduced,  during  her  unlucky 
absence,  to  entangle  himself  with  a  far  in- 
ferior person,  whose  chief  seduction  is  her 
apparent  humility  and  devotion  to  him. 

We  cannot  give  any  part  of  the  long  and 
finely  converging  details  by  which  the  catas- 
trophe Ts  brought  about :  But  we  are  tempted 
to  venture  on  the  catastrophe  itself,  for  the 
sake  chiefly  of  the  riyht  English,  melancholy, 
autumnal  landscape,  with  which  it  con- 
cludes:— 

"  In  that  weak  moment,  when  disdain  and  pride, 
And  lear  and  fondness,  drew  the  man  aside, 
In  that  weak  moment — '  Wilt  thou,'  he  began, 
'  Be  mine  ?'  and  joy  o'er  all  her  features  ran  ; 
'  I  will !'  she  softly  whisper'd  ;  but  the  roar 
Of  cannon  would  not  strike  his  spirit  more  ! 
Ev'n  as  his  lips  the  lawless  contract  seal'd 
He  felt  that  conscience  lost  her  .«even-fold  shield, 
And  honour  fled  ;  but  still  he  spoke  of  love  ; 
And  all  was  joy  in  the  consenting  dove  ! 


"  That  evening  all  in  fond  discourse  was  spent ; 

Till  the  sad  lover  to  his  chamber  went,  [pent 

To  think  on  what  had  past, — to  grieve  and  to  re 

Early  he  rose,  and  look'd  with  many  a  sigh 

On  the  red  light  that  fiil'd  the  eastern  sky  ; 

Oft  had  he  stood  before,  alert  and  gay, 

To  hail  the  "lories  of  the  new-born  day  ; 

But  now  dejected,  languid,  listless,  low, 

He  saw  the  wind  upon  the  water  blow, 

And  the  cold  stream  curl'd  onward,  as  the  gale 

From  the  pine-hill  blew  harshly  down  the  dale; 

On  the  right  side  the  youth  a  wood  survey'd. 

With  all  Its  dark  intensity  of  shade  ; 

Where  the  rough  wind  alone  was  heard  to  move, 

In  this,  the  pause  of  nature  and  of  love  ; 

When  now  the  young  are  rear'd.  and  when  the  old 

Lost  to  the  tie,  grow  negligent  and  cold. 

Far  to  the  left  he  saw  the  huts  of  men, 

Half  hid  in  mist,  that  hung  upon  the  fen; 

Before  him  swallows,  gathering  for  the  sea. 

Took  their  short  flights,  and  twitier'd  on  the  lea; 

And  near,  the  bean-sheaf  stood,  the  harvest  done, 

And  slowly  blacken'd  in  the  sickly  sun  I 

All  these  were  sad  in  nature  ;  or  they  took 

Sadness  from  him,  the  likeness  of  his  look. 

And  of  his  mind — he  ponder'd  for  a  while, 

Then  met  his  Fanny  with  a  borrow'd  smile." 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  84,  85.    ' 

The  moral  autumn  is  quite  as  gloomy,  and 
far  more  hopeless. 

"The  Natural  Death  of  Love"  is  perhaps 
the  best  written  of  all  the  pieces  before  U6. 
It  consists  of  a  very  spirited  dialogue  between 
a  married  pair,  upon  the  causes  of  the  differ- 
ence between  the  days  «f  marriage  and  those 
of  courtship; — in  which  the  errors  and  faults 
of  both  parties,  and  the  petulance,  impatience, 
and  provoking  acuteness  of  the  lady,  with  the 
more  reasonable  and  reflecting,  but  somewhat 
insulting  manner  of  the  gentleman,  are  all. 
exhibited  to  the  life ;  and  with  more  unifonni 
delicacy  and  finesse  than  is  usual  with  ihai  1 
author.  I 

"  Lady  Barbara,  or  the  Ghost,"  is  a  longi  | 
story,  and   not  very  pleasing.     A  fair  widow' 
had  been  warned,  or  supposed  she  had  been) ! 
warned,  by  the  ghost  of  a  beloved  brother,! 
that  she  would  be  miserable  if  she  contracted' 
a  second  marriage — and   then,  some  fifteenii 
years  after,  she  is  courted  by  the  son  of  ai  i 
reverend  priest,  to  whose  house  .she  had  re-. 
tired — and   upon  whom,  during  all  the  years] 
of  his  childhood,  she  had  lavished  the  cares; 
of  a  mother.     She  long  resists  his  unnatv 
passion;  but  is  at  length  subdued  by  his  ur-j  i 
gency  and  youthful  beauty,  and  gives  him  herl ', 
hand.     There  is  something  rather  disgusting,^ 
we  think,  in  this  fiction — and  certainly  the 
worthy  lady  could  not  have  taken  no  way  so 
likely  to  sjive  the  ghost's  credit,  as  by  enter- 
ing into  suck  a  marriage — and   she  confessed 
as  much,  it  seem.«,  on  her  deathlied. 

'•  The  Widow."'  with  her  three  husbands,  is 
not  (juite  so  lively  as  the  wife  of  Bath  with 
her  five  ; — but  it  is  a  very  amusing,  as  well  as' 
a  very  instructive  legend;  and  exhibits  a  rich 
variety  of  those  striking  intellectual  portrait.'* 
which  mark  the  hand  of  our  poetical  Rem- 
brandt. The  serene  close  of  her  eventful 
life  is  highly  exemplary.  After  carefully  col- 
lecting all  her  dowers  and  jointures — 

"  The  widow'd  lady  to  her  cot  retir'd  : 
And  there  she  lives,  delighted  and  admir'd ! 


\ 


I 


KEATS'  POEMS. 


413 


Civil  to  all,  compliant  and  polite, 
Dispos'd  to  think,  '  whatever  is,  is  ncht.' 
At  home  awhile — she  in  the  autumn  finds 
The  sea  an  ohject  for  reflecting  minds. 
And  change  for  tender  spirits:  There  she  reads, 
And  weeps  in  comfort,  in  her  graceful  weeds  !" 
Vol.  ii.  p.  213. 

j      The  concluding  tale  is  but  the  end  of  the 

I  visit  to  the  Hall,  and  the  settlement  of  the 
younger  brother  near  his  senior,  in  the  way 

I  we  have  already  mentioned.  It  contains  no 
great  matter ;  but  there  is  so  much  good  na- 
ture and  goodness  of  heart  about  it,  that  we 
cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  gracing  our 

'  exit  with  a  bit  of  it.  After  a  little  raillery, 
the  elder  brother  says — 

"  '  We  part   no  more,  dear  Richard !    Thou  wilt 
need 

;  Thy  brother's  help  lo  teach  thy  boys  to  read  ; 
And  I  should  love  to  hear  Matilda's  psalm, 
To  keep  my  spirit  in  a  morning  calm, 
And  feel  the  soft  devotion  that  prepares 
'I'he  soul  to  rise  above  its  earthly  cares  ; 

'  Then  thou  and  I,  an  independent  two, 
May  have  our  parties,  and  defend  them  too  ; 
Thy  liberal  notions,  and  my  loyal  fears, 

j  Will  give  us  subjects  for  our  future  years  ; 
We  will  f.<r  truth  alone  contend  and  read. 
And  our  good  Jaques  shall  o'ersee  our  creed.'  " 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  348,  349. 

And  then,  after  leading  him  up  to  his  new 
purchase,  he  adds  eagerly — 

"  '  Alight,  my  friend,  and  come, 
I  do  beseech  thee,  to  that  proper  home  ! 


Here,  on  this  lawn,  thy  boys  and  girls  shall  run, 
And  play  their  gambols,  when  their  tasks  Jire  done  t 
There,  frotn  that  window,  shall  their  inotherview 
The  iiappy  tribe,  and  smile  at  all  they  do; 
While  thou,  more  gravely,  hiding  thy  delight, 
Shalt  cry,  "  O  !  childish  !"  and  enjoy  the  sight  !'  " 
Vol.  ii.  p.  352. 

We  shall  be  abused  by  our  political  and 
fastidious  readers  for  the  length  of  this  article. 
But  we  cannot  repent  of  it.  It  will  give  as 
much  pleasure,  we  believe,  and  do  as  much 
good,  as  many  of  the  articles  that  are  meant 
for  their  gratification  ;  and,  if  it  appear  absurd 
to  quote  so  largely  from  a  popular  and  acces- 
sible work,  it  should  be  remembered,  that  no 
work  of  this  magnitude  passes  into  circulation 
with  half  the  rapidity  of  our  Journal — and 
that  Mr.  Ciabbe  is  so  unequal  a  writer,  and 
at  times  so  unattractive,  as  to  require,  more 
than  any  other  of  his  degree,  some  explana- 
tion of  his  system,  and  some  specimens  of 
his  powers,  from  those  experienced  and  in- 
trepid readers  whose  business  it  is  to  pioneer 
for  the  lazier  sort,  and  to  give  some  account 
of  what  they  are  tomeet  with  on  their  journey. 
To  be  sure,  all  this  is  less  necessary  now  than 
it  was  on  Mr.  Crabbe's  first  re-appearance 
nine  or  ten  years  ago  ;  and  though  it  may  not 
be  altogether  without  its  use  even  at  present, 
it  may  be  as  well  to  confess,  that  we  have 
rather  consulted  our  own  gratification  than 
our  readers'  improvement,  in  what  we  have 
now  said  of  him :  and  hope  they  will  forgive 
us. 


(^Tlttgust,  1820.) 

1.  Endymioji :  a  Poetic  Romance.     By  John  Keats.    8vo.  pp.207.     London:  1818. 
i2.  Lamia.   Isabella,   The  Eve  of  St.  Agves,  and  other  Poems.     By  John  Keats,  author  of 
"Endymion."     12mo.   pp.200.    London':   1820.* 

indeed,  bear  evidence  eiiough  of  the  fact. 
They  are  full  of  extravagance  and  irregu- 
larity, ra.sh  attempts  at  originality,  intermin 
able  wanderings,  and  excessive  obscurity. 
They  manifestly  require,  therefore,  all  the  in 
dulgence  that  can  be  claimed  for  a  first  at- 
tempt : — But  we  think  it  no  less  plahi  that 
they  deserve  it:  For  they  are  flushed  all  over 
with  the  rich  lights  of  fancy ;  and  so  coloured 
and  bestrewn  with  the  flowers  of  poetry,  that 
even  while  perplexed  and  bewildered  in  their 
labyrinths,  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  intoxi- 
cation of  their  sweetness,  or  to  shut  our  hearts 
to  the  enchantments  they  so  lavishly  present.! 
The  models  upon  which  he  has  formed  him- 
self, in  the  Endymion,  the  earliest  and  by 
much  the  most  considerable  of  his  poems,  are 
obviou.sly  The  Faithful  Shepherdess  of  Fletch- 
er, and  the  Sad  Shepherd  of  Ben  Joiison : — 
the  e.vquisite  metres  and  inspired  diction  of 
which  he  has  copied  with  i^reat  boldness  and 
fidelity — and.  like  his  a:real  originals,  has  also 
contrived  to  impart  to  the  whole  piece  that 
j  true  rural  and  poetical  air — which  breathes 
1  only  in  ihem,  and  in  Theocritu.s — which  is  at 
2i?2 


Wk  had  never  happened  to  see  either  of 
these  volumes  till  very  lately — and  have  been 
[exceedingly  struck  w-ilh  the  genius  they  dis- 
play, and  the  spirit  of  poetry  which  breathes 
Shrough  all  their  extravagance.     That  iniita- 
|tion  of  our  old  writers,  and  especially  of  our  | 
blder  dramatists,  to  which  we  cannot  help  ' 
flattering  ourselves  that  we  have  somewliat 
contributed,   has  brought   on,  as  it  were,   a 
isecond  spring  in  our  poetry  ; — and  few  of  its 
blossoms  are  either  more  profuse  of  sweet- 
jness,  or  richer  in  promise,  than  this  which  is  | 
[now  before  us.     Mr.  Keats,  we  understand,  is  i 
istill  a  very  young  man ;  and  his  whole  works,  ! 

*  I  still  think  that  a  poet  of  great  power  and  , 
promise  was  lost  to  us  by  the  premature  death  of 
Keats,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  his  aije  ;  and  re- 
gret that  I  did  not  go  more  largely  into  (he  e.xposi- 
ion  of  his  merits,  in  the  sliiiht  notice  of  them, 
which  I  now  venture  to  reprint.  Bui  though  I  can- 
TOt,  with  propriety,  or  w^ithoui  departing  from  the 
Jrinciple  which  must  govern  this  republication,  now 
lupply  this  omission,  I  hope  'o  be  forgiven  tor 
iiaving  added  a  page  or  two  to  the  citations, — !iy 
I'A'hinh  my  oimiion  of  those  meriia  was  then  ithis- 
[Jated,  and  is  again  left  tothejudgmcntof  the  reader. 


POETRY. 


once  homely  and  majestic,  luxurious  and  rude, 
and  sets  before  us  the  genuine  sights  and 
sounds  and  smells  of  the  country,  with  all 
the  magic  and  grace  of  Elysium.  His  sub- 
ject has  the  disadvantage  of  being  Mytholog- 
ical :  and  in  this  respect,  as  well  as  on  ac- 
count of  the  raised  and  rapturous  tone  it  con- 
sequently assumes,  his  poem,  it  may  be 
thought,  would  be  better  compared  to  the 
Comus  and  the  Arcades  of  Milton,  of  which, 
also,  there  are  many  traces  of  imitation.  The 
great  distinction,  however,  between  him  and 

'  these  divine  authors,  is.  that  imagination  in 
them  is  subordinate  to  reason  and  judgment, 
while,  with  him,  it  is  paramount  and  supreme 
— that  their  ornaments  and  images  are  em- 
ployed to  embellish  and  recommend  just 
sentiments,  engaging  incidents,  and  natural 
characters,  whde  his  are  poured  out  without 
measure  or  restraint,  and  with  no  apparent 
design  but  to  unburden  the  breast  of  the 
author,  and  give  vent  to  the  overtlowing  vein 
of  his  fancy.  The  thin  and  scanty  tissue  of 
his  story  is  merely  the  light  framework  on 
which  his  florid  wreaths  are  suspended ;  and 
while  his  imaginations  go  rambling  and  en- 
tangling themselves  every  where,  like  wild 
honeysuckle.s,  all  itlea  of  sober  reason,  and 
plan,  and  consistency,  is  utterly  forgotten,  and 
'■strangled  in  their  waste  fertility.^'     A  great 

^  part  of  the  work,  indeed,  is  written  in  the 
strangest  and  most  fantastical  manner  that 
can  be  imagined.  It  seems  as  if  the  author 
had  ventured  every  thing  that  occurred  to 
him  in  the  shape  of  a  glittering  image  or 
striking  expression — taken  the  first  word  that 
presented  itself  to  make  up  a  rhyme,  and  then 
made  that  word  the  germ  of  a  new  cluster  of 
images — a  hint  for  a  new  excursion  of  the 
fancy — and  so  wanilered  on,  equally  forgetful 
whence  he  came,  and  heedless  whither  he 
was  going,  till  he  nad  covered  his  pages  with 

'  an  interminable  arabesque  of  connected  and 
incongruous  figures,  that  multiplied  as  they 
extended,  and  w^ere  only  harmonised  by  the 
brightness  of  their  tints,  and  the  graces  of 
their  forms.  In  this  rash  and  headlong  career 
he  has  of  course  many  lapses  and  failures. 
There  is  no  work,  accordingly,  from  which  a 
malicious  critic  could  cull  more  matter  for 
ridicule,  or  select  more  ob.scure,  unnatural,  or 
absurd  passages.  But  we  do  not  take  that  to 
be  our  office ; — and  must  beg  leave,  on  the 

(contrary,  to  say,  that  any  one  who,  on  this 
account,  would  represent  the  whole  poem  as 
despicable,  must  either  have  no  notion  of 
poetry,  or  no  regard  to  truth. 

It  is.  in  truth,  at  least  as  full  of  genius  as 
of  absurdity:  and  he  who  does  not  find  a 
great  deal  in  it  to  admire  and  to  give  delight, 
cannot  in  his  heart  see  much  beauty  in  the 
two  exquisite  dramas  to  which  we  nave  al- 
ready alluded  ;  or  find  any  creat  plea.sure  in 
some  of  the  finest  creations  of  Milton  and 
Shakespeare.  There  are  very  many  such  per- 
sons, we  verily  believe,  even  among  the  read- 
ing and  judicious  part  of  the  community — 
correct  scholars,  we  have  no  doubt,  many  of 
them,  and,  it  may  be,  very  classical  composers 
in  prose  and  in  verse — but  utterly  ignorant,  ou 


our  view  of  the  matter,  of  the  true  genius  of 
English  poetry,  and  incapable  of  estimating 
its  appropriate  and  most  exquisite  beauties. 
With  that  spirit  we  have  no  hesitation  in  say- 
ing that  Mr.  Keats  is  deeply  imbued — and  of 
those  beauties  he  has  presented  us  with  many; 
striking  examples.  We  are  very  much  in-i 
clined  indeed  to  add,  that  we  do  not  know- 
any  book  which  we  would  sooner  employ  as 
a  test  to  ascertain  whether  any  one  had  iin 
him  a  native  relish  for  poetry,  and  a  genuine 
sensibility  to  its  intrinsic  charm.  The  greater 
and  more  distinguished  poets  of  our  country! 
have  so  much  else  in  them,  to  gratify  otheRf—.. 
tastes  and  propensities,  that  they  are  pretty  i'* 
sure  to  captivate  and  amuse  those  to  whomi     i^^" 


im 


captr 
their  poetry  may  be  but  an  hinderaiice 
obstruction,  as  well  as  those  to  whom  it  coi 
stitutes  their  chief  attraction.  The  interei 
of  the  stories  they  tell — the  vivacity  of  the 
characters  they  delineate — the  weight  and 
force  of  the  maxims  and  sentiments  in  which 
they  abound — the  very  pathos,  and  wit  anrij 
humour  they  display,  which  may  all  antl  eachi 
of  them  exist  apart  from  their  poetry,  and  in-, 
dependent  of  it,  are  quite  sufficient  to  account 
for  their  popularity,  without  referring  much; 
to  that  still  higher  gift,  by  which  they  subduej 
to  their  enchantments  those  whose  souls  are 
truly  attuned  to  the  finer  impulses  of  poetry.|Bliimtioi 
It  is  only,  therefore,  where  those  other  recom-i  mm 
mendations  are  wanting,  or  exist  in  a  weakeriftialliil 
degree,  that  the  true  force  of  the  altractii 


exercised  by  the  pure  poetry  with  which  they  i  mlloi 
are  so  often  combined,  can  be  fairly  appre^ 
ciated : — where,  without  much  incident  or 
many  characters,  and  with  little  wit,  wis^lom,  fltiilbeit 
or  arrangement,  a  number  of  bright  pictures 
are  presented  to  the  imagination,  and  a  finel 
feeling  expressed  of  those  mysterious  relations^ 
by  which  visible  external  things  are  a.^^simi' 
lated  with  inward  thoughts  and  emotions, 
become  the  images  and  ex])onents  of  all  pai 
sions  and  affections.  To  an  unpoetical  readei 
such  passages  will  generally  appear  mei 
raving  and  absurdity — and  to  this  censure  a: 
very  great  part  of  the  volumes  before  us  wi)l|'Kyg,j 
certainly  be  exposed,  with  this  class  of  read-j  ^y, 
ers.  Even  in  the  judgment  of  a  fitter  audioncej 
however,  it  must,  we  fear,  be  admitted,  that,; 
besides  the  riot  and  extravag-ance  of  his  fancy  j 
the  scope  and  substance  of  Mr.  Keats'  poetrjj 
is  rather  too  dreamy  and  abstracteil  to  excite' 
the  strongest  interest,  or  to  sustain  the  atten  I 
tion  through  a  work  of  any  great  compass  orj 
extent.  He  deals  too  much  with  shadowy) 
and  incomprehensible  beings,  and  is  too  cx)n-i| 
stantly  rapt  into  an  extramundane  Elysium,! 
to  command  a  lasting  interest  with  ordinary^ 
mortals — and  must  employ  the  agency  oi  j 
I  more  varied  and  coarser  emotions,  if  he  wishes^ 
j  to  take  rank  with  the  enduring  poets  of  this 
1  or  of  former  generations.  There  is  somethii 
[  V(MV  curious,  loo,  we  think,  in  the  way 
which  he,  and  Mr.  Barry  Cornwall  also,  have 
I  dealt  with  the  Pagan  "mythology,  of  which 
I  they  have  made  so  much  use  in  their  poetrjMH 
I  Instead  of  ])resenting  its  imaginary  personsjl 
j  undt^r  the  trite  and  vulgar  traits  that  belongi 
to  them  in  the  ordinary  systems,  little  morej 


NPiinci 


KEATS'  POEMS. 


4i5 


;  borrowed  from  these  than  the  general  con- 
■ption  of  their  condition  and  relations;  and 
11  oiiginal  character  and  distinct  individuality 
*;  then  bestowed  upon  them,  which  has  all 
le  merit  of  invention,  and  all  the  grace  and 
ttiaction  of  the  fictions  on  which  it  is  en- 
rafte>d.  The  ancients,  though  they  probably 
ul  not  stanii  in  any  great  awe  of  their  del- 
es, have  yet  abstained  very  much  from  any 
iiiiute  or  dramatic  representation  of  their 
•elin<rs  and  afl'ections.  In  Hesiod  and  Homer. 
lev  are  broadly  delineated  by  some  of  their 
•tions  and  adventures,  and  introduced  to  us 
.eieiyas  the  agents  in  those  particular  trans- 
•tlons:  while  in  the  Hymns,  from  those 
;ciihed  to  Orpheus  and  Homer,  down  to 
luse  of  Callimachus,  we  have  little  but  pomp- 
is  epithets  and  invocations,  with  a  flattering 
immemoration  of  their  most  famous  exploits 
(-and  are  never  allowed  to  enter  into  their 
DsomS;  or  follow  out  the  train  of  their  feel- 
jgs,  with  the  presumption  of  our  human 
rmpathy.  Except  the  love-song  of  the  Cy- 
bps  to  his  Sea  Nymph  in  Theocritus — the 
amentation  of  Venus  for  Adonis  in  Moschus 
1-and  the  more  recent  Legend  of  Apuleius, 
b  scarcely  recollect  a  passag^e  in  all  the 
ritings  of  antiquity  in  which  the  passions  of 
immortal  are  fairly  disclosed  to  the  scrutiny 
.d  observation  of  men.  The  author  before 
.  however,  and  some  of  his  contemporaries, 
ve  dealt  dilTerently  with  the  subject ; — and. 
leltering  the  violence  of  the  fiction  under 
i  ancient  traditionary  fable,  have  hi  reality 
liated  and  imagined  an  entire  new  set  of 
laracters;  and  brought  closely  and  minutely 
'fore  us  the  loves  and  sorrows  and  perplexi- 
I  s  of  beinss,  with  whose  names  and  super- 
itural  attributes  we  had  long  been  familiar, 
Tthout  any  sense  or  feeling  of  their  personal 
^racter.  We  have  more  than  doubts  of  the 
ifiess  of  such  personages  to  maintain  a  per- 
mnent  interest  with  the  modern  public; — 
lit  the  way  in  which  they  are  here  managed 
(rtainly  gives  them  the  best  chance  that 
mv  remains  for  them ;  and.  at  all  events,  it 
(Knot  be  denied  that  the  effect  is  striking 
aJ  graceful.  But  we  must  now  proceed  to 
(r  extracts. 

iThe  first  of  the  volumes  before  us  is  occu- 
ijd  with  the  loves  of  Endymion  ami  Diana — 
■NJ-ich  it  would  not  be  very  easy,  and  which 
^j  do  not  at  all  intend  to  analyse  in  detail, 
lithe  beo'inning  of  the  poem,  however,  the 
r 'I'.herd  Prince  is  represented  as  having  had 
^mge  visions  and  delirious  interviews  with 
ii  unknown  and  celestial  beauty  :  Soon  after 
vich,  he  is  called  on  to  preside  at  a  festival 
iiionour  of  Pan  ;  and  his  appearance  in  the 
p.cession  is  thus  described  : — 

_     "His  youth  wns  fully  blown. 

Siwing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown  ; 

Ap,  for  those  simple  limes,  his  garments  were 

A^iieftain  king's:  Beneath  his  breast,  half  bare, 

^  hung  a  silver  bugle  ;  and  between 

H  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

Amile  was  on  his  eountennnee  :    He  seeni'd. 

T r-ommon  lookers  on.  like  one  who  dreain'd 

Odieners  in  groves  Ely.-ian  : 

Bi  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A'firking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 


And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 
Through  his  forgotten  hands  !" — pp.  11,  12. 

There  is  then  a  choral  hymn  addressed  to 
the  sylvan  deity,  which  appears  to  us  to  be 
full  of  beauty ;  and  reminds  us,  in  many 
places,  of  the  finest  strains  of  Sicilian — or  of 
English  poetry.     A  pail  of  it  is  as  follows  : — 

"  '  0  thou,  who.se  mighty  palaee  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks  ;  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  lite,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers,  in  heavy  peaeefuliiess  ! 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dre.ss 
Their  ruffled  locks,  where  meeiing  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn   hours  dost   sit,   and 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds —        [hearken 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth. — 

"  '  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  niyriles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :   O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad  leaved  fig  trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yellow  girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossoin'd  beans  and  poppied  corn  ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness  ;  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions  !  be  quickly  near. 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
0  forester  divine ! 

"  '  Thou,  to  whom  every  fawn  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half  sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw  ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main. 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiad's  cells. 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping  ! 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantasiic  leaping, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silv'ry  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones  brown- 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring  I 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  King  ! 
"  '  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud  clapping  shears. 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating:  Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsmen  !  Breather  round  our  farms, 
To  keep  ofi' mildews,  and  all  weather  harms: 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribcd  sounds, 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  !'  " 

pp.  114—117. 

The  enamoured  youth  sinks  into  insensi- 
bility in  the  midst  of  the  solemnity,  and  is 
borne  apart  and  revived  by  the  care  of  his 
sister ;  and,  opening  his  heavy  eyes  in  her 
arms,  says — 

'•  '  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosoin  !  Thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
About  me  ;  and  the  pearlies'  dew  not  brings 
Such  mornina  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
.As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes.     Then  think  not  thou 
That,  any  longer.  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No  !   I  will  once  more  raise 
My  voice  upon  the  mountain  heights;  once  mare 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  thiir  loieheiids  boar  ! 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 
Around  the  breathed  boar :  again  I'll  poll 


41« 


POETRY. 


The  fair-grown  yew  tree,  for  a  chosen  bow  : 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 
Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.  So  be  thou  ciieered,  sweet, 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  intreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course.' 

"  Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source 

Shut  her  pure  sorrow  drops,  with  glad  exclaim  ; 

And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 

A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 

In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 

More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 

Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child; 

And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 

So  mournful  strange." — pp.  25 — 27. 

He  then  tells  her  all  the  story  of  his  love 
and  madness;  and  gives  this  airy  sketch  of 
the  lirst  vision  he  had,  or  fancied  he  had,  of 
his  descending  Goddess.  After  some  rapturons 
intimations  of  the  glories  of  her  gold-burnished 
hair,  he  says — 

"  She  had, 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  nie  mad  ! 
And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 
Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded, 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow  ; 
The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how, 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes. 
Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sighs, 
That  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 
A.nd  melts  into  the  vision  !" 

"  And  then  her  hovering  feet ! 
More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet 
Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 
From  out  her  cradle  shell  !  The  wind  outblows 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ! — 
'Tis  blue  ;  and  overspangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes;  as  though'ihou  wert  to  shed 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue  bell  bed, 
Handfuls  of  daisies." — 

Overpowered  by  this  "  celestial  colloquy 
sublime."  he  sinks  at  last  into  slumber — and 
on  wakening  finds  the  scene  disenchanted ; 
and  the  dull  shades  of  evening  deepening  over 
his  solitude : — 

"  Then  up  I  started. — Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  tears  ! 
My  clenched  hands  !     For  lo  !   the  poppies  hung 
Dew  dabbled  on  their  stalks  ;  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty ;  and  the  sullen  day 
Ilid  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away. 
With  leaden  looks.     The  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd  and  slept  ;  and  its  wild  self  did  leaze 
With  wayward  melancholy.     And  I  thouirht, 
Mark  me,  Peona  I  that  sometimes  it  brought. 
Faint  Fare-thee-wells — and  sigh-shrilled  Adieus  !" 

Soon  after  this  he  is  led  away  by  butterflies 
to  the  haunts  of  Naiads;  and  by  them  sent 
down  into  enchanted  caverns,  where  he  sees 
Venus  and  Adonis,  and  great  flights  of  Cupids; 
and  wanders  over  diamond  terraces  among 
beautiful  fountains  and  temples  and  statues, 
and  all  sorts  of  fine  and  strange  things.  AH 
this  is  very  fantastical :  But  there  are  splendid 
pieces  of  description,  and  a  sort  of  wild  rich- 
ness in  the  whole.  We  cull  a  few  little  mor- 
.^els.  This  is  the  picture  of  the  sleeping 
Adonis: — 

"  III  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 

Of  fondest  beauty.     Sideway  his  face  repos'd 

On  one  while  arm,  and  tenderly  unclos'd. 

By  'endere.st  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 

To  ."lumbery  pout  ;  just  as  the  morning  south  | 


Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.    Above  his  head, 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honours  wed 
To  make  a  coronal  ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 
Together  interiwin'd  and'trammel'd  fresh: 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout  ;  the  ivy  mesh, 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries  ;  and  woodbine, 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine. 

"  Hard  by, 
Stood  .serene  Cupids  watchmg  silently. 
One  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touch'd  the  strings, 
Mufl^ing  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber;  while  another  took 
A  willow-bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 
.And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  atiother  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluitermg-wise 
Rain  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes." — pp.  72,  71 

Here  is  another,  and  more  classical  skefc 
of  Cybele — with  a  picture  of  lions  that  inig 
excite  the  envy  of  Rubens,  or  Edwin  Lan 
seer ! 

"  Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below, 
Came  mother  Cybele  !  alone — alone  I — 
In  sombre  chariot :  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  deaih-pale 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  linns  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels  ;  solemn  ilicir  tooihrd  maw 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch  !" — p.  83. 

The  following  picture  of  the  fairy  wate 
works,  which  he  unconsciously  sets  pfaying 
these  enchanted  caverns,  is,  it  must  be  co 
fessed,  "  high  fantastical ;"  but  we  venture 
e-vtract  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  singular  brilliant 
and  force  of  the  execution  . — 

"  So  on  he  hies 

Through  caves  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore. 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquoise  floor 
Black  polish'd  porticos  ot  awful  shade, 
Till,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  ballusiradc 
Leads  sparkling  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains  ;  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear  I     But  ai  ihai  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  enclose 
His  diamond  paih  with  fretwork,  streaming  rout)' 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  car  of  Thetis  !     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  fi)r  every  minute's^ space. 
The  streams  with  changing  magic  interlace  ; 
Sometimes  like  delicaiest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines :  then  weeping  trees 
Moving  about,  as  in  a  gentle  wir.d  ; 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  wat'ry  gauze  refin'd 
Pour  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies. 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  Flowers.  Peacocks,  Swans,  and  Naiads  fair! 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare  ; 
.\nd  then  the  water  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams. 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  root 
Of  those  dark  places,  in  tunes  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  named  !" 

There  are  strange  melodies  too  aroundhirr, 
and  their  effect  on  the  fancy  is  thus  poetical! 
de.scribed : — 

"  Oh  !  when  the  airy  stress 
Of  Music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds, 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
Eolian  magic  (rom  their  lucid  wombs, 
Thf^  old  songs  waken  from  forgotten  tomlw  I 


KEATS'  POEMS. 


417 


lOW  di'ties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave  ! 
tJhosis  of  melodious  prophesyiiigs  rave 
Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  feet! 
Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit, 
Where  long  ago.  a  Giant  liatlle  was  ! 
And  from  the  turf  a  lullaby  dolh  pass. 
In  every  plac€  where  infant  Orpheus  slept !" 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  enchantments  he 
has,  we  do  not  very  well  know  how,  another 
ravishing  interview  with  his  unknown  god- 
Idess;  and  when  she  again  melts  away  from 
him.  he  finds  himself  in  a  vast  grotto,  where 
he  overhears  the  courtship  of  Alpheus  and 
|\rethiisa;  and  as  they  elope  together,  dis- 
j;overs  that  the  grotto  has  disappeared,  and 
Ihat  he  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  under  the 
[ransparent  arches  of  its  naked  waters  !  The 
bllowing  is  abundantly  extravagant;  but 
;omes  of  no  ignoble  lineage — nor  shames  its 
xigh  descent : — 

"  Far  had  he  roam'd, 
Alth  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Vbove.  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
|*Iore  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings  ! 
|)ld  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breast-plates  large 
){  gone  sea- warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  large; 
ludders  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  lost 
phe  sway  of  human  hand  ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
Virh  long-forgotten  siory,  and  wherein 
Jo  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
put  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mould' ritig  scrolls, 
Vrit  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
I'hn  first  were  on  the  earth  ;  and  sculptures  rude 
'  pond'rons  stone,  developing  the  mood 
t  ancient  Nox  ; — then  skeletons  of  man, 
f  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan, 
nd  elephant,  and  eagle — and  huge  jaw 
f  nameless  monster." p.  111. 

There  he  finds  ancient  Glaucus  enchanted 
f  Circe — hears  his  wild  story — and  goes  with 
m  to  the  deliverance  and  restoration  of  thou- 
nds  of  drowned  lovers,  whose  bodies  were 
jled  and  stowed  away  in  a  large  submarine 
ilace.  When  this  feat  is  happily  performed, 
;  finds  himself  again  on  dry  ground,  with 
Dods  and  waters  around  him :  and  can- 
it  help  falling  desperately  in  love  with  a 
autiful  damsel  whom  he  finds  there,  pining 
r  some  such  consolation  ;  and  who  tells  a 
ig  story  of  having  come  from  India  in  the 
lin  of  Bacchus,  and  having  strayed  away 
:>ra  him  into  that  forest ! — So  they  vow  eter- 
il  fidelity ;  and  are  wafted  up  to  heaven  on 
|;ng  horses :  on  which  they  sleep  and  dream 
.pong  the  stars; — and  then  the  lady  melts 
k&y,  and  he  is  again  alone  upon  the  earth ; 

it  soon  rejoins  his  Indian  love,  and  agrees 
give  up  his  goddess,  and  live  only  for  her: 
Jt  she  refuses,  and  says  she  is  resolved  to 
wote  herself  to  the  service  of  Diana :  But, 
^'jien  she  goes  to  accomplish  that  dedication. 
^^  turns  out  to  be  the  goddess  herself  in  a 
ijiv  shape  !  and  finally  exalts  her  lover  with 
)\:  to  a  blessed  immortality  ! 
[vVe  have  left  ourselves  room  to  say  but  lit- 
*  of  the  second  volume;  which  is  of  a  more 
rj^cellaneons  character.  Lamia  is  a  Greek 
a'lique  story,  in  the  measure  and  taste  of  En- 
♦ijTiion.  Isabella  's  a  paraphrase  of  the  same 
tsi  of  Boccacio  wiiich  Mr.  Cornwall  has  also 
Jijtated,  under  the  title  of  '•'  A  Sicilian  Story." 
livould  be  worth  while  to  compare  the  two 


limitations;  but  we  have  no  longer  time  lor 
I  such  a  task.  Mr.  Keats  has  Ibllowed  hia 
j  original  more  closely,  and  has  given  a  deep 

pathos  to  sevei".(l  of  his  stanzas.  The  widow- 
I  ed  bride's  discovery  of  the  murdered  body  is 

very  strikingly  given. 

"  Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies! 
She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 

And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries. 
Then  'gan  she  work  again  ;  nor  stay'd  her  care, 
But  to  throw  back  at  nmes  her  veiling  hair. 

"  That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her,  wondering. 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core, 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  labouring; 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar. 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing : 
Three  hours  they  la!)our'd  at  this  trivial  sore  ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave,  &-c. 

"  In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home. 

And  then — the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel ! 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb  ; 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  Iringed  lash  :  The  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well,     [kept 

She  drench'd  away  : — and  still  she  comb'd,  and 

Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and  wept ! 

"  Then  in  a  silken  scarf — sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully, — 

She  wrapp'd  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden  pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by, 

And  cover'd  it  with  mould  ;  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

"  And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  the  sun  ! 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees ; 
And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run. 
And  she  lorgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze ! 
She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done  ; 
And  the  new  morn  she  .saw  not!    But  in  peace 
Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 
And  moisien'd  it  with  tears,  unto  the  core  !" 
pp.  72—75. 

The  following  lines  from  an  ode  to  a  Night- 
ingale are  equally  distinguished  for  harmony 
and  high  poetic  feeling : — 

"0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warmT?outh  ! 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winkino;  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  moutli ! 
That  I  niiaht  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  I 
Fade  tar  away  !  dissolve — and  quite  forget 
\\'hat    Thou   among  the    leaves    hast    never 
known — 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret,      [groan ; 
Here, — where   men   sit  and  hear  each    other 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad.  last  grey  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 
dies ! 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs. 
The  voice  I  hear,  this  passmg  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  ! 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sick  for 
home, 
■'^fif  stood  in  leant  amid  the  alien  rorn  .' 
'I'he  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  loam, 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 

pp.  108—111. 

We  know  nothing  at  once  so  truly  frefih, 
genuine,   and    English, — and,   at    the   ^ame 


413 


POETRY. 


time,  so  full  of  poetical  feeling,  and  Greek 
elegance  and  simplicity,  as  this  address  to 
Autumn  : — 

'•  Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruiifulness — 
Close  bo3om-triend  of  the  maturing  Sun  ! 
Conspiri:ig  with  him  now,  lo  load  and  bless     [run  I 
With  fruit   the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 
To  bend  wiih  apples  the  moss'd  cottage  trees, 
And  till  all  Iruii  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  Howers  for  the  bees, 
I'ntil  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease  ; 
For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

"  Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sjometimes,  whoever  seeks  abroad,  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 
Thy  hair  s«ft-hfied  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half  renp'd  furrow  sound  asleep  I 
Drows'd  with  the  I'umes  of  poppies  ;  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  ne.xt  swarih.  and  all  its  twined  flowers  ! 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner,  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head,  across  a  brook  ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchesl  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours ! 

"  Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?    Ay,  where  are 

thev? 
Think  not  of  them  !     Thou  hast  thy  music  too  ; 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  solt-dying  day. 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ! 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows  ;  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  I 
And  lull  grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft, 
The^redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gaih'ring  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies  I" 

One  of  the  sweetest  of  the  smaller  poems  is 
that  entitled  '-The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  :"'  though 
we  can  now  afford  but  a  scanty  extract.  The 
superstition  is.  that  if  a  maiden  goes  to  bed 
on  that  night  without  supper,  and  never  looks 
up  after  saying  her  prayers  till  she  falls 
asleep,  she  will  see  her  destined  husband  by 
her  bed-side  the  moment  .she  opens  her  eyes. 
The  fair  Madeline,  who  was  in  love  with  the 
gentle  Porphyro.  but  thwarted  by  an  imperi- 
ous guardian,  resolves  to  try  this  .-^pell : — and 
Porphyro,  who  has  a  suspicion  of  hiM-  purpose, 
naturally  determines  to  do  \\  hat  he  can  to 
help  it  to  a  happy  issue;  and  accordingly 
prevails  on  her  ancient  nurse  to  admit  him 
to  her  virgin  bower  ;  where  he  watches  rev- 
erently, till  she  sinks  in  slumber; — aiul  then, 
arranging  a  most  el(>g^nt  desseit  by  her 
couch,  and  gently  rousing  her  with  a  fender 
and  favourite  air,"  linaily  reveals  him^relf,  and 
persuades  her  to  steal  'from  the  castle  under 


lis  protection. 


Tlie 


ipeninj 


stanza  is  a  fair 


specimen  of  the  sweetness  and  force  of  the 
composition. 

"St.  .Agnes  Eve  !     All.  bitter  cold  if  was  ! 
The  owl.  for  all  his  feathers,  was  acold  ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  I 
Numb  were  the  bedesman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
Hi.i  rosary  :  and  while  his  frosted  breath. 
l.jke  pioMs  iiicen«e  irom  a  censer  old, 
Heem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death. 
Pas'  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayers  he 
saith." 

nut  the  giory  and  charni  of  tlin  jwem  is  in 
tilv<  description  of  the  fair  maiden's  antique 


chamber,  and  of  all  that  passes  in  that  swef. 
and  angel-guarded  sanctuary  :  every  part  o' 
which  Ts  touched  with  colours  at  once  ric 
and  delicate — and  the  whole  chastened  an 
harmonised,  in  the  midst  of  its  gorgeous  di; 
tinctness,  by  a  pervading  grace  and  purit} 
that  indicate  not  less  clearly  the  exaltatio 
khan  the  refinement  of  the  author's  fanc} 
fVVe  cannot  resist  adding  a  good  part  of  thj 
description. 

"  Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ! 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died  : 
The  door  she  closed  '.     She  panted,  all  akin 
'I'o  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  1 
No  utter'd  syllable — or  woe  betide  I 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble  ; 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  I 

"  A  casement  high  and  treple-arch'd  there  was, 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 

Of  truits  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass: 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device 

Innumerable,  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 

As  are  the  tiger  moth's  deep-damask'd  wings '. 

"  Full  on  this  casement  shown  the  wintery  moon 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon 
Rose  bloom  fell  on  her  hand.-*,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross,  soft  amethyst ; 
And  on  her  hair,  a  glory  like  a  saint  I 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  ! — Porphyro  grew  faint, 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint 

"  Anon  his  heart  revives  !     Her  vespers  done, 
of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  wamitd  jesvels,  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fraiirant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees! 
Half  hidden,  like  a  Mermaid  in  sea  weed. 
Pensive  a  while  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees        I 
In  fancy  fair,  St.  Agnes  on  her  bed  1  ' 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled 

"  Soon,  trembling,  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  dream,  perplex'd  she  lay  ; 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  Sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  latigued  away  ! 
Haven'd  alike  from  sunshine  and  t'nmi  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again 
"  Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranc'd, 
Porphyro  gaz'd  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  lisien'd  to  her  breathing;  if  it  chanc'd 
To  sink  into  a  slumb'rous  tendeinrss? 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless. 
And  brcath'd  himself;—  then  irom  the  closet  crep 
Noiseless  as  Fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet  silent  stept 

"  Then,  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  sinking  moot 
Made  a  dim  silver  twilight,  sott  he  set 
A  table,  and.  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  doili  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet,  &c. 

"  And  still  she  slept — an  azure-lidded  sleep  I 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd  ; 
While  he,  from  forth  the  closet,  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  smoother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transfcrr'd 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand,  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

•'  Those  delicates  he  henp'd  with  glowing  hand, 

On  golden  dishes,  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver;  sumprumis  they  stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Fillinz  the  rhillv  room  with  perfume  light. 

'  Aiid^iow.  iiiy'love:  my  Seraph  fair!  awake! 

Ope  thy  sweet  eyes !  for  dear  St,  Agnes '  sake ! 


ROGERS'  HUMAN  LIFE. 


419 


j  It  is  difficult  to  break  off  in  such  a  course 
Igf  citation:  But  we  must  stop  here;  and 
lehall  close  our  extracts  with  the  following 
ilively  lines : — 

'  O  s«eel  Fancy  I   let  her  loose  ! 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  enjoying  ot'ihe  Spring 
Fades  as  docs  its  lilossomiiig  ; 
Autumn's  red-iipp'd  (ruilage  loo, 
Blushing  ihrongh  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting  :     What  do  then  f 
Sit  ihee  by  the  ingle,  %vhen 
'I'he  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 
Spirit  ota  winter's  night ; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  tlie  plough-boy's  heavy  shoon ; 
When  the  Night  doih  meet  the  Noon, 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  F.ven  from  her  sky. 

'I'hou  shall  hear 

Distant  harvcsi  caroJs  clear; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 
Sweet  birds  antiieniing  the  morn  ; 
And,  in  ihe  same  moment — hark ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  iark, 
Or  the  rooks,  wiih  busy  caw. 
Foraging  for  slicks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
White-plum'd  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid  -  May  ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 


Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
'I'liou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
iNleagre  from  iis  celled  sleep; 
And  ihc  snake,  all  winter  thin. 
Cast  on  suiniy  bank  its  skin  ; 
Freckled  nest-egss  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn  tree, 
When  tlie  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Tlien  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bre-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down  pattering, 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing." 

pp.  122—125. 

There  is  a  fragment  of  a  projected  Epic, 
entitled  "Hyperion,"  on  the  e.xpulsion  of 
Saturn  and  the  Titanian  deities  by  Jupiter 
and  his  younger  adherents,  of  which  we  can- 
not advise  the  completion  :  For,  though  there 
are  passiigcs  of  some  force  and  grandeur,  it  is 
.sufficiently  obviou.s,  from  the  specimen  before 
us,  that  the  subject  is  too  I'ar  removed  from 
all  the  souix-.es  of  human  interest,  to  be  suc- 
cessfully treated  by  any  modern  author.  Mr. 
Keats  has  unquestionably  a  very  beaatifui 
unagination.  a  perfect  ear  for  harmony,  and  a 
great  familiarity  with  the  finest  diction  ot 
English  poetry  ;  but  he  must  learn  not  to  mis- 
use or  misapply  these  advantages ;  and  neither 
to  waste  the  good  gifts  of  nature  and  study  on 
intractable  themes,  nor  to  luxuriate  too  reck- 
lessly on  such  as  are  more  suitable. 


(ilUrcg.  1B19 


Human  Life:  a  Poem.     By  Samuel  Rogers.     4to.    pp.94.     London:   1819, 


These  are  very  sweet  verses.     They  do  | 
ot,  indeed,  stir  the  spirit  like  the  strong  lines  I 
f  Byron,  nor  make  our  hearts  dance  within 
s,  like  the  inspiring  strains  of  Scott;  but  I 
ley  come  over  us  with  a  bewitching  soft-  \ 
that,  in  certain  mood.s,  is  still  more  de- 
ghtful — and  soothe  the  troubled  spirits  with  [ 
refreshing  sense  of  truth,  purity,  and  ele- 
mce.     They  are  pensive  rather  than  pas-  ' 
onate  :  and  more  full  of  wisdom  and  ten-  j 
erness  than  of  high  flights  of  fancy,  or  over- 
helming  bursts  of  emotion — while  they  are 
loulded  into  grace,  at  least  as  much  by  the 
iTectof  the  Moral  beauties  they  disclose,  as 
(•  the  taste  and  judgment  with  which  they 
e  constructed. 

The  theme  is  Human  Life  ! — not  only  "the 
ibject  of  all  verse  "' — but  the  great  centre 
id  source  of  all   interest   in  the  works   of 
iman  beings— to  which  both  verse  and  prose 
Mriably  bring  us  back,  when  they  succeed 
rivetting  our  attention,  or  rousing  our  emo- 
)np — and  which  turns  every  thing  into  poetry 
which  its  sensibilities  can  be  ascribed,  or  ' 
r  which  its  vicissitudes  can  be  suggested !  ! 
3t  it  is  not  by  any  means  to  that  which,  in  j 
dinary  language,    is  termed   the  poetry  or 
e  romance  of  human  life,  that  the  present  , 
)rk  is  directed.     The  life  which  it  endeav-  j 
"rsto  set  before  us,  is  not  life  diversified! 


with  strange  adventures,  embodied  in  extra- 
ordinarj'  characters,  or  agitated  with  turbu- 
lent passions — not  the  life  of  warlike  jmladins, 
or  desperate  lovers,  or  sublime  rulHans — or 
piping  shepherds  or  sentimental  savages,  or 
bloody  bigots  or  preaching  pedlars— or  con- 
querors, poets,  or  any  other  species  of  mad- 
men— but  the  ordinary,  practical,  and  amiable 
life  of  social,  intelligent,  and  affectionate  men 
in  the  upper  ranks  of  society — such,  in  short, 
as  multitudes  may  be  seen  living  every  day 
in  this  country — for  the  picture  is  entirely 
Engli.«h — and  though  not  perhaps  in  the 
choice  of  every  one,  yet  open  to  the  judg- 
ment, and  familiar  to  the  sympathies,  of*ali. 
It  contains,  of  course,  no  story,  and  no  indi- 
vidual characters.  It  is  properly  and  pecu- 
liarly contemplative — and  consists  in  a  series 
of  reflections  on  our  mysterious  nature  and 
condition  upon  earth,  and  on  the  marvellous,, 
though  unnoticed  changes  which  the  ordinary 
course  of  our  existence  is  continually  bringing 
about  in  our  being.  Its  marking  peculiarity 
ill  this  respect  is,  that  it  is  free  from  the  least 
alloy  of  acrimony  or  harsh  judgment,  and 
deals  not  at  all  indeed  in  any  species  of  satiri- 
cal or  .sarcastic  remark.  The  poet  looks  here 
on  man,  and  teaches  us  to  look  on  him,  not 
merely  with  love,  but  with  reverence;  and, 
mingling  a  sort  of  considerate  pity  for  the 


420 


POETRY. 


I 


shortness  of  his  busy  little  career,  and  the 
disappointments  and  weaknesses  by  which  it 
IS  beset,  with  a  genuine  admiration  of  the 
gieat  capacities  he  unfolds,  and  the  high  des- 
tiny to  which  he  seems  to  be  reserved,  works 
out  a  very  beautiful  and  engaging  picture, 
both  of  the  affections  by  which  Life  is  en- 
deared, the  trials  to  which  it  is  exposed,  and 
the  pure  and  peaceful  enjoyments  with  which 
it  may  often  be  filled. 

This,  after  all,  we  believe,  is  the  tone  of 
,  true  wisdom  and  true  virtue — and  that  to 
which  all  good  natures  draw  nearer,  as  they 
approach  the  close  of  life,  and  come  to  act 
less,  and  to  know  and  to  meditate  more,  on 
the  varying  and  crowded  scene  of  Inunan  ex- 
istence.— When  the  inordinate  hopes  of  early 
youth,  which  provoke  their  own  disappoint- 
ment, have  been  sobereii  down  by  longer  ex- 
perience and  more  extended  viyws — when  the 
keen  contentions,  and  eager  rivalries,  which 
employed  our  riper  age.  have  expired  or  been 
abandoned — when  we  have  seen,  year  after 
year,  the  objects  of  our  fiercest  hostility,  and  of 
our  fondest  affections,  lie  down  together  in  the 
hallowed  peace  of  the  grave — when  ordinary 
pleasures  and  amusements  begin  to  be  insipid, 
and  the  gay  derision  which  seasoned  them  to 
appear  flat  and  importunate — when  we  reflect 
how  often  we  have  mounied  and  been  com- 
forted— what  opposite  opinions  we  have  suc- 
cessively maintained  and  abandoned — to  what 
inconsistent  habits  we  have  gradually  been 
formed — and  how  frequently  the  objects  of 
our  pride  have  proved  the  sources  of  our 
shame  !  we  are  naturally  led  to  ret^ur  to  the 
careless  days  of  our  childhood,  and  from  that 
distant  starting  place,  to  retrace  the  whole 
of  our  career,  and  that  of  our  contemporaries, 
with  feelings  of  far  greater  humility  and  indul- 
gence than  those  by  which  it  had  been  actu- 
ally accompanied  :-^to  think  all  vain  but  af- 
fection and  honour — the  simplest  and  cheap- 
est pleasures  the  truest  and  most  precious — 
and  generosity  of  sentiment  the  only  mental 
superiority  which  ought  either  to  be  wished 
for  or  admired. 

We  are  aware  that  we  have  saitl  ••some- 
thing too  much  of  this  ;"  and  that  our  reatlers 
would  probably  have  been  more  edified,  as 
well  as  more  delighted,  by  Mr.  Tvogers"  text, 
than  with  our  prt^achment  upon  it.  But  we 
were  anxious  to  convey  to  them  our  .sense  of 
the  spirit  in  which  this  poem  is  written  : — and 
cOiH-eive,  indeed,  that  what  we  have  now 
.said  falls  more  strictly  within  the  line  of  our 
critical  duly,  than  our  general  remarks  can 
always  be  said  to  do; — because  thi^  trn(> 
character  and  poetical  effect  of  the  work- 
seems,  in  this  instance,  to  depend  much  more 
on  its  moral  expression,  than  on  any  of  its 
merely  literary  qualities. 

The  author,  perhap.s,  may  not  think  it  any 
compliment  to  be  thus  told,  that  his  verses 
are  likely  to  be  greater  favourites  with  the 
old  than  with  the  young; — and  yot  it  is  no 
small  compliment,  we  think,  to  say.  that  they 
are  likelv  to  be  more  favourites  with  his 
readers  every  year  they  live : — And  it  is  at 
all  events  true,  whether  it  be  a  coniplimert 


or  not,  that  as  readers  of  all  ages,  if  they  ai 
any  way  worth  pleasing,  have  little  glimpsf 
and  occasional  visitations  of  those  truths  whic 
longer  experience  only  renders  more  familia 
so  no  works  ever  sink  so  deep  into  nmiabi 
minds,  or  recur  so  often  to  their  rcmen 
brance,  as  those  M'hich  embody  simple,  an 
solemn,  and  reconciling  truths,  iu  »'nn.li;ili 
and  elegant  language — and  antieipalf.  is 
were,  and  bring  out  with  etfect.  tho.-<c  sali 
tary  lessons  which  it  seems  to  be  the  gre; 
end  of  our  life  to  inculcate.  The  pjciurt 
of  violent  passion  and  terrible  emi)lion- 
the  breathing  characters,  the  splendid  in 
agery  and  bewitching  fancy  of  Shakespeai 
himself,  are  Ic^^s  frequently  recalled,  tha. 
those  great  moral  aphorisms  in  which  he  balj 
so  often  '• 

Told  us  the  iasliimi  oi  our  nun  rsiait 
'I'lie  secreis  ol  our  bos<ini? — 

and,  in  spite  of  all  that  may  be  said  by  grav<B 
persons,  of  the  fiivolousiiess  of  poetry,  and  o| 
Its  admirers,  we  are  persuaded  that  the  mc 
memorable,  and  the  most  generally  admire}' 
of  all   its  productions,   are  those   which 
chiefly  recommended  by  their  deep  jnactic 
wisdom;   and    their  coincidence  with  thos 
salutary  imitations  with  which  nature  hei 
seems  to  furnish  us  from  the  passing  seen 
of  our  existence. 

The  literary  character  of  the  work  is  al 
to  its  moral  character  :  and  the  diction  is  i 
soft,  elegant,  and  simple,  as  the  sentimenll 
are  generous  and  true.  The  whole  piect' 
indeed,  is  throughout  in  admirable  keeping 
and  its  beauties,  though  of  a  delicate,  lathi 
than  an  obtrusive  character,  .set  ofl'  each  otht 
to  an  attentive  observer,  by  the  skill  wil 
which  they  are  harmonised,  and  the  swee: 
ness  with  which  they  slide  into  each  olhe 
The  outline,  perhaps"  is  often  rather  timidl 
drawn,  and  there  is  an  occasional  want  c 
force  and  brilliancy  in  the  colouring;  whic 
we  are  rather  inclined  to  ascribe  to  the  refine 
and  somewhat  fastidious  taste  of  the  artis 
than  to  any  defect  of  skill  or  of  power.  \V 
have  none  of  the  broa<l  and  blazing  tints  o 
Scott — nor  the  startling  contrasts  of  Byion- 
nor  the  anxious  and  endlessly  repeated  lour 
of  Southey  —  but  something  which  conn 
much  nearer  to  the  soft  and  tender  mainu 
of  Campbell :  with  still  more  reserve  and  cai 
tion,  perhaps,  and  more  frequent  sacrifice 
of  strong  and  popular  effect,  to  an  abhorrenc 
of  glaring  beauties,  and  a  di.'^dain  of  vulg^ 
resources. 

The  work  opens  with  a  sort  of  epitome  o 
its  subject— and  presents  us  with  a  brief  al 
stract  of  man's  (or  at  lea.st  (jeiitlemnn's)  liti 
as  marked  by  the  four  great  eras  of — his  birt 
— his  coming  of  age — his  marriage — and  h 
death.  This  comprehensive  picture,  with  il 
four  compartments,  is  compri.sed  in  less  tha 
thirty  lines. — We  give  the  two  latter  seem 
only. 

■'  .-Xnd  soon  ngain  shall  mn»\c  swrll  the  breeze 
Soon,  issuing  t'orih.  «hnll  ciiitcr  iliroush  die  tret? 
Vcsiiin^K  ol  Mupiial  while;  and  iiynnis  he  sung. 
And  vioIt:s  s^cauer'd  round  ;  an  J  old  and  yung, 


ROGERS'  HUMAN  LIFE. 


421 


tisi 


I  In  every  cottage-porch  with  garl.uids  green. 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  t)le:-s  ilie  scene  I 
While,  her  dark  fves  declining,  liy  liis  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  Bride. 
f     "  And  once,  alas  !  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
I  Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tctvver  ! 
When  in  dim  chanil)crs  long  hJack  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard,  where  only  joy  had  been  ; 
When  by  his  children  l)orne,  and  Ironi  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  n<»  more, 
!  He  rests  in  holy  earth,  with  them  that  went  before  ! 
I     "  And  such  is  Human  Life  1     So  gliding  on, 
lit  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone !" — pp.  8 — 10. 

!  After  some  gerieial  and  very  strikijig  re- 
'flections  upon  tlie  perpetual  but  uiiperceived 
i;radatioiis  by  which  this  mysterious  being  is 
carried  through  all  the  stages  of  its  fleeting 
existence,  the  picture  is  resumed  and  expand- 
[ed  with  more  touching  and  discriminating 
details.  Infancy,  for  example,  is  thus  finely 
delineated ; — 

The    hour   arrives,    the   moment    wish'd   and 
,  fear'd ; 

The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endear'd. 
\nd  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry  ; 
3h  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye  ! 
}ie  comes  ! — she  clasps  him.  To  her  bosom  press'd, 
[ie  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest 
\  "  Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  stranger  knows ; 
low  soon,  by  his,  the  glad  discovery  shows ! 
\s  to  her  hps  she  litis  the  lovely  boy, 
Vhat  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 
ie  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
ilis  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
JLnd  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 
iVhen  rosy  Sleep  conies  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
iOck'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung 
That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue), 
is  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings, 
Ind,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 
low  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
reathe  his  sweet  breaili,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Vatch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
nd,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love  !" 

pp.  19,  20. 

This  is  pursued  in  the  same  strain  of  ten- 
erness  and  beauty  through  all  its  most  in- 
resting  bearings ; — and  then  we  pass  to  the 
older  kindlings  and  loftier  aspirations  of 
outh. 

"Then  is  the  Age  of  Admiration — then 
ods  walks  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men  I 
a!  then  come  thronging  many  a  wild  desire, 
nd  high  imaginings  and  thoughts  of  fire  ! 
ihen  Irom  within  a  voice  exclaims  '  Aspire  '.' 
jhantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
s  ill  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass,"  &c. 
p.  24. 

We  cut  short  this  tablature.  however,  as 
ell  as  the  spirited  sketches  of  impetuous 
111  age  and  devoted  love  that  belong  to  the 
me  period,  to  come  to  the  joys  and  duties 
rnaturer  life  ;  which,  we  think,  are  de,scribed 
ith  still  more  touching  and  characteristic 
tauties.  The  Youth  passes  into  this  more 
mquil  and  responsible  state,  of  course,  by 
larriage ;  and  we  have  great  satisfaction  in 
Icurring,  with  our  uxorious  poet,  to  his  rep- 
jsentation  of  that  engaging  ceremony,  upon 
liich  his  thoughts  seem  to  dwell  with  so 
ach  fondness  and  complacency. 

'  Then  are  they  blest  indeed  I  and  swift  the  hours 
]ll  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  (lowers, 
d'ir;g  her  beauty — while,  unseen,  the  least 
tches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest, 


Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppress' d. 
Then  betbre  All  they  stand  !   The  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  toiid  illusions  now. 
Bind  her  as  his  !     Across  the  threshold  led. 
And  ev'ry  tear  kiss'd  off  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters  ;   there  to  be  a  light 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ! 
.\  gnardiaii-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding. 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  tuid  his  cares  dividing! 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his  ;  her  gentle  mind. 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclin'd  ; 
Siill  subject — even  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  ot  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow.'' 
pp.  32,  33. 

Beautiful  as  this  is,  we  think  it  much  infe- 
rior to  what  follows ;  when  Parental  afiection 
comes  to  complete  the  picture  of  Connubial 
bliss. 

"  And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 
Their  halls  witli  gladnes.s.     Slie,  when  all  are  still, 
Comes  and  undraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie 
In  sleep,  how  beautiful !   He,  when  the  sky 
Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony, 
VV'heii,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  sharfl 
His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 
Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair, 
I'p  to  the  hill  top  leads  their  little  feet ; 
Or  by  the  forest-lodge  ;  perchance  to  meet 
The  siasj-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 
The  otier  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere  ; 
Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 
That  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry — 
When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  he  ! 
And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight, 
If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sight 
Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 
Climb  the  gnarled  oak,  and  look  and  climb  again, 
If  but  a  moih  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall. 
He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all." 
pp.  34 — 36. 
"But  Man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark  ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire, 
And  innocence  breathes  contagion  ! — all  but  one, 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth  ! — From  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.     Through  the  night, 
.And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by. 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye  : 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear. 
Exchanging  siill,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness  ! 
'I'hat  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress." 

pp.  38,  39. 

The  scene,  however,  is  not  always  purely 
domestic — though  all  its  lasting  enjoyments 
are  of  that  origin,  and  look  back  to  that  con- 
summation. His  country  requires  the  arm  of 
a  free  man  !  and  home  and  all  its  joys  must 
be  left,  for  the  patriot  battle.  The  sanguinary 
and  tumultuous  part  is  slightly  touched;  But 
the  return  is  extjuisite :  nor  do  we  know,  any 
where,  any  verses  more  touching  and  full  of 
heartfelt  beauty,  than  some  of  those  we  are 
about  to  extract. 

"  He  goes,  and  Night  comes  as  it  never  came  ! 
With  sbrii  ks  of  horror!— and  a  vault  of  flame  ! 
And  lo !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  rivulet  by ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands! 
But  hush  !  .  .  a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands! 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears  !  a  sire  reslor'd  ! 
One  wears  his  helm — one  buckles  on  his  sword. 


422 


POETRY. 


One  hangs  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-lov'd,  till  then  forsaken  never, 
Chngs  round  his  neck,  as  she  would  cling  for  ever ! 

"  Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Days  of  domestic  peace— by  him  who  plays 
On  the  preat  stage  how  uneventful  thought ; 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind  ! 
Such  as  the  heart  delights  in — and  records 
Within  how  silently — m  more  than  words! 
A  Holyday — the  frugal  banquet  spread 
On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 
With  quips  and  cranks — what  time  the  wood-lark 

there 
Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultry  air, 
What  lime  the  king-fisher  sits  perch'd  below. 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water  lilies  blow  : — 
A  Wake — the  booths  whit'ning  the  village-green. 
Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen ; 
Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  uiifurl'd. 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world; 
And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale, 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale. 
Ail,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale : — 
A  Wedding-dance — a  dance  into  the  night ! 
On  the  barn-floor  when  maiden-feet  are  light ; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promis'd  dower. 
And  flowers  are  flung,  '  herself  a  fairer  flower  :' — 
A  morning-visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 
'  Wlio  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting  bread  ?) 
When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief. 
And  tears  are  falling  fast — but  not  for  grief: — 
A  Walk  in  Spring — Gr*tt*n,  like  those  with  thee, 
By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me  ?) 
When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 
Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boushs  at  noon  ; 
And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise. 
Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question." — pp.  42 — 46. 

Other  cares  and  trials  and  triumphs  await 
him.  He  fights  the  good  fight  of  freedom  in 
the  senate,  as  he  had  done  before  in  the  field — 
and  with  greater  peril.  The  heavy  hand  of 
power  weighs  upon  him,  and  he  is  arraigned 
of  crimes  against  the  State. 

"  Like  Hampden  strngsling  in  his  country's  cause. 
The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws. 
The  last  to  brook  oppression  !      On  he  moves. 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves. 
Careless  of  ruin — C"  For  the  general  good 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed,*  through  which 

before. 
Went  Sidney,  Russel,  Raleigh.  Cranmer,  More ! 
On  into  twilight  within  walls  of  stone. 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ;  and  alone. 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life  !  there,  on  that  awful  day, 
Counsel  of  friends — all  human  help  denied — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide. 
Like  that  sweet  saint  who  sat  by  Russel's  sidet 
Under  the  judgment-seat ! — But  guilty  men 
Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again. 


•  Traitor's  Gate,  in  the  Tower. 

t  We  know  of  nothing  at  once  so  pathetic  and  so 
sublime,  as  the  few  simple  sentences  here  alluded 
to,  in  the  account  of  Ijord  Russel's  trial. 

Lord  Jiiixsel.  May  I  have  somebody  write  to  iielp 
my  memory  ? 

Mr.  Altoniey  Gnieral.  Yes,  a  Servant. 

T^rd  Chief  Justin-.  Any  of  your  Servants  shall 
assist  you  in  writing  any  thing  you  please  for  you. 

I^rd  Uiissel  My  Wife  is  here,  my  Lord,  to  do  it  ? 

When  we  recollect  who  Russel   and   his  wife 

were,  and  w  hut  a  destiny  was  then  in)i)ending,  this 
one  trail  makes  the  heart  swell,  almost  to  bursting. 


Again  with  honour  to  his  hearth  restor'd, 
Lo,  in  the  accustom'd  chair  and  at  the  board 
Thrice  greeting   those  that  most  withdraw  thei 

claim 
(The  humblest  servant  calling  by  his  name). 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all. 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
— On  the  day  destind  for  his  funeral  i 
Ijo,  there  the  Friend,  who,  entering  where  he  layi 
Breath'd  in  his  drowsy  ear  '  Away,  away  I 
Take  thou  my  cloak — Nay,  start  not,  but  obey — 
Take  it  and  leave  me.'     And  the  blushing  Maid, 
Who  through  the  streets  as  through  a  desert  stray'd' 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  pass'd  along, 
Would  not  be  held;  but,  bursting  through  the  throng' 
Halberd  and  battle-axe — kissed  him  o"er  and  o'er 


Then  turn'd  and  went — then  sought  him  as  before*    j^gik 

iiifiiiiflii 


!|'(»illli 


J(iate 
jitioree 
mpi 


utter,  in  i 
R  not  mi 


Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more  : 

pp.  48— .iO. 

What  follows  is  sacred  to  still  higher  re 
membrance 

"  And  now  once  more  where  most  he  lov'd  iw  be,i    r^j, 

Li  his  own  fields — breathing  tranquillity — 

We  hail  him — not  less  happy,  Fo.x,  than  theel 

Thee  at  St.  Anne's,  so  soon  of  Care  beguil'd. 

Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child  ! 

Thee,  who  wouldst  waich  a  bird's  nest  on  '^**  sprajr(1t,j|j  j,^ 

Through  the  green  leaves  exploring,  day  by  day.{l^^^, 

How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 

With  thee  C(jnverKiiig  in  thy  lov'd  retreat, 

I  saw  the  sun  go  down  ! — .^h,  then  'twas  thine 

Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine,       [sh; 

Shakespeare's  or  Dryden's — thro'    the  chequer' 

Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  stray'd  ; 

And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 

To  read  there  with  a  fervour  all  thy  own, 

.\nd  in  ihy  grand  and  melancholy  tone, 

Some  splendid  passage  not  to  tliee  unknown. 

Fit  theme  for  long  discourse. — Thy  bell  has  toil'd 

— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 

One  that  resembles  thee." — pp.  52,  53. 

The  scene  of  closing  Age  is  not  less  beautifu 
and  attractive — nor  less  true  and  exemplary. 

"  'Tis  the  sixth  hour. 
The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  ploughman  leaves  the  field  ;  the  traveller  hears 
And  10  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile  ;  the  day-siar  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 

"  And  such,  his  labour  done,  the  calm  He  knows 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  foUow'd.     Round  hin 

glows 
An  atmosphere  that  brightens  to  the  last ; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflecied  from  the  Past, 
— And  from  the  Future  too  !    .Adive  in  Thought 
Among  old  l)Ooks,  old  friends ;  and  not  unsought 
Bv  the  wise  stranger.     Li  his  morning-hours. 
When  gentle  airs  siir  the  fresh-Mowing  flowers, 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed  ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Waiches  his  l)ers  at  hiving-tiine  ;  and  now. 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough. 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air, 
'I'he  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  gulden  pear, 
.Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there. 

"  At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  IS  told  of  Lidia  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcnnd  or  Asiracan.  * 

What  time  wild  Nature  revell'd  unresirain'il. 
And  Sinbad  voyag'd  and  the  Caliphs  rcign'd  ;— 
Of  some  Norwe<.'ian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  the  shrouds  and  beats  ihe  iron  sail, 
.Among  the  snowy  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Immoveable — forever  there  to  freeze! 
Or  some  great  Caravan,  from  well  to  wjell 
Winding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell,"  &c. 


ROGERS'  HUMAN  LIFE. 


423 


!  "  Age  has  now 

"^1     iStamp'd  with  its  signet  that  ingenuous  brow ; 
*lll  i\nd,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 

iPrees  he  has  climb'd  so  ott,  he  sits  and  sees 
")'      His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees : 

Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 

iFhan  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise  ; 

iHis  a  delight  how  pure  .  .  .  without  alloy  ; 
'^liflii  Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy  ! 

I,  _      "  Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  ot"  many  and  many  a  day ; 
\nd  now  by  those  he  K)ves  reiiev'd,  restor'd, 
lis  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afKird 
\  feeling  ot  enjoyment.     In  his  walks, 
waning  on  ilivni,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks, 
Ahile  iliey  look  up!   'i'heir  questions,  their  repHes, 
'r>3sh  as  the  welling  waters,  round  him  rise, 
;i;iddening  his  spirit." — pp.  53 — 61. 

We  have  dwelt  too  long,  perhaps,  on  a 
vork  moie  calouLited  to  make  a  lasting-,  than 
strong  impression  on  the  minds  of  its  readers 
-and  not,  perhaps,  very  well  calculated  for 
eiiig  read  at  all  in  the  pages  of  a  INliscel- 
nipous  Journal.  We  have  gratified  ourselves, 
cnvever,  in  again  going  over  it;  and  hope  we 
ave  not  much  wearied  our  readers.  It  is 
ijlowed  by  a  very  striking  copy  of  verses 
ritteii  at  Pa'stum  in  1816 — and  more  char- 
cleristic  of  that  singular  and  most  striking 
>ene,  than  any  thing  we  have  ever  read,  in 
rose  or  verse,  on  the  subject.  The  ruins  of 
a^stum,  as  they  are  somewhat  improperly 
\lled,  consist  of  three  vast  and  ma.ssive 
eniples.  of  the  most  rich  and  mag-nificent 
chitecture ;  which  are  not  ruined  at  all, 
Lit  as  entire  as  on  the  day  when  they  were 
uilt.  while  there  is  not  a  vestige  left  of  the 
ty  to  which  they  belonged  !  They  stand  in  a 
-^sert  and  uninhabited  plain,  which  stretches 
•v  many  miles  from  the  sea  to  the  mountains 
-and,  after  the  subversion  of  the  Roman 
eatnesS;  had  fallen  into  such  complete  obli- 
on,  that  for  nearly  nine  hundred  years  they 
id  never  been  visited  or  heard  of  by  any  in- 
lligmt  person,  till  they  were  accidentally 
scovered  about  the  micidle  of  the  last  cen- 
ry. — The  whole  district  in  Mhich  they  are 
tuated.  though  once  the  most  fertile  and 
)arishiiig  part  of  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  has 
'cn  almost  completely  depopulated  by  the 
aParia ;  and  is  now.  in  every  sense  of  tlie 
Old,  a  vast  and  dreary  desert.  The  follow- 
ii'  lines  seem  to  us  to  tell  all  that  need  be 
Id,  and  to  express  all  that  can  be  felt  of  a 
eae  so  strange  and  so  mournful. 


"  They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea ; 
Awl'ul  memorials — but  ot  wliom  we  know  not  ! 
The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buflalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak. 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic,  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street^ 
Temples  of  (iods  !  and  on  their  ample  sieps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates,  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 

"  How  many  ceniuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea. 
While,  by  some  spell  render'd  invisible. 
Or,  if  approach'd,  approached  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  rcmain'd 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre. 
Wailing  the  appointed  time  !  All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resum'd  her  right, 
And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounc'd  ; 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus, 
Rut  wiih  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern, 
Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  verdure! 

"  From  my  yotiih  upward  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground. — And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  niajt^stic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like. 
Mountains  and  mouniain-gulphs  !  and,  half-way  up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate, 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms. 

"  The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
Mid  broken  sculptures  and  fallen  capitals! 
Sweet  as  when  'I'ully,  writing  down  his  thoughts, 
Sail'd  slosvly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago. 
For  Athens;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  Paestan  gardens,  slack'd  her  course. 
'I'he  birds  are  hush'd  awhile;  and  nothing  stirs, 
f^ave  the  shrill-voic'd  cigala  flitting  round 
On  ihe  rousjh  pediment  to  sit  and  sing  ; 
Or  tiic  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 
And  up  the  fiuied  shaft,  with  short  quick  motion. 
To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  Time  has  made  ! 

"  In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  Hood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  conius'd, 
Across  the  innumerable  columns  flung) 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told, 
Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place' 
W'allsofsome  capital  city  iirst  appear'd, 
Flalf  raz'd,  half  sunk,  or  scatter'd  as  in  scorn  ; 
— And  what  within  them  ?  what  but  in  the  midst 
TIh.-c  Three,  in  moie  than  their  original  grandeur, 
.And.  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another! 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear. 
And,  turning,  left  ihem  to  the  elements." 

The  volume  ends  with  a  little  ballad,  enti- 
tled "  The  Boy  of  Egremond" — which  is  well 
enough  for  a  Lakish  ditty,  but  not  quite  wor- 
thy of  the  place  in  which  we  meet  it. 


424 


POETEY. 


(  3  u  n  c ,   1  $  i  5 . ) 

Roderick :  The  Last  of  the  Goths.     By  Robert  Soi;thev,   Esq.,  Poet- Laureate,  and  Mnnbi. 
of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy.     4to.  pp.  477.     Loudon  :   1814.* 

itself  in  a  work  of  such  length ;  but  its  -wor 
effect  is,  that  it  gives  an  air  of  falsetto  an 
pretension  to  the  whole  strain  of  the  comp( 
sition.  and  makes  us  suspect  the  author  c 
imposture  and  affectation,  even  when  he  hi 
good  enough  cause  for  his  agonies  and  ra] 
tures. 

How  is  it  possible,  indeed,  to  commit  oi 
sympathies,  without  distrust,  to  the  hands  o 
a  writer,  who,  after  painting  with  inlinite  fore 
the  anguish  of  soul  which  pursued  the  faile 
Roderick  into  the  retreat  to  which  his  crime 
had  driven  him.  proceeds  with  redouble 
emphasis  to  assure  us,  that  neither  his  r{ 
morse  nor  his  downfal  were  half  so  intolera 
ble  to  him,  as  the  shocking  taniencss  of  the  se 
birds  who  ffew  round  about  him  m  that  utte 
solitude  !  and  were  sometimes  so  familiar  a 
to  brush  his  cheek  with  their  wings  ? 


This  is  the  best,  we  think,  and  the  most 
powerful  of  all  Mr.  Southey's  poems.  It 
abounds  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  magnifi- 
cent imagery ;  and  contains  more  rich  and 
comprehensive  descriptions — more  beautiful 
pictures  of  pure  atfection — and  more  im- 
pressive representations  of  mental  agony  and 
e.vultation  than  we  have  often  met  with  in 
the  compass  of  a  single  volume. 

A  work,  of  which  all  this  can  be  said  with 
justice,  cannot  be  without  great  merit;  and 
ought  not,  it  may  be  presumed,  to  be  without 
great  popularity.  Justice,  however,  has  some- 
thing more  to  say  of  it :  and  we  are  not  quite 
sure  either  that  it  will  be  very  popular,  or  that 
it  deserves  to  be  so.  It  is  too  monotonous — 
too  wordy — and  too  uniformly  stately,  tragical, 
and  emphatic.  Above  all,  it  is  now  and  then 
a  little  absurd — and  pretty  frequently  not  a 
little  affected. 

The  author  is  a  poet  undoubtedly ;  but  not 
of  the  highest  order.  There  is  rather  more 
of  rhetoric  than  of  inspiration  about  him — 
and  we  have  oftener  to  admire  his  taste  and 
industry  in  borrowing  and  adorning,  than  the 
boldness  or  felicity  of  his  inventions.  He 
has  indisputably  a  great  gift  of  amplifying 
and  exalting;  but  uses  it.  we  must  say,  rather 
unmercifully.  He  is  never  plain,  concise,  or 
unaffectedly  simple,  and  is  so  much  bent  upon 
making  the  most  of  every  thing,  that  he  is 
perpetually  overdoing.  His  sentiments  and 
situations  are,  of  course,  sometimes  ordinary 
enough :  but  the  tone  of  emphasis  and  pre- 
tension is  never  for  a  moment  relaxed  ;  and 
the  most  trivial  occurrences,  and  fantastical 
distresses,  are  commemorated  with  the  same 
vehemence  and  exaggeration  of  manner,  as 
the  most  startling  incidents,  or  the  deepest 
and  most  heart-rending  disasters.  This  want 
of  relief  and  variety  is  sufficiently  painful  of 


*  I  have,  in  my  lime,  said  petulant  and  provo- 
king thinga  of  Mr.  .Souiiiey  :— and  siK-h  as  I  would 
not  say  now.  But  I  am  not  conscious  that  I  was 
ever  unfair  to  his  Poetry  :  and  if  I  have  noted 
what  I  thought  iis  fauiis,  in  too  arrogant  and  de- 
risive a  spirit,  I  think  I  have  never  failed  to  give 
hearty  and  cordial  praise  to  its  beauties  —  and 
generally  dwelt  niiicli  more  largely  on  the  latter 
than  the  former.  Few  thincrs,  at  all  events,  would 
now  grieve  me  more,  than  to  think  I  might  give 
pain  to  his  many  (rienda  and  admirers,  by  reprint, 
ing,  so  soon  after  his  death,  any  thing  which  might 
appear  derogatory  either  to  his  character  or  his 
genius;  and  therefore,  though  I  cannot  say  tiiat  I 
have  substantially  chiinged  any  of  the  opinions  I 
liave  iormerly  e.xpressed  as  to  his  wriiinirs.  I  only 
insert  in  this  publication  my  review  of  his  last 
considerable  poem  :  which  may  be  taken  as  cott- 
veying  my  matured  opinion  of  his  merits — and  will 
be  felt,  I  trust,  to  have  done  no  scanty  or  unwilling 
justice  to  his  great  and  peculiar  powers. 


"  For  his  lost  crown 
And  sceptre  never  had  he  felt  a  thought 
Of  pain:  Repentance  had  no  pangs  to  spare  1 

For  triHes  such  as  these.     The  loss  of  these  ' 

Was  a  cheap  penalty  : .  .  that  he  had  fallen 
Down  to  the  lowest  depih  of  wretchedness, 
His  hope  and  consolation.     But  to  lose 
His  human  station  in  the  scale  of  things, .  . 
To  see  lirvte  Nature  scorn  hi/n,  ami  renounce 
Its  /lonws^c  to  the  humdn  form  divine  I  .  . 
Had  then  almighty  vengeance  thus  reveal'd 
His  puni.^hmenl,  and  was  he  fallen  indeed 
Below  fallen  man,  .  .  below  redempiion's  reach, . 
Made  lower  than  the  beasts?" — p.  17.  ' 

This,  if  we  were  in  bad  humour,  we  shouK 
be  tempted  to  say,  was  little  better  than  drive! 
ling  ; — and  certainly  the  folly  of  it  is  greati' 
aggravated  by  the  tone  of  intense  soleinnit' 
in  which  it  is  conveyed  :  But  the  worst  faul 
by  far,  and  the  most  injurious  to  the  effect  ol 
the  author's  greatest  beauties,  is  the  extiemi 
diffuseness  and  verbosity  of  his  style,  and  hi 
unrelenting  an.xiety  to  leaA-e  nothing  to  tin 
fancy,  the  feeling,  or  even  the  plain  under 
standincr  of  his  readers — but  to  have  every 
thing  set  down,  and  impressed  and  hammerci 
into  them,  which  it  may  any  how  conduce  tt 
his  glory  that  they  should  comprehend.  Then 
never  was  any  author,  we  are  persuaded,  whi 
had  so  great  a  distrust  of  his  readers'  capa 
city,  or  such  an  unwillingness  to  leave  ain 
opportunity  of  shining  unimproved  ;  and  ac 
cordingly.  we  rather  think  there  is  no  juilhot 
who,  wiih  the  same  talents  and  atlaiimitnt;-' 
has  been  so  generally  thought  tedious— o 
acquired,  on  the  whole,  a  popularity  so  in, 
ferior  to  his  real  deservings.  On  the  preseii 
occasion,  we  have  already  said,  his  desen' 
ings  appear  to  us  unusually  great,  and  hi: 
faults  less  than  commotdy  conspicuous.  Bii 
though  there  is  less  childishness  and  tritiini 
hi  this,  than  in  any  of  his  other  productions 


SOUTHEV'S  RODERICK. 


425 


here  is  still,  we  are  afraid,  enough  of  tedious- 
ess  and  affected  energy,  very  materially  to 
bstruct  the  popularity  which  the   force,  and 
he  tenderness  and  beauty  of  its  better  parts, 
light  have  otherwise  commanded. 
There  is  one  blemish,  however,  which  we 
hink  peculiar  to  the  work  before  us;  and 
aat  is,  the  outrageously  religious,  or  rather 
uiatical,    tone    which    pervades   its   whole 
,    tructure ; — the  excessive   horror  and  abuse 
ith  which  the  JNlahometans  are  uniformly 
.    ooken  of  on  account  of  their  religion  alone  ] 
',    iid  the  ort'ensive  frequency  and  familiarity 
;.    -ith  which  the   name  and  the  suflerings  of 
;.   'ur  Saviour  are  referred  to  at  every  turn  of 
^e  story.     The  spirit  which  is  here  evinced 
iwards  the  Moors,  not  only  by  their  valiant 
',    jponents,  but  by  the  author  when  speaking 
\  his  own  person,   is  neither  that  of  pious 
•probation  nor  patriotic  hatred,  but  of  savage 
id   bigotted   persecution :    and    the    heroic 
iaracter  and   heroic  deeds  of  his  greatest 
vourites  are  debased  and  polluted  by  the 
,     ihry  superstitions,  and   sanguinary  fanati- 
;     sm,  which  he  is  pleased  to  ascribe  to  them. 
,.    ^s,  which  we  are  persuaded  would  be  re- 
J    lilting  in  a  nation  of  zealous  Catholics,  must 
t'  still  more  distasteful,   we  think,  among 
'ber  Protestants ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
e  constant  introduction  of  the  holiest  per- 
ns, and  most  solemn  rites  of  religion,  for 
e  purpose  of   helping  on  the  flagging   in- 
rest  of  a  story  devised  for  amusement,  can 
larcely  fail  to  give  scandal  and  offence  to  all 
jrsons  of  right  feeling  or  just   taste.     This 
jmark  may  be  thought  a  little  rigorous  by 
'jse  who  have  not  looked  into  the  work  to 
lich  it  is  applied — For  they  can  have  no 
i^a  of  the  e.xtreme  fre(]uency,  and  palpable 
,    (travagance,  of  the   allusions   and   invoca- 
llns  to  which  we  have  referred. — One  poor 
ynian,  for  example,  who  merely  appears  to 

-  ^re  alms  to  the  fallen  Roderick  in  the  season 

-  clhis  humiliation,  is  very  needlessly  made  to 
■     tplaim,  as  she  offers  her  pittance, 


-■    -|ind  SOI 


hrist  Jesus,  for  his  Mother's  sake, 
ave  mercy  on  thee." 


soon  after,  the  King  himself,  when  he 
lirs  one  of  his  subjects  uttering  curses  on 
\\  name,  is  pleased  to  say, 

r  Oh,  for  the  love  of  Jesub  curse  him  not  I 
[  0  hroiher,  do  not  curse  that  sinful  soul. 
Which  Jesus  suffer'd  on  the  cross  to  save  !" 

\liereupon,  one  of  the  more  charitable  audi- 
\k  rejoins. 

"hrist  bless   thee,    brother,    for   that    Christian 
I         speech  ! ' ' 

-  nd  so  the  talk  goes  on,  through  the  greater 
P;t  of  the  poem.  Now.  we  must  say  we 
tl;ik  this  both  indecent  and  ungraceful ;  and 
Icc  upon  it  as  almost  as  exceptionable  a 
wir'  of  increasing  the  solemnity  of  poetry,  as 
Cfimon  swearing  is  of  adding  to  the  energy 
ol'liscoursp. 

Ve  are  not  quite  sure  whether  we  should 

rtcon  his  choice  of  a  subject,  among  Mr. 

S<they's  errors  on  the  present   occasion; — 

1ji  certainly  no  theme  could  well  have  been 

54 


\  suggested,  more  utterly  alien  to  all  English 
I  prejudices,  traditions,  and  habits  of  poetical 
contemplation,  than  the  domestic  history  of 
the  last  Gothic  King  of  Spain, — a  history  ex- 
j  tremely  remote  and  obscure  in  itself,  and 
treating  of  persons  and  places  and  events, 
I  with  which  no  visions  or  glories  are  associated 
1  in  English  imaginations.  The  subject,  how- 
j  ever,  was  selected,  we  suppose,  during  that 
period  when  a  zeal  for  Spanish  liberty,  and  a 
belief  in  Spanish  virtue,  spirit  and  talent,  were 
extremely  fashionable  in  this  country  :  and 
before  "the  universal  Spanish  people"'  had 
made  themselves  the  objects  of  mixed  con- 
tempt atid  compassion,  by  rushing  prone  into 
the  basest  and  most  insulted  servitude  that 
was  ever  asserted  over  human  beings.  From 
this  degradation  we  do  not  thnik  they  will  be 
redeemed  by  all  the  heroic  acts  recorded  in 
this  poem, — the  interest  of  which,  we  sus- 
pect, will  be  considerably  lowered,  by  the  late 
revolution  in  public  opinion,  as  to  the  merits 
of  the  nation  to  whose  fortunes  it  relates. — 
After  all,  however,  we  think  it  must  be  allow- 
ed, that  any  author  who  interests  us  in  his 
story,  has  either  the  merit  of  choosing  a  good 
subject,  or  a  still  higher  merit;  —  and  Mr. 
Southey,  in  our  opinion,  has  made  his  story 
very  interesting.  Nor  should  it  be  forgotten, 
that  by  the  choice  which  he  has  made,  he  has 
secured  immense  squadrons  of  Moors,  with 
their  Asiatic  gorgeousuess,  and  their  cymbals, 
turbans,  and  Paynim  chivalry,  to  give  a  pic- 
turesque effect  to  his  battles, — and  bevies  of 
veiled  virgins  and  ladies  in  armour, — and 
hermits  and  bishops, — and  mountain  villagers, 
— and  torrents  and  forests,  and  cork  trees  and 
sierras,  to  remind  us  of  Don  Quixote, — and 
store  of  sonorous  names  : — and  altogether,  he 
might  have  chosen  worse  among  more  familiar 
objects. 

The  scheme  or  mere  outline  of  the  fable  is 
extremely  short  and  simple.  Roderick,  the 
valiant  and  generous  king  of  the  Goths,  being 
unhappily  married,  allows  his  affections  to 
wander  on  the  lovely  daughter  of  Count  Julian ; 
and  is  so  far  oveimastered  by  his  passion,  as, 
in  a  moment  of  frenzy,  to  offer  violence  to  her 
person.  Her  father,  in  revenge  of  this  cruel 
wroii::'.  invites  the  iVIoors  to  seize  on  the  king- 
dom of  the  guilty  monarch ; — and  assuming 
their  faith,  guides  them  at  last  to  a  signal  and 
sanguinary  victory.  Roderick,  after  perform- 
ing prodigies  of  valour,  in  a  seven-days  fight, 
feels  at  length  that  Heaven  has  ordained  all 
this  misery  as  the  penalty  of  his  offences ; 
and,  overwhelmed  with  remorse  and  inward 
agony,  falls  from  his  battle  horse  in  the  midst 
of  the  carnage:  Stripping  off  his  rich  armour, 
he  then  puts  on  the  dress  of  a  dead  peasant ; 
and,  pursued  by  revengeful  furies,  rushes 
desperately  on  through  his  lost  and  desolated 
kingdom,  till  he  is  stopped  by  the  sea ;  on  the 
rocky  and  lonely  shore  of  which  he  passes 
more  than  a  year  in  constant  agonies  of  peni- 
tence and  hntniliation, — till  he  is  roused  at 
length,  by  visions  and  impulses,  to  undertake 
something  for  the  deliverance  of  his  suflering 
people.  Grief  and  abstinence  have  now  so 
changed  him,  that  he  is  recognised  by  no  one ; 
2l2 


4M 


POETRY. 


and  being  universally  believed  to  have  fallen 
in  battle,  he  traverses  great  part  of  his  for- 
mer realm,  witnessing  iniiumerable  scenes  of 
wretchedness  and  valour,  and  rousin:,'.  by  his 
holy  adjurations,  all  the  generous  sjiirits  in 
Spain,  to  unite  against  the  invaders.  After  a 
variety  of  trials  and  adventuies,  he  at  last 
recovers  his  good  war  horse,  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  battle  with  the  infidels;  and,  bestriding 
him  in  his  penitential  robes,  rushes  furiouslv 
into  the  heart  of  the  fight,  where,  kindling 
■with  the  scene  and  the  cause,  he  instinctively 
raises  his  ancient  war  cry,  as  he  deals  his 
resistless  blows  on  the  heads  of  the  mis- 
believers; and  the  thrilling  words  of  ••Rode- 
rick the  Goth!  Roderick  and  victory!"'  re- 
sounding over  the  astonished  field,  are  taken 
up  by  his  inspired  followers,  and  animate 
them  to  the  utter  destruction  of  the  enemy. 
At  the  close  of  the  day,  however,  when  the 
field  is  won,  the  battle  hoise  is  found  without 
its  rider !  and  the  sword  which  he  wielded 
lying  at  his  feet.  The  poem  closes  with  a 
brief  intimation,  that  it  was  not  known  till 
many  centuries  thereafter,  that  the  heroic 
penitent  had  again  sought  the  concealment  of 
a  remote  hermitage,  and  ended  his  days  in 
solitary  penances.  The  poem,  however,  both 
requires  and  deserves  a  more  particular  ana- 
lysis. 

The  first  book  or  canto  opens  w^ith  a  slight 
sketch  of  the  invasion,  and  proceeds  to  the 
fatal  defeat  and  heart-struck  flight  of  Roderick. 
The  picture  of  the  first  descent  of  th(!  Moorish 
invaders,  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  author's 
broader  and  more  impressive  manner.  He  is 
addressing  the  rock  of  Gibraltar. 

"  Thou  saw'st  the  dnrk  hine  waters  flash  before 
Their  ominous  way,  and  whiieii  round  their  keels  ; 
Their  swarthy  rnyriails  darkening  o'er  thy  sands. 
There,  on  the  beach,  the  misbelievers  spread 
Their  banners,  flaiintinor  to  the  sun  and  breeze: 
Fair  shone  ihe  sun  upon  their  proud  array, 
White  turbans,  glin'ring  armour,  shields  engrail'd 
With  gold,  and  scyniitars  of  Syrian  steel ; 
And  gently  did  the  breezes,  as  in  sport, 
Curl  Their  lon^  flags  outrolling,  and  display 
The  blazon'd  scrolls  of  blasphemy." — pp.  2,  3. 

The  agony  of  the  distracted  king,  as  he 
flies  in  vain  from  himself  through  his  lost  and 
ruined  kingdom ;  and  the  spectacle  which 
every  where  presented  itself  of  devastation 
and  terror,  and  miserable  emigration,  are  rep- 
resented with  great  force  of  colouring.  At 
the  end  of  the  seventh  day  of  that  solitary 
and  despairing  flight,  he  arrives  at  the  portal 
of  an  ancient  convent,  from  which  all  its  holy 
tenants  had  retired  on  the  approach  of  the 
Moors,  except  one  a<i;ed  priest,  who  had  staid 
to  deck  the  altar,  and  earn  his  crown  of  martyr- 
dom from  the  infidel  host.  By  him  Roderick 
is  found  grovelling  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and 
drowned  in  bitter  anil  penitential  sorrows. — 
He  leads  him  in  with  compassionate  soothings, 
and  supplicates  him  bc^fore  the  altar  1o  be  of 
<;()mforl.  and  to  trufU  in  mercy.  The  result  is 
told  with  great  feeling  and  admirable  effect : 
and  the  worthy  father  weeps  and  watches  with 
his  ptMiitent  through  the  night:  and  in  the 
morning  resolves  to  forego  the  glories  of  mar- 


tyrdom fot  his  sake,  and  to  bear  him  compa  ■ 
in  the  retreat  to  which  he  is  hastening.  Th 
set  out  together,  and  fix  themselves  in  a  lit 
rocky  bay,  opening  out  to  the  lonely  roar 
the  Atlantic. 

"  Behind  them  was  the  desert,  off 'ring  fruit 
And  water  for  their  need  ;  on  either  side 
The  white  sand  sparkling  to  the  sun  :  in  front. 
Great  Ocean  with  its  everlasting  voice, 
As  in  perpetual  jubilee,  proclaini'd 
The  wonders  of  the  Almighty,  filling  thus 
The  pauses  of  their  fervent  orisoi  s 
Where  better  could  the  wanderers  rest  than  here 

p.  14 

The  Second  Book  begins  with  stating,  tl 
Roderick  passed  twelve  months  in  penai: 
and  austerities,  in  this  romantic  retreat. — 
the  end  of  that  time,  his  ghostly  father  dii 
and  his  agonies  become  more  intolerable, 
the  utter  desolation  to  which  he  is  now  k 
The  author,  however,  is  here  a  little  unluc 
in  two  circumstances,  wliich  he  imagines  a 
describes  at  great  length,  as  aggravating  1 
unspeakable  misery  ; — one  is  the  tameness 
the  birds, — of  which  we  have  spoken  alrea 
— the  other  is  the  reflection  which  he  vt 
innocently  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  lout 
King,  that  all  the  trouble  he  has  taken  in  d 
iriiig  his  own  grave,  will  now  be  ihiown  aw; 
as  there  will  probably  be  nobody  to  stret 
him  out,  and  cover  him  decently  up  in  it ! 
However  he  is  clearly  made  out  to  be  ve 
miserable;  and  prays  for  death,  or  for  f 
imposition  of  some  more  active  penance- 


But  stillness,  and  thii 


"  any  thing 

dreadful  solitude!'' 


At  length  he  is  visited,  in  his  sleep,  b^ 
vision  of  his  tender  mother;  who  gives  h 
her  blessing  ui  a  gentle  voice,  and  sa; 
'■Jesus  have  mercy  on  thee."  The  air  a 
countenance  of  this  venerable  shade,  as  s 
bent  in  sorrow  over  her  unhappy  son.  i 
powerfully  depicted  in  the  following  allusi 
to  her  domestic  calamities.  He  traced  the 
it  seems,  not  only  the  settled  sadness  of  \ 
widowhood — 

"  But  a  more  mortal  wretchedness  than  when 

Wiiiza's  ruffians  and  the  red  hot  brass 

Hiid  done  their  work,  and  in  her  arms  she  held 

Her  eyeless  husband  ;  wip'd  away  the  sweat 

^V'liieh  still  his  tortures  forc'd   from  every  pore 

Cool'd  his  scorch'd  lips  with  medicinal  herbs, 

.And  pray'd  the  while  for  patience  for  herself 

And  him , — and  pray'd  for  vengeance  too  !  and  foul      ni^j^ 

Best  comfort  in  her  curses." — pp.  '23.  24.  I      tfe,„ 

While  he  gazes  on  this  piteous  countenam 
the  character  of  the  vision  is  suddenly 
tered  ;  and  the  verses  describing  the  alterati 
afford  a  good  specimen  both  of  I\lr.  Southe; 
command  of  words,  and  of  the  profusion  w 
which  he  sometimes  pours  them  out  on  . 
readers. 

"And  io  !  her  form  was  chang'd  I 

RadiaiU  in  arms  she  stood  !  a  liloody  Cross 
(Jleani'd  on  her  breastplate  ;  in  her  shield  displa; 
Rrecl  a  I. ion  ramp'd  ;  her  helmed  head 
Rose  like  the  Berecyntbiaii  Goddess  crown'd 
With  lowers,  and  in'  her  drea<lfiil  hand  the  swor 
Red  as  a  fire-brand  blaz'd  !  Anon  the  trump 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


427 


'Of  horsemen,  and  the  din  of  multitudes 
Moving  to  mortal  conflict,  rung  around  ; 
i'hc  hartle-song,  tlie  clang  of  sword  and  shield, 
AVar-cries  and  inmnlt,  strife  and  hate  and  rage, 
Blaspliemous  prayers,  confusion,  agony. 
Rout  and  pursuit,  and  death  !  and  over  all 
The  shi)Ui  ot  Victory  .  .  .  of  Spain  and  Victory  !" 
pp.  24,  25. 

In  awaking  from  this  prophetic  dream,  he 
resolves  to  seek  occasion  of  active  service, 
in  such  humble  capacity  as  becomes  his  fallen 
fortune  ;  and  turns  from  this  first  abode  of  his 
[lenitence  and  despair. 

The  Third  Book  sets  him  on  his  heroic  pil- 
grimage; and  opens  with  a  fine  picture. 

i'  'Twas  now  the  earliest  morning  ;  soon  the  Sun, 
Risinff  above  Alhardos,  pour'd  his  light 
\niid  the  forest,  and  with  ray  aslant 
■^ni'ring  its  depth  illum'd  the  branchless  pines  ; 
iirighten'd  their  bark,  ting'd  with  a  redder  hue 
IS  rusty  stains,  and  cast  along  the  floor 
jOng  lines  of  shadow,  where  they  rose  erect, 
jike  pillars  of  the  temple.     With  slow  foot 
.ioderick  pursued  his  way." — p.  27. 

We  do  not  knovc  that  we  could  extract  from 
■he  whole  book  a  more  characteristic  passage 
hail  that  which  describes  his  emotion  on  his 
irst  return  to  the  sight  of  man,  and  the  altered 
spect  of  his  fallen  people.  He  approaches  to 
he  walls  of  Leyria. 

"  The  sounds,  the  sight 

M' turban,  girdle,  robe,  and  scymiiar, 

ind  tawny  skins,  awoke  contending  thoughts 

)f anger,  shame,  and  anguish  in  the  Goth! 

^he  unaccustom'd  face  of  human-kind 

'onfus'd  hini  now,  and  through  the  streets  he  went 

Vith  hagged  mien,  and  countenance  like  one 

'raz'd  or  bewilder' d. 

"  One  stopt  him  short, 
;'ut  alms  into  his  hand,  and  then  desir'd, 
;n  broken  Gothic  speech,  the  moon-struck  man 
I'd  bless  him.     With  a  look  of  vacancy 
f-o^f-rick  rereiv'd  the  alms;  his  wand'ring  eye 
fe.i  on  the  money ;  and  the  fallen  King, 
jeeiiig  his  own  royal  impress  on  the  piece, 
Iroke  out  into  a  quick  convulsive  voice, 
j'hatseem'd  like  laughter  first,  but  ended  soon 
n  hollow  groans  supprest ! 
!.  Christian  woman  spinning  at  her  door 
.'eheld  him,  and  with  sudden  pity  touch'd, 
.he  laid  her  spindle  by,  and  running  in 
'ook  bread,  and  following  after  call'd  him  back, 
ind  placing  in  his  passive  hands  the  loaf, 
the  said.  Christ  Jesus  for  his  Mother's  sake 
■  ave  mf-rcy  on  thee!     With  a  look  that  seem'd 
ike  idioicy,  he  heard  her.  and  stood  still, 
taring  awhile  ;  then  bursting  into  tears 
-'ept  like  a  child  ! 

"  But  when  he  reach'd 
the  open  fields,  and  found  himsell  alone 
leneaih  the  starry  canopy  of  Heaven, 
he  sense  of  solitude,  so  dreadful  late, 
I'as  then  repose  and  comfort.     There  he  stopi 
eside  a  little  nil,  and  brake  the  loaf; 
ind  shedding  o'er  that  unaccustom'd  food 
i«inful  but  quiet  tears,  with  grateful  soul 
(e  hreath"d  ihanksgiving  forlh  ;  then  made  his  bed 
jn  heath  and  myrtle." — pp.  28 — 30. 

After  this,  he  journeys  on  through  deserted 
imlets  and  desolated  towns,  till,  on  entering 
e  silent  streets  of  Auria.  yet  black  with 
i'nflagration,  and  stained  with  blood,  the 
Isstiges  of  a  more  heroic  resistance  appear 
'fore  him. 

Helmet  and  turban,  scymitarand  sword, 
nrisiian  and  Moor  in  death  promiscuous  lay 


Each  where  they  fell ;  and  blood-flakes,  parch'd 

and  crack'd 
Like  the  dry  slime  of  some  receding  flood  ; 
And  half-burnt  bodies,  which  allur'd  from  far 
The  wolf  and  raven,  and  to  impious  food 
Templed  the  houseless  dog." — p.  36. 

While  he  is  gazing  on  this  dreadful  scene 
with  all  the  sympathies  of  admiration  and 
sorrow,  a  young  and  lovely  woman  rushes 
from  the  ruins,  ami  implores  him  to  assist  her 
in  burying  the  bodies  of  her  child,  husband, 
and  parents,  who  all  lie  mangled  at  her  feet. 
He  sadly  complies;  and  listens,  with  beating 
heart  and  khidling  eyes,  to  the  vehement  nar- 
rative and  lofty  vow  of  revenge  with  which 
this  heroine  closes  her  story.  The  story  itself 
is  a  little  commonplace;  turning  mainly  upon 
her  midnight  slaughter  of  the  Moorish  cap- 
tain, who  sought  to  make  love  to  her  alter  the 
sacrifice  of  all  her  family;  but  the  expression 
of  her  patriotic  devotedness  and  religious  ar- 
dour of  revenge,  is  given  with  great  energy ; 
as  well  as  the  effect  which  it  produces  on  the 
waking  spirit  of  the  King.  He  repeats  the 
solemn  vow  which  she  has  just  taken,  and 
consults  her  as  to  the  steps  that  may  be  taken 
for  lousing  the  valiant  of  the  land  to  their  as- 
sistance. The  high-minded  Amazon  then 
asks  the  name  of  her  first  proselyte. 

"  Ask  any  thing  but  that  ! 

The  fallen  King  replied.     My  name  was  lost 
When  from  the  Goths  the  sceptre  past  away  !" 

She  rejoins,  rather  less  felicitously,  "Then 
be  thy  name  il/occaiee ;"  and  sends  him  on  an 
embassage  to  a  worthy  abbot  among  the 
mountains;  to  whom  he  forthwith  reports 
what  he  had  seen  and  witnessed.  Upon  hear- 
ing the  story  of  her  magnanimous  devotion, 
the  worthy  priest  instantly  divines  the  name 
of  the  heroine. 

"  Oh  none  but  Adosinda !  ■  .  none  but  she,  .  . 
None  but  that  noble  heart,  which  was  the  heart 
Of  Auria  while  it  stood — its  life  and  strength, 
More  than  her  father's  presence,  or  the  arm 
Of  her  brave  lord,  all  valiant  as  he  was. 
Hers  was  the  spirit  which  inspir'd  old  age, 
Ambitious  boyhood,  girls  in  timid  youth, 
Atid  virgins  in  the  beauty  of  their  spring, 
And  youthful  mothers,  doting  like  herself 
With  ever-anxious  love  :  She  breaih'd  through  all 
That  zeal  and  that  devoted  faithfulness. 
Which  to  the  invader's  threats  and  promises 
Turn'd  a  deaf  ear  alike,"  &c. — pp.  53 — 54. 

The  King  then  communes  on  the  affairs  of 
Spain  with  this  venerable  Ecclesiastic  and  his 
associates;  who  are  struck  with  wonder  at  the 
lofty  mien  which  still  shines  through  his  sunk 
and  mortified  frame. 

"  Thev  scann'd  his  conn'ennnce  :     But  not  a  trace 
Belray'd  the  royal  Goth  !  .-^unk  was  that  eye 
Of  sov'reignty  ;  and  on  the  emaciate  cheek 
Had  petiitence  and  anguish  deeply  drawn 
'i'luir  iiirrows  premature,  .  .  foreetalling  time, 
And  shedding  upon  thirty's  brow,  mere  snows 
TIkiu  threescore  winters  in  their  natural  course 
Might  else  have  spritikled  ilure." — p.  57. 

At  length,  the  prelate  lays  his  consecrating 
hands  on  him ;  and  sends  him  to  Pelayo,  the 
heir-apparent  of  the  .sceptre,  then  a  prisoner 
or  hostage  at  the  court  of  the  Moorish  prince, 
to  say  that  the  mountaineers  are  still  unsub- 


423 


POETRV 


dued,   ajid   look   to   him    to   guide   them   to 
vengeance. 

These  scenes  last  through  two  books;  and 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth,  Roderick  sets 
out  on  his  mission.  Here,  while  he  reposes 
himself  in  a  rustic  inn,  he  hears  the  assem- 
bled guests  at  once  lamenting  the  condition 
of  Spain,  and  imprecating  curses  on  the  head 
of  its  guilty  King.  He  says  a  few  words  vehe- 
mently for  himself;  and  is  supported  by  a 
venerable  old  man,  in  whom  he  soon  recog- 
nises an  ancient  servant  of  his  mother's  house 
— the  guardian  and  playmate  of  his  infant 
days.  Secure  from  discovering  himself,  he 
musters  courage  to  ask  if  his  mother  be  still 
alive;  and  is  soothed  to  milder  sorrow  by 
learning  that  she  is.  At  dawn  he  resumes 
his  course  ;  and  kneeling  at  a  broken  crucifix 
on  the  road,  is  insulted  by  a  INIoor.  who  po- 
litely accosts  him  with  a  kick,  and  the  dig- 
nified address  of  -God's  curse  confound 
thee  !'■  for  which  Roderick  knocks  him  down, 
and  stabs  him  with  his  own  dagger.  The 
worthy  old  man,  whose  name  is  Siverian, 
comes  up  just  as  this  feat  is  performed,  and 
is  requested  to  assist  in  -'hiding  the  carrion;" 
after  which  they  proceed  lovingly  together. 
On  their  approach  to  Cordoba,  the  old  man 
calls  sadly  to  mind  the  scene  which  he  had 
witnessed  at  his  last  visit  to  that  place,  some 
ten  years  before,  when  Roderick,  in  the  pride 
of  his  youthful  triumph,  had  brought  the 
haughty  foe  of  his  father  to  the  grave  where 
his  ashes  were  interred,  and  his  gentle  mother 
came  to  see  that  expiation  made.  The  King 
listens  to  this  commemoration  of  his  past 
glories  with  deep,  but  suppressed  emotion; 
and  entering  the  chapel,  falls  prostrate  on  the 
grave  of  his  father.  A  majestic  ligure  starts 
forward  at  that  action,  in  the  dress  of  penitence 
and  mournmg ;  and  the  pilgrims  recognise 
Pelayo.  to  whom  they  both  come  commis- 
sioned.    This  closes  the  Sixth  Book. 

The  Seventh  contains  their  account  of  the 
state  of  affairs,  and  Pelayo's  solemn  accept- 
ance of  the  dangerous  service  of  leaving  the 
meditated  insurrection.  The  abdicated  mon- 
arch then  kneels  down  and  hails  him  King 
of  Spain  !  and  Siverian,  though  with  mourn- 
ful remembrances,  follows  the  high  example. 
The  Eighth  Book  continues  this  midnight 
conversation;  and  introduces  the  j-oung  Al- 
phonso,  Pelayo's  fellow-prisoner,  at  the  Moor- 
ish court,  who  is  then  associated  to  their 
counsels,  and  enters  with  eager  delight  into 
their  plans  of  escape.  These  two  books  are 
rather  dull ;  thouirh  not  without  force  and 
dignity.  The  worst  thing  in  them  ie  a  bit  of 
rhetoric  of  Alphonso.  who  complains  that  his 
delight  in  watching  the  moon  setting  over  his 
native  hills,  was  all  spoiled,  on  looking  up  and 
seeing  the  Moorish  orescent  on  the  towers ! 

The  Ninth  Book  introduces  an  important 
person — Florinda.  the  unhappy  daughter  of 
Count  .Julian.  She  sits  muifled  by  Pelayo's 
way,  as  he  returns  from  the  cha])el  ;  and  begs 
a  boon  of  him  in  the  name  of  Roderick,  the 
chosen  friend  of  his  youth.  He  asks  who  it 
is  that  adjures  him  by  that  beloved  but  now 
unaltered  name ; — 


"  She  bar'd  her  face,  and,  looking  up,  replied, 
Florinda  !  .  .  Shrinking  then,  with  both  her  hand 
She  hid  herself,  and  bow'd  her  head  abas'd 

Upon  her  knee  ! I 

Pflayo  stood  confus'd:  He  had  not  seen  l^jg 

Count  Julian's  daughter  since,  in  Rod'rick's  ecu        -  -■- 
Glittering  in  beauty  and  in  innocence. 
A  radiant  vision,  in  her  joy  she  mov'd! 
More  like  a  poet's  dream,  or  form  divine, 
Heaven's  prototype  of  perfect  womanhood,     . 
So  lovely  was  the  presence,  .  .  than  a  thing 
Of  earth  and  perishable  elements." — p.  110. 

She  then  tells  him,  that  wretched  as  she  i 
the  renegade  Orpas  seeks  her  hand ;  ar 
begs  his  assistance  to  send  her  beyond  h 
reach,  to  a  Christian  land.  He  promised  th 
she  shall  share  his  own  fate  ;  and  tliey  pa 
till  evening. 

The  Tenth  Book  sends  all  the  heroic  par 
upon  their  night  pilgrimage  to  the  mountaii 
of  Asturia.  Roderick  and  Siverian  had  got 
before.  Pelayo,  with  Alphonso  and  Floriiid 
follow  in  the  disguise  of  peasants.  The 
midnight  march,  in  that  superb  climate, 
well  described : — 

"  The  favouring  moon  arose. 

To  guide  them  on  their  flight  through  upland  path 
Remote  from  Ireqiientage,  and  dales  retir'd, 
Forest  and  mountain  glen.     Before  their  feet 
The  fire-flies,  swarming  in  the  woodland  shade. 
Sprung  up  like  sparks,  and  twinkled  round  th( 

way; 
The  tiinoroiis  blackbird,  starting  at  their  step, 
F\e(\  from  the  thicket,  with  shrill  note  of  fear ; 
And  far  below  them  in  the  peopled  dell, 
When  all  the  soothing  sounds  of  eye  had  ceas'd, 
I  The  distant  watch-dog's  voice  at  times  was  hear 
Answering  the  nearer  wolf.     All  through  the  nig 
Among  the  hills  they  travell'd  silently  ; 
Till  when  the  s'ars  were  setting,  at  what  hour 
The  breath  of  Heaven  is  coldest,  they  beheld 
Within  a  lonely  grove  the  expected  fire. 
Where  Rod'rick  and  his  comrade  anxiously 
Look  for  the  appointed  meeting." 
"  Bright  rose  the  flame  replenish'd  ;  it  illum'd 
The  cork-tree's  furrow'd  rind,  its  rifts  and  swells 
And  redder  scars,  .  .  and  where  its  aged  boughs 
O'erbower'd  the  travellers,  cast  upon  the  leaves 
A  floating,  grey,  unrealising  gleam." — pp.  117,11 

The  rest  soon  sink  in  serene  and  untroubh 
sleep :  But  Roderick  and  Florinda,  little  drean 
ing  of  ( ach  other's  presence,  are  kept  awali 
by  bitter  recollections.  At  last  she  approachi 
him  ;  and.  awed  by  the  sanctity  of  his  air  an 
raiment,  kneels  down  belbre  him,  and  asks 
he  knows  who  the  wretch  is  who  thus  grove 
before  him.     He  answers  that  he  does  not:- 

"  Then  said  she,  '  Here  thou  seesl 
One  who  is  known  too  fatally  for  all,  .  . 
The  danahtcr  of  Count  Julian  !'  .  .  .  Well  it  wat 
For  Rod'rick  that  no  eye  beheld  him  now  ! 
From  head  to  foot  a  sharper  pang  than  death 
Thrill'd  him;  his  heart,  as  at  a  mortal  stroke, 
Cea.s'd  from  its  functions;  his  breath  fail'd. "--p.  1-2 

The  darkness  and  her  own  emotions  pn 
vent  her,  however,  from  observing  him,  at ' 
she  proceeds: — 

"  '  Father!  at  length  she  said,  all  tongues  amid 
This  general  ruin  shed  their  bitterness 
On  Rod'rick;  load  his  memory  with  reproach, 
.■\nd  wiih  their  curses  persecute  his  soul.'  •  •  • 
'  Why  shouldst  thou  tell  me  this?'  exclaim'd  tl 

Goth, 
From  his  cold  forehead  wiping  as  he  spake  __  [gu 
The  death-like  moisture:       "'"'        '  ~ 


g  as  ne  spnKe     igu 
Why  of  Rod'rick 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


429 


■  Tell  me  ?    Or  ihinkest  thou  I  know  it  not  ? 
'  i  Alas !  who  hath  not  heard  ihc  hideous  tale 
Of  Rod'rick's  shame  !'  " 

"  '  There  !  she  cried, 
f  I  Drawing  her  body  backward  where  she  kneh. 
And  stretching  forth  her  arms  with  head  uprais'd,  . . 
There  !  it  pursues  me  still  !  .  .  I  came  to  thee, 
Father,  for  comfort — and  thou  heapest  fire 
Upon  my  head  !     But  hear  me  patiently, 
And  let  me  undeceive  thee  I     Self-abas'd, 
Not  to  arraign  another,  do  I  come !  .  . 
I  cotne  a  self-accuser,  self-condemn'd, 
'    To  t>»ke  upon  myself  the  pain  deserv'd  ; 
t    For  I  have  drank  the  cup  of  hiiicrness, 
I  lAnd  having  drank  therein  of  lieaveniy  grace, 
i  |I  must  not  put  away  the  cup  ol  shame.' 

I'  i"Thus  as  she  spake  she  falter'd  at  the  close. 

And  in  that  dying  fall  her  voice  sent  forth 
i  [Somewhat  of  its  original  sweetnes--.     '  Thou  I  . . 
Ij  [Thou  self-abas'd  !'  e.\claim'd  theastonish'd  Kinir ; .. 
,  ,'  Thou  seif-condemn'd  !'  .  .  The  cup  of  shame  for 
I  !  thee  ! 

''  (Thee  .  .  thee,  Florinda!'  .  .  But  the  very  excess 
''  iOf  passion  check'd  his  speech." — pp.  121,  132. 

Still  utterly  unconscious  of  her  strange  con- 
"essor.  she  goes  on  to  explain  herself : — 

|t  i  "  '  I  lov'd  the  King  I  .  . 

Tenderly,  passionately,  madly  lov'd  him  ! 

^infnl  it  was  to  love  a  child  of  earth 
';■    iViih  such  entire  devotion  as  I  lov'd 

I  lod'rick,  the  heroic  Prince,  the  glorious  Goth  I 
ie  was  the  sunshine  of  my  soul !  and  like 

P     ^  flower,  I  liv'd  and  flourish'd  in  his  light 
';    )h  bear  not  wiih  rne  thus  impatiently  !' 

i'fo  tale  of  weakness  this,  that  in  the  act 
•ii   |)f  penitence,  indulgent  to  itself, 
Ik   iVith  garrulous  palliation  half  repeats 
IE   The  sm  it  ill  repents.     I  will  be  brief.' " 

i  pp.  123,  124. 

II 

II  i  She  then  describes  the  unconscious  growth 
f  their  mutual  passion — enlarges  upon  her 
;wn  imprudence  in  afTording  him  opportuni- 
;es  of  declaring  it — and  expresses  her  con- 

)'(  iction,  that  the  wretched  catastrophe  was 

i"  iroiight  about,  not  by  any  premeditated  guilt, 

'•■  "ut  in  a  moment  of  delirium,  which  she  had 

'!  jerself  been  instrumental  in  bringing  on  : — 

I'  Here  ihen,  O  Father,  at  thy  feet  I  own 
Jyself  the  guiltier ;  and  full  well  I  knew 
hese  were  his  thoughts  !   But  vengeance  masier'd 
'     jnd  in  my  agony  I  curst  the  man  [me, 

ii    Khom  I  lov'd  best.' 

i;    i  '  Dost  thou  recall  that  curse  ?' 

g     Iried  Rod'rick,  in  a  deep  and  inward  voice, 
,     |ill  with  his  head  depress'd.  and  covering  still 
'      lis  countenance.     '  Recall  it  ?'  she  c.xclaim'd  ; 

""ather !  I  came  to  thee  because  I  gave 
ji     {he  reins  to  wrath  too  long  .  .  because  I  wrought 

,18  ruin,  death,  and  infamy.  .  .  0  fJod, 
J.     Dreive  the  wicked  vengeance  thus  indulg'd  ! 
:J  I  forgive  the  King  !'  "—p.  132. 

'     {Roderick  again  stops  her  enthusiastic  self- 

,     jcusation,  and  rejects  her  too  generous  vin- 

ication  of  the  King;  and  turning  to  Siverian, 

s-'i    .ds— 

I  "  '  To  that  old  man.'  said  he, 

jvnd  to  the  mother  of  the  unhappy  Goili. 
*     'fell,  if  it  please  thi-c  not  wh:;i  thmi  hast  pour'd 

xo  my  secret  ear.  hut  that  ihe  cliild 
»     ]t  whom  ihey  mourn  with  anguish  unallay'd 
■      'bn'd  not  from  vicious  will,  or  heart  corrupt, 
it     It  fell  by  fatal  circumstance  betray'd  I 

•Jd  if,  in  charity  to  them,  thou  <ay'si 
I     'imeihing  to  palliate,  Bomeihing  to  excuse 
f*     4  act  of  sudden  frenzy,  when  the  fjend 


5 


O'ercame  him,  ihou  wilt  do  for  Roderick 
All  he  could  ask  thee,  all  that  can  be  done 
On  earth,  and  all  his  spirit  could  endure  I' 
7"hen.  vent'ring  towards  her  an  imploring  look, 
'  Wilt  thou  join  with  me  for  his  soul  in  prayer  ?' 
He  said,  and  trembled  as  he  spake.     That  voice 
Of  sympathy  was  like  Heaven's  influence, 
VVoundiuir  at  once  and  comforting  the  soul. 
'  O  Father  I   Christ  requiie  thee  I    she  exclaim'd  ; 
'  Thou  hast  set  free  the  springs  which  with'ring 

Have  clos'd  loo  long.'  " [griels 

"  Then  in  a  firmer  speech, 
'  For  Rod'rick,  for  Coimt  .lulinn,  and  myself. 
Three  wreichedest  ot  all  the  human  race  ! 
Who  have  desir^y'd  each  other  and  ourselves, 
Mutually  wrong'd  and  wronguii; — let  us  pray  !" 
pp.  133,  134. 

There  is  great  power,  we  think,  and  great 
dramatic  talent,  in  this  part  of  the  poern. 
The  meeting  of  Roderick  aiul  Florinda  was  a 
touchstone  for  a  poet  who  had  ventured  on 
such  a  subject;  and  Mr.  Southey,  we  must 
say,  has  come  out  of  the  test,  of  standard 
weight  and  purity. 

The  Eleventh  Book  brings  them  in  safely 
to  the  castle  of  Count  Pedro,  the  Father  of  the 
young  Alphon.so,  formerly  the  feudal  foe,  but 
now  the  loyal  soldier  of  Pelayo.  They  find 
him  arming  in  his  courts,  with  all  his  vassals, 
to  march  histantly  against  the  Moors:  And 
their  joyful  welcome,  and  the  parental  delight 
of  father  and  mother  at  the  return  of  their 
noble  boy,  are  very  beautifully  described. 

The  Twelfth  Canto  continues  these  prepa- 
rations.— The  best  part  of  it  is  the  hasty  and 
hopeful  investiture  of  the  young  Alphon.so, 
with  the  honours  of  knighthood.  The  mix- 
ture of  domestic  affection  with  military  ar- 
dour, and  the  youthful  innocence,  ingenuous 
modesty,  and  unclouded  hopes  of  that  bloom- 
ing age,  are  feelingly  combined  in  the  follow- 
ing amiable  picture,  in  which  the  classical 
reader  will  recognise  many  touches  of  true 
Homeric  description : — 

"  Rejoicing  in  their  task. 
The  servants  of  the  house  with  emulous  love 
Dispute  the  charge.     One  brings  the  cuirass,  one 
The  buckler;  this  exuliin^ly  displays 
The  sword,  his  comrade  lifis  the  helm  on  high  : 
Greek  artists  in  the  imperial  city  forg'd 
That  splendid  armour,  perfect  in  their  craft  ; 
With  curious  skill  they  wrought  it,  fram'd  alike 
To  shine  amid  the  paireanlry  of  war, 
.And  for  the  proof  of  battle.     Many  a  time 
-Mphonso  from  his  nurse's  lap  had  stretch'd 
His  infant  hand  toward  it  eagerly. 
Where,  gleaming  to  the  central  fire,  it  hung 

High  on  the  hall. 

No  .season  this  for  old  solemnities  ! 

For  wassailry  and  sport ;  .  .  the  bath,  the  bed. 

The  vigil,  .  .  all  preparatory  rites 

Otnitted  now,  .  .  here  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 

Before  the  vassals  of  his  father's  house, 

With  them  in  instant  peril  to  partake 

The  chance  of  lite  or  death,  the  heroic  boy 

Dons  his  first  arms  I  the  coated  scales  of  steel 

Which  o'er  the  tunic  to  his  knees  depend; 

The  hose,  the  sleeves  of  mail  :  bareheaded  then 

He  stood.     But  when  Count  Pedro  look  the  spurs, 

,\nd  hrni  his  knee,  in  service  to  his  son, 

Alphonso  I'rom  that  gt-stnre  half  drew  hack, 

."starting  in  rev'rence,  and  a  deeper  hue 

"preado'ertheglowof  joy  which  flushVl  his  cheeks. 

Do  thou  the  rest,  Pelayo!  said  the  Count 

•So  shall  the  ceremony  ol  this  hour 

F.xcced  in  honoui  what  ii!  form  it  lacks.'' 

pp.  147—149. 


«30 


POETRY. 


The  ceremonj-  is  followed  by  a  solemn  vow 
•of  fidelity  to  Spain,  and  eternal  war  with  the 
Infidel,  administered  by  Roderick,  and  devout- 
ly taken  by  the  young  Knight,  and  all  his  as- 
sembled followers. 

The  Thirteenth  Book  contains  a  brief  acconnt 
of  the  dffeat  of  a  Moorish  detachment  by  this 
faithful  troop;  and  of  the  cowardice  and  re- 
buke of  Count  Eudon,  who  had  tamely  yielded 
to  the  invaders,  and  is  dismissed  with  scorn 
to  the  castle  which  his  brave  countrymen  had 
redeemeil.  They  then  proceed  to  guard  or 
recover  the  castle  of  Pelayo. 

The  Fourteenth  Book  describes  their  happy 
arrival  at  that  fortress,  at  the  fall  of  evening; 
where,  though  they  do  not  lind  his  wife  and 
daughters,  who  had  retired  for  safety,  to  a 
sacred  cave  in  the  mountains,  they  meet  a 
joyful  and  triumphant  band  of  his  retainers, 
returning  from  a  glorious  repulse  of  the  Moors, 
and  headed  by  the  inspiring  heroine  Adosinda : 
who  speedily  recognises  in  Roderick  her 
mournful  assistant  and  first  proselyte  at  Auria, 
while  he  at  the  same  moment  discovers, 
among  the  ladies  of  her  train,  the  calm  and 
venerable  aspect  of  his  beloved  mother, 
Rusilla. 

The  Fifteenth  Book  contains  the  history  of 
his  appearance  before  that  venerated  parent. 
Unable  to  sleep,  he  had  wandered  forth  before 
dawn — 

"  that  morn 

With  it.s  cold  dews  might  bathe  his  throbbing  brow, 
And  with  its  breath  allay  the  fev'rish  heat 
That  burnt  within.     Alas  !  the  gale.s  of  morn 
Reach  not  the  iiever  of  a  wounded  heart  ! 
How  shall  he  meet  his  mother's  eye.  how  make 
His  secret  known,  and  from  that  voice  rever'd 
Obiain  forgiveness  I — p.  l~'J. 

While  he  is  meditating  under  what  pretext 
to  introduce  himself,  the  good  Siverian  comes 
to  say,  that  his  lady  wishes  to  see  the  holy 
father  who  had  spoken  so  charitably  of  her 
inihappy  son. — The  succeeding  scene  is  very 
finely  conceived,  and  supported  with  great 
judgment  and  feeling. 

*'  Count  Julian's  daughter  with  Rusilla  sate  ; 
Both  had  been  weeping,  both  were  pale,  but  calm. 
With  head  as  for  humility  abas'd 
Rod'rick  approach'd,  and  bending,  on  his  breast 
He  cross'd  his  humble  arms.     Rusilla  rose 
In  reverence  to  the  priestly  character, 
And  with  a  mournful  eye  regarding  him, 
Thus  she  began.     '  Good  Father,  I  have  heard 
From  my  old  faithful  servant  and  true  friend, 
Thou  didst  reprove  the  inconsiderate  tongue, 
That  in  the  anguish  of  its  spirit  pour'd 
A  curse  upon  my  poor  unhappv  child  ! 

0  Father  Maccabee,  this  is  a  hard  world. 
And  hasty  in  its  judgments  !     Time  has  been, 
When  not  a  tongue  within  the  Pyrenees 
Dar'd  whisper  in  dispraise  of  Rod'rick's  name. 
Now,  if  a  voice  be  rais'd  in  his  behalf, 

'Tis  noted  for  a  wonder  ;  and  the  man 
Who  utters  the  strange  speech  shall  be  admir'd 
For  such  excess  of  Christian  charity. 
Thy  Christian  charily  hath  not  been  lost;  ,  . 
■  Father,  1  feel  its  virtue:  .  .  it  hath  been 
Balm  to  my  heart  !  .   .  With  words  and  grateful 
All  that  is  left  me  now  for  gratitude,  .  .     [tears,  .  . 

1  thank  thee  !  and  beseech  thee  in  thy  prayers 
That  thou  wilt  Still  remember  Rod'rick's  name.' " 

pp.  180,  181. 


The  all-enduring  King  shudders  at  the 
words  of  kindness  ; — but  repressing  his  en 
tion — 

"  '  O  venerable  Lady,  he  replied, 

If  aught  may  comfort  that  unhappy  soul 

It  must  be  ihj'  compassion,  and  thy  prayers. 

She  whom  he  most  haih  wrong'd,  she  who  alon 

On  earth  can  gr^mt  forgiveness  for  his  crime 

She  hath  forgiven  him  I  and  thy  blessing  now 

Were  all  thai  he  could  ask,  .  .  all  that  could  br  ; 

Profit  or  consolation  to  his  soul. 

If  he  hath  been,  as  sure  we  may  believe, 

A  penitent  sincere.'  " — p.  182. 

Florinda  then  asks  his  prayers  for  hert- 
happy  and  apostate  father ;  and  his  advice  i 
to  the  means  of  lejohiing  him. 

"  While  thus  Florinda  spake,  the  dog  who  lay 
Before  Rusilla's  feet,  eyeing  him  long 
And  wistfully,  had  recognis'd  at  length, 
Chanu'd  as  he  was,  and  in  those  sordid  weeds, 
His  royal  master  !     And  he  rose  and  lick'd 
His  wiiher'd  hand;  and  earnestly  look'd  up 
With  eyes  whose  human  meaning  did  not  need 
The  aid  of  speech  ;  and.moan'd,  as  if  at  once 
To  court  and  chide  the  long-wiiiiheld  caress  ! 
A  feeling  uncommix'd  with  sense  of  guilt 
Or  shame,  yet  painfullesi,  ihrill'd  through  the  Ki  . 
But  he,  to  self-control  now  long  inured, 
Represt  his  rising  heart,"  &c. — p.  166. 

He  makes  a  short  and  pious  answer  to  •'. 
desolate  Florinda ; — and  then — 

"  Deliberately,  in  self-possession,  still, 
Himselt  from  that  most  painful  interview 
Dispeediiig,  he  svitlulrew.     The  watchful  dog 
Follow'd  liis  toutsicps  close.     But  he  relir'd 
Into  the  thickest  grove  ;  there  giving  way 
To  his  o'ei  burthen'd  nature,  from  all  eyes 
Apart,  he  cast  himscll  upon  the  ground. 
And  threw  his  arms  around  the  dog  !  and  cried 
While  tears  siream'd  down,  '  Thou,  Theron,  tli 

hast  known 
Thy  poor  lost  master, ..  Theron,  none  but  thou  I'' 
p.  187.    ; 

The  Sixteenth  Book  contains  the  re-un 
of  Pelayo's  family  in  the  cave  of  Covadon 
His  morning  journey  to  the  place  of  this  g 
meeting,  through  the  enchanting  scenery 
his  native  hills,  and  with  the  joyous  compa 
of  self-approving  thoughts,  is  well  describ 

Arrived  at  last  upon  the  lonely  platft 
which  masks  the  cave  in  which  the  spriiji 
burst  out,  and  his  children  are  concealed,  t 
sounds  his  bugle  note;  and  the  rock  gives i 
its  inhabitants  !  There  is  something  anirj- 
ting  and  impressive,  but  withal  a  little  » 
classical  and  rapturous,  in  the  full-length  j! 
ture  of  this  delightful  scene. 

■'  But  when  a  third  and  broader  blast 

Rung  in  the  echoing  archway,  ne'er  did  wand, 

With  magic  power  endued,  call  up  a  sight 

."^o  strange,  as  sure  in  that  wild  solitude 

Ii  seem'd  when  from  the  bowels  of  the  rock. 

The  mother  and  her  children  hasien'd  forth  ! 

She  in  the  sober  charnis  and  dignity 

Of  womanhood  mature,  nor  verging  yet 

Upon  decay  ;  in  gesiure  like  a  queen, 

Such  inborn  and  liabitual  majesty 

Ennobled  all  her  steps :  .  .  Favila  such 

In  form  and  stature,  as  the  Sea  Nymph's  son, 

When    that   wise  Centaur,  from  his  cave,   w  ,■ 

Beheld  the  lioy  divine  his  growing  strength   [plerl 

Against  some  shaggy  lionet  essay  ! 

And  fixing  in  the  naif-grown  mane  hia  hands, 

Roll  with  him  in  fierce  dalliance  inlerlwin'd! 


f  I 


I 


SOUTHEVS  RODERICK. 


431 


,Bui  like  a  creaiure  of  some  higher  sphere 

[His  sister  came.     She  scarcely  touch'd  the  rock, 

.So  light  was  Herniesind's  aerial  speed. 

Beauty  and  grace  and  innocence  in  her 

In  heavenly  union  .«hone.     One  wlio  had  held 

The  faiih  of  elder  Greece,  would  sure  have  thought 

She  was  some  filorinus  nymph  of  seed  divine, 

(^read  or  Dryad,  of  Diana's  train 

The  younijest  and  the  loveliest  !    yea  she  seem'd 

Aiiijel.  or  soul  heaiitied,  from  realms 

,l)f  bliss,  on  errand  ot  parental  love 

To  earth  re-sent."— pp.  197,  198. 

'  Many  a  slow  century,  since  that  day,  hath  fill'd 

Its  course,  and  countless  multitudes  have  trod 

With  pilurim  feet  that  consecrated  cave  ; 

Yet  not  in  all  those  ages,  amid  all 

The  untold  ronrourse,  hath  one  breast  been  swoln 

kVith  such  emotions  as  Pelayo  felt 

That  hour." — p.  201. 

The  Seventeenth  Book  brings  back  the 
tory  to  Roderick;  who,  with  feelings  more 
econciled,  but  purposes  of  penitence  and 
lortification  as  deep  as  ever,  and  as  resolved, 
:  luses  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  on  past  and 
jture  fortunes. 

Upon  a  smooth  grey  stone  sate  Rod' rick  there  ; 
[  I'he  wind  above  him  stirr'd  the  hazel  boughs, 
|.nd  murm'ring  at  his  feet  the  river  ran. 
ie  sale  with  folded  arms  and  head  declin'd 
inon  his  breast,  feeding  on  bitter  thoughts, 
k    ill  Nature  gave  him  in  the  exhausted  sense 
'i  woe,  a  respite  something  like  repose  ! 
,nii  then  the  quiet  sound  of  gentle  winds 
ind  waters  with  their  lulling  consonance 
wuil'd  him  of  himself.     Of  all  within 
i   |i>livioiis  there  he  sale;  sentient  alone 
1    IfoMtward  nature,  .  .  of  the  whisp'ring  leaves 
|\:it  sooth'd  his  ear.  .  .  the  genial  breath  of  heaven 
li  It  fmn'd  his  cheek,  .  .  the  stream's  perpetual 

flow, 

int.  with  its  shadows  and  its  glancing  lights, 
uipies  and  thread-like  motions  infinite, 
r  ever  varying  and  yet  still  the  same, 
e  lime  toward  eternity,  ran  by. 
ins  his  head  upon  his  Master's  knees, 
on  the  bank  beside  him  Theron  lay." 

pp.  205,  206. 

n  this  quiet  mood,  he  is  accosted  by  Sive- 
who  entertains  him  with  a  long  account 
tjPelayo's  belief  in  the  innocence,  or  com- 
Jrative  innocence,  of  their  beloved  Roderick ; 
8^1  of  his  own  eager  and  anxious  surmises 
lU  he  may  still  be  alive. 

The  Eighteenth  Book,  which  is  rather  long 
al  heavy,  contains  the  account  of  Pelayo's 

9nation.  The  best  part  of  it,  perhaps,  is 
short   sketch   of  his   lady's  affectionate 

Itation  in  his  glory.  When  she  saw  the 
Pljiarationsthat  announced  thisgreat  event — 

,        ,,  "  her  eyes 

u;lyeii'd.     The  quicken'd  action  of  the  blood 

J  d  with  a  deeper  hue  her  slowing  cheek  ; 
«''  on  !ur  lips  there  .sate  a  smile,  which  spake 
'  f'liourrible  pride  of  perfect  love  ; 
;n;r,  for  her  husband's  sal<e.  to  share 
■  he  chose,  the  perils  he  defied, 
•    >-Aiy  fortune  which  their  faith  foresaw." 
I  p.  21S. 

joderick  bears  a  solemn  part  in  the  lofty 
Cft monies  of  this  important  day  ;  and,  with 
"  jlm  and  re.solute  heart,  beholds  the  alle- 
Skce  of  his  subjects  transferred  to  his  heroic 
ki.'man. 

.  (le  Nineteenth  Book  is  occupied  with  an 
int-view  between  Roderick  aad  his  mother, 


who  has  at  last  recognised  him  ;  and  even 
while  .she  approves  of  his  penitential  abandon- 
ment of  the  world,  tempts  him  with  bewitch- 
ing visions  of  recovered  fame  and  glory,  and 
of  atonement  made  to  Florinda,  by  placing 
her  in  the  rank  of  his  queen.  He  continues 
firm,  however,  in  hia  lofty  purpose,  and  the 
pious  Princ(!ss  soon  acquiosties  in  those  pious 
resolutions;  and,  engaging  to  keep  his  secret, 
gives  him  her  ble.ssing,  and  retires. 

The  Twentieth  Book  conducts  us  tf)  the 
Moorish  camp  and  the  presence  of  Comit 
Julian.  Orpas,  a  baser  apostate,  claims  the 
promised  hand  of  Florinda;  and  Julian  ap- 
peals to  the  JNIoorish  Prince,  whether  the 
law  of  JVIahomet  admits  of  a  forced  marriage. 
The  Prince  attests  that  it  does  not ;  and  then 
Julian,  who  has  ju.st  learned  that  his  daughter 
was  in  the  approaching  host  of  Pelayo,  ob- 
tains leave  to  despatch  a  messenger  to  invite 
her  to  his  arms 

The  Twenty-lirst  Book  contains  the  meet- 
ing of  Julian  with  his  daughter  and  Roderick  ; 
under  whose  protection  she  comes  at  evening 
to  the  Moorish  camp,  and  finds  her  father  at 
his  ablutions  at  the  door  of  his  tent,  by  the 
side  of  a  clear  mountain  spring.  On  her  ap- 
proach, he  clasps  her  in  his  arms  with  over- 
flowing love. 

"  '  Thou  hast  not  then  forsaken  me,  my  child. 

Howe'er  the  inexorable  will  of  Fate 

May  in  the  world  which  is  to  come  divide 

Our  everlasting  destinies,  in  this 

Thou  wilt  not,  O  my  child,  abandon  me  I' 

And  then  with  deep  and  interrupted  voice. 

Nor  seeking  to  restrain  his  copious  tears, 

'  My  blessing  be  upon  thy  head  !'  he  cried, 

A  father's  blessing  !  though  all  faiths  were  false, 

It  should  not  lose  its  worth  I  .  .  .  She  lock'd  her 

Around  his  neck,  and  gazing  in  his  face         [hands 

Through   streaming  tears,  exclaim'd,  '  Oh   never 

more, 
Here  or  hereafter,  never  let  us  part !'  " — p.  258. 

He  is  at  first  offended  with  the  attendance 
and  priestly  habit  of  Roderick,  and  breaks 
out  into  some  infidel  taunts  upon  creeds  and 
churchmen  ;  but  is  forced  at  length  to  honoui 
the  firmness,  the  humility,  and  candour  of 
this  devoted  Christian.  He  poses  him,  how- 
ever, in  the  course  of  their  discussion,  by 
rather  an  unlucky  question. 

"  '  Thou  preachest  that  all  sins  may  be  effac'd  : 
Is  there  forgiveness.  Christian,  in  thy  creed     [thee, 
For  Rod'rick's  crime?  .  .  For  Rod'rick,  and  for 
Count  Julian  !'  said  the  Goth  ;  and  as  he  spake 
Trembled  through  every  fibre  of  his  frame, 
'  The  gate  of  Heaven  is  open  1'     Julian  threw 
His  wrathful  hand  aloft,  and  cried,  'Away  ! 
Earth  could  not  hold  us  both;  nor  can  one  Heaven 
Contain  my  deadliest  enemy  and  me  !'  '" — p.  269. 

This  ethical  dialogue  is  full  of  lofty  senti- 
ment and  strong  images  ;  but  is,  on  the  whole 
rather  tedious  and  heavy.  One  of  the  newest 
pictures  is  the  following ;  and  the  sweetest 
scene,  perhaps,  that  which  closes  the  book 
immediately  after : — 

"  '  Meihinks  if  ye  would  know 
Flow  visiia'ions  of  calamity 
AfiVcf  the  pious  soul,  'lis  shown  ye  there  ! 
Look  yonder  at  that  cloud,  which  ihrongh  the  sky 
Sailing  nlone,  doth  cross  in  her  cMreer 
The  rolling  inooii  1     I  watch'd  it  as  it  came 


432 


POETRY. 


And  deem'd  the  deep  opaque  would  blot  her  beams  ; 
But,  melting  like  a  wreath  of  snow,  it  hangs 
In  folds  ol  wavy  silver  round,  and  clothes 
The  orb  with  richer  beauties  than  her  own, 
'I'hen  passing,  leaves  her  in  her  light  serene.' — 

'•  Thus  havinw  said,  the  pious  suff'rer  sate, 
Beholding  with  fi.x'd  eyes  that  lovely  orb, 
Which  through  the  azure  depth  alone  pursues 
Her  course  appointed  ;  with  iiidiff'rent  beams 
Shiiiinff  upon  the  silent  hill?  around, 
And  the  dark  tents  of  that  unholy  host. 
Who,  all  unconscious  of  impending  fate, 
Take  their  last  slumber  there.     The  camp  is  still  I 
The  fires  have   moulder'd  ;  and   the  breeze  which 
The  soft  and  snowy  embers,  just  lays  bare     [stirs 
At  times  a  red  and  evanescent  li^ht. 
Or  for  a  moment  wakes  a  feeble  flame. 
They  by  the  fountain  hear  the  stream  below, 
Whose  murmurs,  as  the  wind  arose  or  fell. 
Fuller  or  fainter  reach  the  ear  atiun'd. 
And  n'lw  tlie  nighiingnle.  not  distant  far. 
Began  her  solitary  song ;  and  pour'd 
To  the  cold  moon  a  richer,  stronger  strain 
Than  that  with  which  the  lyric  lark  salutes 
The  new-born  day.     Her  deep  and  thrilling  song 
Seem'd  with  its  piercing  melody  to  reach 
The  soul ;  and  in  mysterious  unison 
Blend  with  all  thoughts  of  gentleness  and  love. 
Their  hearts  were  open  to  the  healing  power 
Of  nature  ;  and  the  splendour  of  the  night. 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  that  ssveetest  lay 
Came  to  them  like  a  copious  evening  dew. 
Falling  on  vernal  herbs  which  thirst  for  rain." 

pp.  2T4-2Tf,. 

The  Twenty-second  Book  is  fuller  of  busi- 
ness than  of  poetry.  The  vindictive  Orpas 
persuades  the  Moorish  leaden  that  Julian 
meditates  a  defection  from  his  cause  ;  and.  by 
working  on  his  suspicious  spirit,  obtains  his 
consent  to  his  assassination  on  the  tirst  con- 
venient opportunity. 

The  Twenty-third  Book  recounts  the  car- 
nage and  overthrow  of  the  Moors  in  the  Strait 
of  Covadonga.  Deceived  by  false  intelligence, 
and  drunk  with  deceitful  hope,  they  advance 
up  the  long  and  precipitous  defile,  along  the 
cliffs  and  ridges  of  which  Pelayo  had  not  only 
stationed  his  men  in  ambush,  but  had  piled 
huire  stones  and  trunks  of  trees,  readv  to  be 


At  Auria  in  the  massacre,  this  hour 
I  summon  thee  before  the  throne  of  God,  . 

To  answer  for  the  innocent  blood  !     This  hour  ! 
Moor,  Miscreant,  Murderer,  Child  of  Hell !  this  hot 
I  summon  thee  to  judgment !  ...  In  the  name 
Of  God  !  for  Spain  and  Vengeance. 
From  voice  to  voice  on  either  side  it  past 
With  rapid  repetition,  .  .  '  In  the  name 
Of  God  I  for  Spain  and  Vengeance  !'  and  forthwi. 
On  either  side,  along  the  whole  defile.  , 

The  Asturiatis  shouting,  in  the  name  of  God, 
Set  the  whole  ruin  loose ;  huge  trunks  and  stoner 
And  loosen'd  crags  I    Down,  down  they  roll'd  wii* 

rush. 
And  bound,  and  thund'ring  force.  Such  was  the  fa 
As  when  some  city  by  the  labouring  earth 
Heav'd  from  its  strong  foundations  is  cast  down 
And  all  its  dwellings,  towers,  and  palaces, 
In  one  wide  desola'ion  prostrated. 
From  end  to  end  of  that  long  strait,  the  crash 
Was  heard  continuous,  and  commi.xi  with  sounds^ 
More  dreadful,  slirieks  of  horror  and  despair 
And  death,  .  .  the  wild  and  agonising  cry 
Of  that  whole  host,  in  one  destruction  whelm'd.'l 
pp.  298,299.1 

The  Twenty-fourth  Book  is  full  of  tragic^ 
matter,  and  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting  0 
the  whole  piece.  A  iMoor.  on  the  instigatiti 
of  Orpas  and  Abulcacem.  pierces  Julian  \rir 
a  mortal  wound  :  who  thereupon  exhorts  h 
captains,  already  disgusted  with  the  jeaioi 
tyranny  of  the  tnfidel,  to  rejoin  the  statidai 
and  the  faith  of  their  country  :  and  then  r 
quests  to  be  borne  into  a  neighbouriiiirchurc 
where  Florinda  has  been  praying  for  his  co; 
version. 

"  They  rai.'^'d  him  from  the  earili  ; 

fie,  knitting  as  ihcy  lified  him  his  brow. 
Drew  in  through  open  lips  and  teeih  firin-clos'd 
His  painful  breath,  aid  on  his  lance  laid  hand. 
Lest  its  long  shaft  should  shake  the  mortal  woun 
Gently  his  men  with  slow  and  s'endy  step 
Their  suff'ring  burthen  bore;  and  m  the  Clmrcl 
Before  the  altar,  laid  him  down,  his  head 
Upon  Florinda's  knees." — pp.  207,  308. 

He  then,  on  the  solemn  adjuration  of  Ti- 
derick.  renounces  the  bloody  faith  to  vvhic 
j  he  had  so  long  adhered  :  and  revereiiily  r 


0.1: 


pushed  over  upon  the  ratiks  of  the  enemy  in  the  ;  cgives  at  his  hand  the  sacrament  of  reconci 
lower  pass.    A  soft  summer  mist  hanging  iipon  i  ation  and  peace.     There  is  great  feeling  ai 


the  side  of  the  cliffs  helps  to  conceal  these 
preparations  :  and  the  whole  line  of  the  Infidel 
is  irretrievably  engaged  in  the  gulf,  when 
Ad)sinda  appears  on  a  rock  in  the  van,  and. 
with  her  proud  defiance,  gives  the  word,  which 
is  the  signal  for  the  assault.  The  whole  de- 
scription is,  as  usual,  a  little  overworked,  but 
is  unquestionably  striking  and  impressive. 

"  As  the  Moors 

Advanc'd,  the  Chieftain  in  the  van  was  seen, 

Known  by  his  arms,  and  from  the  crag  a  voice 

Pronounc'd  his  name..  .  .  '  Alcahinan,  hoa  I   look 

Alcuhrnan  I'     As  the  floating  mist  drew  up       [up! 

It  had  divided  there,  and  open'd  round 

The  Cross;  part  clinging  to  the  rock  beneath, 

Hov'ring  and  wavinn  part  in  fleecy  folds, 

A  canopy  of  silver.  Tight  condens'd 

To  shape  and  substance.     In  the  midst  there  stood 

.A  female  form,  one  hand  upon  the  Cross, 

The  other  rais'd  in  nier.acmg  act.     Below 

Loose  flow'd  her  raiment,  but  her  breast  was  arm'd, 

And  helmeted  her  head      The  Moor  furn'd  pale, 

For  on  the  walls  o!  Auria  he  had  seen 

That  well-known  l">_'uro.  and  had  well  belicv'd 

Shn  rosied  with  th«  dead     "  What,  hoa!'  she  cried. 

'  Alcahman  !     It;  the  name  ot  all  who  leil 


energj-  we  think  in  what  follows : — 

"  That  dread  oflice  done,  ' 
Count  Julian  with  amazement  saw  tin-  Priest 
Kneel  down  before  him.     "  By  the  sacrain»-r)t. 
Which  we  have  here  partaketi  I'   Roderick  cried. 
'  In  this  most  awiul  moment.     By  that  hope,  . .  ; 
That  holy  faith  which  comforts  thee  in  death. 
Grant  thy  forgiveness,  Julian,  ere  tiiou  diesi  I 
Behold  tiie  man  who  most  hath  iiijur'd  thee! 
Rod'rick!  the  wretched  Goth,  the  guilty  cause 
Of  all  thy  guilt,  .  .  the  unworthy  instrument 
Of  thy  redemption.  .  .  kneels  before  thee  here, 
And  prays  to  be  forgiven  I' 

•  Roderick!'  exclaim 
The  dying  Count,  .  .  '  Roderick  !'  .  .  and  from  t 
With  violent  eflbrt,  half  he  rais'd  himself;      [fl« 
The  spear  hung  heavy  in  his  side  ;  and  pain 
And  weakness  overcame  him.  that  he  fell 
Back  onhis  dauahier's  lap.  'O  Death.' cried  he,  | 
Passing  his  hand  arross  his  cold  damp  brow,  . . 
'  Thou  tamest  the  strong  limb,  and  conquerest 
The  stubborn  heart !  But  yesterday  I  .said 
One  Heaven  could  not  contain  mine  enemy 
And  mo  ;  and  now  I  lift  my  dying  voice 
To  say.  Forgive  me.  Lord  !  as  I  forgive         t*) 
Him  who  hath  done  the  wrong  !'  .  .lie  cIo«  d   • 
A  moment ;  then  with  sudden  impulse  cried, 


SOUTHEY'S  RODERICK. 


433 


Rod'riok,  thy  wife  is  dead! — the  Church  hath 

power 
To  free  ihee  from  thy  vows !     The  broken  heart 
Vlight  yet  be  heal'd,  the  wronp;  redress'd,  the  throne 
Rebuilt  by  that  same  hand  whicli  pull'd  it  down  ! 
^iid  these  curst  Africans  ...  Oh  for  a  month 
)f  ihat  waste  hfe  which  milhons  misbestow  !  .  .  '  " 
pp.  311,312. 

Returning  weakness  then  admonishes  him, 
lowevev,  of  the  near  approach  of  death ;  and 
e  bejis  the  friendly  hand  of  Roderick  to  cut 
hort  his  pangs,  by  drawing  forth  the  weapon 
,hich  clogs  the  wound  in  his  side.  He  then 
,ives  him  his  hand  in  kindness — blesses  and 
isses  his  heroic  daughter,  and  e.xpires.  The 
jncluding  lines  are  full  of  force  and  tender- 


When  from  her  father's  body  she  arose, 
ier  cheek  was  flusli'd,  and  in  her  eyes  there  beam'd 

wilder  brightness.     On  the  Goth  she  gaz'd  I 
I'hile  underneath  the  emotions  of  that  hour 
xhaustt'd  hfe  save  way!     '  0  God!'  she  said, 
nfdiig  her  hands,  '  thou  hast  restor'd  me  all,  .  . 
jll .  .  in  one  hour!'  .  .  .  and  around  his  neck  she 
\  threw  [ven  !' 

erarms  and  cried,  '  My  Roderick  !  mine  in  Hea- 
roaning,  he  claspt  her  close  !  and  in  that  act 
nd  agony  her  happy  spirit  fled  I" — p.  313. 

The  Last  Book  describes  the  recognition 
!id  e.vploits  of  Roderick  in  the  last  of  his  bat- 
*!S.  After  the  revolt  of  Julian's  army,  Orpas, 
I'  whose  counsels  it  had  been  chiefly  occa- 
iined,  !.'■■  sent  forward  by  the  Moorish  leader, 
{  try  to  win  them  back ;  and  advances  in 
iinl  of  the  line,  demanding  a  parley,  mount- 
f  on  the  beautiful  Orelio,  the  famous  war 
l;rse  of  Roderick,  who,  roused  at  that  sight, 
(itains  leave  from  Pelayo  to  give  the  renegade 
h  answer  j  and  after  pouring  out  upon  him 
fne  words  of  abuse  and  scorn,  seizes  the 
I  ns  of  his  trusty  steed  ;  and 

"  •  How  now,'  he  cried, 

'Ijelio !  old  companion,  .  .  my  good  horse  !'  .  . 
(|"wiih  this  recreant  burthen  !"  .  .  .  And  with  that 
I;  rais'd  his  hand,  and  rear'd,  and  back'd  the  steed, 
'.  that  renternber'd  voice  and  arm  of  power 
<edient.     Down  the  helples.<  traitor  fell, 
^;)lently  tlirown  ;  and  Roderick  over  him, 
'Jrice  led,  with  just  and  unrelenting  hand, 
%  trampling  hoofs.     '  Go,  join  Witiza  now, 
Viere  he  lies  howling,'  the  avenger  cried, 
'  nd  tell  him  Roderick  sent  thee  !'  " — pp.  318,  319. 

ie  then  vaults  upon  the  noble  horse ;  and 
fiiug  Count  Julian's  sword  to  his  grasp,  rushes 
ii  he  van  of  the  Christian  army  into  the  thick 
a  ly  of  the  Infidel, — where,  unarmed  as  he 
isand  clothed  in  his  penitential  robes  of 
Wj/'ing  black,  he  scatters  death  and  terror 
aund  him.  and  cuts  his  way  clean  through 
th  whole  host  of  his  opponents.  He  there 
dories  the  army  of  Pelayo  advancing  to  co- 
ojirate;  and  as  he  rides  up  to  them  with  his 
wited  royal  air  and  gesture,  and  on  his  well- 
kiwn  steed  of  royalty,  both  the  King  and 
Siirian  are  instantaneously  struck  with  the 
ajarition;  and  marvel  that  the  weeds  of 
ptitence  should  so  lo;ig  have  concealed  their 
so^reign.  Roderick,  unconscious  of  this  re- 
coiition,  briefly  informs  them  of  what  has 
be  lien,  and  requests  the  honourable  rites  of 
CI  stiaii  sepulture  for  the  unfortunate  Julian 
an  his  daughter. 

55 


"  '  In  this, — and  all  things  else,' — 
Pelayo  answer'd,  looking  wistfully 
Upon  the  Goth,  'ihy  pleasure  shall  be  done  !' 
Then  Rod'rick  saw  that  he  was  known— and  turn'd 
His  head  away  in  silence.     But  the  old  man 
Laid  hold  upon  his  bridle,  and  look'd  up 
In  his  master's  face — weeping  and  silently  ! 
Thereat  the  Goth  with  fervent  pressure  took 
His  hand,  and  bending  down  towards  him,  said, 
'  iMy  good  Sivcrian,  go  not  thou  this  day 
To  war!   I  charge  thee  keep  thyself  from  harm  ! 
Thou  art  past  the  age  for  combats;  and  with  whom 
Hereaiter  should  thy  mistress  talk  of  me, 
If  ihou  wert  gone  V  " — p.  330. 

He  then  borrows  the  defensive  armour  of  this 
faithful  servant;  and  taking  a  touching  and 
afTectionate  leave  of  him,  vaults  again  on  the 
back  of  Orelio;  and  placing  himself  without 
explanation  in  the  van  of  the  anny,  leads  them 
on  to  the  instant  assault.  The  renegade  lead- 
ers fall  on  all  sides  beneath  his  resistless 
blows. 

"  And  in  the  heat  of  fight, 

Rejoicing  and  forgetful  of  all  else, 

Set  up  his  cry  as  he  was  wont  in  youth,  [well ! 

'  Rod'rick  the  Goth  !'  ...  his  war-cry,  known  so 

Pelayo  eagerly  took  up  the  word. 

And  shouted  out  his  kitisman's  name  belov'd, 

'  Rod'rick  the  Goth  !    Rod'rick  and  Victory  I 

Rod'rick  and  Vengeance  !'     Odoar  gave  it  forth  ; 

Urban  repeated  it;  and  through  his  ranks 

Count  Pedro  sent  the  cry.     Not  from  the  field 

Of  his  great  victory,  when  Witiza  fell, 

With  louder  acclamations  had  that  name 

Been  borne  abroad  upon  the  winds  of  heaven." 

"  O'er  the  field  if  spread, 

All  hearts  and  tongues  uniting  in  the  cry  ; 
Mountains,  and  rocks,  and  vales  re-echo'd  round  ; 
And  he  rejoicing  in  his  strength  rode  on,      [snioie, 
Ijaying  on  the  Moors  with  that  good  sword  ;  and 
And  overthrew,  and  scatter'd,  and  destroy'd. 
And  trampled  down  !  and  still  at  every  blow 
E.xultingly  he  sent  the  war-cry  forth. 
'  Rod'rick  the  Goth  1  Rod'rick  and  Victory! 
Rod'rick  and  Vengeance  !'  " — pp.  334,  335. 

The  carnage  at  length  is  over,  and  the  field 
is  won  ! — but  where  is  he  to  whose  name  and 
example  the  victory  is  owing  ? 

"  Upon  the  banks 

Of  Sella  was  Orelio  found  ;  his  legs 
And  flanks  incarnadin'd,  his  poitral  smear'd 
With  froth,  and  foam,  and  gore,  his  silver  mane 
."Sprinkled  with  blood,  which  hung  on  every  hair, 
Aspers'd  like  dew-drops  :  trembling  there  he  stood 
From  the  toil  of  battle ;  and  at  times  sent  tbrth 
His  tremulous  voice  far-echoing  loud  and  shrill; 
A  frequent  anxious  cry,  with  whicli  he  seem'd 
To  call  the  master  whom  he  lov'd  so  well, 
.\nd  who  had  thus  again  forsaken  him. 
Siverian's  helm  and  cuirass  on  the  grass 
Lay  near;  and  Julian's  sword,  its  hilt  and  chain 
("Inited  with  blood  !  But  where  was  he  whose  hand 
Had  wielded  it  so  well  that  glorious  day?  .  .  . 
Days,  months,  and  years,  and  generations  pass'd, 
And  centuries  held  their  course,  before,  far  off 
Within  a  hermitage  near  Viseu's  walls, 
A  humble  Tomb  was  found,  which  bore  inscrib'd 
In  ancient  characters,  King  Rod' rick's  name  !" 
pp.  339,  340. 

These  copious  extracts  must  have  settled 
our  readers'  opinion  of  this  poem;  and  though 
they  are  certainly  taken  from  the  better  parts 
of  it,  we  have  no  wish  to  disturb  the  forcible 
impression  which  they  must  have  been  the 
means  of  producing.  Its  chief  fault  undoubt- 
edly is  the  monotony  of  its  tragic  and  soletna 
2M 


434 


POETRY. 


tone — the  perpetual  erloom  with  which  all  its 
scenes  are  overcast — and  the  tediousness  with 
which  some  of  them  are  developed.  There 
are  many  dull  passaires,  in  short,  and  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  heavy  reading — some 
silliness,  and  a  iiood  deal  of  affectation.  But 
the  beauties,  upon  the  whole,  preponderate; — 
and  these,  we  hope,  speak  for  themselves  in 
the  passages  we  have  already  extracted. 

The  versification  is  smooth  and  melodious, 
though  too  uniformly  drawn  out  into  long  and 
linked  sweetness.  The  diction  is  as  usual 
more  remarkable  for  copiousness  than  force ;. — 
and  though  less  defaced  than  formerly  with 
phrases  of  affected  simplicity  and  infantine 


pathos,  is  still  too  much  speckled  with  strarrs 
words;  which,  whether  they  are  old  or  nev 
are  not  English  at  the  present  day — and  \v 
hope  never  will  become  so.     What  use  or  o 
nameiit  does  Mr.  Southey  e.xpect  to  derive  f( 
his  poetry  from  such  words  as  avid  and  aitreat 
and  auriphrygiate  ?  or  lernan  and  urcdcry,  fr 
qu£ntage  and  youthhead,  and  twenty  more  z-, 
pedantic  and  affected  I     What  good  is  theni 
either,  we  should  like  to  know,  in  talking! 
"oaken  galilees,"  or  "incarnadined  pohrals,! 
or   "all-able   Providence,"   and    such   othel 
points  of  learning'? — If  poetry  is  intended  M 
general  delight,  ought  not  its  language  to  bi 
generally  intelligible  1 


{^tctmbcv,  1S16.) 

Childe  HaroUVs  Pilgrimage,  Canto  the  Third.    By  Lord  Bvron.    8vo.  pp.  79.    London  :  18I( 
The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  and  other  Poems.   By  Lord  Byron.   Svo.  pp.60.  London:  1816. 

j  strong  emotion — the  fire  and  air  alone  of  or 

j  human  elements. 

!  In  this  respect,  and  in  his  general  notion  o 
the  end  and  the  means  of  poetry,  we  hav 
sometimes  thought  that  his  views  fell  mot 
in  with  those  of  the  Lake  poets,  than  of  ai: 
other  existing  party  in  the  poetical  commor 

j  wealth  :  And,  in  some  of  his  later  prodiictioi 
especially,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  struc 

I  with  his  occasional  approaches  to  the  styl 
and  manner  of  this  class  of  Avrilers.    Loi 

I  Byron,  however,  it  should  be  ohseiTcd,  lilc 

I  all  other  persons  of  a  quick  sense  of  beatit_" 

:  and  sure  enough  of  their  own  originality 
be  in  no  fear  of  paltry  imputations,  is  a  gre<' 

i  mimic  of  styles  and  manners,  and  a  gre;; 
borrower  of  external  character.  He  and  Scot 
accordingly,  are  full  of  imitations  of  all  tl 

I  writers  from  whom   they  have  ever  derive 

j  gratification  :  and  the  two  most  original  write 
of  the  age  might  appear,  to  superficial  ol 
servers,  to  be  the  most  deeply  indebted 
their  predecessors.  In  this  particular  instant 
we  have  no  fault  to  find  with  Lord  Byroi 
For  undoubtedly  the  finer  passages  of  Word 
worth  and  Southey  have  in  them  Avherewith 
to  lend  an  impulse  to  the  utmost  ambition  c! 
rival  genius  :  and  their  diction  and  manner  c) 
writing  is  frequently  both  striking  and  origin?! 
But  we  must  say,  that  it  would  afford  us  st 
greater  pleasure  to  find  these  tuneful  genti 
men  returning  the  compliment  which  Loi 
Byron  has  here  paid  to  their  talents;  ai 
forming  themselves  on  the  model  rather  i 
his  imitations,  than  of  their  own  originals.- 
In  those  imitations  they  will  find  that,  ihoui 
he  is  sometimes  abundantly  mystical,  I 
never,  or  at  least  very  rarely,  indulges  in  a 
solute  nonsense — never  takes  his  lofty  fligh' 
upon  mean  or  ridiculous  occasions  —  an 
above  all,  never  dilutes  his  strong  concc 
tions,  and  mag-nificent  imaginations,  with 

j  fiood  of  oppressive  verbosity.  On  the  co 
trary,  he    is,  of  all  living  writers,  the  W 

j  concise  and  condensed;  and,  we  would  fa 


If  the  finest  poetry  be  that  which  leaves 
the  deepest  impression  on  the  minds  of  its 
readers — and  this  is  not  the  worst  test  of  its 
excellence — Lord  Byron,  we  think,  must  be 
allowed  to  take  precedence  of  all  his  distin- 
guished contemporaries.  He  has  not  the  va- 
riety of  Scott — nor  the  delicacy  of  Campbell — 
nor  the  absolute  truth  of  Crabbe — nor  the 
polished  sparkling  of  Moore ;  but  in  force  of 
diction,  and  inextinguishable  energy  of  senti- 
ment, he  clearly  surpasses  them  all.  "Words 
that  breathe,  and  thoughts  that  burn,'"'  are  not 
merely  the  ornaments,  but  the  common  staple 
<if  his  poetry;  and  he  is  not  inspired  or  im- 
pressive only  in  some  happy  passages,  but 
through  the  whole  body  and  tissue  of  his 
composition.  It  was  an  unavoidable  condition, 
perhaps,  of  this  higher  excellence,  that  his 
scene  should  be  narrow,  and  his  persons  few. 
To  compass  such  ends  as  he  had  in  vieAv,  it 
was  necessary  to  reject  all  ordinary  agents, 
and  all  trivial  combinations.  He  could  not 
possibly  be  amusing,  or  ingenious,  or  playful ; 
or  hope  to  maintain  the  requisite  pitch  of  in- 
terest by  the  recitation  of  sprightly  adventures, 
or  the  opposition  ef  coinmon  characters.  To 
produce  great  effects,  in  short,  he  felt  that  it 
was  necessary  to  deal  only  with  the  greater 
passions — with  the  ex.iltations  of  a  daring 
fancy,  and  the  errors  of  a  lofty  intellect — with 
the  pride,  the   terrors,  and   the   agonies  of 

*  I  have  already  said  so  much  oi  Lord  Byron  wiih 
reference  lo  his  Dramatic  productions,  that  I  cannot 
now  afford  to  republish  more  than  one  other  paper 
on  ih^  subject  of  his  poetry  in  general:  .And  I  se- 
lect this,  rather  because  it  i-efcrs  to  a  greater  variety 
of  these  compositions,  than  because  it  deals  with 
such  as  are  either  absolutely  the  best,  or  the  most 
characteristic  of  his  genius.  The  truth  is,  liowever, 
that  all  his  writings  are  characteristic;  and  lead, 
pretty  much  alike,  to  those  views  of  the  dark  and 
the  bright  parts  of  his  nature,  which  have  led  me,  I 
fear  (thouah  almost  irre.«istibly)  into  observations 
more  personal  to  the  character  of  the  author,  than 
should  generally  be  permitted  to  a  mere  literary 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


435 


:ope,  may  go  far,  by  his  example,  to  redeem 
le  great  reproach  of  our  modern  literature — 
s  intolerable  prolixity  and  redundance.  In 
is  nervous  and  manly  lines,  we  find  no  elab- 
rate  amplification  of  ix)mmon  sentiments — 
.0  ostentatious  polishing  of  pretty  e.xpres- 
onsj  and  we  really  think  that  the  brilliant 
iccess  which  has  rewarded  his  disdain  of 
lose  paltry  artifices,  should  put  to  shame  for 
ver  that  puling  and  self-admiring  race,  who 
in  live  through  half  a  volume  on  the  stock 
f  a  single  thought,  and  expatiate  over  divers 
ir  quarto  pages  with  the  details  of  one  te- 
ous  description.  In  Lord  Byron,  on  the  con- 
iry,  we  have  a  perpetual  stream  of  thick- 
imiiig  fancies — an  eternal  spring  of  fresh- 
owft  images,  which  seem  called  into  exist- 
ice  by  the  sudden  Hash  of  those  glowing 
oughts  and  overwhelming  emotions,  that 
•uggle  for  expression  through  the  whole  flow 
•  his  poetrj- — and  impart  to  a  diction  that  is 
i;en  abrupt  and  irregular,  a  force  and  a  charm 
lich  frequently  realise  all  that  is  said  of  in- 
iiration. 

With  all  these  undoubted  claims  to  our 
;miration.  however,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
lit  the  noble  author  before  us  has  still  some- 
t  ng  to  learn,  and  a  good  deal  to  correct.  He 
ifrequently  abrupt  and  careless,  and  some- 
ties  obscure.  There  are  marks,  occasion- 
ay,  of  effort  and  straining  after  an  emphasis, 
vich  is  generally  spontaneous;  and,  above 
a  there  is  far  too  great  a  monotony  in  the 
rral  colouring  of  his  pictures,  and  too  much 
netitionof  the  same  sentiments  and  maxims. 
I-  delights  too  exclusively  in  the  delineation 
01  certain  morbid  e.xaltation  of  character  and 
fding — a  sort  of  demoniacal  sublimity,  not 
vhout  some  traits  of  the  ruined  Archangel. 
K  is  haunted  almost  perpetually  with  the 
iiLge  of  a  being  feeding  and  fed  upon  by 
vent  passions,  and  the  recollections  of  the 
cistrophes  they  have  occasioned :  And, 
tlugh  worn  out  by  their  past  indulgence, 
u  ble  to  sustain  the  burden  of  an  existence 
w:ch  they  do  not  continue  to  animate  : — full 
oiiride.  and  revenge,  and  obduracy — disdain- 
ir  life  and  death,  and  mankind  and  himself 
— nd  trampling,  in  his  scorn,  not  only  upon 
tl  falsehood  and  formality  of  polished  life, 
bi  upon  its  tame  virtues  and  slavish  devo- 
ti<, :  Yet  envying,  by  fits,  the  very  beings  he 
doises,  and  melting  into  mere  softness  and 
ct.passion,  when  the  helplessness  of  child- 
he  1  or  the  frailty  of  woman  make  an  appeal 
tOiis  generosity.  Such  is  the  person  with 
w  im  we  are  called  upon  almost  exclusively 
toyrapathise  in  all  the  greater  productions 
of  lis  distinguished  writer: — InChilde  Harold 
—  the  Corsair — in  Lara — in  the  Siege  of 
C(nth  —  in  Parisina,  and  in  most  of  the 
snller  pieces. 

■  is  impossible  to  represent  such  a  charac- 
tebetter  than  Lord  Byron  has  done  in  all 
the  productions — or  indeed  to  represent  any 
th  -r  more  terrible  in  its  anger,  or  more  atf  rac- 
tiv  in  its  relenting.  In  point  of  effect,  we 
re;  ily  admit,  that  no  one  character  can  be 
ni(;  poetical  or  impressive : — But  it  is  really 
tocauch  to  find  the  scene  perpetually  filled 


by  one  character — not  only  in  all  the  acts  of 
each  several  drama,  but  in  all  the  different 
dramas  of  the  series; — and,  grand  and  im- 
pressive as  it  is,  we  feel  at  last  that  these  very 
(jualities  make  some  relief  more  indisj)ensable, 
and  oppress  the  spirits  of  ordinary  mortals 
with  too  deep  an  impression  of  awe  and  re- 
pulsion. There  is  too  much  guilt  in  short,  and 
too  much  gloom,  in  the  leading  character; — 
and  though  it  be  a  fine  thing  to  gaze,  now 
and  then,  on  stormy  seas,  and  thunder-shaken 
mountains,  we  shoukl  prefer  passing  our  days 
m  sheltered  valleys,  and  by  the  murmur  of 
calmer  waters. 

We  are  aware  that  these  metaphors  may  be 
turned  against  us — and  that,  without  meta- 
phor, it  may  be- said  that  men  do  not  pass 
their  days  in  reading  poetry — and  that,  as  they 
may  look  into  Lord  Byron  only  about  as  often 
as  they  look  abroatl  upon  tempests,  they  have 
no  more  reason  to  complain  of  him  for  being 
grand  and  gloomy,  than  to  complain  of  the 
same  qualities  in  the  glaciers  and  volcanoes 
which  they  go  so  far  to  visit.  Painters,  too, 
it  may  be  said,  have  often  gained  great  repu- 
tation by  their  representations  of  tigers  and 
others  ferocious  animals,  or  of  caverns  and 
banditti — and  poets  should  be  allowed,  with- 
out reproach;  to  indulge  in  analogous  exer- 
cises. We  are  far  from  thinking  that  there  is 
no  weight  in  these  considerations ;  and  feel 
how  plausibly  it  may  be  said,  that  we  have 
no  better  reason  for  a  great  part  of  our  com- 
plaint, than  that  an  author,  to  whom  we  are 
already  very  greatly  indebted,  has  chosen 
lather  to  please  himself,  than  us,  in  the  use 
he  makes  of  his  talents. 

This,  no  doubt,  seems  both  unreasonable 
and  ungrateful  :  But  it  is  nevertheless  true, 
that  a  public  benefactor  becomes  a  debtor  to 
the  public ;  and  is,  in  some  degree,  responsi- 
ble for  the  employment  of  those  gifts  which 
seem  to  be  conferred  upon  him,  not  merely 
for  his  owni  delight,  but  for  the  delight  and 
improvement  of  his  fellows  through  all  gene- 
rations. Independent  of  this,  however,  we 
think  there  is  a  reply  to  the  apology.  A  great 
living  poet  is  not  like  a  distant  volcano,  or  an 
occasional  tempest.  He  is  a  volcano  in  the 
heart  of  our  land,  and  a  cloud  that  hangs  over 
our  dwellings;  and  we  have  some  reason  to 
complain,  if,  instead  of  genial  warmth  and 
grateful  shade,  he  voluntarily  darkens  and 
inflames  our  atmosphere  with  perpetual  fiery 
explosions  and  pitchy  vapours.  Lord  Byron's 
poetry,  in  short,  is  too  attractive  and  too 
famous  to  lie  dormant  or  inoperative ;  and, 
therefore,  if  it  produce  any  painful  or  perni- 
cious effects,  there  will  be  murmurs,  and 
ought  to  be  suggestions  of  alteration.  Now, 
though  an  artist  may  draw  fighting  tigers  and 
hungry  lions  in  as  lively  and  natural  a  way  as 
he  can,  without  giving  any  encouragement  to 
human  ferocity,  or  even  much  alarm  to  human 
fear,  the  case  is  somew  hat  different,  when  a 
poet  represents  men  with  tiger-like  di.sjx)si- 
tions : — and  yet  more  so,  when  he  exhausts 
the  resources  of  his  genius  to  make  this  terri- 
ble being  interesting  and  attractive,  and  to 
represent  all  the  lofty  virtues  as  the  natural 


POETRY. 


allies  of  his  ferocity.  It  is  still  worse  when 
he  proceeds  to  show,  that  all  these  precious 
gifts  of  dauntless  courage,  strong  affection, 
and  high  imagination,  are  not  only  akin  to 
guUt,  but  the  parents  of  misery  ; — and  that 
those  only  have  any  chance  of  tranquillity  or 
happiness  in  this  world,  whom  it  is  the  object 
of  his  poetry  to  make  us  shun  and  despise. 

These,  it  appears  to  us,  are  not  merely 
errors  in  taste,  but  perversions  of  morality: 
and,  as  a  great  poet  is  necessarily  a  moral 
teacher,  and  gives  forth  his  ethical  lessons, 
in  general  with  far  more  effect  and  authority 
than  any  of  his  graver  brethren,  he  is  peculi- 
arly liable  to  the  censures  reserved  for  those 
who  turn  the  means  of  improvement  to  pur- 
poses of  corruption. 

It  may  no  doubt  be  said,  that  poetry  in  gene- 
ral tend?  less  to  the  useful  than  the  splendid 
qualities  of  our  nature — that  a  character  po- 
etically good  has  loiur  been  distinguished  from 
one  that  is  morally  so — and  that,  ever  since 
the  time  of  Achilles,  our  sympathies,  on  such 
occasions,  have  been  chiefly  engros.sed  by  per- 
sons whose  deportment  is  by  no  means  ex- 
emplary;  and  who  in  many  points  approach 
to  the  temperament  of  Lord  Byron's  ideal 
hero.  There  is  some  truth  in  this  suggestion 
aLso.  But  other  poets,  in  the  first  place,  do 
not  allow  their  favourites  so  outrageous  a  mo- 
nopoly of  the  glory  and  interest  of  the  piece 
— and  sin  less  therefore  against  the  laws 
either  of  poetical  or  distributive  justice.  In 
the  second  place,  their  heroes  are  not.  gene- 
rally, either  .so  bad  or  so  good  as  Lord  Byron's 
— and  do  not  indeed  very  much  exceed  the 
standard  of  truth  and  nature,  in  either  of  the 
extremes.  His,  however,  are  as  monstrous 
and  unnatural  as  centaurs,  and  hippogriffs — 
and  must  ever  figure  in  the  eye  of  sober  rea- 
son as  so  many  bright  and  hateful  impossi- 
bilities. But  the  most  important  distinction 
is.  that  the  other  poets  who  deal  in  peccant 
heroes,  neither  feel  nor  express  that  ardent 
affection  for  them,  which  is  visible  in  the 
whole  of  this  author's  delineations  :  but  mere- 
ly make  use  of  them  as  necessary  agents  in 
the  extraordinary  adventures  they  have  to 
detail,  and  persons  whose  mingled  vices  and 
virtues  are  requisite  to  brins:  about  the  catas- 
trophe of  their  story.  In  Lord  Byron,  how- 
ever, the  interest  of  the  story,  where  there 
happens  to  be  one,  which  is  not  always  the 
case,  is  uniformly  postponed  to  that  of  the 
character  it.self — into  which  he  enters  so  deep- 
ly, and  with  so  extraordinary  a  fondness,  that 
he  generally  continues  to  speak  in  its  lan- 
guage, after  it  has  been  dismissed  from  the 
stage  ;  and  to  inculcate,  on  his  own  authority, 
the  same  sentiments  which  had  been  pre- 
viously recommentled  by  its  e.vample.  We 
do  not  consider  it  as  unfair,  therefore,  to  say 
that  Lord  Byron  appears  to  us  to  be  the  zeal- 
ous apostle  of  a  certain  fierce  and  magnificent 
misanthropy  ;  which  has  already  saddened 
his  poetry  with  too  deep  a  shade,  and  not 
only  led  to  a  great  misapplication  of  great 
talents,  but  contributed  to  render  popular  some 
very  false  estimates  of  the  constituents  of  hu- 
man happiness  and   merit.     It   is   irksome, 


I  however,  to  dwell  upon  observations  so  gen 
j  ral — and  we  shall  piobably  have  better  meai; 
j  of  illustrating  these  remarks,  if  they  are  real 
'  well  founded,  when  we  come  to  speak  of  tl 
particular  publications  by  which  they  ha^ 
i  now  been  suggested. 

j      We  had  the  good  fortune;  we  believe,  to  1 
among  the  first  who  proclaimed  the  rising  i 
a  new  luminary,  on  the  appearance  of  Chile 
j  Harold  on  the  poetical  horizon. — and  we  p 
i  sued  his  course  with  due  attention  throu 
!  several   of  the   constellations.     If  we   bai 
i  lately  omitted  to  record  his  progress  with 
same  accuracy,  it  is  by  no  means  because 
have  regarded  it  with  more  indifference, 
suppo.sed  that  it  would  be  less  interes^ng  i 
the  public — but  because  it  was  so  extremei 
conspicuous  as  no  longer  to  require  the  m 
tices  of  an  official  observer.     In  general, 
do  not  think  it  necessary,  nor  indeed  qi 
fair,  to  oppress  our  readers  with  an  aecoul 
of  works,  w  hich  are  as  well  known  to  the' 
as  to  ourselves:  or  with  a  repetition  of  &e 
timents   in  which  all  the   world    is  agree 
Wherever,  a  work,  therefore,  is  very  popul; 
and  where  the  general  opinion  of  its  mer 
appears  to  be  .substantially  right,  we  thii 
ourselves  at   liberty  to   leave  it  out  of  o 
chronicle,  without  incurring  the  censure 
neglect  or  inattention.     A  very  rigorous  a 
plication  of  this  maxim  might  have  saved  o 
readers  the  trouble  of  reading  what  we  nt. 
write — and,  to  confess  the  truth,  we  writei 
rather  to  gratify  ourselves,  than  with  the 
of  giving  them  much  information.     At 
same  time,  some  short  notice  of  the  pro 
of  such  a  writer  ought,  perhaps,  to  appear! 
his  contemporary  journals,  as  a  tribute  d' 
to  his  emhience ; — and  a  zealous  critic  c 
scarcely  set  about  examining  the  merits 
any  work,  or  the  nature  of  its  reception 
the  public,  without  speedily  discovering' 
urgent  cause  for  his  admonitions,  both  to  1 
author  and  his  admirers. 

Our  last  particular  account  was  of  the  C 
sair :— and  though  from  that  time  to  the  pi. 
lication  of  the  pieces,  the  titles  of  which™ 
have  prefixed,  the  noble  author  has  prodnmi 
as  much  poetry  as  would  have  made  the  f] 
tune  of  any  other  person,  we  can  afford  ; 
take  but  httle  notice  of  those  intermedi; 
performances-  which  have  already  pas? 
their  ordeal  with  this  generation,  and  : 
fairly  committed  to  the  final  judgment  of  p 
terity.  Some  slight  reference  to  them,  he 
ever,  may  be  proper,  both  to  mark  the  p 
gress  of  the  author's  views,  and  the  hisli 
of  his  fame. 

Lara  was  obviously  the  sequel  of  the  C. 
yair — and  maintained,  in  general,  the  sa. 
tone  of  deep  interest,  and  lofty  feeling 
though  the  disappearance  of  IMedora  from  \ 
scene  deprives  it  of  ihe  enchanting  swe 
nesSjby  which  its  terrors  were  there  redeem 
and  make  the  hero  on  the  whole  less  caj' 
vating.  The  character  of  Lara,  too,  is  rat. 
too  laboriously  finished,  and  his  nocturnal 
counter  with  the  apparition  is  worked  up 
ostentatiously.  There  is  inlhiite  beauty 
the  sketch  of  the  dark  page — and  in  many 


LORD  BYRON'S  POETRY. 


437 


he  moral  or  general  reflections  which  are 
iiterspersed  with  the  narrative.  The  death 
f  Lara,  however,  is  by  far  the  finest  pas- 
age  in  the  poem,  and  is  fully  equal  to  any 
(ling  else  which  the  author  has  ever  written, 
'hough  it  is  not  under  our  immediate  cog- 
isance,  we  caiuiot  resist  the  temptation  of 
unscribing  the  greater  part  of  the  pas.sage — 
1  which  the  physical  horror  of  the  event, 
rough  described  with  a  terrible  force  and 
delity,  is  both  relieved  and  enhanced  by  the 
eautifui  pictures  of  mental  energy  and  re- 
,eeming  atiection  \vith  which  it  is  combined. 
ur  readers  will  recollect,  that  this  gloomy 
iid  daring  chief  was  mortally  wounded  in 
lattle,  and  led  out  of  it,  almost  insensible,  by 
,iat  sad  and  lovely  page,  whom  no  danger 
^)uld  ever  separate  from  his  side.  On  his  re- 
eat,  slaughter  and  desolation  falls  on  his 
sheartened  follov/ers ;  and  the  poet  turns 
om  the  scene  of  disorder — 

■Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 
'here  but  for  him  that  siritie  had  never  been, 

breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 
'was  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away  ! 
jis  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 
leels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 
iid  with  his  scarf  would  staunch  the  tides  that  rush, 

ith  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush; 
id  then,  as  his  taint  breathing  wa.xes  low, 

feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow  : 
■i  scarce  can  speak  ;  but  motions  him  'tis  vain, 
.,id  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 
Jii  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  wonld  assuage, 
Jid  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page 
"ho  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 
I've  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees; 
iye  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 
]  Id  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him  ! 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 

';eir  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield  ; 

';ey  would  remove  him  ;  but  they  see  'twere  vain, 

i,d  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain, 

'.at  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate, 

id  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate : 

/d  Oiho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed, 

Ibks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 

/d  questions  of  his  state  :  He  answers  not ; 

f  irce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 

.^id  turns  to  Kaled  : — each  remaining  word, 

7ey  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard  ; 

I  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue,  [&c. 

1  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung," 

"ItiT  words  though  faint  were  many — from  the  tone 
^'jir  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone  ,• 
flm  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  young  Kaled's 

I         death 
«'re  near  than  Lara's,  by  his  voice  and  breath  ; 
S«d,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 
T'  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke; 
B  Lara's  voice  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
Al  calm,   till  miirm'ring  death  gasp'd   hoarsely 
B  from  his  visatre  little  could  we  guess,       [near: 
Simrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless. 
Si?  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 
U.n  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
A'  once  as  Kaled's  answ'ring  accents  ceast, 
R  3  Lara's  hand,  and  p'/inied  to  the  East. — 

''  It  gasping  heav'd  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 
A  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew  ;        [o'er 
H  limbs  slreich'd  fluti'ring,  and  his  head  dropp'd 
1  i  weak,  yet  still  untirintr  knee  that  bore  ! 
Hnress'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 
It  ats  no  more  !   but  Kaled  will  not  part 

he  cold  grasp  !  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain, 


^'•:hat  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 


'  It  beats  !'     Away,  thou  dreamer'  he  is  gone  ! 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 

"  He  gaz'd,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 

The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 

And  those  unnind  have  rous'd  him  from  his  trance, 

Rut  caimot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance  ; 

And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 

Within  his  arms  ilie  form  that  felt  no  more, 

He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain. 

Roll  down,  like  earth  to  earth,  upon  the  plain ! 

Jie  did  not  dash  himself  thereby ;  nor  tear 

The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  liair. 

But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze  ;  but  reel'd  and  fell, 

Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  lov'd  so  well ! 

Than  that  He  lov'd  !     Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 

The  breast  oiMatt  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  ! 

That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveai'd 

The  secret,  long  and  yet  but  half-conceal'd  ; 

In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast. 

Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confest ! 

And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ?"  . 

We  must  stop  here  ; — but  the  whole  sequel 
of  the  poem  is  written  with  equal  vigour  and 
feeling  ;  and  may  be  put  in  competition  with 
any  thing  that  poetry  has  ever  produced,  in 
point  either  of  pathos  or  energj-. 

The  Siege  of  Corinth  is  next  in  the  order 
of  time  ;  and  though  written,  perhaps,  with 
too  visible  a  striving  after  effect,  and  not  very 
well  harmonised  in  all  its  parts,  we  cannot 
help  regarding  it  as  a  magnificent  composi- 
tion. There  is  less  misanthropy  in  it  than 
in  any  of  the  rest ;  and  the  interest  is  made 
up  of  alternate  representations  of  soft  and 
solemn  scenes  and  emotions — and  of  the  tu- 
mult, and  terrors,  and  intoxication  of  war. 
These  opposite  pictures  are  perhaps  too  vio- 
lently contrasted,  and,  in  some  parts,  too 
harshly  coloured ;  but  they  are  in  general 
exquisitely  designed,  and  executed  with  the 
utmost  spirit  and  energy.  What,  for  in- 
stance, can  be  finer  than  the  following  night- 
piece  ?  The  renegade  had  left  his  tent  in 
moody  musing,  the  night  before  the  final 
assault  on  the  Christian  walls. 

"  'Tis  midnight !   On  the  mountain's  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down; 
Blue  roll  the  waters;  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespartgled  with  those  isles  of  light. 
So  wildly,  spiritually  bright; 
Who  ever  gaz'd  upon  them  shining. 
And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining, 
Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away. 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there. 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air; 
And  scarce  their  ihntn  the  pebbles  shook. 
Bin  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves; 
The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke. 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke. 
Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shrill. 
And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill. 
And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer." — 

The  transition  to  the  bustle  and  fury  of  the 
morning  muster,  as  well  as  the  moving  picture 
of  the  barbaric  host,  is  equally  admirable. 
'2  m  2 


438 


POETRY. 


"  The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  grey, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day  1 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum, 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barb'rous  horn. 

And  the  tlap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're 

borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  sieed,  and  the  multitude's 

hum, 
And  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  '  They  come,  they 

come  !' 
The  horsetails  are  piuck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the 

sword 
From  its  sheath!  and  they  form — and  but  wait  for 

the  word. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein  ; 
Curv'd  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane  ; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit : 
The  spears  are  uplifted  ;  the  matches  are  lit ; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar. 
And  crush  the  wail  they  have  crumbled  before  I 
Forms  in  his  phalan.x  each  Jani/.ar ; 
Alp  at  their  head ;  his  right  arm  is  bare  ; 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar  ! 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post  ; 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  cnlverin's  signal  is  fir'd,  then  on! 
Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 
A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chici  in  her  halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls  I 
God  and  the  Prophet ! — Alia  Hu  I 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo! 

"As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 
On  the  stately  bufl"alo. 
Though  with  fiery  eyes  and  angry  roar, 
And  hools  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 
FIc  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 
Tile  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die : 
Thus  against  the  wall  they  went. 
Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ! 
Many  a  bosom,  sheath 'd  in  brass, 
Sirew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 
Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 
The  ground  whereon  they  mov'd  no  more  : 
Even  as  ihey  fell,  in  files  they  lay. 
Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day. 
When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levell'd  plain  ; 
Such  was  the  lall  of  the  foremost  slain  I 
As  the  sprin<r-iides,  with  heavy  plash, 
From  the  cliffs  invadinc;  dash 
Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 
'I'ill  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, — 
Like  the  avalanche's  snow 
On  the  Alpine  vales  below  ; 
Thus  at  length,  outbreath'd  and  worn, 
Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 
By  the  long,  and  oft  rencw'd 
Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude  ! 
In  iirmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 
Heap'd,  by  the  host  ot  the  infidel, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot : 
Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute; 
Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 
For  (luarter,  or  for  victory  ! 
I>ut  the  rampart  is  won.  and  the  spoil  begun. 
And  all  hut  the  after-carnage  done. 
Shriller  shrieks  now  niincjling  come 
From  within  thephinder'd  dome  : 
Hark  to  the  haste  of  flyintr  feet ! 
That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street!" 

Parisina  is  of  a  tlifferent  chai-acter.  There 
is  no  tumult  or  stir  in  this  piece.  It  is  ail  sad- 
ness, and  pity,  and  tenor.  The  story  is  tnltl 
ill  half  a  senfence.  The  Prince  of  Kstt>  has 
married  a  lady  who  was  oriuinally  destined 
for  his  favourite  natural  son.  He  discovers  a 
ciiminiii  attachment  between  thprn  :  and  puts 
the  issue  and  the  invader  of  his  bed  to  death, 


before  the  face  of  his  unhappy  paramou 
There  is  too  much  of  horror,  perhaps,  in  lb' 
circumstances:  but  the  writing  is  beautifi 
throughout ;  and  the  whole  wrapped  in  a  ric 
and  redunelant  veil  of  poetry,  where  ever, 
thing  breathes  the  pure  essence  of  genius  an 
sensibility.  The  opening  verses,  though  sor 
and  voluptuous,  are  tinged  with  the  samii 
shade  of  sorrow  which  gives  its  character  am 
harmony  to  the  whole  poem.  i 

"  It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs,  ^ 

The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard ;  , 

It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows  , 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper" d  word  ; 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near,  1 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear  !  i 

Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet ; 
And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met. 
And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 
And  on  the  leal  a  browner  hue, 
And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure. 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day. 
As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 
But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterlall 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall,  &,c. 

"  With  many  a  ling'ring  look  they  leave 
The  spot  ot  giiiliy  gladness  past ! 
And  though  they  hope  and  vow,  they  grieve. 
As  if  that  parting  were  the  last. 
The  frequent  sigh — ihe  long  embrace — 
The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever. 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  lace 
The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her ! 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  (railty  from  afar." 

The  arraignment  and  condemnation  of  th 
guilty  pair,  with  the  bold,  high-toned,  and  yt 
temperate  tiefence  of  the  son,  are  manage' 
wilh  admirable  talent ;  and  yet  are  less  toucli 
iiigthan  the  mute  despair  of  the  fallen  beaut) 
who  stands  in  speechless  agony  beside  him. 

"  Those  lids  o'er  which  the  violet  vein — 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  slain, 
Shilling  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite — 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below  ; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill. 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gath'ring  still. — 

"  Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose. 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaxe  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood  ; 
But  every  now  and  then  a  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gaiher'd,  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  lo  see,  not  hear! 
To  speak  she'  thought — the  imperfect  note 
Was  chiik'd  within  her  swelling  throat. 
Yet  seem'd  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Fler  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceas'd — again  she  ihouaht  to  speak 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek. 
And  to  the  enrih  she  fell,  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown." 

The  grand  part  of  this  poem,  however,  i 
that  which  describes  the  execution  of  th 
rival  son;  and  in  which,  though  there  is  n 
pomp,  either  of  language  or  of  sentiment,  an 
every  thing,  on  the  contrary,  is  conceived  an 
e.vpressed  with  studied  simplicity  and  direci 
ness,  there  is  a  spirit  of  pathos  and  poetry  ' 


LORD  BOON'S  POETRY. 


439 


vhich  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  many  pa- 
,allels. 

'  The  Convent  bells  are  ringing  ! 
!      But  niournfully  and  slow  ; 
1  In  ihe  grey  square  turret  svvinjring, 
I      Witli  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro  ! 
,  Heavily  to  the  heart  they  tro ! 
'      Hark  !  ilie  hymn  is  singing  ! — 
!  The  song  f<»r  the  dead  below, 
i     Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so  ! 
;  For  a  departing  Being's  soul  [knoll : 

The   deaih-hynin   peals   and    the   hollow    bells 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  Friar's  knee  ; 
Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see  ! — 
Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground. 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  ('ircle  gather 
To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father ! 

'■  It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set. 
Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day. 
And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray  ; 
And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head  ! 
As  his  last  confession  pouring 
To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 
In  penitential  holiness, 
He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bliss 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away! 
That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  diii  bow  and  listen  ! 
And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 
yurled  half-down  his  neck  so  bare; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Jpon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter  I 

Oh  !  that  parting  hour  was  bitter ! 
[5ven  the  stern  stood  chill'd  with  awe  : 
park  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
tet  they  shudder'd  as  they  saw. 
'  "The  parting  prayers  arc  said  and  over 
')f  that  false  son — and  daring  lover  ! 
His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted  ; 
[lis  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 
ilis  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp'd, 
!lis  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp'd  I 
'I'is  done — all  closely  are  they  shorn — 
"he  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn — 
The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 
Inst  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 
Iven  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 
.Liid  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied  ; 
llutno — that  last  indignity 
hall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 
No! — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath — 
"hese  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  me  die 
.t  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 
trike  I' — and.  as  the  word  he  said, 
■pon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head  ; 
"hese  the  last  accents  Huho  spoke  : 
strike!' — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke  ! — 
oU'd  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 
ack  the  stnin'd  and  heaving  trunk, 
.1  the  dust, — which  each  deep  vein 
ilak'd  with  its  cnsansiuin'd  rain  I 
,  liseves  and  lips  a  nimiient  quiver, 
onvuls'd  and  quick — then  fix  for  ever." 

f  the  Hebrew  melodies — the  Ode  to  Na- 
pe on,  and  some  other  smaller  pieces  that 
ajeared  about  the  same  time,  we  shall  not 
»c.  stop  to  say  anythins.  They  are  ob- 
vi  sly  inferior  to  thf  works  we  have  been 
nCjCing,  and  are  about  to  notice,  both  in 
ge?ra]  interest,  and  in  power  of   poetry 


ih 


raised  an  inferior  artist  to  the  very  summit  of 
distinction. 

Of  the  verses  entitled,  ''Fare  thee  well," — 
and  some  others  of  a  similar  character,  we 
shall  say  nothing  but  that,  in  spite  of  their 
beauty,  it  is  painful  to  read  them — and  infi- 
nitely to  be  regretted  that  they  should  have 
been  given  to  the  public.  It  would  be  apiece 
of  idle  atiectation  to  consider  them  as  mere 
effusions  of  fancy,  or  to  pretend  ignorance  of 
the  subjects  to  which  they  relate — and  with 
the  knowledge  which  all  the  world  has  of 
these  subjects,  we  must  say,  that  not  even 
the  e.xample  of  Lord  Byron,  himself,  can  per- 
suade us  that  they  are  fit  for  public  discussion. 
We  come,  therefore,  to  the  consideration  of 
the  noble  author's  most  recent  publications. 

The  most  considerable  of  these,  is  the  Third 
Canto  of  Childe  Harold ;  a  work  which  has 
the  disadvantage  of  all  continuations,  iti  ad- 
mitting of  little  absolute  novelty  in  the  plan 
of  the  work  or  the  cast  of  its  character,  and 
must,  besides,  remind  all  Lord  Byron's  readers 
of  the  extraordinary  effect  produced  by  the 
sudden  blazing  forth  of  his  genius,  upon  their 
first  introduction  to  that  title.  In  spite  of  all 
this,  however,  we  are  persuaded  that  this 
Third  Part  of  the  poem  will  not  be  pronounced 
inferior  to  either  of  the  former;  and,  we  think, 
will  probably  be  ranked  above  them  by  those 
who  have  been  most  delighted  with  the  whole. 
The  great  success  of  this  singular  production, 
indeed,  has  always  appeared  to  us  an  e.xtraor- 
dinary  proof  of  its  merits;  for,  with  all  its 
genius,  it  does  not  belong  to  a  sort  of  poetry 
that  rises  easily  to  popularity. — It  has  no  story 
or  action — very'  little  variety  of  character — 
and  a  great  deal  of  reasoning  and  reflection 
of  no  very  attractive  tenor.  It  is  substantially 
a  contemplative  and  ethical  work,  diversified 
with  fine  description,  and  adorned  or  over- 
shaded  by  the  perpetual  presence  of  one  em- 
phatic person,  who  is  sometimes  the  author, 
and  sometimes  the  object,  of  the  reflections 
on  which  the  interest  is  chiefly  rested.  It 
required,  no  doubt,  great  force  of  writing,  and 
a  decided  tone  of  originality  to  recommend  a 
performance  of  this  sort  so  powerfully  as  this 
has  been  recommended  to  public  notice  and 
admiration — and  ihose  high  characteristics 
belong  perhaps  still  more  eminently  to  the 
part  that  is  now  before  us,  than  to  any  of  the 
former.  There  is  the  same  stern  and  lofty 
disdain  of  mankind,  and  their  ordinary  pur- 
suits and  enjoyments;  with  the  same  bright 
gaze  on  nature,  and  the  same  magic  power 
of  giving  interest  and  efi'ect  to  her  delinea- 
tions— but  mi.xed  up,  we  think,  with  deeper 
and  more  matured  reflections,  and  a  more  in- 
tense sensibility  to  all  that  is  grand  or  lovely 
in  the  external  world. — Harold,  in  short,  is 
somewhat  okler  since  he  last  appeared  upon 
the  scene — and  while  the  vigour  of  his  intel- 
lect has  been  confirmed,  and  his  confidence 
in  his  own  opinions  increased,  his  mind  has 
'so  become  more  sensitive;  and  his  misan- 


gh  some  of  them,  and  the  Hebrew  melo-  ■  thro]n-;  thus  softened  over  by  htibils  of  calmer 


din  especially,  display  a  skill  in  versification,    coiitemplatioii,  appears  less  active  and  im})a 
an;a  mastery  in  diction;  which  would  have  1  tient,  even  although  more  deeply  rooted  than 


<440 


POETRY. 


before.  Undoubtedly  the  finest  parts  of  the 
poem  before  us,  are  those  which  thus  embody 
the  weight  of  his  moral  sentiments;  or  dis- 
close the  lofty  sympathy  which  binds  the 
despiser  of  Man  to  the  glorious  aspects  of 
Nature.  It  is  in  these,  we  thiidi,  that  the  great 
attractions  of  the  work  consist,  and  the  strength 
of  the  author's  genius  is  seen.  The  narrative 
and  mere  description  are  of  far  inferior  in- 
terest. With  reference  to  the  sentiments  and 
opinions,  however,  which  thus  give  its  dis- 
tiuguishing  character  to  the  piece,  we  must 
Bay,  that  it  seems  no  longer  possible  to  ascribe 
them  to  the  ideal  person  whose  name  it  bears, 
or  to  any  other  than  the  author  himself. — 
Lord  Byron,  we  think,  has  formerly  complain- 
ed of  those  who  identified  him  with  his  hero, 
or  supposed  that  Harold  was  but  the  expositor 
of  his  own  feelings  and  opinions; — and  in 
noticing  the  former  portions  of  the  work,  we 
thought  it  unbecoming  to  give  any  counte- 
nance to  such  a  supposition.— In  this  last  part, 
however,  it  is  really  impracticable  to  distin- 
guish them. — Not  only  do  the  author  and  his 
hero  travel  and  reflect  together, — but,  in  truth, 
we  scarcely  ever  have  any  distinct  intimation 
to  which  of  them  the  sentiments  so  energeti- 
cally expressed  are  to  be  ascribed;  and  in 
those  which  are  unequivocally  given  as  those 
of  the  noble  author  himself,  there  is  the  very 
same  tone  of  misanthropy,  sadness,  and  scorn, 
which  we  were  formerly  willing  to  regard  as 
a  part  of  the  assumed  costume  of  the  Childe. 
We  are  far  from  supposing,  indeed,  that  Lord 
Byron  would  disavow  any  of  these  sentiments;  1 
and  thouijh  there  are  some  which  we  must 
ever  think  it  most  unfortunate  to  entertain,  I 
and  others  which  it  appears  improper  to  have 
published,  the  greater  part  are  admirable,  and 
cannot  be  perused  without  emotion,  even  by 
those  to  whom  they  may  appear  erroneous. 

The  poem  opens  with  a  burst  of  grand  poe- 
try, and  lofty  and  impetuous  feeling,  in  which 
the  author  speaks  undisguisedly  in  his  own 
person. 

"  Once  more  upon  the  waters!  yet  once  more  ! 

And  tlie  waves  bound  beneath  me,  as  a  sired 

That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome,  to  their  roar! 

Swift  be  their  guidance,  where.soe'er  it  lead  ! 

Though  thestrain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed. 

And  the  rent  canvass  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 

Still  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed. 

Flung  trom  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er   the   surge    inay   sweep,   the    tempest's 
breath  prevail. 

"  In  my  youth's  summer,  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  watid'ring  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind; 
Again  I  seize  the  theme  then  but  begun. 
And  bear  it  with  me.  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards.    In  that  tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  lears. 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind. 
O'er  which  all  heavilv  the  journeying  years 

Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a   flower 
appears. 

"  Since  my  young  davs  of  passion — ^^joy,  or  pain. 
Perchance  iny  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
And  both  may  jar.     It  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay,  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet.  thouL'h  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling; 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness  ! — so  it  fling 


Forgetfulness  around  ine — it  shall  seem, 
To  me,    though   to  none  else,   a  not   ungrat 
theme." 

After  a  good  deal  more  in  the  same  stra 
he  proceeds, 


100, 


"  Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly:— I  have  though: 
Too  long  and  darkly  ;  till  my  brain  became 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flaine  : 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  fatrw 
My  springs  of  life  were  poison'd." — 

"  Something  too  much  of  this: — but  now  'tis  pn 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal ' 
Long  absent  Harold  re-appears  at  last 

The  character  and  feelings  of  this  unjoyo 
personage  are  then  depicted  with  great  foi 
and  fondness ;— and  at  last  he  is  placed  up 
the  plain  of  Waterloo. 

"  In  '  pride  of  place'  where  laie  the  Eagle  flew.tftlil"™ 
Mt  plain,    •       tfW 


Then  tore  witli  bloody  talon  the  rt      , , 

Pierc'd  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through 

Fit  retribution  !     Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 

And  foam  in  fetters;— but  is  Earth  more  freet 

Did  nations  combat  to  niake  One  submit 

Or  league  to  tea<;li  all  kings  true  sovereigntytiBKilltf 


Hmn 


What  !  shall  reviving  'i'liraldojii  asa;n 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten'd  days  ?  ' 

Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,'  s-liall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ?'' 

"  If  not,  o'er  one  fall'n  despot  boast  no  more  I" 

There  can  be  no  more  remarkable  proof 
the  greatness  of  Lord  Byron's  genius  than  tj|  mn 
spirit  and  interest  he  has  contrivcil  to  coiifltai'ii'ie 
municate  to  his  picture  of  the  often-drawn  af"'P*? 
difficult  scene  of  the  brt>aking  up  fiotn  Bri:' 
sels  before  the  great  battle.  It  is  a  tn 
remark,  that  poets  generally  fail  in  llie  lepr 
sentation  of  great  events,  "when  the  intert 
is  recent,  and  the  particulars  are  consequent 
clearly  and  commonly  known  :  and  the  reas 
is  obvious:  For  as  it  is  the  object  of  })OPtry 
make  us  feel  for  distant  or  imaginary  occu 
rences  nearly  as  strongly  as  if  they  «  ere  pv 
sent  and  real,  it  is  plain 'that  there  is  iiosco| 
for  her  enchantments,  where  the  impressi' 
reality,  with  all  its  vast  prepondenmce  of  intt- 
est,  is  already  before  us,  and  where  the  co 
cern  we  take  in  the  gazette  far  outgoes  ai 
emotion  that  can  be  conjured  up  in  us  by  tl 
help  of  fine  descriptions.  It  is  natural,  ho^ 
ever,  for  the  sensitive  tribe  of  poet.s,  to  mi 
take  the  common  interest  which  they  tht 
share  with  the  unpoetical  part  of  their  con. 
trynien,  for  a  vocation  to  versify  ;  ;uicf  so  thi 
proceed  to  jwur  out  the  lukewarm  distillatioi 
of  their  phantasies  upon  the  unchecked  effe 
vesceiice  of  ])ublic  feeling  I  All  our  bard 
accordingly,  great  and  small,  and  of  all  se.ve 
ages,  and  professions,  from  Scoff  jind  Southi 
down  to  hundreds  without  names  or  addifioii 
have  adventured  upon  this  theme— iind  faili , 
in  the  management  of  it !  And  while  fhf 
yielded  to  the  patriotic  impulse,  as  if  they  ho 
all  caught  the  inspiring  summons — 

"  Let  those  rhvme  now  who  never  rhym'd  before 
And  those  who  always  rhyme,  rhyme  now  il 
more — " 

The  result  has  been,  that  scarcely  a  line  I 
be  remembered  had  been  produced  on  a  sul 


LORD  BYRON -S  POETRY. 


44J 


^  bet  which  probably  was  thought,  of  itself,  a 
:cure  passport  to  immortality.  It  required 
tme  courage  to  venture  on  a  theme  beset 

'■-  fith  so  many  dangers,  and  deformed  with  the 
recks  of  so  many  former  adventurers; — and 

■,   theme,  too,  which,  in  its  general  conception. 

li  )peared  alien  to  the  prevailing  tone  of  Lord 
>TOn's  poetry.  See,  however,  with  what 
sy  strength  he  enters  upon  it.  and  with  how 

'  nich  grace  he  gradually  finds  his  way  back 

,.  •  liis  own  peculiar  vein  of  sentiment  and 

■  iction. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night ; 

And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 

Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry  ;  and  bright 

The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men. 

?^  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 

Vlusic  arose  wMth  its  voluptuous  swell, 

soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  whicii  spake  again, 

»    \nd  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
It  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 

;   '  knell!" 

'Vh  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
"■    \nd  gath'ring  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
Vnd  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
?lush*d  at  the  praijje  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
^nd  there  were  sudden  partings;  such  as  press 
The  lite  from  out  young  hearts ;  and  choking  sighs 
tVhich  ne'er  might    be   repeated  : — who   could 

guess 
if  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
See  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could 
rise  ? 

".nd  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
'he  must'ring  squadron,  and  the  clatt'ring  car, 
Vent  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
ind  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war  ; 
>nd  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar; 
'.nd  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
lous'd  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star. 

"nd  Ardennes   waves   above   them   her  green 
leaves, 
.lewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass ! 
'rieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
iver  the  unreturning  brave. — alas  I 
ire  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
/hich  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
1  its  next  verdure  !  when  this  riery  mass 
'f  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe       [and  low." 

Al  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold 

'iter  some  brief  commemoration  of  the 
wth  and  valour  that  fell  in  that  bloody  field, 
thauthor  turns  to  the  many  hopeless  mourn- 
er that  survive  to  lament  their  extinction  ;  the 
miy  broken-hearted  families,  whose  incura- 
bl  sorrow  is  enhanced  by  the  national  e.x- 
ultion  that  still  points,  with  importunate  joy, 
to  le  scene  of  their  destruction.  There  is  a 
riciess  and  energy  in  the  following  passage 
whh  is  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  among  all 
nuern  poets, — a  throng  of  glowing  images, 
poed  forth  at  once,  with  a  facihty  and  pro- 
fuiin  which  must  appear  mere  wastefulness 
to  lore  economical  writers,  and  a  certain 
neigence  and  harshness  of  diction,  which 
caibelong  only  to  an  author  who  is  oppressed 
wi  the  exuberance  and  rapidity  of  hfis  con- 
ce]  o;is. 

"  ^.e  Archangel's  trump,  not  Glory's,  must  awake 
'.086  whom  they  thirst  for!  though  the  sound 

of  Fame 
Jy  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
j;e  fpvpi-  of  vain  longing  ;  and  the  name 
Sonnour'd  but  assuaies  a  .sirougur,  biitertr  claimT 
56 


"  They  mourn,  Imt  .""mile  at  .ength  ;  and,  smiling, 
'I'he  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ;      [tnourn  ! 
The  hull  drives  on,  though  nia.«t  and  sail  be  torn  ! 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone  ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  cnilinil ; 
The  day  drags  through,  though  storms  keep  out 
the  sun  ; 

And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on  : 

"  Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold. 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old.  [told." 

Showing  no  visible  sign, — for  such  things  are  un- 

There  is  next  an  apostrophe  to  Napoleon, 
graduating  into  a  series  of  general  rellcctions, 
expressed  with  infinite  beauty  and  earnest- 
ness, and  illustrated  by  another  cluster  of 
magical  images; — but  breathing  the  very  es- 
sence of  misanthropical  disdain,  and  embody- 
ing opinions  which  we  conceive  not  to  be  less 
erroneous  than  revolting.  After  noticing  the 
strange  combination  of  grandeur  and  littleness 
which  seemed  to  form  the  character  of  that 
greatest  of  all  captains  and  conquerors,  the 
author  proceeds, 

"  Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy. 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; —      [smil'd 
When  fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favourite  child. 

He  stood  uiibow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  pil'd. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes :  For  in  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts.  'Twaswise  to  feel;  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow. 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turn'd  unto  thine  overthrow: 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose  ! — 
So  hath  it  prov'd  to  i  hee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell, 

And  there  hath  been  thy  bane  !  There  is  a  fire 

And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 

In  its  own  narrow  being,  bat  aspire 

Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire  ; 

And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore. 

Preys  upon  high  adventure  ;  nor  can  tire 

Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core, 

Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 
This  makes  the  madmen,  who  have  made  men 
By  their  contagion  ;  Conquerors  and  Kings,  [mad 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems, — to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things. 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs. 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  !  what  stings 
Are  theirs !   One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 

Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or 
rule  : 
Their  breath  is  agitation  ;  and  their  life. 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last ; 
And  yet  so  nurs'd  and  bigotted  to  strife. 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past. 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die  ! 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering  ;  or  a  sword  laid  by 

Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 


442 


POETRY. 


He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find 
The  lofiiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow; 
He  who  furpasses  or  sididues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  tlie  hate  of  iliose  l)eIow. 
Thouoh  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  hencnth  the  earth  and  ocean  spread. 
Round  \\\n\  are  icy  rocks;  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  ttmiiesis  on  his  naked  head,  [led." 
And  ihus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits 
This  is  splendidly  written,  no  doubt — but 
we  trust  it  is  not  true;  and  as  it  is  delivered 
with  much  more  than  poetical  earnestness, 
and  recurs,  indeed,  in  other  forms  in  various 
parts  of  the  volume,  we  must  really  be  allowed 
to  enter  our  dissent  somewhat  at  large.  With 
regard  to  conquerors,  we  wish  with  ail  our 
hearts  that  ihe  case  were  as  the  noble  author 
represents  it :  but  we  greatly  fear  they  are 
neither  half  so  unhappy,  nor  half  so  much 
hated  as  they  should  be.  On  the  contrary,  it 
seems  plain  enough  that  they  are  very  com- 
monly idolised  and  admired,  even  by  those 
on  whom  they  trample ;  and  we  suspect, 
moreover,  that  in  general  they  actually  pass 
their  time  rather  agreeably,  and  derive  con- 
siderable satisfaction  from  the  ruin  and  deso- 
lation of  the  world.  From  Macedonia's  mad- 
man to  the  Swede — fromNimrod  to  Bonaparte, 
the  hunters  of  men  have  pursued  their  sport 
with  as  much  craiety,  and  as  little  remorse,  as 
the  hunters  of  other  animals — and  have  lived 
as  cheerily  in  their  days  of  action,  and  as 
comfortably  in  their  repose,  as  the  followers 
of  better  pursuits.  For  this,  and  for  the  fame 
which  they  have  generally  enjoyed,  they  are 
obviously  indebted  to  the  great  interests  con- 
nected with  their  employment,  and  the  men- 
tal excitement  which  belongs  to  its  hopes  and 
hazards.  It  would  be  strange,  therefore,  if 
the  other  active,  but  more  innocent  spirits, 
whom  Lord  Byron  has  here  placed  in  the 
same  predicament,  and  who  share  all  their 
sources  of  enjoyment,  without  the  guilt  and 
the  hardness  which  they  cannot  fail  of  con- 
tracting, should  be  more  miserable  or  more 
unfriended  than  those  splendid  curses  of  their 
kind : — And  it  would  be  piissing  strange,  and 
pitiful,  if  the  most  precious  gifts  of  Providence 
should  produce  only  unhappiness,  and  man- 
kind regard  with  hostility  their  greatest  bene- 
fact(jrs. 

We  do  not  believe  in  any  such  prodigies. 
Great  vanity  and  ambition  may  indeed  lead 
to  feverish  and  restless  efforts — to  jealousies, 
to  hate,  and  to  mortification — but  these  are 
only  their  eflfi^ets  when  united  to  inferior 
abilities.  Tt  is  not  those,  in  short,  who  ac- 
tually surpass  mankind,  that  are  unhappy; 
but  those  who  .stmggle  in  vain  to  surpass 
them  :  And  this  moody  tem[)or,  which  eats 
into  itself  from  within,  and  provokes  fair  and 
unfair  opposition  from  without,  is  cenerally 
the  result  of  pretensions  which  outgo  the 
merits  by  which  they  are  supported — and  dis- 
appointmeii'.s.  that  may  be  clearly  traced,  not 
to  the  excess  of  genius,  but  its  defect. 

It  will  be  found,  we  believe,  accordingly, 
that  the  master  spirits  of  their  aee  have  al- 
wavs  escaped  the  unhappiness  which  is  here 
supposed  to  be  the  inevitable  lot  of  extraordi- 
nary talents ;  and  that  this  strange  tax  upon 


genius  has  only  beer.  levied  from  those  h  \i,^^ 
held  the  secondary  shares  of  it.  Men  of  t^  pi''-' 

reat  powers  of  mind  have  generally  bu 
cheerful,  social,  and  indulgent ;  while  a   3. 
dency  to  sentimental  whining,  or  fierce  it  j. 
erance,   may  be   ranked    among   the   si;  <• 
symptoms  of  little  souls  and   inferior   h  i 
lects.     In  the  whole  list  of  our  English  pt  <. 
we  can  only  remember  Shenstoiie  and  Sa^;( 
— two,  certainly,   of  the   lowest — who  v 
querulous  and  discontented.    Cowley,  iixl  i 
used  to  call  himself  melancholy  : — but  lie  . 
not  ui  earnest;  and,  at  any  tiite.  \\iis  m  1 
conceits  and  affectations;  ami  has  nciilm 
make   us   proud  of  him.     Shakespt  ,in'. 
greatest  of  them  all,  was  evidently  oi   a 
and  joyous  temperament ; — and  so  w  ;is  Ci  > 
cer,  their  common  master.     The  same    <• 
position   appears   to   have    predomniatec  r, 
Fletcher,  Jonson,  and   their  great  conter  > 
raries.     The  genius  of  Milton  partook  so  ■ 
thing  of  the  austerity  of  the  party  to  whicl  i- 
belonged,  and  of  the  controversies  in  wl :. 
he  was  involved  ;  but  even  when   faller  t 
evil  days  and  evil  tongues,  his  spirit  seem, 
have  retained  its  serenity  as  well  as  its 
nity ;  and  in  his  private  life,  as  well  as  i 
poetry,  the  majesty  of  a   high  characti 
tempered  with  great  sweetness,  genial  in 
gences,  and   practical  wisdom.     In  the 
ceeding  age  our  poets  were  but  too  g-ay ; 
though  we  forbear  to  speak  of  living  autl 
we  know  enough  of  them  to  say  with  C( 
dence,  that  to  be  miserable  or  to  be  halt 
not  now,  any  more  than  heretofore,  the  c 
mon  lot  of  those  who  excel. 

If  this,  however,  be  the  case  with  p(iBii';o[ 
confessedly  the  most  irritable  and 
of  all  men  of  genius — and  of  poets,  toOjil  11, 
and  born  in  the  gloomy  climate  of  Engl  |i„^'j| 
it  is  not  likely  that  those  who  have  surpai 
their  fellows  in  other  ways,  or  in  other  regi 
have  been  more  distinguished  for  unhappic 
Were  Socrates  and  Plato,  the  greatest  phill|Air;,| 
phers  of  anticiuity,  remarkable  for  unscll 
or  gloomy  tempers  ? — was  Bacon,  the  gre» 
in  modern  times? — was  Sir  Thomas  Mo: 
or  Erasmus — or  Hume — or  Voltaire? — 
Newton —  or  Fenelon  ? — was  Francis  I. 
Henry  IV.,  the  paragon  of  kings  and  coDq<jMjij|,'J'J| 
ors  ? — was  Fox.  the  most  ardent,  and,  in 
vulgar  sense,  the  least  successful  of 
men  ?  These,  and  men  like  these,  are 
doubtedlv  the  lights  and  the  boast  of 
world.  Vet  there  was  no  alloy  of  mi  fc^^ 
thropy  or  gloom  in  their  genius.  They  |j,j 
not  disdain  the  men  they  had  surpas.sed;l  1^^. 
neither  feared  nor  experienced  their  hosti 
Some  detractors  they  might  hnve,  from  t 
or  misapprehension  ;  but.  beyond  all  dc 
the  prevailing  sentiments  in  respect  tot. 
have  always  been  tho.><e  of  gratituile 


miration  ;  and  the  error  of  public  judgm     . 
■h  oftener  bee      J*' 


heie*it  has  erred,  has  much  oftener  bee 
overrate  than  to  undervalue  the  merit 
those  who  had  claims  on  their  good  opii 
On  the  whole,  we  are  far  from  thinking 
eminent  men  are  actually  happier  than  ti? 
who  glide  through  life  in  peaceful  obscui'' 
But  it  is  their  eminence,  and  the  consequei 


liitii 

tin 
tik 

kii 


iitfa 


few 


idi 


£ 


S 


■St 


LORD  B\T10NS  POETRY. 


443 


t)f  it;  rather  than  the  mental  superiority  by 
(vhich  it  is  obtained,  that  interferes  with  their 
imjoyment.  Distinction,  however  won,  usually 
leads  to  a  passion  for  more  distinction  ;  and  is 
'ipt  to  engTige  us  in  laborious  efforts  and  anx- 
'ous  undertakings  :  and  those,  even  when  suc- 
■,essful.  seldom  repay,  in  our  judgment  at 
!east.  the  ease,  the  leisure,  and  tranquillity, 
'if  which  they  require  the  sacrifice  :  but  it 
eally  passes  our  imagination  to  conceive,  that 
^he  very  highest  degrees  of  intellectual  vigour, 
'■Y  fancy,  or  sensibility,  should  of  themselves 
'  He  productive  either  of  unhappiness  or  general 
^  ilislike. 

:  I  Harold  and  his  poet  next  move  along  the 

;  bvely  banks  of  the  Rhine,  to  which,  and  all 

heir  associated  emotions,  due  honour  is  paid 

'i  various   powerful  stanzas.     We   pass  on, 

■  owever.  to  the  still  more  attractive  scenes 

■  f  Switzerland.     The  opening  is  of  suitable 
'  randeur. 

,  j  But  these  recede.     Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
,  1  The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
'  Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls, 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow  ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals. 
Gather  around  Itiese  summiis,  as  to  show 
ow  Earth  may  pierce  lo  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain 
man  below." 

On  this  magnificent  threshold,  the  poet 
jiuses,  to  honour  the  patriot  field  of  Moral, 
lid  the  shrine  of  the  priestess  of  Aventicum; 

i,  iid  then,  in  congratulating  himself  on  his 
jlitude,  once  more  moralises  his  song  with 

;   |mething  of  an  apology  for  its  more  bitter 

:  iisanthropies. 

|To  fly  trom,  need  not  be  to  hate  mankind: 
All  are  not  fit  widi  them  to  stir  and  toil, 

:    I  Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 

:    jDeep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 

jln  the  hot  throng,"  &c.  , 

;;    IThe  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
;    (To  those  that  walk  in  darl<ne.«s  ;  on  the  sea, 
-    jThe  boldest  steer  but  whfre  their  pons  invite, 
'     jBut  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity    [shall  be. 

i  hose  hark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchor'd  ne'er 
;     lis  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 

•And  love  Earth  only  for  iis  earthly  sake  ? 
I     By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone, 

•  (Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  mn-sing  lake, 
|\Vhich  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  inf;int  her  own  care, 
iKissrini:  its  cries  away  as  these  awake." 

iThe  cliffs  of  iVIeillerie.  and  the  groves 
f:  tiClarei-.s  of  course,  conjure  up  the  shade 
,  (j  Rousseau :  whom  he  characterises  very 
:    Ijongly.  but  charitably,  in  several  eiichant- 

•  ir  stanzas  : — one  or  two  of  which  we  shall 
<je  as  a  specimen  of  the  kindred  lapture 
^jfh  which  ;he  Poet  here  honours  the  Apostle 
ciLove. 


'His 


'His  love  was  passion's  essmcf  I     As  a  tree 

'■  yn  fire  by  lightning,  with  etliereal  flame 
i     Kindled  he  v\n9,  and  blasted  ;  for  lo  l)e 
i      Fhiis,  and  eDarnour'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
^^      3ut  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
''      Wor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
'■      |?ut  of  ideal  beauty  ;  which  became 
''       in  him  e.vistence,  and  o'erflowing  teems  [seem.s. 

i  ^)ng  his  burning  page,  disteniper'd   though   it 


This  breath'd  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet,"  &c. 

"Clarens!    sweet   Clarens,   birth-place   of  deep 

Love ! 
Thine  air   is   the    young    breath  of   passionate 

thought ! 
Thy  trees  lake  root  in  Love  ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colours  caught, 
And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly  !  The  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love  ;    who 

sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks. 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos, 

then  mocks. 

"All  things  are  here  of  Ai'w! ;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  arc  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  lo  the  vines 
Wliich  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the 

shore. 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  wiih  murmurs;  and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar. 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it 
stood, 

Oflering  to  him  and  his,  a  populous  solitude." 

Our  readers  may  think,  perhaps,  that  there 
is  too  much  sentiment  and  reflection  in  these 
extracts ;  and  wish  for  the  relief  of  a  little 
narrative  or  description:  but  the  truth  is,  that 
there  is  no  narrative  in  the  poem,  and  that  all 
the  descriptions  are  blended  with  the  expres- 
sion of  deep  emotion.  The  following  picture, 
however,  of  an  evening  calm  on  the  lake  of 
Geneva,  we  think,  must  please  even  the  lov- 
ers of  pure  description — 

"  Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wide  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  lo  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
^I'his  quiet  sail  is  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  !     Once  I  lov'd 
Torn  ocean's  roar ;  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet,  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reprov'd. 

That  I  wiih  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been 
so  mov'd. 

"  It  is  the  hush  of  night  ;  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  ihe  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  dislinclly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  I  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  cliildhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drif)  of  the  sii-'^pended  oar,  [more  ! 

Or  chirps  ihe  grasshopper   one    good-night  carol 

'At  intervals,  some  bird  from  oul  ihe  brakes, 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
'I  here  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; 
But  that  is  fancy  ! — lor  the  starlight  dews 
.All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Wo(  ping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues." 

The  following  sketch  of  a  iVlidsummer 
night's  thunder  storm  in  the  same  sublime 
region,  is  still  more  striking  and  original — 

"  The  sky  is  chatig'd  I — and  such  u  change  !     Oh 
night,  [strong ! 

And    pdrm,    and   darkness,    ye    are    woiidrous 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !  Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  I   Not  from  one  lone  cloud. 
But  every  mountain  now  bath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shrcjud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  lo  her  aloud  . 


444 


POETRY. 


I 


"  And  this  is  in  the  night :— Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  tor  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  tar  delight. — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  I 
How  the  ht  lake  slniies,  a  phosphoric  sea  ! 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  lo  the  earth  '. 
And  now  again  'lis  black,— and  now,  the  glee   __ 
Of  the  loud  hills  shake  with  us  mouiilain-mirth. 

In  passinjj;  Ferney  and  Lausanne,  there  is  a 
fine  account  of  Voltaire  and  Gibbon  ;  but  we 
have  room  for  but  one  more  extract,  and  must 
take  it  from  the  characteristic  reflections  with 
•which  the  piece  is  concluded.  These,  like 
most  of  the  preceding,  may  be  thought  to 
savour  too  much  of  egotism :  But  this  is  of 
the  essence  of  such  poetry  ;  and  if  Lord  By- 
ron had  only  been  happier,  or  in  better  hu- 
mour with  the  world,  we  should  have  been 
delighted  with  the  confidence  he  has  here 
reposed  in  his  readers  :— as  it  is,  it  sounds  too 
like  the  last  disdainful  address  of  a  man  who 
is  about  to  quit  a  world  which  has  ceased  to 
have  any  attractions — like  the  resolute  speech 
(if  Pierre — 
"  For  this  vile  world  and  I  have  long  been  jangling, 

And  cannot  part  on  better  terms  than  now." — 

The  reckoning,  however,  is  steadily  and 
sternly  made  ;  and  though  he  does  not  spare 
himself,  we  must  say  that  the  world  comes 
off  much  the  worst  in  the  comparison.  The 
passage  is  very  singular,  and  written  with 
much  force  and  dignity. 

"  Thus  far  I  have  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices. — To  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be  ; — and  to  steel 
The  heart  asainst  itself;  and  to  conceal. 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught,— 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief  or  zeal, — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought. 

Is  a  stern  task  of  soul !— No  matter  I— it  is  taught. 

"  I  have  not  lov'd  the  world — nor  the  world  me  I 
I  have  not  flatier'd  its  rank  breath  ;  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo.     In  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them,"  &c. 

"  I  have  not  lov'd  the  world,  nor  the  world  me  ! 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes ;  1  do  believe. 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things,— hopes  which  will  not  de- 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave  [ceive 
Snares  for  the  failing  I   I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve  ; 
That  two  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is    no    name,  and    happiness    no 
dream." 
The  closing  stanzas  of  the  poem  are  e.\- 
tremely  beautiful ; — but  we  are  immoveable 
in  the  resolution,  that  no  statement  of  ours 
shall   ever   give   additional  publicity  to  the 
subjects  of  which  they  treat. 

We  come  now  to  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon." 
It  is  very  sweet  and  touching — though  we 
can  afTorcl  but  a  short  account  of  it.  Chillon 
is  a  ruined  castle  on  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  in 
the  dungeon  of  which  three  gallant  brothers 
were  confined,  each  chained  to  a  separate 
pillar,  till,  after  long  years  of  anguish,  the 
two  younger  died,  and  were  buried  under  the 
cold  floor  of  the  prison.     The^- eldest  was  at 


length  liberated,  when  worn  out  with  ag 
and  misery — and  is  supposed,  in  his  joyles 
liberty,  to  tell,  in  this  poem,  tne  sad  story  o 
his  irnprisonnrient.  The  picture  of  their  firs 
feelings,  when  bound  apart  in  this  livin 
tomb,  and  of  the  gradual  sinking  of  thei 
cheery  fortitude,  is  full  of  pity  and  agony. 

"  We  could  not  move  a  single  pace; 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face. 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  and  pin'd  in  heart  ; 
'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each, 
Wiih  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold  !  , 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone,  ' 

A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  . 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own." 

The  return  to  the  condition  of  the  younge 
brother,  the  blooming  Benjamin  of  the  famil) 
is  extremely  natural  and  afi'ectmg. 

"  I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  10  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest, 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best  ; 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 
Tiie  youngest,  whom  my  father  lov'd, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  giv'n 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heav'n, 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  mov'd  ;  1 

And  truly  might  it  be  distrest  i 

To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ;  j 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day —  j 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me  • 

As  to  young  eagles,  being  free)—  j 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay. 
With  tears  lor  nought  but  other's  ills; 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills. 

The  gentle  decay  and  gradual  extinctio 
of  this  youngest  life,  i^  the  most  tender  am 
beautiful  passage  in  the  poem. 

"  But  he.  the  favorite  and  the  flow'r, 
Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 
ills  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 
The  infant  love  ot  all  his  race. 
His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 
Jl/y  latest  care,  for  whom  1  sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
IjCSS  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free  I 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untir'd 
A  spirit  natural  or  inspir'd — 
He,  too,  was  struck  !  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 
He  faded  ;  and  so  calm  and  meek, 
So  .oofily  worn,  so  sweetly  weak. 
So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind. 
And  gricv'd  lor  those  he  left  behind  : 
Wiih  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb. 
Whose  lints  as  gently  sunk  away 
.As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray— 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light. 
That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright. 
And  not  a  word  of  murmur  ! — not 
A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 
A  litile  talk  of  better  days, 
A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise. 
For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 


kkd 
Iiiie«lii 

llllklH!! 

klieitb 

m^ 

Heoiili' 

yin 

Ut'niibl 


LORD  BITION'S  POETRY 


445 


And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less  I 

I  listen'd.  but  I  could  not  hear ! — 

I  call'd,  for  [  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  ciiain  with  one  strong  bound. 

And  rush'd  to  him  ! — I  found  him  not, 

/only  snrr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

/only  liv'd — /  only  drew 

Th'  accursed  breath  of  dnngec^n-dew." 

After  this  last  calamity,  he  is  allowed  to  be 
it  large  in  the  dungeon. 

"  And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Alo'ig  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart. 
And  tread  it  over  every  part  ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod.' 

He  climbs  up  at  last  to  the  high  chink  that 
dmitted  the  light  to  his  prison ;  and  looks 
ut  once  more  on  the  long-remembered  face 
f  nature,  and  the  lofty  forms  of  the  eternal 
lountains. 

•  I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same, 
Theij  were  not  chang'd  like  me  in  frame  ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush  ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skiinming  down  ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile,     ■> 

The  only  one  in  view  ; 
A  small  green  isle  ;  it  seem'd  no  more. 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o"er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flow'rs  growing. 

Of  gentle  breath  and  line. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall. 
And  they  seem'd  joyous,  each  and  all; 
The  eagie  rode  the  rising  blast ; 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly." 

The  rest  of  the  poems  in  this  little  volume. 
i3  less  amiable — and  most  of  them,  we  fear, 
ive  a  personal  and  not  very  charitable  ap- 
]cation.  One.  entitled  '-Darkness."  is  free 
< least  from  this  imputation.  It  is  a  grand 
id  gloomy  sketch  of  the  supposed  conse- 
tences  of  the  final  extinction  of  the  Sun  and 
t;  Heavenly  bodies — executed,  undoubtedly. 
■\th  great  and  fearful  force — but  with  some- 
tng  of  German  exairgeration.  and  a  fantas- 
tal  selection  of  incidents.  The  very  con- 
fition  is  terrible,  above  all  conception  of 
Idwd  calamity — and  is  too  oppressive  to  the 
iigitiation,  to  be  contemplated  with  pleas- 
V;  even  in  the  faint  reflection  of  poetry. 

"  The  icy  eanh 
'ung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air." 

'itie?  and  forests  are  burnt;  for  light  ai^d 
vrmth. 

'"he  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
'ire  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
ii  flashes  fell  upon  them  I     .'^ome  lay  down 
Ai  hid  their  eyes  and  wepi  ;  and  some  did  rest 
7  iir  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smil'd  ! 


And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 
With  mad  disquieiude  on  the  dull  sky, 
The  pall  of  a  past  world  !  and  then  again 
With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust. 
And  gnaslrd  their  teeth,  and  howl'd  I" 

Then  they  eat  each  other:  and  are  extin- 
guished ! 

" The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 
Seasonless.  hcrbless,  treele.-^s,  manless,  lifeless — 
A  lump  of  death — a  chaos  of  liard  clay  ! 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still, 
And  nothing  stirr'd  wiihin  iheir  silent  depths  ; 
Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea,         [dropp'd 
And  their  masts   fell   down  piecemeal :    As  they 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 
The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave, 
The  moon  their  mistress  had  e.xpir'd  befure  ; 
The  winds  were  wiiher'd  in  the  stagnant  air. 
And  the  clouds  perish'd  ;  Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them — She  was  the  universe." 

There  is  a  poem  entitled  '-'The  Dream," 
full  of  living  pictures,  and  written  with  great 
beauty  and  genius — but  extremely  painful — 
and  abounding  with  mysteries  into  which  we 
have  no  desire  to  penetrate.  --The  Incant- 
ation"' and  '•Titan'"  have  the  same  distressing 
character — though  without  the  sweetness  of 
the  other.  Some  stanzas  to  a  nameless  friend, 
are  in  a  tone  of  more  open  misanthiopy.  This 
is  a  favourable  specimen  of  their  tone  and 
temper. 

"  Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Thoui,'h  woman,  ihou  didst  not  forsake. 
Though  lov'd,  thou  foreborest  to  grieve  me. 

Though  slander'd.  thou  never  couldst  shake,— 
Though  trusted,  tiiou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie." 

Beautiful  as  this  poetry  is,  it  is  a  relief  at 
last  to  close  the  volume.  We  cannot  maintain 
our  accustomed  tone  of  levity,  or  even  speak 
like  calm  literary  judges,  in  the  midst  of  these 
agonising  traces  of  a  wounded  and  distempered 
spirit.  Even  our  admiration  is  at  last  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  most  painful  feeling  of  pity  and 
of  wonder.  It  is  impossible  to  mistake  "these 
for  fictitious  sorrows,  conjured  up  for  the  pur- 
pose of  poetical  effect.  There  is  a  dreadful 
tone  of  sincerity,  and  an  energy  that  cannot 
be  counterfeited,  in  the  expression  of  wretch- 
edness and  alienation  from  human  kind,  which 
occurs  in  every  page  of  this  publication  ;  and 
as  the  author  has  at  last  spoken  out  in  his  own 
person,  and  unbosomed  his  griefs  a  great  deal 
too  freely  to  his  readers,  the  offence  now 
would  be  to  entertain  a  doubt  of  their  reality. 
We  certainly  have  no  ho])e  of  preaching  him 
into  philanthropy  and  cheerfuhiess  :  but  it  is 
impossible  not  to  mourn  over  such  a  catas- 
trophe of  such  a  mind ;  or  to  see  the  prodigal 
gifts  of  Nature.  Fortune,  and  Fame,  thus 
turned  to  bitterness,  without  an  oppressive 
feeling  of  impatience,  mortification,  and  sur- 
prise. Where  there  are  such  elements,  how- 
ever, it  is  equally  impossible  to  despair  that 
they  may  yet  enter  into  happier  combinations, 
— or  not  to  hope  this  "that  puissant  spirit" 
"  yet  shiill  reascend 
Self-raia'd,  and  repossess  its  native  seat." 
2N 


POETRY. 


(i^orcmbfr,  1817.) 

Lalla  Rookh;  an  Oriental  Romance.     By  Thomas  Moore.     4to.     pp.  405. :  London:  1817. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  car  recent  poetry    stitution  of  genius.   While  it  is  more  splendk    (kw 
derived  from  the  East :    But  this  is  the  finest    in  imagery — (and  for  the  most  part  in  ver 
Orientalism  we  have  had  yet.     The  land  of    good  taste) — more  rich  in  sparkling  thou^ 
the  Sun  has  never  shone  out  so  brightly  on  the    and  original  conceptions,  and  more  full  indee'. 
children  of  the  North — nor  the  sweets  of  Asia    of  exquisite  pictures,  both  of  all  sorts  of  beai 
been  poured  forth,  nor  her  gorgeousness  dis-    ties  and  virtues,  and  all  sorts  of  sufl'erings  aii' 
played  so  profusely  to  the  delighted  senses  of  I  crimes,  than  any  other  poem  that  has  yet  com^jiiie 
Europe.     The  beauteous  forms,  the  dazzling    "    " 
splendours,  the  breathing  odours  of  the  Ea.st, 
seem  at  last  to  have  found  a  kindred  poet  in 
that  green   isle  of  the  West :  whose  Genius 
has  long  been  suspected  to  be  derived  from  a 
warmer  clime,  and  now  wantons  and  luxuri- 
ates in  tho.se  voluptuous  regions,  as  if  it  felt 
that  it  had  at  length  regained  its  native  ele- 
ment.    It  is  amazing,  indeed,  how  much  at 
home  Mr.  Moore  seems  to  be  in  India.  Persia, 
and    Arabia;    and   how   purely   and    strictly 
Asiatic  all  the  colouring  and  imagery  of  his 
book  appears.   He  is  thoroughly  embued  with 
the  character  of  the  scenes  to  which  he  trans- 
ports us  :  and  yet  the  extent  of  his  knowledge 
is  less  wonderful  than  the  dexterity  and  ap- 
parent facility  with  which  he  has  turned  it  to 
account,  in  the  elucidation  and  embellishment 
of  his  poetry.     There  is  not.  in  the  volume 
now  before  us,  a  simile  or  description,  a  name, 
a  trait  of  history,  or  allusion  of  romance  which 
belongs  to  European  experience  ;  or  does  not 
indicate  an  entire  famiharity  with  the  life,  the 
dead  nature,  and  the  learning  of  the   East. 
Nor  are  these  barbaric  ornaments  thinly  scat- 
tered to  make  up  a  show.    They  are  showered 
lavishly  over  all  the  work  :  and  form,  perhaps 
too  much,  the  staple  of  the  poetry — and  the 
riches  of  that  which  is  chiefly  distinguished 
for  its  richness. 

We  would  confine  this  remark,  however,  to 
the  descriptions  of  external  object-s,  and  the 
allusions  to  literature  and  history — or  to  what 
may  be  termed  the  materiel  of  the  {)oetry  be- 
fort!  us.  The  Characters  and  Sentiments  are 
of  a  different  order.  They  cannot,  indeed,  be 
said  to  be  copies  of  European  nature  :  but  tney 
ait'  still  less  like  that  of  any  other  region. 
They  are,  in  truth,  poetical  imaginations; — 
but  it  is  to  the  poetry  of  rational,  honourable, 
considerate,  and  humane  Europe,  that  they 
belonir — and  not  to  the  childishness,  cruelty, 
and  profligacy  of  Asia.  It  may  seem  a  harsh 
and  presumptuous  sentence,  to  some  of  our 
Cosmopolite  readers  :  But  from  all  we  have 
been  able  to  gather  from  history  or  recent  ob- 
servation, we  should  be  inclined  to  say  that 
there  was  no  sound  sense,  firmness  of  purpose, 
or  principled  goodnes.i,  except  among  the  na- 
tives of  Europe,  and  theirgenuine  descendants. 

There  is  somethiTig  very  extraordinary,  we 
think,  in  the  work  before  us — and  something 
which  indicates  in  the  author,  not  only  a  great 
exuberance  of  talent,  but  a  very  singular  con- 


before  us  ;  we  rather  think  we  .<peak  the  sens     nifbrai 
of  most  readers,  when  we  add,  that  the  effeb 
of  the  whole  is  to  mingle  a  certain  feeling  o, 
disappointment  with  that  of  admiration! 
excite   admiration    rather  than   any  warme 
sentiment  of  delight — to  dazzle,  more  than  t 
enchant — and.  in  the  end.  more  frequently  t 
startle  the  fancy,  and  fatigue  the  attention  ' 
the  constant  succession  of  glitt 
and  high-strained  emotions,  than  to  main 
a  rising  interest,  or  win  a  growing  sympathi 
by  a  less  profuse  or  more  systematic  disj'' 
of  attractions. 

The  style  is,  on  the  whole,  rather  diffi 
and   too  unvaried  in  its   character.     But  il| 
greatest  fault,  in  our  eyes,  is  the  uniformil 
of  its  brilliancy — the  want  of  plainness,  sin 
plicity,  and  repose.  We  have  heard  it  obsenT 
by  .some  very  zealous  admirers  of  Mr.  Moore , 
genius,  that  you  cannot  open  this  book  will 
out  finding  a  cluster  of  beauties  in  every  pagi 
Now,  this  is  only  another  way  of  expressin 
what  we  think  its  irreatest  defect.     No  worl 
consisting  of  many  pages,  should  have  detach 
ed  and  distinguishable  beauties  in  every  on 
of  them.    No  great  work,  indeed,  should  ha^ 
vmny  beauties :    If  it   were  perfect,  it  woul 
have  hut  one  ;  and  that  but  faintly  perceptiblii 
except  on  a  view  of  the  vhole.     Look,  for  cm 
ample,  at  what  is  perhaps  the  most  finishej 
and  exquisite  production  of  human  art — t\ii 
design  and  elevation  of  a  Grecian  temple,  i^ 
its  old  severe  simplicity.     What  penury  f 
ornament — what  rejection  of  beauties  of  d( 
tail  ! — what  masses  of  plain    surface — wh: 
rigid  economical  limitation  to  the  useful  aii 
the  necessary  !    The  cottage  of  a  peasant 
scarcely  more  simple  in  its  structure,  and  hf 
not  fewer  parts   that   are   superfluous.    Y<' 
what  grandeur — what  elegance — what  grac 
and  completeness  in  the  effect !  The  whole 
beautiful — because  the  beauty  is  in  the  wholt 
But  there  is  little  merit  in  any  of  the  part 
except  that  of  fitness  and  careful  finishin; 
Contrast  thi.s.  now.  with  a  Dutch  pleasun' 
house,   or  a   Chinese — where   every   part   , 
meant  to  be  separately  beautiful — and  the  n 
suit  is  deformity  ! — where  there  is  not  an  inc 
of  the  surface  that  is  not  brilliant  with  varie' 
colour,  and  rough  with  curves  and  angles,- 
and  where  the  effect  of  the  whole  is  monstrov; 
ami  offensive.   We  are  as  far  as  possible  froi 
meaning  to  insinuate  that  Mr.  IMoore's  poeti 
is  of  this  description.     On  the  contrary,  w, 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


■147 


hink  his  ornaments  are,  for  the  most  part, 
ruly  and  exquisitely  beautiful ;  and  the  gene- 
il  design  of  his  pieces  very  elegant  and  in- 
enious :  All  that  we  mean  to  say  is,  that 
lere  is  too  much  ornament — too  many  insu- 
lted and  independent  beauties — and  that  the 
otice,  and  the  very  admiration  they  excite, 
urt  the  interest  of  the  general  design  ;  and 
ot  only  withdraw  our  attention  too  importu- 
•ately  from  it,  but  at  last  weary  it  out  with 
leir  perpetual  recurrence. 
■  It  seems  to  be  a  law  of  our  intellectual  con- 
itutiou;  that  the  powers  of  taste  cannot  be 
jrmanently  gratified,  except  by  some  sustain- 
'  or  continuous  emotion  ;  and  that  a  series, 
•/en  of  the  most  agreeable  excitements,  soon 
■;ases.  if  broken  and  disconnected,  to  give  any 
■easure.  No  conversation  fatigues  so  soon  as 
•at  which  is  made  up  of  points  and  epigrams ; 
id  the  accomplished  rhetorician,  who 

" could  not  ope 

\     .His  mouth,  but  out  liiere  flew  a  trope," 

'list  have  been  a  most  intoleiable  companion, 
lere  are  some  things,  too,  that  seem  so  plainly 
tended  for  ornaments  and  seasonings  only, 
•at  they  are  only  agreeable,  when  sprinkled  in 
:Dderation  over  a  plainer  medium.  No  one 
•)uld  like  to  make  an  entire  meal  on  sauce  pi- 
I'vite ;  or  to  appear  in  a  dress  crusted  over  with 
(imonds  ;  or  to  pass  a  day  in  a  steam  of  rich 
t;tilied  perfumes.  It  is  the  same  with  the 
{ttering  ornaments  of  poetry — with  splendid 
ijtaphors  and  ingenious  allusions,  and  all  the 
lures  of  speech  and  of  thought  that  consti- 
t  e  its  outward  pomp  and  glory.  Now,  Mr. 
bore,  it  appears  to  us,  is  decidedly  too  lavish 
(his  gems  and  sweets ; — he  labeurs  under  a 
J  thora  of  wit  and  imagination — impairs  his 
c  dit  by  the  palpable  exuberance  of  his  pos- 
6  sions,  and  would  be  richer  with  half  his 
\  alth.  His  works  are  not  only  of  costly  ma- 
t  lal  and  graceful  design,  but  they  are  every- 
V  ere  glistening  with  small  beauties  and  tran- 
B')ry  inspirations — sudden  flashes  of  fancy, 
t}t  blaze  out  and  perish ;  like  earth-born 
n;teors  that  crackle  in  the  lower  sky.  and  un- 
ssonably  divert  our  eyes  from  the  great  and 
ky  bodies  which  pursue  their  harmonious 
c;rses  in  a  serener  region. 

Ve  have  spoken  of  these  as  faults  of  style : 
B  they  could  scarcely  have  existed  in  the 
si'e,  without  going  deeper  ;  and  though  they 
fir  strike  us  as  qualities  of  the  composition 
0U-,  we  find,  upon  a  little  reflection,  that  the 
K'le  general  character  belongs  to  the  fable. 
th  characters,  and  the  sentiments. — that  they 
al'in  alike  in  the  excess  of  their  means  of 
ataction. — and  fail  to  interest,  chiefly  by 
btig  too  interesting. 

1  order  to  avoid  the  debasement  of  ordi- 
n;,'  or  familiar  life,  the  author  has  soared  to 
a  •igion  beyond  the  comprehension  of  most 
ofis  readers.  All  his  personages  are  so  very 
btatiful,  and  brave,  and  agonising — so  totally 
wpt  up  in  the  exaltation  of  their  vehement 
eritions,  and  withal  so  lofty  in  rank,  and  so 
su  ptuous  and  magnificent  in  all  that  relates 
to  leir  external  condition,  that  the  herd  of 
or  nary  mortals  can  scarcely  venture  to  con- 


ceive of  their  proceedings,  or  to  5ympathi.se 
freely  with  their  fortunes.  The  disasters  to 
which  they  are  exposed,  and  the  designs  in 
which  they  are  engaged,  are  of  the  same  am 
bitious  and  exaggerated  character;  and  all 
are  involved  in  so  much  pomp,  and  splendour, 
and  luxury,  and  the  description  of  their  ex- 
treme grandeur  and  elegance  forms  so  con- 
siderable a  part  of  the  whole  work,  that  the 
less  sublime  portion  of  the  species  can  with 
ditFiculty  presume  to  judge  of  them,  or  to  en- 
ter into  the  concernments  of  such  very  exqui- 
site persons.  The  incidents,  in  like  manner, 
are  so  prodigiously  moving,  so  excessively 
improbable,  ami  so  terribly  critical,  that  we 
have  the  same  difficulty  of  raising  our  senti- 
ments to  the  proper  pitch  for  them; — and, 
finding  it  impossible  to  sympathise  as  we 
ought  to  do  with  such  portentous  occurrences, 
are  sometimes  tempted  to  withhold  our  sym- 
pathy altogether,  and  to  seek  for  its  objects 
among  more  familiar  adventures.  Scenes  of 
voluptuous  splendour  and  ecstasy  alternate 
suddenly  with  agonising  separations,  atrocious 
crimes,  and  tremendous  sufferings  ; — battles, 
incredibly  fierce  and  sanguinary,  follow  close 
on  entertainments  incredibly  sumptuous  and 
elegant  _: — terrific  tempests  are  succeeded  by 
delicious  calms  at  sea :  and  the  land  scenes 
are  divided  between  horrible  chasms  and  pre- 
cipices, and  vales  and  gardens  rich  in  eternal 
blooms,  and  glittering  with  palaces  and  tem- 
ples— while  the  interest  of  the  story  is  main- 
tained by  instruments  and  agents  of  no  less 
potency  "than  insanity,  blasphemy,  poisonings, 
religious  hatred,  national  antipathy,  demoni- 
acal misanthropy,  and  devoted  love. 

We  are  aware  that,  in  objecting  to  a  work 
like  this,  that  it  is  made  up  of  such  materials, 
we  may  seem  to  be  objecting  that  it  is  made 
of  the  elements  of  poetry, — since  it  is  no  doubt 
true,  that  it  is  by  the  use  of  such  materials 
that  poetry  is  substantially  distinguished  from 
prose,  and  that  it  is  to  them  it  is  indebted  for 
all  that  is  peculiar  in  the  delight  and  the  in- 
terest it  hispires :  and  it  may  seem  a  little 
unreasonable  to  complain  of  a  poet,  that  he 
treats  us  with  the  essence  of  poetry .  We  have 
already  hinted,  however,  that  it  is  not  advisa- 
ble to  live  entirely  on  essences  ;  and  our  ob- 
jection goes  not  only  to  the  excessive  strength 
of  the  emotions  that  are  sought  to  be  raised, 
but  to  the  violence  of  their  transitions,  and  the 
want  of  continuity  in  the  train  of  feeling  that 
is  produced.  It  may  not  be  amiss,  however, 
to  add  a  word  or  two  more  of  explanation. 

In  the  first  j>]a.ce,  then,  if  we  con.sider  how 
the  fact  stands,  we  shall  find  that  all  the  great 
poets,  and,  in  an  especial  manner,  all  the 
poets  who  chain  down  the  attention  of  their 
readers,  and  maintain  a  growing  interest 
through  a  long  series  of  narrations,  have  been 
remarkable  for  the  occasional  familiarity,  and 
even  homeliness,  of  many  of  their  incidents, 
characters  and  sentiments.  This  is  the  dis- 
tinguishing feature  in  Homer,  Chaucer,  Ari- 
osto,  Shakespeare,  Dryden,  Scott — and  will  be 
found  to  occur,  we  believe,  in  all  poetiy  that 
has  been  long  and  extensively  poj)nlai' :  orthat 
is  capable  of  pleasing  very  strongly,  or  stirring 


448 


POETRY. 


very  deeply,  the  common  sensibilities  of  our 
nature.  We  need  scarcely  make  an  excep- 
tion for  the  lofty  Lyric,  which  is  so  far  from 
bein^  generally  attractive,  that  it  is  not  even 
intelligible,  except  to  a  studious  few — or  for 
those  solemn  and  devotional  strains  which  de- 
rive their  interest  from  a  still  higher  princi- 
ple :  But  in  all  narrative  poetry — in  all  long 
pieces  made  up  of  descriptions  and  adven- 
tures, it  seems  hitherto  to  have  been  an  indis- 
pensable condition  of  their  success,  that  most 
of  the  persons  and  events  should  bear  a  con- 
siderable resemblance  to  those  which  we  meet 
with  in  ordinary  life ;  and,  though  more  ani- 
mated and  important  than  to  be  of  daily  oc- 
currence, should  not  be  immeasurably  exalted 
above  the  common  standard  of  human  fortune 
and  character. 

It  should  be  almost  enough  to  settle  the 
question,  that  such  is  the  fact — and  that  no 
narrative  poetry  has  ever  excited  a  great  in- 
terest, where  the  persons  were  too  much  puri- 
fied from  the  vulgar  infirmities  of  our  nature, 
or  the  incidents  too  thoroughly  purged  of  all 
that  is  ordinary  or  familiar.  But  the  slightest 
reflection  upon  the  feelings  with  which  we 
read  such  poetry,  must  satisfy  us  as  to  the 
reason  of  our  disappointment.  It  may  be  told 
in  two  words.  Writings  of  this  kind  revolt  by 
their  improbability ;  and  fatigue,  by  offering 
no  points  upon  which  our  sympathies  can 
readily  attach. — Two  things  are  necessary  to 
give  a  fictitious  narrative  a  deep  and  com- 
manding interest;  first,  that  we  should  believe 
that  such  things  might  have  happened ;  and 
secoiulhj,  that  they  might  have  happened  to 
ourselves,  or  to  such  persons  as  ourselves. 
But,  in  reading  the  ambitious  and  overwrought 
poetry  of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  we 
feel  perpetually,  that  there  could  have  been 
no  such  people,  and  no  such  occurrences  as 
we  are  there  called  upon  to  feel  for :  and  that 
it  is  impossible  for  us,  at  all  events,  to  have 
much  concern  about  beings  whose  principles 
of  action  are  so  remote  from  our  own.  and  who 
are  placed  in  situations  to  which  we  have  never 
known  any  parallel.  It  is  no  doubt  true,  that 
all  stories  that  interest  us  must  represent  pas- 
sions of  a  higher  pitch,  and  events  of  a  more 
extraordinary  nature  than  occur  in  common 
life:  and  that  it  is  in  consequence  of  rising 
thus  sensibly  above  its  level,  that  they  become 
objects  of  interest  and  attention.  But,  in  order 
that  this  very  elevation  may  be  felt,  and  pro- 
duce its  effect,  the  story  must  itself,  in  other 
places,  give  us  the  known  and  ordinary  level, 
and.  by  a  thousand  adaptations  and  traits  of 
universal  nature,  make  us  feel,  that  the  char- 
acters which  become  every  now  and  then  the 
objects  of  our  intense  sympathy  and  admira- 
tion, in  great  emergencies,  and  under  the  in- 
fluence of  rare  but  conceivable  excitements, 
are.  after  all.  our  fellow  creatures — made  of 
the  same  flesh  and  blood  with  ourselves,  and 
actinir,  and  acted  upon,  by  the  common  prin- 
ciples of  our  nature.  Without  this,  indeed, 
the  effect  of  their  sulferings  and  exploits 
would  be  entirely  lost  upon  ns ;  as  we  should 
be  without  any  .scale  by  which  to  estimate  the 
magnitude  of  the  temptations  they  had  to  re- 


sist, or  the  energies  they  had  exerted.  1 
make  us  aware  of  the  altitude  of  a  mountai^ 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  show  us  the  pla 
from  which  it  ascends.  If  we  are  allowed 
see  nothing  but  the  table  land  at  the  top,  fl 
effect  will  be  no  greater  than  if  we  had  r 
mained  on  the  humble  level  of  the  shore- 
except  that  it  will  be  more  lonely,  bleak,  ai, 
inhospitable.  And  thus  it  is.  that  by  e. 
aggerating  the  heroic  quahties  of  heroes,  tht 
become  as  uninteresting  as  if  they  had  i 
such  quahties — that  by  striking  out  thoj 
weaknesses  and  vulgar  infirmities  whit 
identify  them  with  ordinary  mortals,  they  n( 
only  cease  to  interest  ordinary  mortals,  but  eve 
to  excite  their  admiration  or  suqirise  ;  and  aj 
pear  merely  as  strange  inconceivable  being 
in  whom  superhuman  energy  and  refinemei 
are  no  more  to  be  wondered  at.  than  the  powt 
of  flying  in  an  eagle,  or  of  fasting  in  a  snakt 
The  wise  ancient  who  observed,  that  beiii 
a  man  himself,  he  could  not  but  take  an  inte 
est  in  every  thinir  that  related  to  man — riiigl 
have  confirmed  his  character  for  wisdom,  b 
adding,  that  for  the  same  reason  he  could  tak 
no  interest  in  any  thing  else.  There  is  notl 
ing,  after  all,  that  we  ever  truly  care  for.  bi 
the  feelings  of  creatures  like  ourselves: — an 
we  are  obliged  to  lend  them  to  the  flowei 
and  the  brooks  of  the  valley,  and  the  staisan 
airs  of  heaven,  before  we  can  take  any  deligl 
in  them.  With  sentient  beings  the  case  ■ 
more  obviously  the  same.  By  vhalevc 
names  we  may  call  them,  or  with  m  hatevt 
fantastic  attributes  we  may  please  to  invet 
them,  still  we  comprehend,  and  concern  ou 
selves  about  them,  only  in  so  lar  as  they  n 
semble  ourselves.  AJl  the  deities  of  tb 
classic  mythology — and  all  the  devils  aij 
i  angels  of  later  poets,  are  nothing  but  huma 
creatures — or  at  least  only  interest  us  .so  Ion, 
as  they  are  so.  Let  any  one  trv  to  imagin 
what  kind  of  story  he  could  make  of  the  ai 
ventures  of  a  set  of  beings  who  difl"ere(l  froi 
our  own  species  in  any  of  its  general  atinbutt 
— who  were  incapable,  for  instance,  of  tl 
I  debasing  feelings  of  fear,  pain,  or  anxiety- 
and  he  will  find,  that  instead  of  becomiii 
I  more  imposing  and  attractive  by  getting  ri 
j  of  those  infirmities,  they  become  utterly  h. 
significant,  and  indeed  in  a  great  degree  ii 
conceivable.  Or,  to  come  a  little  closer  i 
the  matter  before  us.  and  not  to  go  beyon. 
the  bounds  of  common  experience — Suppo^ 
I  a  tale,  founded  on  refined  notions  of  delirai 
;  love  and  punctilious  inte.«j;rity,  to  be  told  to 
race  of  obscene,  brutal  and  plundering  savag» 
— or,  even  within  the  limits  of  the  same  coui 
try.  if  a  poem,  turning  upon  the  jealousies  c 
court  intrigue,  the  pride  of  rank,  and  the  caba 
of  sovereigns  and  statesmen,  were  put  in' 
the  hands  of  village  maidens  or  clownish  li. 
bourers,  is  it  not  obvious  that  the  remotenc 
of  the  manners,  characters  and  feelings  froi 
their  own,  would  first  surprise,  and  then  i> 
volt  them — and  that  the  moral,  intellectu; 
and  adventitious  Superiority  of  the  personap 
concerned,  would,  instead  of  enhancing  tl 
interest,  entirely  destroy  it.  and  very  speedi. 
extinguish  all  symi)alhy  with  their  passion 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


44» 


id  all  curiosity  about  their  fate  ? — Now,  what 
•ntlemen  and  ladies  are  to  a  ferocious  savage, 
politicians  and  princesses  to  an  ordinarj' 
Stic,  the  exaggerated  persons  of  such  poetry 
;  we  are  now  considering,  are  to  the  ordinary 
;aders  of  poetry.  They  do  not  believe  in 
le  possibihty  of  their  existence,  or  of  their 
;' ventures.  They  do  not  comprehend  the 
jinciplcs  of  their  conduct;  and  have  no 
urouirh  sympathy  with  the  feelings  that  are 
rribed  to  them. 

We  have  carried  this  speculation,  we  be- 
Ive,  a  little  too  far — and,  wiA  reference  to 
t'  volume  before  us,  it  would  be  more  cor- 
rt  perhaps  to  say,  that  it  had  suggested  these 
iservations,  than  that  they  are  strictlj'  ap- 
fcable  to  it.  For' though  its  faults  are  cer- 
tnly  of  the  kind  we  have  been  endeavouring 
tilescribe,  it  would  be  quite  unjust  to  char- 
aerise  it  by  its  faults — which  are  beyond  all 
dibt  less  consjMcnous  than  its  beauties, 
lere  is  not  only  a  richness  and  brilliancy  of 
dtion  and  imagery  spread  over  the  whole 
vrk,  that  indicate  the  greatest  activity  and 
e^ance  of  fancy  in  the  author;  but  it  is 
e  rywhere  pervaded,  still  more  strikingly, 
b  I  strain  of  tender  and  noble  feeling,  poured 
ovwith  such  warmth  and  abundance,  as  to 
Btd  insensibly  on  the  heart  of  the  reader, 
ai  gradually  to  overflow  it  with  a  tide  of 
svipathetic  emotion.  There  are  passages 
iii'ed,  and  these  neither  few  nor  brief,  over 
wch  the  very  Genius  of  Poetry  seems  to 
h;9  breathed  his  richest  enchantment — 
wre  the  melody  of  the  verse  and  the  beauty 
of  he  images  conspire  so  harmoniously  wilh 
ihforce  and  tenderness  of  the  emotion,  that 
th^vhole  is  blended  into  one  deep  and  bright 
stiim  of  sweetness  and  feeling,  along  which 
th  spirit  of  the  reader  is  borne  passively 
avy,  through  long  reaches  of  delight.  Mr. 
M-re's  poetry,  indeed,  where  his  happiest 
ve  is  opened,  realises  more  exactly  than  that 
of  ny  other  writer,  the  splendid  account 
wl'jh  is  given  by  Comus  of  the  song  of 

"  (9  mother  Circe,  and  the  Sirens  three, 
.jnid  the  flnwcry-kiriled  Naiades, 
ho,  as  they  sung,  would  take  ihe  prison'd  soul, 
.!id  lap  it  in  Elysium  !" 

Ar  though  it  is  certainly  to  be  regretted 
th;he  should  so  often  have  broken  the  mea- 
Mii  wilh  more  frivolous  strains,  or  filled  up 
Its  tervals  with  a  sort  of  brilliant  falsetto,  it 
«h(.ld  never  be  forgotte:;,  that  bis  excellences 
are  t  least  as  jieculiar  to  himself  as  his  faults, 
ancon  the  whole,  perhaps  more  characteristic 
of?  genius. 

'>.e  volume  before  us  contains  four  sepa- 
lat md  distinct  poems — connected,  however, 
niuield  together  "like  orient  pearls  at  ran- 
i!ot;struiig."  by  the  slender  thread  of  a  slight 
prO'  story,  on  which  they  are  all  suspended, 
anco  the  simple  catastrophe  of  which  they 
in  (Tie  measure  contribute.  This  airy  and 
ele.nt  legend  is  to  the  following  effect. 
I^al  Rookh,  the  daughter  of  the  great  Au- 
reniebe,  is  betrothed  to  the  young  king  of 
Bu(aria;  and  sets  forth,  with  a  splendid 
^■^iof  Indian  and  Bucharian  attendants,  to 
57 


I  meet  her  enamoured  bridegroom  in  the  de- 
I  lightful  valley  of  Cashmere,  The  progress 
I  of  this  gorgeous  cavalcade,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  couiitry  which  it  traverses,  are  exhibit- 
I  ed  with  great  richness  of  colouring  and  pic- 
turesque effect ;  though  in  this,  as  well  as  in 
the  Qther  parts  of  the  prose  narrative,  a  cer- 
tain tone  of  levity,  and  even  derision,  is  fre- 
quently assumed — not  very  much  in  keeping, 
we  think,  with  the  tender  and  tragic  strain  of 
poetry  of  which  it  is  the  accompaniment — 
certain  breakings  out,  in  short,  of  that  mock- 
ing European  wit,  which  has  made  itself 
merry  with  Asiatic  solemnity,  ever  since  the 
time  of  the  facetious  Count  Hamilton — but 
seems  a  little  out  of  place  in  a  miscellany, 
the  prevailing  character  of  which  is  of  so 
opposite  a  temper.  To  amuse  the  languor, 
or  divert  the  impatience  of  the  royal  bride,  in 
the  noon-tide  and  night-halts  of  her  luxurious 
progress,  a  young  Cashmerian  poet  had  been 
sent  by  the  gallantry  of  the  bridegroom  ;  and 
recites,  on  those  occasions,  the  several  poems 
that  form  the  bulk  of  the  volume  now  before 
us.  Such  is  the  witchery  of  his  voice  and 
look,  and  such  the  sympathetic  eff"ect  of  the 
tender  tales  which  he  recounts,  that  the  poor 
princess,  as  was  naturally  to  be  expected, 
falls  desperately  in  love  with  him  before  the 
end  of  the  journey ;  and  by  the  time  she 
enters  the  lovely  vale  of  Cashmere,  and  sees 
the  glittering  palaces  and  towers  prcjiared 
for  her  reception,  she  feels  that  she  would 
joyfully  forego  all  this  pomp  and  splendour, 
and  fly  to  the  desert  with  her  adored  Fera- 
morz.  The  youthful  bard,  however,  has  now- 
disappeared  from  her  side;  and  she  is  sup- 
ported, with  fainting  heart  and  downcast 
eyes,  into  the  hated  presence  of  her  tyrant ! 
when  the  voice  of  Feramorz  himself  bids  her 
be  of  good  cheer — and,  looking  up,  she  sees  her 
beloved  poet  in  the  Prince  himself !  who  had 
assumed  this  gallant  disguise,  and  won  her 
young  affections,  without  deriving  any  aid 
from  his  rank  or  her  engagements. 

The  whole  story  is  very  sweetly  and  gaily 
told  ;  and  is  adoriTed  with  many  tender  as 
well  as  lively  passages — without  reckoning 
among  the  latter  the  occasional  criticisms  of 
the  omniscient  Fadladeen.  the  magnificent 
and  most  infallible  grand  chamberlain  of  the 
Haram  —  whose  sayings  and  remarks,  we 
cainiot  help  observing,  do  not  agree  very  well 
with  the  character  which  is  assigned  him — 
being  for  the  most  part  very  smart,  senten- 
tious, and  acute,  and  by  no  means  solemn, 
stupid,  and  pompous,  as  was  to  have  been 
expected.  Mr.  Moore's  genius,  however,  we 
suppose,  is  too  inveterately  lively,  to  make  it 
possible  for  him  even  to  counterfeit  dulness. 
We  come  at  last,  however,  to  the  poetry. 

The  first  piece,  which  is  entitled  "The 
Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan,"  is  the  longest, 
we  think,  and  certainly  not  the  best,  of  the 
series.  It  has  all  the  faults  which  we  have, 
somewhat  too  sweepingly,  imputed  to  the 
volume  at  large  ;  and  it  was  chiefly,  indeed, 
with  a  reference  to  it,  that  we  made  those 
introductory  remarks,  which  the  author  will 
probably  think  too  nriuch  in  the  spirit  of  the 
2n2 


450 


POETRY, 


Bage  Chamberlain.  The  story,  which  is  not  |  illusions,  he  poisons  the  remnant  of  his  ad 
in  all  its  parts  extremely  intelligible,  is  |  herentS;  and  himself  plunges  into  a  bath,  o! 
fouiuk-J  on  a  notice,  in  D'Herbelot,  of  a  da-  j  such  corrosive  quality,  as  instantly  to  extin 
ring  impostor  of  the  early  ages  of  Islamism,  guish  life,  and  dissolve  all  the  elements  o 
who  pretended  to  have  received  a  later  and  t  the  mortal  frame.  Zelica  then  covers  hersel 
more  authoritative  mission  tlian  that  of  the  ,  with  his  fatal  veil,  and  totters  out  to  the  ram 
prophet,  ai:d  to  be  destined  to  overturn  all  parts,  where,  being  mistaken  for  MokannE 
tyrannies  and  superstitions  on  the  earth,  and  i  she  rushes  upon  the  spear  of  her  Azim.  an. 
to  rescue  all  souls  that  believed  in  him.  To  receives  his  forgiveness  in  death !  while  h 
shade  the  celestial  radiance  of  his  brow, 


always  wore  a  veil  of  silver  gauze,  and  was 
at  last  attacked  by  the  Caliph,  and  extermi- 
nated, with  all  his  adherents.  On  this  story, 
Mr.  Moore  has  engrafted  a  romantic  and  not 
very  probable  tale  of  two  young  lovers.  Azim 
and  Zelica:  the  former  of  whom  having  been 
supposed  to  perish  in  battle,  the  grief  of  the 
latter  unsettles  her  understanding;  and  her 
distempered  imagination  is  easily  inflamed 
by  the  mystic  promises  of  the  Veiled  Prophet. 


suri'ives,  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  in  contir 
ual  prayer  and  supplication  for  her  erring  spirii 
and  dies  at  last  upon  her  grave,  in  the  fu 
assurance  of  rejoining  her  in  purity  and  blis.- 
It  is  needless  to  enlarge  on  the  particula 
faults  of  this  story,  after  the  general  observa 
tions  we  hazarded  at  the  outset.  The  chai 
acter  of  Mokanna,  as  well  as  his  power  an 
influence,  is  a  mere  distortion  and  extrava 
gance  :  But  the  great  blemish  is  the  corruj 
tion  of   Zelica :   and   the  insanity  so  gratii 


which  at  length  prevail  on  her  to  join  the  ;  tously  alleged   by  the  poet  in  excuse  of  i 

ide    " 


troop  (if  lovely  priestesses  who  earn  a  blissful 
immortality  in  another  world,  by  sharing  liis  t 
embraces  upon  earth.  By  what  artful  illu-  j 
sions  the  poor  distracted  maid  was  thus  be-  | 
trayed  to  her  ruin,  is  not  very  satisfactorily 
explained;  only  we  are  informed  that  she 
and  the  Veiled  Apostle  descended  into  a 
charnel-house,  and  took  a  mutual  oath,  and 
drank  blood  together,  in  pledge  of  their  eter- 
union.      At  length  Azim,  who  had  not 


Nothing  less,  indeed,  could  in  any  way  ac 
count  for  such  a  catastrophe  ;  and,  after  al 
it  is  painful  and  offensive  to  the  imasinatiw 
The  bridal  oath,  pledged  with  blood  amon 
I  the  festering  bodies  of  the  dead,  is  one  of  th 
I  overstrained  theatrical  horrors  of  the  Germa,  .!;„„, 
I  school ;  and  a  great  deal  of  the  theoriMU  mmt 
j  and  argumentation  which  is  intended  to  pallj  *<«««? 
ate  or  conceal  those  defects,  is  obscure  an*  ^, 
I  incomprehensible.     Rich  as  it  is,  in  short,  i!  ^^^-^ 
been  slain,  but  made  captive  in  battle,  and  ,  fancy  and  expression,  and  powerful  in  aolm  jig^i^, 
had  wandered  in  Greece  till  he  had  imbibed  i  of  the  scenes  of  passion,  we  should  have  ha    ifeijilispe 
the  love  of  liberty  that  inspired  her  famous    great  doubts  of  the  success  of  this  volume,  ij  i^aijyi 
heroes  of  old — hears  of  the  proud  promises    it  had  all  been  of  the  same  texture  with  tbi    ji-^i'"; 
of   emancipation    which  Mokanna   (for   that  ,  poem  of  which  we  are  now  speaking.     W 
was  the  prophet's  name)  had  held  out  to  all  i  even  there,  there  is  a  charm,  almost  irresist 
nations,  and  comes  to  be  enrolled  among  the  >  ble,  in  the  volume  of  sweet  sounds  and  beai 
champions  of  freedom  and  virtue.      On  the    tiful  images,  which  are  heaped  together  wil 
day  of  his  presentment,  he  is  introduced  into  j  luxurious  profusion  in  the  general  texture  c 
a  scene  of  voluptuous  splendour,  where  all  the  i  the  style,  and  invest  even  the  absurdities  c 
seducive  influences  of  art  and  nature  are  in  vain  j  the  story  with  the  graceful  amplitude  of  the 
exerted  to  divert  his  thoucfhts  from  the  love  i  rich  and  figured  veil.     What,  for  instance,  ca^ 
of  Zelica  and  of  liberty.     He  breaks  proudly    be  sweeter  than  this  account  of  Azim"s  enti 
away  from  these  soft  enchantments,  and  finds  '  into  this  earthly  paradise  of  temptations? 
a  mournful  female  figure  before  him,  in  whom  j 
ne  almost  immediately  recognises  his  lone-  ! 


lost  and  ever-loved  Zelica.  The  first  moment 
of  their  meeting  is  ecstasy  on  both  sides  ;  but 
the  unhappy  sirl  soon  calls  to  mind  the  un- 
utterable condition  to  which  she  is  reduced — 
and,  in  agony,  reveals  to  him  the  sad  story  of 
her  derangement,  and  of  the  base  advantages 
that  had  been  taken  of  it.  Azim  at  first 
throws  her  from  him  in  abhorrence,  but  soon 
turns,  in  relenting  pity,  and  off"ers  at  last  to 
rescue  her  from  this  seat  of  pollution.  She 
listens  with  eager  joy  to  his  proposal,  and  is 
about  to  fly  with  him  ui  the  instant,  when 
the  dread  voice  of  INIokanna  thunders  in  her 
ear  her  oath  of  eternal  fidelity.  That  terrible 
sound  brings  back  her  frenzy.  She  throws 
her  lover  wildly  from  her,  and  vanishes  at 
once,  amidst  the  dazzling  lights  of  that  un- 
holy palace.  Azim  then  joins  the  approaching 
army  of  the  Caliph,  and  leads  on  his  forces 
again.st  the  impious  usurper.  Mokanna  per- 
forms proditries  of  valour — but  is  always  borne 
b^ck  by  the  superior  force  and  enthusiasm  of 
Aiim :  and  after  a  long  course  of  horrors  and 


"  Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminatrd  halls. 
Silent  and  briahi,  where  nothing  Init  ihe  falls 
Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 
From  many  a  jasper  fount,  is  heard  around, 
Young  Azim  roam;*  bewilder'd  ;  nor  can  guess  . 
What  means  this  maze  ot  light  and  loneliness! 
Here,  the  way  leads,  o'er  tesselated  floors  i 

Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  long  corridors, 
Where,  rang'd  in  cass^olets  and  silver  urns, 
?weet  wood  of  aloe  or  of  sandal  burns  ; 
And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 
Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as  nooi 
Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  ilie  rays 
In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  plays 
High  ns  th'  enamell'd  cupola  ;  which  towers 
All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flowers: 
And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 
The  sprinkling  of  that  fountain's  silvery  dew, 
Like  the  wet,  glist'ning  shells,  of  ev'ry  dye; 
That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 

"  Here  too  he  traces  the  kind  visiiings 
Of  woman's  love,  in  those  fair,  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate — in  bondage  thro* 
For  their  weak  loveliness — is  like  her  own! 
On  one  side  gleaming  wiih  a  sudden  grace 
'I  hrousrh  watr-r.  brilliant  as  ihr  crystal  vase       .j 
In  which  It  undulates,  small  fishes  shine,  j 

Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine ! —  I 


*«tkt 


««sii 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


4S1 


hile,  on  the  other,  lattic'd  lightly  in 

ith  odorifrnus  woods  of  Cotnorin, 
Ich  brilliant  bird  that  wings  the  air  is  seen  ; — 
dy,  sparkiing  loories,  such  as  gleam  between 
'le  crimson  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree 
1  the  warm  isles  of  India's  sunny  sea  : 
;>cca's  blue  sacred  pigeon  ;  and  the  thrush 
(   Hindostan,  whose  holy  warblings  gush, 
,  evening,  from  the  tail  [lagoda's  top  ; — 
'lose  gold-en  birds  that,  in  the  spice-time,  drop 
,iout  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  sweet  food 
"hose   scent  hath    lur'd   them  o'er   the   summer 
jid  those  that  under  Araby's  soft  sun      [flood  ; — 
lild  their  high  nests  of  budding  cinnamon." 

pp.  .53—56. 

The  w-arrior  youth  looks  round  at  first  with 
(.dain  upon  those  seductions,  with  which  he 
sjposes  the  sage  prophet  wishes  to  try  the 
tnness  of  his  votaries. 

'  Vhile  thus  he  thinks,  still  nearer  on  the  breeze 

(nie  those  delicious,  dreatn-like  harmonies, 

Ich  note  of  which  but  adds  new,  downy  links 

*■.  the  soft  chain  in  which  his  spirit  sinks. 

I  turns  him  tow'rd  the  sound  ;  and,  far  away 

'trough  a  long  vista,  sparkling  with  the  play 

(  countless  lamps — like  the  rich  track  which  Day 

lives  on  the  waters,  when  he  sinks  from  us ; 

5  long  the  path,  its  light  so  tremulous  ; — 

I  sees  a  group  of  female  forms  advance, 

6ne  chain' d  together  in  the  mazy  dance 

I  fetters,  forg'd  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 

/they  were  captives  to  the  King  of  Flowers,"  &-c. 

■  Awhile  they  dance  before  him  ;  then  divide, 
Eaking,  like  rosy  clouds  at  even-tide 
/mrid  the  rich  pavilion  of  the  sun — 
1;  silently  dispersing,  one  by  one. 
Trough  many  a  path  that  from  the  chamber  leads 
1  gardens,  terraces,  and  moonlight  meads, 
l;ir  distant  laughter  comes  upon  the  wind. 
Ai  but  one  trembling  nymph  remains  behind, 
Ek'ning  them  back  in  vain, — for  they  are  gone, 
.^i  she  is  left  in  all  that  light,  alone  ! 
^  veil  to  curtain  o'er  her  beauteous  brow, 
I  ts  young  bashfulness  more  beauteous  now; 
E  a  light,  golden  chain-work  round  her  hair 
S  h  as  the  maids  of  Yezd  and  Shiraz  wear, 
V  ile  her  left  hand,  as  shrinkingly  she  stood, 
t  d  a  small  lute  of  gold  and  sandal  wood, 
Viich,  once  or  twice,  she  touch'd   with   hurried 
I'.n  took  her  trembling  fingers oflT  again,    [strain, 
B  when  at  length  a  timid  glance  she  stole 
.AAzim,  the  sweet  gravity  of  soul 
S  saw  through  all  his  features,  calm'd  her  fear ; 
^1,  like  a  half-tam'd  antelope,  more  near, 
'niigh  shrinking  still,  she  came; — then  sat  her 
Im  a  musnud's  edge,  and  bolder  errown,     [down 
Iihe  pathetic  mode  of  Ispahan 
'Iich'd  a  prekiding  strain,  and  thus  began  : — " 

"he  following  picture  of  the  grand  arma- 
ntit  of  the  Caliph  shows  the  same  luxuri- 
a;e  of  diction  and  imagination,  directed  to 
d  erent  objects : — 

'' ^hose  are  the  gilded  tents  that  crowd  the  way, 

\  ere  all  was  wa-^te  and  sileiu  yesterday? 

M  City  of  War  which,  in  a  few  short  hours, 

nil  sprung  up  heri',  as  if  the  magic  powers 

•JHim  who,  in  the  twinkling  of  a  star, 

B  t  the  high  pillar'd  halls  of  Chilminar, 

H  coiijur'd  up,  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 

fs  world  of   tents   and   domes  and   sun-bright 

armory  I — 
P  :cely  pavilions,  screen'd  by  many  a  fold 
0:rimson  cloth,  and  topp'd  with  balls  of  gold  ;— 
^jds,  with  their  housings  of  rich  silver  spun, 
1  ir  chains  and  poiirels  glitt'ring  in  the  sun  ; 
A  camels,  tufted  o'er  with  Yemen's  shells, 
^liiDg  in  every  breeze  their  light-ton'd  bells  ! 


"  Ne'er  did  the  march  of  Mahadi  display 
Such  pomp  before  ; — not  ev'n  when  on  hia  way 
To  Mecca's  Temple,  when  both  land  and  sea 
Were  spoil'd  to  feed  the  Pilgrim's  luxury ; 
\yhen  round  him,  mid  the  burning  sands,  he  saw 
l''ruits  of  the  North  in  icy  freshness  thaw, 
And  cool'd  his  thirsty  lip,  beneath  the  glow 
Of  Mecca's  sun,  with  urns  of  Persian  snow  : — 
Nor  e'er  did  armament  more  grand  than  that 
Pour  from  the  kingdoms  of  the  Caliphat. 
First,  in  the  van,  the  J'eopic  of  the  Rock, 
()n  their  light  mountain  steeds,  of  royal  stock; 
Then,  Chiufiains  of  Damascus,  proud  to  see 
The  flashing  of  their  swords'  rich  marquetry,"  &c. 
pp.  8G— 89. 

We  can  afford  room  now  only  for  the  con- 
clusion— the  last  words  of  the  dying  Zelica  ; 
which  remind  us  of  those  of  Campbell's  Ger- 
trude— and  the  catastrophe  of  Azim,  which 
is  imaged  in  that  of  Southey's  Roderick. 

"  '  But  live,  my  Azim  ; — oh  !  to  call  thee  mine 

Thus  once  again  ! — my  Azim-^ream  divine  ! 

Live,  if  thou  ever  lov'dst  me,  if  to  meet 

Thy  Zelica  hereafter  would  be  sweet, 

Oh  live  to  pray  for  her ! — to  bend  the  knee 

Morning  and  night  before  that  Deity, 

To  whom  pure  lips  and  hearts  without  a  stain. 

As  thine  are,  Azim,  never  breath'd  in  vain — 

And  pray  that  He  may  pardon  her — may  take 

Compassion  on  her  soul  for  thy  dear  sake, 

And,  nought  rememb'ring  but  her  love  to  thee, 

Make  her  all  thine,  all  His,  eternally  ! 

Go  to  those  happy  fields  where  first  we  twin'd 

Our  youthful  hearts  together — every  wind 

That  meets  thee  there,  fresh  from  the  well-known 

flowers, 
Will  bring  the  sweetness  of  those  innocent  hours 
Back  to  thy  soul,  and  thou  may'st  feel  again 
For  thy  poor  Zelica  as  thou  didst  then. 
So  shall  thy  orisons,  like  dew  that  flies 
To  heav'n  npon  the  morning's  sunshine,  rise 
With  all  love's  earliest  ardour  to  the  skies  !' 

Time  fleeted  !    Years  on  years  had  pass'd  away, 
And  few  of  those  who,  on  that  mournful  day 
Had  stood,  with  pity  in  their  eyes,  to  see 
The  maiden's  death,  and  the  youth's  agony, 
Were  living  still — when,  by  a  rustic  grave 
Beside  the  swift  Amoo's  transparent  wave, 
An  aged  man,  who  had  grown  aged  there 
By  one  lone  grave,  morning  and  night  in  prayer, 
For  the  last  time  knelt  down  !    And,  though  the 

shade 
Of  death  hung  dark'ning  over  him,  there  play'd 
A  gleana  of  rapture  on  his  eye  and  cheek. 
That  brighten'd  even  death — like  the  last  streak 
Of  intense  glory  on  th'  horizon's  brim. 
When  night  o'er  all  the  rest  hangs  chill  and  dim  '.— 
His  soul  had  seen  a  Vision,  while  he  slept ; 
She,  for  whose  spirit  he  had  pray'd  and  wept 
So  many  years,  had  come  to  him,  all  drest 
In  angel  smiles,  and  told  him  she  was  blest ! 
For  this  the  old  man  breath'd  his  thanks, — and 

died  1 — 
And  there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  lov'd  tide, 
He  and  his  Zelica  sleep  side  by  side." 

pp.  121—123. 

The  next  piece,  which  is  entitled  "Paradise 
and  the  Peri,"  has  none  of  the  faults  of  the 
preceding,  [t  is  full  of  spirit,  elegance,  and 
beauty ;  and,  though  slight  enough  in  its  struc- 
ture, breathes  throughout  a  most  pure  and 
engaging  morality.  It  is,  in  truth,  little  more 
than  a  moral  apologue,  expanded  and  adorned 
by  the  exuberant  fancy  of  the  poet  who  recites 
it.  The  Peris  are  a  sort  of  half-fallen  female 
angels,  who  dwell  in  air,  and  live  on  perfumes ; 
and,  though  banished  for  a  time  from  Para- 


POETRY. 


disCj  go  about  in  this  lower  world  doing  good. 
One  of  these — But  it  is  as  short,  and  much 
more  agreeable,  to  give  the  author's  own  in- 
troduction. 

"  One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate  ; 
And  as  she  listen'd  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  llowine  ; 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-npen^iortal  glovcing  ! 
She  wept  to  ihitik  her  recreant  rare 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place  !" 
p.  133. 

The  Angel  of  the  Gate  sees  her  weeping, 
and — 

"  '  Nymph  of  a  fair,  but  erring  line  !' 
Gently  he  said — '  One  hope  is  thine. 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  fate, 

The  Peri  yet  may  he  forgiven 
Who  hri)igit  to  thig  Etcntul  Gale 

The  gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heaven  .' 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin  ; — 
'Tis  sweel  to  let  the  Pardou'd  in  V  " — p.  135. 

Full  of  hope  and  gratitude,  she  goes  eagerly 
m  search  of  this  precious  eift.  Her  first  quest 
is  on  the  plains  of  India — the  luxuriant  beauty 
of  which  is  put  in  fine  contrast  with  the  havoc 
and  carnage  which  the  march  of  a  bloody 
conqueror  had  then  spread  over  them.  The 
Peri  comes  to  witness  the  heroic  death  of  a 
youthful  patriot,  who  disdains  to  survive  the 
overthrow  of  his  country's  independeirce. — 
She  catches  the  last  drop  which  flows  from 
his  breaking  heart,  and  bears  that  to  he^aven's 
gate,  as  the  acceptable  propitiation  that  was 
required.     For 

"  '  Oh  !  if  there  be.  on  this  earthly  sphere, 
A  boon,  an  ofTfring  Heaven  holds  dear, 
■Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart   that  bleeds  and  breaks  m  her 
cause  !'  " — p.  140. 

The  angel  accept.^  the  tribute  with  respect : 
But  the  crj-stal  bar  of  the  portal  does  not 
move  !  and  she  is  told  that  something  holier 
even  than  this,  will  be  required  as  the  price 
of  her  admission.  She  now  flies  to  the 
source  of  the  Nile,  and  makes  a  delightful  but 
pensive  survey  of  the  splendid  renjoiis  which 
it  waters  ;  till  she  finds  the  inhabitants  of  the 
lovelv  garden.*  of  Rosetta  dying  by  thousands 
of  the  plague — the  selfish  desertine  their 
friends  and  benefactors,  and  the  generous, 
when  struck  with  the  fatal  malady^  seekin<j 
some  solitude  where  they  mav  die  without 
bringing  death  upon  others.  Among  the  lat- 
tpr  is  a  noble  youth,  who  consoles  him.self.  in 
the  hour  of  his  agony,  with  the  thousht.  that 
his  beloved  and  betrothed  bride  is  safe  from 
this  mortal  visitation.  In  the  stillness  of  his 
midnight  retreat,  however,  he  hears  a  lisrht 
step  approaching. 

"  'Tie  she  ! — far  off,  through  mooniight  dim. 

He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride. 
She,  who  would  rather  die  with  him. 

Than  live  to  gnin  the  world  beside  I — 
Her  arms  are  rotmd  her  lover  now  ! 

His  livid  check  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow, 

In  the  cold  lake  her  loosen'd  tresses, 
Ah  !  once  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come,  when  he  should  shrink 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace,"  &.c. 


"  '  Oh  !  let  me  only  breathe  the  air, 

The  blessed  air,  that's  breath'd  by  tbec! 
And,  whether  on  its  wings  it  bear 

Healing  or  death,  'tis  sweet  to  me  ! 
There — drink  my  tears,  while  yet  they  fa'l — 

Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  were  bal-ji. 
And,  well  iliou  linow'st.  Id  shed  it  all 

To  give  thy  brow  one  minute's  calm. 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me  that  dear  face — 

Am  I  not  thine — thy  own  lov'd  bride — 
The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place. 

In  life  or  death,  is  by  thy  side  I 
When  the  stem  dies,  the  leaf  that  grew 
Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too  ! 
Then  turn  to  me,  my  own  love  !  turn 
Before  like  thee  I  fade  and  burn  : 
Cling  to  these  yet  cool  lips,  and  share 
The  last  pure  life  that  lingers  there  !' 
She  tails — she  sinks  1 — as  dies  the  lamp 
In  charnel  airs  or  cavern-damp. 
So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 
Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes  ! 
One  struggle — and  his  pain  is  past — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living  ! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives. — one  last. 

Long  kiss — which  she  expires  \n  giving."' 

pp.  14t)— 148. 

The  gentle  Peri  bids  them  sleep  in  peace 
and  bears  again  to  the  gates  of  heaven  tb 
farewell  sign  of  pure,  self-sacrificinu  love 
The  worth  of  the  gift  is  again  admittetl  I'v  th 
pitying  angel :  but  the  crystal  bar  still  re 
mains  immovable  ;  and  she  is  sent  once  mor 
to  seek  a  still  holier  otfering.  In  pastiini:  ove^ 
the  romantic  vales  of  Syria,  she  sees  a  lovel ; 
child  at  play  amoi:g  dews  and  flowers.  a)i> 
opposite  to  him  a  stern  wayfaring  man.  restin: 
from  some  unhallowed  toil,  with  the  stamp  o 
all  evil  pas.sions  and  evil  deeds  on  his  face. 

"  But  hark  !  the  vesper-call  to  prayer, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air. 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets  ! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head. 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south 
Lisping  ih'  eternal  name  of  God 

From  purity's  own  cherub  mouth. 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  strav  babe  <if  Paradise. 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again  ! 

"  And  bow  felt  he,  the  wretched  Man 
Reclining  there — while  mem'ry  ran 
0"er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife  ? 
Fifw  o'er  the  dark  flund  of  his  life. 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting  place,  | 

Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace!    ; 
'  There  was  a  time,'  he  said,  in  mild. 
Heart -humbled  tones — '  thou  blessed  child  ! 
When  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou. 
I  look'd  and  pray'd  like  thee  ! — but  now  !' — 
He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim 

And  hone  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boynood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept !" 

pp.  15(;,  157.  ^ 

This  tear  of  repentance  is  the  aeceptabl 
gift  for  the  Peri's  redemption.  The  gates  ot 
heaven  lly  open,  and  she  rushes  into  the  joj 
of  immortality.  _ 

'•The  Fire  Worshippers"  is  the  ne.vt  intb! 
series,  and  appears  to  us  to  be  indisputabl 
the  finest  and  most  pow(>rful.  With  all  tb' 
richness  and  beauty  of  diction  what  belong  •' 


likrtofl 


Sk: 


^ 


''^\^ 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


le  best  parts  of  Mokanna,  it  has  a  far  more 
iterestinir  story  ;  and  is  not  liable  to  any  of 
le  objections  we  have  been  obli^eil  to  bring 
piinst  the  contrivance  and  structure  of  that 
ading  poem.  The  outline  of  the  story  is 
lort  and  simple. — Al  Has.^an,  the  bigotted 
id  sansuinary  Emir  of  Persia,  had  long  waged 

furious  and  exterminating  war  against  the 
)taries  of  the  ancient  religion  of  the  land — 
e  worshippers  of  IVIithra,  or  his  emblem, 
je — then  and  since  det^iijnated  by  the  name 

Ghebers.  The  superior  numbers  of  the 
vader  had  overcome  the  heroic  resistance 
■  the  patriots,  and  driven  them  to  take  refuse 

a  precipitous  peninsula,  cut  otf  from  the 
;id  by  what  was  understood  to  be  an  im- 
^ssable  ravine,  and  exposins  nothing  but 
Ire  rocks  to  the  sea.  In  this  fastness  the 
tmty  remnant  of  the  Ghebers  maintain  them- 
jlves.  under  the  command  of  their  dauntless 
lider,  Hafed,  who  is  still  enabled,  by  sudden 
td  daring  incursions,  to  harass  and  annoy 
Uir  enemy.  In  one  of  those  desperate  en- 
tprises,  this  adventurous  leader  climbs  to 
I;  sunrunit  of  a  lofty  cliff,  near  the  Emir's 

ilace,  where  a  small  pleasure-house  had 
3n  built,  in  which  he  hoped  to  surprise  this 
I'Otted  foe  of  his  country  ;  but  found  only 
I  fair  daughter  Hinda,  the  loveliest  and  gen- 
t^t  of  all  Arabian  maids — as  he  himself  e.x- 
{•ssesit. 

He  climb'd  the  gory  Vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  Dove  within!" 

This  romantic  meeting  gives  rise  to  a  rau- 
til  passion — and  the  love  of  the  fair  Hinda 
isnevitably  engaafed.  before  she  knows  the 
n  ae  or  quality  of  her  nightly  visitant.  In  the 
nile  heart  of  Hafed,  however,  love  was  but 
a;condary  feeling,  to  devotion  to  the  free- 
di  and  the  faith  of  his  country.  His  little 
b;d  had  lately  suffered  further  reverses,  and 
8e-  nothing  now  before  them  but  a  glorious 
8(-sacrifiee.  He  resolves,  therefore,  to  tear 
ahentler  feelings  from  his  breast,  and  in  one 
la  interview  to  take  an  eternal  farewell  of 
tLmaid  who  had  captivated  his  soul.  In  his 
mancholy  aspect  she  reads  at  once,  with  the 
ininctive  sag-acity  of  love,  the  tidings  of  their 
ajroaching  separation ;  and  breaks  out  into 
th  following  sweet  and  girlish  repinings: — 

"    knew,  I  knew  it  mtilii  not  last — 

'whs  bright,  'iwas  henvenly — hiit  'tis  past ! 
h  !  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 
I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
jiever  lov'd  a  tree  or  flower, 
But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away, 
■lever  nurs'd  a  dear  gazelle, 
To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
It  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 
And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die ! 
iw  too — the  jov  most  like  divine 
Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
'»  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine, — 
_0h  mis'ry !  must  T  lose  Ihot  too  ? 
"m  50  ! — on  peril's  brink  we  meet ; — 
Those  frightful  rocks — that  treach'rous  sea — 
.),  never  come  again — though  sweet. 
Though  heav'n,  it  may  be  death  to  thee.'  " 
pp.  187,  188. 

hen  he  smiles  sternly  at  the  idea  of  dan- 
gSishe  urges  him  to  join  her  father's  forces, 


and  earn  her  hand  by  helping  him  to  root  out 
those  impious  Ghebers  whom  he  so  much  ab- 
hors. The  spirit  of  the  patriot  bursts  forth  at 
this ;  and,  without  revealing  his  name  or 
quality,  he  proudly  avows  and  justifies  the 
conduct  of  that  luckless  sect ;  and  then,  re- 
lenting, falls  into  a  gentler  and  more  pathetic 
strain. 

"  '  Oh  I  had  we  never,  never  met ! 

Or  could  this  heart  e'en  now  forget ! 

Flow  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been, 

Had  fate  not  trown'd  so  dark  between  ! 

Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid ; 

In  neighb'ring  valleys  had  we  dwelt. 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt — 
Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties, 
In  which  the  charm  of  Country  lies. 
Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun. 
Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one  ; 
While  in  thy  lute's  awak'ning  sigh 
I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 
And  saw  in  ev'ry  smile  of  thine 
Returning  hours  of  slory  shine  ! — 
While  the  wrong'd  Spirit  of  our  Land       [thee  ! — 

Liv"d,  look'd,  and  spoke  her  wrongs  through 
God  !  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand? 

Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 
Rut  now'     Estrang'd,  divorc'd  for  ever, 
Far  as  tiv^  grasp  of  Fate  can  sever ; 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove — 

Faiih,  iriends,  and  country,  sunder'd  wide  ; — 
And  then,  then  only,  true  to  love. 

When  false  to  all  that's  dear  beside ! 
Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe — 
Thyself,  perhaps,  ev'n  now — but  no — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet ! 

No  ! — sarred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee! 
When  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmov'd, 

Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou'lt  think  how  well  one  Gheber  lov'd, 

And  for  his  sake  thou'lt  weep  for  all !" 

pp.  193,  194. 

He  then  starts  desperately  away;  regains 
his  skiff  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  and 
leaves  her  in  agony  and  consternation.  The 
poet  now  proceeds  to  detail,  a  little  move  par- 
ticularly, the  history  of  his  hero ;  and  recounts 
some  of  the  absurd  legends  and  miraculous 
attributes  with  which  the  fears  of  his  enemies 
had  invested  his  name. 

"  Such  were  the  tales,  that  won  belief. 

And  such  the  colouring  fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  Chief, — 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  ador'd. 

For  happv  homes  and  altars  free  ; 
His  only  talisman,  the  sword, — 

His  only  spell-word.  Liberty  I 
'Twas  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny  ; — 
'Twas  not  for  him.  whosie  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past, 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead  ; — 
'Twas  not  for  him.  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that  shrinking  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem,  as  he  pass'd. 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison-blast — 
No — far  he  fled — indignant  find 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame  ; 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul,  like  drops  of  flame  ; 
And.  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  welcom'd  he 


454 


POETRY. 


The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 
For  vengeance  and  for  liberty  !"— pp.  206,  207. 

The  song  then  returns  to  Hinda — 

"  Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
■Slept  like  a  lake,  till  Love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir  I  thy  unheeding  child, 
Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloom'd  and  smil'd, — 
'i'ranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  towers. 
Before  the  combat's  reddening  stain 

Has  fall'n  upon  her  golden  flowers. 
Far  other  feelings  Love  has  brought — 
Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness,"  &c. 

"  Ah  I  not  the  Love,  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ! 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosp'rous  Love, 
That,  pledg'd  on  earth  and  seal'd  above. 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes. 

In  friendship's  smile,  and  home's  caress. 
Collecting  all  the  hearts  sweet  ties 
— Into  one  knot  of  happiness  1" — pp.  215 — 217. 

The  Emir  now  learns,  from  a  recreant  pri- 
soner, the  secret  of  the  pass  to  the  Gheber's 
retreat ;  and  when  he  sees  his  daughter  faint 
with  horror  at  his  eager  anticipation  of  their 
final  extirpation,  sends  her,  in  a  solitary  gal- 
ley, away  from  the  scene  of  vengeance,  to  the 
quiet  of  her  own  Arabian  home. 

"And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 
Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks  ? 
The  flowers  she  nurs'd — the  well-known  groves. 
Where  oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  roves — 
Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 
Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells  ; 
Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold, 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count. 
She  left,  all  filleted  with  gold. 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount — 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see. 

And  once  aaain,  at  ev'ning  hour, 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary. 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bower. — 
Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now, 
Call  up  no  snn.shine  on  hor  brow  ? 
No — silent,  from  her  train  apart — 
As  if  ev'n  now  she  felt  at  heart 
'I'he  chill  of  her  approaching  doom — 
She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom 
As  a  pale  Angel  of  the  Grave." — pp.  227,  228. 

Her  vessel  is  first  assailed  by  a  violent 
tempest,  and,  in  the  height  of  its  fury,  by  a 
hostile  bark  ;  and  her  senses  are  extinguished 
with  terror  in  the  midst  of  the  double  conflict. 
At  last,  both  are  appeased — and  her  recollec- 
tion is  slowly  restored.  The  following  pas- 
Mge  appears  to  us  extremely  beautiful  and 
characteristic : — 

"  How  cnlm.  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone  ; 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away. 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray. 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity — 
Fresh  aa  if  Day  again  were  born. 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  Morn  ! 

When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze. 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs. 
And  each  a  difli'reiit  periuine  bears — 

As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wau  on  thetTi  ali'ne. 
And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs  I 


Hi  ol  lie  fat 
l^<»ni  to  I 


■ll'leflak 
It  wooni 

fealed  fr( 


When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall. 

In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 

And  ev'n  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 

Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 

Of  lover's  hearts,  when  newly  blest ; 

Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest  I — 

"  Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world,  whin  Hinda  woke 
From  her  long  trance ;  and  heard  around 
No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side, 
As  slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide. — 
But  w  here  is  she  ? — Her  eyes  are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still — is  this  the  bark, 
The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn — whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  tracks  ? — No  ! — Strange  and  new 
Is  all  that  meets  her  wond'ring  view 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies. 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade, 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes. 

Nor  jasmin  on  her  pillow  laid. 
But  the  rude  litter,  rouehly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 

And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung,  'na 

For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung. "-p.  233-236 

She  soon  discover.s,  in  short,  that  she  is  • 
captive  in  the  hands  of  the  Ghebers !  aii< 
shrinks  with  honor,  when  she  finds  that  shi 
is  to  be  carried  to  their  rocky  citadel,  andU  , 
the  presence  of  the  terrible  Hafed.  The  fflljg;|';; 
ley  IS  rowed  by  torchlight  through  inghniljlif,,ejaii)'(i 
rocks  and  foaming  tides,  into  a  black  abyM  UfKiw'liey 
of  the  promontory,  whore  her  eyes  are  ban]  JowHaWs 
daged — and  she  is  borne  up  a  long  and  ruggetj  ^'.loi-l"; 
ascent,  till  at  last  she  is  desired  to  look  oniM™''*^ 
and  receive  her  doom  from  the  formidablii'.y  "^ji' 
chieftain.  Before  she  has  raised  her  eyes,thtj  \\^4(^ 
well  known  voice  of  her  lover  pronounceshe;  "IlieiMrkf: 
name  ;  and  she  fi.nds  herself  alone  in  the  anirt  'Klyywsli 
of  her  adoring  Hafed!  The  first  emotion B ^"w«i(i, « 
ecstasy.— But  the  recollection  of  her  fathen  ^l^fl'"t 
vow  and  means  of  vengeance  comes  'i^e  a  j[^||j' "/ 
thundercloud  on  her  joy  : — ,=he  tells  her  loTe!  ;i,[orp^j 
of  the  treachery  by  which  he  has  been  sacrij  "klitksilie 
ficed;  and  urges  him,  with  passionate  eagei'  tikie 
ness,  to  fly  whh  her  to  some  place  of  safety. 

"  '  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  Lord,' 
She  kneeling  cries — '  first,  last  ador'd  ! 
If  in  that  soul  thou'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
Here,  on  my  knees,  that  never  knelt  . 

To  any  but  their  God  before  !  ( 

I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  fly —  , 

Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
Oh  haste  ! — the  liark  that  bore  me  hither  • 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  dark'ning  sea  ' 

East — west — alas  I  I  care  not  whither,  I 

So  thoii  art  safe. — and  I  with  thee  I  j 

Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me  beaming  thus,  I 

Through  good  and  ill,  thronrrh  .storm  and  shinti 

The  world's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 
On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell. 
Where  'tis  no  crime  to  love  too  well  I — 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin — or.  if  it  be. 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away. 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, — 
Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  All  I's  shrine, 
.And  I — at  ant/  god's,  lor  thine  !' 
Wildly  these  passionate  words  she  spoke — 

Then  hunp  her  liead,  and  wept  for  shame ; 
Sobbing,  ns  if  a  henrt-sirins  broke 

Withev'ry  dcep-heav'd  sob  that  came. 

pp,  261,262. 


"infoitnia 
'^ffliefoi, 

•^•ftkelofr 


MOORE'S  LALLA  ROOKH. 


45$ 


Hafed  is  more  shocked  with  the  treachery 
t  which  he  is  sacrificed  than  with  the  fate  to 
Aiich  it  consigns  him : — One  moment  he 
|es  up  to  softness  and  pity — assures  Hinda, 
■\lh  compassionate  equivocation,  that  they 
eill  soon  meet  on  some  more  peaceful  shore 
-places  her  sadly  in  a  litter,  and  sees  her 
Ine  down  the  steep  to  the  galley  she  had 
li^ly  quitted,  anil  to  which  she  still  expects 
1 1  he  is  to  follow  her.  He  then  assembles 
Jb  brave  and  devoted  comptmions — warns 
t 'm  of  the  fate  that  is  approiiching — and  ex- 
lits  them  to  meet  the  host  of  the  invaders 
iithe  ravine,  and  sell  their  lives  dearly  to 
t  ir  steel.  After  a  fierce,  and  somewhat  too 
sgiiinary  combat,  the  Ghebers  are  at  last 
ine  down  by  numbers;  and  Hafed  finds 
iJiself  left  alone,  with  one  brave  associate. 
Brtajly  wounded  like  himself.  They  make 
aesperate  eflbrt  to  reach  and  die  bes'ide  the 
c  secrateil  fire  which  burns  for  ever  on  the 
samit  of  the  cliff. 

""he  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
'he  rock-weed's  dripping  with  their  gore — 
I'hy  blade  loo,  Hafed,  false  at  length,' 
■,Iow  breaks  beneath  ihy  tott'ring  strength — 
•Taste,  hasie  ! — the  voices  of  the  Foe 
'onie  near  and  nearer  fmm  below — 
[ne  etTort  more — thank  Heav'n  !  'tis  past, 
'hey've  gain'd  the  topmost  steep  at  last, 
.nd  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Haled  sees  the  Fire  divine — 
k^hen,  lo  I — his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 

Dead,  on  the  threshold  of  the  Shrine. 
.'^las  !  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled  ! 

'  And  must  I  leave  thee  wiih'ring  here, 
The  sport  of  every  ruffian's  tread, 

^  The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear  ? 
N'o,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams!' 

e  tries,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seems 
'ot  ot  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 

f  the  fall'n  chief,  and  tow'rds  the  flame 
ears  him  along  ! — With  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays ; 
hen  lights  the  consecrated  brand, 

And  fires  ihe  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze 

ike  lightnirg  burs's  o'er  Oman's  Sea  — 

\ow  Freedom's  God  !  I  come  to  Thee  !' 

he  youth  exclaims,  and  wiih  a  smile 

f  triumph,  vaulting  on  the  pile, 

-I  that  last  effort,  ere  the  fires 

ave  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  e.xpires  !" 

pp.  278,  279. 

he  unfortunate  Hinda,  whose  galley  had 
b«n  detained  close  under  the  cHfT  by  the 
me  of  the  first  onset,  had  heard  with  agony 
th  sounds  which  marked  the  progress  and 
<s  strophe  of  the  fight,  and  is  at  last  a  spec- 
taess  of  the  lofty  fate  of  her  lover. 

'*  It  see— what  moves  upon  the  height  ? 
'  ')me  signal  ! — 'tis  a  torch's  light. 

What  bodes  its  soliinry  glare  ? 

gasping  silence  tow'rd  the  shrine 
11  eyes  are  turn'd — thine,  Hinda,  thine 

X  their  last  tailing  Ufe-beanis  there  ! 

was  but  a  moment — fierce  and  high 

ie  df-aih-pile  binz'd  into  the  skv, 

nd  iar  avvny  o'er  the  rock  and  flood 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent ; 

hile  Hafed.  Iii<e  a  visi.in.  stood 
^  veal'd  hf'fore  thi-  I.urping  pyre  ! 
'ill.  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire 

■?hrin'd  in  its  own  grand  element  ! 
•Tis  he  !' — the  shudd'ring  maid  e.vcIaimB, 

3ut,  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  more  ! 


High  burst  in  air  the  fun'ral  flames, 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  arc  o'er! 
One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave — 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  that  blaze, 
Where  slill  she  fi.x'd  her  dying  gaze, 
And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave  ! — 
Deep,  deep  ! — where  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again  !" 

pp.  283,  284. 

This  sad  story  is  closed  by  a  sort  of  choral 
dirge,  of  great  elegance  and  beauty,  of  which 
we  can  only  afl^brd  to  give  the  first  stanza. 

"  Farewell — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea) 
No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  Spirit  in  thee." 
p.  284. 

The  general  tone  of  this  poem  is  certainly 
too  much  strained.  It  is  overwrought  through- 
out, and  is  too  entirely  made  up  of  agonies 
and  raptures ; — but,  in  spite  of  all  this,  it  is  a 
work  of  great  genius  and  beauty;  and  not 
only  delights  the  fancy  by  its  general  bril- 
liancy and  spirit,  but  moves  all  the  tender 
and  noble  feelings  with  a  deep  and  powerful 
agitation. 

The  last  piece,  entitled  "  The  Light  of  the 
Haram,"  is  the  gayest  of  the  whole ;  and  is 
of  a  very  slender  fabric  as  to  fable  or  inven- 
tion. In  truth,  it  has  scarcely  any  story  at 
all ;  but  is  made  up  almost  entirely  of  beau- 
tiful songs  and  descriptions.  During  the  sum- 
mer months,  when  the  court  is  resident  in  the 
Vale  of  Cashmere,  there  is,  it  seems,  a  sort  of 
oriental  carnival,  called  the  Feast  of  Roses, 
during  which  every  body  is  bound  to  be  hap- 
py and  in  good  humour.  At  this  critical  pe- 
riod, the  Emperor  Selim  had  unfortunately  a 
little  love-quarrel  with  his  favourite  Sultana 
Nourmahal. — which  signifies,  it  seems,  the 
Light  of  the  Haram.  The  lady  is  rather  un- 
happy while  the  sullen  fit  is  on  her ;  and  ap- 
plies to  a  sort  of  enchantress,  who  invokes  a 
musical  spirit  to  teach  her  an  irresistible  song, 
which  she  sings  in  a  mask  to  the  otfended 
monarch  ;  and  when  his  heart  is  subdued  by 
its  sweetness,  throws  off  her  mask,  and  springs 
with  fonder  welcome  than  ever  into  his  re- 
pentant arms.  The  whole  piece  is  written  in 
a  kind  of  rapture, — as  if  the  author  had 
breathed  nothhig  but  intoxicating  gas  during 
its  composition.  It  is  accordingly  quite  filled 
with  lively  images  and  splendid  expressions, 
and  all  sorts  of  beauties, — except  those  of  re- 
serve or  simplicity.  We  must  give  a  few- 
specimens,  to  revive  the  spirits  of  our  readers 
ai'ter  the  tragic  catastrophe  of  Hafed  ;  and  we 
may  begin  with  this  portion  of  the  description 
of  the  Happy  Valley. 

"  Oh  I    to  see  it  by  moonlight, — when  mellowly 

shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens  and  shrines  ; 
When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet, 
From  the  cool  shining  walks  where  the  young  peo- 
ple meet. — 
Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute,  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  call'd  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  they  were  just  born  of  the  Sun. 


456 


POETRY. 


When  the  Spirit  of  Fragrance  is  up  with  the  day, 
From  his  Haram  of  night-flowers  steahng  away  ; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woes  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees  liU  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  East  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  Day,  with  his  banner  of  radiance  unfurl'd. 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  Valley  of  bliss  to  the  world!" 
p.  296. 

The  character  of  Nourmahal's  beauty  is 
much  in  the  same  taste  :  though  the  diction 
is  rather  more  loose  and  careless. 

"  There's  a  beauty,  for  ever  unchangingly  brii;ht, 
Like  the  long  sunny  lapse  of  a  summers  day's 

light. 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadow  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendour. 
This  was  not  the  beauty — oh  I  nothing  like  this. 
That  to  young  Nourniahal  gave  such  magic  ol  bliss  ; 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  whiclj  plays 
Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the 

eyes. 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams. 
Like   the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  Heav'n  in  his 

dreams  ! 
When  pensive,  it  seem'd  as  if  that  very  grace, 
That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face. 
Then  her  mirth — oh  I  'twas  sportive  as  ever  took 

wing  [spring  ; — 

From  the  heart  with  a  burst,  hke  the  wild-bird  in 
Illum'd  by  a  wit  that  would  fascinate  sages. 
Yet  playful  as  Peris  just  loos'd  from  their  cages. 
While  her  laugh,  full  of  life,  without  any  controul 
But  the  sweet  one  ol'  gracefulness,  rung  from  her 

soul ;  [cover. 

And  where  it  most  sparki'd  no  glance  could  dis- 
In  lip,  cheek  or  eyes,  for  she  brighten'd  all  over, — 
Like  any  fair  lake  that  the  breeze  is  upon. 
When  it  breaks  into  dimples  imd  laughs  in  the  sun." 
pp.  302,  303. 

We  can  give  but  a  little  morsel  of  the  en- 
chanting Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Music. 

"  '  For  mine  is  the  lay  that  lightly  floats. 
And  mine  are  the  murin'ring  dying  notes. 
That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea. 
And  melt  in  the  heart  as  instantly  ! 
And  the  passionaie  sirain  that,  deeply  going. 

Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through, 
As  the  musk-wind,  over  the  water  blowing, 

Ruffles  the  wave,  but  sweetens  it  too  I 

'  The  warrior's  heart,  when  touch'd  by  me, 
Can  as  downy  soft  and  as  yielding  be 
As  his  own  while  plume,  that  high  amid  death 
Through   the  field    has  shone — yet  moves  wiih  a 
And,  oh,  how  the  eyes  of  Beauty  glisten,     [breath. 

When  Music  has  reach'd  her  inward  soul. 
Like  the  silent  stars  that  wink  and  glisten. 

While  Heav'n's  eternal  melodies  roll  !  '  " 

pp.  318,  319. 

Nourmahal  herself,  however,  in  her  Arabian 
disguise,  sings  a  still  more  prevailing  ditty — 
of  which  we  can  only  insert  a  few  stanzas. 

"  '  Fly  to  iho  de.«ert,  fly  wiih  me  ! 
Our  Aral)  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But  oh  !   the  choiro  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  wiih  love,  or  thrones  without? 
'  Our  rocks  are  rough  ;  but  smiling  there 
Th'  aoncia  waves  her  yellow  hair. 
Lonely  and  sweet — nor  lov'd  the  less 
For  llow'ring  in  a  wilderne.=s  ! 

'  Our  sntuls  are  Imrn  ;  hut  down  their  slope 
The  silv'ry-fooied  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  giiily  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  Kings. 


'  Then  come  !  thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  lov'd  and  lone  acacia-tree. 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness ! 

'  Come  !  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee, — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground,  ' 

When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

'  But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid, — and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place  :  — 

'  Then,  fare  thee  well ! — I'd  rather  make  ' 
My  bow'r  upon  some  icy  lake 

When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine,  I 

Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine  !  '  "  ) 

This  strain,  and  the  sentiment  which 
embodies,  reminded  the  offended  monarch  < 
his  charming  Nourmahal ;  and  he  names  h 
name  in  accents  of  tenderness  and  regret. 

"  The  mask  is  off— the  charm  is  wrouglit  !— 
And  Selim  to  his  heart  has  caught. 
In  blushes  more  than  tver  bright. 
His  Nounnahal,  his  Haram's  Light  I  " 

p.  334. 

We  have  now  said  enough,  and  show 
enough,  of  this  book,  to  let  our  readers  u: 
derstand  both  what  it  is,  and  what  we  thir 
of  it.  Its  great  fault  certaiidy  is  its  excessiv 
finery,  and  its  great  charm  the  inexhaustib 
copiousness  of  its  imagery — the  sweetness  ai 
ease  of  its  diction — and  the  beauty  of  the  ol 
jects  and  sentiments  with  which  it  is  coi 
cerned.  Its  finery,  it  should  also  be  obsen'e.j 
is  not  the  vulgar  ostentation  which  so  olUi  , 
disguises  poverty  or  meanness — but  the  e.i  \  \ 
travaaance  of  excessive  wealth.  We  \m\ 
said  this,  however,  Me  believe  before — aij 
suspect  we  have  little  more  to  say.  j 

AH  poets,  who  really  love  poetry,  and  Ji^l 
in  a  poetical  age,  are  great  imitators;  ar: 
the  character  of  tl\eir  writings  may  often  I 
as  correctly  ascertained  by  observing  whoi 
they  imitate  and  whom  they  abstain  frci 
imitating,  as  from  any  thing  else.  W 
Moore,  in  the  volume  before  us.  reminds  t 
oftener  of  Mr.  Southey  and  Lord  Byron,  tha 
of  any  other  of  his  contemporaries.  The  n 
semblance  is  sometimes  to  the  Roderick  i 
the  first-mentioned  author,  but  most  frequeii. 
ly  to  his  Kehama.  This  may  be  partly  owii 
to  the  nature  of  the  subject ;  but,  in  man 
passages,  the  coincidence  seems  to  be  iiioi 
radical — and  to  indicate  a  consich^raMe  coi 
formity,  in  taste  and  habits  of  concoptioi 
Mr.  Sonthey's  tone,  indeed,  is  more  .ns*un 
ing,  his  manner  more  solemn,  and  his  diclif 
weaker.  Mr.  Moore  is  more  lively — hi 
figures  and  images  come  more  thickly;  aij 
his  language  is  at  once  more  familiar,  ar; 
more  strengthened  with  points  and  aiitithese 
In  olher  respects,  the  descriptive  passnges  • 
K(>hama  bear  a  remarkable  aflinity  to  mai 
in  the  work  before  us— in  the  brighliiessi 
the  colourinji,  and  the  amplitude  and  beau' 
of  the  d(-tails.  It  is  in  his  de.^icriptioiis  of  lov 
and  of  female  loveliness,  that  there  is  li 
strongest  resemblance  to  Lord  Byron— at  Ici' 
to  the  larger  poems  of  that  noble  author, 
the  powerful  and  condensed  expressioa  < 


JteimiB" 

ailvariet 

;j(|(fer,aM 

.jiaieofM' 
jiliiifiisif: 
[lillespint 


[Ijihe 


Irairjioii 


■■Mk 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


457 


•ong  emotion,  Mr.  Moore  seems  to  us  rather 
have  imitated  the  tone  of  his  Lordship's 
laller  pieces — but  imitated  them  as  only  an 
i^'inal  genius  could  imitate — as  Lord  Byron 
rnself  may  be  said,  in  his  later  pieces,  to 
live  imitated  those  of  an  earlier  date.  There 
less  to  remind  us  of  Scott  than  we  can  very 
jbII  account  for,  when  we  consider  the  great 
nge  and  variety  of  that  most  fascinating  and 
jwerful  writer ;  and  we  must  say,  that  if 
.r.  Moore  could  bring  the  resemblance  a 
tie  closer,  and  exchange  a  portion  of  his  su- 
■rfiuous  images  and  ecstasies  for  an  equiva- 
iit  share  of  Mr.  Scott's  gift  of  interesting  and 
flighting  us  with  pictures  of  familiar  nature, 
id  of  the  spirit  and  energy  which  never  rises 
1  extravagance,  we  think  he  would  be  a 
jiner  by  the  exchange.  To  Mr.  Crabbe 
1?re  is  no  resemblance  at  all ;  and  we  only 
i^ntion  his  name  to  observe,  that  he  and  Mr. 
.i)ore  seem  to  be  the  anlipodies  of  our  present 
jetical  sphere;  and  to  occupy  the  extreme 
]ints"of  refinement  and  homeliness  that  can 
1  said  to  fall  within  the  legitimate  dominion 
(  poetry.  They  could  not  meet  in  the  mid- 
e.  we  are  aware,  without  changing  their  na- 
fe,  and  losing  their  specific  character ;  but 
<ch  might  approach  a  few^  degrees,  we  think, 
Hh  great  mutual  advantage.  The  outposts 
(i  all  empires  are  posts  of  peril : — though 
TC  do  not  dispute  that  there  is  gi^at  honour 
[maintaining  them  with  success., 


There  is  one  other  topic  upon  which  we  are 
not  quite  sure  we  should  say  any  thing.     On 
a  former  occasion,  we  reproved  Mr.  Moore, 
perhaps  with  unnecessary  severity,  for  what 
appeared  to  us  the  licentiousness  of  some  of 
j  his  youthful  productions.     We  think  it  a  duty 
j  to  say,  that  he  has  long  ago  redeemed  that 
error;  and   that  in  all  his  latter  works  that 
have  come  under  our  observation,  he  appears 
as  the  eloquent  champion  of  purity,  fidelity, 
and  delicacy,  not  less  than  of  justice,  liberty, 
and  honour.     Like  most  other  poets,  indeed, 
I  he  speaks  much  of  beauty  and  love )  and  we 
j  doubt  not  tliat  many  matiue  virgins  and  care- 
1  ful  matrons  may  think  his  lucubrations  on 
I  those  themes  too  rapturous  and  glowing  to  be 
I  safely  admitted  among  the  private  studies  of 
I  youth.     We  really  think,  however,  that  there 
IS  not  much  need  for   such  apprehensions : 
j  And,  at  all  events,  if  we  look  to  the  moral 
design  and  scope  of  the  works  themselves,  we 
can  see  no  reason  to  censure  the  author.    All 
his  favourites,  without  exception,  are  tlutiful, 
I  faithful,  and  self-denying;  and  no  other  ex- 
ample is  ever  set  up  for  imitation.     There  is 
nothing  approaching  to  indelicacy  even  in  his 
description  of  the  seductions  by  which  they 
are  tried ;  and  they  who  object  to  his  enchant- 
ing pictures  of  the  beauty  and  pure  attach- 
ment of  the  more  prominent  characters  would 
find  fault,  we  suppose,  with  the  loveliness  and 
the  embraces  of  angels. 


jX'orembfr,  ISH.) 


le  Excursion 


being  a  Portion  of  the  Recluse,  a  Poem. 
4to.     pp.  447.     London:   1814. 


By  William  Wordsworth. 


This  will  never  do  !     It  bears  no  doubt  the 
Simp  of  the  author's  heart  and  fancy :  But 

•' — ^ ■ • 

■  •  I  have  spoken  in  many  places  rather  too  bit- 
t:lyand  confidently  of  the  faults  of  Mr.  VVords- 
^Irth's  poetry  :  And  forgetting  that,  even  on  my 
Cn  view  of  them,  they  were  but  faults  of  taste,  or 
Viial  self-partiality,  have  sometimes  visited  them, 
lar.  with  an  asperity  which  should  be  reserved 
f  objects  nf  Moral  reprobation.  If  I  were  now  to 
C.l  with  the  whole  question  of  his  poetical  merits, 
tugh  my  judgment  might  not  be  substantially 
d'erent,  1  hope  I  should  repress  the  greater  part 
c  these  vivacites  of  expression  :  And  indeed  so 
0)ng  has  been  my  feeling  in  this  way,  that,  con- 
sering  how  much  I  have  always  loved  many  of 
I  attributes  of  his  Genius,  and  how  entirely  I 
rpect  his  Character,  it  did  at  first  occur  to  me 
vether  it  was  quite  fitting  that,  in  my  old  age  and 
r.  1  should  include  in  this  publication  any  of  those 
ciques  which  may  have  formerly  given  pain  or 
Alice,  to  him  or  his  admirers.  But,  when  I  re- 
ted  that  the  mischief,  if  there  really  ever  was 
was  long  ago  done,  and  that  1  still  retain,  in 
stance,  the  opinions  which  I  should  now  like 
ave  seen  more  gently  e.xpressed,  I  felt  that  to 
tall  notice  of  them  on  the  present  occasion, 
n;ht  be  held  to  import  a  retractation  which  I  am 
a  ar  as  possible  from  intending  ;  or  even  be  rep- 
rimted  as  a  very  shabby  way  of  backing  out  of 
8|'iments  which  should  either  be  manfully  per- 
8i:!d  in,  or  openly  renounced,  and  abandoned  as 
u  mable. 

58 


unfortunately  not  half  so  visibly  as  that  of  his 
peculiar   system.      His   former  poems  were 

I  finally  resolved,  therefore,  to  reprint  my  review 
J  of  "  The  Excursion  ;"  which  contains  a  pretty  full 
view  of  my  griefs  and  charges  against  Mr.  Words- 
worth ;  set  forth  too,  I  believe,  in  a  more  temperate 
strain  than  most  of  my  other  inculpations, — and  of 
which  I  think  I  may  now  venture  to  say  farther, 
that  if  the  faults  are  unsparingly  noted,  the  beauties 
are  not  penuriously  or  grudgingly  allowed ;  but 
commended  to  the  admiration  of  the  reader  with  at 
least  as  much  heartiness  and  good-will. 

But  I  have  also  reprinted  a  short  paper  on  the 
same   author's    "  White   Doe   of  Rylstone," — in 
which  there   certainly  is  no    praise,  or  notice   of 
beauties,  to  set  against  the  very  unqualified  cen- 
sures of  which  it  is  wholly  made  up.     I  have  done 
this,  however,  not  merely  because  I  adhere  to  these 
censures,  but  chiefly  because  it  seemed  necessary 
to  bring  me  fairly  to  issue  with  those  who  may  not 
concur  in  them.     I  can  easily  understand  that  many 
whose  admiration  of  the  Excursion,  or  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  rests  substantially  on  the  passages  which  I 
too  should  join  in  admiring,  may  view  with  greater 
indulgence  than  I  can  do,  the  tedious  and  flat  pas- 
sages with  which  they  are  interspersed,  and  may 
consequently  think  my  censure  of  these  works  a 
!  great  deal  too  harsh  and   uncharitable.     Between 
j  such  persons  and  me,  therefore,  there  may  be  no 
radical  diflerence  of  opinion,  or  contrariety  as  to 
'  principles  of  judgment.     But  if  there  be  any  who 
I  actually  admire  this  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  or 
20 


458 


POETRY. 


intended  to  recommend  that  system,  and  to 
bespeak  favour  for  it  b)-  their  individual 
merit; — but  this,  we  suspect,  must  be  recom- 
mended by  the  system — and  can  only  expect 
to  succeed  where  it  has  been  previously  estab- 
lished. It  is  longer,  weaker,  and  tamer,  than 
any  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  other  productions ; 
with  less  boldness  of  originality,  and  less 
even  of  that  extreme  sirnplicity  and  lowliness 
of  tone  which  wavered  so  prettily,  m  the 
Lyrical  Ballads,  between  silliness  and  pathos. 
We  have  imitations  of  Cowper.  and  even  of 
Milton  here ;  engrafted  on  the  natural  drawl  of 
the  Lakers — and  all  diluted  into  harmony  by 
that  profuse  and  irrepressible  wordiness  which 
TiCluges  all  the  blank  verse  of  this  scEbol  of 
poetry,  and  lubricates  and  weakens  the  whole 
structure  of  their  style. 

Though  it  fairly  fills  four  hundred  and 
twenty  good  quarto  pages,  without  note,  vig- 
nette, or  any  sort  of  extraneous  assistance,  it 
is  stated  in  the  title — with  something  of  an 
imprudent  candour — to  be  but  "a  portion"  of 
a  larger  work  ;  and  in  the  preface,  where  an 
attempt  is  rather  unsuccessfully  made  to  ex- 
plain the  whole  design,  it  is  still  more  rashly 
disclosed,  that  it  is  but  "  a  part  of  the  second 
part,  of  a  long  and  laborious  work'' — which 
is  to  consist  of  three  parts  ! 

■VJ^hat  Mr.  Wordsworlh'sjdiUisxiQeimth  are, 
\\r  have  i;njiicans  (if  accurately  |ii(lu-iiig:  But 
\\r  caiiii'.t  help  sii'^jiccliii-  tlia'l  llicyare  libe- 
ral, to  a  dfuicc  thai  will  ulaini  the  weakness 
of  most  modern  readers.  As  far  as  we  can 
gather  from  the  preface,  the  entire  poem — 
or  one  of  them,  (for  we  really  are  not  sure 
whether  there  is  to  be  one  or  two.)  is  of  a 
biographical  nature ;  and  is  to  contain  the 
history  of  the  aulhoxis-mintT,  and  of  the  origin 
and  progress  of  his  poetical  powers,  up  to  the 
period  when  they  were  sufficiently  matured 
to  qualify  him  for  the  great  work  on  which 
he  has  been  so  long  employed.  Now,  the 
quarto  before  us  contains  an  account  of  one 
of  his  youthful  rambles  in  the  vales  of  Cum- 
berland, and  occupies  preci.sely  the  period  of 
three  days !  So  that,  by  the  use  of  a  very 
powerful  cahuluK,  some  estimate  may  be 
formed  of  the  probable  extent  of  the  entire 
biography. 

This   small   specimen,    however,  and  the 
statements  with  which  it   is  prefaced,  -hav 
been  sufficient  to  set  our  minds  at  rest  in  one 
particular.      Xl^m  f'nf^o_jQ£_^Ir.  Wordsworth, 


Peier  Bell  ihe  Waggoner,  or  ihe  Larneniatinns  of 
Martha  Rae,  or  the  Sonnets  on  the  riniishmcnt  of 
Death,  there  can  be  no  such  amliigiiity.  or  mfans 
ot  reconcilerneni.  Now  I  have  been  a.^siired  not 
only  that  tliere  are  such  persons,  but  that  almost 
ail  those  who  seek  to  exalt  Mr.  Wordsworth  aa  the 
founder  of  a  new  school  ot  poetry,  consider  these 
as  by  iar  his  liesi  and  most  characteristic  prodiu- 
tions  :  and  would  at  once  reject  from  their  com- 
munion any  one  who  did  not  acknowledge  in  them 
the  traces  of  a  high  inspiration.  Now  I  wish  it  to 
be  understood,  that  when  I  speak  with  general 
intolerance  or  impaiience  of  the  school  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  it  is  to  the  school  holding  these 
tenets,  and  applying  ihese  tests,  that  I  refer:  and  I 
really  do  not  see  how  I  could  better  explain  the 
grounds  of  my  dissent  from  iheir  doctrines,  than 
by  republishing  my  remarks  on  this  "White  Doe." 


a:e  .perCRive,  is  now  manifestly  hnppjpssj  a,^ 
ve  give  him  up  as  altogether  incu table,  ai;,' 
eyoiid  the  power  of  criticism.     We  cann 


■ndeed   altogether    omit   taking    precautioii  (jjltu''^". 


5,  lie* 


I'lipoiiaiii 

ijjiltimate 

.^Jpeiraaiifti'' 
r. anal  las! 


now  and  then  against  the  spreading  of  t\ 
malady; — but  for  himself,  though  we  sha! 
watch  the  progress  of  his  symptoms  as  a  ma- 
ter of  professional  curiosity  and  instructio 
we  really  think  it  right  not  to  ha i  ass  him  ar, 
longer  with  nauseous  remedies. — but  rathi, 
to  throw  in  cordials  and  lenhives.  and  wait.; 
patience  for  the  natural  termination  of  tl 
disorder.  In  order  to  justify  this  desertic. 
of  our  patient,  however,  it  is  proper  to  stat: 
why  we  despair  of  the  succl>.>  of  a  moij 
active  practice. 

A  man  who  has  been  for  twenty  years  <! 
work  on  such  matter  as  is  now  before  n 
and  who  comes  complacently  forward  with 
whole  quarto  of  it,  after  all  the  admonitior. 
he  has  received,  caimot  reas(jiiably  be  e:, 
pected  to  "change  his  hand,  or  check  h  ' 
pride,''  upon  the  suggestion  of  far  weightit 
monitors  than  we  can  pretend  to  be.  Invett 
rate  habit  must  now  have  given  a  kind  o 
sanctity  to  ttie  errors  of  early  taste ;  and  th 
very  powers  of  which  we  lament  the  perve, 
sion,  have  probably  become  incapable  of  an 
othep  application.  The  very  quantit}-,  toe 
that  he  has  written,  and  is  at  this  momei 
working  up  for  publication  upon  the  old  pei  '^ni 
tern,  makes  it  almost  hopeless  to  look  for  an]  '-Mn 
change  of  it.  AlPthis  is  so  much  capitf' 
already  sunk  in  the  concern  ;  which  niUft  b 
sacrificed  if  that  be  abandoned  :  and  no  ma 
likes  to  give  up^for  lost  the  time  and  talei 
and  labour  which  he  has  embodied  in  an 
permanent  production.  We  were  not  pre 
viously  aware  of  these  obstacles  to  i\lr.  Wordi, 
worth's  conversion  ;  and,  considering  the  peCJ^    'i^ilm 


lent 


mmm 


liarities  of  his  former  writings  merely  asthj 
result  of  certain  wanton  and  capricious  eij 
periments  on  public  taste  and  indulgefica 
conceived  it  to  be  our  duty  to  discourage  the: 
repetition  by  all  the  means  in  our  powe 
We  now  see  clearly,  however,  how  the  cas 
stands; — and,  making  up  our  minds,  thoug, 
with  the  most  sincere  pain  and  reluctanwj 
to  consider  him  as  finally  lost  to  the  gow 
cause  of  poetry,  shall  endeavour  to  be  thank] 
ful  for  the  occasional  gleams  of  tendemeej  ^^j  i , 
and  beauty  which  the  natural  force  of  hij  ji  ■'. 
imagination  and  affections  must  still  shftj  A  a 
over  all  his  productions. — and  to  which  v 
shall  ever  turn  with  delight,  in  spite  of  th; 
affectation  and  mysticism  and  prolixity,  wiLj 
which  they  are  so  abundantly  contrasted.  ; 
Long  habits  of  seclusioBr-ailiL  an  e.\ces6iT'] 
ambition  of  originality,  can  alone  account  foj 
the"  disproportion  which  seems  to  exist  b«! 
tween  this  author's  taste  and  his  genius;  o! 
for  the  devotio^ii  wiTh-nilu-lr  he^tTtrs  sacrificWj 
so  many  precious  gifts  at  the  slirine  of  ihos 
paltry  idols  which  he  has  set  up  for  hiitiselij 
imoiig  his  lakes  and  his  mountains.  Solitary 
nusings.  amidst  such  scenes,  might  no  doubj 
30  expected  to  nurse  up  the  mind  to  theros! 
jesty  of  poetical  conception, — (though  it  i; 
remarkable,  that  all  the  greater  poets  YireH 
or  had  lived,  in  the  full  current  of  society):-) 


tit* 
ilikak 


aiiilosii 
41  upon 


^uinjei 

klpBilo; 

M  upon 
ale  las 

"ilOMit 

'town 
'tiatiiiei 
'mi 


4itve 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


459 


;ut  the  collision  of  equal  minds, — the  ad- 
louitioii  of  prevailing  impressions — seems' 
ecessary  to  reduce  its  redundancies,  and  re- 
iress  that  tendency  to  extravagance  or  pueril- 
ry,  into  which  the  self.indulgence  and  self- 
dmiration  of  genius  is  so  apt  to  be  betrayed, 
^hen  it  is  allowed  to  wanton,  without  awe  or 
sstraint,  in  the  triumph  and  delight  of  its 
wn  intoxication.  That  its  flight  should  be 
raceful  and  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  men,  it 
eems  almost  to  be  necessary  that  they  should 
e'made  in  the  consciousness  that  men's  eyes 
re  to  behold  them, — and  that  the  inward 
•ansport  and  vigour  by  which  they  are  in- 
pired.  should  be  tempered  by  an  occ^isional 
3ference  to  what  will  be  thought  of  them  by 
lose  ultimate  dispensers  of  glory.  An  habit- 
al  and  general  knowledge  of  the  few  settled 
nd  permanent  maxims,  wliich  form  the  canon 
f  general  taste  in  all  large  and  polished  so- 
cieties— a  certain  tact,  which  informs  us  at 
'nee  that  many  things,  which  we  still  love 
|nd  are  moved  by  in  secret,  must  necessarily 
e  despised  as  childish,  or  derided  as  absurd, 
1  all  such  societies — though  it  will  not  stand 
1  the  place  of  genius,  seems  necessary  to  the 
access  of  its  exertions;  and  though  it  will 
ever  enable  any  one  to  produce  the  higher 
eauties  of  art,  can  alone  secure  the  talent 
vhich  does  produce  them  from  errors  that 
Jiust  render  it  useless.  Those  who  have  most 
T  the  talent,  however,  commonly  acquire  this 
■nowledge  with  the  greatest  facility  ; — and  if 
'Ir.  Worjisivpilh,  instead  of^oiufining  himself 
ilmost  entixely  to  tlie  society  of  the  dalesmen 
,nd  cottagers,  and  little.  .chjidLen,_iJ'ho  form 
lie  subjects  of  his  book,  had  condescended 
b  mingle  a  little  more  wiiE  the  people  that 
.'ere  to  reaxl^arid  jjl3gfi-of  it,  we  cannot  help 
iiinking  that  its  texture  might  have  been 
onsideiably  improved  :  At  least  it  appears  to 
s  to  be  absolutely  impossible,  that  any  one 
yho  had  lived  or  mixed  familiarly  with  men 
f  literature  and  ordinary  judgment  in  poetry, 
of  course  we  exclude  the  coadjutors  and  dis- 
'iples  of  his  own  school.)  could  ever  have 
alien  into  such  gross  faults,  or  so  long  mis- 
fiken  them  for  beauties.  His  tirst  essays  we 
Doked  upon  in  a  good  degree  as  poetical 
laradoxes,  —  maintained  expejjjaa^jitally,  in 
rder  to  display  talent,  and  court  notoriety ; — 
nd  so  maintained,  with  no  more  serious  be- 
ief  in  their  truth,  than  is  usually  generated 
•y  an  ingenious  and  animated  defence  of 
ther  paradoxes.  But  when  we  find  that  he 
ias  been  for  twenty  years  exclusively  em- 
ilo3'ed  upon  articles  of  this  very  fabric,  and 
hat  he  has  still  enough  of  raw  material  on 
land  to  keep  him  so  employed  for  twenty 
ears  to  come,  we  cannot  refuse  him  the  jus- 
ice  of  believing  that  he  is  a  sincere  convert 
'0  his  own  system,  and  must  ascribe  the 
lecidiarities  of  his  composition,  not  to  any 
ransient  affectation,  or  accidental  caprice  of 
magination,  but  to  a  settled  perversity  of 
aste  or  understanding,  which  has  been  fos- 
ered,  if  not  altogether  created,  by  the  cir- 
urastances  to  which  we  have  alluded. 

The  volume  before  us.  if  we  were  to  de- 
cribe  it  very  shortly,  we  should  characterise 


as  a  tissue  of  moral  and  devotional  ravings,  in 


hicti  ninumerabie  cnanges  are  rung  upon  a 
few  very  simple  and  familiar  ideas: — But 
with  such  an  accompaniment  of  long  words, 
long  sentences,  and  unwieldy  phrases — and 
such  a  hubbub  of  strained  raptures  and  fan- 
tastical sublimities,  that  it  is  often  diiiicult  for 
the  most  skilful  and  attentive  student  to  ob- 
tain a  glimpse  of  the  author's  meaning — and 
altogether  impossible  for  an  ordinary  reader 
to  conjecture  what  he  is  about.  Moral  and  re- 
ligious enthusiasm,  though  undoubtedly  poet- 
ical emotions,  are  at  the  same  time  but  dan- 
gerous inspirers  of  poetry ;  nothing  being  so 
apt  to  run  into  interminable  dulness  or  melli- 
fluous extravagance,  without  giving  the  unfor- 
tunate author  the  slightest  intimation  of  his 
danger.  His  laudable  zeal  for  the  efficacy  of 
his  preachments,  he  very  naturally  mistakes 
for  the  ardour  of  poetical  inspiration ; — and, 
while  dealing  out  the  high  words  and  glow- 
ing phrases  which  are  so  readily  supplied  by 
themes  of  this  description,  can  scarcely  avoid 
believing  that  he  is  eminently  original  and 
impressive : — All  sorts  of  commonplace  no- 
tions and  expressions  are  sanctified  in  his 
e3-es,  by  the  sublime  ends  for  which  they  are 
employed  ;  am!  thi^  nnstical  verbiage  of  ^e 
Methodist  pulini  is  irpcaied,  till  the  speaker 
entertains  un  doubt  that  lie  is  the  dbasen 
orgiui  of  (Iniiif  truth  and  persuasion.  But  if 
such  lie  the  conimon  hazards  ofseekmg  in- 
spiration from  those  potent  fountains,  it  may 
easily  be  conceived  what  chance  Mr.  Words- 
worth had  of  escaping  their  enchantment, — 
with  his  natural  propensities  to  wordiness, 
and  his  unlucky  habit  of  debasing  pathos 
with  vulgarity.  The  fact  accordingly  is,  that 
in  this  production  he  is  more  obscure  than  a 
Pindaric  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century ; 
and  more  verbose  -^  than  even  himself  of 
yore ;"  while  the  wilfulness  with  which  he 
persists  in  choosing  his  examples  of  intellec- 
tual dignity  and  tenderness  exclusively  from 
the  lowest  ranks  of  society,  will  be  sufficiently 
apparent,  from  the  circumstance  of  his  having 
thought  fit  to  make  his  chief  prolocutor  in  this 
poetical  dialogue,  and  chief  advocate  of  Prov- 
idence and  Virtue,  an  old  Scotch  Pedlar — re- 
tired indeed  from  business — but  still  rambling 
about  in  his  former  haunts,  and  gossiping 
among  his  old  customers,  without  his  pack 
on  his  shoulders.  The  other  persons  of  the 
drama  are.  a  retired  military  chaplain,  who 
has  grown  half  an  atheist  and  half  a  misan- 
thrope— the  wife  of  an  unprosperons  weaver 
— a  servant  girl  with  her  natural  child — a 
parish  pauper,  and  one  or  two  other  person- 
ages of  e(|ual  rank  and  dignity. 

Tho  chiraftpr  of  the  work  is  decid^^.dly 
diiaclii'  r"aih"l  iiioff  than  nine  tr:ilhs  of  it  are 
(M-cu|.ir.l  uilh  :;  spcci.'S  of  (iKiio-iu:-  or  riither 
a  series  of  long  sermons  or  haranuUf'S  wiiich 
pass  between  the  pedlar,  the  author,  the  old 
chaplain,  and  a  worthy  vicar,  who  entertains 
the  whole  party  at  dinner  on  the  last  day  of 
their  excursion.  The  incidents  which  occur 
in  the  course  of  it  are  as  few  and  trifling  as 
can  well  be  imagined  ; — and  those  which  the 
different   speakers  narrate  in  the  course  of 


460 


POETRY. 


1 


iheir  discourses;  are  introduced  rather  to  il-  i  rural  scenery  and  open  air,  that  when  he  was 
lustrate  their  arguments  or  opinions,  than  for    sent  to  teach  a  school  in  a  neighbouring  vil- 


any  iiiterest  they  are  supjwsed  to  posisess  of 
their  own. — The  doctrine  which  the  work  is 
intended  to  enforce,  we  are  by  no  means  cer- 
tain that  we  have  discovered.  In  so  far  as 
we  can  collect,  however,  it  seems  to  be  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  old  familiar  one,  that 
a  firm  belief  in  the  providence  of  a  wise  and 
benelicent  Being  mu^t  be  our  great  stay  and 
support  under  all  alfiictioiis  and  perple.vities 
upon  earth — and  that  there  are  indications  of 
his  power  and  goodness  in  all  the  aspects  of 
the  visible  universe,  whether  living  or  inani- 
mate— every  part  of  which  should  therefore 
be  regarded  with  love  and  reverence,  as  ex- 
ponents of  those  great  attributes.  We  can 
testify,  at  least,  that  these  salutary  and  im- 
portant truths  are  inculcated  at  far  greater 
length,  and  wqth  more  repetitions,  than  in  any 
ten  volumes  of  sermons  that  we  ever  perused. 
f  It  is  also  maintained,  with  equal  conciseness 
^  and  originalit)-,  that  there  is  frequently  much 
good  sense,  as  well  as  much  enjoyment,  in 
the  humbler  conditions  of  life ;  and  that,  in 
spite  of  great  vices  and  abuse.s,  there  is  a  rea- 
sonable allowance  both  of  happiness  and  good- 
ness in  society  at  large.  If  there  be  any  deeper 
or  more  recondite  doctrines  in  Mr."  Woi^ls- 
worth's  book,  we  must  confess  that  they  have 
escaped  us  ; — and,  convinced  as  we  are  of  the 
truth  and  soundness  of  those  to  which  we 
have  alluded,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that 
they  might  have  been  better  enforced  with 
^less  parade  and  prolixity.  His  effusions  on 
"%)what  may  be  called  the  physiognomy  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  or  its  moral  and  theological  ex- 
pression, are  emirteatij'  fantastic,  obscure,  and 
aflkctol- — It  is  qinFe  time,  however,  that  we 
should  give  the  reader  a  more  particular  ac- 
count of  this  singular  performance. 

It  opens  with  a  picture  of  the  author  toiling 
across  a  bare  common  in  a  hot  summer  day, 
and  reaching  at  last  a  ruined  hut  surrounded 
with  tall  trees,  where  he  meets  by  appoint- 
ment with  a  hale  old  man,  with  an  iron-point- 
ed staff  lying  beside  him.  Then  follows  a 
retrospective  account  of  their  first  acquaint- 
ance— formed,  it  seems,  when  the  author  was 
at  a  village  school :  and  his  aged  friend  occu- 
pied "one  room, — the  fifth  part  of  a  house" 
in  the  neighbourhood.  After  this,  we  have 
the  history  of  this  reverend  person  at  no  small 
length.  He  was  born,  we  are  happy  to  find, 
in  Scotland — among  the  hills  of  Athol ;  an(i 
his  mother,  after  his  father's  death,  married 
the  parish  schoolmaster — .so  that  he  was 
taught  his  letters  betimes:  But  then,  as  it  is 
here  set  forth  with  much  solemnity. 


"  From  his  sixth  year,  the  boy  of  whom 
In  summer,  tended  cattle  on  the  hills'.' 


speak. 


And  again,  a  few  pages  after,  that  there  may 
be  no  ri.sk  of  mistake  as  to  a  point  of  such  es- 
sential importance — 

"  From  onrly  rliiKlhood.  evnn,  as  hath  been  .said, 
From  h\s  sixth  year,  he  had  hocn  sent  abroad, 
In  summer — to  tend  herds  !  Such  was  his  task  !" 

In  the  course  of  this  occupation  it  is  next 
recordedj  that  he  acquired  such  a  taste  for 


lagp,  he  found  it  "a  misery  to  him;"'  and 
determined  to  embrace  the  more  romantic  oc- 
cupation of  a  Pedlar— or,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth 
more  musically  expresses  it. 

"A  vagrant  merchant,  bent  beneath  his  load;" 
— and  in  the  course  of  his  peregrinations  had 
acquired  a  very  large  acquaintance,  which/ 
after  he  had  given  up  dealing,  he  frequently' 
took  a  summer  ramble  to  visit.  ; 

The  author,  on  coming  up  to  this  interest-' 
ing  personage,  finds  him  sitting  with  his  eyes 
half  shut ; — and,  not  being  quite  sure  whether 
he  is  asleep  or  awake,  stands  •'  some  minutes' 
space"  in  silence  beside  him. — "At  length," 
says  he,  with  his  own  delightful  simplicity— 

"  At  length  I  hail'd  him — seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  it  the  brim 
Had  newly  scoop'd  a  rumiinij  stream  I — 

'  "i'is,'  said  I,  '  a  burning  day  ! 

My  lips  are  parch'd  with  thirst ; — but  you,  I  guess, 
Have  somewhere  found  relief.'  " 

Upon  this,  the  benevolent  old  man  points 
him  out,  not  a  running  stream,  but  a  well  in 
a  corner,  to  which  the  author  repairs;  and, 
after  minutely  describing  its  situation,  beyond 
a  broken  wall,  and  between  two  alders  that 
"grew  in  a  cold  damp  nook,"  he  thus  faith- 
fully chronicles  the  process  of  liis  return : — 

"  My  thirst  I  slak'd  ;  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 
Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  return'd. 
Where  sate  the  old  man  on  the  cottage  bench." 

The  Pedlar  then  gives  an  account  of  the 
last  inhabitants  of  the  deserted  cottage  beside 
them.  These  were,  a  good  industrious  weaver 
and  his  wife  and  children.  They  were  very  i 
happy  for  a  while;  till  sickness  and  want  of! 
work  came  upon  them;  and  then  the  father 
enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and  the  wife  pined  in 
that  lonely  cottage — growing  every  year  more 
careless  and  de.'^ponding,  as  her  anxiety  and 
fears  for  her  absent  husband,  of  whom  no  ti- 
dings ever  reached  her,  accumulated.  Her 
children  died,  and  left  her  cheerless  and 
alone  ;  and  at  last  she  died  also  ;  and  the  cot- 
tage fell  to  decay.  We  must  say,  that  there 
is  very  considerable  pathos  in  the  telling  of 
^tliis  simple  story;  and  that  they  who  can  get 
over  the  repugnance  excited  by  the  triteness 
of  its  incidents,  and  the  lowness  of  its  objects, 
will  not  fail  to  be  struck  with  the  author's 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  power 
hejii£ic5g££_ofstnTing  up  its  deepest  and 
gentlest  syiripanries7~flisr-pTnfeJ1y,  indeed,  it 
is  not  .so~easy  to  get  over.  This  little  story 
fills  about  twenty-five  (]uarto  pages;  and 
abounds,  of  course,  with  mawkish  sentiment, 
and  details  of  preposterous  minuteness.  When 
the  tale  is  told,  the  travellers  take  their  staffs, 
atid  end  their  first  day's  journey,  without  fur- 
ther adventure,  at  a  little  inn. 

The  Second  Book  sets  them  forward  betimes 
in  the  morning.  They  pass  by  a  Village 
Wake  ;  and  as  they  approach  a  more  solitary 
part  of  the  mountain.s,  the  old  man  tells  the 
author  that  he  is  taking  him  to  see  an  old 
friend  of  his,  who  had  formerly  been  chaplain 


A0^ 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


461 


3  a  Highland  regiment — had  lost  a  beloved 
••ife — been  roused  from  his  dejection  by  the 
rst  enthusiasm  of  the_ French  Revolution — 
ad  emigr'^tf^d  on  jt.s  rniscarnao^tn  America 

ae  retreat  to  which  ihey  were  now  ascending. 
'hat  retreat  is  then  most  tediously  describee! 
-a  smooth  green  valley  in  the  heart  of  the 
lountain,  without  trees,  and  with  only  oiie 
welling.  Just  as  they  get  sight  of  it  from 
le  ridge  above,  they  see  a  funeral  train  pro- 
eeding  from  the  solitary  abode,  and  hurry  on 
■ith  some  apprehension  for  the  fate  of'  the 
miable  misanthrope — whom  they  find,  how- 
ever, in  very  tolerable  condition  at  the  door, 
fli]  learn  that  the  funeral  was  that  of  an  aged 
auper  who  had  been  boarded  out  by  the 
arish  in  that  cheap  farm-bouse,  and  had  died 
1  consequence  of  long  exposure  to  heavy  rain, 
he  old  chaplain,  or,  as  Mr.  Wordsworth  is 
leased  to  call  him,  the  Solitary,  tells  this 
ull  story  at  prodigious  length;  and  after 
jving  an  inflated  description  of  an  efTect  of 

'■'lountain  mists  in  the  evening  sun,  treats  his 
isitors  with  a  rustic  dinner — and  they  walk< 
it  to  the  fields  at  the  close  of  the  secont/ 
3ok.  • 

The  Third  makes  no  progress  in  the  excur- 
on.  It  is  entirely  filled  with  moral  and  re- 
l^ious  conversation  and  debate,  and  with  a 
i.ore  ample  detail  of  the  Solitary's  pa'sl  life 
lan  had  been  given  in  the  sketch  of  his 
liend.  The  conversation  is,  in  our  judgment, 
iiceedingly  dull  and  mystical ;  and  the  Soli- 
'ry's  confessions  insufferably  diffuse.  Yet 
j.ere  is  occasionally  very  considerable  force 
:'  writing  and  tenderness  of  sentiment  in  this 
'irt  of  the  work. 

The  Fourth  Book  is  also  filled  with  dia- 
gues,  ethical,  and  theologicaTj"ariTi7"«4th-t-h:e 
Xception  ot  sornenBrilliaht  and  forcible  ex- 
fessions  here  and  there,  consists  of  an  expo- 
'tion  of  truisms,  more  cloudy,  wordy,  and 

^•conceivably  proli.x,  than  any" thing  we  ever 
!et  with. 

I  In  the  beginning  of  the  Fifth  Book,  they 
ave  the  solitary  valley,  taking  its  pensive 
habitant  along  with  them,  and  stray  on  to 
here  the  landscape  sinks  down  into  milder 
atures,  till  they  arrive  at  a  church,  which 
ands  on  a  moderate  elevation  in  the  centre 
j  a  wide  and  fertile  vale.  Here  they  medi- 
:te  for  a  while  among  the  monuments,  till 
'e  Vicar  comes  out  and  joins  them :— and 
:cognising  the  Pedlar  for'  an  old  acquaint- 
ice,  mi.xes  graciously  in  the  conversation, 
hich  proceeds  in  a  very  edifying  manner  till 
e  close  of  the  book. 

The  Sixth  contains  a  choice  obituary,  or 
.laracteristic  account  of  several  of  the  per- 
iHS  who  lie  buried  before  this  group  of  moral- 

"  lire; — an  unsuccessful  lover,  who  had  found 
nsolation  in  natural  history — a  miner,  who 


preferred   marrying  a  prudent  middle-aged 
woman  to  take  care  of  them. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Eighth  Book,  the 
worthy  Vicar  expresses,  in  the  words  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  own  epitome,  "his  apprehen- 
sions that  he  had  tletained  his  anclitors  too 
long — invites  them  to  his  house — Solitary,  dis- 
inclined to  comply,  rallies  the  Wanderer,  and 
somewhat  playfully  draws  a  comparison  be- 
tween his  itinerant  profession  and  that  of  a 
knight-errant — which  leads  to  the  Wanderer 
giving  an  account  of  changes  in  the  country, 
from  the  manufacturing  spirit — Its  favourable 
The  other  sicie  of  the  picture,"  &c. 
these  very  poetical   themes   are 


eHects 
&c.     Aftf 

exhausted,  they  all  go  into  the  house,  where 
they  are  introduced  to  the  Vicar's  wife  and 
daughter  ;  and  while  they  sit  chatting  in  the 
parlour  over  a  family  dinner,  his  son  and  one 
of  his  companions  come  in  with  a  fine  dish 
of  trouts  piled  on  a  blue  slate  ;  and  after  being 
caressed  by  the  company,  are  sent  to  dinner 
in  the  nursery. — This  encls  the  eighth  book. 
The  Ninth  and  last  is  chiefly  occupied  with 
LPedlar ;  who  main- 
animated  by 


tains,  that  the  whole  universe 
an  active  principle,  thf;  noblest  seat  nf  uhJ^k- 
is  inlhe  hurnaii  soul:  and  moreover,  that  the 
final  end  of  old  age  is  to  train^aiTd^enable  us 


"  To  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  Tendency 
I'ttering.  for  elevaiion  of  our  thought, 
A  clear  sonorous  voice,  inniidibie 
'I"o  the  vast  miihiiude  whose  doom  it  is 
To  run  ihe  giddy  round  oi  vain  delight — " 

with  Other  matters  as  luminous  and  emphatic. 
The  hostess  at  length  breaks  off  the  harangue, 
by  proposing  that  they  should  all  make  a  little 
excursion  on  the  lake, — and  they  embark  ac- 
cordingly ;  and,  after  navigating  for  some  time 
along  its  shores,  and  drinking  tea  on  a  little 
island,  land  at  last  on  a  remote  promontory, 
from  which  they  see  the  sun  go  down, — and 
listen  to  a  solemn  and  pious,  but  rather  long 
prayer  from  the  Vicar.  They  then  walk  back 
to  the  parsonage  door,  where  the  author  and 
his  friend  propose  to  spend  the  evening ; — but 
the  Solitary  prefers  walking  back  in  the  moon- 
shine to  his  own  valley,  after  promising  to 
take  another  ramble  with  them — 

"  If  time,  with  free  consent,  be  yours  to  give, 
And  season  favours." 

— And  here  the  publication  somewhat  abrupt- 
ly closes. 

Our  abstract  of  the  story  has  been  so  ex- 
tremely concise,  that  it  is  more  than  usually 
necessary  for  us  to  lay  some  specimens  of  the 
work  itself  before  our  readers.  Its  grand 
staple,  as  we  have  already  said,  consists  of  a 
kind  of  mystical  morality  :  and  the  chief  char- 
actensti'cs  oi'  the  style  ai-e,  that  it  ispraib-  'md 
very  frequently  unintelligible  :  and  though  we 


are  sensible  that  no  grefdrgTatification  is  to  be 
orked  on  for  twenty  years,  in  despite  of  uni-    expected  from  the  exhibition  of  those  quali- 


rsal  ridicule,  and  at  last  found  the  vein  he 
id  expected — two  political  enemies  recon- 
■ed  in  old  age  to  each  other — an  old  female 
I'lser — a  seduced  damsel — and  two  widow- 
'5,  one  who  had  devoted  himself  to  the  edu- 
ition  of  his  daughters,  and  one  who  had 


ties,  yet  it  is  necessary  to  give  our  readers  a 
taste  of  them,  both  to  justify  the  sentence  wo 
have  passed;  and  to  satisfy  them  that  it  was 
really  beyond  our  power  to  present  them  with 
any  abstract  or  intellJiiible  account  of  thoss 
long  conversations  which  we  have  had  60 
2o2 


462 


POETRY. 


much  occasion  to  notice  in  our  brief  sketch 
of  its  contents.  We  need  give  ourselves  no 
trouble,  however,  to  select  passages  for  this 
purpose.  Here  is  the  first  that  presents  itself 
to  us  on  opening  the  volume  ;  and  if  our  read- 
ers can  form  the  slightest  guess  at  its  mean- 
ing, we  must  give  them  credit  for  a  sagacity 
to  which  we  have  no  pretension. 

"  Bu\  liy  the  storms  of  circumstance,  unshaken, 
And  su'.ijeci  neither  to  eclipse  or  wane, 
Duly  e-xitits;— iinmuiably  survive. 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  llie  forms, 
Which  an  aiistract  Intelligence  supplies;      [not: 
Whose  kingdom  is,  where  'I'ime  and  Space  are 
Of  other  converse,  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart. 
Do,  with  united  urgency,  require. 
What  more,  that  may  not  perish?" 

"  'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 
Earth  to  despise  ;  but  to  converse  with  Heav'n, 
This  is  not  easy  : — to  relinquish  all 
We  have,  or  hope,  of  happiness  and  joy, — 
And  stand  in  freedom  loosen'd  from  this  world  ; 
I  deem  not  arduous! — but  must  needs  confess 
That  'lis  a  thing  impossible  to  frame 
Conceptions  equal  to  the  SoiiTrdesires." 

pp.  144—147. 

This  is  a  fair  -sample  of  that  rapturous  mys- 
ticism"  which  eludes  all  comprehension,  and 
fills  the  despairingreader  with  painful  giddi- 
ness  and  terror,  "xhe  following,  which  we 
meet  with  ~mi  the  very  next  page,  is  in  the 
same  general  strain : — though  the  first  part  of 
it  affords  a  good  specimen  of  the  author's 
talent  for  enveloping  a  plain  and  trite  obser- 
vation in  all  the  mock  majesty  of  solemn  ver- 
bosity. A  reader  of  plain  understanding,  we 
suspect,  could  hardly  recognise  the  familiar 
remark,  that  excessive  grief  for  our  departed 
friends  is  not  very  consistent  with  a  finn  be- 
lief in  their  immortal  felicity,  in  the  first 
twenty  lines  of  the  following  passage  : — In  the 
succeeding  lines  we  do  not  ourselves  pretend 
to  recognise  any  thing. 

"  From  this  infirmity  of  mortal  kind 
Sorrow  proceeds,  which  else  were  not ; — at  least, 
If  Grief  be  something  hallow'd  and  ordain'd. 
If.  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet, 
Through  this,  'tis  able  to  maintain  its  hold. 
In  that  excess  which  Conscience  disapproves. 
For  who  could  sink  and  settle  to  that  point 
Of  selfishness;  so  senseless  who  could  be 
In  framing  estimates  of  loss  and  gain, 
As  long  and  perseveringly  to  mourn 
For  any  object  of  his  love,  remov'd 
From  this  unstable  world,  if  he  could  fix 
A  satisfying  view  upon  that  state 
Of  pure,  imperishable  blessedness. 
Which  Reason  promises,  and  Holy  Writ 
Ensures  to  all  Believers  ? — Yet  mistrust 
Is  of  euch  incapacity,  methinks, 
No  natural  branch  ;  despondency  far  less. 
— And,  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have 

droop'd 
Ev'n  to  the  dust  ;  apparently,  through  weight 
Of  anguish  unrcliev'd,  and  lack  of  power 
An  agonising  sorrow  to  travumute ; 
Infer  not  hence  a  hope  from  those  withhold 
When  wanted  most  ;  a  confidence  impair'd 
So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceas'd  to  see 
With  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 
Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  throuirh  regret  ! 
Oh  I  no,  full  oft  the  innocent  Suff'rer  sees 
Too  clearly  ;  feels  loo  vividly  ;  and  longs 
To  realize  the  Vision  with  intense 
And  overconstani  yearning — There — there  lies 
The  excess,  by  wliich  the  balance  is  destroy'd. 


Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 

Though  inconceivably  endow'd,  too  dim 

For  any  passion  oi  the  soul  that  leads 

'I'o  ecstasy  !  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 

Of  lime  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  courseil 

Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 

I,  speaking  now  from  such  disorder  free, 

Nor  sleep,  nor  cravin"   but  in  settled  peace, 

I  cannot  doubt  that  '1  hey  whom  you  deplore 

Are  glorified." — pp.  148,  149. 

If  any  farther  specimen  be  wanted  of 
learned  author's  propensity  to  deal  out  thilj 
most  familiar  truths  as  the  oracles  of  his  oW 
inspired  understanding,  the  following  word' 
paraphi-ase  of  the  ordinary  remark,  that  thi 
best  consolation  in  distress  is'to  be  found  it 
the  exercises  of  piety,  and  the  testimony  of  i        - 
good  conscience,  maybe  found  on  turning  thi 
leaf. 

•'  What  then  remains  ?— To  seek  ',  i*«clf 

Those  helps,  for  his  occasions  ever  near,  jf  iilifui* 

Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them  ;  vows,  reneVrt  •ijUl'lf'' 
On  the  first  motion  of  a  holy  thought  ;  j    ([{iisraiiil 

Vigils  of  contemplation  ;  praise  ;  and  pray'r,     L  iliiljiir' 
A  Stream,  which,  from  the  fountain  ot  the  heartj)  liplf™* 
Issuing  however  feebly,  no  where  flows 
Without  access  of  unexpected  sLsength.  I    fc™* 

But.  ai>ove  all,  the  victory  is  most  sure  I   i  lie  f( 

For  Him  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives    u  ^w 
To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law  !Tr.l/,j« 

Of  Conscience;  Conscience  reverenc'd  and  obey'. 
As  God's  most  intimate  Presence  in  the  soul. 
And  his  most  perfect  Image  in  the  world." 

p.  151. 

We  have  kept  the  book  too  long  open,  how 
ever,  at  one  place,  and  shall  now  take  a  di' 
•" -t  nearer  the  beginning.  The  following  ao  n  « 
count  of  the  Pedlar's  early  training,  and  lonel  |jj,j  f,j| 
meditations  among  the  mountains,  is  a  goa  alii,^, 
example  of  the  forced  and  aflfected  ecstagia  Jniiai 
in  which  this  author  abounds. 

liiitnigie! 

ufmtt 


"  Nor  did  he  fail. 

While  yet  a  Child,  with  a  Child's  eagerness 

Incessantly  to  turn  his  ear  and  eye 

On  all  things  which  the  moving  seasons  brougl: 

To  feed  such  appetite  :  nor  this  alone 

Appeas'd  his  yearning  : — in  the  after  day 

Of  Boyhood,  many  an  hour  in  caves  forlorn. 

And  'mid  the  hollow^  depths  of  naked  crags. 

He  sate,  and  even  in  their  fix'd  lineaments. 

Or  from  the  pow'r  of  a  peculiar  eye. 

Or  by  creative  feeling  overborne, 

Or  by  predominance  of  thought  oppress'd, 

Ev'n  in  their  fix'd  and  steady  lineaments 

He  trac'd  an  ebbing  and  a  flowing  mind. "-p.  1! 


»»»ta 


'mm 

We  should  like  extremely  to  know  what  iii  jJW 
meant  by  tracing  an  ebbing  and  flowing  min  t  kkiWjn 
in  the  fixed  lineamtMits  of  naked  cragS  l^bt  ■  kmaii 
this  is  but  the  beginning  of  the  raving  fit.     '  i  'liiliiieu 

In  these  majestic  solitudes,  he  used  also  t|'l 
read  his  Bible ; — and  we  are  told  that —       -'    t.„. 

There  did  he  see  the  wriiivt;  ! — All  things  then  if  Hi.lfot 


Breath'd  immortality,  revolving  life 
And  greatness  still  revolving  ;  infinite! 
There  littleness  was  not ;  the  least  of  things 
Seem'd  infinite  ;  and  there  his  spirit  shap'd 
Her  prospects;  nor  did  he  believe, — he  saw 
What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 
Sublime  and  comprehensive  !     Low  desires, 
Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place ;  yet  was  hiL 
heart  ' 

Lowly ;  for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude. "-pp.  14, 1 

What  follows  about  nature,  triangles,  star 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


463 


id  the  laws  of  light,  is  still  more  incompre- 
jnsible. 

"  Yet  still  uppermost 

aturc  "as  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  felt, 
[hough  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a  wasting  pou)  r 
all  thin'a;s  whicli  from  her  sweet  influence 
ight  tend  to  wean  him.    Therefore  with  her  hues, 
sr  forni-^.  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms, 
e  cloth"d  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth. 
I'hile  yet  he  linger'd  in  the  rudiments 
if  science,  and  among  her  simplest  laws, 
'9  triamrlcs — they  were  the  stars  of  heav'n, 
!ie  silent  stars  I     Oft  did  he  take  deHght 
J)  measure  th'  altitude  of  some  tall  crag 
ihich  is  the  eagle's  birthplace,  or  some  peak 
,;miliar  with  forgotten  yeass,  that  shows 
'scrib'd,  as  with  the  silence  of  the  thought, 
)on  its  bleak  and  visionary  sides ; — 

and  I  have  heard  him  say 

'pat  often,  failing  at  this  time  to  gain 

'le  peace  requir'd.  he  scanti'd  the  Inius  of  light 

.nid  the  roar  of  torrents,  where  they  send 

iom  hollow  ciefis  up  to  the  clearer  air 

.cloud  of  mist,  which  in  the  sunshine  frames 

.lasting  tablet — for  the  observer's  eye 

'.ryiiig  its  rainbow  hues.     But  vainly  thus, 

.id  vainly  by  all  other  means,  he  strove 

')  mitigate  the  fever  of  his  heart." — pp.  16 — 18. 


[The  whole  book,  indeed,  is  full  of  such 
fiff.  The  following  is  the  author's  own 
iblime  aspiration  after  the  delight  of  be- 
(.Tiiiig  a  Motion,  or  aj'resence,  or  an  Enersv     .      ,  .        , 

luftl'tiidinous  streams ^1^"  object^hat  entic'd  my  steps  aside 


aong  mi 

'3h  1  what  a  joy  it  were,  in  vi^'rous  health, 
'i  have  a  Body  (this  our  vital  Frame 
'lith  shrinking  sensibility  endu'd, 
jid'all  the  nice  regards  of  flesh  and  blood) 
.'.d  to  the  elements  surrender  it, 
.,  if  it  were  a  Spirit .' — How  divine 
'Jie  liberty,  for  Jrail,  for  mortal  man, 
'« roam  at  large  among  unpeopled  glens 
iid  mountainous  retirements,  only  trod 
]  devious  footsteps ;  regions  consecrate 
^  oldest  lime  I  and,  reckless  of  the  storm 
■^  at  keeps  the  raven  quiet  in  her  nest, 
1  as  a  Fresence  or  a  Motion  ! — one 
iiong  the  many  there  ;  and,  while  the  Mists 
I/ing,  and  rainy  Vapours,  call  out  Shapes 
I  d  Phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth 
1  fast  as  a  Musician  scatters  sounds 
<  t  of  an  instrument ;  and,  while  the  Streams — 
(5  at  a  first  creation  and  in  haste 
exercise  their  untried  faculties) 
Iscending  from  the  regions  of  the  clouds, 
lA  starting  from  the  hollows  of  the  earth 
lire  multitudinous  every  moment — rend 
'.eir  way  before  them,  what  a  joy  to  roam 
.i  eqrial  among  mightiest  Energies  ! 
lA  naply  sometimes  with  articulate  voice, 
iiid  the  deaf'ning  tumult,  scarcely  heard 
f|  him  that  utters  it,  exclaim  aloud 
Ij  this  con  I  inu'd  so  from  day  to  day, 
I'r  let  it  have  an  end  from  month  to  month  !" 
:  pp.  164,  16.5. 


ke 


"  The  tenor 

Which  my  life  holds,  he  readily  may  conceive 
Whoe'er  hath  stood  to  watch  a  mountain  Brook 
In  some  still  passage  of  its  course,  and  seen, 
Within  th«  depths  of  its  capacious  breast. 
Inverted  trees,  and  rocks,  and  azure  sky ; 
.\nd,  on  its  glassy  surface,  specks  of  foam, 
And  conglobated  bubbles  undissolv'd. 
Numerous  as  stars  ;  that,  by  their  onward  lapse, 
Betray  to  sight  the  motion  of  the  stream, 
Else  imperceptible  ;   meanwhile,  is  heard 
Perchance  a  roar  or  murmur;  atid  the  sound 
Though  soothing,  and  the  little  floating  isles 
Though  beautiful,  are  boili  by  Nature  cliarg'd 
With  the  same  pensive  office  ;  and  make  known 
Through  what  perplexing  labyrinths,  abrupt 
Precipitations,  and  untoward  straits. 
The  earth-born  wanderer  hath  pass'd  ;  and  quickly, 
That  respite  o'er,  like  traverses  and  toils 
Must  be  again  encounter'd. — Such  a  stream 
Is  HuinanLife."— pp.  139,  140. 

The  following,  however,  is  a  better  example 
of  the  useless  and  most  tedious  minuteness 
with  which  the  author  so  frequently  details 
circumstances  of  no  interest  in  themselves, — 
of  no  importance  to  the  story, — and  possess- 
ing no  graphical  merit  whatsoever  as  pieces 
of  description.  On  their  approach  to  the  old 
chaplain's  cottage,  the  author  gets  before  his 
companion, 


when  behold 


as  an  Entry,  narrow  as  a  door ; 
A  passage  whose  brief  windings  open'd  out 
Into  a  platform  ;  that  lay,  sheepfold-wise, 
Enclos'd  between  a  single  mass  of  rock 
And  one  old  moss-grown  wall ; — a  cool  Recess, 
And  fanciful  I  For,  where  the  rock  and  wall 
Met  in  an  angle,  hung  a  tiny  roof, 
Or  penthouse,  which  most  quaintly  had  been  fraind, 
By  thrusting  two  rude  sticks  into  the  wall 
And  overlaying  them  with  mountain  sods  ! 
To  weather-fend  a  little  turf-built  seat 
Whereon  a  full-grown  man  might  rest,  nor  dread 
The  burning  sunshine,  or  a  transient  shower; 
Btit  the  whole  plainly  wrought  by  Children's  hands  ! 
Whose  simple  skill  had  throng'd  the  grassy  floor 
With  work  of  frame  less  solid  ;  a  proud  show 
Of  baby-houses,  curiously  arrang' d  ! 
Nor  wanting  ornament  of  walks  between. 
With  mimic  trees  inserted  in  the  turf, 
And  gardens  interpos'd.     Pleas' d  with  the  sight, 
I  could  not  choose  but  beckon  to  my  Guide, 
Who,  having  enter'd,  carelessly  look'd  round. 
And  now  would  have  pass'd  on  ;  when  I  exclaim'd, 
'  Lo !    what  is  here  ?'  and,  stooping  down,  drew 
A  Book,"  &,c. — pp.  71,  72.  [forth 

And  this  book,  which  he 


"  found  to  be  a  work 

In  the  French  Tongue,  a  Novel  of  Voltaire," 

leads  to  no  incident  or  remark  of  any  value 
or  importance,  to  apologise  for  this  longstorj 
of  its  finding.  There  is  no  beauty,  we  think, 
'e  suppose  the  reader  is  now  satisfied  it  must  be  admitted,  in  these  passages ;  and 
\\h.  Mr.  Wordsworth's  sublimities — which  so  little  either  of  interest  or  curiosity  in  the 
0  upy  rather  more  than  half  the  volume  : —  incidents  they  disclose,  that  we  can  scarcely 
(  his  tamer  and  more  creepin.^  prolLxity,  we  conceive  that  any  man  to  whom  they  had  ac- 
hre  not  the  heart  to  load  him  with  many  tually  occurred,  should  take  the  trouble  to 
S'ciraens.  The  following  amplification  of  recount  them  to  his  wife  and  children  b^  his 
t  vulgar  comparison  of  human  life  to  a  idle  fireside : — but,  that  man  or  child  should 
s^am,  has  the  merit  of  adding  much  ob-  think  them  worth  writin,o- down  in  h1ank.vf--.';ej 
p  rity  to  wordiness;  at  least,  we  have  not  and  printing  in  magnificent  quarto,  we  should 
ijenuity  enough  to  refer  the  conglobated  >TTifMtt^^^-hft¥e  supposed  altogether  imyr«9si 
hMes  and  murmurs,  and  floating  islands,  I  ble,  had  it  not  been  for  the  ample  proofs  which 
t'|their  Vital  prototypes.  !  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  afforded  to  the  contiary 


464 


POETRY. 


\ 


Sometimes  their  silliness  is  enhanced  by  a 
paltry  attempt  at  effect  and  emphasis: — as  in 
the  following  account  of  that  very  touching 
and  extraordinary  occurrence  of  a  Igjaii^bleat- 
ing  amoiit^  the  mountains.  The  poet  would 
actually  persuade  us  that  he  thought  the 
mountains  themselves  were  bleating; — and 
that  nothing  could  be  so  grand  or  impressive. 
'•  List  !"■  cries  the  old  Pedlar,  suddenly  break- 
ing off  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his  daintiest 
ravings — 

"  '  List ! — I  heard, 

From  yon  huge  breast  of  rock,  a  solemn  hleat .' 
Sent  forth  as  if  it  were  the  Mountain's  voice  ! 
As  if  the  visible  Mountain  made  the  cry  I 
Again  !' — The  effect  upon  the  soul  was  such 
As  ho  express'd  ;  for,  from  the  Mountain's  heart 
The  solemn  hlfdt  appear'd  to  come  !     There  was 
No  other — and  the  region  all  around 
Stood  silent,  empty  ot  all  shape  of  life. 
— Il  VHU  a  Lamb — ^left  somewhere  to  itself!" 

p.  159. 

What  we  haVfe  now  quoted  will  give  the 
reader  a  notiomaf  the  taste  and  spirit  in  which 
this  volume  is  composed  :  And  yet.  if  it  had 
not  contained  something  a  good  deal  better, 
we  do  not  know  how  we  should  have  been 
justified  in  troubling  him  with  any  account 
of  it.  But  the  truth  is,  that  Mr  Wordsworth, 
with  all  his  perversities,  is  a  person  of  great 
powers;  and  has  frequently  a  force  in  his 
moral  declamations,  and  a  tenderness  in  his 
pathetic  narratives,  which  neither  his  proljxity 
nor  his  affectation  can  altogether  deprive  of 
their  effect.  We  shall  venture  to  give  some 
extracts  from  the  simple  tale  of  the  Weaver's 
solitary  Cottage.  Its  heroine  is  the  deserted 
wife :  and  its  chief  interest  consists  in  the 
picture  of  her  despairing  despondence  and 
anxiety,  after  his  disappearance.  The  Pedlar, 
recurring  to  the  well  to  which  he  had  direct- 
ed his  companion,  observes, 

"  As  I  stoop'd  to  drink. 

Upon  the  slimy  foot-stone  I  espied 
The  useless  fragment  ot  a  wooden  bowl, 
Green  with  the  moss  of  years;  a  pensive  sight 
That  mov'd  my  heart  I — recalling  former  days. 
When  I  could  never  pass  that  road  but  She 
Who  liv'd  within  these  walls,  at  my  approach, 
A  Daughter's  welcome  gave  me  ;  and  I  lov'd  her 
As  my  own  child  !     O  Sir  !  the  good  die  first  I 
And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

"By  some  especial  care 

Her  temper  had  been  fram'd,  as  if  to  make 
A  Being — who  by  adding  love  to  peace 
Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness." 

pp.  27,  28. 

The  bliss  and  tranquillity  of  these  prosper- 
ous years  is  well  and  copiously  describee!; — 
but  at  last  came  sickness,  and  want  of  em- 
ployment; —  and  the  effect  on  the  kind- 
hearted  and  industrious  mechanic  is  strikingly 
delineated. 

"  At  his  door  he  stood, 

And  whi^iPd  many  a  snatch  of  merry  tunes 
That  had  no  mirth  in  ihem  I  or  with  his  knife 
Carv'd  uncouth  figures  on  the  heads  of  sticks — 
Then,  not  less  idly,  sought,  through  every  nook 
In  house  or  garden,  any  casual  work 
Of  use  or  ornament." — 


"  One  while  he  would  speak  lightly  of  his  Babes,  ^ 
And  with  a  cruel  tongue  :  at  other  limes  , 

He  toss'd  them  with  a  false  uiniai'ral  joy : 
And  'twas  a  rueful  thing  to  see  the  looks  ( 

Of  the  poor  innocent  children." — p.  31. 

At  last,  he  steals  from  his  cottage,  and  enlis 
as  a  soldier  ;  and  when  the  benevolent  Pedl: 
comes,  in  his  rounds,  in  hope  of  a  cheerf; 
welcome,  he  meets  with  a  scene  of  despair. 

— —  "  Having  reach'd  the  door 
I  knock'd, — and,  when  I  enter'd  wiiii  tlie  hope 
Of  usual  greeting,  Margaret  look'd  at  me 
A  little  while  ;  then  turn'd  her  head  away 
Speechless, — and  sitting  down  upon  a  chair 
Wept  bitterly  !  I  wist  not  what  to  do. 
Or  how  to  speak  to  her.     Poor  Wretch  I  at  last 
She  rose  from  off  her  seat,  and  then, — O  Sir  1 
I  cannot  tell  how  she  pronounc'd  my  name.— 
With  fervent  love,  and  with  a  face  ol  grief 
Unutterably  helpless'.-' — pp.  34,  35. 

Hope,  however,  and  native  cheerfulnes' 
were  not  yet  subdued ;  and  her  spirit  still  bor 
up  against  the  pressure  of  this  desertion. 

"  Long  we  had  not  talk'd 

Ere  we  built  up  a  pile  ot  better  thoughts. 
And  with  a  brighter  eye  she  look'd  around 
As  if  siie  had  been  shedding  tears  of  joy." 

"  We  parted. — 'Twas  the  time  of  early  spring; 
I  left  her  busy  with  her  garden  tools; 
And  well  rennember,  o'er  that  fence  she  look'd, 
And.  while  I  paced  along  the  footway  path. 
Called  out,  and  sent  a  blessing  after  me. 
With  tender  cheerfulness;  and  with  a  voice 
That  seem  d  the  verv  sound  of  happv  ihousihts." 
pp.  36,  3' 

The  gradual  sinking  of  the  spirit  under  th 
load  of  continued  anxiety,  and  the  destruc 
tion  of  all  the  finer  springs  of  the  soul  by- 
course  of  unvarying  sadness,  are  very  feei 
ingly  represented  in  the  sequel  of  this  simp) 
narrative. 

"  I  journey'd  back  this  way 

Towards  the  wane  of  Summer;  when  the  wheat 

Was  yellow  ;  and  the  soft  and  bladed  gra.<s 

Springing  afresh  had  o'er  the  hay-field  spread 

Its  tender  verdure.     At  the  door  arriv'd, 

I  found  that  she  was  absent.     In  the  shade. 

Where  now  we  sit,  I  wailed  her  return. 

Her  Cottage,  then  a  cheerful  Olijcct,  wore 

Its  customary  look. — only.  I  thought. 

The  honeysuckle,  crowding  round  the  porch, 

Hung  down  in  heavier  talis:  and  that  bright  weed 

The  yellow  stone-crop,  suffer'd  to  take  root 

Along  the  window's  edge,  profusely  erew, 

Blinding  the  lower  panes.     I  turn'd  aside. 

And  siroll'dinto  her  garden.     It  appeared 

To  lag  behind  the  season,  and  had  lost 

Its  pride  of  neatness." — 

"The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west ;  antl  now 

I  sate  with  sad  impatience.     From  within 

Her  solitary  Infant  cried  aloud  ; 

Then,  like  a  blast  that  dies  away  self-still'd, 

The  voice  was  silent." — pp.  37—39. 

The  desolate  woman  had  now  an  air  of  etil 
and  listless,  though  patient  sorrow. 

"  Evermore 

Her  eyelids  droop'd.  her  eyes  were  downward  cast 
And,  when  she  at  her  table  gave  me  food. 

She  did  not  look  at  me  I     Her  voice  was  low,  ' 

Her  body  was  subdu'd.     In  ev'ry  act  j 

Pertaining  to  her  house  affairs,  appear'd  ■ 

The  careless  stillness  of  a  ihinking  mind  ' 

Self-occupied  ;  to  which  all  outward  things  ' 

Are  like  an  idle  matter.     Still  she  sigh'd,  ' 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


465 


iul  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen, 
0  heaving  of  the  heart.     While  by  the  fire 
'e  sate  together,  sif^hs  came  on  my  ear, 
know  not  how,  ana  hardly  whence  they  came. 

I  returii'd, 

ind  took  my  rounds  along  this  road  again, 
're  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flow'r 
eep'd  forth,  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  Spring, 
(bund  her  sad  and  drooping  ;  she  had  learn'd 

0  tidinss  of  her  Husband  ;  if  he  liv'd 

le  knew  not  that  he  lived  ;  if  he  were  dead 

le  knew  not  he  was  dead.     She  seem'd  the  same 

1  person  and  appearance  ;  but  her  House 
lespake  a  sleepy  hand  of  negligence 

Her  Infant  Babe 

ad  from  its  Mother  cauiiht  the  trick  of  grief, 
|nd  sigh'd  among  its  playthings  !" — pp.  41—43. 

!3turning  seasons  only  deepened  this  gloom, 
id  confirmed  this  neglect.  Her  child  died  ; 
id  she  spent  her  weary  days  in  roaming 
-er  the  country,  and  repeating  her  fond  and 
[tin  inquiries  to  every  passer  by. 

Meantime  her  House  by  frost,  and  thaw,  and  rain, 
'assapp'd  ;  and  while  she  slept  the  nightly  damps 
id  chill  her  breast  ;  and  in  the  stormy  day 
er  tatter'd  clothes  were  ruffl'd  by  the  wind, 
/'n  at  the  side  of  her  own  fire.     Yet  still 
16  lov'd  this  wretched  spot  ;  and  here,  my  Friend, 
sickness  she  remain'd  ;  and  here  she  died  ! 
ist  Human  Tenant  of  these  ruin'd  Walls." — p.  46. 

'The  story  of  the  old  Chaplain,  though  a 
tie  less  lowly,  is  of  the  same  mournful  cast, 
ltd  almost  equally  destitute  of  incidents; — 
r  Mr.  Wordsworth  delineates  only  feelings — 
.d  all  his  adventures  are  of  the  heart.  The 
.rrative  which  is  given  by  the  suti'erer  him- 
If  is,  in  our  opinion,  the  most  spirited  and 
iteresting  part  of  the  poem.  He  begins  thus, 
|d  addressing  himself,  after  a  long  pause, 
j  his  ancietit  countryman  and  friend  the 
sdlar — 

;You  never  saw,  your  eyes  did  never  look 
,n  the  hriirhf  Form  of  Her  whom  once  I  lov'd  ! — 
ir  silver  voice  was  heard  upon  the  earth, 
sound  unknown  to  you  ;  else,  honour'd  Friend, 
pur  heart  had  borne  a  pitiable  share 
f  whall  suffer'd,  when  I  wept  that  loss! 
id  sutler  now,  not  seldom,  from  the  thought 
lat  I  remember  —  and  can  weep  no  more!" 

p.  117. 

;The  following  account  of  his  marriage  and 
I'rly  felicity  is  written  with  great  sweetness — 
aiweetness  like  that  of  Massinger,  in  his  softer 
;:d  more  mellifluous  passages. 

"  This  fair  Bride — 

the  devoiedness  of  youthful  love, 
jeferring  me  to  Parents,  and  the  choir 
'"iray  companions,  to  the  natal  roof, 
;id  all  known  places  and  familiar  sights, 
iiesiwn'd  with  sadness  gently  weighing  down 
It  tremblincr  expectations,  but  no  more 
:ian  did  to  her  due  honour,  and  to  me 
, elded,  that  day.  a  confidence  sublime 
:  what  I  had  to  build  upon) — this  Bride, 
:)ii!ie,  modest,  meek,  and  beautiful,  I  led 
I  a  low  Cottage  in  a  sunny  Bay, 
here  the  salt  sea  innocuously  breaks, 
id  the  sea  breeze  as  innocently  breathes. 
1  Devon's  leafy  shores; — a  shrltcr'd  Flold, 
^  a  soft  clime,  encouraging  the  soil 
')  a  luxuriant  bounty! — -As  our  steps 
•  iproach  the  embower'd  Abode,  our  chosen  Seat, 
Se,  rooted  in  the  earth,  its  kindly  bed, 
'lie  unendanger'd  Myrtle. deck'd  with  flowers, '&c. 
59 


" — Wild  were  our  walks  upon  those  lonely  Downs, 

Whence,  unmolested  Wanderers,  we  beheld 

The  shining  Giver  of  the  Day  diffuse 

His  brightness,  o'er  a  tract  of  sea  and  land 

Gay  as  our  spirits,  free  as  our  desires, 

.\s  our  enjoyments  boundless. — From  these  Heights 

We  dropp'd,  at  pleasure,  into  sylvan  Combs; 

Where  arbours  of  impenetrable  shade, 

And  mossy  seats  detain'd  us,  side  by  side, 

\yiih  hearts  at  ease,  and  knowledge  in  our  hearts 

'  That  all  the  grove  and  all  the  day  was  ours  '  " 

pp.  118—120. 

There,  seven  years  of  unmolested  happiness 
were  blessed  with  two  lovely  children. 

"  And  on  these  pillars  rested,  as  on  air. 
Our  solitude." 

Suddenly  a  contagious  malady  swept  off  both 
the  infants. 

"  Calm  as  a  frozen  Lake  when  ruthless  Winds 
Blow  fiercely,  agitating  earth  and  sky. 
The  Mother  now  remain'd." 

"  Yet,  stealing  slow. 

Dimness  o'er  this  clear  Luminary  crept 

Insensibly  ! — The  immortal  and  divine 

Yielded  to  mortal  reflux,  her  pure  Glory, 

As  from  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  state 

Wretched  Ambition  drops  astounded,  fell 

Into  a  gulf  obscure  of  silent  grief. 

And  keen  heart-anguish — of  itself  asham'd, 

Yet  obstinately  cherishing  itself: 

And,  so  consum'd,  She  melted  from  my  arms  ! 

And  left  me,  on  this  earth,  disconsolate." 

pp.  125,  126. 

The  agony  of  mind  into  which  the  sur- 
vivor was  thrown,  is  described  with  a  power- 
ful eloquence;  as  well  as  the  doubts  and  dis- 
tracting fears  which  the  sceptical  speculations 
of  his  careless  days  had  raised  in  his  spirit. 
There  is  something  peculiarly  grand  and  ter- 
rible to  our  feelings  in  the  imagery  of  these 
three  lines — 

"  By  pain  of  heart,  now  check'd,  and  now  impell'd. 
The  Intellectual  Pou'er,  throusrh  words  and  things 
Went  sounding  on, — a  dim  and  perilous  way  !" 

At  last  he  is  roused  from  this  dejected  mood, 
by  the  glorious  promises  which  seemed  heki 
out  to  human  nature  by  the  first  dawn  of  ihe 
French  Revolution ; — and  it  indicates  a  fine 
perception  oi  Xhe  secret  springs  of  character 
and  emotion,  to  choose  a  being  so  circum- 
stanced as  the  most  ardent  votary  of  that  far- 
spread  enthusiasm. 

"  Thus  was  I  reconverted  to  the  world  ! 

Society  became  my  glitt'ring  Bride, 

And  airy  hopes  my  Children  ! — If  busy  Men 

In  sober  conclave  met,  to  weave  a  web 

(^f  amity,  whose  living  threads  should  stretch 

Beyond  the  seas,  and  to  the  farthest  pole, 

There  did  I  sit,  assisting.     If,  with  noise 

And  acclamation,  crowds  in  open  air 

Kxpress'd  the  tumult  of  their  minds,  my  voice 

'I'here  mingled,  heard  or  not.    The  powers  of  song 

I  left  not  uninvok'd;  and,  in  still  groves. 

Where  mild  Enthusiasts  tnn'd  a  pensive  lay 

Of  thanks  and  e.\pectation,  in  accord 

With  their  belief,  I  sang  Saiurnian  Rule 

Return'd, — a  progeny  of  golden  years 

Permitted  to  descend,  and  bless  mankind  !" 

pp.  128,  129. 

On  the  disappearance  of  that  bright  vision, 
he  was  inclined  to  take  part  with  the  despe- 
rate party  who   still  aimed  at  establishina 


466 


POETRy. 


universal  regeneration,  though  by  more  ques- 
tionable instruments  than  they  had  originally 
assumed.  But  the  military  despotism  which 
ensued  soon  closed  the  scene  against  all  such 
exertions;  and,  disgusted  with  men  and 
Europe,  he  sought  for  shelter  in  the  wilds  of 
America.  \n  the  calm  of  the  voyage,  Memory 
and  Conscience  awoke  him  to  a  sense  of  his 
misery. 

"  Feebly  must  They  have  felt 

Who,  in  old  lime,  auir'd  with  snakes  and  whips 

The  vengeful  Furies.     Btauti/ul  rcoards 

Were  turii'd  on  nie — the  face  of  her  I  lov'd  I 

The  Wife  and  Mother,  pitifully  fixing 

Tender  reproaches.  insu[)portable  I" — pp.  133,  134. 

His  disappointment,  and  ultimate  seclusion  in 
England,  have  been  already  sufficiently  de- 
tailed. 

We  must  trespass  upon  our  readers  with 
the  fragments  of  yet  another  story.  It  is  that 
of  a  simple,  seduced,  and  deserted  girl,  told 
with  great  sweetness,  pathos,  and  indulgence, 
by  the  Vicar  of  the  parish,  by  the  side  of  her 
untimely  grave.  Lool^ing  down  on  the  turf, 
he  says — 

"  As,  on  a  sunny  bank,  a  tender  Lamb, 
Lurks  in  safe  shelter,  from  the  winds  of  March 
Screen'd  by  its  Parent,  so  that  little  mound 
Lies  guarded  by  its  neighbour.     The  small  heap 
Speaks  for  itself; — an  Infant  there  doth  rest  ; 
The  shelt'ring  Hillock  is  the  Mother's  grave  I — 
There,  by  her  innocent  Baby's  precious  grave, 
Yea,  doubtless,  on  the  turf  that  roofs  her  own, 
The  Mother  oft  was  seen  to  stand,  or  kneel. 
In  the  broad  day,  a  weeping  Magdalene. 
Now  she  is  not !     The  swelling  turf  reports 
Of  the  fresh  show'r,  but  of  poor  Pollen's  tears 
Is  silent ;  nor  is  any  vestige  left 
Upon  the  pathway  of  her  mournful  tread  ; 
Nor  of  that  pace  with  which  she  once  had  mov'd 
In  virgin  fearlessness — a  step  that  seem'd 
Caught  from  the  pressure  of  elastic  turf 
Upon  the  mountains  wet  with  morning  dew. 
In  the  prime  hour  of  sweetest  scents  and  airs." 
pp.  285—287. 

Her  virgin  graces  and  gentleness  are  then 
very  beautifully  described,  and  her  seduction 
and  lonely  anguish  passed  over  very  tenderly. 

"  '  Ah  why,'  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 

'  Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge  ; 

And  nature  that  is  kind  in  Woman's  breast, 

And  reason  that  in  Man  is  kind  and  good. 

And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a  righteous  Judge, 

Why  do  not  these  prevail  fir  human  life, 

To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  be^an 

Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 

Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 

To  grant,  or  be  receiv'd  ?'  " — p.  289. 

"  A  kindlier  passion  opcn'd  on  her  soul 

When  that  poor  Child  was  born.     Upon  its  face 

She  look'd  as  on  a  pure  and  spotless  gift 

Of  unexpected  promiso,  whore  a  grief 

Or  dread  was  all  that  had  been  thought  of. 

'  Till  this  hour,' 

Thus  in  her  Mother's  hearing  Ellen  spake, 

'  There  was  a  stony  region  in  my  heart  ! 

But  He  at  whose  command  the  parched  rock 

Was  smitten,  and  poiir"d  forth  a  quenching  stream, 

Hath  soften'd  that  obduracy,  and  made 

Unlool;'d-for  gladness  in  the  desert  place. 

To  save  the  perishins  ;  and,  henceforth,  I  look 

Upon  the  lit-ht  with  clicerfulnoss,  for  ihoe 

y.v  Infant  I  and  for  ilnl  good  Mother  dear, 

Who  bore  me, — and  hath  pray'd  for  me  in  vain ! — 


(II  lie  10 
0^ 


Yet  not  in  vain,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain.'  [h. 

— Through  four  months'  space  the  Infant  drew 
From  the  maternal  breast.  Then  scruples  rose: 
Thoughts,  which  the  rich  are  free  from,  came  a 

cross' d 
The  sweet  affection.     She  no  more  could  bear     , 
By  her  offence  to  lay  a  twofold  weight 
On  a  kind  parent,  willing  to  forget 
Their  slender  means  !     So,  to  that  parent's  care:^ 
Trusting  her  child,  she  left  their  common  home, 
And  with  contented  spirit  undertook 
A  Foster-Mother's  office."— pp.  291—293. 

Here  the  parents  of  her  new  nursling  sot 
forbade  her  all  intercourse  with  her  own  mo 
precious  child  ; — and  a  sudden  malady  carrie] 
it  off,  in  this  period  of  forced  desertion.       j 

"  Once,  only  once,  ' 

She  saw  it  in  that  mortal  malady  : 

And,  on  the  burial  day,  could  scarcely  gain 

Permission  to  attend  its  obsequies  I 

She  reach'd  the  house — last  of  the  fun'ral  train  ;^ 

And  some  One,  as  she  enter'd,  having  chane'd    , 

To  urge  unthinkingly  their  prompt  departure, 

'  Nay,'  said  she,  with  commanding  look,  a  spirit 

Of  anger  never  seen  in  her  before, 

'  Nay  ye  must  wait  my  time  I'  and  down  she  sate 

And  by  the  unclos'd  coffin  kept  her  seat ; 

Weeping  and  looking,  looking  on  and  weeping 

Upon  the  last  sweet  slumber  of  her  Child  .' 

Until  at  length  her  soul  was  satisfied. 

You  see  the  Infant's  Grave  I — and  to  this  Spot 
The  Mother,  oft  as  she  was  sent  abroad, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  errand,  urg'd  her  steps  : 
Hither  she  came  ;  and  here  she  stood,  or  knelt, 
In  the  broad  day — a  rueful  Magdalene  !" — p.  294., 

Overwhelmed  with  this  calamity,  she  was  {(    jim 
last  obliged  to  leave  her  service.  (Pkii&i 

"  But  the  green  stalk  of  Ellen's  life  was  snapp'd. 
And  the  flower  droop'd  ;  as  every  eye  might  see. 

"  Her  fond  maternal  Heart  had  built  a  Nest 
In  blindness  all  too  near  the  river's  edge  ; 
That  Work  a  summer  flood  with  hasty  swell 
Had  swept  away  !  and  now  her  spirit  long'd 
For  its  last  flight  to  Heaven's  security." 

"  —  Meek  Saint!    through  patience  glorified 

earth  ! 
In  whom,  as  by  her  lonely  hearth  she  sate, 
The  ghastly  face  of  cold  decay  put  on 
A  sun-like  beauty,  and  appear'd  divine  :  jj 

So,  through  the  cloud  ol  death,  her  Spirit  paee'd 
Info  that  pure  and  unknown  world  of  love. 
Where  injury  cannot  come  : — and  here  is  laid 
The  mortal  Body  bv  her  Infant's  side  !'' 

pp.  296,  297. 

These  passages,  we  think,  are  among  lh< 
most  touching  with  which  the  volume  present; 
us ;  though  there  are  many  in  a  more  loftj 
and  impassioned  style.  The  following  com' 
memoration  of  a  beautiful  and  glorious  youth 
the  love  and  the  pride  of  the  humble  valley 
is  full  of  warmth  and  poetry. 

•'  The  mountain  Ash, 

Deck'd  with  autumnal  berries  that  outshine 

Spring's  richest  blossoms,  yields  a  splendid  show  i 

Amid  the  Icafv  woods  ;  and  ye  have  seen,  I 

By  a  brook  side  or  solitary  tarn, 

Hi)w  she  her  station  doth  adorn, — the  pool 

Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 

Are  brighien'd  round  her  !     In  his  native  Vale 

Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  Youth  appear; 

A  siffht  that  kii^dled  pleasure  in  all  hearts. 

By  his  ingenuous  lieauiy,  by  the  gleam 

Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capricious  brow. 

By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature's  hand 

Had  bounteously  array'd  him.    As  old  Bards       ] 


WORDSWORTH'S  EXCURSION. 


467 


'ell  in  their  idle  son^s  of  wnnd'ring  Gods, 

an  or  Apollo,  veil-u  in  human  (bnn ; 

'et,  like  the  swcet-breath'd  violot  of  the  siiade, 

hscover'd  in  their  own  despite,  to  sense 

;»f  Mortals,  (if  such  fables  without  hlanie 

lay  find  chance- mention  on  this  sacred  ground,) 

o,  through  a  simple  rustic  garb's  disguise, 

1  him  reveai'd  a  Sciiolar's  genius  shone  ! 

.nd  so,  not  wliolly  hidden  from  men's  sight, 

1  him  the  spirit  of  a  flero  walk'd 

!'ur  unpretending  valley  !" — [ip.  342,  343. 

'  This  is  lofty  and  euergetic  ■ — but  Mr. 
^'^ordsworth  descends,  we  cannot  think  very 
pceftilly,  when  he  proceeds  to  describe  how 
^e  quoit  whizzed  when  his  arm  launched  it 
|-and  how  the  football  mounted  as  high  as  a 
rk,  at  the  touch  of  his  toe  ; — neither  is  it 
suitable  catastrojihe,  for  one  so  nobly  en- 
ijwed,  to  catch  cold  b)-  standing  too  Jong  in 
ke  river  washing  sheep,  and  die  of  spasms 
;.  consequence. 

The  general  reflections  on  the  indiscrimi- 
iting  rapacity  of  death,  though  by  no  means 
iginal  in  themselves,  and  expressed  with 
10  bold  a  rivalry  of  the  seven  ages  of  Shake- 
i)eare,  have  yet  a  character  of  vigour  and 
uth  about  them  that  entitles  them  to  notice. 

This  file  of  Infants  ;  some  that  never  breathed, 
'nd  the  besprinkl'd  Nursling,  unrequir'd 
ill  he  bpgins  to  smile  upon  the  breast 
ihat  feeds  him  ;  and  the  toti'ring  Little-one 
iaken  from  air  Tind  sunshine,  when  the  rose 
if  Infancy  first  blooms  upon  h;s  cheek  ;       [Youth 
he   thinking,    thoughtless    Schoolboy;    the   bold 
f  soul  impetuous;  and  the  bashful  Maid 
nitten  while  all  the  promises  of  life 
ire  op'ning  round  her  ;  those  of  middle  age, 
list  down  while  confident  in  strength  they  stand, 
ike  pillars  fi.t'd  more  firmly,  as  might  seem, 
nd  more  secure,  by  very  weight  of  all 
hat,  for  support,  rests  on  them  ;  the  decay'd 
nd  burthensome  ;  and,  lastly,  that  poor  few 
'hose  light  of  reason  is  with  age  extinct ; 
he  hopeful  and  the  hopeless,  first  and  last, 
he  earliest  summon'd  and  the  longest  spar'd, 
ire  here  deposited  ;  with  tribute  paid 
tirious,  but  unto  each  some  tribute  paid ; 
13  if,  amid  these  peaceful  hills  and  groves, 
icieiy  were  touch'd  with  kind  concern, 
nd  gentle  "Nature  griev'd  that  One  should  die  !" 
pp.  244,  245. 

There  is  a  lively  and  impressive  appeal  on 
e  injury  done  to  the  health,  happiness,  and 
orality  of  the  lower  orders,  by  the  unceas- 
!g  and  premature  labours  of  our  crowded 
ianufactories.  The  description  of  night-work- 
g  is  picturesque.  In  lonely  and  romantic 
gions,  he  says,  when  silence  and  darkness 
'cline  all  to  repose — 

"  An  unnatural  light 

epar'd  for  never-resiing  Labour's  eyes, 

eaks  from  a  many-window'd  Fabric  huge; 

id  at  the  appointed  hour  a  Bell  is  heard — 

:  harsher  import  than  the  Curfew-knoll 

'lat  spake  the  Norman  Conqueror's  stern  behest. 

1  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil ! 

Isgorg'd  are  now  the  Ministers  of  day; 

nd,  as  they  issue  from  the  illumin'd  Pile, 

fresh  Band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door. — 

nd  in   the    Courts  ; — and    where    the   rumbling 

jiat  turns  the  multitude  of  dizzy  wheels,    [Stream, 

iiares,  like  a  troubl'd  Spirit,  in  its  bed 

jmong  the  rocks  below.     Men,  Maidens,  Youths, 

other  and  Utile  Children,  Hoys  and  Girls, 

Iter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 

ithin  this  Temple — where  is  offer'd  up 


To  Gain — the  master  Idol  of  the  Realm, 
Perpetual  sacrifice." — p.  3(37. 

The  effects  on  the  ordinary  life  of  the  poor 
are  delineated  in  graver  colours. 

"  Domestic  bliss, 

(Or  call  it  comfort,  by  a  humbler  name,) 
How  art  ihou  blighted  for  the  poor  Man's  heart! 
Lo  1  in  such  neighbourhood,  from  morn  to  eve, 
The  Habitations  empty  !  or  perchance 
The  Mother  left  alone, — no  helping  hand 
To  rock  the  cradle  ot  her  peevish  babe  ; 
No  daughters  round  her,  busy  at  the  wheel. 
Or  m  despatch  ol  each  day's  little  growth 
Of  household  occupation  ;  no  nice  arts 
Of  needle- work  ;  no  bustle  at  the  fire. 
Where  once  the  dinner  was  prepared  with  pride  ; 
Nothing  to  speed  the  day  or  cheer  the  mind  ; 
Noilinio;  10  praise,  to  teach,  or  to  command  I 
—The  Father,  if  perchance  he  still  retain 
His  old  employments,  goes  to  field  or  wood. 
No  longer  led  or  followed  by  Ins  Sons  ; 
Idlers  perchance  they  were, — but  in  his  sight  ; 
Breaihing  fresh  air,  and  treading  the  green  earth  ; 
Till  their  short  holiday  of  childhood  ceas'd. 
Ne'er  to  return  !     That  birth- right  now  is  lost." 
pp.  371,372. 

The  dissertation  is  closed  with  an  ardent 
hope,  that  the  farther  improvement  and  the 
universal  diffusion  of  these  arts  may  take 
away  the  temptation  for  us  to  embark  so 
largely  in  their  cultivation ;  and  that  we  may 
once  more  hold  out  inducements  for  the  re- 
tuni  of  old  manners  and  domestic  charities. 


"  Learning,  though  late,  that  all  true  glory  rests, 

All  praise,  all  safety,  and  all  happiness. 

Upon  the  Moral  law.     Egyptian  Thebes  ; 

Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves  ; 

Palmyra,  ceniral  in  the  Desert,  fell! 

And  the  Arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 

— Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  Tomb 

Upon  the  plain  of  vanish'd  Syracuse, 

And  feelingly  the  Sage  shall  make  report 

How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself. 

Is  that  Philosophy,  whose  sway  is  fram'd 

For  mere  material  instruments : — How  weak 

Those  Arts,  and  high  Inventions,  if  unpropp'd 

By  Virtue."— p.  369. 

There  is  also  a  very  animated  exhortation 
to  the  more  general  diffusion  of  education 
among  the  lower  orders  ;  and  a  glowing  and 
eloquent  assertion  of  their  capacity  for  all  vir- 
tues and  enjoyments. 

"  Believe  it  not ! 

The  primal  Duties  shine  aloft — like  stars  ; 

The  Charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless. 

Are  ecatter'd  at  the  feet  of  Man — like  flow'rs. 

The  gen'rous  inclination,  the  just  rule. 

Kind  wishes,  and  good  actions,  and  pure  thoughts — 

No  mystery  is  here  ;  no  special  boon 

For  high  and  not  for  low,  for  proudly  grac'd, 

And  not  for  meek  of  heart.     The  smoke  ascends 

To  heav'n  as  lightly  from  the  Cottage  hearth 

As  from  the  haughty  palace." — p.  398. 

The  blessings  and  the  necessities  that  now 
render  this  a  peculiar  duty  in  the  rulers  of 
this  empire,  are  urged  in  a  still  loftier  tone. 

"  Look  !  and  behold,  from  Calpe's  sunburnt  clifl's 
To  the  flat  margin  of  the  Baltic  sea, 
Long-reverenc'd  Titles  cast  away  as  weeds  ; 
Laws  overturn'd, — and  Territory  split; 
Like  fields  of  ice  rent  by  the  polar  wind. 
And  forc'd  to  join  in  lisss  obnoxious  shapes, 
Which,  ere  they  gain  consistence,  bv  a  gust 
Of  the  same  breath  are  shatter'd  and  destroy'd. 
Meantime,  the  Sov'reignty  of  these  fair  Isles 


468 


POETRY. 


Remains  entire  and  indivisible  ; 

And.  if  that  ignorance  were  remov'd,  which  acts 

Within  the  compass  of  their  sev'ral  shores 

To  breed  commotion  and  disquietude, 

Each  might  preserve  the  beautiful  repose 

Of  heav'nly  bodies  shining  in  their  spheres 

— The  discipline  of  slavery  is  unknown 

Amongst  us. — hence  the  more  do  vy;e  require 

The  discipline  of  virtue  ;  order  else 

Cannot  subsist,  nor  confidence,  nor  peace." 

pp.  402.  403. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  fine  description  in 
the  course  of  this  work  ;  but  we  have  left 
ourselves  no  room  for  any  specimen.  The 
following  few  lines,  however,  are  a  fine  epit- 
ome of  a  lake  voyage  : — 

"  Riirht  across  the  Lake 

Our  pinnace  moves  :  then,  coasting  creek  and  bay, 
Glades  we  behold — and  into  thickets  peep — 
Where  crouch  the  spotted  deer  ;  or  rai.-<e  our  eyes 
To  shaggy  steeps  on  which  the  careless  goat 
Browgeaby  the  side  of  dashing  waterfalls." — p. 412. 

We  add,  also,  the  following  more  elaborate 
antl  fantastic  picture — which,  however,  is  not 
without  its  beauty : — 

"Then  having  reach'd  a  bridge,  thai  overarch'd 
The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalm'd 
In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 
A  twofold  Irniisre.     On  a  grassy  bank 
A  snow-white  Ram,  and  in  die  crystal  flood 
Another  and  the  same  !      IVIost  beautiful. 
On  the  green  turf,  with  his  imperial  front 
Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb, 
Tlie  breathing  creature  stood  '   as  beautiful. 
Beneath  him,  show'd  his  shadowy  Counterpart. 
Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky. 
And  each  seem'd  centre  of  his  own  fair  world  : 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other. 
Yet.  in  partition,  with  ihpir  several  spheres. 
Blended  in  perfect  stillness  to  our  sight  I" — p.  407. 

Besides  those  more  extended  passages  of 
interest  or  beauty,  which  we  have  quoted, 
and  omitted  to  quote,  there  are  scattered  up 
and  down  the  book,  and  in  the  midst  of  its 
most  repulsive  portions,  a  very  great  number 
of  single  lines  and  images,  that  sparkle  like 
gems  in  the  desert,  and  startle  us  with  an  in- 
timation of  the  great  poetic  powers  that  lie 
buried  in  the  rubbi.sh  that  has  beeti  heaped 
around  them.  It  is  difficult  to  pick  up  these, 
after  we  have  once  passed  them  by  :  but  we 
shall  endeavour  to  light  upon  one  or  two.  The 
beneficial  efTect  of  intervals  of  rela.vation  and 
pastime  on  youthful  minds,  is  finely  expressed, 
we  think,  in  a  single  line,  when  it  is  said  to 
be— 

"  Like  vernal  ground  to  Sabbath  sunshine  left." 

The  following  image  of  the  bursting  forth 
of  a  mountain-spring,  seems  to  us  also  to  be 
conceived  with  great  elegance  and  beauty. 

"  And  a  few  steps  mav  bring  us  to  the  spot. 
Where  haply  crown'd  with   flow'rets  and   green 

herbs. 
The  Mountain  Infant  to  the  Sun  comes  forth, 
[jike  human  light  from  darkness  !" 

The  ameliorating  effects  of  song  and  musac 
on  the  minds  which  most  delight  in  them,  are 
likewise  very  poetically  expressed. 

"  And  when  the  stream 

Which  overflow'd  the  soul  was  pass'd  away, 
A  consciousness  remain 'd  that  it  had  left, 


Deposited  upon  the  silent  shore 

Of  Memory,  images  and  precious  thoughts. 

'I'hat  shall  not  die,  and  cannot  be  destroy'd 

Nor  is  any  thing  more  elegant  than  it. 
representation  of  the  graceful  tranquillity  oi. 
casionally  put  on  by  one  of  the  author^ 
favourites;  who.  though  gay  and  airy,  jj 
general — 

"  Was  graceful,  when  it  pleas'd  him,  smooth  ar 

still 
As  the  mute  Swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream. 
Or  on  the  waters  of  ih'  unruffled  lake 
.•Xnchors  her  placid  beauty.     Not  a  leaf 
That  flutters  on  the  bough  more  light  than  he,      1 
And  not  a  flow'r  that  droops  in  the  green  shade    ; 
More  willingly  reserv'd."  j 

Nor  are  there  wanting  morsels  of  a  sterne 
and  more  majestic  beauty  ;  as  when,  assumiii 
the  weightier *diction  of  Cowper,  he  says,  i 
language  which  the  hearts  of  all  readers  o 
modern  history  must  have  responded — 

•"  Earth  is  sick, 

.^nd  Heav'n  is  weary  of  the  hollow  words  , 

Which  States  and  Kingdom  utter  when  tliey  spea 
Of  Truth  and  Justice." 

These  examples,  we  perceive,  are  not  vet' 
well  chosen — but  we  have  not  leisure  to  inr 
prove  the  selection ;  and,  such  as  they  an 
they  may  serve  to  give  the  reader  a  notion  o 
the  sort  of  merit  which  we  mennt  to  illustrat 
by  their  citation.  When  we  look  hack  I 
them,  indeed,  and  to  the  other  pas.^age.swhic 
we  have  now  extracted,  we  feel  half  incline 
to  rescind  the  severe  sentence  which  w 
passetl  on  the  work  at  the  beginning : — Bi 
when  we  look  into  the  work  itself,  we  perceiv 
that  it  cannot  be  rescinded.  Nobody  can  b 
more  disposed  to  do  justice  to  the  great  powei 
of  INIr.  Wordsworth  than  we  are;  and,  froi 
the  first  time  that  he  came  before  us,  dow 
to  the  present  moment,  we  have  uniformi 
testified  in  their  favour,  and  a.ssigned  indee 
our  high  sense  of  their  value  as  the  chie 
ground  of  the  bitterness  with  which  we  ri 
sented  their  perversion.  That  perversiot 
however,  is  now  far  more  visible  than  the 
original  dignity;  and  while  we  collect  th 
fragments,  it  is  impossible  not  to  mourn  ovt 
the  ruins  from  which  we  are  condemned  i 
pick  them.  If  any  one  should  doubt  of  tl) 
existence  of  such  a  perversion,  or  be  dispose 
to  dispute  about  the  instances  we  have  hasti; 
brought  forward,  we  would  just  beg  leave  i 
refer  him  to  the  general  plan  and  character  c, 
the  poem  now  before  us.  Why  should  M 
WordsAvorth  have  made  hishero_asujieranni  1 
a.ted  pedlar?  What  but  fhe  mosTwretchej 
af/ectalion,  or  provoking  perversity  of  tast»4 
could  induce  any  one  to  place  his  cho-sen  ac 
vocate  of  wisdom  and  virtue  in  so  absurd  an, 
fantastic  a  condition  ?  Did  Mr.  Wordsworl 
really  imagine,  that  his  favourite  doctrine 
were  likely  to  gain  any  thing  in  point  of  efrp( 
or  authority  by  being  put  into  the  mouth  of 
person  accustomed  to  higgle  about  tape,  ( 
brass  sleeve-buttons?  Or  is  it  not  plain  tha 
independent  of  the  ridicule  and  disgust  whic* 
such  a  per.'sonification  must  excite  in  manyo 
his  readers,  its  adoption  exposes  his  wot 
throughout  to  the  charge  of  revolting  incoi 


I 


WORDSWORTH'S  WHITE  DOE. 


469 


rruity,  and  utter  disregard  of  probability  or 
lature  1  For,  after  he  has  thus  wilfully  de- 
)ased  his  moi-al  teacher  by  a  low  occupation, 
s  there  one  word  that  he  puts  hito  his  mouth, 
T  one  sentiment  of  which  he  makes  him  the 
iigan,  that  has  the  most  remote  reference  to 
hat  occupation  ?  Is  thepe  any  thing  in  his 
earned,  abstract,  and  logical  harangues,  that 
avours  of  the  calling  that  is  ascribed  to'him  ? 


The  absurdity  in  this  case,  we  think,  is 
palpable  and  glaring:  but  it  is  exactly  of  the 
same  nature  with  that  which  infects  the  whole 
substance  of  the  work — a  puerile  ambition 
ol  singularity  engrafted  on  an  unlucky  predi- 
lection for  truisms ;  and  an  affected  passion 
for  simplicity  and  humble  hfe,  most  awk- 
wardly combined  with  a  taste  for  mystical 

_^ refinements,  and  Ittl  the  gorgeousuess  of  ob- 

\.Te  any  of  their  materials  such  as  a  pedlar  '  scufe  phi^aseology?  HiH  I'A&m  fbt  siiVi^licity 
ould  possibly  have  dealt  in  ?  Are  the  man-  is  evinced  bj'-sprinkling  up  and  down  his  in- 
ers,  the  diction,  the  sentiments,  in  any,  the    terminable  declamations  a  few  descriptions 

of  baby-houses,  and   of  old   hats  with  wet 


ery  smallest  degree,  accommodated  to  a  per- 
on  in  that  condition  ?  or  are  they  not  eminently 
nd  conspicuously  such  as  could  not  by  }X)ssi- 
ility  belong  to  it  ?  A  man  who  went  about 
rolling  flaiifieL,and  gofikethandkerchiefs  in 
lofty  diction^  would  soon  frighten  away 


brims;  and  his  amiable  partiality  for  humble 
life,  by  assuring  us  that  a  wordy  rhetorician, 
who  talks  about  Thebes,  and  alleaorizej;  all 
the  heathen  mythology,  was  once  a  pedlar — 
and  making  him  break  in  upon  his  magnifi- 
his  customers ;  and  would  infallibly  pass  cent  orations  with  two  or  three  awkward  ne- 
ither for  a  madman,  or  for  some  learned  and  tices  of  something  that  he  had  seen  when 
ifected  gentleman,  who,  in  a  frolic,  had  taken  selling  winter  raiment  about  the  country — or 
p  a  characteijidiich  he  was  peculiarly  ill  of  the  changes  in  the  state  of  society,  which 
ualified  for  sug^prting.  I  had  almost  annihilated  his  former  calling. 


(October,  1815.) 


I'Ae  White  Doe  of  Rylstone ;  or  the  Fate  of  the  Mortons:  a  Poem,     By  William  Words- 
worth.    4to.  pp.  162.     London:   1815. 


'This,  we  think,  has  the  merit  of  being  the 
i;ry  worst  poem  we  ever  saw  imprinted  in  a 
aarto  volume  ;  and  though  it  was  scarcely  to 
'i  expected,  we  confess,  that  IVlr.  Words- 
'orth,  with  all  his  ambition,  should  so  soon 
ive  attained  to  that  distinction,  the  wonder 
:ay  perhaps  be  diminished  when  we  state. 
at  it  seems  to  us  to  consist  of  a  happy  union 
all  the  faults,  without  any  of  the  beauties, 
hich  belong  to  his  school  of  poetry.  It  is 
iSt  such  a  work,  in  short,  as  some  wicked 
jiemy  of  that  school  might  be  supposed  to 
^  \ve  devisAl,  on  purpose  to  make  it  ridicu- 
Us ;  and  when  we  first  took  it  up,  we  could 
n  help  suspecting  that  some  ill-natured 
'itic  had  actually  taken  this  harsh  method 
I'  instructing  Mr.  Wordsworth,  by  example, 
I  the  nature  of  those  errors,  against  which 
'jr  precepts  had  been  so  often  directed  in 
lin.  We  had  not  gone  far,  however,  till  we 
I't  intimately  that  nothing  in  the  nature  of  a 
,!ce  could  be  so  insupportably  dull ; — and 
lilt  this  must  be  the  work  of  one  who  earn- 
<:ly  believed  it  to  be  a  pattern  of  pathetic 
.'nplicity,  and  gave  it  out  as  such  to  the  ad- 
1  ration  of  all  intelligent  readers.  In  this 
}int  of  view,  the  work  may  be  regarded  as 
<rious  at  least,  if  not  in  some  degree  inter- 
ring:  and,  at  all  events,  it  must  be  instruc- 
t'fi  to  be  made  aware  of  the  excesses  into 
^i  ch  superior  understandings  may  be  be- 
1  yed,  by  lonir  self-indulgence,  and  the 
!ange  extravagances  into  which  they  may 
fii,  when  under  the  influence  of  that  intoxi- 
c'.ion  which  is  produced  by  unrestrained 
8'rniration  of  themselves.  This  poetical  in- 
tiication,  indeed;  to  pursue  the  figure  a  little 


farther,  seems  capable  of  assuming  as  many 
forms  as  the  vulgar  one  which  arises  from 
wine  ;  and  it  appears  to  require  as  delicate 
a  management  to  make  a  man  a  good  poet 
by  the  help  of  the  one,  as  to  make  him  a 
good  companion  by  means  of^he  other.  In 
both  cases,  a  little  mista^ke  as  to  the  dose  or 
the  quality  of  the  inspiring  fluid  may  make 
him  absolutely  outrageous,  or  lull  him  over 
into  the  most  profound  stupidity,  instead  of 
brightening  up  the  hidden  stores  of  his  genius  : 
and  truly  we  are  concerned  to  say,  that  Mr. 
Wordsworth  seems  hitherto  to  have  been 
unlucky  in  the  choice  of  his  liquor — or  of  his 
bottle-holder.  In  some  of  his  odes  and  ethic 
exhortations,  he  was  exposed  to  the  public  in 
a  state  of  incoherent  rapture  and  glorious 
delirium,  to  which  we  think  we  have  seen  a 
parallel  among  the  humbler  lovers  of  jollity. 
In  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  he  was  exhibited,  on 
the  whole,  in  a  vein  of  very  pretty  deliration ; 
but  in  the  poem  before  us,  he  appears  in  a 
state  of  low  and  maudlin  imbecility,  which 
would  not  have  misbecome  Master  Silence 
himself,  in  the  close  of  a  social  day.  Whether 
this  unhappy  result  is  to  be  ascribed  to  any 
adulteration  of  his  Castalian  cups,  or  to  the 
unlucky  choice  of  his  company  over  them,  we 
cannot  presume  to  say.  It  may  be  that  he 
has  dashed  his  Hippocrene  with  too  large  an 
infusion  of  lake  water,  or  assisted  its  opera- 
tion too  exclusively  by  the  study  of  the  ancient 
historical  ballads  of  ''the  north  countrie." 
That  there  are  palpable  imitations  of  the  style 
and  manner  of  those  venerable  compositions 
in  the  work  before  us,  is  indeed  undeniable ; 
I  but  it  unfortunately  happens,  that  while  the 
2P 


470 


POETRY. 


hobbling  versification,  the  mean  diction,  and 
flat  stupidity  of  these  models  are  very  exactly 
copied.  and  even  improved  upon,  in  this  imi- 
tation, their  rude  energy,  manly  simplicity, 
and  occasional  felicity  of  expression,  have 
totally  disappeared  :  and,  instead  of  them,  a 
large  allowance  of  the  author's  own  metaphy- 
sical sensibility,  and  mystical  wordiness,  is 
forced  into  an  unnatural  combination  with  the 
borrowed  beauties  which  have  just  been  men- 
tioned. 

The  story  of  the  poem,  though  not  capable 
of  furnishing  out  matter  for  a  quarto  volume, 
might  yet  have  made  an  interesting  ballad  : 


"  The  presence  of  this  wand'ring  Doe 
Fills  many  a  damp  obscure  recess 
With  lustre  of  a  saintly  show  ; 
And,  re-appearing,  she  no  less 
To  the  open  day  gives  blessedness." 

The  mothers  point  out  this  pretty  creatur 
to  their  children  :  and  tell  them  in  sweet  nut 
sery  phrases — 

"  Now  you  have  seen  the  famous  Doe  I 
From  Ryistone  she  hath  found  her  way 
Over  the  hills  this  Sabbath-day  ; 
Her  work,  whaie'er  it  be,  is  done, 
And  she  will  depart  when  we  are  gone. 

The  poet  knows  why  she  comes  there,  an 


and,  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Scott  or  Lord  Byron,  j  thinks  the  people  may  know  it  too :  But  som 
would  probably  have  supplied  many  iniages  I  ot   them  think  she  is  a  new  incarnation  o 
to  be  loved,  and  descriptions  to  be'  remem-  j  some  of  the  illustrious  dead  that  lie  burie«' 
bered.     The  incidents  arise  out  of  the  short-  j  around  them;  and  one,  who  it  seems  is  a 
lived  Catholic  insurrection  of  the  Northern  I  Oxford  scholar,  conjectures  that  she  may 
counties,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  which  was  I  the   fairy    who   instructed    Lord   Clifford  i 
supposed  to  be  connected  with  the  project  of  j  astrology  !    an    ingenious   fancy,    which  thl^fl"*'! 
marrying  the  Queen  of  Scots  to  the  Duke  of  t  poet  thus,  gently  reproveth— 
Norfolk  :  and  terminated  in   the   ruin  of  the        ..  ^h,  pensive  scholar  !  think  not  so! 
Earls  ol  Northumberland  and  Westmoreland,  But  look  again  at  the  radiant  Doe  !" 


by  whom  it  was  chiefly  abetted.  Among  the 
victims  of  this  rash  enterprise  was  Richard 
Norton  of  Ryistone,  who  comes  to  the  array 
with  a  splendid  banner,  at  the  head  of  eight 
tall  sons,  but  against  the  will  and  advice  of  a 
ninth,  who,  though  he  refused  to  join  the  host, 
yet  follows  unarmed  in  its  rear,  out  of  anxiety 
for  the  fate  of  his  family;  and.  when  the 
father  and  his  gallant  progeny  are  made 
prisoners,  and  led  to  execution  at  York,  re- 
covers the  fatal  banner,  and  is  slain  by  a 
party  of  theQueeirs  horse  near  Bolton  Priory, 
in  which  plac^  he  had  been  ordered  to  de- 
posit it  by  the  dyinc  voice  of  his  father.  The 
stately  halls  and  pleasant  bowers  of  Ryistone 
are  then  wasted,  jnid  fall  into  desolation  ; 
while  the  heroic  dauchter.  and  only  survivor 
of  the  house,  is  sheltered  among  its  faithfid 
retainers,  and  wanders  about  for  many  years 
in  its  neighbourhood,  accompanied  by  a  beau- 
tiful white  doe.  which  had  formerly  been  a 
pet  in  the  family  :  and  continues,  lone:  after 
the  di-ath  of  this  sad  survivor,  to  repair 
every  Sunday  to  the  churchyard  of  Bolton 
Priory,  and  there  to  feed  and  wander  amona 
the  graves,  to  the  wonder  and  delight  of  the 
rustic  congregation  that  came  there  to  wor- 
ship. 

This,  we  thiiik.  is  a  pretty  .=;ubiect  for  a 
ballad  :  and.  in  the  author's  better  day.  m'ght 
have  made  a  lyrical  one  of  considerable  inter- 
est. Let  us  see.  however,  how  he  deals  with 
it,  since  he  has  bethought  him  of  publishing 
in  nnarto. 

The  First  Canto  merely  contains  the  de- 
scription of  the  Doe  coming  into  the  church- 
yard on  Sunday,  atid  of  the  congregation 
wondering  at  her.  She  is  described  as  being 
as  white  as  a  lily — or  the  moon — or  a  ship  in 
the  sunshine  :  and  this  is  the  style  in  which 
Mr.  Wordsworth  marvi'lsand  moralises  about 
hc!r  through  ten  quarto  pages. 

"  Whn'.  harmonious,  pensive  changes, 
Waif  upon  hrr  as  she  rnnnp" 
Round  and  ihroimh  this  Pile  of -Stale, 
Overthrown  and  desolate!" 


"••■S 


'id  hi 


And  then  closes  the  Canto  with  this  natur 
and  luminous  apostrophe  to  his  harp. 

"  But,  harp  !  thy  murmurs  may  not  cease,— 
Thou  hast  breeze-like  visiiings  ; 
For  a  Spirit  with  angel- wing.i 
Hath  touch'd  thee,  and  a  ."^pirii'shand  : 
A  voice  is  wiih  ns — a  command 
To  chant,  in  si  rains  of  heavenly  glory, 
.\  tale  of  tear.-i,  a  monal  story  !" 

The  Second  Canto 


jtfFia 

ftSllK 

iiSteii 


Aiiittii 


tCliTi 


ii!«siUiE 

19.  iboi 

'feiiti: 

liilsiii 

Srpid 

M^'ii 


fciie 

IkMtrl 
MPfl 

ii>iiiiii« 

l«!Ul»ll 


more  full  of  busin 
and  affords  ns  more  insight  into  the  authoH|k.^lii 
manner  of  conducting  a  story.     The  openin|ii   IJ^' 
however,  which  goes  back  to  the  bright  an^ 
original  conception  of  the  harp,  is  not  quit 
so  intelligible  as  might  have  been  desired. 

"  The  Harp  in  lowliness  ohey'd  : 

And  first  we  sang  of  the  green- wood  shade  ; 
And  a  solitary  Maid  ! 
Beginning,  where  I  he  sons  must  e?id. 
With  her,  and  with  her  sylvan  Friend; 
The  friend,  who  stood  before  her  sight. 
Her  only  unextinguish'd  light, —     • 
Her  last  companion  in  a  dearth 
Of  love,  upon  a  hopeless  earth," 

This  solitary  maid,  we  are  then  told,  ha. 
wrought,  at  the  request  of  her  father,  "a 
unblessed  work"' — 

"  A  Banner — one  that  did  fulfil 
'I'oo  perfectly  his  headstrong  will  : 
For  on  this  Banner  had  her  hand 
Embroidtr'd  (such  was  the  command) 
The  i^acred  Cross;  and  figur'd  there 
The  five  dear  wounds  our  Lord  did  bear." 

The  song  then  proceeds  to  describe  th 
rising  of  Northumberland  and  Westmorelam 
in  the  following  lofty  and  spirited  strains:— 

"  Two  earls  fast  leagu'd  in  discontent, 
Who  jrave  their  wishes  open  vent  ; 
.And  boldly  urg'd  a  general  plea,  ; 

The  rites  of  ancient  piety  "  J 

To  be  by  force  of  arms  ren^w'd  ; 
Glad  prospect  for  the  multitude! 
And  that  same  Banner,  on  whose  breast 
The  blameless  Lady  had  exprest, 
Memorials  chosen  to  give  life,  ■ 

And  sunshine  lo  a  dangerous  strife  ;  I 

This  Banner,"  &.c,  1 


Hill, 


WORDSWORTH'S  WHITE  DOE. 


471 


'  The  poet,  however,  puts  out  all  his  strength 
the  dehortation  which  he  makes  Francis 
arton  address  to  his  father,  when  the  prepa- 
tions  are  completed,  and  the  household  is 
ady  to  take  the  field. 

"  Francis  Norton  aaid, 

'  ()  Father  !  rise  not  in  this  tray — 
The  hairs  are  white  upon  your  head; 
Dear  F'ather,  hear  nie  when  I  say 
It  is  for  you  too  late  a  day  I 
Bethink  you  of  your  own  good  name  ; 
A  just  and  gracious  queen  have  we, 
A  pure  religion,  and  the  claim 
Of  peace  on  our  humanity. 

I    'Tis  meet  that  I  endure  your  scorn, — 

j    I  am  your  son,  your  eldest  born  ; 

1    The  Banner  touch  not,  stay  your  hand, — 
This  multitude  of  men  disband, 
.\iid  live  at  home  in  blissful  ease.'  " 

\e  warlike  father  makes  no  answer  to  this 
tquisite  address,  but  turns  in  silent  scorn  to 
ti3  banner, 

"  And  his  wet  eyes  are  glorified  ;" 

si  forthwith  he  marches  out,  at  the  head  of 
l-  sons  and  retainers. 

iFrancis  is  very  sad  when  thus  left  alone  in 
t';  mansion — and  still  worse  when  he  sees 
i\  sister  sitting  under  a  tree  near  the  door. 
Fwever,  though  "he  cannot  choose  but 
sink  and  sigh,"  he  goes  up  to  her  and  says, 

'  Goiip  are  they, — they  have  their  desire  ; 

And  [  wiih  ihee  one  hour  will  stay. 

To  ?ive  thee  comfort  if  I  may.' 
Hi'  paused,  her  silence  to  partake, 
I  And  long  it  was  before  he  spake  : 
I  Then,  all  at  once,  hix  thousrhts  turii'd  round, 

■  And  fervent  words  a  passage  found. 

'Gone  are  they,  bravely,  though  misled, 

With  a  dear  Father  at  their  head  ! 
i  The  Sons'obey  a  natural  lord ; 
\  The  Faihei"  had  given  solemn  word 
j  To  noble  Percy, — and  a  force 

Still  stronger  bends  him  to  his  course. 

This  said,  our  tears  to-day  may  fall 

As  !U  an  innocent  funeral. 

In  deep  and  awful  channel  runs 

This  svm|)aihy  of  Sire  and  Sons  ; 
I  Untried  our  Brothers  were  belov'd, 
I  And  now  their  faithfulness  is  prov'd  ; 
j  F  ir  tiiithful  we  must  call  them,  bearing 
;  That  soul  of  conscientious  daring.'  " 

ifter  a  great  deal  more,  as  touching  and 
S(«ibl'\  he  applies  himself  more  directly  to 
tl  utiliMppy  case  of  his  hearer — whom  he 
iYf  judiciously  comforts  and  flatters  : 

|[fopp  nothing,  if  I  thus  may  speak 
[  To  thee  a  woman,  and  thence  weak  ; 
j  Hope  nothing.  I  repeat ;  for  we 

■  Are  'Inom'd  to  perish  utterly  ; 
i'Tis  meet  that  thon  with  me  divide 
[The  thought  while  I  am  by  thy  side, 
i  Ackiio«  ledffinii  a  srace  in  this, 

;  A  comfort  in  the  dark  abyss  : 

I  But  look  not  (or  me  when  I  am  gone. 

And  be  no  farther  wrought  upon. 

Farewell  all  wishes,  all  debate. 

All  prayers  for  this  cause,  or  for  that  ! 

nv-ep,  if  that  aid  thee  ;  but  depend 

Upon  no  help  of  outward  friend  ; 

Espouse  ibv  doom  at  once,  and  cleave 

To  forlili/'le  v^ilhout  reprieve.^'' 

is  impossible,  however,  to  go  i  egularly  on 
wli  this  goodly  matter. — The  Third  Canto 
bi!gs  the  Nortons  and  their  banner  to  the  ! 


head  quarters  of  the  insurgent  Earls  ;  and  de- 
scribes the  first  exploits  of  those  conscientious 
warriors ;  who  took  possession  of  the  Cathe- 
dral of  Durham, 

"  Sang  Mass, — and  tore  the  book  of  Prayer, — 
And  trod  the  Bible  beneath  their  feet." 

Elated  by  this  triumph,  they  turn  to  the 
south. 

"  To  London  were  the  Chieftains  bent : 
But  what  avails  the  bold  intent? 
A  Royal  army  is  gone  forth 
To  quell  the  Risiii"  of  the  North  ; 
They  march  with  Dudley  at  their  head, 
And  in  seven  days'  .space,  will  to  York  be  led  ! — 
And  Neville  was  opprest  with  fear; 
For,  though  he  bore  a  valiant  name, 
His  heart  was  of  a  timid  frame." 

So  they  agree  to  march  back  again  ;  at  which 
old  Norton  is  sorely  afilicted— and  Francis 
takes  the  opportnity  to  renew  his  dehortations 
— but  is  again  repulsed  with  scorn,  and  falls 
back  to  his  station  in  the  rear. 

The  Fourth  Canto  shows  Emily  walking  by 
the  fish  ponds  and  arbours  of  Rylstone,  in  a 
fine  moonshiny  night,  with  her  favourite  white 
Doe  not  far  off. 

"  Yet  the  meek  Creature  was  not  free, 
Erewhile,  frovi  some  ■perplexity: 
For  thrice  hath  she  approach'd,  this  day, 
The  thought-bewilder'd  Emily." 

However,  they  are  tolerably  reconciled  that 
evening;  and  by  and  by,  just  a  few  minutes 
after  nine,  an  old  retainer  of  the  house  comes 
to  comfort  her,  and  is  sent  to  follow  the  host 
and  bring  back  tidings  of  their  success. — The 
worthy  yeoman  sets  out  with  great  alacrity; 
but  not  having  much  hope,  it  would  appear, 
of  the  cause,  says  to  himself  as  he  goes, 

"  '  Grant  that  the  moon  which  shines  this  night, 
May  guide  them  in  a  prudent  flight !'  " — p.  75. 

Things  however  had  already  come  to  a  still 
worse  issue — as  the  poet  very  briefly  and  in- 
geniously intimates  in  the  following  fine  lines  : 

"  Their  flight  the  fair  moon  may  not  see  ; 
For,  from  mid-heaven,  already  she 
Hath  witness'd  their  captivity  !" — p.  75. 

They  had  made  a  rash  assault,  it  seems,  on 
Barnard  Castle,  and  had  been  all  made  prison- 
ers, and  forwarded  to  York  for  trial. 

The  Fifth  Canto  shows  us  Emily  watching 
on  a  commanding  height  for  the  return  of  her 
faithful  messenger;  who  accordingly  arrives 
forthwith,  and  tells,  <as  gently  as  could  be,' 
the  unhappy  catastrophe  which  he  had  come 
soon  enough  to  witness.  The  only  comfort  he 
can  offer  is,  that  Francis  is  still  alive. 

"  To  take  his  life  they  have  not  dar'd. 
On  him  and  on  his  high  endeavour 
The  light  of  praise  shall  shine  for  ever! 
Nor  did  he  (such  Heaven's  will)  in  vain 
His  solitary  course  maintain  ; 
Nor  vainly  sirugaled  in  the  might 
Of  duty  seeing  with  clear  sight." — p  85. 

He  then  tells  how  the  father  and  his  eight 
sons  were  led  out  to  e.xecution :  and  how 
Franci.s,  at  his  father's  recjuest,  took  their 
banner,  and  promised  to  bring  it  back  to  Bol- 
ton Priory. 


472 


POETRY. 


The  Sixth  Canto  opens  with  the  homeward 
pilgrimage  of  this  unhappy  youth ;  and  there 
is  something  so  truly  forlorn  and  tragical  in 
his  situation,  that  we  should  really  have 
thought  it  dilFicult  to  have  given  an  account 
of  it  without  exciting  some  degree  of  interest 
or  emotion.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  however,  re- 
serves all  his  pathos  for  describing  the  white- 
ness of  the  pet  doe,  and  disserting  about  her 
perplexities,  and  her  high  communion,  and 
participation  of  Heaven's  grace ; — and  deals 
in  this  sort  with  the  orphan  son,  turning  from 
the  bloody  scafTold  of  all  his  line,  with  their 
luckless  banner  in  his  hand. 

"  He  look'd  about  like  one  betray'd  ; 

What  hath  he  done  ?  what  promise  made  ? 

Oh  weak,  weak  moment !  to  what  end 

Can  .«iicli  a  vain  oblation  tend, 

And  he  the  Bearer  ? — Can  he  go 

Carrying  this  instrument  of  woe, 

And  find,  find  any  where,  a  richt 

To  excuse  him  in  his  Country's  sight? 

No,  will  not  all  Men  deem  the  change 

A  downward  course  ?  perverse  and  strange  ? 

Here  is  it, — but  how,  when  ?  must  she. 

The  unoffending  Emily 

Again  this  piteous  object  see  ? 

Such  conflict  long  did  he  maintain 
Within  himself,  and  found  no  rest ; 
Calm  liberty  he  could  not  gain  ; 
And  yet  the  service  was  unblest. 
His  own  life  into  danger  brought 
By  this  sad  burden — evfn  that  thought 
Rais'd  self-suspicion,  which  was  strong. 
Swaying  the  brave  Man  to  his  wrong: 
And  how,  unless  it  were  the  sense 
Of  all-disposing  Providence, 
Its  will  intelligibly  shown, 
Finds  he  the  Banner  in  his  hand. 
Without  a  thought  to  such  intent  ?" 

pp.99,  100. 

His  death  is  not  much  less  pathetic.  A 
troop  of  the  Queen's  horse  surround  him,  and 
reproach  him.  we  must  confess  with  some 
plausibility,  with  having  kept  his  hands  un- 
armed, oidy  from  dread  of  death  and  forfeit- 
ure, while  he  was  all  the  while  a  traitor  in 
his  heart.  The  sage  Francis  answers  the 
insolent  troopers  as  follows : — 

"  'I  am  no  traitor,'  Francis  said, 

'  Thouali  this  unhappy  freight  I  bear; 
It  weakens  me  ;  my  heart  hath  bled 
Till  it  is  weak — but  you  beware. 
Nor  do  a  suffering  Spirit  wrong. 
Whose  self-reproaches  are  too  strong  !" 
p.  103. 

This  virtuous  and  reasonable  person,  how- 
ever, has  ill  luck  in  all  his  dissuasories  ;  for 
one  of  the  horsemen  puts  a  pike  into  him 
without  more  ado — and 

'■  There  did  he  lie  of  breath  forsaken  !" 
And  after  some  time  the  neighbouring  peas- 
ants take  him  up,  and  bury  him  in  the  church- 
yard of  Bolton  Priory. 

The  S<;venth  and  last  Canto  contains  the 
history  of  the  desolated  Emily  and  her  faith- 


ful doe ;  but  so  very  discreetly  and  cautious 
written,  that  we  will  engage  that  the  mc 
tender-hearted  reader  shall  peruse  it  witho 
the  least  risk  of  any  excessive  emotion.  T 
poor  lady  runs  about  indeed  for  some  years 
a  very  disconsolate  way,  in  a  worsted  gov 
and  flannel  nightcap  :  But  at  last  the  old  whi 
doe  finds  her  out,  and  takes  again  to  followij 
her — whereupon  Mr.  Wordsworth  breaks  o 
into  this  fine  and  natural  rapture. 

"  Oh,  moment  ever  blest !     O  Pair  '. 
Belov'd  of  Heaven,  Heaven's  choicest  care' 
This  was  for  you  a  precious  greeting, — 
For  boih  a  bounteous,  fruiiful  meeting. 
Join'd  are  they  ;  and  the  sylvan  Doe 
Can  she  depart  ?  can  she  forego 
The  Lady,  once  her  playful  Peer? 

"  That  day,  the  first  of  a  reunion 
Which  was  to  teem  with  high  communion,    i 
That  day  of  balmy  April  weather,  ) 

They  tarried  in  the  wood  together, 
pp. 


117. 


What  follows  IS  not  quite  so  intelligible.  ^ 


"  When  Emily  by  morning  lii;ht 
Went  forth,  the  Doe  was  there  in  sight. 
She  shrunk: — with  one  trail  shock  of  pain. 
Received  and  followed  by  a  prayer, 
Did  she  behold — saw  once  again  ; 
Shun  will  she  not,  she  feels,  will  bear; — 
But  wheresoever  she  look'd  round 
All  now  was  trouble-haunted  gioui:d." — p. 


aiiiisiillt! 

[jjiij  and 

j3tit  ibeat 
sfcyare 

SlBlIlill? 

ii»(lelicai 
«  aiJ  fa 


It  certainly  is  not  easy  to  guess  what  coul 
be  in  the  mind  of  the  author,  when  he  pennc 
these  four  last  inconceivable  lines;  but  w 
are  willing  to  infer  that  the  lady's  loneliner 
was  cheered  by  this  mute  associate  :  and  thj 
the  doe,  in  return,  found  a  certain  comfort  i 
the  lady's  company —  ' 

"  Communication,  like  the  ray 

Of  a  new  morning,  to  the  nature  I 

And  prospects  of  the  inferior  Creature  !" 

p.  126. 

In  due  time  the  poor  lady  dies,  and 
buried  beside  her  mother;  and  the  doe  coi 
tinues  to  haunt  the  places  which  they  ha, 
frequented  together,  and  especially  to  conii 
and  pasture  every  Sunday  upon  the  line  grari 
in  Bolton  churchyard,  the  gate  of  which  ' 
never  opened  but  on  occasion  of  the  weekl 
service. — In  consequence  of  all  which,  woai 
assured  by  Mr.  Wordsworth,  that  she  'isaji 
proved  by  Earth  and  Sky,  in  their  bonigiiityl 
and  moreover,  that  the  olil  Priory  itself  taittj 
her  for  a  daughter  of  the  Eternal  PrimeH 
which  we  have  no  doubt  is  a  very  great  coirj 
pliment,  though  we  have  not  the  good  luck  li 
understand  what  it  means.  j 

"  And  aye.  methinks,  this  hoary  Pile, 
Subdued  by  outrage  and  decay, 
l-ooks  down  upon  her  with  a  smile, 
A  gracious  smile,  that  se»'ms  to  say, 
'  Thou,  thou  art  not  a  Child  of  Time, 
But  Daughter  of  the  Eternal  Prime  !' 


rSii  Jfli! 

nifoiiiifflr] 

Hlltdfk: 

i  Eiikiemai 


'Mimport 

>ltll(BU 

autlaii 


HEMANS'  POEMS. 


473 


(October,  1829.) 


iRecords   of  lVomc7i:   with  other  Poems.      By   Felicia   Hemans.     2d   Edition,     12mo. 

pp.  323.     Edinburgh  :   1828. 
iThe   Forest  Sayictuary:    with   other  Poems.      By   Felicia   Hemans.      2d    Edition,    with 
Additions.     12mo.  pp.  325.     Edinburgh:  1829. 


VoMEN,  Ave  fear,  cannot  do  every  thing; 
n(  even  every  thing  they  attempt.  But  what 
X\v  can  do,  they  do,  for  the  most  part,  excel- 
k  ly — and  much  more  frequently  with  an 
alalute  and  perfect  success,  than  the  aspir- 
ai;  of  our  rougher  and  more  ambitious  sex. 
T'y  cannot,  we  think,  represent  naturally  the 
fice  and  sullen  passions  of  men — nor  their 
C(iser  vices — nor  even  scenes  of  actual  busi- 
na  or  contention — nor  the  mixed  motives, 
ai  strong  and  faulty  characters,  by  which 
alirs  of  moment  are  usually  conducted  on 
tl:  great  theatre  of  the  w-orld.  For  much 
oihis  they  are  disqualified  by  the  delicacy 
oftieir  training  and  habits,  and  the  still  more 
di  bling  delicacy  which  pervades  their  con- 
Cftions  and  feelings;  and  from  much  they 
ai  excluded  by  their  necessary  inexperience 
ol^e  realities  they  might  wish  to  describe — 
b;;heir  substantial  and  incurable  ignorance 
ofousiness  —  of  the  way  in  which  serious 
afirs  are  actually  managed — and  the  true 
He  ire  of  the  agents  and  impulses  that  give 
m^ement  and  direction  to  the  stronger  cur- 
re  s  of  ordinary  life.  Perhaps  they  are  also 
in.pable  of  long  moral  or  political  investiga- 
tii  s,  where  many  complex  and  indeterminate 
elnents  are  to  be  taken  into  account,  and  a 
vj  ety  of  opposite  probabilities  to  be  weighed 
bore  coming  to  a  conclusion.  They  are 
gf  ?rally  too  impatient  to  get  at  the  ultimate 
reilts.  to  go  well  through  with  such  discus- 
siis ;  and  either  stop  short  at  some  imper- 
fe  view  of  the  truth,  or  turn  aside  to  repose 
inie  shade  of  some  plausible  error.  This, 
h(  ever,  we  are  persuaded,  arises  entirely 
fni  their  being  seldom  set  on  such  tedious 
ta  s.  Their  proper  and  natural  business  is 
th  practical  regulation  of  private  life,  in  all 
itiieariiigs,  affections,  and  concerns  ;  and  the 
qistions  with  which  they  have  to  deal  in 
th.  most  important  department,  though  often 
ofhe  utmost  difficulty  and  nicety,  involve, 
fo  he  most  part,  but  few  elements;  and  may 
ge^rallybe  better  described  as  delicate  than 
in  cate  ; — requiring  for  their  solution  rather 
a  lick  tact  and  fine  perception,  than  a  pa- 
ti«i  or  laborious  examination.  For  the  same 
re  on,  they  rarely  succeed  in  long  works,  | 
eVi  on  subjects  the  best  suited  to  their  ge-  | 
ni  ;  their  natural  training  rendering  them  i 
etijly  averse  to  long  doubt  and  long  labour. 

or  all  other  intellectual  efforts,  however,  i 
ei  er  of  the  understanding  or  the  fancy,  and  i 
reiiring  a  thorough  knowledge  either  of 
mi's  strength  or  his  weakness,  we  appre- 
h(i  them  to  be,  in  all  respects,  as  well  quali- 
fi£  as  their  brethren  of  the  stronger  sex: 
_i  60 


While,  in  their  perceptions  of  giace,  propri- 
ety, ridicule — their  power  of  detecting  arti- 
fice, hypocrisy,  and  affectation — the  force  and 
promptitude  of  their  sympathy,  and  their  ca- 
pacity of  noble  and  devoted  attachment,  and 
of  the  efforts  and  sacrifices  it  may  recjuire, 
they  are,  beyond  all  doubt,  our  t^uperiors. 

Their  business  being,  as  we  have  said,  with 
actual  or  social  life,  anil  the  colours  it  receives 
from  the  conduct  and  dispositions  of  individ- 
uals, they  unconsciously  acquire,  at  a  very 
early  age,  the  finest  perception  of  character 
and  maimers,  and  are  almost  as  soon  instinct- 
ively schooled  in  the  deep  and  more  danger- 
ous learning  of  feeling  and  emotion  ;  while 
the  very  minuteness  with  which  they  make 
and  meditate  on  these  interesting  observa- 
tions, and  the  finer  shades  and  variations  of 
sentiment  which  are  thus  treasured  and  re- 
corded, trains  their  whole  faculties  to  a  nicety 
and  precision  of  operation,  which  often  dis- 
closes itself  to  advantage  in  their  application 
to  studies  of  a  dijferent  character.  When 
women,  accordingly,  have  turned  their  minds 
— as  they  have  done  but  too  seldom — to  the 
exposition  or  arrangement  of  any  branch  of 
knowledge,  they  have  commonly  exhibited, 
we  think,  a  more  beautiful  accuracy,  and  a 
more  uniform  and  complete  justness  of  think- 
ing, than  their  less  discriminating  brethren. 
There  is  a  finish  and  completeness,  in  short, 
about  every  thing  they  put  out  of  their  hands, 
which  indicates  not  only  an  inherent  taste  for 
elegance  and  neatness,  but  a  habit  of  nice 
observation,  and  singular  exactness  of  judg- 
ment. 

It  has  been  so  Httle  the  fashion,  at  any 
time,  to  encourage  women  to  write  for  publi- 
cation, that  it  is  more  difficult  than  it  should 
be,  to  prove  these  truths  by  examples.  Yet 
there  are  enough,  within  the  reach  of  a  very 
careless  and  superficial  glance  over  the  open 
field  of  literature,  to  enable  us  to  explain,  at 
least,  and  illustrate,  if  not  entirely  to  verify, 
our  assertions.  No  Man,  we  will  venture  to 
say,  could  have  written  the  Letters  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne,  or  the  Novels  of  Miss  Austin,  or 
the  Hymns  and  Early  Lessons  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld,  or  the  Conversations  of  ]\Irs.  Marcet. 
Those  performances,  too,  are  not  only  essen- 
tially and  intensely  feminine  ;  but  they  are, 
in  our  judgment,  decidedly  more  perfect  than 
any  masculine  productions  witli  which  they 
can  be  brought  into  comparison.  They  ac- 
complish more  completely  all  the  ends  at 
which  they  aim  ;  and  are  worked  out  with  a 
gracefulness  and  felicity  of  execution  which 
excludes  all  idea  of  failure,  and  entirely  satis- 
2p2 


474 


POETRY. 


I 


fies  the  expectations  they  may  have  raised. 
We  might  easily  have  added  to  these  in- 
stances. There  are  many  parts  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  earher  stories,  and  of  Miss  Milford's 
sketches  and  descriptions,  and  not  a  little  of 
Mrs.  Opie's.  that  exhibit  the  same  fine  and 
penetrating  spirit  of  observation,  the  same 
softnes.-^  and  delicacy  of  hand,  and  unerring 
truth  of  delineation,  to  which  we  have  allud- 
ed as  characterising  the  purer  specimens  of 
female  art.  The  same  distinguishing  traits  of 
vpoman's  spirit  are  visible  through  the  grief 
and  piety  of  Lady  Russel,  and  the  gaiety,  the 
spite,  and  the  venturesomeness  of  Lady  Mary 
Wortley.  We  have  not  as  yet  much  female 
poetry ;  but  there  is  a  truly  feminine  tender- 
nes-s,  purity,  and  elegance,  in  the  Psyche  of 
Mrs.  Tiizhe,  and  in  some  of  the  smaller  pieces 
of  Lady  Craven.  On  some  of  the  works  of 
Madame  de  Stael — her  Corinne  especially — 
there  is  a  still  deeper  stamp  of  the  genius  of 
her  sex.  Her  pictures  of  its  boundless  de- 
votedness — its  depth  and  capacity  of  suffering 
— its  high  aspirations — its  painful  irritability, 
and  inextinguishable  thirst  for  emotion,  are 
powerful  specimens  of  that  morbid  anatomy 
of  the  heart,  which  no  hand  but  that  of  a  wo- 
man's was  fine  enough  to  have  laid  open,  or 
skilful  enough  to  have  recommended  to  our 
sympathy  and  love.  There  is  the  same  ex- 
quisite and  inimitable  delicacy,  if  not  the 
same  power,  in  many  of  the  happier  passages 
of  Madame  de  Souza  and  JVladame  Cottin — to 
say  nothing  of  the  more  lively  and  yet  melan- 
choly records  of  Madame  de  Stael.  during  her 
long  penance  in  the  court  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Maine. 

But  we  are  preluding  too  largely  ;  and  must 
come  at  once  to  the  point,  to  which  the  very 
heading  of  this  article  has  already  admonish- 
ed the  most  careless  of  our  readers  that  we 
are  tending.  We  think  the  poetry  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  a  fine  exemplification  of  Female 
Poetry — and  we  think  it  has  much  of  the  per- 
fection which  we  have  ventured  to  a.scribe  to 
the  happier  productions  of  female  genius. 

It  may  not  be  the  best  imaginable  poetry, 
and  may  not  indicate  the  very  highest  or  most 
commanding  genius:  but  it  embraces  a  great 
deal  of  that  which  gives  the  very  be.st  poetry 
its  chief  power  of  pleasing  ;  and  would  strike 
u.s,  perhaps,  as  more  impassioned  and  exalt- 
ed, if  it  were  not  regulated  and  harmonised 
by  the  most  beautiful  taste.  It  is  singularly 
sweet,  elegant,  and  tender — touching,  per- 
haps, and  contemplative,  rather  than  vehe- 
ment and  overpowering  :  and  not  only  finished 
throughout  with  an  exquisite  delicacy,  and 
even  severity  of  execution,  but  informed  with 
a  purity  and  loftine.-is  of  feeling,  and  a  certain 
sober  and  humble  tone  of  indulgence  and 
piety,  which  must  satisfy  all  judgments,  and 
allay  the  apprehensions  of  those  who  are  most 
afraid  of  the  passionate  exaggerations  of  poetry. 
The  diction  is  always  beautiful,  harmonious, 
and  free — and  the  themes,  though  of  great 
va'iely,  uniformly  treated  with  a  grace,  orig- 
inality and  judgnient,  which  mark  the  same 
master  hand.  These  themes  she  hns  occa- 
sionally borrowed;  with  the  peculiar  imagery 


that  belongs  to  them,  from  the  legends  of  i 
ferent  nations,  and  the  most  opposite  states 
society;  and  has  contrived  to  retain  much 
what  is  interesting  and  peculiar  in  each  of  the 
without  adopting,  along  with  it,  any  of  i 
revolting  or  extravagant  excesses  which  ir 
characterise  the  taste  or  manners  of  the  peo 
or  the  age  from  which  it  has  been  derivi 
She  has  transfused  into  her  German  or 
dinavian  legends  the  imaginative  and  dar<i 
tone  of  the  originals,  without  the  mysti 
exaggerations  of  the  one,  or  the  j  ainful  tiei 
ness  and  coarseness  of  the  other — she 
preserved  the  clearness  and  elegance  of 
French,  without  their  coldness  or  affec: 
— and  the  tenderness  and  simplicity  of  ij 
early  Italians,  without  their  diffuseness 
langour.  Though  occasionally  expatiatii 
somewhat  fondly  and  at  large,  among  t 
sweets  of  her  own  planting,  there  is,  on  1 
whole,  a  great  condensation  and  brevity 
most  of  her  pieces,  and,  almost  without  i 
ception,  a  most  judicious  and  vigorous  c^ 
elusion.  The  great  merit,  however,  of  1 
poetry,  is  undoubtedly  in  its  tenderness  a 
its  beautiful  imagery.  The  lirst  requires 
explanation ;  but  we  must  be  allowed  to  a' 
a  word  as  to  the  peculiar  charm  and  charac 
of  the  latter. 

It  has  always  been  our  opinion,  that  l 
very  essence  of  poetry — apart  from  the  path 
the  wit,  or  the  brilliant  description  whi 
maybe  embodied  in  it.  but  may  exist  ecjua 
in  prose — consists  in  the  tine  perception  a 
vivid  expression  of  that  subtle  and  mysterif 
Analogy  which  exists  between  the  physii 
and  the  moral  world — which  makes  outwf 
things  and  qualities  the  natural  types  and  e 
blems  of  inward  gifts  and  emotions,  or  lea 
us  to  ascribe  life  and  sentiment  to  every  thi' 
that  interests  us  in  the  aspects  of  exten 
nature.  The  feeling  of  this  analogy,  obsci 
and  inexplicable  as  the  theory  of  it  may  beJ 
so  deep  and  universal  in  our  nature,  that( 
has  stamped  itself  on  the  ordinary  langui 
of  men  of  every  kindred  and  speech: 
that  to  such  an  extent,  that  one  half  of 
epithets  by  which  we  familiarly  desi) 
moral  and  physical  qualities,  are  in  reahty 
many  metaphors,  borrowed  reciprocally,  up 
this  analogy,  from  those  opposite  forms 
existence.  The  very  familiarity,  however, 
the  expression,  in  these  instances,  takes  aw 
its  poetical  effect — and  indeed,  in  subslaii 
its  metaphorical  character.  The  original  sen 
of  the  word  is  entirely  forgotten  in  the  deril 
tive  one  to  which  it  has  succeeded;  and' 
requires  some  etymological  recollection 
convince  us  that  it  was  originally  nothinge 
than  a  typical  or  analogical  illustration.  Tb 
we  talk  of  a  sparkling  wit,  and  a  furiousbl: 
— a  weiohfy  argument,  and  a  gentle  stre;' 
— without  being  at  all  aware  that  we  i 
speaking  in  the  language  of  poetry,  and  trai 
ferriiig  (]ualities  from  one  extremity  of  1 
sphere  of  being  to  another.  In  these  cas- 
accordingly,  the  metaphor,  by  ceasing  to 
felt,  in  reality  ceases  to  exist,  and  ihe  analo 
bein^  no  longer  intimated,  of  course  can  p 
duce  no  elfect.    But  whenever  it  is  iutimati 


HEMANS-  POEMS. 


475 


I  does  produce  an  effect ;  and  that  effect  we 
kink  is  poetry. 

■  It  has  substantially  two  functions,  and  ope- 
tes  in  two  directions.  In  the  first  place, 
hen  material  qualities  are  ascribed  to  mind, 
(Strikes  vividly  out.  and  brings  at  once  be- 
re  us,  the  conception  of  an  inward  feeling 
emotion,  which  it  might  otherwise  have 
;en  ditficult  to  convey,  by  the  presentment 
'  some  bodily  form  or  quality,  which  is  in- 
antlv  felt  to  be  its  true  representative,  and 
(lablesus  to  ti.\  and  comprehend  it  with  a  force 
id  clearness  not  otherwise  attainable ;  and, 
the  second  place,  it  vivities  dead  and  inani- 
ate  matter  with  the  attributes  of  living  and 
•ntient  mind,  and  fills  the  whole  visible 
liverse  around  us  with  objects  of  interest 
nl  sympathy,  by  tinting  them  with  the  hues 
life,  and  associating  them  with  our  own 
jissions  and  affections.  This  magical  opera- 
pn  the  poet  too  performs,  for  the  most  part, 
one  of  two  ways — either  by  the  direct 
rency  of  similies  and  metaphors,  more  or 
S8  condensed  or  developed,  or  by  the  mere 
jaceful  presentment  of  such  visible  objects 
k  the  scene  of  his  passionate  dialogues  or 
Iventures,  as  partake  of  the  character  of 
|e  emotion  he  wishes  to  excite,  and  thus 
rm  an  appropriate  accompaniment  or  pre- 
jiration  for  its  direct  indulgence  or  display. 
(  tie  former  of  those  methods  has  perhaps 
I  pen  most  frequently  employed,  and  certainly 
■  |i3  most  attracted  attention.  But  the  latter, 
jough  less  obtrusive,  and  perhaps  less  fre- 
jiently  resorted  to  of  set  purpose,  is,  we  are 
jclined  to  think,  the  most  natural  and  effica- 
|jus  of  the  two :  and  it  is  often  adopted,  we 
I'lieve  unconsciously,  by  poets  of  the  highest 
ider; — the  predominant  emotion  of  their 
jinds  overflowing  spontaneously  on  all  the 
j)jects  which  present  themselves  to  their 
jacy,  and  calling  out  from  them,  and  colour- 
jg  with  their  own  hues,  those  that  are  natu- 
llly  emblematic  of  its  character,  and  in  ac- 
frdance  with  its  general  e.vpression.  It  would 
i?  easy  to  show  how  habitually  this  is  done. 
\-  Shakespeare  and  Mdton  especially,  and 
|»\v  much  many  of  their  finest  passages  are 
jdebted,  both  for  force  and  richness  of  effect. 
I  this  general  and  diffusive  harmony  of  the 
fternal  character  of  their  scenes  with  the 
'j.ssions  of  their  living  agents — this  harmonis- 
ing and  appropriate  glow  with  which  they 
/  jndle  the  whole  surrounding  atmosphere, 
I  lid  bring  all  that  strikes  the  sense  into  unison 
iith  all  that  touches  the  heart. 
But  it  is  more  to  our  present  purpose  to 
|y,  that  we  think  the  fair  writer  before  us  is 
tainently  a  mistress  of  this  poetical  secret; 
iid,  in  truth,  it  was  solely  for  the  purpose  of 
[iistrating  this  great  chanm  and  excellence 
t  her  irna2"ery,  that  we  have  ventured  upon 
is  little  dis.sertation.  Almost  all  her  poems 
e  rich  with  fine  descriptions,  and  studded 
er  with  images  of  visible  beauty.  But  these 
e  never  idle  ornaments ;  all  her  pomps  have 
,meaning ;  and  her  flowers  and  her  gems  are 
[ranged,  as  they  are  said  to  be  among  Eastern 
fcvers,  so  as  to  speak  the  language  of  truth 
jid  of  passion.     This  is  peculiarly  remark- 


able in  some  little  pieces,  which  seem  at  first 
sight  to  be  purely  descriptive — but  are  soon 
found  to  tell  upon  the  heart,  with  a  deep 
moral  and  pathetic  imjiression.  But  it  is  in 
truth  nearly  as  conspicuous  in  the  greater  part 
of  her  productions  ;  where  we  scarcely  meet 
with  any  striking  sentiment  that  is  not  ushered 
in  by  some  such  symphony  of  external  na- 
ture— and  scarcely  a  lovely  picture  that  does 
not  serve  as  an  appropriate  foreground  to 
some  deep  or  lofty  emotion.  We  may  illus- 
trate this  proposition,  we  think,  by  opening 
either  of  these  little  volumes  at  random,  and 
taking  what  they  first  present  to  us. — The 
following  exquisite  lines,  for  example,  on  a 
Palm-tree  in  an  English  garden  : 

"  It  wav'd  not  thro'  an  Eastern  sky, 
lieside  a  fount  of  Araby  ; 
It  was  not  fann'd  by  soutliern  breeze 
In  some  green  isle  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Atric,  lone  and  deep. 

"  But  far  the  exil'd  Palm-tree  »rew 
'Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue; 
Thro'  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  mould. 
And  Europe's  violeis,  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  his  feet. 

"  There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  fiU'd  ih  it  garden's  bowers  : 
Lamps,  thai  from  flow  ering  branches  hung, 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colours  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanc'd — a  fairy  show — 
Under  the  blossoms,  to  and  fro. 

"  Rut  one,  a  lone  one,  'midst  the  throng. 
Seem'd  reckless  all  of  dance  or  song: 
He  was  a  youth  ot  dusky  mien, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been — 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair — 
A  stranger,  like  the  Palm-tree,  there  ! 

"  And  slowly,  sadly  mov'd  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms: 
He  pnss'd  the  pale  green  olives  by. 
Nor  won  the  chesnui  flowers  his  eye  ; 
But,  when  to  that  sole  Palm  he  came. 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame  I 

"  To  him,  to  him  its  rustling  spoke  ! 
The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 
It  whisper'd  of  his  own  bright  isle, 
That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile  ; 
Aye.  to  bis  ear  that  native  tone  \ 

[lad  something  ol  the  sea-wave's  moan  I 

"  His  mother's  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fring'd  the  bay  ; 
The  dashing  ot  his  brethren's  oar; 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore  ; — 
All  thro'  his  wakening  bosom  swept ; 
.     He  clasp'd  his  country's  Tree — and  w^ept  ! 

"  Oh  !  scorn  him  not ! — The  strength,  whereby 
The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 
Th'  unconquerable  power,  which  fills 
The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills — 
The.«e  have  one  fouiitnin.  deep  and  clear. — 
The  same  whence  gush'dthat  child-like  tear  I" 

The  following,  which  ihe  author  has  named, 
'•Graves  of  a  Household,'"  has  rather  less  of 
external  scenery,  but  serves,  like  the  olhers, 
to  show  how  well  the  graphic  and  pathetic 
may  be  made  to  set  off  each  other : 

"  They  grew-  in  beamy,  side  iiy  side, 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee  ; 
Thf'ir  gr.ives  are  sever'd.  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea  ! 


POETRY. 


"  The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  tair  sleeping  brow  ; 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight,— 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 
'♦  One,  midst  the  forests  of  the  West, 
By  a  dark  stream  is  laid, — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 
Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 
"  The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one ! 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep: 
He  was  the  lov'd  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 
"  One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest 
Above  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast, 
On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 
"  And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd  ; 
She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers, — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band  ! 
"  And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree  I 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 
Around  one  parent  knee! 
"  They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheer'd  with  song  the  hearth, — 
Alas  !  for  Love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  oh  earth  !" 

We  have  taken  these  pieces  chiefly  on  ac- 
count of  their  shortness  :  But  it  would  not  be 
fair  to  Mrs.  Hemans  not  to  present  our  readers 
with  one  longer  specimen — and  to  give  a  por- 
tion of  her  graceful  narrative  along  with  her 
pathetic  descriptions.  This  story  of  "The 
Lady  of  the  Castle,"  is  told,  we  think,  with 
great  force  and  sweetness : — 

"  Thou  seest  her  piciur'd  with  her  shining  hair, 

(Fam'd  were  those  tresses  in  Proven9arsong) 
Half  braided,  half  o'er  cheek  and  bosom  fair 

Let  loose,  and  pouring  sunny  waves  along 
Her  gorgeous  vest.     A  child's' right  hand  is  roving 
'Midst  the  rich  curls,  and,  oh  !   how  meekly  loving 
Its  earnest  looks  are  lifted  to  the  face. 
Which  bends  to  meet  its  lip  in  laughing  grace  ! 
Yet  that  bright  lady's  eye  meihinks  hath  less 
Of  deep,  and  still,  and  pensive  tenderness, 
Than  might  beseem  a  mother's :   On  her  brow 

Something  too  much  there  sits  of  native  scorn. 
And  her  snnle  kindles  with  a  conscious  glow,    [tell 
— These  may  be  dreams  I     But  how  shall  Woman 
Of  woman's  shame,  and  not  with  tears? — She  fell! 
That  mother  left  that  child  ! — went  hurrying  by 
Its  cradle — haply  not  without  a  sigh  ; 
Haply  one  moment  o'er  its  rest  serene 
She  hung — But  no  !  it  could  not  thus  have  been. 
For  s/(e  went  on! — forsook  her  home,  her  hearth. 
All  pure  affection,  all  sweet  household  mirth. 
To  live  a  gaudy  and  dishonour'd  thing. 
Sharing  in  guilt  the  splendours  of  a  king. 

"  Her  lord,  in  very  weariness  of  life, 
Girt  on  his  sword  for  scenes  of  distant  strife  ; 
He  reck'd  no  more  of  Glory  : — Grief  and  shame 
Crush'd  out  his  fiery  nature,  and  his  name 
Died  silently.     A  shadow  o'er  his  halls 
Crept  year  by  year  ;  the  minstrel  pass'd  their  walls  ; 
The  warder's  horn  hung  mute:  —  Meantime  the 

child. 
On  whose  first  flow'ring  thoughts  no  parent  smil'd, 
A  gentle  girl,  and  yet  deep-hearted,  grew 
Info  sad  youth  :  for  well,  too  well  she  knew 
Her  mother's  tale  !     Its  memory  made  the  sky 
Seem  all  too  joyous  for  her  shrinking  eye  ; 
Check'd  on  her  lip  the  flow  of  song,  which  fain 
Would  there  have  lingered  ;  flush'd  her  cheek  to 
If  met  by  sudden  glance  ;  and  gave  a  tone      [pain. 
Of  sorrow,  as  for  someihme  lovelv  gone. 
Even  to  the  spring's  glad  voire.     Her  own  was  low 
And  plaintive  ! — Oh  I  there  lie  such  depth  of  woes 


In  a  young  blighted  spirit !     Manhood  rears 

A  haughty  brow  ;  and  Age  has  done  with  tears;' 

But  Youth  bows  down  to  mis'ry,  in  amaze 

At  the  dark  cloud  o'ermantling  its  fresh  days,— 

And  thus  it  was  wiih  her.     A  mournful  sight 

In  one  so  fair — for  she  indeed  was  fair — 
Not  with  her  mother's  dazzling  eyes  of  light. 

Hers  were   more  shadowy,  full  of  thought  ai 
pray'r  ; 
And  with  long  lashes  o'er  a  white-rose  cheek. 
Drooping  in  gloom,  yet  tender  still  and  meek. 

"  One  sunny  morn. 

With  alms  before  her  castle  gate  she  stood, 
'Midst  peasant -groups  ;  when,  breathless  and  o'e 
worn, 

And  shrouded  in  long  robes  of  widowhood, 
A  stranger  through  them  broke  : — The  orphan  ma 
With  her  sweet  voice,  and  profier'd  hand  of  aid, 
Turn'd  to  give  welcome :   But  a  wild  sad  look 
Met  hers ;  a  gaze  that  all  her  spirit  shook  ; 
And  that  pale  woman,  suddenly  subdued 
By  some  strong  passion  in  its  pushing  mood. 
Knelt  at  her  feet,  and  bath'd  them  with  such  tear 
As  rain  the  hoarded  agonies  of  years  [press' 

From  the  heart's  urn  ;  and  with  her  ■white  li| 
The  ground  they  irode  ;  then,  burying  in  her  ves 
Her   brow's  deep   flush,  sobb'd   out  —  'Oh!  ui 

defil'd ! 
I  am  thy  Mother — spurn  me  not,  my  child!' 

"  Isaure  had  pray'd  for  that  lost  mother ;  wept 
O'er  her  stain'd  memory,  while  the  happy  slept 
In  the  hush'd  midnight ;  stood  with  mournful ga: 
Before  yon  picture's  smile  of  other  days, 
But  never  breath'd  in  human  ear  the  name 
Which  weigh'd  her  being  to  the  earth  with  shani' 
What  marvel  if  the  anguish,  the  surprise, 
The  dark  remembrances,  the  alter'd  guise. 
Awhile  o'erpower'd  her  ? — from  the  weeper's  touc 
She  shrank  I — 'Twas  but  a  moment — yet  too  muc 
For  that  all-humbled  one  ;  its  mortal  stroke 
Came  down  like  lightning,  and  her  full  heart^rok 
At  once  in  silence.     Heavily  and  prone 
She  sank,  while,  o'er  her  castle's  threshold-stoni 
Those  long  fair  tresses — they  still  brightly  wore 
Their  early  pride,  though  bound  with  pearls  r 

more — 
Bursting  their  fillet,  in  sad  beauty  roll'd. 
And  swept  the  dust  with  coils  ot  wavy  gold. 

"Her  child  bent  o'er  her — call'd    her — 'Twi 
too  late — 
Dead  lay  the  wanderer  at  her  own  proud  gate ! 
The  joy  of  courts,  the  star  of  knight  and  bard, — 
How  didst  thou  fall,  0  bright-hair'd  Ermengarde  1 

The  following  sketch  of  "  Joan  of  Arc  i 
Rheims,"  is  in  a  loftier  and  more  ambitioi; 
vein  :  but  sustained  with  equal  grace,  and  a 
touching  in  its  solemn  tenderness.  We  ca 
atford  to  extract  but  a  part  of  it : — 

"  Within,  the  light, 

Throueh   the   rich  gloom  of  pictur'd  window 
flowing. 
Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight,  , 

The  chivalry  of  France,  their  proud  heads  bowini 
In  martial  vassalage  ! — while  'midst  the  ring,        ' 
.And  shtidow'd  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.   For  this,  the  hym ' 

Swell'd  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day  i 
W' ith  ihc  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim,  ! 

As  ihrough  lonj;  aisles  it  floated,  o'er  th'  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone    ■ 
And  nnapproach'd,  beside  the  altar  stone,         [ingi 
With  the  while  banner,  forth  like  sunshine  streami 
And  the  gold  helm,  through  clouds  of  fragrant; 

gleaming. 
Silent  and  radiant  stood  ? — The  helm  was  rais'd,   ; 
And  the  fair  face  reveal'd,  that  upward  gaz'd, 

Intensely  worshipping  ; — a  still,  clear  face. 
Youthful  but  brightly  solemn  ! — Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek, 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace  I 


HEMANS'  POEMS. 


477 


"A  triumphant  strain, 

proud  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 
Gush'd  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane, 
.nd  forth  she  came." 

"  The  shouts  that  fiH'd 
he  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  still'd 
'ne  moment ;  and  in  that  briet  pause,  the  tone, 
.s  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown, 
ank  on  the   bright  maid's  heart! — 'Joanne!' — 

Who  spoke  ? 
Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood 

grew 
nder  one  roof? — '  Joanne  I' — that  murmur  broke 
With  sounds  of  weeping  forth  ! — She  turn'd — 

she  knew 
eside  her,  mark'd  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
1  the  calm  beauty  of  hie  silver  hair, 
he  stately  shepherd  !  ajid  the  vouth,  whose  joy 
rom  his  iiark  eye  tlash'd  proudly  ;  and  the  boy, 
he  youngest-born,  that  ever  lov'd  her  best ! 
Father !    and  ye  my  brothers  !' — On  the  breast 
f  that  grey  sire  she  sank — and  swifily  back, 
ven  in  an  instant,  to  the  native  track  [more  ! 

,er  free  thoughts  flow'd. — She  saw  the  pomp  no 
he  plumes,  the  banners  ! — To  her  cabin  door, 
,nd  to  the  Fairy's  Fountain  in  the  glade, 
■'here  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  play'd, 
nd  to  the  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 
allowing  the  forest  into  deep  repose, 
er  spirit  turn'd. — The  very  wood-note,  sung 
In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
,'here  o'er  her  lather's  roof  the  beech-leaves  hung, 
Was  in  her  heart ;  a  music  heard  and  felt, 
'inning  her  back  to  nature  ! — She  unbound 
The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head, 
nd,  with  her   bright  locks  bow'd  to  sweep  the 

ground, 
LiftingTier  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said, — 
3less  me,  my  father,  bless  me  I  and  with  thee, 

0  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen-tree, 
,st  me  return  I'  " 

[There  are  several  strains  of  a  more  passion- 
's character  ]  especially  in  the  two  poetical 
)istles  from  Lady  Arabella  Stuart  and  Pro- 
irzia  Rossi.  We  shall  venture  to  oive  a  few 
les  from  the  form.er.  The  Lady  Arabella 
ias  of  royal  descent ;  and  having-  excited  the 
lars  of  our  pusillanimous  James  by  a  secret 
lion  with  the  Lord  Seymour,  was  detained 
;  a  cruel  captivity,  by  that  heartless  monarch, 
il  the  close  of  her  life — during  which  she  is 
pposed  to  have  indited  this  letter  to  her 
Ver  from  her  prison  house  : — 
My  friend,  my  friend  !  where  art  thou  ?  Day  by 

I.      ^^y^ 

iding,  like  some  dark  mournful  stream,  awav. 
y  silent  youth  flows  from  me  !    Spring,  the  while. 
Comes,  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindhng  boutrhs 
)imd  hall  and  hamlet :  Summer,  with  her  smile, 
Fills   the  green  forest  ; — young  hearts    breathe 

their  vows ; 
others,  long  parted,  meet;  fair  children  rise 
)und  the  glad  board :  Hope  laughs  from  loving 

eyes. 

ife  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers  ! 
By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent  ; 
er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers, 
\nd  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups 

bent, 
livering  to  breeze  and  rain-drop,  like  the  sheen 
_'  twilight  stars.     On  you  Heaven's  eye  hath  been, 
trough  the  leaves  pouring  i's  dark  sultry  hhie 

1  0  your  glowing  henits  ;  the  bee  to  you 

j'h  murmur'd,  and  the  rill. — My  soul  grows  faint 
ith  passionate  yeariiins,  as  its  quick  dreams  paint 
lur  haunts  by  dell  and  stream, --the  green,  the 

free, 
e  full  of  all  sweet  sound, — the  shut  from  me  ! 


"  There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell — 
O  Love  and  Freedom  !  ye  are  lovely  things  \ 

With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 
And  by  the  streams  ;  But  I — the  blood  of  kings, 

A  proud  unmingling  river,  through  my  veins 

l''lows  in  lone  brio;htness, — and  its  gifts  are  chains  ! 

— Kings  ! — I  had  silent  visions  of  decn  bliss. 

Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant !  and  for  this 

I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 

An  insect  to  be  crush'd  ! 

"  Thou  hast  forsaken  me  !  I  feel,  I  know  ! 
There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 
Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 
Thou'rt  where  the  red  witte  free  and  high  is  pour'd, 
Thou'rt  where  the  dancers  meet ! — a  magic  glass 
Is  set  within  my  .soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 
Flushing  it  o'er  with  pomp  from  bower  and  hall ! 
I  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all, — 
T/dVtp.'— What  dost  Thou  amidst  the  bright  and  fair, 
Whisp'ring  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair  ?" 

The  following,  though  it  has  no  very  distinct 
object  or  moral,  breathes,  we  think,  the  very 
spirit  of  poetry,  in  its  bright  and  vague  pic- 
turings,  and  is  well  entitled  to  the  name  it 
bears — "  An  Hour  of  Romance  :"' — 

"  There  were  thick  leaves  above  me  and  around. 

And  low  sweet  sighs,  like  those  of  childhood's 
Amidst  their  dimness,  and  a  fitful  sound        [sleep. 

As  of  soft  showers  on  water!  Dark  and  deep 
Lay  the  oak  shadows  o'er  the  turf,  so  still 
They  seem'd  but  pictur'd  glooms:  a  hidden  rill 
Made  music,  such  as  haunts  iis  in  a  dream. 
Under  the  fern-tnfis  :  and  a  tender  gleam 
Of  soft  green  light,  as  by  the  glow-worm  shed. 

Came  pniniiig  thro'  the  woven  beech-boughs 
And  steep'd  the  magic  page  wherein  I  read    [down, 

Of  royal  chivalry  and  old  renown  ; 
A  tale  of  Palestine. — Meanwhile  the  bee 

Swept  past  me  with  a  tone  of  summer  hours, 

A  drowsy  bugle,  wafting  thoughts  of  flowers. 
Blue  skies  and  amber  sunshine  :  brightly  free, 
On  filmy  wings  the  purple  dragon-fly 
Shot  glancing  like  a  fairy  javelin  by  ; 
And  a  sweet  voice  of  sorrow  told  the  dell 

Where  sat  the  lone  wood-pigeon  : 

But  ere  long, 
All  sense  of  these  things  faded,  as  the  spell 
Breathing  from  that  high  gorgeous  tale  grew  strong 

On  my  chain'd  soul ! — 'Twas  not  the  leaves  I 
A  Syrian  wind  the  Lion-banner  stirr'd,  [heard — 
Thro'  its   proud,  floating   folds  I  —  'tsvas  not  the 

Singing  ill  secret  thro'  its  grassy  glen  ; —    [brook, 

A  wild  shrill  trumpet  of  the  Saracen 
Peal'd  from  the  desert's  lonely  heart,  and  shook 
The   burning  air  ! — Like  clouds  when  winds  are 
O'er  glitt'ring  sands  flew  steeds  of  Araby;       [high. 
And  tents  rose  up,  and  sudden  lance  and  spear 
Flash'd  where  a  fountain's  diamond  wave  lay  clear, 
Shadow'd  by  graceful  palm-trees  !  Then  the  shout 
Of  merry  England's  joy  swell'd  freely  out, 
Sent  thro'  an  Eastern  heaven,  whose  glorious  hue 
.Made  shields  dark  mirrors  to  its  depth  of  blue  ! 
And    harps  were  there  ; — I  heard   their   sounding 

strings. 
As  the  w.iste  echo'd  to  the  mirth  of  kings. — 
The  bright  masque  faded  ! — Unto  life's  worn  track. 
What  call'd  me  from  its  flood  of  glory  back  ? 
A  voice  of  hiippy  childhood  ! — and  they  pass'd. 
Banner,  and  harp,  and  Paynim  trumpet's  blast 
Yet  might  f  scarce  bewail  the  splendours  gone. 
My  heart  so  leap'd  to  that  sweet  laughter's  tone." 

There  is  great  sweetness  in  the  following 
portion  of  a  little  poem  on  a  "  Girl's  School  :"— 

"  Oh  !  joyous  creatures  !  that  will  sink  to  rest. 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done, 
As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  oppresi, 
'Midst  the  dim  Iblded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun — 


*78 


POETRV. 


Yet  in  those  flute-like  voicpB,  mingling  low. 
Is  Woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe  I 

"  Her  look  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep,   [hour  ; 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear,  through  sufT ring's 
And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's  deep, 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  show'r ! 
And  to  make  idols, — and  to  find  ihem  clay. 
And  to  bewail  that  worship  I — therefore  prtjy  ! 

"  Her  lot  is  on  you  !  to  be  found  untir'd, 

Waicliiiig  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain. 
With  a  pale  check,  and  yet  a  brow  inspir'd. 

And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain  ; 
Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay. 
And,  oh  I    to  Love  through  all  things ! — there- 
fore pray  I" 

There  is  a  fine  and  stately  solemnity,  too, 
in  these  lines  on  -  The  Lost  Pleiad  :"— 

"  Hath  the  night  lost  a  gem,  the  regal  night  ? 
She  wears  her  crown  of  old  magnificence, 
'I'houiih  thou  art  exiled  thence — 
No  desert  seems  to  part  those  urns  of  light, 
'Mid.st  the  far  depths  of  purple  gloom  intense. 

"  Thoy  rise  in  joy,  the  starry  myriads,  burning — 

The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains 

And  from  the  silvery  sea  [free  ; 

To  them  the  sailor's  wakeful  eye  is  turning — 

UnchauCT'd  they  rise ;  they  have  not  mourn'd 

for  thee  ! 

"  Couldst  thou  be  shaken  from  thy  radiant  place. 
E'en  as  a  dew-drop  from  the  myrtle  spray. 
Swept  by  the  wind  away  ? 
Wert  thou  not  peopled  by  some  glorious  race  ? 
And  was  there  power  to  smite  them  with  decay? 

"  Then  who  shall  talk  of  thrones,  of  sceptres  riv'n  ? 
Bow'd  be  our  hearts  to  think  on  what  we  are  I 
When  from  its  height  afar 
A  World  sinks  thus — and  yon  majestic  heav'n 
Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanish'd  star  I" 

The  followinjr,  on  '-'The  Dying  Improvisa- 
tore,"  have  a  rich  lyrical  cadence,  and  glow 
of  deep  feeling : — 

"  Never,  oh  !  never  more. 
On  thy  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell. 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore — 
My  Italy,  farewell  I 

"  Alas  ! — thy  hills  among, 
Had  I  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name. 
Of  love  and  grief  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song. 
Unto  immortal  fame  I 

"  But  like  a  lute's  brief  tone. 
Like  a  rose-odour  on  the  breezes  cast. 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  dayspring,  seen  and  gone. 
So  hath  my  spirit  pass'd  I 

"  Yet,  yet  remember  me  I 
Friends!  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung. 
When  from  my  bosom,  joyously  and  free, 
The  fiery  fountain  sprung  ! 

"  Under  the  dark  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  hcav'ns,  and  on  the  star-lit  sea. 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  spring's  first  hue. 
Sweet  friends!  remember  me  I 

"  And  in  the  marble  halls. 
Where  life's  full  glow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear, 
And  poot-thou^hts  embodied  light  the  walls, 
Let  me  be  with  you  there  ! 
"  Fain  would  I  bind,  for  you. 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell  ; 
Fain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew — 
Sweet  friends  !  bright  land  !  farewell  !" 

But  we  must  stop  here.  There  would  be 
no  end  of  our  extracts,  if  we  were  to  yield  to 


the  temptation  of  noting  down  every  beaut  1 
passage  which  arrests  us  in  turning  over  ■» 
leaves  of  the  volumes  before  us.  We  ou  t 
to  recollect,  too,  that  there  are  few  to  wh  i 
our  pages  are  likely  to  come,  who  are  t 
already  familiar  with  their  beauties  ;  and  i 
fact,  we  have  made  these  extracts,  less  w  i 
the  presumptuous  belief  that  we  are  ini- 
duciiig  Mrs.  Heinans  for  the  first  time  to  • 
knowledge  or  admiration  of  our  readers,  tl  i 
from  a  desire  of  illustrating',  by  means  ' 
them,  that  singular  felicity  in  the  choice  <  1 
employment  of  her  imagery,  of  which  i 
have  already  spoken  so  much  at  large  ; — 1 1 
fine  accord  she  has  established  between  ■ 
world  of  sense  and  «f  soul — that  delicj 
blending  of  our  deep  inward  emotions  wi 
their  splemlid  symbols  and  emblems  withe . 

We  have  seen  too  much  of  the  peri.-;ha^ 
nature  of  modern  literary  fame,  to  vt'ulur<) 
predict  to  Mrs.  Hemans  "that  hers  will  be   - 
mortal,  or  even  of  very  Ion?  duration.     Si  } 
the  begiiniing  of  our  critical  career  we  h;» 
seen  a  vast  deal  of  beautiful  poetry  pass  :j 
oblivion,  in  spite  of  our  feeble  eflbrts  lo  ro  I 
or   retain    it  in  remembrance.      The  tiun  1 
quartos  of  Southey  are  already  little  be  r 
than   lumber:  —  and   the   rich    melodies  l' 
Keats  and  Shelley, — and  the  fantastical  il- 
phasis   of  Wordsworth, — and    the    plebt 
pathos  of  Crabbe,  are  melting  fast  from 
field  of  our  vision.     The  novels  of  Scott  h 
put  out  his  poetry.   Even  the  splendid  stn 
of  Moore  are  facling  into  distance  and 
ness.  except  where  they  have  been  man 
CO  immort.al  music;  and  the  blazing  sta 
Byron  himself  is  receding  from  its  place 
pride.     We  need  say  nothing  of  Milman, 
Croly,  and  Atherstone,  and  Hood,  and  a  lej 
of  others,  who,  with  no  ordinary  gifts  of  ti 
and  fancy,  have  not  so  properly  survived  i 
fame,  as  been  excluded  by  some  hard  fata 
from  what  seemed  their  just  inheritance.  ' 
two  who  have  the  longest  withstood  thisK 
withering  of   the  laurel,  and  with  the  1 
marks  of  decay  on  their  branches,  are  RoflHliiilitti 
and  Campbell :  neither  of  them,  it  may  " 
marked,    voluminous  writers,  and  both 
tinguished  rather  for  the  line  taste  and 
Bummate  elegance  of  their  writings,  thar      k^ 
that  fiery  passion,  and  disdainful  vehemei 
which  seemed  fur  a  time  to  be  so  much  n 
in  favour  with  the  public. 

If  taste  and  elegance,  however,  be  ti 
enduring  fame,  we  might  venture  secure! 
promise  that  rich  boon  to  the  author 
us;  who  adds  to  those  great  merits  a 
ness  and  loftiness  of  feeling,  and  an  eth 
purity  of  sentiment,  which  could  only 
nate  from  the  soul  of  a  woman.     She  ri 
beware,  however,  of  becoming  too  voluii 
ous  ;  and  must  not  venture  again  on  any  tli 
so  long  as  the  "Forest  Sanctuary."'     Bi 
the  next  generation  inherits  our  taste  for 
poems,  we  are  persuaded  it  will  not 
allow  her  to  be  forgotten.     For  we  doi 
hesitate  to  say,  that  she  is,  beyond  allc' 


ipera 
Mm 


1^ 


th 


most  touching  and  aceomplii      ItjJ 


iter  of  occasional  verses  that  our  litera 


has  yet  to  boast  of. 


ilelu; 


1th 

k 
lis  am 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  MIND. 


METAPHYSICS,  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


I  AM  aware  that  the  title  prefixed  to  this  head  or  Division  of  the  present  publication,  is 
r  likel}-  to  attract  many  readers;  and,  for  this  reason,  I  have  put  much  less  under  it,  than 
i;ier  any  of  the  other  divisions.  But,  having  been  at  one  time  more  addicted  to  the  studies 
tuvhich  it  relates  than  to  any  other — and  still  confessing  to  a  certain  partiality  for  them — I 
eld  not  think  of  letting  this  collection  of  old  speculations  go  forth  to  the  world,  without  some 
6  cimen  of  those  which  once  found  so  much  favour  in  my  eyes. 

I  will  confess,  too.  that  I  am  not  unwilling  to  have  it  known  that,  so  long  ago  as  1804,  I 
aentnred  to  break  a  spear  (and  I  trust  not  quite  ingloriously)  in  these  perilous  lists,  with  two 
sih  redoubted  champions  as  Jeremy  Bentham  and  Dugald  Stewart,  then  in  the  maturity  of 
tlir  fame;  and  also  to  assail,  with  equal  gallantry,  what  appeared  to  me  the  opposite  errors 
ohe  two  great  Dogmatical  schools  of  Priestley  and  of  Reid. 

I  will  venture  also  to  add.  that  on  looking  back  on  what  I  have  now  reprinted  of  these 
wy  lucubrations,  I  cannot  help  indulging  a  fond,  though  probably  delusive  expectation,  that 
ll  brief  and  familiar  exposition  I  have  there  attempted,  both  of  the  fallacy  of  the  ^Materialist 
thry,  and  of  the  very  moderate  practical  value  that  can  be  assigned  to  Metaphysical  dis- 
?i;ions  generally,  and  especially  of  the  real  shallowness  and  utter  insignificance  of  the 
it'ough-gouig  Scepticism  (even  if  unanswerable)  to  which  they  have  been  supposed  to  lead, 
m"  be  found  neither  so  tedious,  nor  so  devoid  of  interest  even  to  the  general  reader,  as  the 
Me  announcement  of  the  subjects  might  lead  him  to  apprehend. 


(^pril,  1804.) 

Tites  de  Legislation  Civile  et  Penale;  precedes  de  P)-i7icipes  Generaux  de  Legislation,  et  d^une 
die  d'un  Corps  complet  de  Droit  :  termines  par  un  Essai  sur  Vinfluence  des  Tevis  ct   dcs 

:  ^eiix  relativement  aux  Lois.  Par  M.  Jere.mie  Bentham,  Jurisconsulte  Angloi.s.  Publics 
|i  Frangois  par  M.  Dumont  de  Geneve,  d'apres  les  Manuscrits  confies  par  I'Autenr.  8vo. 
|tom.     Paris,  an  X.     1802. 


»  jjiE  title-page  of  this  work  exhibits  a  curi- 
jjujinstance  of  the  division  of  labour ;  and  of 
•hoombinations  that  hold  together  the  lite- 
^  commonwealth  of  Europe.  A  living 
luor  consents  to  give  his  productions  to  the 
>v<(l  in  the  language  of  a  foreign  editor ;  and 
kii..peculations  of  an  English  philosopher  are 
lu.ished  at  Paris,  under  the  direction  of  a 
'tv.lcur  from  Geneva.  This  arrangement  is 
lOihe  most  obvious  or  natural  in  the  world ; 
;  10;S  it  very  flattering  to  the  literature  of  this 
:oitry;  but  we  have  no  doubt  that  it  was 
ulted  for  snfticient  reasons. 

;  is  now  about  fifteen  years  since  Mr. 
Beham  first  announced  to  the  world  his  de- 
lifiiof  composing  a  great  work  on  the  Prin- 
-ip  of  morals  and  legislation.  The  specimen 
*''|h  he  then  gave  of  his  plan,  and  of  his 


While  the  author  displayed,  in  many  places, 
great  originality  and  accuracy  of  thinking,  and 
gave  proofs  throughout  of  a  very  uncommon 
degree  of  courage,  acuteness,  and  impartiality, 
it  v.as  easy  to  perceive  that  he  wa.s  encum- 
bered with  the  magnitude  of  his  subject,  and 
that  his  habits  of  discussion  were  but  ill 
adapted  to  render  it  popular  with  the  greater 
part  of  his  readers.  Though  fully  possessed 
of  his  subject,  he  scarcely  ever  appeared  to 
be  properly  the  master  of  it;  and  seemed  evi- 
dently to  move  in  his  new  career  with  great 
anxiety  and  great  exertion.  In  the  subordi- 
nate details  of  his  work,  he  is  often  extremely 
ingenious,  clear,  and  satisfactory;  but  in  the 
grouping  and  distribution  of  its  several  parts. 


he  is  apparentl)'  irresolute  or  capiJcions;  and 

, __   __      ^      ,  has  multiplied  and  distinguished  them  by  such 

'btips.  was  calculated,  we  think,  to  excite  I  a  profusion  of  divisions  and  subdivi.'^ioij.s.  that 
iO'deiable  expectation,  and  considerable  the  understanding  is  nearly  as  much  Lcwil- 
Jai,  in  the  reading  part  of  the  community.  I  dered  from  the  excessive  labour  and   com- 

479 


480 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


plexitv  of  the  arrangement;  as  it  could  have 
been  from  its  absolute  omission.  In  following 
out  the  discussions  nito  which  he  is  tempted 
by  every  incidental  suggestion,  he  is  so  anxi- 
ous to  fix  a  precise  and  appropriate  principle 
of  juiljrment.  that  he  not  only  loses  sight  of 
the  general  scope  of  his  performance,  but 
pushes  his  metaphysical  analysis  to  a  degree 
of  subtlety  and  minuteness  that  must  prove 
repulsive  to  the  greater  part  of  his  readers.  In 
the  extent  and  the  fineness  of  those  specula- 
tions, he  sometimes  appears  to  lose  all  recol- 
lection of  his  subject,  and  often  seems  to  have 
tasked  his  ingenuity  to  weave  snaree  for  his 
understanding. 

The  powers  and  the  peculiarities  which 
were  thus  indicated  by  the  preliminary  trea- 
tise, were  certainly  such  as  to  justify  some 
solicitude  as  to  the  execution  of  the  principal 
work.  While  it  was  clear  that  it  would  be 
well  worth  reading,  it  was  doubtful  if  it  would 
be  very  fit  for  being  read :  and  while  it  was 
certain  that  it  would  contain  many  admirable 
remarks,  and  much  original  reasoning,  there 
was  room  for  apprehending  that  the  author's 
love  of  method  and  metaphysics  might  place 
his  discoveries  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary 
students,  and  repel  the  curiosity  which  the 
importance  of  the  subject  was  so  likely  to  ex- 
cite. Actuated  probably,  in  part,  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  those  propensities  (which  nearly 
disqualified  him  from  bein<r  the  editor  of  his 
own  speculations),  and  still  too  busily  occu- 
pied with  the  prosecution  of  his  great  work 
to  attend  to  the  nice  finishing  of  its  parts,  Mr. 
Bentham,  about  six  years  ago,  put  into  the 
hands  of  M.  Dumont  a  large  collection  of 
manuscripts,  containing  the  greater  part  of 
the  reasonings  and  observations  which  he 
proposed  to  embody  into  his  projected  sys- 
tem. These  materials,  M.  Dumont  assures 
U.S,  though  neither  arranged  nor  completed, 
were  rather  redundant  than  defective  in  quan- 
tity: and  left  nothing  to  the  redacteur,  but  the 
occasional  labour  of  selection,  arrangement, 
and  compression.  This  task  he  has  performed, 
as  to  a  considerable  part  of  the  papers  entrust- 
ed to  him.  in  the  work  now  before  us;  and 
has  certainly  given  a  very  fair  specimen  both 
of  the  merit  of  the  original  speculations,  and 
of  his  own  powers  of  expression  and  distribu- 
tion. There  are  some  passages,  perhaps,  into 
which  a  degree  of  levity  has  been  introduced 
that  does  not  harmoni.se  with  the  general  tone 
of  the  composition  :  and  others  in  which  we 
miss  something  of  that  richness  of  illustration 
and  homely  vigour  of  reasoning  which  de- 
lighted us  in  Mr.  Bentham's  original  publica- 
tions; but.  in  point  of  neatness  and  perspicuity, 
conciseness  and  precision,  we  have  no  sort  of 
doubt  that  M.  Dumont  has  been  of  the  most 
essential  service  to  his  principal ;  and  are  in- 
clined to  suspect  that,  without  this  assistance, 
•we  should  never  have  been  able  to  give  any 
account  of  his  labours.* 

The  principle  upon  which  the  whole  of  Mr. 

*  A  oonsidernlilc  poriion  of  the  original  paper 
is  iicre  omitlcd ;  and  those  pans  only  retained, 
which  relate  to  'he  eenerai  principle  and  scope  of 
the  ByBictn. 


Bentham's  system  depends  is,  that  Utili 
and  utility  alone,  is  the  criterion  of  right  a' 
wrong,  and  ought  to  be  the  sole  object  of  \ 
legislator.      This   principle,    he   admits,   1 
often  been  suggested,  and  is  familiarly  rec 
red  to  both  in  action  and  delibeiation  :  but 
maintains  that  it  has  never  been  followed  i 
with  sufficient  steadmess  and  resolution,  a     -, 
that  the  necessity  of  assuming  it  as  the  e'xc^&0^!''''' 
sive  test  of  our  proceedings  has  never  btli  l""'^,'' 
sufficiently  understood.     There  are  two  pri.   A'^ 
ciples,  he  alleges,  that  have  been  admitletb    i"* 
a  share  of  that  moral  authority  which  beloii   |''' 
of  right  to  utility  alone,  and  have  exerciseft   •;*• 
control  over  the  conduct  and  opinions  of  i   ii'""*-'^ 
ciety,  by  which  legislators  have  been  yrf:  0"^. 
frequently  misled.     One  of  these  he  deno*  If''''' 
nates  the  Ascetic  prviciple.  or  that  which  »••'*' 
joins  the  mortification  of  the  senses  as  a  do    """""■ 
and  proscribes  their  gratification  as  a  sin  ; » 
the  other,  which  has  had  a  much  more  ext' 
sive  influence,  he  calls  the  principle  of  Si 
pathy  or  Antipathy ;   under  which  name 
comprehends  all  those  systems  which  pi; 
the  basis  of  morality  in  the  indications  o 
moral  Sense,  or  in  the  maxims  of  a  rule 
Right;  or  which,  under  any  other  form  of 
pression,  decide  upon  the  propriety  of  hnn 
actions  by  any  reference  to  internal  feeliii 
and  not  solely  on  a  consideration  of  their  c 
sequences. 

As  utility  is  thus  assumed  as  the  lest  r 
standard  of  action  and  approbation,  and  a 
consists  in  procuring  pleasure  and  avoid 
pain,  Mr.  Bentham  has  thought  it  necessn 
in  this  place,  to  introduce  a  catalogue  of  ■ 
the  pleasures  and  pains  of  which  he  coticei 
man  to  be  suscej^tible  ;  since  these,  he  alleji 
are  the  elements  of  that  moral  calculatioi! 
which  the  wisdom  and  the  duty  of  legislati 
and  individuals  must  ultimately  be  found,' 
consist.  The  simple  pleasures  of  which  n  . 
is  susceptible  are  fourteen,  it  seems,  in  ni  • 
ber;  and  are  thus  enumerated — l.pleasui 
of  sense:  2.  of  wealth:  3.  of  dexterity  :  4. 
good  character :  5.  of  friendship:  6.  of  pow 
7.  of  piety  :  8.  of  benevolence  :  9.  of  male 
lence  :  10.  of  memory:  11.  of  imaginatii 
12.  of  hope:  13.  of  association  :  14.  of  re! 
from  pain.  The  pains,  our  readers  will; 
happy  to  hear,  are  only  eleven  ;  and  are  • 
most  exactly  the  counterpart  of  the  pleasii* 
that  have  now  been  eimmerated.  The  c;- 
struction  of  these  catalogues.  M.  Dumont  c  • 
siders  as  by  far  the  greatest  improvement  1 1 
has  yet  been  made  in  the  philosophy  of  • 
man  nature  ! 

It  is  chiefly  by  the  fear  of  pain  that  n  i 
are  regulated  in  the  choice  of  their  delibei  ■ 
actions ;  and  Mr.  Bentham  finds  that  y ' 
may  be  attached  to  particular  actions  in  t ' 
diflerent  ways:  1.  by  nature:  2.  by  pul- 
opinion:  3.  by  positive  enactment :  and  4. 
the  doctrines  of  religion.  Our  in.stitutions^ ' 
be  perfi-ct  when  all  these  diiTerent  sancti ' 
are  in  harmony  with  each  other. 

But  the  most  difficult  part  of  ourauth<» 
task  remains.     In  order  to  make  any  usf 
those  "elements  of  moral  arithmetic."  wh  > 
are  constituted,  by  the  lists  of  our  pleast » 


BENTHAM  ON  LEGISLATION. 


481 


jnd  pains,  it  wa?  evidently  necessary  to  as- 
lertaiii  their  relative  Value, — to  enable  him  to 
roceed  in  his  legislative  calculations  with  any 
i(>gree  of  assurance.  Under  this  head,  how- 
ver,  we  are  only  told  that  the  value  of  a 
ileasure  or  a  pain,  considered  in  itself,  de- 
ends,  1.  upon  its  intensity,  2.  upon  its  prox- 
inity,  3.  upon  its  duration,  and  4.  upon  its 
ijrtainty ;  and  that,  considered  with  a  view 
p  its  consequences,  its  value  is  further  affect- 
[l,  1.  by  its  fecundity,  i.  e.  its  tendency  to 
reduce  other  pleasures  or  pains;  2.  by  its 
lirity.  i.  e.  its  being  unmixed  with  other  sen- 
iitions  ;  and,  3.  by  the  inimber  of  persons  to 
jhom  it  may  extend.  These  considerations, 
owever,  the  author  justly  admits  to  be  still 
■a(<equate  for  his  purpose :  for.  by  what 
etns  is  the  Intensity  of  any  pain  or  pleasure 
;  be  measured,  and  how.  without  a  knowledge 

this,  are  we  to  proportion  punishments  to 
imptations,  or  adjust  the  measures  of  recom- 
.'nse  or  indemnification  ■?  To  solve  this  pro- 
■em,  Mr.  Bentham  seems  to  have  thought  it 
thcient  to  recur  to  his  favourite  system  of 
.lumeration  ;  and  to  have  held  nothing  else 
I'cessary  than  to  make  out  a  fair  catalogue 
:  "the  circumstances  by  which  the  sensi- 
jlity  is  affected."'  These  he  divides  into  two 
ianches — the  primary  and  the  secondary. 
'tie  first  he  determines  to  be  exactly  fifteen, 
k.  temperament — health — strength — bodily 
Iperfection  —  intelligence  —  strength  of  un- 
'Irstanding —  fortitude  —  perseverance — dis- 
jsitions — notions  of  honour  —  notions  of  reli- 
,])n — sympathies — antipathies  —  folly  or  de- 
ijigement — fortune.  The  secondary  are  only 
ilie,  viz.  sex — age  —  rank — education — pro- 
l?sion — climate  — creed  —  government  —  re- 
l|ious  creed.  By  carefully  attending  to  these 
t'enty-four  circumstances.  Mr.  Bentham  is  of 
(inion  that  we  may  be  able  to  estimate  the 
vlue  of  any  particular  pleasure  or  pain  to  an 
•iividual,  with  sufficient  exactness ;  and  to 
,;lge  of  the  comparative  magnitude  of  crimes, 
;'}  of  the  proportionate  amount  of  pains  and 
(jnpensations. 

(Vow  the  first  remark  that  suggests  itself  is, 
tjit  if  there  is  little  that  is  false  or  pernicious 
iithis  system,  there  is  little  that  is  either  new 
rtimportaut.  That  laws  were  made  to  pro- 
ifte  the  general  welfare  of  society,  and  that 
iihing  should  be  enacted  which  has  a  differ- 
t-j:  tendency,  are  truths  that  can  scarcely 
ciim  the  merit  of  noveltj',  or  mark  an  epoch 
lithe  date  of  their  promulgation:  and  we 
he  not  yet  been  able  to  disco%'er  that  the 
v;t  technical  apparatus  here  provided  by  Mr. 
I;itham  can  be  of  the  smallest  service  in 
iproving their  practical  application. 

,rhe  basis  of  the  whole  system  is  the  undi- 
ved  sovereignty  of  the  principle  of  Utility. 
all  the  necessity  which  there  is  for  recurring 
f^'Ctly  to  it  in  every  question  of  legislation. 
hrsl  feelings,  it  is  admitted,  will  frequently 
bfound  to  coincide  with  it:  but  they  are  on 
I)  account  to  be  trusted  to,  till  this  coinci- 
d'lce  has  been  verified.  They  are  no  better, 
iij  short,  than  sympathies  and  antipathies, 
nire  private  and  unaccountable  feelings,  that 
nty  vary  in  the  case  of  every  individual; 
61 


and  therefore  can  afTord  no  fixed  standard  for 
general  approbation  or  enjoyment.  Now  we 
cannot  help  thinking,  that  this  fundamental 
proposition  is  very  defective,  both  in  logical 
consistency,  and  in  substantial  truth.  In  the 
iirst  place,  it  seems  very  obvious  that  the 
principle  of  utility  is  liable  to  the  very  same 
objections,  on  the  force  of  which  the  authority 
of  moral  impressions  has  been  so  positively 
denied.  For  how  shall  utility  itself  be  recog- 
nised, but  by  a  feeling  exactly  similar  to  that 
which  is  stigmatised  as  capricious  and  unac- 
countable ?  How  are  pleasures  and  pains,  and 
the  degrees  and  relative  magnitude  of  plea- 
sures and  pains,  to  be  distinguished,  but  by 
the  feeling  and  experience  of  every  individual  ? 
And  M  hat  greater  certainty  can  there  be  in 
the  accuracy  of  such  determinations,  than  in 
the  results  of  other  feelings  no  less  general 
and  distinguishable?  U  right  and  wrong,  in 
short,  be  not  precisely  the  same  to  every, in- 
dividual, neither  are  pleasure  and  fain;  and 
if  there  be  despotism  and  absurdity  in  impos- 
ing upon  another,  one's  own  impressions  of 
wisdom  and  propriety,  it  cannot  be  just  and 
reasonable  to  erect  a  standard  of  enjoyment, 
and  a  consequent  rule  of  conduct,  upon  the 
narrow  basis  of  our  own  measure  of  sensibility. 
It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  by  assuming  the 
principle  of  utility,  we  do  not  get  rid  of  the 
risk  of  variable  feeling :  and  that  we  are  still 
liable  to  all  the  uncertainty  that  may  be  pro- 
duced by  this  cause,  iinder  the  iufiuence  of 
any  other  principle. 

The  truth  is,  however,  that  this  uncertainty 
is  in  all  cases  of  a  veiy  limited  natuie  ;  and 
that  the  common  impressions  of  morality,  the 
vulgar  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  virtue 
and  vice,  are  perfectly  sufficient  to  dnect  the 
conduct  of  the  individual,  and  the  judg-ment 
of  the  legislator,  for  all  useful  purposes,  with- 
out any  reference  to  the  nature  or  origin  o( 
those  distinctions.  In  many  respects,  indeed, 
we  conceive  them  to  be  much  fitter  for  this 
purpose  than  Mr.  Bentham's  oracles  of  utility. 
In  the  first  place.,  it  is  neces.sary  to  observe, 
that  it  is  a  very  gross  and  unpardonable  mis- 
take to  represent  the  notions  of  right  and 
wrong,  which  are  here  in  question,  as  depend- 
ing altogether  upon  the  private  and  capricious 
feelings  of  an  individual.  Certainly  no  man 
was  ever  so  arrogant  or  so  foolish,  as  to  insist 
upon  establishing  his  own  individual  persua- 
sion as  an  infallible  test  of  duty  and  wisdom 
for  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  moral  feel- 
ings, of  which  Mr.  Bentham  would  make  so 
small  account,  are  the  feelings  which  obser- 
vation has  taught  us  to  impute  to  all  men; 
those  in  which,  under  every  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances, they  are  found  pretty  constantly 
to  agree,  and  as  to  which  the  uniformity  (ti 
their  conclusions  may  be  reasoned  and  reck- 
oned upon,  with  almost  as  much  security  as 
in  the  case  of  their  external  perceptions. 
The  existence  of  such  feelings,  and  the  uni- 
formity with  which  they  are  excited  in  all 
men  on  the  same  occasions,  ave  facts,  in  short, 
that  admit  of  no  dispute  ;  and.  in  point  of  cer- 
tainty and  precision,  are  exactly  on  a  footing 
with  those  perceptions  of  utility  that  can  only 
2Q 


4S2 


iSIETAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


be  relied  on  after  they  also  have  been  verified 
by  a  similar  process  of  observation.  Now, 
w'e  are  inclined  to  think,  in  opposition  to  Mr. 
Bentham,  that  a  legislator  will  proceed  more 
safely  by  following  the  indications  of  those 
moral  distinctions  as  to  which  all  men  are 
agreed,  than  by  setting  them  altogether  at 
defiance,  and  attending  exclusively  to  those 
perceptions  of  utility  which,  after  all.  he  must 
collect  from  the  same  general  agreement. 

It  is  now.  we  believe,  universally  admitted, 
that  nothing  can  be  generally  the  object  of 
moral  npprobation.  which  does  not  tend,  upon 
th<'  whole,  to  the  good  of  mankind ;  and  we 
are  not  even  disposed  to  dispute  with  Mr. 
Bentham,  that  the  true  source  of  this  moral 
approbation  is  in  all  cases  a  perception  or  e.\- 
perience  of  what  may  be  called  utility  in  the 
action  or  object  which  e.vcites  it.  The  dif- 
ference between  us.  however,  is  considerable; 
and  it  is  precisely  this — Mr.  Bentham  main- 
tains, that  in  all  cases  we  ought  to  disregard 
the  presumptions  arising  from  moral  approba- 
tion, and,  by  a  resolute  and  scrupulous  analy- 
sis, to  get  at  the  actual,  naked  utility  u^ion 
which  it  is  founded)  and  then,  by  the  appli- 
cation of  his  new  moral  arithmetic,  to  deter- 
mine its  quantity,  its  composition,  and  its 
value;  and,  according  to  the  result  of  this  in- 
vestigation, to  regulate  our  moral  approbation 
•for  the  future.-  We,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
inclined  to  hold,  that  those  feelings,  where 
they  are  uniform  and  decided,  are  by  far  the 
surest  tests  of  the  quantity  and  value  of  the 
utility  by  which  they  are  suggested  ;  and  that 
if  we  discredit  their  report,  and  attempt  to  as- 
certain this  value  by  any  formal  process  of  cal- 
culation or  analysis,  we  desert  a  safe  and  natu- 
ral standard,  in  pursuit  of  one  for  the  construc- 
tion of  which  we  neither  have,  nor  ever  can 
have,  any  rules  or  materials.  A  very  few  ob- 
servations, we  trust,  will  set  this  in  a  clear  light. 
The  amount,  degree,  or  intensity  of  any 
pleasure  or  pain,  is  ascertained  by  feeling: 
and  not  determined  by  reason  or  reflection. 
These  feelings  however  are  transitory  in  their 
own  nature,  and,  when  they  occur  separately, 
and,  as  it  were,  individually,  are  not  easily 
recalled  with  such  precision  as  to  enable  us, 
upon  recollection,  to  adjust  their  relative  val- 
ues. But  when  they  present  themselves  in 
combinations,  or  in  rapid  succession,  their 
relative  magnitude  or  intensity  is  generally 
perceived  by  the  mind  without  any  exertion, 
and  rather  by  a  sort  of  immediate  feeling, 
than  in  consecjuence  of  any  intentional  com- 
parison :  And  when  a  particular  combination 
or  succession  of  such  feelings  is  repeatedly  or 
frequently  suggested  to  the  memory,  the  rela- 
tive value  of  all  its  parts  is  perceived  with 
great  readiness  and  rapidity,  and  the  general 
result  is  fi.\ed  in  the  mind,  without  our  being 
conscious  of  any  act  of  reflection.  In  this 
way,  moral  maxims  and  impressions  arise  in 
the  minds  of  all  men,  from  an  instinctive  and 
involuntary  valuation  of  the  good  and  the  evil 
which  they  have  perceived  to  be  connected 
with  certain  actions  or  habits;  and  those  im- 
.  fissions  may  safely  be  taken  for  the  just  re- 
s !'.'.  of  that  valuation,  which  we  may  after- 


d^ 


wards  attempt,  unsuccessfully,  though  wit 
great  labour,  to  repeat.  They  may  be  con 
pared,  on  this  view  of  the  matter,  to  thoi 
acquired  perceptions  of  sight  by  which  the  ey,  vj  id 
is  enabled  to  judge  of  distances ;  of  the  pri  ^t^, 
cess  of  acquiring  which  we  are  equally  ui  ^"  j 
conscious,  and  yet  by  which  it  is  certain  tbi  n jj, 
we  are  much  more  safely  and  commodious)     ''f  ij^ 


jut* 


;kOf?! 


guided,  within  the  range  of  our  ordinary  ocei 
pations,  than  we  ever  could  be  by  any  forrn.-i  ™ .  ,]i 
scientific  calculations,  founded  on  the  fainj  r  y 
nessof  the  colouring,  and  the  magnitude  of  tit  '*.''' u^ 
angle  of  vision,  compared  with  the  averag  JjJ. 
tangible  bulk  of  the  kind  of  object  in  questim     ?  ,,1 

The  comparative  value  of  such  good  aa     f! 
evil,  we  have  already  observed,  can  obviouri     ';  T 
be  determined  by  feelit'g  alone  :  so  that  tl     jjf 
interference  of  technical  and  elaborate  reasoij    !r''!^ 
ing.  though  it  may  well  be  su])po&ed  to  dislui      f  "^ 
those  perceptions  upon  the  accuracy  of  wlii«     ^■f" 
the  determination  must  depend,  cannot  in  an     f*! 
case  be  of  the  smallest  assistance.     Whei     r^' 
the  preponderance  of  good  or  evil  is  distinct)     Pf. 
felt  by  all  pejsons  to  whom  a  certain  comb     |^'' 
nation  of  feelings  has  been  thus  suggested      ''^'^^' 
we  have  all  the  evidence  for  the  reality  cj     f""? 
this   preponderance    that  the   nature  of  tt     *^* 
subject  will  admit;  and  must  try  in  vain!        .. 
traverse   that  judgment,  by  any  subsequei      I* 
exertion  of  a  faculty  that  has  no  jurisdictk      1"''^. 
in  the  cause.     The  established  rule.s  and  u 
pressions  of  morality,  therefore,  we  consid 
as  the  grand   recorded  result  of  an  infin; 
multitude  of  experiments  upon  human  feelir 
and  fortune,  under  every  variety  of  circun 
stances;  and  as  afibrding,   therefore,  by  fi 
the  nearest  approximation  to  a  just  standai 
of  the  good  and  the  evil  that  human  condui 
is  concerned  with,  which  the  nature  of  01 
faculties  will  allow.     In  endeavouring  lo  co 
rect  or  amend  this  general  verdict  of  manki& 
in  any  particular  instance,  we  not  only  subsl 
tute  our  own  individual  feelings  for  that  I 
average  which  is  implied  in  those  moral 
pressions,   which   are   universally  pre 
but  obviously  run  the  risk  of  omitting  or  m: 
taking  some  of  the  most  impoi'ant  element 
of    the   calculation.      Every   one   at   all 
customed  to  reflect  upon  the  operations 
his  mind,  must  be  conscious  how  difficult 
is  to  retrace   exactly  those  trains  of  thi 
which  pass  through  the  understanding  almi 
without  giving  us  any  intimation  of  their  e: 
istence.  and  how  impossible  it  frequently 
to  repeat  any  process  of  thought,  when  ?! 
purpose  to  make  it  the  subject  of  observatii 
The  reason  of  this  is,  that  our  feelings  are  ni 
in  their  natural  state  when  we  would  thi 
make  them  the  objects  of  study  or  analysi.' 
ahd   their  force  and  direction  are  far  betti 
j  estimated,  therefore,  from  the  traces  whic 
I  they  leave  in  their   spontaneous  visitation 
i  than  from  any  forced  revocation  of  them  f< 
\  the  purpose  of  being  measured  or  comparci 
j  When  the  object  itself  is  inaccessible,  it 
wisest   to   compute   its   magnitude   from  i 
I  shadow;  where  the  cause  cannot  be  direct! 
examined,  its  qualities  are  most  securely  ii 
ferred  from  its  efl!"ects. 

One  of  tlio  most  obvious  consequences  ( 


BENTHAM  IW  LEGISLATION. 


483 


jdisTPgarding  the  general  impressions  of  mo- 
,ralit\%  and  determininii'  every  individual  qiies- 
l^ioii'iipo!!  a  rigorous  estimate  of  the  utility  it 
Imighl  appear  to  involve,  \vould  be,  to  give  an 
iidditional  force  to  the  causes  by  which  our 
Ijudgments  are  most  apt  to  be  perverted,  and 
,?ntrrelv  to  abrogate   the  authority  of   those 
General  rules  by  which  alone  men  are  com- 
jmouly  enabled  to  judge  of  their  own  conduct 
kvith  any  tolerable  imjiartiality.     If  we  were 
Ito  dismiss  altogether  from  our  consideration 
[those  authoritative  maxims,  which  have  been 
i5anctioned  by  the  general  approbation  of  man- 
Icind,  and  to  regulate  our  conduct  entirely  by 
ji  view  of  the  good  and  the  evil  that  promises 
[:o  be  the   consequence  of  every   particular 
iiction,  there  is  reason  to  fear,  not  only  that 
.nclination   might    occasionally   slip   a   false  t 
xeiaht  into  the  scah\  but  that  many  of  the 
•nost  important  conseciuences  of  our  actions 
night  be  overlooked.    Those  actions  are  bad, 
recording  to  Rtr.  Bentham,  that  produce  more 
j>vil  than  good  :  But  actions  are  performed  by 
individuals ;  and  all  the  gx)od  may  be  to  the 
individual,  and  all  the  evil  to  the  community. 
There  are  innumerable  cases,  in  which  the 
advantages  to  be  gained  by  the  commission 
if  a  crime  are  incalculably  greater  (looking 
[inly  to  this  v/orld)  than  the  evils  to  which  it 
nay  expose  the  criminal.     This  holds  in  al- 
most every  instance  where  unlawful  passions 
jnav  be  gratified  with  very  little  risk  of  de- 
jection.   A  mere  calculation  of  utilities  would 
Lever  prevent   such  actions;   and  the  truth 
jindoubtedly  is,  that  the  greater  part  of  men 
[re  only  withheld  from  committing  them  by 
jhose  general  impressions  of  morality,  which 
I  :t  is  the  object  of  Mr.  Bentham's  system  to 
Supersede.    Even  admitting,  what  might  well 
;te  denied,  that,  in  all  cases,  the  utility  of  the 
individual  is  inseparably  connected  with  Ihat 
jf  .society,  it  will  not  be  disputed,  at  least, 
hat  this  connection  is  of  a  nature  not  very 
triking  or  obvious,  and  that  it  may  frequently 
le  overlooked  by  an  individual  deliberating 
11  the  consequences  of  his  projected  actions. 
t  is  in  aid  of  this  oversight,  of  this  omission, 
f  this  partiality,  that  we  refer  to  the  General 
•ides  of  morality;    rules,  which   have  been 
ingge.sted  by  a  larger  observation,  and  a  longer 
^xperience,  than  any  individual  can  dream  of 
pretending  to.  and  which  have  been  accom- 
lodated.  by  the  joint  action  of  our  sjTnpathies 
|.-ith  delinquents  and  with  sufferers,  to  the 
jctual  condition  of  human   fortitude  and  in- 
jrmity.     If  they  be  founded  on  utility,  it  is 
nan  utility  that  cannot  always  be  discovered ; 
md  that  can  never  be  correctly  estimated,  in 
jeliberating  upon   a   particular   measure,  or 
j'ith  a  view  to  a  specific  course  of  conduct : 
i  is  on  an  utility  that  does  not  discover  itself 
ill  it  is  accumulated  ;  and  only  becomes  ap- 
arent  after  a  lar^e  collection  of  examples 
[ave  been   embodied   in   proof  of  it.     Such 
[jimmaries  of  utility,  such  records  of  uniform 
bservation,  we  conceive  to  be  the  General 
ules  of  Morality,  by  which,  and  by  which 
lone,  legislators  or  individuals  can  be  safely 
irected  in  determining  on  the  propriety  of 
iy  course  of  conduct.     They  are  observa- 


tions taken  in  the  calm,  by  which  we  must 
be  guided  in  the  darkness  and  the  terror  of 
the  tempest ;  they  are  beacons  and  strongholds 
erected  in  the  day  of  peace,  round  which  we 
must  rally,  and  to  which  we  must  betake  our- 
selves, in  the  hour  of  contest  and  alarm. 

For  these  reasons,  and  for  others  \Miicn  our 
limits  will  not  now  permit  us  to  hint  at,  we 
are  of  opinion,  that  the  old  establi.shed  mo- 
rality of  mankind  ought  upon  no  account  to 
give  place  to  a  bold  and  rigid  investigation 
into  the  utility  of  any  particular  act,  or  any 
course  of  action  that  may  be  made  the  sub- 
ject of  deliberation  ;  and  that  the  safest  and 
the  shortest  way  to  the  good  which  we  all 
desire,  is  the  beaten  highw-ay  of  morality, 
which  was  formed  at  first  by  the  experience 
of  good  and  of  evil. 

But  our  objections  do  not  apply  merely  to 
the  foundation  of  Mr.  Bentham's  new  system 
of  morality  :  We  think  the  plan  and  execu- 
tion of  the  superstructure  itself  defective  in 
many  particulars.  Even  if  we  could  be  per- 
suaded that  it  would  be  wiser  in  general  to 
follow  the  dictates  of  utility  than  the  impres- 
sions of  moral  duty,  we  should  still  say  that 
the  system  contained  in  these  volumes  does 
not  enable  us  to  adopt  that  substitute;  and 
that  it  really  presents  us  with  no  means  of 
measuring  or  comparing  utilities.  After  pe- 
rusing M.  Dumont's  eloquent  observations  on 
the  incalculable  benefits  which  his  author's 
discoveries  were  to  confer  on  the  science  of 
legislation,  and  on  the  genius  and  good  fortune 
by  which  he  had  been  enabled  to  reduce 
morality  to  the  precision  of  a  science,  by  fix- 
ing a  precise  standard  for  the  good  and  evil 
of  our  lives,  we  proceeded  with  the  perusal 
of  Mr.  Bentham's  endless  tables  and  divisions, 
with  a  mi.xture  of  impatience,  expectation, 
and  disappointment.  Now  that  we  have  fin- 
ished our  task,  the  latter  sentiment  alone 
remains ;  for  we  perceive  very  clearly  that 
M.  Dumont's  Zealand  partiality  have  imposed 
upon  his  natural  sag-acity,  and  that  Mr.  Ben- 
tham has  just  left  the  science  of  morality  in 
the  same  imperfect  condition  in  which  it  Avas 
left  by  his  predecessors.  The  whole  of  Mr. 
Bentham's  catalogues  and  distinctions  tend 
merely  to  point  out  the  Number  of  the  causes 
that  produce  our  happiness  or  misery,  but  by 
no  means  to  ascertain  their  relative  Magnitude 
or  force  ;  and  the  only  efl'ect  of  their  introduc- 
tion into  the  science  of  morality  seems  to  be, 
to  embarrass  a  popular  subject  with  a  technical 
nomenclature,  and  to  perplex  familiar  truths 
with  an  uiuiecessary  intricacy  of  arrangement. 

Of  the  justice  of  this  remark  any  one  may 
satisfy  himself,  by  turning  back  to  the  tables 
and  classifications  which  we  have  exhibited 
in  the  former  part  of  this  analysis,  and  trying 
if  he  can  find  there  any  rules  for  estimating 
the  comparative  value  of  pleasures  and  pains, 
that  are  not  perfectly  familiar  to  the  most  un- 
instructed  of  the  species.  In  the  table  of 
simple  pleasures,  for  in.stanc(»,  what  satisfac- 
tion can  it  afi^ord  to  find  th(!  pleasure  of  riches 
set  down  as  a  distinct  geinis  from  the  pleasure 
of  power,  and  the  pleasure  of  the  senses — 
unless  some  scale  were  annexed  by  which  the 


484 


METAPHYSICS  A.\D  JURISPRUDEiNCE. 


respective  value  of  these  several  pleasures 
might  be  ascertained  ]  Ll  a  man  is  balancing 
between  the  pain  of  privation  and  the  pain 
of  shame,  how  is  he  relieved  by  merely  tind- 
ing  these  arranged  under  separate  titles  .'  or, 
m  either  case,  will  it  give  him  any  informa- 
tion, to  be  told  tlial  the  value  of  a  pain  or 
pleasure  depends  upon  its  hitensity.  its  dura- 
lion,  or  its  certainty  ?  If  a  legislator  is  desi- 
rous to  learn  wliat  degree  of  punishment  is 
suitable  to  a  particular  oflence,  will  he  be 
greatly  edined  to  read  that  the  same  punish- 
ment may  be  more  or  less  severe  according 
to  the  temperament,  the  intelligence,  the 
lank.  or  the  fortune  of  the  deliiuiuent  j  and 
that  the  circumstances  that  influence  sensi- 
bihty,  though  commonly  reckoned  to  be  only 
.'line,  may  fairly  be  set  down  at  fifteen  I  Is 
there  any  thing,  in  short,  in  this  whole  book, 
ihal  realises  the  triumphant  Introduction  of 
the  editor,  or  that  can  enable  us  in  any  one 
instance  to  decide  upon  the  relative  ma<yniLade 
of  an  evil,  otherwise  than  by  a  reference  to 
the  common  feehngs  of  mankind  ?  It  is  true. 
we  are  perfectly  persuaded,  that  by  the  help 
of  these  feelings,  we  can  form  a  pretty  correct 
judgment  in  most  cases  that  occur ;  but  Mr. 
Bentham  is  not  persuaded  of  this  •  and  insists 
upon  our  renouncing  all  faith  in  so  incorrect 
a  standard,  while  he  promises  to  furnish  us 
with  another  that  is  liable  to  no  sort  of  inac- 
curacy. This  promise  we  do  not  think  he  has 
in  a);y  degree  fullilled  ;  because  he  has  given 
us  no  rule  by  which  the  intensity  of  any  pain 
or  pleasure  can  be  determined  ;  and  furnish- 
ed us  with  no  instrument  by  which  we  may 
take  the  altitude  of  enjoyment,  or  fathom  the 
depths  of  pain.  It  is  no  apology  for  having 
made  this  promise,  that  its  fulfilment  was 
evidently  impossible. 

In  multiplying  these  distinctions  and  divi- 
sions which  fonn  the  basis  of  his  system,  Mr. 
Bentham  appears  to  us  to  bear  less  resem- 
blance to  a  philosopher  of  the  present  times, 
fhan  to  one  of  the  old  scholastic  doctors,  who 
substituted  classiiication  for  reasoniiis.  and 
looked  upon  the  ten  categories  as  the  most 
u.seful  of  all  human  inventions.  Their  dis- 
tinctions were  seuerally  real,  as  well  as  his, 
and  could  not  have  been  made  without  the 
misapplication  of  much  labour  and  ingenuity  : 
But  it  is  now  generally  admitted  that  they  arc 
of  no  use  whatever,  either  for  the  promotion 
of  truth,  or  the  detection  of  error;  and  that 
'hey  only  serve  to  point  out  ditferences  that 
cannot  be  overlooked,  or  need  not  be  remem- 
bered. There  are  many  differences  and  many 
points  of  resemblance  in  all  actions,  and  in 
all  substances,  that  are  absolutely  indifferent 
in  any  s.»nous  reasoning  that  may  be  entered 
into  with  reijard  to  them  ;  and  though  much 
industry  and  much  acuteness  may  be  display- 
ed in  findinir  them  out,  the  discovery  is  just 
as  unprofitable  to  science,  as  the  enumeration 
of  the  adverbs  in  the  creed,  or  the  dissyllables 
in  the  decalogue,  would  be  to  theology.  The 
sreater  nnmber  of  Mr.  Bentham's  distinctions, 
however,  are  liable  to  objection,  because  they 
state,  under  an  intricate  and  technical  arrange- 
ment, those  facts  and  circum-stances  only  that 


are  necessarily  familiar  to  all  mankind,  ant 
caiuiot  possibly  be  forgotten  on  any  occasior 
where  it  is  of  importance  to  remember  them 
If  bad  laws  have  been  enacted,  it  certainly  it 
not  from  having  forgotten  that  the  good  of 
society  is  the  ultimate  object  of  all  law.  oi 
that  it  is  absurd  to  repress  one  evil  by  the 
creation  of  a  greater.  Legislators  havr  often 
bewildered  themselves  in  the  choice  of  means 
but  they  have  never  so  grossly  mistaken  the 
ends  of  their  institution,  as  to  need  to  be  re- 
minded of  these  obvious  and  elementar) 
truths. 

If  there  be  any  part  of  ilr.  Bentham's  clas- 
sification that  might  be  supposed  to  assist  us, 
in  appreciating  the  comparative  value  of 
pleasures  and  pains,  it  must  certainly  be  his 
enumeration  of  the  circumstances  that  alTect 
the  sensibility  of  individuals.  Even  if  this 
table  were  to  fulfil  all  that  it  promises,  how- 
ever, it  would  still  leave  the  system  funda- 
mentally deficient,  as  it  does  not  enable  us  tc 
compare  the  relative  amount  of  any  two  plea- 
sures or  pains,  to  individuals  in  the  sumc  cir- 
cumstances. In  its  particular  application., 
however,  it  is  truly  no  less  defective  :  foi 
though  we  are  told  that  temperament,  intelli- 
gence, &c.  should  vary  the  degree  of  punish- 
ment or  reward,  we  are  not  told  to  what  extent 
or  in  what  proportions,  it  should  be  varied  b) 
these  circumstances.  Till  this  be  done,  how- 
ever, it  is  evident  that  the  elements  of  Mr. 
Bentham's  moral  aritlmielic  have  no  determi- 
nate value  :  and  that  it  would  be  perfectl) 
impossible  to  work  any  i>ractical  problem  ii 
legislation  by  the  help  of  them.  It  is  scarce!} 
necessary  to  add.  that  even  if  this  were  ac- 
complished, and  the  cognisance  of  all  these  f 
particulars  distinctly  enjoined  by  the  law,  the 
only  effect  would  be,  to  introduce  a  puerik 
ami  fantastic  complexity  into  our  systems  ol 
jurisprudence,  and  to  encumber  judicial  pro- 
cedure with  a  multitude  of  frivolous  or  im- 
practicable observances.  The  circumstances 
in  consideration  of  which  Mr.  Bentham  would 
have  the  laws  vary  the  punishment,  are  sc 
numerous  and  so  indefuiite.  that  it  would  re- 
quite a  vast  deal  more  labour  to  ascertaii. 
their  e.xistence  in  any  particular  case,  than  tc 
establish  the  prhicipal  offence.  The  first  if 
Temperament ;  and  in  a  case  of  flogging,  wf 
suppose  Mr.  Bentham  would  remit  a  few 
lashes  to  a  saniiiiine  and  irritable  delinquent 
and  lay  a  few  additional  stripes  on  a  plileg 
rnatic  or  pituitous  one.  But  how  is  the  tem 
perament  to  be  given  in  evidence  ?  or  are  iht 
judges  to  aggravate  or  alleviate  a  punishmeir 
upon  a  mere  inspection  of  the  prisoners  com 
plexion.  Another  circumstance  that  shouI(' 
affect  the  pahi,  is  the  offender's  firmness  ot 
mind  :  and  another  his  .Mrenirth  of  understand 
inir.  How  is  a  court  to  take  cognisance  ol 
these  qualities  ?  or  in  what  degree  are  they  tc 
affect  their  proceedings  ?  If  we  are  to  admit 
such  considerations  into  our  law  at  all.  the\ 
ought  to  be  carried  a  great  deal  farther  thai 
Mr.  Bentham  has  indicated  :  and  it  should  bt 
expressed  in  the  statutes,  what  alleviation  ol 
punishment  should  be  awarded  to  a  culpri 
on  account  of  his  wife's  pregnancy,  or  the 


BENTHAM  ON  LEGISLATION. 


485 


colour  of  his  childreirs  hair.  We  cannot  help 
thinking  that  theundistinguishintiiiiossnessof 
our  actual  practice  is  better  than  such  foppery. 
We  tix  a  punishment  which  is  calculated  for 
the  common,  averase  condition  of  those  to 
whom  it  is  to  be  applied  ;  and,  in  almost  all 
cases,  we  leave  with  the  juilire  a  discretionary 
power  of  acconmiodating  it  to  any  peculiarities 
that  may  seem  to  require  an  exception.  After 
all,  this  is  the  most  plausible  part  of  Mr.  Beu- 
i  tham's  arrangements. 

In  what  he  has  said  of  the  false  notions 
which  legislators  have  frecpiently  followed  in 
preference  to  the  polar  liaht  of  utility,  we 
think  we  discover  a  good  deal  of  inaccuracvj 
and  some  little  want  of  candour.  Mr.  Ben- 
tham  must  certaiidvbe  conscious  that  no  one 
ever  pretended  that  the  mere  antiquity  of  a 
law  was  a  sutficient  reason  for  retaining  it,  in 
spite  of  its  evident  inutility:  But  when  the 
utility  of  parting  with  it  is  doubtful,  its  an- 
tiquity may  fairly  be  urged  as  atibrding  a  pre- 
sumption in  its  favour,  and  as  a  reason  for 
being  cautious  at  least  in  the  removal  of  what 
must  be  incorporated  with  so  many  other  in- 
stitutions. We  plead  the  antiquity  of  our 
Constitution  as  an  additional  reason  for  not 
yielding  it  up  to  innovators  :  but  nobody  ever 
thought,  we  believe,  of  advancing  this  plea  in 
support  of  the  statutes  against  Witchcraft.  In 
the  same  way,  we  think,  there  is  more  wit 
than  reason  in  ascribing  the  errors  of  many- 
legislators  to  their  being  misled  by  a  metaphor. 
■The  metaphor,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  has 
irenerally  arisen  from  the  principle  or  practice 
!to  which  Mr.  Bentham  would  give  effect  in- 
dependent of  it.  The  law  of  England  respects 
the  sanctity  of  a  free  citizen's  dwelling  so 
!much,  as  to  yield  it  some  privilege  ;  and  thcre- 
■fore  an  Englishman's  house  is  called  his  Castle. 
The  piety  or  superstition  of  some  nations  has 
determined  that  a  criminal  cannot  be  arrested 
'n  a  place  of  worship.  This  is  the  whole  fact ; 
ihe  usage  is  neither  explained  nor  convicted 
l)f  absurdity,  bv  saying  that  such  people  call 
'i  church  the  House  of  God.  If  it  were  the 
liouse  of  God.  does  Mr.  Bentham  conceive 
(hat  it  ought  to  be  a  .sanctuary  for  criminals'? 
•n  what  is  said  of  the  Fictions  of  law,  there 
|s  much  of  the  same  misapprehension.  Men 
iiehher  are,  nor  ever  were,  misgTiided  by 
'hese  fictions:  but  the  tictions  are  merely  cer- 
lain  quaint  and  striking'  methods  of  e.xpi^^'-^^ing 
!•  rule  that  has  been  adopted  in  an  appr^  li"n- 
|ion  of  its  utility.  To  deter  men  from  com- 
jiitting  treason,  their  offspring  is  associated 
p  a  certain  extent  in  their  punishment.  The 
notive  and  object  of  this  law  is  plain  enough  ; 
ind  calling  the  effect  •'Corruption  of  blood." 
'Hll  neither  aggravate  nor  hide  its  injustice. 
tVhen  it  is  said  that  the  heir  is  the  sameper- 
bn  with  the  deceased,  it  is  but  a  pithy  way 
if  intimatin2  that  he  is  bound  in  all  the  obli- 
'ations.  and  entitled  to  all  the  rights  of  his 
{redecessor.  That  the  King  never  dies,  is 
Inly  another  phrase  for  expressing  that  the 
jfiice  is  never  vacant ;  and  that  he  is  every 
{■here,  is  true,  if  it  be  lawful  to  say  that  a 
Rrson  can  act  by  deputy.  In  all  these  ob- 
■ivatior.s.   and  in  many  that  are  scattered 


through  the  subsequent  part  of  his  book.  Mr. 
Bentham  seems  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  common  sense  in  the  world  ;  and  to 
take  it  for  granted,  that  if  there  be  an  opening 
in  the  letter  of  tht^  law  for  folly,  misapprehen- 
sion, or  abuse,  its  ministers  will  eagerly  take 
advantage  of  it,  and  throw  the  whole  frame,'  ol 
society  into  disorder  and  wretchenlness.  A 
very  slight  observation  of  the  actual  business 
of  life  might  have  taught  him,  that  expediency 
may,  for  the  most  p;irt.  be  readily  and  cer- 
tainly discovered  by  those  who  are  interested 
in  finding  it ;  and  that  in  a  certain  stage  of 
civilisation  there  is  generated  such  a  quantity 
of  intelligence  and  good  sense,  as  to  disarm 
absurd  institutions  of  their  power  to  do  mis- 
chief, and  to  administer  defective  laws  into  a 
system  of  practical  equity.  This  indeed  is 
the  grand  corrective  which  remedies  all  the 
errors  of  legislators,  and  retrenches  all  that  is 
pernicious  in  prejudice.  It  makes  us  inde- 
pendent of  technical  systems,  and  indifferent 
to  speculative  irregiilarities ;  and  he  who  could 
increase  its  quantity,  or  confirm  its  power, 
would  do  more  service  to  mankind  than  all 
the  philosophers  that  ever  sjx-culated  on  the 
means  of  their  reformation. 

In  the  following  chapter  we  meet  with  a 
perplexity  which,    though   very   ingeniously 
produced,  appears  to  us  to  be  wholly  gratui- 
tous.    Mr.  Bentham  for  a  long  time  can  see 
no  distinction   between   Civil   and   Criminal 
jurisprudence;  and  insists  upon  it,  that  rights 
and    crimes   necessarily  and  virtually  imply 
each  other.     If  I  have  a  right  to  get  your 
!  horse,  it  is  only  because  it  would  be  a  crime 
I  for  you  to  keep  him  from  me  ;  and  if  it  be  a 
i  crime  for  me  to  take  your  horse,  it  is  only  be- 
j  cause  you  have  a  right  to  keep  him.     This 
!  we  think  is  very  pretty  reasoning :  But  the 
i  distinction  between  the  civil  and  the  criminal 
law  is  not  the  less  substantial  and  apparent. 
The  civil  law  is  that  which  directs  and  en- 
joins— the  criminal  law  is  that  which  Punishes. 
This  is  enough  for  the  legislatoi" ;  and  for  those 
who  are  to  obey  him.     It  is  a  curious  inquiry, 
no  doubt,  how  far  all  rights  may  be  considered 
as  the  counterpart  of  crimes;  and  whether 
every  regulation  of  the  civil  code  necessarily 
implies  a  delict  in  the  event  of  its  violation. 
On  this  head  there  is  room  for  a  good  deal  of 
speculation  ;  but  in  our  opinion  Mr.  Bentham 
pushes  the  principle  much  too  far.     There 
seems   to   be   nothing  gained,  for   instance, 
either  in  the  way  of  clearness  or  consistency, 
by  arranging  under  the  head  of  criminal  law. 
those  cases  of  refusal  to  fulfil  contracts,  or  to 
perform  obligations,  for  M'hich  no  other  pun- 
ishment is  or  ought  to  be  provided,  but  a  com- 
I  pulsory  fulfilment  or  performance.     This  is 
I  merely  'following   out  the  injunction  of  the 
I  civil  code,  and  cannot,  either  in  law  or  in  locfic. 
!  be  correctly  retarded  I'.s  a  puniflnnent.     T];e 
'  proper  practcal  icbt  of  a  crime,  is  \',  li(,'re,  ovi  i 
and  above  the  restitution  of  the  violated  right 
'  (where  that  is  possible),  the  violator  is  sub- 
!  jected  to  a  direct  pain,  in  order  to  deter  from 
I  the  repetition  of  such  offences. 
I      In  passing  to  the  code  of  criminal  law^,  Mr. 
I  Bentham  does  not  forget  the  necessity  of  class- 
2q2 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


ifying  and  dividing.  Delicts,  according  to 
him,  are  either,  1.  Private,  or  against  one  or 
a  few  individuals ;  2.  Reflective,  or  against  the 
deluiquent  himself;  3.  Semipublic,  or  against 
some  particular  class  or  description  of  per- 
sons; and,  linally.  Public,  or  against  the  whole 
community.  Private  dehcts,  again,  relate 
either  to  the  person,  the  property,  the  repu- 
tation or  the  condition  ;  and  they  are  distrib- 
uted uito  complex  and  simple,  principal  and 
accessory,  positive  and  negative,  &c.  &c.  The 
chief  evil  of  a  crime  is  the  alarm  which  it 
excites  in  the  community ;  and  the  degree  of 
this  alarm,  Mr.  Bentham  assumes,  depends 
upon  eigitt  circumstances,  the  particular  situa- 
tion of  the  delinquent,  his.  motives,  his  noto- 
riety, his  character,  the  difficulties  or  facilities 
of  the  attempt,  &c.  But  here  again,  we  see 
no  sense  in  the  enumeration ;  the  plain  fact 
being,  that  the  alarm  is  increased  by  every 
thing  which  renders  it  probable  that  such  acts 
may  be  frequently  repeated.  In  one  case,  and 
one  of  considerable  atrocity,  there  is  no  alarm 
at  all ;  because  the  only  beings  who  can  be 
affected  by  it,  are  incapable  of  fear  or  suspi- 
cion— this  is  the  case  of  infanticide  :  and  Mr. 
Bentham  ingeniously  observes,  that  it  is  pro- 
bably owing  to  this  circumstance  that  the 
laws  of  many  nations  have  been  so  extremely 
indifferent  on  that  subject.  In  modern  Eu- 
rope, however,  he  conceives  that  they  are 
barbarously  severe.  In  the  case  of  certain 
crimes  against  the  community,  such  as  mis- 
government  of  all  kinds,  the  danger  again  is 
always  infinitely  greater  than  the  alarm. 

The  remedies  which  law  has  provided 
against  the  mischief  of  crimes,  Mr.  Bentham 
says,  are  of  four  orders;  preventive — repres- 
sive— compensatory — or  simply  penal.  Upon 
the  subject  of  compensation  or  satisfaction, 
Mr.  Bentham  is  most  copious  and  most  origi- 
nal;  and  under  the  title  of  satisfaction  in 
honour,  he  presents  us  with  a  very  calm, 
acute,  and  judicious  in(iuiry  into  the  effects 
of  duelling;  which  he  represents  as  the  only 
remedy  v\  hich  the  impolicy  or  impotence  of 
our  legislators  has  left  for  such  offences.  We 
do  not  think,  however,  that  the  same  good 
sense  prevails  in  what  he  subjoins,  as  to  the 
means  that  might  be  employed  to  punish  in- 
sults and  attacks  upon  the  honour  of  individu- 
als.   According  to  the  enormity  of  the  offence, 


I  he  is  for  making  the  delinquent  pronounce  i. 
discourse  of  humiliation,  either  standing,  or  oi 
1  his  knees,  before  the  offended  part)',  anc 
!  clothed  in  emblematical  robes,  with  a  masl 
.  of  a  characteristic  nature  on  his  head.  &c 
j  There  possibly  may  he  countries  where  sucl 
contrivances  might  answer;  but,  with  us 
;  they  would  not  only  be  ineffectual,  but  ridic 
j  ulous. 

In  the  choice  of  punishments,  Mr.  Benthan 

I  wishes  legislators  to    recollect,   that  punish 

j  ment  is  itself  an  evil ;  and  that  it  consists  ol 

;  five  parts; — the  evil  of  restraint — the  evU  oi 

suffering — the  evil  of  apprehension — the  evi 

of  groundless  persecution — and  the  evils  tha 

extend  to  the  innocent  connections  of  the  de 

linquent.    For  these  reasons,  he  is  anxious  tha 

no  punishment  should  be  in  dieted  without  ; 

real  cause,  or  without  being  likely  to  iiiflucnc( 

the   will ;   or   where   other   remedies  niigh 

j  have  been  employed  ;  or  in  cases  w  here  thi 

crime  produces  less  evil  than  the  punishment 

These  admonitions  are  all  very  proper,  and 

we  dare  say,  sincere;  but  we  cannot  thiiil 

that  they  are  in  any  way  recommended  b; 

their  novelty. 

In  the  section  upon  the  indirect  means  c 
preventing  crimes,  there  is  a  great  deal  oi' 
genius  and  strong  reasoning;  though  ther 
are  many  things  set  down  in  too  rash  and  pei 
emptory  a  manner,  and  some  that  are  sup' 
ported  with  a  degree  of  flippancy  not  ver 
suitable  to  the  occasion.  The  five  main  source 
of  offence  he  thinks  are,  want  of  occupatioi 
the  angry  passions,  the  passion  of  the  sexet 
the  love  of  intoxication,  and  the  love  of  gaii 
As  society  advances,  all  these  lose  a  goo 
(leal  of  their  mischievous  tendency,  exceptin 
the  last;  against  which,  of  course,  the  legisla 
ture  should  be  more  vigilant  than  ever.  I 
the  gradual  predominance  of  the  avariciou 
passions  over  all  the  rest,  however,  ]\lr.  Ber 
tham  sees  many  topics  of  consolation;  an 
concludes  this  part  of  his  work  with  declai 
ing,  that  it  should  be  the  great  object  of  th 
criminal  law  to  reduce  all  oflences  to  thi 
species  which  can  be  completely  atoned  fc 
and  repaired  by  pa3ment  of  a  sum  of  mone} 
It  is  a  part  of  his  system,  which  we  have  fo:^ 
gotten  to  mention,  that  persons  so  injure 
should  in  all  cases  be  entitled  to  reparatio 
out  of  the  public  purse. 


(3a\\nav\),   ISO'i.) 


Account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Thomas  Reid,  D.  D.  F.  R.  S.,  Edinhitro;h.  late  Professor  o. 
Moral  Philosophy  in  (he  University  of  Glassrow.  By  Dugald  Stewart,  F.  R.  S.  Edinbnrgl j 
Read  at  different  Meetings  of  the  Royal  'Society  of  Edinburgh.  8vo.  pp.  225.  Edinbuig, 
and  London:   1803.  .  "  ' 


Ai-THOUGH  it  is  impossible  to  entertain 
greater  respect  for  any  names  than  we  do  for 
those  that  are  united  in  the  title  of  this  work, 
we  must  be  permitted  to  say,  that  there  are 
many  things  with  which  we  cniniol  agree, 
both  in  the  system  of  Dr.  Reid,  and  in  Mr. 


Stewart's  elucidation  and  defence  of  it.  Th; 
elucidation  begins,  indeed,  with  a  remarll 
which  we  are  not  at  all  disposed  to  contri; 
vert  ;  that  the  distingui,><hiiiy  feature  of  P: 
Reid's  Fhi]osoj,hv  is  the  sysli>malical  steadi 
ness  with  which  he  has  adhered  to  the  couifj 


STEWART'S  LIFE  OF  REID. 


487 


>.[   jaf  correct  observation,  and  the  admirable  self- 

ii  'jommand  by  which  he  has  confined  himself 
!o  the  clear  statement  of  the  facts  he  has  col- 
icted :  But  then  ]\Ir.  Stewart  immediately 
follows  up  this  observation  with  a  warm  en- 

3  3omium  on  the  inductive  philosophy  of  Lord 
Bacon,  and  a  copious  ami  eloquent  exposition 
pf  the  vast  advantage  that  may  be  expected 
ifrom  applyiug  to  the  science  of  Mind  those 

t  poaad  rules  of  experimental  philosophy  that 
:(iave  undoubtedly  guided  us  to  all  the  splen- 
did improvements  in  modern,  physics.  From 
,;he  time  indeed  that  Mr.  Hume  published  his 
treatise  of  human  nature,  tlown  to  the  latest 
(speculations  of  Condoreet  anil  INIr.  Stewart 
^imself,  we  have  observed  this  to  be  a  favour- 
ite topic  with  all  metaphysical  writers  j  and 
hat  those  who  have  dilfered  in  almost  every 
;hing  else,  have  agreed  in  magnifying  the  im- 
iwrtance  of  such  inquiries,  and  in  predicting 
he  approach  of  some  striking  improvement  in 
|:he  manner  of  conducting  them. 

Now,  in  these  speculations  we  cannot  help 
i!uspectiiig  that  those  philcsophers  have  been 
;iiisled  in  a  considerable  degree  by  a  false 
iinalogy ;  and  that  their  zeal  for  the  promotion 
i)f  their  favourite  studies  has  led  them  to  form 
I'.xpectations  somewhat  sanguine  and  extrava- 
gant, both  as  to  their  substantial  utility  and 
iis  to  the  possibility  of  their  ultimate  improve- 
inent.  In  reality,  it  does  not  appear  to  us 
ihat  an)' great  advancement  in  the  knowledge 
pf  the  operations  of  mind  is  to  be  expected 
I'rom  any  improvement  in  the  plan  of  investi- 
gation; or  that  the  condition  of  mankind  is 
jikely  to  derive  any  great  benefit  from  the 
'ultivation  of  this  interesting  but  abstracted 
^tudy. 

I  Inductive  philosophy,  or  that  which  pro- 
:!eeds  upon  the  careful  observation  of  facts, 
nay  be  applied  to  two  different  classes  of 
;)lienomena.  The  first  are  those  that  can  be 
■nade  the  subject  of  proper  Experiment : 
ivhere  the  substances  are  actually  in  our 
j)Ower,  and  the  judgment  and  artifice  of  the 
Inquirer  can  be  effectually  employed  to  ar- 
jange  and  combine  them  in  such  a  way  as  to 
jlisclose  their  most  hidden  properties  and  re- 
lations. The  other  class  of  phenomena  are 
hose  that  occur  in  substances  that  are  placed 
•Itogether  beyond  our  reach ;  the  order  and 
iuccession  of  which  we  are  generally  unable 
10  control ;  and  as  to  which  we  can  do  little 
,nore  than  collect  and  record  the  laws  by 
jvhich  they  appear  to  be  governed.  Those 
ubstances  are  not  the  subject  of  Experiment, 
imt  of  Observation  ;  and  the  knowledge  we 
:nay  obtain,  by  carefully  watching  their  varia- 
:ion6,  is  of  a  kind  that  does  not  directly  in- 
irease  the  power  which  we  might  otherwipe 
jiave  had  over  them.  It  seems  evident,  how- 
jver.  that  it  is  principally  in  the  former  of 
hese  depart  men  t.«;,  or  the  strict  experimental 
?hiloxnphij,  that  those  splendid  improvements 
(lave  been  made,  which  have  erected  so  vast 
[trophy  to  the  prospective  genius  of  Bacon, 
the  astronomy  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  is  no  ex- 
ception to  this  general  remark  :  All  that  mere 
}bservation  could  do  to  determine  the  move- 
Jients  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  had  been  ac- 


complished by  the  star-gazeis  who  preceded 
him;  and  the  law  of  gravitation,  which  he 
afterwards  applied  to  the  planetary  system, 
was  first  calculated  and  a.scertained  by  experi- 
ments performed  upon  substances  which  were 
entirely  at  liis  disposal. 

I  It  will  scarcely  be  denied,  either,  that  it  is 
almost  exclusively  to  this  department  of  pro- 
per E.vperiment,  that  Lord  Bacon  has  directed 
the  attention  of  his  foUoweis.  His  funda- 
mental maxim  is,  that  knowledge  is  power; 
and  the  great  problem  which  he  constantly 
aims  at  resolving  is,  in  what  manner  the  na- 
ture of  any  substance  or  quality  may,  by  ex- 
periment, be  so  detected  and  a.<certained  as 
to  enable  us  to  manage  it  at  our  pleasure. 
The  greater  part  of  the  Novum  Ormmtm  ac- 
cordingly is  taken  up  with  rules  and  examples 
for  contriving  and  conducting  experiments; 
and  the  chief  advantage  which  he  seems  to 
have  expected  from  the  progress  of  those  in- 
quiries, appears  to  be  centered  in  the  enlarge- 
ment of  man's  domhiion  over  the  material 
universe  which  he  inhabits.  To  the  mere 
Observer,  therefore,  his  laws  of  philosophising, 
except  where  they  are  prohibitory  laws,  have 
but  little  application  ;  and  to  such  an  incjuirer, 
the  rewards  of  his  philosophy  scarcely  appear 
to  have  been  promised.  It  is  evident  indeed 
that  no  direct  utility  can  result  from  the  most 
accurate  observation  of  occurrences  which  we 
cannot  control ;  and  that  for  the  uses  to  which 
such  observations  may  afterwards  be  turned, 
we  are  indebted  not  so  much  to  the  observer, 
as  to  the  person  who  discovered  the  applica- 
tion. It  also  appears  to  be  pretty  evident 
that  in  the  art  of  observation  itself,  no  very 
great  or  fundamental  improvement  can  be 
expected.  Vigilance  and  attention  are  all  that 
can  ever  be  required  in  an  observer;  and 
though  a  talent  for  methodical  arrangement 
may  facilitate  to  others  the  .study  of  the  facts 
that  have  been  collected,  it  does  not  appear 
how  our  actual  knowledge  of  those  facts  can 
be  increased  by  any  new  method  of  describing 
them.  Facts  that  we  are  unable  to  modify  or 
direct,  in  short,  can  only  be  the  objects  of  ob- 
servation;  and  observation  can  only  inform 
us  that  they  exist,  and  that  their  succession 
appears  to  be  governed  by  certain  general 
laws. 

In  the  proper  Experimental  philosophy, 
every  acquisition  of  knowledge  is  an  increase 
of  power;  because  the  knowledge  is  neces- 
sarily derived  from  some  intentional  disposi- 
tion of  materials  which  we  may  always  com- 
mand in  the  same  maimer.  In  the  philoso- 
phy of  observation,  it  is  merely  a  gratification 
of  our  curiosity.  By  experiment,  too.  we 
generally  acquire  a  pretty  corr(*ct  knowledge 
of  the' causes  of  the  phenomena  we  produce; 
as  we  ourselves  have  distributed  and  arranged 
the  circumstances  upon  which  they  depend  ; 
while,  in  matters  of  mere  ob.servation,  the 
assignment  of  causes  must  always  be  in  a 
good  degree  conjectural,  inasmuch  as  we  have 
no  meatis  of  separating  the  preceding  jjheno- 
mena,  or  deciding  otherwise  than  by  analogy, 
to  which  of  them  the  succeeding  event  is  to 
be  attributed. 


488 


METAPHYSICS  AJN'D  JURISPRUDENCE. 


Xow,  it  appears  to  us  to  be  pretty  evident 
that  the  phenomena  of  the  Human  Mind  are 
almost  all  of  the  latter  description.  We  feel, 
and  perceive,  ap-'  remember,  without  any 
purpose  or  contrivance  of  ours,  and  have  evi- 
dently no  power  over  the  mechanism  by  which 
those  functions  are  performed.  We  may  ob- 
serve and  distinguish  those  operations  of 
mind,  indeed,  with  more  or  less  attention  or 
e.vactness;  but  we  cannot  subject  them  to 
e.vperiment,  or  alter  their  nature  by  any  pro- 
cess of  investigation.  We  cannot  decompose 
our  perceptions  in  a  cnicible,  nor  divide  our 
sensations  with  a  prism ;  nor  can  we,  by  art 
and  contrivance,  produce  any  combination  of 
thoughts  or  emotions,  besides  those  with  which 
all  men  have  been  provided  by  nature.  No 
metaphysician  expects  by  analysis  to  discover 
a  new  power,  or  to  excite  a  new  sensation  in 
the  mind,  as  a  chemist  discovers  a  new  earth 
or  a  new  metal ;  nor  can  he  hope,  by  any 

Erocess  of  synthesis,  to  exhibit  a  mental  com- 
ination  dilferent  from  any  that  nature  has 
produced  in  the  minds  of  other  persons.  The 
science  of  metaphysics,  therefore,  depends 
upon  observation,  and  not  upon  experiment : 
And  all  reasonings  upon  mind  proceed  ac- 
cordingly upon  a  reference  to  that  general 
observation  which  all  men  are  supposed  to 
have  made,  and  not  to  any  particular  experi- 
ments, which  are  known  only  to  the  inventor. 
— The  province  of  philosophy  in  this  depart- 
ment, therefore,  is  the  provmce  of  observation 
only;  and  m  this  department  the  greater  part 
of  that  code  of  laws  which  Bacon  has  pro- 
vided for  the  regulation  of  experimental  in- 
duction is  plainly  without  authority.  In  meta- 
physics, certainly,  knowledge  is  not  power: 
and  instead  of  producing  new  phenomena  to 
elucidate  the  old,  by  well-contrived  and  well- 
conducted  experiments,  the  most  diligent  in- 
quirer can  do  no  more  than  register  and  arrange 
the  appearances,  which  he  can  neitheraccount 
for  nor  control. 

But  though  our  power  can  in  no  case  be 
directly  increased  by  the  most  vigilant  and 
correct  observation  alone,  our  knowledge  may 
often  be  very  greatly  extended  by  it.  In  the 
science  of  mind,  however,  we  are  inclined  to 
suspect  that  this  is  not  the  case.  From  the 
very  nature  of  the  subject,  it  seems  necessa- 
rily to  follow,  tliat  all  men  must  be  practically 
familiar  with  all  the  functions  and  qualities 
of  their  minds;  and  with  almost  all  the  laws 
by  which  they  appear  to  be  governed.  Every 
one  knows  exactly  what  it  is  to  perceive  and 
to  feel,  to  remember,  irhagine,  and  believe  : 
and  though  he  may  not  always  apply  the 
words  that  denote  thes.;  operations  with  per- 
fect propriety,,  it  is  not  possible  to  suppose  that 
any  one  is  ignorant  of  the  things.  Even  those 
laws  of  thought,  or  connections  of  mental 
operation,  that  are  not  so  commonly  stated  in 
words,  appear  to  be  universally  known  ;  and 
are  found  to  regulate  the  practice  of  those 
who  never  thought  of  enouncing  them  in  pre- 
cise or  abstract  propositions.  A  man  who 
never  heard  it  asserted  that  memory  depends 
upon  attention,  yet  attends  with  uncommon 
care  to  any  thing  that  he  wishes  to  remember : 


and  accounts  for  his  forge tfulness,  by  ack;,(. . 
ledging  that  he   had  paid  no  attentioii.    , 
groom,  who  never  heard  of  the  associationE 
ideas,  feeds  the  young  war-horse  to  the  sou 
of  a  drum;   and  the  unphilosophical  artr 
who  tame  elephants  and  train  dancing  do 
proceed  upon  the  same  obvious  and  admitlfl 
principle.  The  truth  is,  that  as  we  only  ko 
the  existence  of  mind  by  the  exercise  ofJ 
functions  according  to  certain  laws,  it  isJ 
possible  that  any  one  should  ever  discovt' 
bring  to  light  any  functions  or  any  la\y 
which  men  would  admit  the  existence,  UE 
they  were  previously  convinced  of  their  op" 
ation  on  themselves.     A  philosopher  may  ' 
the  first  to  state  these  laws,  and  to  descri 
their  operation  distinctly  in  words;  bu;  m 
must  be  already  familiarly  acquainlLvl  v, 
them  in  reality,  before  they  can  assent  ;a  i 
justice  of  his  descriptions. 

For  the.se  reasons,  we  cannot  help  thinki 
that  the  labours  of  the  metaphysician,  inste 
of  being  assimilated  to  those  of  the  chem 
or  experimental  philosopher,  might,  with  It 
impropriety,  be  compared  to  those  of  the  gra\ 
mariaii  who  arranges  into  technical  order  t' 
words  of  a  language  which  is  spoken  fam 
iarly  by  all  his  readers;  orof  the  artist  wli  n 
hibits  to  them  a  correct  map  of  a  distr.i.!  \v, 
every  part  of  which  they  were  previou? 
acquainted.  We  acquire  a  perfect  knowled 
of  our  own  minds  without  study  or  exertic' 
just  as  we  acquire  a  perfect  knowledge  of  o 
native  languafje  or  our  native  parish;  yet  v 
cannot,  without  much  study  and  re/iecticj 
compose  a  grammar  of  the  one,  or  a  map  • 
the  other.  To  arrange  in  correct  order  all  I,' 
particulars  of  our  practical  knowledge,  and  ' 
set  down,  without  omission  and  without  di 
tortion,  every  thing  that  we  actually  kno' 
upon  a  subject,  requires  a  power  of  abstra' 
tion,  recollection,  and  dispositioii.  that  falls  ; 
the  lot  of  but  few.  In  the  science  of  mii.i 
perhaps,  more  of  those  qualities  are  requir* 
than  in  any  other ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  tri 
of  this,  than  of  all  the  rest,  that  the  materiii 
of  the  description  must  always  be  derivi 
from  a  previous  acquaintance  with  the  m 
ject — that  nothing  can  be  S(:'t  down  techm'cal  i 
that  was  not  practically  known — and  that  r 
substantial  addition  is  matle  to  our  knowled: 
by  a  scientific  distribution  of  its  paiticulai 
After  such  a  systematic  arrangement  Ims  be ' 
introduced,  and  a  correct  nomenclature  a  i 
plied,  we  may  indeed  conceive  more  clearl 
and  will  certainly  describe  more  justly,  ll 
nature  and  extent  of  our  information  ;  l>ut  oi 
information  itself  is  not  really  incieased,  ai 
the  consciousness  by  which  we  are  supplii 
with  all  the  materials  of  our  reflections,  do. 
not  becomt!  more  productive,  by  this  disp' 
sition  of  its  contributions. 

But  though  we  have  been  inchiced  in  th 
way  to  express  our  scepticism,  both  as  to  tl 
probable  imprf)vement  and  practical  utilil 
of  metaphysical  speculations,  we  would  I 
no  means  be  understood  as  having  assertt 
that  these  studies  arc  absolutely  withni 
interest  or  importance.  With  regard  to  Pe 
ception,  indeed,  and  some  of  the  other  primai 


STEWART'S  LIFE  OF  REID. 


489 


fictions  of  miiul,  it  seems  now  to  be  admit- 
t^.  that  philosophy  can  be  of  no  use  to  us. 
ai  that  the  profouudest  reasonings  lead  us 
bk  to  the  creed,  and  the  ignorance,  of  the 
Tgar.  As  to  the  laws  of  Association,  hovv- 
e'i;  the  case  is  somewhat  different .  In- 
gaces  of  the  application  of  such  laws  are 
iieeJ  familiar  to  every  one,  and  there  are 
f(  who  do  not  of  themselves  arrive  at  some 
ij)erfect  conception  of  their  general  limits 
a  application  :  Bat  that  they  are  sooner 
kned.  and  may  be  more  steadily  and  ex- 
ttMvely  applied,  when  our  observations  are 
a;sted  by  the  lessons  of  a  judicious  instruc- 
tc  seems  scarcely  to  admit  of  doubt  ;  and 
thiih  there  are  no  enors  of  opinion  perhaps 
tl  may  not  be  corrected  without  the  help 
olnetaphysical  principles,  it  cannot  be  dis- 
pod,  that  an  habitual  acquaintance  with 
lY<e  principles  leads  us  more  directly  to  the 
jci"ce  of  such  errors,  and  enables  us  more 
relily  to  explain  and  correct  some  of  the 
tn  t  formidable  aberrations  of  the  human 
merstanding.  After  all,  perhaps,  the  chief 
v;'ie  of  such  speculations  will  be  found  to 
coist  in  the  wholesome  exercise  which 
th-  aflbrd  to  the  faculties,  and  the  delight 
w  ch  IS  produced  by  the  consciousness  of 
iiillectual  exertion.  Upon  this  subject,  we 
gl'ly  borrow  from  Mr.  Stewait  the  following 
ac'iirable  quotations : — 

An  author  well  qualified  to  judge,  from  hi.s 
ov experience,  of  whatever  conduces  to  invigo- 
ra  or  to  embellish  the  understanding,  has  beauti- 
fu  remarked,  that,  '  by  turning  the  soul  inward 
onself,  lis  forces  nre  concentrated,  and  are  fitted 
fo  tronger  and  bolder  flights  of  science  ;  and  that, 
in;ich  pursuits,  whether  we  take,  or  whether  we 
lo!, the  game,  the  Chase  is  certainly  of  service,' 
In, is  respect,  the  philosophy  of  the  mind  (abstract- 
in;  niirely  from  that  pre-eminence  which  belongs 
tO'  in  consequence  of  its  practical  applications) 
Declaim  a  distinguished  rank  among  those  pre- 
pa  ory  disciplines,  which  another  writer  of  equal 
lal.'s  has  happily  compared  to  '  the  crops  which 
an'aised,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  harvest,  but  to 
be  oughed  in  as  a  dressing  to  the  land.'  " 

pp.  166,   167. 

I  following  out  his  observations  on  the 
8C<!e  and  spirit  of  Dr.  Reid's  philosophy,  Mr. 
Stt;art  does  not  present  his  readers  with  any 
gejral  outline  or  summary  of  the  peculiar 
defines  by  which  it  is  principally  distin- 
gu'ied.  This  part  of  the  book  indeed  ap- 
p«?'5  to  be  addressed  almost  exclusively  to 
th(;>  who  are  in  some  degree  initiated  in  the 
stij'es  of  which  it  treats,  and  consists  of  a 
vii  cation  of  Dr.  Reid's  philosophy  from  the 
in(  important  objections  that  had  been  made 
to  by  his  antagonists.  The  first  is  proposed 
by  lie  materialist,  and  is  directed  against  the 
ffrajiitous  assumption  of  the  existence  of 
mil.  To  this  Mr.  Stewart  answers  with 
imstible  force,  that  the  philosophy  of  Dr. 
Tie, has  in  reality  no  concern  with  the  theo- 
rie  that  may  be  formed  as  to  the  causes  of 
ouiiPMtal  operations,  but  is  entirely  confined 
to  t;  investigation  of  those  phenomena  which 
arenown  to  us  by  internal  consciousness, 
antjnot  by  external  perception.  On  the 
uiejy  of  Materialism  itself,  he  makes  some 
adr.'-able   observations :    and,   after   having 


stated  the  perceptible  improvement  that  has 
lately  taken  place  in  the  method  of  consider- 
ing those  intellectual  phenoraeiuv,  he  con- 
cludes with  the  following  judicious  and  elo- 
quent observations: — 

"  The  authors  who  form  the  most  conspicuous 
exceptions  to  this  gradual  progress,  consist  chiefly 
ot  men,  whose  errors  may  be  easily  accounted  lor, 
by  the  prejudices  connected  with  their  circumscribed 
habits  of  observation  and  inquiry  ; — of  Physiolo- 
gists, accustomed  to  attend  to  that  part  alone  of  the 
hmiian  frame,  which  the  knife  of  the  .Anatomist 
can  lay  open  ;  or  of  Chemists,  who  enter  on  the 
analysis  ol  Thought,  fresh  from  the  decompositions 
of  the  laboratory  ;  carrying  into  the  Theory  olMind 
itself  (what  Bacon  expressly  calls)  '  the  smoke  and 
tarnish  of  the  furnace.'  01  the  value  ot  such  pur- 
suits, none  can  think  more  highly  than  myself;  but 
I  must  be  allowed  to  observe,  that  the  most  dis- 
tinguished pre-eminence  in  them  does  not  neces- 
sarily imply  a  capacity  of  collected  and  abstracted 
reflection  ;  or  an  understanding  superior  to  the  pre- 
judices of  early  association,  and  the  illusions  of 
popular  language.  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  Cicero, 
when  he  ascribes  to  those  who  possess  these  ad- 
vantages, a  more  than  ordinary  vigour  of  intellect : 
'  JSInsxni  est  ingenn  revocare  mentem  a  senxibus,  et 
rof;ifalionem  a  consueludine  ahducere.'  I  would 
only  claim  for  them,  the  merit  of  patient  and  cau- 
tious research  ;  and  would  exact  from  their  an- 
tagonisis  the  same  qualifications." — pp.  110,  111. 

The  second  great  objection  that  has  been 
made  to  the  doctrines  of  Dr.  Reid,  is,  that 
they  tend  to  damp  the  ardour  of  philosophical 
curiosity,  by  stating  as  ultimate  facts  many 
phenomena  which  might  be  resolved  into 
simpler  principles ;  and  perplex  the  science 
of  mind  with  an  unnecessary  multitude  of 
internal  and  unaccountable  properties.  As 
to  the  first  of  these  objections,  we  agree  en- 
tirely with  Mr.  Stewart.  It  is  certainly  bet- 
ter to  damp  the  ardour  of  philosophers,  by 
exposing  their  errors  and  convincing  them  of 
their  ignorance,  than  to  gratify  it  by  sub- 
scribing to  their  blunders.  It  is  one  step  to- 
wards a  true  explanation  of  any  phenomenon, 
to  expose  the  fallacy  of  an  erroneous  one ; 
and  though  the  contemplation  of  such  errors 
may  render  us  more  diffident  of  our  own  suc- 
cess, it  will  probably  teach  us  some  lessons 
that  are  far  from  diminishing  our  chance  of 
obtaimng  it.  But  to  the  charge  of  multiply- 
ing unnecessarily  the  original  and  instinctive 
principles  of  our  nature,  Mr.  Stewart,  we . 
think,  has  not  made  by  any  means  so  satis- 
factory an  answer.  The  greater  part  of  what 
he  says  indeed  upon  this  subject,  is  rather  an 
apology  for  Dr.  Reid,  than  a  complete  justifi- 
cation of  him.  In  his  classification  of  the 
active  powers,  he  admits  that  Dr.  Reid  has 
multiplied,  without  necessity,  the  number  of 
our  original  affections  ;  and  that,  in  the  other 
parts  of  his  doctrine,  he  has  manifested  a 
leaning  to  the  same  extreme.  It  would  have 
been  better  if  he  had  rested  the  defence  of 
his  author  upon  those  conce.ssions  ;  and  upon 
the  genera!  reasoning  with  which  they  are 
very  skilfully  associated,  to  prove  the  supe- 
rior safety  and  prudence  of  a  tardiness  to 
generalise  and  assimilate  :  For,  with  all  our 
deference  for  the  talents  of  the  author,  we 
find  it  impossible  to  agree  with  him  in  those 
particular  instances  in  which  he  has  eudeav- 


490 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


oiirecl  to  expose  the  injustice  of  the  accusa- 
tion. After  all  that  Mr.  Stewart  has  said,  we 
can  still  see  no  reason  for  admittiiis  a  prin- 
ciple of  credulity,  or  a  principle  of  veracity, 
in  human  nature  j  nor  can  we  discover  any 
sort  of  evidence  for  the  existence  of  an  in- 
stinctive power  of  interpreting  natural  signs. 

Dr.  Rcid's  only  reason  for  maintaining  that 
the  belief  we  commonly  give  to  the  testimo- 
ny of  others  is  not  derived  from  reasoning 
and  experience,  is,  that  this  credulity  is  more 
apparent  and  excessive  in  children,  than  in 
those  whose  experience  and  reason  is  mature. 
Now,  to  this  it  seems  obvious  to  answer,  that 
the  experience  of  children,  though  not  exten- 
sive, is  almost  always  entirely  uniform  in  fa- 
vour of  the  veracity  of  those  about  them. 
There  can  scarcely  be  any  temptation  to  utter 
serious  falsehood  to  an  infant;  and  even  if 
that  should  happen,  they  have  seldom  such  a 
degree  of  memory  or  attention  as  would  be 
necessary  for  its  detection.  In  all  cases,  be- 
sides, it  is  admitted  that  children  learn  the 
general  rule,  before  they  begin  to  attend  to 
the  exceptions;  and  it  will  not  be  denied  that 
the  general  rule  is,  that  there -is  a  connection 
between  the  assertions  of  mankind  and  the 
realities  of  which  they  are  sp(niking.  False- 
hood is  like  those  irregularities  in  the  con- 
struction of  a  language,  wliich  chiklren  always 
overlook  for  the  sake  of  the  g<'neral  analogy. 

The  principle  of  veracity  is  in  the  same 
situation.  Men  speak  and  assert,  in  order  to 
accomplish  some  purpose :  But  if  they  did  not 
geaeruUij  speak  truth,  their  assertions  would 
answer  no  purpose  at  all — not  even  that  of 
deception.  To  speak  falsehood,  too.  even  if 
we  could  suppose  it  to  be  doiu)  without  a 
motive,  requires  a  certain  exercise  of  imagi- 
nation and  of  the  inventive  faculties,  which  is 
not  without  labour:  While  truth  is  suggested 
spontaneously — not  by  the  principle  of  veraci- 
ty, but  by  our  consciousness  and  memory. 
Even  if  we  were  not  rational  creatures,  there- 
fore, but  spoke  merely  as  a  consequence  of 
our  sen.sations,  we  wouki  speak  truth  much 
oftener  than  falsehood  ;  but  being  rational,  and 
addressing  ourselves  to  other  beings  with  a 
view  of  inlluencing  their  conduct  or  opinions, 
it  follows,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  that  we 
must  almost  always  speak  truth :  Even  the 
principle  of  credulity  would  not  otherwise  be 
sufficient  to  render  it  worth  while  for  us  to 
speak  at  all. 

With  regard  to  the  principle  by  which  we 
art  enabled  to  interpret  the  natural  signs  of 
the  passion,",  and  of  other  corniected  events, 
we  cannot  help  entertaining  a  similar  scepti- 
cism. There  is  no  evidence,  we  think,  for  the 
existence  of  such  a  principle;  and  all  the 
phenomena  may  be  solvetl  with  the  help  of 
memory  and  the  association  of  ideas.  The 
"inductive  principle'"  is  very  nearly  in  the 
same  predicament;  though  the  full  discu.ssion 
of  the  arguirient  that  might  be  maintained 
u\)()n  that  subject  would  occupy  more  room 
tluni  we  can  now  .spare. 

After  some  very  excellent  observations  on 
the  nature  and  the  functions  of  instinct,  Mr. 
Stewart  proceeds  to  consider,  as  the  last  great 


objection  to  Dr.  Reid's  philosophy,  the  a 
tendency  of  his  doctrines  on  the  subj 
common  sense,  to  sanction  an  appeal  fro] 
decisions  of  the  learned  to  the  voice 
multitude.     Mr.  Stewart,  with  great 
admits  that  the  phrase  was  unluckily  cl 
and  that  it  has  not  always  been  employetl 
perfect  accuracy,  either  by   Dr.  Reid  ■. 
followers:  But  he  maintains,  th:;t  the  g' 
part  of  the  truths  which  Dr.  Reid  has  re' 
to  this  authority,  are  in  reality  origin; "" 
unaccountably  impressed  on  the  hu 
derstanding,  and  are  necessarily  im] 
the  greater  part  of  its  operations, 
says,  may  be  better  denominated,   " 
mental  laws  of  belief;"  and  he  exe 
them  by  such  propositions  as  the  folio 
'■'I  am   the  same   per.son  to-day  that 
yesterday. — The  material   world    has  ; 
existence. — The  fulure  course  of  natui 
resemble  the  past."     We  shall  have  oc 
immediately  to  offer  a  few  obsirvatii 
some  of  those  propositions. 

With  these  observations  Mr.  Stewar 
eludes  his  defence  of  Dr.  Reid's  philos 
but  we  cannot  help  thinking  thai  iher 
room  for  a  farther  vindication,  and  that 
objections  may  be  stated  to  the   sy 
question,  as  fonnidable  as  any  of  those 
Mr.  Stewart  has  endeavoured  to  olwiati 
sh;ill  allude  very  shortly  to  those  that  S; 
the  most  obvious  and  important.     Dr 
great  achievement  was  undoubtedly  t 
version  of  the  Ideal  system,  or  the  coii 
of  that  hyyiothesis  which  represents  ttj 
mediate  objects  of  the  mind  in  perce^ 
certain  niicry-cs  or  pictures  of  external  o] 
conveyed   by  the  senses   to    the    sen 
This  part  of  his  task,  it  is  now  generalj 
mitted  that  he  has  performed  with  ex© 
diligence  and  complete  success:  But 
by  no  means  so  entirely  satisfied  wil 
uses  he  has  attempted  to  make  of  his  vi 
After  considering  the  subject  \\  ith  some 
lion,  we  must  confess  that  we  have  not 
able  to  perceive  how  the  destruction  > 
Ideal  theory  can  be  held  as  a  demonst 
of  the  real  existence  of  matter,  or  a  co 
tion  of  the  most  ingenious  reasonings  ■ 
have  brought  into  question  the  populai 
upon  this  subject.    The  theory  of  image 
pictures,  in  fact,  was  in  its  original  ."tale 
closely  connected  with  the  suppositioi 
real  material  prototype,  than   thp  thet 
direct  perception;  and   the  sceptical  i 
that  have  since  been  suggested,  appeal 
to  be  by  no  means  exclusively  Hi>]ilica 
the  former  hypothesis.    He  who  believt 
certain  forms  or  images  are  actually  trai 
ted  through  the  organs  of  sense  to  the 
must  believe,  at  least,  in  the  reality" 
organs  and  the  images,  and  probably  in 
origin  from  real  external  existences.   H' 
is  contented  with  stating  that  he  is  con 
of  certain  sensations  and  pt^rceptions, 
means  assumes  the  indepciivlent  e.\i«tPi 
matter,  and  gives  a  safer  account  of  lh( 
nomena  than  the  idealist. 

Dr.  Reid's  sole  argument  for  the  real; 
ence  of  a  material  world,  is  founded  c 


STEWARTS  LIFE  OF  REID. 


491 


\i\sistible  belief  of  it  that  is  implied  in  Per- 
cition  and  Memory ;  a  belief,  the  founda- 
ij,  s  of  which,  he  seems  to  think,  it  would 
h*onu'thing   more   than   absurd  to  call  in 
I.     Now  the  reality  of  this   general 
nil  or  belief,  no  one  ever  attempted  to 
i'iie  question  is  only  about  its  justne^;s 
uii  uth.    It  is  conceivable,  certanily,  in  every 
d',  that  our  belief  should   be   erroneous; 
ai  there  can  be  nothing  absurd  in  suggesting 
I,  iiiis  for  doubting  of  its  conformity  with 
till.     The  obsthiacy  of  our  belief,  in  this 
t\   and  its  constant  recurrence,  even 
;  our  endeavours   to  familiarise  our- 
A  ith  the  objections   that   have   been 
ir.le  li)  It.  are  not  absolutely  without  parallel 
iiihe  history  of  the  human  faculties.     All 
cKiren  believe  that  the  earth  is  at  rest :  and 
tl   the  sun  and  fixed  stars  perform  a  diurnal 
r(-,)lution  round  it.     They  also  believe  that 
tl,  place  which  they  occupy  on  the  surface 
isbsolutely  the  uppermost,  and  that  the  in- 
h-.itants  of  the   opposite   surface   must   be 
siJended  in  an  inverted  position.     Now  of 
tt:  universal,  practical,  and  irresistible  belief, 
alpersons  of  education  are  easily^  disabused 
ir  peculation,  though  it  influences  their  ordi- 
d;,-  language,  and  continues,  in  fact,  to  be 
ti  Iialiitual  impression  of  their  minds.     In 
le  way,  a  Berkleian  might  admit  the 
recurrence  of  the  illusions  of  sense, 
1  his   speculative  reason  were  suffi- 
.  invinced  of  their  fallacy. 
,  henomena  of  Dreaming  and  of  De- 
liowever,   appear  to  afford  a  sort  of 
u!um   crucis,   to   demonstrate    that  a 
\:t'rna]    existence  is  not  necessary  to 
pilace  sensation  and  perception  in  the  hn- 
mi  mind.    Is  it  utterly  absurd  and  ridiculous 
lo;iaintain,  that  all  the  objects  of  our  thoughts 
m|-  be  --such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of?" 
oiliatthe  uniformity  of  Nature  gives  us  some 
re;.on  to  presume  that  the  perceptions  of  ma- 
ni's  and  of  rational  men  are  manufactured, 
lil;  their  organs,  out  of  the  same  materials? 
Tre  is  a  species  of  insanity  known  among 
miical  men  by  the  epithet  notional,  in  which, 
u^M'll  as  in  delirium  tremens,  there  is  fre- 
110  general  depravation  of  the  reason- 
judging    faculties,    but    where   the 

.-^-  consists  entirelyMn  the  patient  mis- 

tajng  the  objects  of  his  thought  or  imagina- 
ti'l  for  real  and  present  existences.  The 
etjr  of  his  perceptions,  in  such  cases,  is  only 
cl«!Cted  by  comparing  them  with  the  per- 
Cfj.ions  of  other  people;  and  it  is  evident 
ih;  he  has  just  the  same  reason  to  impute 
ei'r  to  them,  as  they  can  have  individually 
foimputing  it  to  him.  The  majority,  indeed, 
nrbssarily  carries  the  point,  as  to  all  practi- 
cat'onsequences :  But  is  there  any  absurdity 
in;l!es:ing  that  we  can  have  no  absolute  or 
inllible  assurance  of  that  as  to  which  the 
iiirnal  conviction  of  an  individual  must  be 
stiorted,  and  may  be  overruled  by  the  testi- 
niiy  of  his  fellow-creatures? 

r.  Reid  has  himself  admitted  that  "we 
mht  probably  have  been  so  made,  as  to  have 
al.he  perceptions  and  sensations  which  we 
ntj'  have,   without   any    impression   on   our 


bodily  organs  at  all."'  But  it  is  surely  alto- 
gether as  reasonable  to  say,  that  we  might 
have  had  all  those  perceptions,  without  the 
aid  or  intervention  ot  any  material  existence 
at  all.  Those  perceptions,  too,  might  still  have 
been  accompanied  with  a  belief  that  would 
not  have  been  less  universal  or  irresistible  Ibr 
being  utterly  without  a  foundation  in  reality. 
In  short,  our  perceptions  can  never  aflbrd  any 
complete  or  irrefragable  proof  of  the  real  ex- 
istence of  external  things;  because  it  is  easy 
to  conceive  that  we  might  have  such  pt^rcep- 
tions  without  them.  We  do  not  know,  there- 
fore, with  certaint}',  that  our  perceptions  are 
ever  produced  by  external  objects ;  and  in  the 
cases  to  which  we  have  just  alluded,  we  ac- 
tually find  perception  and  its  concon^itant  be- 
lief, where  we  do  know  with  certainty  that  it 
is  not  produced  by  any  external  existence. 

It  has  been  said,  however,  that  we  have  the 
same  evidence  for  the  existence  of  the  mate- 
rial world,  as  for  that  of  our  own  thoughts  or 
conceptions ; — as  we  have  no  reason  ibr  be- 
lieving in  the  latter,  but  that  we  cannot  help 
it ;  which  is  equally  true  of  the  former.  Now, 
this  appears  to  us  to  be  very  inaccuiately  ar- 
gued. Whatever  we  doubt,  and  whatever  we 
prove,  we  must  plainly  tegi'n  witii consciousness. 
That  alone  is  certain — all  the  rest  is  inference. 
Does  Dr.  Reid  mean  to  assert,  that  our  per- 
ception of  external  objects  is  not  a  necessary 
preliminary  to  any  proof  of  their  reality,  or 
that  our  belief  in  their  reality  is  not  founded 
upon  our  consciousness  of  perceiving  them  ?  It 
is  only  our  perceptions,  then,  and  not  the  ex- 
istence of  their  objects,  which  we  cannot  help 
believing;  and  it  would  be  nearly  as  reason- 
able to  say  that  we  must  take  all  our  dreams 
for  realities,  because  we  cannot  doubt  that  we 
dream,  as  it  is  to  assert  that  we  have  the  same 
evidence,  for  the  existence  of  an  external 
world,  as  for  the  existence  of  the  sensations 
by  which  it  is  suggested  to  our  minds. 

We  dare  not  now  venture  faither  into  this 
subject :  yet  we  cannot  abandon  it  without  ob- 
serving, that  the  question  is  entirely  a  matter 
of  philosophical  and  abstract  speculation,  and 
that  by  far  the  most  reprehensible  passages 
in  Dr.  Reid's  writings,  are  those  in  which  he 
has  represented  it  as  otherwise.  When  we 
consider,  indeed,  the  exemplary  candour,  and 
temper,  and  modesty,  with  which  this  excel- 
lent man  has  conducted  the  whole  of  his 
speculations,  we  cannot  help  wondering  that 
he  should  ever  have  forgotten  himseli  so  iar 
as  to  tlescend  to  the  vulgar  raillery  ^^  hich  he 
has  addressed,  instead  of  argument,  to  the 
abettors  of  the  Berkleian  hypothesis.  The 
old  joke,  of  the  sceptical  j.hilosophers  running 
their  noses  against  posts,  tumbling  into  ken- 
nels, and  being  sent  to  madhouses,  is  repeated 
at  least  ten  times  in  different  parts  of  Dr. 
Reid's  publications,  and  really  seems  to  have 
been  considered  as  an  object  on  not  less  forci- 
ble than  facetious.  Yet  Dr.  Reid  surely  could 
not  be  ignorant  that  those  who  have  questioned 
the  reality  of  a  material  universe,  never  af- 
fected to  iiave  perceptions,  ideas,  and  sensa- 
tion.s,  of  a  dilTerent  nature  from  other  people. 
The  debate  was  merely  about  the  origin  of 


492 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


these  sensations ;  and  could  not  possibly  affect 
the  conduct  or  feelings  of  the  individual.  The 
sceptic,  therefore,  who  has  been  taught  by 
experience  that  certain  perceptions  are  con- 
nected with  unpleasant  sensations,  will  avoid 
the  occasions  of  them  as  carefully  as  those 
who  look  upon  the  object  of  their  perceptions 
as  external  reahties.  Notions  and  sens;itions 
he  cannot  deny  to  exist ;  and  this  limited 
i'aith  will  regulate  his  conduct  exactly  in  the 
same  manner  as  the  more  extensive  creed  of 
his  antagonists.  We  are  persuaded  that  IMr. 
Stewart  would  reject  the  aid  of  such  an  argu- 
ment for  the  existence  of  an  external  world. 

The  length  to  which  these  observations 
have  extended,  deters  us  from  prosecuting 
any  farther  our  remarks  on  Dr.  Reid's  philoso- 
phy. T^.G  other  points  in  which  it  appears  to 
us  that  he  has  left  his  system  vulnerable  are, 
his  e.vplanation  of  our  idea  of  cause  and  effect, 
and  his  speculations  on  the  question  of  liberty 


and  necessity.     In  the  former,  we  cannoti 
thinking  that  he  has  dogmatised,  with 
gree  of  confidence  which  is  scarcely  jus! 
by  the  cogency  of  his  arguments ;  ancl 
endeavoured  to  draw  ridicule  on  the  rea 
of  his  antagonists,  by  illustrations  that  a| 
terly  inapplicable.     In  the  latter,  also,  h\ 
made  something  more  than  a  just  use  of 
prejudices  of  men' and  the  ambiguity  oW 
guage  ;  and  has  more  than  once  been  g| 
if  we  be  not  mistaken,  of  what,   in  a1 
respectable  author,  we  should  not  have ! 
pled  to  call  the  most  palpable  sophistry,  il 
are  glad  that  our  duty  does  not  require 
enter  into  the   discussion  of  this  very! 
plexing  controversy ;  though  we  may  ' 
mitted  to  remark,  that  it  is  somewhat^ 
ordinary   to  find  the  dependence  of 
actions  on  Motives  so  positively  der 
those  very  phdosophers  with  whom  thei 
trine  of  Causation  is  of  such  high  authoriij 


\{00 

I  men 

file*' 
into  tie 
liept 


(ODctcibcv,  ISOU.) 

Memoirs  of  Dr.  Joseph  Priestley,  to  the  year  1795,  written  by  himself:  With  a  Continuatito 
the  time  of  his  decease,  by  his  Sun  Joseph  Priestley ;  and  Observations  on  his  Wi'itinss.  !y 
Thomas  Cooper,  President  Judge  of  the  Fourth  District  of  Pennsylvania,  and  the  Rcve  id 
William  Christie.     8vo.  pp.481.     London:  1805. 


Dr.  Priestley  has  written  more,  we  be- 
lieve, and  on  a  greater  variety  of  subjects, 
than  any  other  English  author;  and  probably 
believed,  as  his  friend  Mr.  Cooper  appears  to 
do  at  this  moment,  that  his  several  publica- 
tions were  destined  to  make  an  a;ra  in  the 
respective  branches  of  speculation  to  which 
they  bore  reference.  We  are  not  exactly  of 
that  opinion  :  But  we  think  Dr.  Priestley  a 
person  of  no  common  magnitude  in  the  his- 
tory of  English  literature  :  and  have  perused 
this  miscellaneous  volume  with  more  interest 
than  we  have  usually  found  in  publications 
of  the  same  description.  The  memoirs  are 
written  with  great  conciseness  and  simplicity, 
and  present  a  very  singular  picture  of  that  in- 
defatigable activity,  that  bigotted  vanity,  that 
precipitation,  cheerfulness,  and  sincerity, 
which  made  up  the  character  of  this  restless 
philosopher.  The  observations  annexed  by 
Mr.  Cooper  are  the  work,  we  think,  of  a  pow- 
erful, presumptuous,  and  most  untractable 
understanding.  They  are  written  in  a  defy- 
ing, dogmatical,  unaccommodating  style :  with 
much  force  of  reasoning,  in  many  places,  but 
often  with  great  rashness  and  arrog-ance;  and 
occasionally  with  a  cant  of  philosophism,  and 
a  tang  of  ])arty  politics,  which  communicate 
an  air  of  vulgarity  to  the  whole  work,  and  ir- 
resistibly excite  a  smile  at  the  expense  of  this 
magnanimous  despiser  of  all  sorts  of  prejudice 
and  bigotry.* 

*  I  oniii  now  a  very  coiisidernhle  portion  of  I  Ills 
review,  contaiiiinc  a  pretty  full  nccouni  of  Dr. 
Priestley's  life  ann  cnnvcrsation,  and  of  his  various 
publications  on  -•fuhjecla  of  theoioiry.  natural  philoso- 
phy, and  chemistry;  rctaininjr  only  tlie  following 
eianiinaiion  of  his  doctrine  of  Malerialism. 


;  In  the  Second  part  of  his  book,  Mr.  Co  . 
i  professes  to  estimate  the  Metaphysical  > 

tings  of  Dr.  Priestley,  and  delivers  a  long(il 

very  zealous  defence  of  the  doctrines  of  J- 
\  teriahsm,  and  of  the  Necessity  of  humaic- 
I  tions.     A  good  deal  of  learning  and  ajd 

deal  of  talent  are  shown  in  tliis  product  i: 
1  But  we  believe  that  most  of  our  readers  '! 
I  be  surprised  to  find    that    Mr.    Cooper 

siders  both  these  questions  as  having  I  : 
j  finally  set  at  rest  by  the  disquisitions  ot  > 
'  learned  friend ! 

"  Indeed,"  he  observes,  "  those  questions    -i 
now  be  cousidert^d  as  settled;   for  those  whd - 
resist  Collins'  philosophical  inquiry,  the  secli<  'i 
Dr.  Ilariley  on   the   mechanism  ot  the  mind.    : 
thereview'of  the  subject  taken  by   Dr.  Pric  '■ 
and  his  opponents,  are   not   to  be  reasoned  ' 
Inlii-igl  reipuhliriF  lit  deiiiqve  ait  finis  litiiim. 
ma.xim  of  technical  law.     It   will   apply  equal    ' 
the  republic  of  letters;  and  the  time  seems  to    ' 
arrived,  when  tiie  separate  existence  of  the  hu 
Soul,   the    freedom  of  the  Will,  and   the  etc  i 
duration  of  Future  punishment,  like  the  doct:  - 
of   ti;e   Trinity  !  and   Transubstantialion.  inii  ■ 
regarded  as  no   longer  entitled  to   public  d;;  • 
sion." — p.  335. 

The  advocates  of  Necessity,  we  know,  I  ' 
long  been  pretty  much  of  this  opinion; 

!  we  have  no  inclination  to  disturb  then  ' 
present  with  any  renewal  of  the  controvc 

j  But  we   really  "did   not  know  that  the  ai 
cates  of  Materialism  laid  claim  to  the  s;  ■ 

I  triumph;  and  certainly  find  some  diiiiciill  : 
admitting  that  all  who  "believe  in  the  existi 
of  mind  are  unfit  to  be  reasoned  with.     T  - 
indeed,  it  has  always  appeared  that  it    > 
much  easier  to  prove  the  existence  of  in 
than  the  existence  of  matter ;  and  with  m  ■• 


PRIESTLEY'S  MEMOIFxS. 


V'  contempt  Mr.  Cooper  and  his  friends  na:iy 
P  rd  us,  we  must  be  permitted  to  say  a  word 
r.vo  in  defence  of  the  vulgar  opinion, 
he  sum  of  the  argument  against  the  exist- 
n^  of  mind,  in  case  any  of  our  readers 
hilJ  be  ignorant  of  it,  is  shortly  as  follows. 
'1  phenomena  of  thinking,  or  perception, 
ralways  found  connected  with  a  certain 
ts  of  organised  matter,  and  have  lu^ver 
lei  known  to  exist  in  a  separate  or  detached 
U'.  It  seems  natural,  therefore,  to  consider 
til  as  qualities  of  that  substance  :  Nor  is  it 
nobjection  to  say,  that  the  quality  of  think- 
niias  no  sort  of  resemblance  or  affinity  to 
j^  of  the  other  qualities  with  w  hich  we 
;nv  matter  to  be  endowed.  This  is  equally 
ri  of  all  the  primary  qualities  of  matter, 
sin  compared  with  each  other.  Solidity, 
oiistance.  bears  no  sort  of  resemblance  or 
iriity  to  extension  ;  nor  is  there  any  other 
e:)u  for  our  considering  them  as  qualities 
if  le  same  substance,  but  that  they  are  al- 
rt=  found  in  conjunction — that  they  occupy 
hc'arae  portion  of  space,  and  present  them- 
lehs  together,  on  all  occasions,  to  our  obser- 
r-am.  Xow,  this  may  be  said,  with  equal 
oi',  of  tlie  quality  of  thinking.  It  is  al- 
v;-  found  in  conjunction  with  a  certain  mass 
if  ilid  and  extended  matter — it  inhabits  the 
w  portion  of  space,  and  presents  itself  in- 
,-a  blv  along  with  those  other  qualities  the 
isniblage  of  which  makes  up  our  idea  of 
)rnised  matter.  Whatever  substratum  can 
;u]ort  and  unite  the  qualities  of  solidity  and 
'.Mision,  may  therefore  support  the  quality 
)f  inking  also;  and  it  is  eminently  unphilo- 
«pcal  to  suppose,  that  it  inheres  in  a  sepa- 
at  substance  to  which  we  should  give  the 
ipjilation  of  Mind  All  the  phenomena  of 
hciht,  it  is  said,  may  be  resolved  by  the 
is.vance  of  Dr.  Hartley,  into  perception  and 
issiation.  Now,  perception  is  evidently 
jrciced  by  certain  mechanical  impulses 
jp<'  the  nerves,  transmitted  to  the  brain, 
inc'can  therefore  be  directly  proved  to  be 
mely  a  peculiar  species  of  motion  :  and  as- 
soction  is  something  very  like  the  vibration 
>t  Msical  cords  in  juxtaposition,  and  is  strictly 
•vitn  the  analogy  of  material  movement. 

lianswering  this  argument,  we  will  fairly 
Boriss  that  we  have  no  distinct  idea  of  Sub- 
itane ;  and  that  we  are  perfectly  aware 
thait  is  impossible  to  combine  three  propo- 
Mtite  upon  the  subject,  without  involving  a 
i^nidiction.  All  that  we  know  of  substance, 
■ires qualities  ;  yet  qualities  must  belong  to 
simhing — and  of  that  something  to  which 
ihe  belong,  and  by  which  they  are  united, 
we  Mther  know  anything  nor  can  form  any 
'■-oil  ption.  We  cannot  help  believing  that  it 
'^xii,  ;  but  we  have  no  distinct  notion  as  to 
ihe;ode  of  its  existence. 

Atnitling  this,  therefore,  in  the  fust  place. 
ye  lay  perhaps  be  permitted  to  observe,  that 
't  Wilis  a  little  disorderly  and  unphilosophi- 
''3';)  class  perception  among  the  qualities 
•jf  I  Iter,  when  it  is  obvious,  that  it  is  by 
•ne<;5  of  perception  alone  that  we  get  any 
"otii  of  matter  or  its  qualities ;  and  that  it 
's  psibJe,  with  perfect  consistency,  to  main- 


tain the  existence  of  our  perceptions,  and  to 
deny  that  of  matter  altogether.  The  other 
qualities  of  matter  are  perceived  by  us:  but 
perception  cannot  be  perceived :  And  all  we 
know  about  it  is,  that  it  is  that  by  wliicli  we 
perceive  every  thing  else.  It  certainly  does 
sound  somewhat  absurd  and  unintelhgible. 
therefore,  to  say,  that  perception  is  that 
{[uality  of  matter  by  whicdi  it  becomes  con- 
.scious  of  its  own  existence,  and  acquainted 
witli  its  other  (jualities:  Since  it  is  plain  that 
this  is  not  a  quality,  but  a  knowledge  of  quali- 
ties; and  thill  the  pe re ipif.jit  must  necessarily 
be  distinct  from  that  which  is  perceived.  We 
must  always  begin  with  perception  ;  and  the 
followers  of  Berkeley  will  tell  us,  that  we 
must  end  there  also.  At  all  events,  it  certainly 
never  entered  into  the  head  of  any  plain  man 
to  conceive  that  the  faculty  of  perception  was 
itself  one  of  the  ([ualilies  with  which  that 
faculty  made  him  accjuainted  :  or  that  it  could 
possibly  belong  to  a  substance,  which  his 
earliest  intimations  and  most  indestructible 
impressions  taught  him  to  regard  as  some- 
thing external  and  separate.* 

This,  then,  is  the  hrst  objection  to  the  doc- 
trine of  Materialism,  —  that  it  makes  the 
faculty  of  perception  a  quality  of  the  thing 
perceived  ;  and  converts,  in  a  way  that  must 
at  first  sight  appear  absurd  to  all  mankind, 
our  knowledge  of  the  qualities  of  matter  into 
another  quality  of  the  same  substance.  The 
tiuth  is,  however,  that  it  is  a  gross  and  un- 
warrantable abuse  of  language,  to  call  percep- 
tion a  ^ho/z/i/ at  all.  It  is  an  act  or  an  event — 
a  fact  or  a  phenomenon — of  which  the  jjercipi- 
ent  is  conscious:  but  it  cannot  be  intelligibly 
conceived  as  a  quality ;  and,  least  of  all.  as  a 
j  quality  of  that  substance  which  is  known  to 
us  as  solid  and  extended.  1st,  All  the  qualities 
of  matter,  it  has  been  already  stated,  are  per- 
ceived by  the  senses  :  but  the  sensation  itself 
cannot  be  so  perceived  ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  call 
it  an  object  of  sense,  without  the  grossest  per- 
version of  language,  '^dly^  All  the  qualities 
of  matter  have  a  direct  reference  to  Space  or 
extension  :  and  are  conceived,  in  some  mea- 
sure, as  attributes  or  qualities  of  the  space 
\\ithin  which  they  exist.  When  we  say  that 
a  particular  body  is  solid,  we  mean  merely 
that  a  certain  portion  of  space  is  impenetra- 
ble :    when  we  say  that  it  is  coloured,  we 


*   We  are  not  very  partial  to  the  praeiice  of  quo- 
linjr  poetry  in  illu.straiion  of  ineinphysics  ;  fiii  the 
fdllowincr  lines  seem  to  exprr.^?  .vo  (orcilily  (lie  uni- 
vpisal  and   natural  impression  of  mankind  on  this 
.subject,  that   we   nannnt   help  ofierirg  ihem  lo  ihe 
consideration  of  the  reader. 
"  Am  I  but  what  I  .srem,  mere  flesh  and  blood  ? 
A  branctiing  chatmel.  and  a  mazy  flood? 
The  ptirph-  stream,  that  through  my  vessels  glides, 
Dull  and  iinpoiiseious  flows  like  common  tides. 
The  pipes,  throticrb  which  tlie  circling  juices  stray, 
Are  not  that  thinking  I.  no  more  than  they. 
'I  his  Irame.  compacted  with  transcendent  s-kill, 
j  0(  iiHiviiig  JDiiiis.  obedient  to  my  will, 
I  Nurs'd  from  the  tVniii'ul  glebe  like  yonder  tree, 
I  Wa.xes  and  wastes :    I  call  it  mink,  not  >ie. 
!  New  matter  still  the  mould'ring  mass  sustain'^ ; 
I  The  mansion  cliang'd,  the  tenant  still  remains, 
i  And.  Irom  ihe  ficoiinc  stream  repair'd  by  lodd, 
I  Distinct,  as  is  the  swtinmer  from  the  flood." 
2R 


494 


METAPHl'SICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


mean  that  the  same  poilion  of  space  appears 
of  one  hue, — and  so  of  the  other  qualities: 
but  sensation  or  thought  is  never  conceived 
so  to  occupy  space,  or  to  characterise  it ;  nor 
can  those  faculties  be  at  all  conceived  as 
beirjT  merely  definite  portions  of  space,  en- 
dued with  perceptible  properties.  In  the  third 
place,  all  the  primary  qualities  of  matter  are 
in.separable  from  it,  and  enter  necessarily  into 
its  conception  and  definition.  All  matter 
must  necessarily  be  conceived  as  extended, 
soliil.  and  figured:  and  also  as  universally 
capable  of  all  the  secondary  qualities.  It  is 
obviou.-5,  however,  that  thought  or  sensation 
is  not  an  in.separable  attribute  of  matter;  as 
by  far  the  ureater  part  of  matter  is  entirely 
destitute  of  it ;  and  it  is  found  in  connection 
only  ^vith  those  parts  which  we  term  org-an- 
i.sed;  and  wiih  those,  only  while  they  are 
ill  a  certain  state,  which  we  call  alive.  If 
it  be  said,  however,  that  thought  may  re- 
semble those  accidental  qualities  of  matter, 
such  as  heat  or  colour,  which  are  not  insepa- 
rable or  permanent ;  then  we  reply,  that 
neither  of  these  things  can,  in  strictness,  be 
termed  qualities  of  matter,  more  than  thought 
or  sensation  :  They  are  themselves  substan- 
ces, or  matter  possessed  of  inseparable  and 
peculiar  qualities,  as  well  as  those  which 
address  themselves  to  the  other  senses.  Light 
is  a  material  substance,  from  which  the 
quality  of  colour  is  inseparable  ;  and  heat  is 
a  material  substance,  which  has  universally 
the  quality  of  exciting  the  sensation  of 
warmth:  and  both  adclress  themselves  to, 
and  are  distinctly  perceived  through,  our 
senses.  If  thought  be  allowed  to  be  a  sub- 
stance in  this  sense,  it  will  remain  to  show 
that  it  also  is  material;  by  being  referable  to 
space,  capable  of  subsisting  in  every  sort  of 
body,  of  being  perceived  by  the  senses,  of 
being  transferred  from  one  body  to  another, 
and  liable  to  attraction,  repulsion,  condensa- 
tion, or  reflection — like  heat  or  light. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  also,  that  wherever 
any  proper  quality,  primary  or  secondary,  can 
be  ascribed  generally  to  any  perceptible  body 
or  mass  of  matter,  that  quality  must  exist  and 
be  recognised  in  every  part  of  it.  If  the  whole 
of  any  such  body  is  hard,  or  coloured,  or 
weighty,  or  hot,  or  cold,  eveiy  part  of  it, 
whether  merely  considered  and  examineil  as 
separable,  or  actually  separated  and  detached, 
must  be  hard,  coloured,  and  weighty  also : 
these  qualities  being  truly  conditions,  and,  in 
fact,  the  only  real  proofs  of  the  material  ex- 
i.stence  of  such  a  body,  and  of  all  the  parts  of 
it.  But  though  thought  or  volition  may  be 
said  to  have  their  residence  somewhere  with- 
in a  human  body,  they  certainly  are  not  quali- 
ties of  its  material  mass,  in  this  sense ;  or  to 
the  effect  of  being  sensibly  present  in  every 

Eart  or  {wrtion  of  it !  We  never,  at  least, 
ave  happeiunl  to  hear  it  surmised  tliat  there 
is  thouirht  in  the  elbow-joint,  or  volition  in 
the  nail  of  the  great  toe  .•  and  if  it  be  said 
that  these  plienomena  are  results  only  of  the 
/n7/)g  oruanisali'Di  as  a  whole,  it  seems  to  us 
that  this  ia  a  substantial  abandonment  of  the 
whole  argument,  aad  an  adniissioa  that  they 


are  not  qualities  of  matter  (for  results   i 
qualities  belong  not  to  the  same  category ).'it 
mere  facts  or  phenomena  of  a  totally  diflt 
description,  for  the  production  of  which 
apparatus  of  some  such  organisation  may  r 
the  time,  be  necessary. 

But  the  material  thing  is,  that  it  is  ni] 
the  whole  mass  of  our  bodies,  or  their  Ii| 
organisation  in  gt>neral,  that  these  phenor 
are  said  by  Dr.  Priestley  and  his  disciple; 
belong,  as  proper  qualities.     On  the  contr 
they  distinctly  admit  that  they  are  not  qua 
of  that  physical  mass  generally,  nor  eve 
those  finer  parts  of  it  which  constitutej 
organs  of  sense.     They  admit  that  thei 
and  the  ear  act  the  parts  mer(dy  of  optic:' 
acoustic  instruments;  and  are  only  usefi  • 
transmitting  impulses  (or,  it  may  be,  tine 
stances)  to  the  nervous  part  of  the  brain  ,i 
which  alone,  therefore,  and  indeed  onlyo)n 
minute  and  invisible  portions,  these  singw 
phenomena  are  alleged  to  be  proper  phv;  i" 
qualities  !     It  is  dilHcult,  we  think,  to  r 
the  absurdity  of  such  a  doctrine  more  a 
rent  than  by  this  plain  statement  of  its  in, 
and  amount.    The  only  ground,  it  nuist  al\ 
be  recollected,  for  holding  that  mind  an 
its  phenomena  are  mere  qualities  of  malti 
the  broad  atid  popular  one,  that  we  al\ 
find   them   connected  with  a  certain 
mass  of  organised  matter,  called  a  living] 
But   when   it  is  admitted   that    ihey  arej 
qualities  of  this  mass  generally,  or  eve 
any  part  of  it  vhich  is  vis-ible  or  percepJ 
by  our  senses,  the  allegation  of  their  ol 
mere  material  qualities  of  a  part  of  the  1 
must  appear  not  merely  gratuitous,  but  inl 
sistent  and  absolutely  absurd.      If  thej 
and   the  ear.   with  their  delicate   struct! 
and  fine  sensibilitj',  are  but  vehiclf 
paratus,  v^hy  should  the  attenuated  and 
known  tissues  of  the  cerebral  nerves  bei 
posed  to  be  any  thing  else  1  or  w  hy  shl 
the  resulting  sensations,  to  which  both! 
apparently  ministrant.  and  no  more  than 
istrant.  and   which  have  no  conceivabl«j 
semblance  or  analogy  to  any  attribute  of  ij 
ter.  but  put  on  the  list  of  the  physical  qua.'i 
of  the  latter — which  is  of  itself  too  slight  lit 
subtle  to  enable  us  to  say  what  are  its  >! 
mon  physical  qualities?     But   we  have' 
another  consideration  to  suggest,  before  lil 
ly  closing  this  discussion. 

It  probably  has  not  escaped  observa  i' 
that  throughout  the  preceding  argumeiilV-' 
have  allowed  the  advocates  for  Materi:  r 
to  assume  that  what  (to  oblige  them)  we  W 
called  thought  or  perception  geiierally,H 
one  uniform  and  identical  thing:  to  w  [^ 
therefore,  the  appellation  of  a  mmlity  nnl 
possibly  be  given,  without  manifest  aiul 'l- 
pable  absurdity.  But  in  reality  there  iiH" 
ground,  or  even  room,  for  claiming  sue  'i 
allowance.  The  acts  or  functions  whiC" 
ascribe  to  mind,  are  at  all  events  not  onf  m 
many  and  diverse.  Perception  no  dou  !- 
one  of  them — but  it  is  not  identical  with  i- 
sation;  and  still  less  w.lli  nuMnory  <n  i;  -'• 

ion,  or  volition, — or  with  love,  :i:ii:'i    '' 
deliberation,  or  hatred.    Each  of  tht-sOj  o;  i'*^ 


PRIESTLKVS  :\IK.MOniS. 


495 


ijltrary,  is  a  separate  and  distinguishable 
i!,  function,  or  phoiomenon,  of  the  existence 
B  \hich  we  become  aware,  not  through  per- 
il tioit,  or  the  external  senses  at  all,  but 
tlmgh  consciousness  or  rellection  alone:  and 
aje  of  them  (with  the  single  exception,  per- 
[ifs,  of  perception)  have  any  necessary  or 
[ihral  reference  to  any  external  or  material 
?};tence  whatever.  It  is  not  disputed,  how- 
jjr,  that  it  is  only  by  perception  and  the 
}65es,  that  we  can  g-ain  any  knowledge  of 
ji'ter;  and,  consequently,  whatever  we  come 
trimow  by  consciousness  only,  cannot  pos- 
iiiv  belong  to  that  category,  or  be  either  ma- 
teil  or  external.  But  we  are  not  aware  that 
ii:  materialist  has  ever  gone  the  length  of 
jictly  maintaining  that  volition  for  example, 
arnemory,  or  anger,  or  fear,  or  any  other 
5U1  affection,  were  proper  material  qualities 
Bfi'ur  bodily  frames,  or  could  be  perceived 
iri  recognised  as  such,  by  the  agency  of 
ihexternal  senses;  in  the  same  way  as  the 
w  iht,  heat,  colour,  or  elasticity  which  may 
btiig  to  these  frames.  But  if  they  are  not 
eai  of  them  capable  of  being  so  perccnved, 
iisi'parate  physical  qualities,  it  is  plain  that 
noing  can  be  gained  in  argument,  by  atfect- 
m;.o  disregard  their  palpable  diversity,  and 
se  ing  to  class  them  all  under  one  vague 
nale,  of  thought  or  perception.  Even  with 
lhi| advantage,  we  have  seen  that  the  doc- 
trii',  of  perception  or  thought  being  a  mere 
qulity  of  matter,  is  not  only  untenable,  but 
trii'  self-contradictory  and  unintelligible. 
Bu'when  the  number  and  diversity  of  the 
phiomena  necessarily  covered  by  that  geiie- 
ral.ppellation  is  considered,  along  with  the 
fat:  that  most  of  them  have  no  reference  to 
mrer,  and  do  in  no  way  imply  its  existence, 
tht-!absurdity  of  representing  them  as  so 
miV  of  its  distinct  perceptible  qualities. 
mi  be  too  apparent,  we  think,  to  admit  of 
aiiiserious  defence. 

lie  sum  of  the  whole  then  is,  that  all  the 
kiiicledge  which  we  gain  only  by  Perception 
aiiijhe  use  of  our  external  Senses,  is  know- 
ledj!  of  Matter,  and  its  qualities  and  attri- 
bu)5  alone ;  and  all  which  we  gain  only  by 
Colciousness  and  Reflection  on  our  own  in- 
wa'  feelings,  is  necessarily  knowledge  of 
Mill,  and  its  states,  attributes,  and  functions. 
Tk'm  fact  is  the  whole  basis,  and  rationale 
•if  ,e  distinction  between  mind  and  matter : 
anil  consequently,  unless  it  can  be  shown 
tha|ove,  anger,  and  sorrow,  as  well  as  memo- 
ry id  volition,  are  direct  objects  of  sense  or 
ftxtjnal  perception,  like  heat  and  colour,  or 
%i|;  and  solidity,  there  must  be  an  end,  we 
tniil.  of  all  (luestion  as  to  their  being  ma- 
terS  qualities. 

h,  though  the  very  basis  and  foundation 
'>i  j.e  argument  for  "Materialism  is  placed 
"ipfj  the  assumption,  that  thought  and  per- 
''I'pm  are  qualities  of  our  bodies,  it  is  re- 
malable  that  Dr.  Priestley,  and  the  other 
"h.T;pions  of  that  doctrine,  do  ultimately  give 
"P  bt  point  altogether,  and  maintain,  that 
'»ol:ht  is  nothing  else  than  Motion  !  Now, 
this,ve  cannot  help  thinking,  was  very  im- 
polib  and  injudicious  in  these  learned  per- 


sons :  For,  so  long  as  they  stuck  to  the  gene- 
ral assertion,  that  thought  might,  in  some  way 
or  other,  be  represented  as  a  quality  of  mat- 
ter,— although  it  was  not  perceived  by  the 
senses,  an^l  bore  no  analogy  to  any  ol  its  other 
qualities. — and  talked  about  the  inherent  ca- 
pacity of  substance,  to  supj^rt  all  sorts  of 
qualities;  although  their  doctriiu;  might  elude 
our  comprehension,  and  revolt  all  our  habits 
of  thinking, — still  it  might  be  diihcult  to 
demonstrate  its  fallacy;  and  a  certain  per- 
plexing argumentation  might  be  maintained, 
by  a  person  well  acquainted  with  the  use, 
and  abuse,  of  words:  But  when  they  cast 
away  the  protection  of  this  most  convenient 
obscurity,  and,  instead  of  saying  that  they 
do  not  know  what  thought  is,  have  the  coui- 
age  to  refer  it  to  the  known  category  of  Mo- 
tion, they  evidently  subject  their  theory  to  the 
test  of  rational  examination,  and  furnish  us 
with  a  criterion  by  which  its  truth  may  be 
easily  determined. 

We  shall  not  be  so  rash  as  to  attempt  any 
definition  of  motion  :  but  we  believe  we  may 
take  it  for  granted,  that  our  readers  know 
pretty  well  what  it  is.  At  all  events,  it  is  not 
a  quality  of  matter.  It  is  an  act,  a  phenome- 
non, or  a  fact : — but  it  makes  no  part  of  the 
description  or  conception  of  matter;  though 
it  can  only  exist  with  reference  to  that  sub- 
stance. Let  any  man  ask  himself,  however, 
whether  the  motion  of  matter  bears  any  sort 
of  resemblance  to  thought  or  sensation ;  or 
whether  it  be  even  conceivable  that  these 
should  be  one  and  the  same  thhig  ? — But.  it  is 
said,  we  find  sensation  always  produced  by 
motion  ;  and  as  we  can  discover  nothing  else 
in  conjunction  with  it,  we  are  justified  in  as- 
cribing it  to  motion.  But  this,  we  beg  leave 
to  say.  is  not  the  question.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  inquire,  whether  motion  may  produce 
sensation  or  not,  but  whether  sensation  demo- 
tion, and  nothing  else?  It  seems  pretty  evi- 
dent, to  be  sure,  that  motion  can  never  pro- 
duce any  thing  but  motion  or  impulse  ;  ami 
that  it  is  at  least  as  inconceivable  that  it  should 
ever  produce  .sensation  in  matter,  as  that  it 
should  produce  a  separate  substance,  called 
mind.  But  this,  we  repeat,  is  not  the  ques- 
tion with  the  materialists.  Their  proposition 
is,  not  that  motion  produces  sensation — which 
might  be  as  well  in  the  mind  as  in  the  body  ; 
but,  th  1 1  i^en^afion  is  motion  ;  and  that  all  the 
ph  Miomena  of  thought  and  perception  are  in- 
telligibly accounted  for  by  saying,  that  they 
are  certain  little  shakings  in  the  pulpy  part  of 
the  brain. 

There  are  certain  propositions  which  it  is 
difficult  to  confute,  only  because  it  is  impos- 
sible to  comprehend  them  :  and  this,  the  sub- 
stantive article  in  the  creed  of  Materialism, 
really  seems  to  be  of  this  description.  To  say 
that  thought  is  motion,  is  as  unintelligible  to 
us,  as  to  say  that  it  is  space,  or  time,  or  pro- 
portion. 

There  may  be  little  shakings  in  the  brain, 
for  any  thing  we  know,  and  theie  may  even 
be  shakings  of  a  different  kiiid.  accoiniianying 
every  act  of  thought  or  perception  ; — but,  thai 
the  shakings  themselves  are  the  thought  or 


496 


METAPHYSICS  A\D  JURISPRUDENCE. 


perception,  we  are  so  far  from  admitting,  that 
we  find  it  absolutely  impossible  to  compre- 
hend what  is  meant  by  the  assertion.  The 
shakings  are  certain  throbbinss,  vibration.^,  or 
stirrings,  in  a  whitish,  half-Huid  substance 
like  custard,  which  we  might  see  perhaps,  or 
feel,  if  we  had  eyes  and  fingers  sufficiently 
small  or  fine  for  the  office.  But  what  should 
we  see  or  feel,  upon  the  supposition  that  we 
could  detect,  by  our  senses,  every  thing  that 
actually  took  place  in  the  brain  ?  We  should 
see  the  particles  of  this  substance  change  their 
place  a  little,  move  a  little  up  or  down,  to  the 
right  or  to  the  left,  round  about,  or  zig-zag,  or 
in  some  other  course  or  direction.  This  is 
all  that  we  could  see,  if  Hartley's  conjecture 
were  proved  by  actual  observation  ;  because 
this  is  all  that  exists  in  motion. — according  to 
our  conception  of  it ;  and  all  that  we  mean, 
when  we  .say  that  there  is  motion  in  any  sub- 
stance. Is  it  intelligible,  then,  to  say,  that 
this  motion,  the  whole  of  which  we  see  and 
comprehend,  is  thought  and  feelins  f — and 
that  thought  and  feeling  will  exist  wherever 
we  can  excite  a  similar  motion  in  a  similar 
substance  1 — In  our  humble  apprehension,  the 
proposition  is  not  so  much  false,  as  utterly 
uimieaning  and  incomprehensible.  That  sen- 
sation may  follow  motion  in  the  brain,  or  may 
even  be  produced  by  it,  is  conceivable  at 
least,  and  may  be  alTiiTned  with  perfect  pre- 
cision and  consistency:  but  that  the  motion  is 
itself  sensation,  and  tliat  the  proper  and  com- 
plete definition  of  thought  and  feeling  is.  that 
they  are  certain  vibrahons  in  the  brain,  is  a 
doctrine,  we  think,  that  can  only  be  wondered 
at.  and  that  must  be  comprehended  before  it 
be  answered. 

No  advocate  for  the  existence  of  mind,  ever 
thought  it  necessary  to  deny  that  there  was  a 
certain  bodily  apparatus  necessary  to  thought 
and  sensation  in  man — and  that,  on  many  oc- 
casions, the  sensation  was  preceded  or  intro- 
duced by  certain  impulses  and  corresponding 
movements  of  this  material  machinery  : — we 
cannot  see  without  eyes  and  light,  nor  think 
without  living  bodies.  All  that  they  maintain 
is,  that  these  impulses  and  movements  are 
not  leelings  or  thought,  but  merely  the  occa- 
sions of  feeling  and  thou<>;ht :  and  that  it  is 
impossible  for  them  to  confound  the  material 
motions  which  precede  those  sensations,  with 
the  sensations  themselves,  which  have  no 
conceivable  atRnily  with  matter. 

The  theory  of  Materialism,  then,  appears  to 
us  to  be  altogether  unintelligible  and  absurd  ; 
and,  without  recurring  to  the  reasoning  of  the 


Berkeleians,  it  seems  quite  enough  to  d^ 
mine  us  to  reject  it,  that  it  confounds  tl 
of  perception  with  the  qualities  perceived,! 
classes  among  the  objects  of  perception! 
faculty  by  which  these  objects  are  introdij 
to  our  knowledge, — and  which  faculty  rl 
be  exercised,  before  we  can  at  lain  to  any 
ception,  either  of  matter  or  its  qualities. 
We  do  not  pretend  to  have  looked  tJ 
the  whole  controversy  which  Dr.  Priestl 
publications  on  this  subject  appears  to  \\ 
excited  :  But  nothing  certainly  has  strucl 
with  more  astonishment,  than  the  zeal 
which  he  maintains  that  this  doctrine, 
that  of  Necessity,  taken  together,  affordi 
greatest  support  to  the  cause  of  religion 
morality  !    We  are  a  little  puzzled,  indee! 
discover  what  use,  or  what  room,  there 
for  a  God  at  all.  upon  this  h\}:othesis  of 
terialism  ;  as  well  as  to  imagine  what 
of  being  the  God  of  the  materialist  mi 
If  the  mere  organisation  of  matter  pi 
reason,   memory,    imas'ination.   and    ; 
other  attributes  of  mind, — and  if  these 
ent  phenomena  be  the  necessary  result  of  i 
tain   motions   impressed   upon  matter; 
there  is  no  need  for  any  other  reason 
ergy  in  the  univer.«e  :  and  things  may 
ministered  very  comfortably,  by  the  ir 
spontaneously  evolved  in  tlie  different 
nations  of  matter.     But  if  Dr.  Priesth 
have  a  superfluous  Deity  notwithstandi 
may  ask  what  sort  of  a  Deity  he  can  e:  _ 
He  denies  the  existence  of  mind  or  spiri 
together;  so  that  his  Deity  must  be  mat 
and  his  wisdom,  power,  and  goodness 
be  the  necessary  result  of  a  certain  orj 
tion.     But  how  can  a  material  deity  be 
mortal  ?     How  could  he  liave  been  form 
Or  why  should  there  not  be  more. — for, 
by  himself,  or  by  his  creator?     We  will 
affirm  that  Dr.  Priestley  has  not  attempt 
answer  these  questions  ;  but  we  will  t( 
upon  us  to  say.  that  he  cannot  have  ans^ 
them   in  a   satisfactory  manner.     As  to( 
paradoxical  doctrines,  with  reg-ard  to  tl 
tural  mortality   of  man,  and  the   incomi 
hensible  gift  of  immortality  conferred 
material  structure  which  visibly  moulders 
is  dissolved,  we  shall  only  say  that  it  exci 
in  absurdity  any  of  the  dogmas  of  the  C;> 
lies;  and  can  only  be  exceeded  by  his 
supposition,   that  our  Saviour,  being  on 
man,  and  yet  destined  to  live  to  the  da; 
judgment,  is  still  alive  in  his  original  hn 
body  upon  earth,  and  is  really  the  VVaiult 
Jew  of  vulgar  superstition  ! 


(([October,  1805.) 

Aciulemlcdl  Qiiestto-tis    Hy  the  KIght  Honourable  Wii.m  am  Dri'mmoxh  K.  C.  F.  R.  S..  F.  R. 
Aulhorof  a  Trai;slatiouof  Persius.  Vol.  I.  4lo.  pp.  412.  Cadell  and  Davies.  London: 

Wk  do  not  know  v(  ry  well  what  to  say  of  I  that  it  is  occupied  with  ]\i(:aphysical  spl 
this  verv  learned  publication.  To  somi.' read-  lations.  To  others,  it  ni;ty  <oiivey  a  if 
era  it  will  probably  be  enough  to  announce,  [precise  idea  of  its  character,  to  be  told, 


DRUMMOND'S  ACADEMICAL  QUESTIONS. 


497 


<oush  it  gave  a  violent  headache,  in  less  than 
<  hour,  to  the  most  intrepid  logician  of  onr 
^iternitV;  ho  could  not  help  reading  on  till  he 
4me  to  the  end  of  the  volume.* 
|Mr.  Drummond  begins  with  the  doctrine 
^  Locke ;  and  exposes,  we  think,  very  suc- 
tssfuily,  the  futility  of  that  celebrated  an- 
nr's  definition  of  Substance,  as  "one  knows 
»'  what''''  sup{)oil  of  such  qualities  as  are  ca- 
{ble  of  producing  simple  ideas  in  us.  This 
^tion  of  substance  he  then  shows  to  be  de- 
led  from  the  old  Platonic  doctrine  of  the 
jmary  matter,  or  vXr,^  to  which  the  same 
(ijections  are  applicable. 

[Having  thus  discarded  Substance  in  general 
im  the  list  of  existences,  Mr.  Drummond 
pceeds  to  do  as  much  for  the  particular  sub- 
4nce  called  Matter,  and  all  its  qualities.  Li 
IS  chapter,  accordingly,  he  avows  himself 
the  a  determinetl  Idealist ;  and  it  is  the  scope 
o(liis  whole  argument  to  prove,  that  what  we 
cl  qualities  in  external  substances,  are  in 
fit  nothing  more  than  sensations  in  our  own 
ij'ids;  and  that  what  have  been  termed  pri- 
njry  qualities,  are  in  this  respect  entirely 
uiHi  a  footing  with  those  which  are  called 
sjondary.  His  reasonmg  upon  this  subject 
cliicides  very  nearly  with  that  of  Bishop 
Ekeley;  of  whom,  indeed,  he  says,  that  if 
h  arguments  be  not  really  conclusive,  it  is 
clainly  to  be  lamented  that  they  should  have 
b'n  so  imperfectly  answered. 

.^0  us.  we  will  confess,  it  does  not  seem  of 


cipitately,  that  secondary  qualities  are  uni- 
vensiillyadmitted  to  have  no  existence  but  in 
themindof  him  who  perceives  them,  proceetls, 
with  an  air  of  triumph  that  is  at  all  events 
premature,  to  demonstrate,  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  the  case  of  primary  (jualities  by  which 
they  can  be  distinguished  in  this  respect  from 
the  secondary.  The  fact  unquestionably  is, 
that  Dr.  Keid  and  his  followers  assert  the  posi- 
tive and  independent  existence  of  secondary, 
as  well  as  of  primary  qualities  in  matter;  and 
that  there  is,  upon  their  hypothesis,  exactly  the 
same  evidence  for  the  one  as  for  the  other. 
The  general  problem,  as  to  the  probable  exist- 
ence of  matter — unquestionably  the  most  fun- 
damental and  momentous  in  the  whole  science 
of  metaphysics — may  be  fairly  and  intelligibly 
stated  in  a  very  few  words. 

Bishop  Berkeley,  and  alter  him  Mr.  Drum- 
mond, have  observed,  that  by  our  senses,  we 
can  have  nothing  but  sensations:  and  that 
sensations,  being  affections  of  mind,  cannot 
possibly  bear  any  resemblance  to  matter,  or 
any  of  its  qualities  ;  and  hence  they  infer,  that 
we  cannot  possibly  have  any  evidence  for  the 
existence  of  matter;  and  that  what  we  term 
our  peiception  of  its  qualities,  is  in  fact  noth- 
ing else  than  a  sensation  in  our  own  minds. 
Dr.  Reid,  on  the  other  hand,  distinctly  admit- 
ting that  the  primary  functions  of  our  senses 
is  to  make  us  conscious  of  ceitain  sensations, 
which  can  have  no  sort  of  resemblance  or  af- 
finity to  the  qualities  of  matter,  has  asserted 


v|y  great  consequence  to  determine  whether  |  it  as  Si  fact  admitting  of  no  dispute,  but  recog- 
tijre  be  any  room  for  a  distinction  between  1  nised  by  every  human  creature,  that  these 
il  primary  and  secondary  qualities  of  matter;  sensations  necessarily  suggest  to  us  the  notion 
U  thono-h  we  are  rather  inclined  to  hold  that  i  of  certain  external  existences,  endowed  with 


I;.  Reid's  observations  have  established  its 
P'sibility,  we  cannot  help  saying',  that  it  is  a  I 
.  il  inction  which  does  not  touch  at  all  upon 
,,  ill  fundamental  question,  as  to  the  evidence  - 
,  wch  we  have,  by  our  senses,  for  the  exist- 
1  ei3  of  a  material  world.     Dr.  Reid  and  his 
I  fa)wers  contend  as  strenuously  for  the  real 
J,  citence  of  those  material  qualities  which 
"  pijluce  in  us  the  sensations  of  heat,  or  of 
cfj'ur,  as  of  those  which  give  us  intimations 
,  oliolidity,  figure,  or  extension.     We  know  a 
lilL'  more,  indeed,  according  to  them,  about 
ihjone  sort  of  qualities  than  the  other;  but 
-  lh|  evidence  we  have  for  their  existence  is  : 
e."J3tlythe  same  in  both  cases;  nor  is  il  more  , 
'  a  }\v  of  our  nature,  that  the  sensation  of  re-  ' 
■  siftnce  should  sugirest  to  us  the  definable 
<)ility  of  solidity  in  an  external  object,  than 
th  the  sensation  of  heat  should  .suggest  to 
"?hat  quality  in  an  external  object,  which 
vvij^iniot  define  otherwise  than  as  the  external  i 
ca,(e  of  this  sensation. 
f.r.  Drummond,  we  think,  has  not  attended  i 


particular  definable  qualities;  and  that  these 
perceptions,  by  which  onr  sensations  are  ac- 
companied, are  easily  and  clearly  distinguish- 
able from  the  sensations  themselves,  and 
cannot  be  confounded  with  them,  without  the 
most  wilful  perversity.  Perception,  again,  he 
holds,  necessarily  implies  the  existence  of  the 
object  perceived  ;  and  the  reality  of  a  material 
world  is  thus  as  clearly  deduced  from  the 
exercise  of  this  faculty,  as  the  reality  of  our 
own  existence  can  be  from  our  consciousness, 
or  other  sensations.  It  appears,  therefore, 
that  there  are  two  questions  to  be  considered 
in  determining  on  the  merits  of  this  contro- 
versy. F'lrst,  whether  there  be  any  room  for 
a  distinction  between  sensation  and  percep- 
tion ;  and,  secondly,  if  we  shall  allow  such  a 
distinction,  whether  perception  does  neces- 
sarily imply  the  real  and  external  existence 
of  the  objects  perceived. 

If  by-  perception,  indeed,  w^e  understand,  as 
Dr.  Reid  appears  to  have  done,  the  immediate 
and  positive  discovery  of  external  existences, 
«Ujciently  to  this  part  of  his  antagonist's  po-  |  it  is  evident  that  the  mere  assumption  of  this 
*it|ii;  and  after  assuming,  somewhat  too  pre- ,  faculty  puts  an  end  to  the  whole  question; 

since  it  necessarily  takes  those  existences  for 
granted,  and,  upon  that  hypothesis,  defines 
the  faculty  in  question  to  be  that  by  which 
we  discover  their  qualities.  This,  however, 
it  is  plain,  is  not  reasoning,  but  assertion  ;  an(l 
it  is  not  the  mere  assertion  of  a  fact,  which 
in  these  subjects  is  the  whole  perhaps  of  our 
legitimate  philosophy,  but  of  sometliing  whicii 
2r2 


?QT  the  reasons  staler!  in  the  note  prefixed  to 
, 'hi|livision  of  the  book,  I  refrain  from  reprinting 
ihdreaier  part  of  this  revifiw  ;  and  give  only  that 
pa  jf  it  which  is  connected  with  the  speculations 
'n  13  preceding  articles,  and  bears  upon  the  ques- 
•>Ohf  the  existence  of  an  external  world,  and  the 
faijio  be  given  to  the  intimations  of  our  seniles, 
■'•'■•her  internal  convictions. 

'  «3 


498 


aiETAPITi'SICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


may  or  may  not  be  inferred  from  the  fact,  ac- 
cording to  the  views  of  the  inquirer.  The 
inquiry  is  an  inquiry  into  the  functions  and 
operations  of  miiui :  and  all  that  can  possibly 
be  stated  as  fact  on  such  an  occasion,  must  re- 
late to  the  state  anti  affections  of  mind  only : 
But  to  assume  the  e.\istence  of  a  material 
world,  in  order  afterwards  to  define  one  func- 
tion of  mind  to  be  that  by  which  it  discovers 
material  qualities,  is  evidently  blending  hy- 
pothesis in  the  statement,  and  prejudghig  the 
controversy  by  assumption.  The  fact  itself. 
we  really  conceive  not  to  be  liable  to  any  kind 
of  doubt  or  dispute  ;  and  yet  the  statement  of 
it,  obvious  as  it  is,  seems  calculated  to  retrench 
a  good  deal  from  each  of  the  opposite  asser- 
tions. The  fact,  if  we  be  not  greatly  mis- 
taken, is  confessedly  as  follows. 

We  have  occasionally  certain  sensations 
which  we  call  heat,  pain,  resistance.  &c. 
These  feelings,  of  course,  belong  only  to  the 
mind,  of  which  they  are  peculiar  affections; 
and  both  parties  are  agreed  in  asserting,  that 
they  have  no  resemblance,  or  necessary  refer- 
ence, to  any  thing  external.  Dr.  Reid  has 
made  this  indeed  the  very  ground-work  of  his 
reasonings  on  the  subject  of  perception ;  and 
it  will  not  probably  be  called  in  question  by 
his  antagonists,  who  go  the  length  of  inferring 
from  it,  that  nothing  but  mind  can  be  con- 
ceived to  have  an  existence  in  nature.  This, 
then,  is  one  fact  which  we  m.ay  safely  assume 
as  quite  certain  and  indisputable,  viz.  that 
our  sensations  are  affections  of  the  mind,  and 
have  no  necessary  reference  to  any  other  ex- 
istence. But  there  is  another  fact  at  least  as 
obvious  and  indisputable,  which  the  one  party 
seems  disposed  to  overlook,  and  the  other  to 
invest  with  undue  authority,  in  the  discussion. 
This  second  fact  is,  that  some  of  the  sensations 
in  (|uestion  are  uniformly  and  irresistibly  ac- 
companied  by  the  apprehension  and  belief  of 
certain  external  existences,  distinguished  by 
peculiar  qualities.  The  fact  certainly  admits 
of  no  dispute  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  philoso- 
phers who  first  attempted  to  prove  that  this 
belief  was  without  foundation,  have  imiformly 
claimed  the  merit  of  disabusing  mankind  of  a 
r.atural  and  universal  illusion.  Now  this  ap- 
p"ehe;ision  and  belief  of  external  existences. 
IS  in  itself  as  much  an  affection  of  mind,  as 
the  sensations  by  which  it  is  accompanied: 
and  those  who  deny  the  distinction  between 
perception  and  sensation,  might  be  justified 
perhaps  in  asserting,  that  it  is  only  a  sensa- 
n'on  of  another  kind  :  at  the  same  time,  as  the 
essence  of  it  consists  in  the  apprehension  of 
an  independent  existence,  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  distinguishing  it.  by  a  separate  appel- 
lation, from  those  sensations  which  centre  in 
the  sentient  being,  and  suggest  to  him  no  idea 
of  any  other  existence.  It  is  in  this  sense 
alone,  it  appears  to  us,  that  perception  can  be 
rnderstood  in  strict  philosophical  language. 
I',  means  no  more  than  that  affection  of  the 
mind  which  consists  in  an  apprehension  and 
bf^lief  in  the  e.xistence  of  external  objects. 

Xow  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  there  can 
1) «  no  (lo'ihf  th-.t  fh"r:'  is  n  re.al  distinction 
be.:>voen  me;  ■  s-Msaiio..  a. .i  perception;  in- 


asmuch as  there  is  a  distinction  between  o, 
feelings  of  pain,  resistance,  &c..  and  our  C0| 
ceplion  and  belief  of  real  external  exis! 
But  they  differ  merely  as  one  affection 
mind  may  differ  from  another;  and  it  is  pi; 
unwarrantable  to  assume  the  real  existen 
of  external  objects  as  a  part  of  the  statemi 
of  a  purely  intellectual  phenomenon, 
allowing  the  reality  of  this  distinction, 
is  still  room  therefore  for  consideririg  tJi 
second  question  to  which  we  alluded  in  tl 
outset,  viz.  Whether  perception  does  nec€ 
sarily  imply  the  existence  of  external  o 
jects. 

Upon  this  subject,  we  entertain  an  opi 
which  will  not  give  satisfaction,  we  are  afiau 
to  either  of  the  contending  parties.  We  thii 
that  the  existence  of  external  objects  is  r 
necessarily  implied  in  the  phenomena  of  pe 
ception ;  but  we  think  that  there  is  no  coi 
plete  proof  of  their  nonexistence:  and  th 
philosophy,  instead  of  being  benefited,  wou 

'  be  subjected  to  needless  embarrassments.  1 
the  absolute  assumption  of  the  ideal  theor 
The  reality  of  external  existences  is  n 
necessarily  implied  in  the  phenomena  of  pe 
ception  ;  because  we  can  easily  imagine  th 
our  impressions  and  conceptions  might  hai 

;  been  exactly  as  they  are.  although  matter  hr 
never  been  created.  Belief,  we  familiar 
know,  to  be  no  infallible  criterion  of  actu 
existence;  and  it  is  impossible  to  donbt.  th 
we  might  have  been  so  framed  as  to  recei' 
all  the  impressions  which  we  now  ascribe 
the  agency  of  external  objects,  from  the  m 
chanism  of  our  own  minds,  or  the  particul 
volition  of   the  Deity.     The  phenomena  ( 

'  dreaming,  and  of  some  species  of  madncf 
seem  to  form  experimental  proofs  of  the  po 
sibility  we  have  now  stated  ;  and  demonstrat 
in  our  apprehension,  that  perception,  as  w 
have  defined  it.  [i.  e.  an  apprehension  and  b 
lief  of  external  existences.)  does  not  neces? 
rily  imply  the  independent  reality  of  its  o' 
jects.  Nor  is  it  less  absurd  to  say  that  v 
have  the  same  evidence  for  the  exi.«tence  ( 
external  objects  that  we  have  for  the  exif 
ence  of  our  own  sensations:  For  it  is  qui 
plain,  that  our  belief  in  the  former  is  fouiidr 
alton^ether  on  our  consciousness  of  \L^  latte. 
and  that  the  evidence  of  this  belief  is  con?' 
(|uently  of  a  secondary  nature.  We  canri' 
doubt  of  the  existence  of  our  sensation 
without  being  guilty  of  the  grossest  contn, 
diction  ;  but  we  may  doubt  of  the  existenf 
of  the  material  world,  without  anyc^ntradi' 
tion  at  all.  If  we  annihilate  our  sensatior 
we  annihilate  ourselves  ;  and,  of  course,  lea^ 
no  beina  to  doubt  or  to  reason.  If  we  ami 
hilate  the  external  world,  we  still  leave  entii 
all  those  sensations  and  perceptions  which 
different  hypothesis  would  refer  to  its  mysi" 
rious  agency  on  our  minds. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  certainly  going  t( 
far  to  assert,  that  the  nonexistence  of  matti 
is  proved  by  such  evidence  as  necessarily 
command  our  assent:  Since Jt  evidently  in 
plies  no  contradiction  to  suppose,  that  such 
thing  as  m;ittor  may  exist,  and  that  nn  omnij 

otent  being  might  make  us  capable  of  d: 


DRUMMOND'S  ACADEMICAL  QUESTIONS. 


499 


voriiig  it9  qualities.  The  instinctive  and 
surmountable  belief  that  we  have  of  its 
:isle'nce,  ceilaiuly  is  not  to  be  suiiendered, 
orely  beca\ige  it  is  possible  to  suppose  it 
roueous;  or  difficult  to  comprehend  how  a 
faterial  and  immaterial  substance  can  act 
)on  each  other.  The  evidence  of  this  uni- 
irsal  aud  irresistible  belief,  in  short,  is  not 
be  altogether  disregarded;  and,  unle.ss  it 
11  be  shown  that  it  leads  to  actual  contra- 
ctions and  absurdities,  the  utmost  length 
lat  philosophy  can  warrantably  go,  is  to  con- 
iiule  that  it  may  be  delusive  :  but  that  it 
|ay  also  be  true. 

JThe  rigorous  maxim,  of  giving  no  faith  to 
\y  thing  short  of  direct  and  immediate  con- 
^ousiiess,  seems  more  calculated,  we  think. 
;  perplex  than  to  simplify  our  philosophy. 
id  will  run  us  up.  in  two  vast  strides,  to  the 
iry  brink  of  absolute  annihilation.  We  deny 
le  e.vistence  of  the  mateiial  world,  because 
•b  have  not  for  it  the  primary  evidence  of 
ijnsciousness ;  and  because  the  clear  concep- 
in  and  indestructible  belief  we  have  of  it. 
luy  he  fallacious,  for  any  thing  we  can  prove 
I'the  contrary.  This  conclusion  annihilates 
i  once  all  external  objects;  and.  among 
tern,  our  own  bodies,  and  the  bodies  and 
inds  of  all  other  men  ;  for  it  is  quite  evident 
M  we  can  have  no  evidence  of  the  exist- 
»|ce  of  other  minds,  except  through  the  me- 
(litiou  of  the  matter  they  are  supposeil  to 
{iimate;  and  if  matter  be  nothing  more  than 
;  affection  of  our  own  minds,  there  is  an  end 
tthe  existence  of  every  other.  This  first  step, 
tj^refore.  rednces  the  whole  universe  to  the 
I'jid  of  the  indit'idual  reasotfer;  and  leaves 
!■' existence  in  nature,  but  one  mind,  with  its 
<iTipliment  of  sei.sations  and  ideas.  The 
si'oud  step  goes  still  farther;  and  no  one  can 
Isitate  to  take  it.  who  has  ventured  deliber- 
4ly  on  the  first.  If  our  senses  may  deceive 
|!  so  may  our  memory: — if  we  will  not  be- 
Ijve  in  the  existence  of  matter,  because  it  is 
ir.  vouclied  by  internal  consciousness,  and 
l|:"anse  it  is  conceivable  that  it  should  not 
tjist,  we  cannot  consistently  believe  in  the 
ijility  of  any  past  impression  :  for  which,  in 
lb  maimer,  we  cainiot  have  the  direct  evi- 
clice  of  consciousness,  and  of  which  our 
Ifesent  recollection  may  possibly  be  falla- 
fjus.  Even  upon  the  vulgar  hypothesis,  we 
Itiw  that  memory  is  much  more  deceitful 
t'n  perception;  and  there  is  still  greater 
fkard  in  assuming  the  reality  of  any  past 
f'stence  from  our  present  recollection  of  it, 
tuui^  relying  on  the  reality  of  a  present 
eist^ce  from  our  immediate  perception.  If 
VI  discredit  our  memory,  however,  and  deny 
a' existence  of  which  we  have  not  a  present 
cjtsciou.sness  or  sensation,  it  is  evident  that 
'*'!  must  annihilate  our  own  personal  identity, 
a'l  refu.se  to  believe  that  we  had  thought  or 
s'sation  at  any  previous  moment.  There 
ci  be  no  reasoning,  therefore,  nor  know- 
lifge.  nor  opinion;  and  we  must  end  by  vir- 
tvlly  annihilating  ourselves,  and  denying 
tl't  any  thing  whatsoever  exists  in  nature, 
b'  the  present  solitary  and  momentary  im- 
Pssion. 


This  is  the  legitimate  and  inevitable  ter- 
mination of  that  determined  scepticism  which 
refuses  to  believe  any  thing  without  the  high- 
est of  all  evidence,  and  chooses  to  conclude 
positively  that  every  thing  is  not.  which  may 
possibly  be  conceived  not  to  be.  The  process 
of  reasoning  which  it  implies,  is  neither  long 
nor  intricate;  and  its  conclusion  would  be 
uiuleniably  just,  if  every  thing  was  necessarily 
true  which  could  be  asserted  without  a  con- 
tratliclion.  If  is  perfectly  true,  that  we  are 
absolutely  sure  of  nothing  but  what  we  feel  at 
the  present  moment ;  and  that  it  is  possible 
to  distinguish  between  the  evidence  we  have 
for  the  existence  of  the  present  impression, 
and  the  evidence  of  any  other  existence.  The 
first  alone  is  complete  and  unquestionable; 
we  may  hesitate  about  all  the  rest  without 
any  absolute  contradiction.  But  the  di.stinc- 
tion,  we  apprehend,  is  in  itself  of  as  little  use 
in  philosophy,  as  in  ordinary  life  :  and  the  ab- 
solute and  positive  denial  of  all  existence, 
except  that  of  our  immediate  sensation,  alto- 
gether rash  and  unwarrantetl.  The  objects 
of  our  perception  and  of  our  recollection,  cer- 
tainly may  exist,  although  we  cannot  demon- 
strate that  they  must ;  and  when  in  spite  of 
all  our  abstractions,  we  find  that  we  must 
come  back,  and  not  only  reason  with  our  fel- 
low creatures  as  separate  existences,  but  en- 
gage daily  in  speculations  about  the  qualities 
and  properties  of  matter,  it  must  appear,  at 
least,  an  unprofitable  refinement  which  would 
lead  us  to  dwell  much  on  the  possibility  of 
their  nonexistence.  There  is  no  sceptic, "pro- 
bably, who  wouKl  be  bold  enough  to  maintain, 
that  this  single  doctrine  of  the  nonexistence 
of  any  thing  but  our  present  impressions, 
would  constitute  a  just  or  useful  system  of 
logic  and  moral  philosophy;  and  if,  after 
flourishing  with  it  as  an  unfruitful  paradox  in 
the  outset,  we  are  obliged  to  recur  to  the  or- 
dinary course  of  observation  and  conjecture 
as  to  the  nature  of  our  faculties,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  real  benefit  has  been 
derived  from  ils  piomulgation,  or  whether  the 
hypothesis  can  be  received  into  any  sober 
system  of  philosophy.  To  deny  the  existence 
of  matter  and  of  mind,  indeed,  is  not  to  phi- 
losophise, but  to  destroy  the  materials  of  phi- 
losophy. It  requires  no  extraordinary  in- 
genuity or  power  of  reasoning  to  perceive  the 
grounds  upon  which  their  existence  may  he 
doubted  :  but  we  acknowledge  that  we  cannot 
see  how  it  can  be  said  to  have  been  disproved  : 
and  think  we  perceive  very  clearly,  that  phi- 
losophy will  neither  be  simplified  nor  abridged 
by  refusing  to  take  it  for  granted. 

Upon  the  whole,  then,  we  are  inclined  to 
think,  that  the  conception  and  belief  which 
we  have  of  material  objects  (which  is  what 
we  mean  by  the  perception  of  them)  does  not 
amount  to  a  complete  proof  of  their  existence, 
but  renders  it  sufficiently  probable  :  that  the 
superior  and  complete  assui-ance  we  have  of 
the  existence  of  our  present  sensations,  dcres 
by  no  means  entitle  us  positively  to  deny  the 
reality  of  every  other  existence  ;  and  that  as 
this  speculative  scepticism  neither  renders  us 
independent  of  the  ordinary  modes  of  investi- 


500 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


gation,  nor  assists  us  materially  in  the  use  of 
them,  it  is  inexpedient  to  dwell  long  upon  it 
in  the  course  of  our  philosophical  inquiries, 
and  much  more  advisable  to  proceed  upon 
the  supposition  that  the  real  condition  of  things 
is  conformable  to  our  natural  apprehensions. 

The  little  sketch  we  have  now  ventured  to 
ofier  of  the  ab.'^tract,  or  thorough-going  phi- 
losophy of  scepticism,  will  render  it  unneces- 
sary for  us  to  follow  our  author  minutely 
through  the  different  branches  of  this  inquiry. 
Overlooking,  or  at  least  undervaluing  the  in- 
disputable fact,  that  our  sensations  are  uni- 
formly accompanied  with  a  distinct  apprehen- 
sion, and  firm  belief  in  the  existence  of  real 
tj.xternal  objects,  he  endeavours  to  prove,  that 
the  qualities  which  we  ascribe  to  them  are  in 
reality  nothing  more  than  names  for  our  pecu- 
liar sensations:  and  maintain.-*  accordingly, 
that  because  men  differ  in  their  opinions  of 
the  same  object,  it  is  impossible  to  suppose 
that  they  actually  perceive  any  real  object  at 
all;  as  a  real  existence  must  always  appear 
the  same  to  those  \vho  actually  perceive  it. 

His  illustrations  are  of  this  nature.  Water, 
which  feels  tepid  to  a  Laplander,  would  appear 
cold  to  a  native  of  Sumatra :  But  the  .same 
■water  cannot  be  both  hot  and  cold  :  therefore 
it  is  to  be  inferred  that  neither  of  them  i.s 
affected  by  any  real  quality  in  the  e.xternal 
body,  but  that  each  describes  merely  his 
own  sensations.  Now.  the  conclusion  here  is 
plainly  altogether  unwarranted  by  the  fact ; 
since  it  is  (|uite  certain  that  both  the  persons 
in  question  perceive  the  same  quality  in  the 
water,  though  they  are  affected  by  it  in  a  dif- 
ferent manner.  The  solution  of  the  whole 
puzzle  is,  that  heat  and  cold  are  not  different 
(jualities ;  but  different  degrees  of  the  same 
quality,  and  probably  exist  only  relatively  to 
each  other.  If  the  v,-ater  is  of  a  higher  tem- 
perature than  the  air,  or  the  body  of  the 
person  who  touches  it,  he  will  call  it  warm  ; 
if  of  a  lower  temperature,  he  will  call  it  cold. 
But  this  does  not  prove  by  any  means,  that 
the  difference  between  two  distinct  tempera- 
tures is  ideal,  or  that  it  is  not  always  perceived 
by  all  individuals  in  the  very  same  way.  If 
iMr.  Drummond  could  find  out  a  pcr.son  who 
not  only  thought  the  water  cold  which  othin- 
people  called  warm,  but  also  thought  that 
warm  which  they  perceived  to  be  cold,  he 
might  have  some  foundation  for  his  inference  : 
but  while  all  mankind  agree  that  ice  is  cold, 
and  steam  hot,  and  concur  indeed  most  exactly 
in  their  judgnipnt,'^  of  the  comparative  heat  of 
all  external  bodies,  it  is  plainly  a  mere  quib- 
ble on  the  convertible  nature  of  these  (juali- 
lies,  to  call  in  question  tlie  identity  of  their 
perceptions,  because  they  make  the  variable 
standard  of  their  own  temperature  the  rule 
for  ilenominaling other  bodies  hot  or  cold. 

In  the  same  way,  Mr.  Drummond  goes  on 
to  say,  one  man  calls  the  flavour  of  a.'^safo-tida 
nauseous,  and  another  tliinks  it  agreeable  ; — 
one  nation  delights  in  a  species  of  food  which 
to  its  neiirhbours  appears  disgusting.  How, 
then,  can  we  suppose  that  they  jx^rceive  the 
same  real  qualities,  when  their  judgrntnits  in 
regard  to  them  are  so  diametrically  opposite  ? 


Now,  nothing,  we  conceive,  is  more  obvior 
than  the  fallacy  of  this  reasoning.     The  /■ 
Idiig.  or  disliking,  of  men  to  a  particular  objec 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  perception  of  i' 
external  qualities;  and  they  may  differ  ei', 
tirely  as  to  their  opinion  of  its  agrceahlcnesil 
thouiih  they  concur  perfectly  as  to  the  di 
scription  of  all  hs  properties.     One  man 
admire  a  tall  woman,  and  another  a  short  onej 
but  it  would  be  rather  rash  to  infer,  that 
did  not  agree  in  recognising  a  difference 
stature,  or  that  they  had  no  uniform  ideas  ( 
maijnitude  in  general.    In  the  same  way, 
])erson   may   have  an   antipathy  to  salt,  an' 
another  a  liking  for  it ;  but  they  both  perceiv 
it  to  be  salt,  and  both  agree  in  describing 
by  that  appellation.     To  give  any  degree  o 
plausibility  to  Mr.  Drummond "s  infeiences, 
would  be  necessaiv  for  him  to  show  that  son: 
men  thought  brandy  and  Cayenne  pepper  ii 
sipid  and  tasteless,  and  objected  at  the  sani 
time  to  milk  and  spring  water  as  excessiyel 
acrid  and  pungent. 

In  the  concluding  part  of  his  book,  M. 
Drummond  undertakes  nothing  less  than 
defence  of  the  theory  of  Ideas,  against  th 
arguments  of  Dr.  Reid.  This  is  a  bold  a' 
tempt;  but,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  not 
successful  one.  Mr.  Drummond  begins  wit 
the  old  axiom,  that  nothing  can  act  but  whei 
it  is;  and  infers,  that  as  real  material  object 
cannot  penetrate  to  the  seat  of  the  soul,  thi 
sentient  principle  can  oidy  perceive  certai 
images  or  ideas  of  them  :  against  the  assumj 
tion  of  which  he  conceives  there  can  be  ii 
considerable  obstacle.  Now,  it  is  needles: 
we  think,  to  investigate  the  legitimacy  of  th; 
reasoning  very  narrowly,  because  the  foundj 
lion,  we  are  persuaded,  is  unsound.  Th 
axiom,  we  believe,  is  now  admitted  to  b 
fallacious  (in  the  sense  at  least  here  assisnc 
to  it )  by  all  who  have  recently  paid  any  attei 
tion  to  the  subject.  But  what  does  Mr.  Drun 
mond  understand  exactly  by  ideas  ?  Does  li 
mea)i  certain  films,  shadows,  or  sivndacn 
proceeding  from  real  external  existences,  aii 
passing  through  real  external  organs  to  tli 
local  habitation  of  the  soul?  If  he  mean 
this,  then  he  admits  the  existence  of  a  m; 
terial  world,  as  clearly  as  Dr.  Reid  does 
and  Mibjects  himself  to'all  the  ridicule  whif 
he  has  himself  so  justly  bestowed  upon  ih 
hyjiothesis  of  animal  spirits,  or  any  oth''' 
supposition,  which  explains  the  intercour», 
between  mind  and  matter,  by  imagining  som 
matter,  of  so  fine  a  nature  as  almost  to  gra 
duate  into  mind!  If,  on  the  other  hand,bs 
ideas.  Mr.  Drummond  really  means  nothin.j 
but  sensations  and  perceptions  (as  we  havl; 
already  explained  that  word),  it  is  (piitc  olj 
vious  "that  Dr.  Reid  has  never  called  ihei: 
existence  in  question  ;  and  the  \\  hole  debat' 
comes  back  to  the  presumptions  for  the  exislj 
ence  of  an  external  world  ;  or  the  reasonablfcj 
ness  of  trusting  to  that  indestiuctible  belieij 
I  which  certainly  accompanies  those  sensationtj 
i  as  evidence  of  their  having  certain  externa' 
causes.  We  cannot  help  doubting,  whethr- 
Mr.  Drummond  has  clearly  stated  to  himsel 
in  v>h;ch  of  these  two  senses  he  proposes  t 


f 


FORBES-  LIFE  OF  DR.  BEATTIE. 


501 


fefeiid  the  doctrine  of  ideas.     The  doctrine  I  guished  by  its  colour,  from  the  other  portions 

f  IMAGES   proceeding   from  actual   external  |  that  were  perceived   at   the  same  time.     It 

Existences,  is  the  only  one  in  behalf  of  which   seems  equally  impossible  to  dispute,  however. 

I.e  can  claim  the  supiwrt  of  the  ancient  phi-  ,  that  we  should  receive  from  this  impression 

i)sophers:  and  it  is  to  it  he  seems  to  alUide,    the  belief  and  conception  of  an  external  ex- 

S  several  of  the  remarks  which  he  makes  on    istence,  and   that  we  should   have  the  very 

'le  illusions  of  sight.     On  the  other  supposi-    same  evidence  for  its  reality,  as  for  that  of  the 

[on,  however,  he  has  no  occasion  to  dispute   objects  of  our  other  senses.     But  if  the  exter- 

i'nth  Dr.  Reid  about  the  existence  of  ideas  ;  for   nal  existence  of   lipht   be   admitted,  a  very 

)ie  Doctor  assuredly  did   not  deny  that  we    slight  attention  to  its  laws  and  properties,  will 

ad  sensations  and    perceptions,   notions,  re-  i  show  its  appearances  must  vary,  according  to 

ollections,  and   all   the   other   affections  of  !  our  distance  from  the  solid  objects  which  emit 

liind  to  which  the  word  idea  may  be  applied,  i  it.     We  perceive  the  form  of  bodies  by  sight. 

;i  that  other  sense  of  it.     There  can  be  no    in  short,  very  nearly  as  a  blind  man  perceives 

'uestion  upon  that  supposition,  but  about  the    them,  by  tracing  their  extremities  with  his 

rigin  of    these    ideas  —  which    belongs   to  :  stick  :  It  is  only  the  light  in  one  case,  and  the 

[lother  chapter.  stick  in  the  other,  that  is  projierly  felt  or  per- 

Mr.  Drummond   seems   to    lay  the  whole    ceived  :   but  the  real  form  of  the  obj(;ct  is 

'ress   of  his   argument  upon  a   position  of    indicated,  in  both  cases,  by  the  state  and  dis- 

iume's,  which  he  applies  himself  to  vindicate  !  position  of  the  medium  which  connects  it  with 

lom  the  objections  which  Dr.  Reid  has  urged  '  our  sensiitions.     It  is  by  intimations  formerly 

!>ainst  it.     "  The  table  which  I  see,"'  says  ,  received  from  the  sense  of  Touch,  no  doubt. 

Ir.  Hume.   -  diminishes  as  I  remove  from  it ;  i  that  we  ultimately  discover  that  the  rays  ot 

'jt  the  real  table  suffers   no  alteration : — it  [  light  which  strike  our  eyes  with  the  impres- 

)uld   be   nothing  but  its   image,   therefore,    sions  of  form  and  colour,  proceed  from  distant 

jhich  was  present  to  my  mind."     Now  this   objects,  which  are  solid  and  extended  in  three 

latement,  we  think,  admits  pretty  explicitly,  |  dimensions ;   and   it  is  only  by  recollecting 

[lal  there  is  a  real  table,  the  image  of  which  i  what  we  have  learned  from  this  sense,  that 

I  presented  to  the  mind  :  but,  at  all  events,    we  are  enabled  to  conceive  them  as  endued 

fe  conceive  that  the  phenomenon  may  be    with  these  qualities.     By  the  eye  itself  we 

jisily  reconciled  with  the  supposition  of  its    do  not  perceive  these  qualities:  nor.  in  strict- 

al  existence.     Dr.  Reid's  error,  if  there  be    ness  of  speech,  do  we  perceive,  by  this  sense, 

lie,  seems  to  consist  in  his  having  asserted    any  qualities  whatever  of  the  reflecting  ob- 

Wtively,  and  without  any  qualification,  that    ject ;  we  perceive  merely  the  light  which  it 

is  the  real  table  which  we  perceive,  when    reflects:  distinguished  by  its  colour  from  the 

»r  eyes  are  turned  towards  it.     When  the    other  light  that  falls  on  the  eye  along  with  it. 

'atter  however  is  considered  very  strictly,  it  '  and  assuming  a  new  form  and  extension,  ac- 

jil  be  found  that  bv  the  sense  of  seeing  we  '  cording  as  the  distance  or  position  of  the  body 

n  perceive  nothiiiL;'  but  light,  variously  ar-    is  varied   in  regard  to  us.     These  variations 

nged  and  diversified  ;  and  that,  when  we  j  are  clearly  explained  by  the  known  properties 

jDk  towards  a  table,  we  do  not  actually  see  :  of  light,  as  ascertained  by  experiment ;  and 

le  table  itself,  but  only  the   rays  of  light  '  evidently  afford  no  ground  for  supposing  any 

Oich  are  reflected  from  it  to  the  eye.    Inde-  j  alteration  in  the  object  which  emits  it,  or  tor 

tndently  of  the   co-operation  of  our  other  \  throwing  any  doubts  upon  the  real  existence 

jnses,  it  seems  generally  to  be  admitted,  that    of  such  an  object.     Because  the  divergence 

p  should  perceive  nothing  bv  seeing  but  an  !  of  the  ravs  of  light  varies  with  the  distance 

ifeemblage  of  colours,  divided  by  diflerent  ^  between  their  origin  and  the  eye,  is  there  the 

.'.es;  and  our  only  visual  notion  of  the  table  ,  slightest  reason  for  pretending,  that  the  mag- 

rawever  real  it  might  be)  would,  therefore,    nitude  of  the  object  from  which  they  proceed 

i  that  of  a  definite  portion  of  light,  di.stin- 1  must  be  held  to  have  varied  also? 


(:ipi-u,  1S07.) 

..f  account  of  the  Life  and  Writins!^  of  James  Beattie,  LL.  D.  laie  Professor  of  Moral  Philoso- 
phy and  Logic  in  the  Marischal  College  and  University  of  Aberdeen  :  including  many  of  hxs 
'^iginal  Letters.  By  Sir  W.  Forbes  of  Pitsligo,  Baronet,  one  of  the  Executors  of  Dr. 
peattie.     2  vols.     4to.     pp.  840.     Edinburgh  and  London  :  1806. 

Dr.  Beattie"s  great  work,  and  that  which 
Ms  undoubtedly  the  first  foundation  of  his  ce- 
I'lfity,  is  the  "  Essay  on  the  Nature  and 
Iirautability  of  Truth:"  on  which  such  un- 

t  The  greater  part  of  this  ariiclc  also  is  "iihheld 
"in  the  present  reprint,  for  the  reason.'?  formerly 

''ed  ;  and  only  those  parts  given  which  bear  upon 
pits  of  metaphysics. 


''  measured  praises  are  bestowed,  both  bv  his 

I  present  biographer,  and  by  all  the  author's 
male  and  female  correspondents,  that  it  is 
with  difliculty  we  can  believe  that  they  are 
speaking  of  the  performance  which  we  have 

i  just  been  wearying  ourselves  with  looking 
over.    That  the  author's  intentions  were  good, 

1  and  his  convictions  sincere,  we  entertain  not 


502 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


the  least  doubt;  but  that  the  merits  of  his 
book  have  been  prodigiously  overrated,  we 
think,  is  equally  undeniable.  It  contains  ab- 
solutely nothing,  in  the  nature  of  argument, 
that  had  not  been  previously  stated  by  Dr. 
Reid  in  his  "  Inquiry  into  the  Human  Mnid;" 
and,  in  our  opinion,  in  a  much  clearer  and 
more  une.xceptiouable  form.  As  to  the  merits 
of  that  philosophy,  we  have  already  taken 
occasion,  in  more  places  than  one,  to  submit 
our  opinion  to  the  judgment  of  our  readers ; 
and.  after  having  settled  our  accounts  with 
Mr.  Stewart  and  Dr.  Reid,  we  really  do  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  enter  the  lists  again 
with  Dr.  Beattie.  Whatever  may  be  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  common-sense  school  of  phi- 
losophy, he  certainly  has  no  claim  to  the 
honours  of  a  founder.  He  invented  nout;  of 
it:  and  it  is  very  doubtful  with  us,  whether 
he  ever  rightly  understood  the  principles  upon 
which  it  depends.  It  is  unquestionable,  at 
least,  that  he  has  exposed  it  to  considerable 
disadvantage,  and  embarrassed  its  more  en- 
lightened supporters,  by  the  misplaced  con- 
fidence with  which  he  has  urged  some 
propositions,  and  the  fallacious  and  fantastic 
illustrations  by  which  he  has  aimed  at  recon% 
mending  many  others. 

His  confidence  and  his  inaccuracy,  however, 
might  have  been  easily  forgiven.  Every  one 
has  not  the  capacity  of  writing  philosophically : 
But  every  one  may  at  least  be  tempeiate  and 
candid ;  and  Dr.  Beattie's  book  is  still  more 
remarkable  forbeingabusive  and  acrimonious, 
than  for  its  defects  in  argument  or  originality. 
There  are  no  subj(.^cts,  however,  in  the  wide 
field  of  human  speculation,  upon  which  such 
vehemence  appears  more  groundless  and  un- 
accountable, than  the  greater  part  of  those 
which  have  served  Dr.  Beattie  for  topics  of 
declamation  or  invective. 

His  first  great  battle  is  about  the  real  exist- 
ence of  external  objects.  The  sceptics  say, 
that  perception  is  merely  an  act  or  affection 
of  the  mind,  and  consequently  might  exist 
without  any  external  cause.  It  is  a  sensation 
or  affection  of  the  mind,  to  be  sure,  wliich 
consists  in  the  apprehension  and  belief  of  such 
external  existences  :  But  being  in  itself  a  phe- 
nomenon purely  mental,  it  isa  mere  supposition 
cr  conjecture  to  hold  that  there  are  any  such 
existences,  by  whose  oi)eration  it  is  produced. 
It  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  bring  any  evi- 
dence for  the  existence  of  material  objects; 
and  the  belief  which  is  admitted  to  be  in- 
separable from  the  act  of  perception,  can 
never  be  received  as  such  evideiice.  The 
whole  question  is  about  ihe' grounds  oi  this 
belief,  and  not  about  its  existence ;  and  the 
phenomena  of  dreaming  and  madness  prove 
experimentally,  that  perception,  as  character- 
ised by  belief,  may  exist  where  there  is  no 
external  object.  Dr.  Beattie  answers,  after 
Dr.  Reid,  that  the  mere  existence  of  this  in- 
stinctive and  indestructible  belief  in  the  re- 
ality of  external  obji-cts,  is  a  complete  and 
sufficient  proof  of  their  reality;  that  nature 
meant  us  to  be  satisfied  with  it;  and  that  we 
cannot  call  it  in  question,  without  running  into 
the  greatest  absurdity. 


This  is  the  whole  dispute;  and  a  pre 
correct  summary  of  the  argument  upon  b' 
sides  of  the  question.     But  is  there  any  th 
here  that  could  justify  the  calling  of  nam 
or  the  violation  of  decorum  among  the  cj. 
putants?     The  question  is.  of  all  other  qu 
tions  that  can  be  suggested,  the  most  pun 
and   entirely  speculative,  and  obviously  d 
connected  from  any  practical  or  moral  o 
I  sequences.     After  what  Berkeley  has  wri 
I  on  the  subject,  it  must  be  a  gross  and  will 
fallacy  to  pretend  that  the  conduct  oi  rtieni^ 
be   in   the  smallest  degree   affected   by  ' 
opinions  they  entertain  about  the  existei 
or   nonexistence    of    matter.       The    sy 
I  which  maintains  the  latter,  leaves  all  our 
!  sations  and  perceptions  unimpaired  and 
j  tire ;  and  as  it  is  by  these,  and  by  these 
that  our  conduct  can   ever  be  giuded, 
evident  that  it  can  never  be  altered  by 
,  adoption  of  that  system.     The  whole  dis] 
is  about  the  cause  or  origin  of  our  perceptii 
which  the  one  party  ascribes  to  the  actioi 
external  bodies,  and  the  other  to  th 
development  of  some  mental  energy.     It 
question  of  pure  curiosity;  it  never  can 
decided  ;  and  as  its  decision  is  perfectly 
different  and  immaterial  to  any  practical  p| 
pose,  so.  it  might  have  been  expected 
the  discussion  should  be  conducted  wit 
virulence  or  abuse. 

The  next  grand  dispute  is  about  the  e| 
dence  of  Memory.  The  sceptics  will 
it,  that  we  are  sure  of  nothing  but  our  p 
sensations;  and  that,  though  these  are  son' 
times  characterised  by  an  impression  a 
belief  that  other  sensations  did  formerly  ex 
we  can  have  no  evidence  of  the  justice  of  t 
belief,  nor  any  certainty  that  this  illusive  c 
ception  of  former  sensation,  which  we  ( 
memory,  may  not  be  an  original  affection ' 
our  minds.  The  orthodox  philosophers, 
the  other  hand,  maintain,  that  the  instinct 
reliance  we  have  on  memory  is  complete  a 
satisfactory  proof  of  its  accuracy;  that  it 
absurd  to  ask  for  the  grounds  of  this  belii 
and  that  we  cannot  call  it  in  (jnestion  witb 
manifest  inconsistency.  The  same  obser 
tions  which  were  made  on  the  argument  ' 
the  existence  of  matter,  apply  also  to  this  d" 
troversy.  It  is  purely  speculative,  and  \\i\ 
out  application  to  any  practical  conclusit 
The  sceptics  do  not  deny  that  they  rememlN 
like  other  people,  and,  consequently,  ihatth 
have  an  indestructible  belief  in  i)asteventi 
existences.  All  the  question  is  about  the  on[ 
or  the  justice  of  this  belief; — whether  itar 
from  such  events  having  actually  happen 
before,  or  from  some  original  affection  of  » 
mind,  which  is  attended  with  that  impress!* 

The  argument,  as  commonly  stated  by  I 
sceptics,  leads  only  to  a  negative  or  scepti; 
conclusion.  It  amounts  only  to  this,  thattj 
present  sensation,  which  we  call  memo 
affords  no  conclusive  evidence  of  past  existeml 
and  that  for  any  thing  that  can  be  proved 
the  contrary,  nothing  of  what  we  remem' 
may  have  e.\i.sted.  We  think  this  undenial 
true  ;  and  so  we  believe  did  Dr.  B(  altie.  ;' 
thou'dit  it  also  very  useless  ;  and  there,  t 


FORBES'  LIFE  OF  DR.  BEATTIE. 


503 


't-'  fe  agree  ■vx-ith  him :  But  he  thought  it  very 
:  t-icked  and  very  despicably  silly:  and  there 
,  (6  cannot  agree  with  him  at  all.  It  is  a  very 
<  iretty  and  iniicnious  puzzle, — affords  a  very 
■  iseful  mortiticalioii  to  human  reason, — and 
:  tads  us  to  that  state  of  philosophical  wonder 
.  lid  peiplexity  in  which  we  feel  our  own 
;  lelplessness,  and  in  which  we  ought  to  feel 
.;  [le  impropriety  of  all  dogmatism  orarrog-ance 
^  I  reasoning  upon  such  subjects.  This  is  the 
i  illy  use  and  the  only  meaning  of  such  scep- 
a  |cal  speculations.  It  is  altogether  unfair, 
"  jid  indeed  absurd,  to  suppose  that  their 
i  lithors  could  ever  mean  positively  to  main- 
■■  \.\n  that  we  should  try  to  get  the  better  of 
:  iiy  reliance  on  our  memories,  or  that  they 
:  iiemselves  really  doubted  more  than  other 
:  pople  as  to  the  past  reality  of  the  things 
|.ey  remembered.  The  very  argiiments  they 
r  56,  indeed,  to  show  that  the  evidence  of 
4  emorywirt^be  fallacious,  prove,  completely, 
;.  Lat,  in  point  of  fact,  they  relied  as  implicitly 
;>  !  their  antagonists  on  the  accuracy  of  that 
:  culty.  If  they  were  not  sure  that  they  re- 
;  iillected  the  premises  of  (heir  own  reason- 
.  ,gs,  it  is  evidently  impossible  that  they 
(lould  ever  have  come  to  any  conclusion. 
i  I  they  did  not  believe  that  they  had  seen  the 
l)oks  they  answered,  it  is  impossible  they 
:   Lould  have  set  about  answering  them. 

iThe  truth  is,  however,  that  all  men  have  a 
'i  lactical  and  irresistible  belief  both  in  the 
|:istence  of  matter,  and  in  the  accuracy  of 
jemory ;  and  that  no  sceptical  writer  ever 
.  jeant  or  e.xpected  to  destroy  this  practical 
:  I'lief  in  other  persons.  All  that  they  aimed 
1  was  to  show  their  o\\-n  ingenuity,  and  the 
Irrow  limits  of  the  human  understanding  ; — 
point  out  a  curious  distinction  between  the 
idence  of  immediate  consciousness,  and 
at  of  perception  of  memory, — and  to  show 
iat  there  was  a  kind  of  logical  or  arcTimen- 
|tive  possibility,  that  the  objects  of  the  latter 
puhies  might  have  no  existence.  There 
iver  was  any   danger  of  their  persuading 

!;n  to  distrest  their  senses  or  their  memory; 
r  can  they  be  rationally  suspected  of  such 
intention.  On  the  contrary,  they  neces- 
•ily  took  for  granted  (he  instinctive  and  in- 
ijstructible  belief  for  which  they  found  it  so 
fficult  to  account.  Their  whole  reasonings 
•jnsist  of  an  attempt  to  explain  that  admitted 
pt,  and  to  ascertain  the  grounds  upon  which 
tjit  belief  depends.  In  the  end,  they  agree 
ith  their  adversaries  that  those  grounds  can- 
ijt  be  ascertained  :  and  the  only  difference 
itween  them  is.  that  the  adversary  main- 
^ns  that  they  need  no  explanation  ;  while  the 
^ptic  insists  that  the  want  of  it  still  leaves 
^ssibility  that  the  belief  maybe  fallacious: 
il  at  any  rale  es;ablis?ies  a  distinction,  in 
<iG:ree,  between  (he  primary  evidence  of  con- 
ijousness.  which  it  is  impossible  to  distrust 
'jthout  a  contradiction,  and  (he  secondary  evi- 
<bcRof  perception  and  memory,  which  may 
i  ('learly  conceived  to  be  erroneous. 
jTo  this  extent,  we  are  clearly  of  opinion 
w  the  sceptics  are  rijrht;  and  though  the 
'lue  of  the  discovery  certainly  is  as  small  as 
jssible,  we  are  just  as  well  satisfied  that  its 


consequences  are  perfectly  harmless.  Their 
reasonings  are  about  as  ingenious  and  as  inno- 
cent as  some  of  those  which  have  been  em- 
ployed to  establish  certain  strange  paradoxes 
as  to  (he  na(ure  of  motion,  or  the  infinite  divis- 
ibility of  matter.  The  argument  is  perfectly 
logical  and  unanswerable  ;  and  yet  no  man  in 
his  senses  can  j)ractically  admit  the  conclu- 
sion. Thus,  it  maybe  strictly  demonstrated, 
that  the  swiftest  moving  body  can  never  over- 
take the  slowest  wliich  is  before  it  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  motion  ■  or,  in  the  words 
of  the  original  problem,  that  the  swift-footed 
Achilles  could  never  overtake  a  snail  (hat  had 
a  few  yards  the  start  of  him.  Tlie  reasoning 
upon  which  this  valuable  proposition  is  found- 
ed, does  not  admit,  we  believe,  of  any  direct 
confutation  ;  and  yet  (here  are  few,  we  sup- 
pose, who,  upon  the  faith  of  it,  would  take  a  bet 
as  to  the  result  of  such  a  race.  The  sceptical 
reasonings  as  to  the  mind  lead  to  no  other 
practical  conclusion :  and  may  be  answered 
or  acquiesced  in  \vi(h  the  same  good  nature. 

Such,  however,  are  (he  chief  topics  which 
Dr.  Beattie  has  discussed  in  this  Essay,  with 
a  vehemence  of  temper,  and  an  impotence 
of  reasoning,  equally  surprising  and  humilia- 
ting to  the  cause  of  philosophy.  The  subjects 
we  have  mentioned  occupy  the  greater  part 
of  the  work,  and  are  indeed  almo.st  the  only 
ones  (o  which  its  title  at  all  applies.  Yet  we 
think  it  must  be  already  apparent,  that  there 
is  nothing  whatever  in  the  doctrines  he  op- 
poses, to  call  down  his  indignation,  or  to  jus- 
tify his  abuse.  That  there  are  other  doctrines 
in  some  of  the  books  which  he  has  aimed  at 
confuting,  which  would  justify  the  most  zeal- 
ous opposition  of  every  friend  to  religion,  we 
readily  admit ;  but  these  have  no  necessary 
dependence  on  the  general  speculative  scep- 
ticism to  which  we  have  now  been  alluding, 
and  will  be  best  refuted  by  those  who  lay  all 
that  general  reasoning  entirely  out  of  con- 
sideration. Mr.  Hume's  theory  of  morals, 
wliich,  when  rightly  understood,  we  conceive 
to  be  bo(h  salutary  and  true,  certainly  has  no 
connection  with  his  doctrine  of  ideas  and  im- 
pressions; and  the  great  question  of  liberty 
and  necessity,  which  Dr.  Beattie  has  settled, 
bv  mistaking,  throughout,  the  power  oi  doing 
what  we  will,  for  (he  power  of  willing  with- 
out motives,  evidently  depends  upon  consider- 
ations altoijelher  apart  from  the  nature  and 
immutability  of  truth.  It  has  always  appeared 
to  us,  indeeil.  that  too  much  importance  has 
been  attached  to  Theories  of  morals,  and  to 
speculations  on  the  sources  of  approbalion. 
Our  feelings  of  approbation  and  disapproba- 
tion, and  the  moral  distinctions  which  are 
raised  upon  (hem,  are  Facts  ■s\hich  no  (heory 
can  alter,  although  it  may  fail  to  ex]>lain. 
While  (hese  facts  remain,  they  must  regulate 
(he  conduct,  and  affect  the  happiness  of  man- 
kind, whether  (hey  are  well  or  ill  accounted 
for  by  the  theories  of  philosophers.  It  is  the 
same  nearly  with  regard  to  the  controversy 
about  cause  and  effect.  It  does  not  appear  to 
us,  however,  that  Mr.  Hume  ever  meant  (o 
d'='ny  (he  e\is(ence  of  such  a  rela(ion.  or  of 
the  relative  idea  of  power.     He  has  merely 


504 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


given  a  new  theory  as  to  its  genealogy  or 
descent ;  and  detected  some  very  gross  inac- 
curacies in  the  opinions  and  reasonings  which 
were  formerly  prevalent  on  the  subject. 

If  Dr.  Bf^attie  had  been  able  to  refute  these 
doctrines,  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  he 
would  have  done  it  with  more  temper  and 
moderation ;  and  disdained  to  court  popularity 
by  so  much  fulsome  cant  about  common  sense, 
virtue,  and  religion,  and  his  contempt  and 
abhorrence  for  infidels,  sophists,  and  meta- 
physicians ;  by  such  babyish  interjections,  as 
'•fyoniti  fy  on  it!" — such  triumphant  ex- 
clamations, as,  •'•  say,  ye  candid  and  intelli- 
gent!"— or  such  terrific  addresses,  as,  "ye 
traitors  to  human  kind  !  ye  murderers  of  the 
human  soul !" — •'•  vain  hypocrites  !  perfidious 
profligates!"  and  a  variety  of  other  embelli-'^h- 
ments,  as  dignified  as  original  in  a  philosophi- 
cal and  argumentative  treatise.  The  truth  is, 
that  the  Essay  acquired  its  popularity,  partly 
from  the  indifference  and  dislike  which  has 
long  prevailed  in  England,  as  to  the  meta- 
physical incjuiries  which  were  there  made  the 
subject  of  abuse ;  partly  from  the  perpetual 
appeal  which  it  aifects  to  make  from  philoso- 
phical subtlety  to  common  sense  ;  and  partly 
from  the  accidental  circumstances  of  the  au- 
thor.    It  was  a  great  matter  for  the  orthodox 


scholars  of  the  south,  who  knew  little  of  m* 
physics  themselves,  to  get  a  Scotch  profeji 
of  philosophy  to  take  up  the  gauntlet  in  t  f 
behalf.     The  contempt  with  which  he  cl|( 
to  speak  of  his  antagonists  was  the  verj- 
which  they  wished  to  be  adopted  :  and.  s 
of  them,  imposed  on  by  the  confidence  of] 
manner,   and   some    resolved   to  give   itj 
chances  of  imposing  on  others,  they  joineJ 
one  clamour  of  approbation,  and  proclaime 
triumph  for  a  mere  rash  skirmisher,  while 
leader  of  the  battle  was  still  doubtful 
victory.     The  book,  thus  dandled  into 
larity  by  bishops  and  good  ladies,  contai3 
many  pieces  of  nursery  elo(]uence,  and  mi 
innocent  pleasantry:  it  was  not  fatiguing 
the  understandhig:  and  read  less  heavily,! 
the  whole,  than  most  of  the  Sunday  lit 
In  consequence  of  all  these  recomn)endati<( 
it  ran  through  various  editions,  and  foundJ 
way  into  most  well-regulated  families:  al 
though  made  up  of  such  stuff,  as  we 
believe  no  grown  man  who  had  ever  (ho 
of  the  subject  could  possibly  go  through i 
out  nausea  and  compassion,  still  retail 
place  among  the  meritorious  perfonna 
by  which  youthful  minds  are  to  be  puril( 
and  invigorated.    We  shall  hearnomoreo.; 
however,  among  those  who  have  left  colle. 


(^Toocmbcr,  ISIO.) 

Philosophical  Essays.    By  Dugai-d  Stewart,  Esq.,  F.  R.  S.    Edinburgh,  Emeritus  Professoii 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  &c.  &c.  4to.  pp.  590.  Edinburgh:  181C| 


The  studies  to  which  Mr.  Stewart  has  de- 
voted himself,  have  lately  fallen  out  of  favour 
with  the  English  public  ;  and  the  nation  which 
once  placed  the  name  of  Locke  immediately 
under  those  of  Shakespeare  and  of  Newton, 
and  has  since  repaid  the  metaphysical  labours 
of  Berkeley  and  of  Hume  with  such  just  ce- 
lebrity, seems  now  to  be  almost  without  zeal 
or  curiosity  as  to  the  progress  of  the  Philoso- 
phy of  Mind. 

The  causes  of  this  distaste  it  would  be  cu- 
rious, and  probably  not  uninstrnctive,  to  inves- 
tigate :  but  the  inquiry  would  be  laborious, 
and  perhaps  not  very  satisfactory.  It  is  easy, 
indeed,  to  say,  that  the  age  has  beeome  fri- 
volous and  impatient  of  labour;  and  has  aban- 
doned this,  along  with  all  other  good  learning, 
and  every  pursuit  that  requires  concentration 
of  thought,  and  does  not  lead  to  immediate 
distinction.  This  is  .satire,  and  not  reason- 
ing:; anil,  were  it  even  a  lair  statement  of  the 
fact,  such  a  revolution  in  the  JiitelkH'tual 
habits  and  character  of  a  nation,  is  it.self  a 
phenomenon  to  be  accounted  for, — and  not  to 
be  accounted  for  upon  light  or  shallow  con- 
siderations. To  us,  the  phenomenon,  in  so 
far  as  we  are  inclined  to  admit  ils  existence, 
has  always  appeared  to  arise  fiom  the  great 
multiplication  of  the  branches  of  liberal  study, 
and  from  the  more  extensive  d illusion  of 
knowledge  among  the  body  of  the  people, — 


'  and  to  constitute,  in  this  \\  ay,  a  signa 
ample  of  that  conipcnsatim}.  by  which  ihej 
and  evil  in  our  lot  is  constantly  equaliseJ.I 
j  reduced  at  least  to  no  very  variable  standa 
I      The  progress  of  knowledge  has  given  bii| 
of  late  years,  to  so  many  arts  and  sciences,  l' 
a  man  of  liberal  curiosity  finds  both  suffici^j 
occupation  for  his  time,  and  sufficient  e.ver 
to  his  understanding,  in  acquiring  a  superfie 
knowledge  of  such  as  are  most  inviting  a] 
mo.st  popular:  and,  consequentlv.  has  mul 
less  leisure,  and  less  inducement  than  formerj 
to  dedicate  himself  to  those  abslrai-t  stud  J 
which  call  for  more  patient  and  per.severi| 
attention.    In  older  times,  a  man  had  noli" 
for  it,  but  either  to  be  absolutely  Ignorant  i 
idle,  or  to  take  seriously  to  theology  and  ij 
school  logic.     When  things  gnnv  n  little  bil 
ter,  ihe  classics  and  mathematics  lille<l  upt|j 
[measure    of   <reneral    education    and    pri^ 
sludy;  and,  in  the  most  splendid   periods 
English    philosophy,  had   received  little  aj 
idition,  but  from  these  investigations  into 
I  intellectual  and  moral  nature.     Some  few 
dividuals  might  attend  to  other  things:  biitl 
knowledge  of  the.se  was  all  that  was  requir^ 
of  men  of  good  education  ;  and  was  held  i 
complishnnMit  enough  to  entitle  them  to  t:ij 
rank  of  scholars  and  philosophers.     Now-^ 
days,  however,  the  necessary  qualification 'j 
prodigiously  raised, — at   least  in   denoi 


STEWARTS  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


!t}i ;  and  a  man  can  scarcely  pass  current  in 
't!  informed  circles  of  society,  without  know- 
\i  something  of  political  economy,  chemistry, 
n  leralogy.  geology,  and  etymology, — having  ; 
a'mall  tiotion  of  painting,  sculptnre.  and  ar- 1 
ctecture,  with  some  sort  of  taste  for  the  j 
pturesque, — and   a  smattering  of  German 
al  Spanish  literature,  and  even  some  idea 
0  Indian,  Sanscrit,  and  Chinese  learning  and 
htory, — over  and  above  some  little  know- 1 
l(;Te  of  trade  and  agriculture;  with  a  reason-  j 
aL'  acquaintance  with  what  is  called  the  phi-  I 
K)phy  of  politics,  and  a  far  more  extensive 
k'wledge  of  existing  parties,  factions,  and 
einent  individuals,  both  literary  and  politi- 
c;  at  home  and  abroad,  than  ever  were  re- 

3  red  in  any  earlier  period  of  society.  The 
".ipation  of  time  and  of  attention  occasion- 
ecby  these  multifarious  occupations,  is,  of 
C(rse,  very  unfavourable  to  the  pursuit  of 
ai  abstract  or  continued  study;  and  even  if 
a  an  could,  for  himself,  be  content  to  remain 
i2)rant  of  many  things,  in  order  to  obtain  a 
p'ound  knowledge  of  a  few,  it  would  be 
d  cult  for  him,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
wiJ,  to  resist  the  impulse  and  the  seduc- 
ti'S  that  assail  him  from  without.  Various 
aii  superficial  knowledge  is  now  not  only  so 
ccimon,  that  the  want  of  it  is  felt  as  a  dis- 
gne;  but  the  facilities  of  acquiring  it  are  so 
gut,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  defend 
ouelves  against  its  intrusion.  So  many  easy 
at  pleasant  elementary  books, — such  tempt- 
in  summaries,  ab.stracts,  and  tables, — such 
btatiful  engravings,  and  ingenious  charts, 
ail  cowps-cV ail  of  information, — so  many  mu- 
sens,  exhibitions,  and  collections,  meet  us  at 
ery  corner, — and  so  much  amusing  and  pro- 
vcing  talk  in  every  party,  that  a  taste  for 
m;?el!aneous  and  imperfect  information  is 
foied,  almost  before  we  are  aware  :  and  our 
tiij;  and  curiosity  irrevocably  devoted  to  a 
sol  of  Encyclopedical  trifling. 

Ii  the  mean  time,  the  misfortune  is,  that 
tl^e  is  no  popular  nor  royal  road  to  the  pro- 
fo'ider  and  more  abstract  truths  of  philoso- 

Eilj;  and  that  these  are  apt,  accordingly,  to 
a;into  discredit  or  neglect,  at  a  period  when 
it  labour  enough  for  most  men  to  keep  theni- 
sees  up  to  the  level  of  that  great  tide  of 
pcilar  information,  which  has  been  rising, 
wii  such  unexampled  rapidity,  for  the  last 
fo;,-  years. 

[ich,  we  think,  are  the  most  general  and 
uibntrollable  causes  which  have  recently 
de-essed  all  the  sciences  requiring  deep 
thght  and  solitary  application,  far  below  the 
le;l  of  their  actual  importance  :  and  pro- 
nrj'd  the  singular  appearance  of  a  partial 
faingoff  in  intellectual  enterprise  and  vigour, 
injn  age  distinnuished,  perhaps,  above  all 
ot.;rs,  for  the  rapid  development  of  the  hu- 
m;  faculties.  The  effect  we  had  formerly 
oc'slon  to  observe,  when  treating  of  the  sin- 
pu;r  decay  of  Mathematical  science  in  Eng- 
lai';  and  so  powerful  and  extensive  is  the 
opiation  of  the  cause,  that,  even  in  the  intcl- 
leiial  city  which  we  inhabit,  we  have  known 
ni'inces  of  persons  of  good  capacity  who 
ha  never  found  leisure  to  go  beyond  the  first 


elements  of  mathematical  learning ;  and  were 
even  suspected  of  having  fallen  into  several 
heresies  in  metaphysics,  merely  from  want 
of  time  to  get  regularly  at  the  truth  ! 

If  the  philosophy  of  mind  has  really  suffered 
more,  from  this  universal  hurry,  than  all  her 
sister  sciences  of  the  same  serious  complex- 
ion, we  should  be  inclined  to  ascribe  this  mis- 
fortune, partly  to  the  very  excellence  of  what 
has  been  already  achieved  by  her  votaries, 
and  partly  to  the  very  severe  treatment  which 
their  predecessors  have  received  at  theirhands. 
Almost  all  the  great  practical  maxmis  of  this 
mistress  of  human  life,  such  as  the  use  of  the 
principle  of  Association  in  education,  and  the 
generation  and  consequences  of  Habits  in  all 
periods  of  life,  have  been  lately  illustrated  in 
the  most  popular  and  satisl'actory  manner  ; 
and  rendered  so  clear  and  familiar,  as  rules 
of  practical  utility,  that  few  persons  think  it 
necessary  to  examine  into  the  details  of  that 
fine  philosophy  by  which  they  may  have  been 
first  suggested,  or  brought  into  notice.  There 
is  nothing  that  strikes  one  as  A-ery  important 
to  be  known  upon  these  subjects,  which  may 
not  now  be  established  in  a  more  vnlg-ar  and 
empirical  manner, — or  which  requires,  in 
order  to  be  understood,  that  the  whole  pro- 
cess of  a  scientific  investigation  should  be 
gone  over.  By  most  persons,  therefore,  the 
labour  of  such  an  investigation  will  be  de- 
clined ;  and  the  practical  benefits  applied — 
with  ungrateful  indilTerence  to  the  sources 
from  which  they  were  derived.  Of  those, 
again,  whom  curiosity  might  still  tempt  to 
look  a  little  closer  upon  This  great  field  of 
wonders,  no  small  part  are  dismayed  at  the 
scene  of  ruin  which  it  exhibits.  The  destruc- 
tion of  ancient  errors,  has  hitherto  constituted 
so  very  lar2:e  a  part  of  the  task  of  modern 
philosophers,  that  they  may  be  said  to  have 
been  employed  rather  in  throwing  down,  than 
in  building  up,  and  have  as  yet  established 
very  littlebut  the  fallacy  of  all  former  phi- 
losophy. Now,  they  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  admire  that  ancient  philosophy,  can- 
not be  supposed  to  be  much  delighted  \vith 
its  demolition  ;  and,  at  all  events,  are  natu- 
rally discouraged  from  again  attaching  them- 
selves to  a  system,  which  they  may  soon  have 
the  mortification  of  seeing  subverted  in  its 
turn.  In  their  minds,  therefore,  the  opening 
of  such  a  course  of  study  is  apt  only  to  breed 
a  general  distrust  of  philosophy,  and  to  rivet 
a  conviction  of  its  extreme  and  irremediable 
uncertainty :  while  those  who  had  previou.'^l}- 
been  indifferent  to  the  systems  of  error,  are 
displeased  with  the  labour  of  a  needless  ref- 
utation :  and  disappointed  to  thul,  that,  after 
a  Ions  course  of  inquiry,  they  are  brought 
back  to  that  very  state  of  ignorance  from 
which  they  had  expected  it  would  relieve 
them. 

If  anything  could  counteract  the  efl"ect  of 
these  and  some  other  cau.ses,  and  revive  ir. 
England  that  taste  for  abstract  .speculation  for 
which  it  was  once  so  distinguished,  we  should 
have  expected  this  to  be  accomplished  by  the 
publications  of  the  author  before  us.^The 
great  celebrity  of  his  name,  and  the  uniform , 
2S 


506 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


clearness,  simplicity,  and  good  sense  of  his 
statements,  might  indeed  have  failed  to  attract 
those  whom  similar  merits  could  no  longer 
tempt  to  look  into  the  pages  of  Locke  or  of 
Berkeley.  But  the  singular  elociuence  with 
which  Mr.  Stewart  has  contrived  to  adorn  the 
most  unpromising  parts  of  his  subject. — the 
rich  lights  which  his  imagination  has  every 
where  thrown  in,  with  such  inimitable  judg- 
ment and  effect, — the  warm  glow  of  moral 
enthusiasm  which  he  has  spread  over  the 
whole  of  his  composition,^— and  the  tone  of 
mildness,  dignity,  and  animation  which  he 
has  uniformly  sustained,  in  controversy,  as 
well  as  in  instruction ;  are  merits  which  we 
do  not  remember  to  have  seen  united  in  any 
other  philosophical  writer;  and  which  might 
have  recommended  to  general  notice,  topics 
far  less  engaging  than  those  on  which  they 
wore  employed.  His  former  work,  on  the 
Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind,  has  accord- 
ingly been  more  read  than  any  other  modern 
book  on  such  subjects;  and  the  volume  be- 
fore us,  we  think,  is  calculated  to  be  slill  more 
popular.* 

But  it  is  in  the  second  part  of  the  Prelim.i- 
nar}-  Dissertation  that  v/e  take  the  chief  in- 
terest— as  Mr.  Stewart  has  there  taken  occa- 
sion to  make  a  formal  reply  to  some  of  our 
hasty  speculations,  and  has  done  us  the  honour 
of  embodying  several  of  our  transitory  pages 
in  tliis  enduring  volume.  If  we  were  at 
liberty  to  yield  to  the  common  weaknesses 
of  authors,  we  should  probably  be  tempted  to 
defend  ourselves  in  a  long  disseitatiou ;  but 
we  know  too  well  what  is  due  to  our  readeis 
and  to  the  public,  to  think  of  engaging  any 
considerable  share  of  their  attention  with  a 
controversy  which  may  be  considered  in  some 
measure  as  personal  to  ourselves;  and  there- 
fore, however  honourable  we  think  it,  to  be 
thus  singled  out  for  equal  combat  by  such  an 
antagonist,  we  shall  put  what  we  have  to  .say 
within  the  shortest  possible  compass. 

The  observations  to  which  Mr.  Stewart  has 
here  condescended  to  reply,  occur  in  an  early 
number  of  our  publication,  and  were  intended 
to  show,  that  as  mind  was  not  the  proper  sub- 
ject of  Experiment,  but  of  Observation,  so, 
there  could  be  no  very  close  analogy  between 
the  rules  of  metaphysical  investigation,  and 
the  most  approved  methods  of  in(|uiry  as  to 
those  physical  substances  which  are  subject 
to  our  disposal  and  control; — that  as  all  the 
facts  with  regard  to  mind  must  be  derived 
from  previous  and  universal  Consciousness,  it 
■was  diflicut  to  see  how  any  arraniiement  of 
them  could  add  to  our  substantial  knowledge; 
and  that  there  was,  therefore,  no  n^ason  either 
to  e.vpect  Discoveries  in  this  branch  of  science, 
or  to  look  to  it  for  any  real  augmentation  of 
our  Power. 

With  regard  to  Perception  ami  the  other 
primary  functions  of  mind,  it  was  observed, 
that  this  doctrine  seemed  to  hold  without  any 
limitation;  and  as  to  the  Associating  princi- 

*  .K  portion  of  ihe  oricinal  ariiclp.  containing  a 
general  view  of  ilie  sulijci't  of  these  Essay.';,  it!  here 
omiited,  (or  the  reasons  stated  at  the  head  of  this 
division. 


pie.  while  it  was  admitted  that  the  case  ;  j 
somewhat  different,  it  was  observed,  that'l 
men  were  in  reality  aware  of  its  exister 
and  acted  upon  it  on  all  important  occasic '. 
though  they  might  never  have  made  its  k  < 
a  subject  of  reflection,  nor  ever  stated  . 
general  phenomena  in  the  form  of  an  abstii 
proposition. 

To  all  this  Mr.  Stewart  proceeds  to  ansv 
by  observing,  that  the  distniction  between 
periment  and  observation  is  re;illy  of  no 
portance  whatever,  in  reference  to  this  ai 
ment;  because  the  facts  di.'^closed  by  exp' 
ment  are  merely  phenomena  that  are  obsen 
and  the  inferences  and  geueiali.-^ations  t 
arc  deduced  from  the  observation  of  s| 
taneoiis  phenomena,  are  just  of  the  same 
with  those  that  are  inferred  from  experiim 
and  aflbrd  equally  certain  grounds  of  ecru 
sion.  provided  they  be  sufficiently  numei 
and  consistent.     The  justice  of  the  last  j 
position,   we  do  not  mean  to  dispute;   ; 
assuredly,  if  any  thing  inconsistent  with 
to  be  found  in  our  former  speculations,  itn 
have  arisen  from  that  haste  and  inadverte 
which;  we  make  no  doubt,  have  often  beti 
ed  us  into  still  greater  errors.     But  it  is  v 
far  from  following  from  this,  that  there  i.s 
a  material  difference  between  e.\per;ment 
observation  ;  or  that  the  philosophy  of  n; 
in  not  necessarily  restrained  within  ^ery  i 
row  limits,  in  consequence  of  that  distinct 
Substances  which  are  in  our  power,  are 
objects  of  experiment ;  those  which  arc  : 
in  our  power,  of  observation  only.     With  - 
gard  to  the  former,  it  is  obvious,  that,  by  \\  • 
contrived  experiments,  we  may  discover  m  , 
things  that  could  never  be  disclosed  by 
length  of  observation.     With  regard  to 
latter,  an  attentive  observer  may,  indeed,  • 
more  in  them  than  strikes  the  eye  of  a  or- 
less  spectator:  But  he  can  see  nothing  t! 
may  not  be  seen  by  every  body  ;  atid,  in  c:  ■ 
where  the  appearances  are  very  few,  or  \  ■ 
interesting,   the  chance  is.  that  he  Joes 
nothing  more — antl  that  all  that  is  left  to  )  - 
losophy  is.  to  distinguish   them  into  cla5 
and  to  fit  them  with  appropriate  appellati( 
Now,  Mind,  we  humbly  conctMve.  coHside>l 
as  a  subject  of  investigation,  is  the  .--ubjec': 
ob.servation  only  ;  and  is  known  nearly  as\  1 
by  all  men.  as  by  those  who  have  most  (,- 
gently  studied  its  phenomena.     '-We  car't 
ilecompose  our  sen.sations."  we  formerly  • 
served,  "in  a  crucible,  nor  divide  our  pert- 
f  ions  with  a  prism.'"  The  metaphor  was  soi  • 
thing   violent:    but,  the   meaning  obvioi 
was.  that  we  caiuiot  subject  those  facul  - 
j  to  any  analogous  processes  ;  nor  discover  rr 
I  of  their  nature  than  consciousness  has  tan  ' 
jail  the  beings  who  posse.ss  them.     Is  i 
j  satisfactory  answer,  then,  for  Jlr.  Stewart 
say.  that  we  may  analyse  them  by  reflec;, 
land  attention,  aiid  other  instrnmeiiis  be  ; 
'suited  than  prisms  or  crucibles  to  the  in  • 
I  lectual  laboratory  which  fumshe-^  their  i 
terials?     Our  reply  is,  that  irc  can-^iol  ana' 
them  at  all ;  and  can  never  know  more  of  thj 
than  has  always  been  known  to  all  to  whji 
I  they  had  been  imparted;  and  that,  for    * 


STEWART'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


507 


jjiin  reason,  that  the  truth  of  every  thing  that 
Jiaid  with  regard  to  the  mind,  can  be  deter- 
ined  by  an  appeal  to  consciousness  alone, 
eJ  would  not  bo  even  intelligible,  if  it  in- 
i'med  men  of  any  thing  that  they  did  not 
Vjviously  feel  to  be  true. 
With  regard  to  the  actual  experiments  to 
iiich  Mr.^Stewart  alludes,  as  having  helped 
te.xplain  the  means  by  which  the  eye  judges 
c' distances  and  magnitudes,  these,  we  must 
iserve,  are,  according  to  our  conception,  very 
ttarly  experiments,  not  upon  mind,  but  upon 
riter :  and  are  only  entitled  to  that  name  at 
s',  in  so  far  as  they  are  carried  on  by  means 
f  the  power  we  possess  of  disposing  certain 
jfjces  of  matter  in  certain  masses  and  inter- 
vls.  Strictly  considered,  they  are  optical 
^eriments  on  the  effects  produced  by  dis- 
t\ce  on  the  light  reflected  from  known 
I'lies;  and  are  nearly  akin  to  experiments 
c  the  eflects  produced  on  such  reflected  rays 
\i  the  interposition  of  jyicdia  of  different  re- 
ficting  powers,  whether  iu  the  shape  of 
ijsins,  or  in  any  other  shape.  At  all  events, 
tfey  certainly  are  not  investigutions  carried 
c  solely  by  attending  to  the  subjects  of  our 
(nsciousness ;  which  is  Mr.  Stewart's  own 
cnnition  of  the  business  of  the  philosophy 
cmind. 

ai  answer  to  our  remark,  that  "no  meta- 
jjysician  expects,  by  analysis,  to  discover  a 
r|,v  power,  or  to  excite  a  new  sensation  in 
t!"  mind,  as  the  chemist  discovers  a  new  earth 
da  new  metal,"  Mr.  Stewart  is  pleased  to 
o'ierve — 

'  That  ir  is  no  more  applicable  to  the  anatomy 
0  he  Miiiui.  than  to  the  anatomy  of  the  body, 
/er  all  ihe  researches  of  physinlogists  on  this  last 
sject,  boili  in  the  way  of  observation  and  of  ex- 
p'iment.  no  discovery  has  yet  been  made  of  a  new 
c|an.  either  of  power  or  of  pleasure,  or  even  of 
t.  means  of  addinc;  a  cubit  to  the  human  stature; 
b'it  does  not  therefore  follow  that  these  researches 
a'  useless.  Bv  enlarging  his  knowledge  of  his 
0"i  inlecnal  structure,  they  increase  the  power  of 
«!■!,  in  that  way  in  which  alone  they  profess  to 
iirease  ii.  They  furnish  him  with  resources  for 
rjiedyin^  many  of  the  arcidents  to  which  liis 
h;lihand  his  life  are  liable  ;  for  recovering,  in  some 
cbs,  those  active  powers  which  disease  has  de- 
8'pved  or  inip;iired  ;  and,  in  others,  by  giving  sight 
tiihe  blind,  and  hearing  to  the  deaf,  for  awakening 
pi.ers  of  pcrcepiion  which  were  dormant  before. 
fir  must  we(werlook  what  they  have  contributed, 
iii-onjunction  with  the  arts  of  the  optician  and  ol 
d;  mechanist,  to  extend  the  sphere  of  those  senses, 
al  to  prolong  their  duration." — Prelim.  Diss.  pp. 
4.  xivii. 

j^fow,  ingenious  and  elegant  as  this  parallel 
nist  be  admitted  to  be.  we  cannot   help  re- 
g'ding  it  as  utterly  fallacious — for  this  sim- 
pi  reason — that  the  business  of  anatomy  is 
ttjay  open,  with  the  knife,  the  .secrets  of  that 
iijjrnal  structure,  which  could  never  other- 
Vie  be  apj)arent  to  the  keenest  eye;  while 
t/  metaphysical  inquirer  can  disclose  nothing 
owhich  all  his  pupils   are  Hot  previously  1 
aare.     There  is  no  opaque  skin,  in  short,  on 
ti;  mind,  to  conceal  its  interior  mechanism  ;  ; 
»:  does  the  metaphysician,  when  he  appeals  ] 
t<the  consciousness  of  all   thinking  beings 
f<  the  truth  of   his  classifications,  perform  | 
a'  thing  at  all  analogous  to  the  dissector,  [ 


when  he  removes  those  outer  integuments, 
and  reveals  the  wonders  of  the  inward  organi- 
sation of  our  frame.  Jlis  statements  do  not 
receive  their  proof  from  the  ])revious,  though 
perhaps  undigested  knowledge  of  his  hearers, 
but  from  the  actual  revelation  ^^  hich  he  makes 
to  their  senses ;  and  his  services  would  evi- 
dently be  more  akin  to  those  of  the  metaphy- 
sician, if,  instead  of  actually  disclosing  what 
was  not  previously  known,  or  suspected  to 
exist,  he  had  only  clrawn  the  attention  of  an 
incurious  generation  to  the  fact  that  they  had 
each  ten  fingers  and  ten  toes,  or  that  most  of 
them  had  thirty-two  teeth,  distinguishable 
into  masticators  and  incisors. 

When,  from  these,  and  some  other  consid- 
erations, we  had  ventured  to  infer,  that  the 
knowledge  derived  from  mere  observation 
could  ."scarcely  make  any  addition  to  our 
power,  Mr.  Stewart  refers  triumphantly  to  the 
instance  of  astronomy:  and,  taking  it  almost 
for  granted,  that  all  the  discoveries  in  that 
science  have  been  made  by  observation  alone, 
directs  the  attention  of  his  readers  to  the  in- 
numerable applications  which  may  be  made 
of  it,  to  purposes  of  unquestioned  utilhy. 

"In  compensation,"  he  observes,  "for  the  in- 
ability of  the  astronomer  to  control  those  move- 
ments of  which  he  studies  the  laws,  he  may  boast, 
as  I  already  hinted,  of  the  immense  accession  of  a 
more  useful  power  which  his  discoveries  liave  added 
to  the  human  race,  on  the  surface  of  their  own 
planet.  It  would  be  endless  to  enumerate  all  the 
practical  uses  to  which  his  labours  are  subservient. 
It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  repeat  an  old.  but  very 
striking  reflection,  that  tlie  only  accurate  knowledge 
which  Man  yet  possesses  of  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
has  lieen  derived  from  the  previous  knowledge  he 
had  acquired  of  the  phenomena  of  the  stars.  Is  it 
possible  to  produce  a  more  apposite,  or  a  more  un- 
deniable proof  of  the  universality  (d  Bacon's  maxim, 
that  '  knoidedge  is  poioer,'  than  a  fact  which  de- 
monstrates the  essential  aid  which  man  has  derived, 
in  asserting  his  dominion  over  this  lower  world, 
from  a  branch  of  science  which  seems,  at  first  view, 
fitted  only  to  gratify  a  speculative  curiosity;  and 
which,  in  its  infancy,  served  to  amuse  the  leisure 
of  the  Chaldean  shepherd?" — rielim.  Diss.  pp. 
xx.wiii,  xx.nIx. 

To  this  we  have  to  answer,  in  the  first  place, 
that  astronomical  science  has  not  been  per- 
fected by  observation  alone  ;  but  that  all  the 
elements  which  have  imparted  to  it  the  cer- 
tainty, the  simplicity,  and  the  sublimity  which 
it  actually  pos.sesses,  have  been  derived  from 
e.rperimcnt.s  made  upon  substances  in  the 
power  of  their  contrivers  ; — from  experiments 
performed  with  small  pieces  of  matter,  on 
the  laws  of  projectile  motion — the  velocities 
of  falling  bodies — and  on  centrifugal  and  cen- 
tripetal forces.  The  knowledge  of  lho.se  laws, 
like  all  other  valuable  knowledge,  was  ob- 
tained by  experiment  only,;  and  their  appli- 
cation to  the  movement!^  of  the  heavenly 
bodies  was  one  of  those  splendid  generalisa- 
tious;  which  derive  their  chief  merit  from 
those  inherent  imperfections  of  observation  by 
which  they  were  rendered  neces.sary. 

But,  ill  the  second  place,  wc  must  observe, 
that  even  holding  astronomy  to  be  a  .science 
of  mere  observation,  the  power  which  Mr. 
Stewart  .says  we  have  obtained  by  means  of 
it,  is  confcs.sedly  a  power,  not  over  the  sub- 


508 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JURISPRUDENCE. 


stances  with  w  hich  that  pcience  is  conversant : 
but  over  other  substances  which  stand  in  some 
relation  to  them  ;  and  to  which,  accordingly, 
that  science  is  capable  of  being  applied.  It 
is  over  the  earth  and  the  ocean  that  we  have 
extended  our  dominion  by  means  of  our  know- 
ledge of  the  stars.  Now.  applying  this  case 
to  that  of  the  philosophy  of  Mind,  and  as- 
suming, as  we  seem  here  entitled  to  assume, 
that  it  has  invested  us  with  no  new  power 
over  mind  itself, — what,  we  would  ask,  are 
the  other  objects  over  which  our  power  is  in- 
creased by  means  of  our  knowledge  of  mind? 
Is  there  any  other  substance  to  which  that 
knowledge  can  possibly  be  applied  1  Is  there 
any  thing  else  that  we  either  know  belter,  or 
can  dispose  of  more  effectually  in  consequence 
of  our  observations  on  our  own  intellectual 
constitution  1  It  is  evident,  we  humbly  con- 
ceive, that  these  questions  must  be  answered 
in  the  negative.  The  most  precise  knowledge 
which  the  metaphysician  can  acquire  by  re- 
flecting on  the  subjects  of  his  consciousness, 
can  give  him  no  new  power  over  the  mind  in 
which  he  discovers  those  subjects ;  and  it  is 
almost  a  self-evident  proposition,  that  the 
most  accurate  knowledge  of  the  subjects  of 
consciousness  can  give  him  no  power  over 
any  thing  but  mind. 

There  is  one  other  little  point  connected 
with  this  argument,  which  we  wish  to  settle 
with  Mr.  Stewart.  In  speaking  of  the  useful 
applications  that  may  be  ultimately  made  of 
the  knowledge  derived  from  observation,  we 
had  said,  that  for  the  power  or  the  benefit  so 
obtained,  mankind  were  indebted — not  to  the 
observer,  but  to  him  who  suggested  the  ap- 
plication. Mr.  Stewart  admits  the  truth  of 
this — but  adds,  that  the  case  is  exactly  the 
same  with  the  knowledge  derived  from  ex- 
periment ; — and  that  the  mere  empiric  is  on  a 
footing  with  the  mere  observer.  Now,  we  do 
not  think  the  cases  exactly  the  same ; — and 
it  is  in  their  diiference  that  we  conceive  the 
great  disadvantage  of  observation  to  consist,  j 
Whoever  makes  an  experiment,  must  have 
the  power  at  least  to  repeat  that  experiment 
— and,  in  almost  every  case,  to  repeat  it  ^^  ith 
some  variation  of  circumstances.  Here,  there- 
fore, is  one  power  necessarily  ascertained  and 
established,  and  an  invitation  held  out  to  in- 
crease that  power,  by  tracing  it  through  all 
the  stages  and  degrees  of  its  existence  :  \\  hile 
he  who  merely  observes  a  phenomenon  over 
which  he  has  no  control,  neither  exercises  any 
power,  nor  holds  out  the  prospect  of  acquir- 
ing any  power,  either  over  the  subject  of  his 
observation,  or  over  any  other  substance.  He 
who  first  ascertained,  by  experiment,  the  ex- 
pansive force  of  .cteam,  and  its  destruction  by 
cold — or  the  identity  of  lightning  and  elec- 
tricity, and  the  consequent  use  of  the  con- 
ducting rod,  plainly  bestowed,  in  that  instant. 
a  great  power  ujion  mankind,  of  which  it  was 
next  to  impossible!  that  some  important  appli- 
cation .should  not  be  speedily  made.  But  he 
who  first  observed  the  periodical  immersions 
and  emersions  of  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,  cer- 
tainly neither  acquired  nor  bestowed  any 
power  in   the  first    instance;    and  seems  to 


have  been  but  a  remote  and  casual  auxili;; 
to  him  whose  genius  afterwards  found  !■. 
means   of    employing    those   phenomena  i 
guide  him  through  the  trackless  waters 
the  ocean. — Epxeriment.  therefore,  necess; . 
ly  implies  power:  and,  by  suggesting  ana 
gous  experiments,  leads  naturally  to  the 
terminable  expansion  of  inquiry  and  of  kni, 
ledge : — but  observation,  for  the  most  p; 
centres  in  itself,  and  tends  rather  to  grat 
and  allay  our  curiosity,  than  to  rouse  or 
flame  it. 

After  having  thus  attemped  to  prove  ti 
experiment  has  no  prerog-ative  above  mere( 
servation,  Mr.  Stewart  thinks  it  worth  \vh 
to  recur  again  to  the  assertion,  that  the  { 
losophy  of  mind  does  admit  of  experimeii 
and,  after  remarking,  rather  rashly,  ll 
"  the  whole  of  a  philosopher's  lifp.  if 
spends  it  to  any  purpose,  is  one  continued  : 
ries  of  experiments  on  his  own  faculties  a 
powers,'"  he  goes  on  to  state,  that 

" hardly  any  experiment  can  be  imagiiv 

wliicli  has  not  already  been  tried  by  the  hand 
Nature;  displaying,  in  the  it:tiniie  varieties  of  1 
man  genius  and  pursuits,  the  asioiiisliingly  divei 
fled  effects,  resulting  from   the  possible  combii 
lions,  of  those  elementary  faculties  and  principl 
of  which  every  man  is  conscious  in  himself.   iSav; 
society,  and  all  ihe  difl'crent  modes  oi  civilizatic 
— the  different  callings  and  professions  of  indivit 
als,  whether  liberal  or  mechanical  ;  the  prejudic; 
clown  ; — the  factitious  man  of  fashion  ; — the  va.l 
iiig  phases  of  character  from  infancy  lo  old  age;j 
the    prodigies    effected  by  human   art    in   all 
objects  around  us; — laws, —  government, —  c< 
merce, — religion: — but    above  all,  the  recordal 
thought,  preserved  in  those  volumes  which  fill  i 
libraries;  what  are  they  but  txptriments,  by  whi 
Nature  ilhisiraies,  for  our  instruction,  on  hen 
grand  scale,  the  varied  range  of  man's  inlelleclij 
laculiies.    and    the   omnipotence    of    education  i 
fashioning  his  mind  ?  " — Frel.  Diss.  pp.  xlv,  Jtlv 

If  experiment  be  rightly  defined  the  int 
tional  arrangement  of  substances  in  our  povrjj 
for  the  purpose  of  observing  the  result,  l\ 
these  are  vot  experiments ;  and  neither 
ply.  nor  tend  to  bestow,   that  power  wl 
enters  into  the  conception  of  all  experime 
But    the   argument,   in  our  apprehension,  j 
chargeable  with  a  still  more  rtidical  falla 
The  philosophy  of  mind  is  distinctly  defui«l 
by  Mr.  Stewar't  himself,  to  be  that  whichl 
t  mployed  "  on  phenomena  of  which  we  a| 
conscious;"  its  peculiar    object   and   aim  | 
stated  to  be,  "to  ascertain   the  laws  of 
constilution,  in  so  far  as  they  can  be 
tained,   by  attention  to  the  subjects  of  oljj 
consciousness;"  and,  in  a  great  variety  of] 
sages,   it  is  explained,  that    the   powers 
which  all  this  is  to  be  effected,  are.  reflecti| 
upon  our  mental  operation.*,  and  ihe  facuif 
of  calm  and  patient  attention  to  the  sensatio 
of  which  we  are  conscious.     But,  if  this 
the  proper  province  and  object  of  the  philoiL 
phy  of  mind,  what  benefit  is  the  student 
receive  fiom  obseiving  the  various  effects 
manners  and  situation,  in  iin}  artuig  a  pet 
liar  colour  or  bias  to  the  character  of  the  sa 
age  and  the  citizen,  "the  prejudiced  clow 
and  factitious  man  of  fashion?"'     The  obs( 
vation  of  such  varieties  is,  no  doubt,  a  ve 


STEVVAPxT'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


509 


(irious  and  a  very  iiUeresliiig  occupation  ; — 
lit  we  humbly  conceive  it  to  form  no  part,  or, 
:]least,  a  very  small  and  inconsiderable  i)art, 
Jlhe  occupation  of  a  student  of  philosophy. 
]\s  an  occupation  which  can  only  be  etfec-  ! 
tl.lly  pursuetl,  in  the  world,  by  travidliiig.  and 
i:erco«rse  with  society;  and.  at  all  events. 
I' vigilant  observation  of  what  is  shown  to 
il  by  our  senses,  of  the  proceediuiis  of  our  j 
fflow-men.     The  philosoj)hy  of  mind,  how-  i 
eSr,  is  to  be  cultivated  in  .solitude  and  silence  ' 
-,')y  calm  reflection  on  our  oicn  mental  e\- 

I  iences,  and  patient  attention  to  the  sub-  j 
fts  of  our  own  consciousness.  But  can  we 
ej'r  be  conscious  of  those  varieties  of  temper 
ai  character  that  distinguish  the  ditiVrent  i 
nditions  of  human  life? — or,  even  independ- 
e'of  Mr.  Stewart's  ilefinition — is  it  recoiicila-  , 
b!  to  common  usage  or  general  unilersland-  ! 
il.  to  call  our  attention  to  such  particulars  j 

II  stuily  of  the  philo.sophy  of  mind  ? — Is  it 

III  on  the  contrary,  universally  understood  | 
t(be  the  peculiar  and  limited  province  of  j 
tk  philosophy,  to  explain  the  nature  and 
iliinctions  of  those  i)rimary  functions  of  the  i 
nid,  which  are  possessed  in  common  by 
nil  of  «//  vocations  anil  all  conditions? — to  [ 
tilt,  in  short,  of  perception,  and  attention,  I 
at  memory,  and  imagination,  and  volition, 
a'  judgment,  and  all  the  other  powers  or 
liilties  into  which  our  intellectual  nature 
US'  be  dis>'nguished  ? — Ts  it  not  with  these. 
\k  Hobbes.  and  Locke,  and  Berkeley,  ami 
rIiI.  and  all  theotlier  philosophers  who  have 
rtj'Oiied  or  philosophised  about  mind,  have  j 
b  11  occupied  ? — or,  what  share  of  Mr.  Stew- 
asown  invaluable  publications  is  devoted 
tchose  slighter  shades  of  individual  charac- 
U  to  which  alone  his  supposed  experiments 
h  e  any  reference  1  The  philosophy  of  the 
hiian  mind,  we  conceive,  is  conversant  only 
wh  what  is  common  to  all  human  beings — 
a«  with  those  faculties  of  which  every  indi- 
vpal  of  the  sj>ecies  is  ecjually  conscious: 
ai)  though  it  may  occasionally  borrow  illus- 
Irions.  or  even  tierive  some  reflected  light 
tm  the  contemplation  of  those  slighter  va- 
rifies  that  distinguish  one  individual  from 
aijther,  this  evidently  forms  no  part  of  the 
stily  of  the  subjects  of  our  consciousness, 
aij  can  never  be  permitted  to  rank  as  a  le- 
gimate  part  of  that  philosophy. 

|his  exhausts  almost  all  that  we  liave  to 
SSI  in  defence  of  our  supposed  heresies  as  to 
iH  importance  and  practical  value  of  the 
pl'osophy  of  mind,  considered  with  refer- 
•"'""  to  the  primary  and  more  elementary 
I'lilties  of  man.  With  regard  to  the  Asso- 
iiing  principle,  we  have  still  a  word  or  two 
f'Kld.  Ill  our  original  observations  we  ad- 
'Tijed,  that  this  principle  seemed  to  stand  in 
a'tuation  somewhat  difTereiit  from  the  sim- 
pl  phenomena  of  the  mind — and  that  the 
el|idations  which  Philosophy  had  fuini«hed 
wii  regjird  to  its  operations,  were  not  so 
"■  ly  recognised  as  previously  impressed  on 
'II  consciousness,  as  most  of  hm-  revelations. 
Wallowed,  therefore,  that  some  utility  rniuht 
beAerived  from  the  clear  (exposition  ot  this 
nile  comphcated  pan  oi  our  mental  crgaiu- 


sation,  in  respect  both  to  the  certainly  and  the 
extent  of  its  application  :  at  the  same  lime 
that  we  felt  ourselves  constrained  toadd,  th;it, 
even  as  to  this  habit  of  the  minti.  Philosophy 
could  lay  no  claim  to  the  honours  of  a  <lis- 
covcry  :  since  the  jainciple  was  uiKhndHeilly 
familiar  to  the  feelings  of  all  men,  and  was 
acted  upon,  with  unvarvinii  .siua»"ity.  in  almost 
every  case  where  il  could  he  em))loyed  wilh 
advantage;  though  by  persons  who  liad  never 
thought  of  embodying  it  in  a  maxim,  or  at- 
tending to  it  as  a  law  of  general  a])plication. 
The  whole  sciieme  or  education,  it  was  ob- 
served, has  been  founded  on  this  principle, 
ill  every  age  of  the  world.  ••  The  groom,'"  it 
was  added;  ••'  who  never  heard  of  ideas  or  as- 
sociations, feeds  the  young  war-horse  to  the 
soinid  of  the  trumpet:  and  the  unphilo.-iOj)hi- 
cal  artists  who  tame  elephants,  or  train  dan- 
cing doas.  proceed  on  the  same  obvious  anti 
familiar  principle." 

As  this  part  of  our  sj)eculalioiis  has  in- 
curred more  of  Mr.  Stewart's  ilisapprobation 
than  any  thing  which  we  have  hitherto  at- 
tempted to  defend,  we  think  ourselves  called 
upon  to  slate  the  substance  of  his  objections, 
in  his  own  eloquent  and  impressive  words. 
After  quoting  the  sentence  we  liave  already 
IraiKScribed,  he  proceeds: — 

"  This  argument,  I  suspect,  leads  a  little  too  Ifir 
for  tlic  purpose  ol  its  author;  inasmueh  as  it  con- 
cludes siill  more  for(-ibly  (in  conseinience  of  il;e 
great  familiarity  of  the  sulijeci)  asainst  Plivsics, 
strictly  so  called,  than  against  the  Science  ot. Mind. 
The  savage,  who  never  heard  of  the  accelerating 
force  of  gravity,  yet  know.s  how  to  add  to  the  mo- 
mentum ot  his  missile  weapons,  by  gaining  an  emi- 
nence ;  though  a  stranger  to  Newton's  third  law  of 
motion,  he  applies  it  to  its  practical  use,  when  he 
sets  his  canoe  afloat,  by  pushing  with  a  pole  against 
the  shore:  in  the  use  of  his  sling,  he  illustrates, 
witii  equal  success,  the  doctrine  of  centrifugal 
forces,  as  he  exemplifies  (without  any  knowledge 
of  the  experiments  of  Robins)  the  principle  of  the 
rifle-barrel,  in  feathering  his  arrow.  The  same 
groom  who,  "in  feeding  his  young  war-horse  to 
the  sound  of  the  drum,"  has  nothing  to  learn  from 
Locke  or  f'roin  Hume  concerning  the  laws  of  asso- 
ciation, might  boast,  with  far  greater  reason,  that, 
wiihoul  having  looked  into  Borelli,  he  can  train  that 
animal  to  his  various  paces  ;  and  that,  when  he 
exercises  him  with  the  Ionise,  he  exhibits  an  ex- 
perimental illustration  of  the  centrifugal  force,  and 
of  the  centre  of  gravity,  which  was  known  in  the 
ridin>;-school  long  before  their  theories  were  un- 
folded in  the  Priti'cipia  of  Newion.  Even  the  ope- 
rations of  the  animal  which  is  the  subject  of  his 
discipline,  seem  to  involve  an  acquaintance  with  the 
same  physical  laws,  when  we  attend  to  the  mathe- 
matical accuracy  with  which  he  adapts  the  obliquity 
of  his  l)ody  to  the  rate  of  his  circular  speed.  In 
both  cases  (in  that  of  the  man  as  well  as  of  the 
brute)  this  practical  knowledge  is  obtruded  on  the 
organs  of  external  sense  by  the  hand  of  Nature 
herself:  But  it  is  not  on  that  account  the  less  useUd 
to  evolve  the  general  theorems  which  are  thus  em- 
bodied with  their  particular  applications  ;  and  to 
combine  thein  in  a  systematical  and  scientific  form, 
for  our  own  instruction  and  that  of  <itliers.  Doch 
it  deirnct  from  the  value  of  the  theory  of  piicuma- 
licsiu  remark,  thnt  the  same  effects  of  a  yiicuum, 
and  of  the  elasticity  and  pressure  of  the  air,  which 
nfTord  an  explanaiioii  of  its  most  curious  pheno- 
mena, are  recognized  in  an  instinctive  piocess 
coeval  with  the  first  brparh  wlijch  wo  draw  :  and 
(^^xemplified  in  the  month  of  every  babe  mid  siick- 
;  ling?" — Prtl.  Diss.  p.  Ix.  fxi. 
2  p2 


510 


METAPHYSICS  AND  JUEISPRUDENCE. 


Now,  without  recurring  to  what  we  have 
already  said  as  to  the  total  absence  of  power 
in  all  cases  of  mere  observation,  we  shall 
merely  request  our  readers  to  consider,  what 
is  the  circumstance  that  bestows  a  vaJue.  an 
importance,  or  an  utility,  upon  the  discovery 
and  statement  of  those  general  laws,  which 
are  admitted,  in  the  passage  now  quoted,  to 
have  been  previously  exemplified  in  practice. 
Is  it  any  thing  else,  than  their  capacity  of  a 
more  extensive  application'? — the  possibility 
or  facility  of  employing  them  to  accomplish 
many  things  to  which  mey  had  not  been  pre- 
viouslv  thought  applicable  ?  If  Newton's  third 
law  of  motion  could  never  have  been  em- 
ployed for  any  other  purpose  than  to  set  afloat 
the  canoe  of  the  savage — or  if  the  discovery 
of  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  had  led  to 
nothing  more  than  an  explanation  of  the 
operation  of  sucking — would  there  have  been 
any  thing  gained  by  stating  that  law.  or  that 
discovery,  in  general  and  abstract  terms  ? 
Would  there  have  been  anyutility,  any  dignity 
or  real  advancement  of  knowledge,  in  the  mere 
technical  arrangement  of  these  limited  and  fa- 
miliar phenomena  under  a  new  classification  1 

There  can  be  but  one  answer  to  these  in- 
terrogatories. But  we  humbly  conceive,  that 
all  the  laws  of  mental  operation  which  phi- 
losophy may  collect  and  digest,  are  exactly 
in  this  last  predicament.  They  have  no  ap- 
plication to  any  other  phenomena  than  the 
particular  ones  by  which  they  are  suggested — 
and  which  they  were  familiarly  employed  to 
produce.  They  are  not  capable  of  being  ex- 
tended to  any  other  cases;  and  all  that  is 
gained  by  their  digestion  into  a  system,  is  a 
more  precise  and  methodical  enumeration  of 
truths  that  were  always  notorious. 

From  the  experience  and  consciousness  of 
all  men,  in  all  ages,  we  learn  that,  when  two 
or  more  objects  are  frequently  presented  to- 
gether, the  mind  passes  spontaneously  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  invests  both  with  some- 
thing of  the  colouring  which  belongs  to  the 
most  important.  This  is  the  law  of  associa- 
tion ;  which  is  known  to  every  savage,  and 
to  every  clown,  in  a  thousand  familiar  in- 
stances :  and,  with  regard  to  its  capacity  of 
useful  application,  it  seems  to  be  admitted, 
that  it  has  been  known  and  acted  upon  by 
parents,  pedagogues,  priests,  and  legislators,  in 
all  ages  of  the  world;  and  has  even  been  em- 
ployed, as  an  obvious  and  easy  instrument,  by 
such  humble  judges  of  intellectual  resources, 
as  common  horse-jockies  and  bear-dancers. 

If  this  principle,  then,  was  always  known, 
and  regularly  employed  wherever  any  advan- 
tage couKl  be  expected  from  its  employment,  ; 
what  reason  have  we  to  imagine,  that  any 
substantial  benefit  is  to  be  derived  from  its 
scientific  investigation,  or  any  important  uses 
hereafter  discovered  for  it,  in  consequence 
merely  of  investing  it  with  a  precise  name, 
and  slating,  under  one  general  theorem,  the 
common  law  of  its  operation  1  If  such  per- 
fione  as  grooms  and  masters  of  monaL^eries 
have  been  auided,  by  their  low  intellects  and 
sordid  motives,  to  its  skilful  application  as  a 
means  of  directing  even  the  lower  animals, 


ie  it  to  be  believed,  that  there  can  be  m:  • 
occasions  for  its  employment  in  the  gove-. 
ment  of   the   human   mind,    of  which  nl 
have  never  yet   had   the   sense  to  bethi 
themselves  ?    Or,  can    it  f)e  seriously  mal 
tained,  that  it  is  capable  of  applications] 
much   more   e.vtensive   and   important  tlj 
those  which  have  been  vulgarly  made  in  pi 
ages,  as  are  the  uses  of  Newton'tj  third  ij 
of  motion,  compared  with  the  operation; 
the  savage  in  pushing  his  canoe   from 
shore  1    If  Mr.  Stewart  really  entertained) 
such  opinion  as  this,  it  was  incumbent  ujJ 
him  to  have  indicated,  in  a  general  way, 
departments  in  which  he  conceived  that 
great  discoveries  were  to  be  made ;  and 
have  pointed  out  some,  at  least,  of  the  nl 
applications,    on   the    assumption   of    wl 
alone  he  could  justify  so  ambitious 
lei.*     Instead  of  this,  however,  we   do 
find   that   he   has    contemplated    any  oHJ 
spheres  for  the  application  of  this  princ 
than  those  which  have  been  so  long  conce 
to  it — the  formation  of  taste,  and  the  cond 
of  education  :  and,  with  regard  to  the  last) 
most  important  of  these,  he  has  himself  I 
corded  an  admission,   which  to  us,  we 
confess,  appears  a  full  justification  of  all  . 
we  have  now  been  advancing,  and  a  scl 
cient  answer  to  the  positions  we  have  bJ 
endeavouring  to  combat.     "  In   so  far,"  }l 
Stewart  observes,  "as  education   is  effectj 
and  salutary,  it  is  founded  on  those  prill 
pies  of  our  nature  which  have  forced  ih\ 
selves    upon    general    observation,    i 
quence  of  the  experience  of  ages."     Tl 
the  principle  of  association  is. to  be  reckojf 
in  the  number  of  these,  Mr.  Stewart  certaii' 
will  not  deny  ;  and  our  proposition  i.«,  that ' 
the  principles  of  our  nature  which  are  :■ 
pable  of  any  useful  application,  have  l| 
"forced  themselves  on  geneial  observatio 
many  centuries   ago,  and   can    now 
little  more  than  a  technical  nomenclature » 
description  from  the  best  efforts  of  philosof 
The  sentiments  to  which  we  have  venti 
to  give  expression  in  these  and  our  fon 
hasty  observations,  were  suggested  to  us.  I 
will  confess,  in  a  great  degree,  by  the  strikl 
contrast   between  the  wonders  which  hi 
been  wrought  by  the  cultivation  of  modi 
Physics,  and  the  absolute  nothingness  of 
effects  that  have  hitherto  been  produced! 
the  labours  of  the  philosophers  of  mind, 
have  only  to  mention  the  names  of  AstrcJ 
my.  Chemistry,  Mechanics,  Optics,  and  NJ 
gation  ; — nay,  we  have  only  to  look  aroundi 
in  public  or  in  private, — to  ca.st  a  glancei 
the  machines  and  manufactures,  the  shji 
observatories,  steam  engines,  and  elaboni 
ries.  by  which  we  are  perpetually  surrouni  j 
— or  to  turn  our  eyes  on  the  most  conirj 

"  Upwards  of  thirty  years  have  now  e!ii| 
since  this  was  written  ;  during  which  a  t8St«|l 
metaphysical  inquiry  has  revived  in  France, '| 
been  preatly  encouraged  in  '^Jermany.  Yet  I  i 
not  aware  to  what  useful  applications  of  the  scit*' 
iis  votaries  can  yet  point ;  or  whai  practical  iiiipr< " 
nieiii  or  increase  of  human  power  iliey  can  trac » 
its  cultivation.  ■  7- 


STEWART'S  PHILOSOPHICAL  ESSAYS. 


511 


cles  of  our  dress  and  furniture, — on  the 

rs.  engravings;  books,  lire-arms,  watches, 

meters,  ihunder-rods  and  opera-glasses, 

t  present  themselves  ni  our  ordinary  dwell- 
to  feel  how  vast  a  progress  has  been 
.e  in  e.vploring  and  subduing  the  physical 

ments  ot  nature,  and  how  stupendous  an 
se  the  power  of  man  has  received,  by 
t,'  experimental  investigation  of  her  laws. 
^w  is  any  thing  in  this  astonishing  survey 
nre  remarkable,  than  the  feeling  with  which 
il5  always  accompanied,  that  what  we  have 
bMrto  done  in  any  of  these  departments  is 
b  a  small  part  of  what  we  are  yet  destined 
tciccomplish :  and  that  the  inquiries  which 
•'  '"  I'd  us  so  far,  will  infallibly  carry  us  still 
When  we  ask,  however,  for  the  tro- 
:  ihe  philosophy  of  mind,  or  inquire  for 
u  vi'stiyes  of  her  progress  in  the  more  plastic 
a:  susceptible  elements  of  human  genius 
a'  character,  we  are  answered  only  by  in- 
g  uous  silence,  or  vague  anticipations — and 
ti:.  nothing  but  a  blank  in  the  record  of  her 
anal  achievements.  The  knowdedge  and 
tl  power  of  man  over  inanimate  nature  has 
bui  increased  tenfold  in  the  course  of  the 
la  two  centuries.  The  knowledge  and  the 
p-er  of  man  over  the  mind  of  man  remains 
aFost  exactly  where  it  was  at  the  first  de- 
vcipment  of  his  faculties.  The  natural  phi- 
lophy  of  antiquity  is  mere  childislmessand 
ddge,  and  their  physical  inquirers  are  mere 
pinies  and  drivellers,  compared  with  their 
8i*;essors  in  the  present  age ;  but  their  logi- 
cib,  and  metaphysicians,  and  moralists,  and, 
Wilt  is  of  infinitely  more  consequence,  the 
pi^'tical  maxims  and  the  actual  effects  result- 
inN'rom  their  philosophy  of  mind,  are  very 
nely  on  a  level  with  the  philosophy  of  the 
pi  ent  day.  The  end  and  aim  of  all  that 
pliosophy  is  to  make  education  rational  and 
et^tive.  and  to  train  men  to  such  Sagacity 
ai;  force  of  judgment,  as  to  induce  them  to 
ca;  off  the  bondage  of  prejudices,  and  to  fol- 
lo1  happiness  and  virtue  with  assured  and 
stily  steps.  We  do  not  know,  however, 
w.lt  modern  work  contains  juster,  or  more 
prbund  views  on  the  subject  of  education, 
lb'  may  be  collected  from  the  writings  of 
Xtophou  and  Quintilian.  Polybius,  Plutarch. 
auiCicero  :  and,  as  to  that  sagacity  and  just- 
nei  of  thinking,  which,  after  all,  is  the  fruit 
byrhich  this  tree  of  knowledge  must  be  ulti- 
mi'ly  known,  we  are  not  aware  of  many 
mqern  performances  that  exemplify  it  in  a 
stiiger  degree,  than  many  parts  of  the  his- 
toijs  of  Tacitus  and  Thucydides,  or  the  Satires 
an'Epistles  of  Horace.  '  In  the  conduct  of 
bujjess  and  affairs,  we  shall  find  Pericles, 
anlCijesiir.  and  Cicero,  but  little  inferior  to  the 
phlsophical  politicians  of  th(i  pre.sent  day; 
mi  for  lofty  and  solid  principles  of  practi- 
oalithics.  we  mi^ht  safely  match  Epictefus 
anij^nfoninus  (without  mentioning  Aristotle, 

''  ■  Plutarch,  Xenophon,  or  Polybius,)  with 
our  modern  speculators. 
■i'c.  then,  it  may  be  asked,  arc  the  jier- 

!'•  iin'cs  of  this  philosophy,  which  makes 
suclar^e  promises  ?  or,  what  are  the  grounds 
upi  which  we  should  expect  to  see  so  much 


accomplished,  by  an  instrument  which  has 
hitherto  effected  so  little?  It  is  in  vain  for 
Mr.  Stewart  to  say,  that  the  science  is  yet  but 
in  its  infancy,  ami  that  it  will  bear  its  Iruil  in 
due  season.  The  truth  i.**.  that  it  has,  of  ne- 
cessity, been  more  conslantly  and  diligently 
cultivated  than  any  other.  It  has  always 
been  the  lirst  object  with  men  of  talent  and 
good  alfeclions,  to  inlluence  and  to  form  the 
minds  of  others,  ami  to  tram  their  own  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  vigour  and  perfection:  and 
accordingly,  it  is  admitted  by  Mr.  Stewart, 
that  the  most  important  principles  of  this  phi- 
losophy have  been  long  ago  "  forced  upon 
general  observation"'  by  the  feelmgs  and  ex- 
perience of  past  ages.  Independently,  how- 
ever, of  this,  the  years  that  have  passetl  since 
Hobbes,  and  Locke,  and  Malebranche,  and 
Leibnitz  drew  the  attention  of  Europe  to  this 
study,  and  the  very  extraordinary  genius  and 
talents  of  those  who  have  since  addicti  d  them- 
selves to  it.  are  far  more  than  enough  to  have 
brought  it,  if  not  to  perfection,  at  least  to  such 
a  degree  of  excellence,  as  no  longer  to  leave 
it  a  matter  of  dispute,  whether  it  was  really 
destined  to  add  to  our  knowledge  and  our 
power,  or  to  produce  any  sensible  effects  upon 
the  happiness  and  condition  of  mankind. 
That  society  has  made  great  advances  in  com- 
fort and  intelligence,  during  that  period,  is 
indisputable  ;  but  we  do  not  find  that  Mr. 
Stewart  himself  imputes  any  great  part  of  this 
improvement  to  our  increased  knowledge  of 
our  mental  constitution  ;  and  indeed  it  is  quite 
obvious,  that  it  is  an  effect  resulting  from  the 
I  increase  of  political  freedom — the  infiuences 
I  of  reformed  Christianity  —  Lhe  invention  of 
printing — and  that  improvement  and  multipli- 
,  cation  of  the  mechanical  arts,  that  have  ren- 
dered the  body  of  the  people  far  moie  busy, 
I  wealthy,  inventive  and  independent,  than  they 
ever  were  in  an}'  former  period  of  society. 

To  us,  therefore,  it  certainly  does  appear, 

that  the  lofty  estimate  which  ^Ir.  Slewait  has 

again  made  of  the  jrractical  importance  of  his 

I  favourite  studies,  is  one  of  those  splendid  vi- 

j  sions  by  which  men  of  genius  have  been  so 

I  often  misled,  in  the  enthusiastic  pursuit  of 

I  science  and  of  virtue.     That  these  studies  are 

of  a  very  dignified  and  interesting  nature,  we 

,  admit  most  cheerfully ; — that  they  exercise 

and  delight  the  understanding,  by  reasonings 

I  and  inquiries,  at  once  subtle,   cautious,  and 

profound,  and  either  gratify  or  exalt  a  keen 

i  antl  aspiring  curiosity,  must  be  acknowledged 

:  by  all  who  have  been  initiated  into  their  ele- 

I  ments.    Tho.se  who  have  had  the  good  fortune 

j  to  be  so  initiated  by  the  writings  of  Mr.  Stew- 

I  art,  will  be  delighted   to  add,  that  they  are 

blended  with  so  many  lessons  of  gentle  and  of 

I  ennobling  virtue — so  many  .striking  i)recepts 

I  and  bright  examplesof  liberality,  high-minded- 

■  ness,  and  pure  taste — as  to  be  calculated,  in  an 

;  eminent  degree,  to  make  men  love  goodness 

and  avspire  to  elegance,  and  to  impiove  at  once 

the  undenstanding,  the  imagination,  and  the 

^  heart.   But  this  must  be  the  limit  of  our  praise. 

I      The  sequel  of  this  article  is  not  now  re- 
^  printed,  for  the  reasons  already  stated. 


NOVELS.  TALES, 


AND 


PROSE  WORKS  OF  FICTION. fa? 


As  I  perceive  I  have,  in  some  of  the  following  papers,  made  a  sort  of  apology  for  i 
iiiil  to  direct  the  attention  of  my  readers  to  things  so  insignificant  as  Novels,  it  may  be ' 
wfiile  to  inform  the  present  generation  that,  in  my  youth,  writings  of  this  sort  were , 
very  low\sithus — scarcely  allowed  indeed  to  pass  as  part  of  a  nation's  permanent  lit 
— and  generally  deemed  altogether  unworthy  of  any  grave  critical  notice.     Nor,  in  1 
in  spite  of  Cervantes  and  Le  Sage — and  Marivaux.  Rousseau,  and  Voltaire  abroad — a 
our  own  Richardson  and  Fielding  at  home — would  it  have  been  easy  to  controvert  tl 
ion,  in  our  Ensfland.  at  the  time  :  For  certainly  a  greater  mass  of  trash  and    rubbish^ 
disgracetl  the  press  of  any  country,  than  the  ordinary  Novels  that  tilled  and  suppor 
circulating  libraries,  down  nearly  to  the  time  of  Miss  Edgeworth"s  first  appearance, 
had  been,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  to  be  sure,  before;  and  MLssBurney's  Evelina  and' 
— and  jMackenzie's  Man  of  Feeling,  and  some  bolder  and  more  varietl  tictionsof  the 
Lee.     But  the  staple  of  our  Novel  market  was,  beyond   imagination,  despicable  :  anfl 
consequently  sunk  and  degraded  the  whole  department  di  literature,  of  which  it  had  us 
the  name. 

All  this,  however,  has  since  been  signally,  and  happily,  changed  :  and  that 
of  abominations  driven  from  our  confines  for  ever.    The  Novch  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  ;i 
all  question,  the  most  remarkable  productions  of  the  present  age  :  and  have  made  ;i  s  n;- 
tion,  and  produced  an  efTect.  all  over  Europe,  to  which  nothing  parallel   can  be  ment.eii 
since  the  days  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire  ;  while,  in  our  own  country,  they  have  ;!••;!:'' 
place,  inferior  only  to  that  which  must  be  filled  for  ever  by  the  unapproachalii    _ 
Shakespeare.     With  the  help,  no  doubt,  of  their  political  revolutions,  ihey  have  ;      ; 
in  France.  Victor  Hugo.  Balsac,  Paul  de  Cocq.  &c.,  the  promessi  sposi  in  Italy — and  Co  . 
at  leasi,  in  America. — In  England,  also,  thev  have  had  imitators  enough :  in  the  j)erso  < 
Mr.  James.  Mr.  Lover,  and  others.     But  the  works  most  akin  to  them  in  excellence  ^ 
rather,  I  think,  been  related  as  collaterals  than  as  descendants.     Miss  Edgeworth.  iiu 
stands  more  in  the  line  of  their  ancestry;  and  I  take  Miss  Austen  and  Sir  E.  L.  Bulv  ' 
be  a.s  intrinsically  original ; — as  well  as  the  great  German  writers,  Goethe,  Tick.  Jean   i. 
Richter.  &c.     Among  them,  however,  the  honour  of  this  branch  of  literature  has  at  an\  i' 
been  splendidly  redeemed; — and  now  bids  fair  to  maintain  its  place,  at  the  head  of  al  . 
is  graceful  and  instructive  in  the  productions  of  modern  genius. 


(Julij,  1S09.) 


Tales  of  Fashionuble  Life.     By  Miss  Edgewouth,  Author  of  ••  Practical  Education, 
'■Belinda,"   "Castle  Rackrent,"  &c.     ll?mo.     3  vols.     London  :  180.P. 

Ik  it  were  possible  for  reviewers  to  Envy  any  other  writer,  male  or  feir.ale.  of  her  {'; 

the  authors  who  are  brought  before  them  for  ration.     Other  arts  and  scie'ii  f  s  have 

judgment,   we    rather    think   we    shoulil    be  use,  no  doubt  :  and.  Heaven  k.-iows.  the) 

tempted    to    enw   IMiss   Edircworth  :  —  not.  their  reward  iind  their  lame,     l-iut  the 

however,  so  much  for  her  matchless  powers  art  is  the  art  of  living:  aiul  tlie  rhief  sc 

of  probable  invention — her  never-failing  good  the  science  of  being  liappy.     Where  ih' 

sense  and  cheerfulness — nor  her  fine  discrimi-  an  absolute  deficiency  o)  good   sense,; 

nation  of  characters  —  as   for   the   delightful  cannot  indeed  be  tauglit ;  and.  Mith  an  i  ' 

cou«cieusii(^ss  of  having  done  more  <^w>d  than  ordinary  share  of  it,  thev  mav  tc  acj-  ' 
512 


MISS  EDGEWORTH'S  TAT.ES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


.M3 


.riout  an  instructor:  but  the  most  common 
«j»  is,  to  be  capable  of  learning-,  and  yet  to 
.eiire  teaching;  and  a  far  greater  part  of 
imisery  which  exists  in  society  arises  from 
oji-ancc;  than  either  from  vice  or  from  inca- 
iity. 

'  li'ss  Edireworth  is  the  great  modern  mis- 
;rs  in  this  school  of  true  philosojihy ;  and 
ii!  eclipsed,  we  think,  the  fame  of  all  her 
ptlecessors.  By  her  many  excellent  tracts 
),'ilncation,  she  has  conferred  a  benefit  on 
h  whole  mass  of  the  population;  and  dis- 
•Imed.  with  exemplary  patience  as  well  as 
.-"'aordinary  judgment,  a  task  which  super- 
tit;!  spirits  may  perhaps  mistake  for  an  hum- 
bland  easy  one.  By  her  Popular  Tales,  she 
iti^  rendered  an  invaluable  service  to  the 
■ir^diing  and  lower  orders  of  the  people  ;  and 
Iner  Novels,  and  by  the  volumes  before  us. 
li  made  a  great  and  meritorious  effort  to 
[iinott^  the  happiness  and  respectability  of 
ih  higher  classes.  On  a  former  occasion  we 
[neve  we  hinteil  to  her,  that  these  would 
pi!>ably  be  the  least  successful  of  all  her 
-la.mrs:  and  that  it  was  iloubtful  whether 
shcouid  be  justified  for  bestowing  .so  much 
5ler  time  on  the  case  of  a  few  persons,  who 
sccely  deserved  to  be  cuied,  and  were 
sccely  capable  of  being  corrected.  The 
folshanil  unhappy  part  of  the  fashionable 
wild,  for  the  most  part.  •'  is  not  til  to  bear 
itff  convinced."  It  is  too  vain,  too  busy, 
.III  loo  dissipated  to  listen  to.  or  remember 
.iij thing  that  is  said  to  it.  Every  thiim-  seri- 
,juil  repels,  by  -"its  dear  wit  and  gay  rheto- 
ri("  and  against  every  tiling  poignant,  it 
"^[p  shelter  in  the  impenetrable  armour  of 
it?onjunct  audacity. 

"  iugh'dal,  it  laughs  again  ; — and.  sirickcn  hard. 
iinis  to  the  stroke  its  adamaniiiie  scaifs, 
hat  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands." 

j  book,  on  the  other  hand,  and  especially  a 
wlyand  popular  book,  is  still  a  thing  of  con- 
seience.  to  such  of  the  middlinir  classes  of 
soi^ty  as  are  in  the  habit  of  reading.  They 
diilnte  about  it.  and  think  of  it;  and  as  they 
orisionally  make  themselves  ridiculous  by 
co;iii<r  the  maimers  it  displays,  so  they  are 
a]io  he  impressed  with  the  great  Ies.?ons  it 
m;  be  calculated  to  teach  :  and,  on  the  whole. 
reiijve  it  into  considerable  authority  among 
thi|reguiators  of  their  lives  and  opinions. — 
Biia  fashionable  jierson  has  scarcely  any 
lei;re  to  read  :  and  none  to  think  of  what  he 
ha  jeen  reading.  It  would  be  a  derogation 
fro"  his  tlignity  to  speak  of  a  book  in  any 
ters  but  those  of  frivolous  derision  ;  and  a 
Mr;gp  desertion  of  his  own  superiority,  to 
all.-  himself  to  receive,  from  its  perusal,  any 
im  fssions  which  could  at  all  affect  his  con- 
(hi;  or  opinions. 

iit  though,  for  these  reasons,  we  continue 
to  iiink  that  IVIiss  Edgeworth"s  fashionable 
pants  will  do  less  credit  to  her  prescriptions 
'hf  the  more  numerous  cla,sses  to  whom 
'h'l  might  have  been  directed,  we  admit 
Ihcher  plan  of  treatment  is  in  the  highest 
•'ej'o  judicious,  and  her  conception  of  the 
uisder  most  luminous  and  precise. 


There  are  two  great  sources  of  utihappiness 
to  those  whom  fortune  and  nature  seem  to 
have  placed  above  the  reach  of  ortlinary 
miseries.  The  one  is  ennui — that  stagnation 
of  life  and  feeling  which  results  from  the  ab- 
sence of  all  motives  to  exertion;  and  by 
which  the  justice  of  providence  has  so  fully 
compen.s;iled  the  partiality  of  fortune,  that  it 
may  be  fairly  doubted  whether,  upon  the 
whole,  the  race  of  beggars  is  iiof  happier 
than  the  race  of  lords;  and  whether  those 
vulgur  wants  that  are  sometimes  so  importu- 
nate, are  not,  in  this  world,  the  chief  ministers 
of  enjoyment.  This  is  a  plague  thai  infects 
all  indolent  persons  who  can  live  on  in  the 
rank  in  which  they  were  born,  without  the 
necessity  of  working:  but,  in  a  free  country, 
it  rarely  occurs  in  any  great  degree  of  viru- 
lence, except  among  tho.se  who  are  already 
at  the  summit  of  human  felicily.  Below  this, 
there  is  room  for  ambition,  and  envy,  and 
emulation,  and  all  the  feverish  movements  of 
aspiring  vanity  and  unresting  selfishness, 
which  act  as  prophylactics  against  this  more 
ilark  and  deadly  distemper,  it  is  the  canker 
whicii  corrodes  the  full-blown  flower  of  hu- 
man felicity — the  pestilence  which  smites  at 
the  bright  hour  of  noon. 

The  other  curse  of  the  happy,  has  a  range 
more  wide  ami  iiuliscriminate.  It,  too,  tor- 
tures only  the  comparatively  rich  and  for- 
tunate: but  is  most  active  among  the  least 
ilistiiiguished  ;  anil  abates  in  malignity  as  we 
ascend  to  the  lofty  regions  of  pure  oimd. 
This  is  the  desire  of  being  fashionable  ; — the 
restless  and  insatiable  passion  to  pass  for 
creatures  a  little  more  distinguished  than  we 
really  are — with  the  mortification  of  frequent 
failure,  and  the  humiliating  consciousness  of 
being  perpetually  exposed  to  it.  Among  those 
who  are  secure  of  -  moat,  clothes,  anti  fire," 
and  are  thus  above  the  chief  physical  evils 
of  exi.^tence,  we  do  believe  that  this  is  a  more 
prolific  source  of  unhappiness.  than  guilt,  dis- 
ease, or  wounded  affection:  and  that  more 
positive  misery  is  created,  and  more  true  en- 
joj-ment  excluded,  by  the  eternal  fretting 
and  straining  of  this  pitiful  ambition,  than  by 
all  the  ravages  of  passion,  the  desolations  of 
war,  or  the  accidents  of  mortality.  This  may 
appear  a  strong  statement ;  but  we  make  it 
deliberately,  and  are  deeply  convinced  of  its 
truth.  The  wretchedness  which  it  produces 
may  not  be  so  intense;  but  it  is  of  much 
longer  duration,  and  spreads  over  a  far  wider 
circle.  It  is  quite  dreadful,  indeed,  to  think 
what  a  sweep  this  pest  has  taken  among  the 
comforts  of  our  pro.sperous  population.  To 
be  thought  fashionable — that  is,  to  be  thought 
more  opulent  and  tasteful,  and  on  a  footing 
of  intimacy  with  a  greater  number  of  distin- 
guished persons  than  they  really  are.  is  the 
great  and  laborious  puisuit  of  tour  families 
out  of  five,  the  members  of  which  are  ex- 
empted from  the  necessity  of  daily  industry. 
In  this  pursuit,  their  time,  .'spirits,  and  talents 
are  wasted  ;  their  tempers,  soured  :  their  afTec- 
tions palsied;  and  their  natural  manners  and 
dispositions  altogether  sophisticated  and  lost. 

These  are  the  giant  curses  of  fashionabl*) 


514 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


life .  and  Miss  Edgeworth  has  accordingly  [ 
dedicated  her  two  best  tales  to  the  delinea-  | 
tion  of  their  symptoms.  The  history  of  ••  Lord  j 
Glenthonr'  is  a, line  picture  of  ennui — that  of 
'•'Almeria"  an  instructive  representation  of 
the  miseries  of  aspirations  after  fashion.  We 
do  not  know  whether  it  was  a  part  of  the  fair 
wiiter's  design  to  represent  these  maladies  as 
absolutely  incurable;  without  a  change  of 
condition V  bat  the  fact  is,  that  in  spite  of  the 
best  dispositions  and  capacities,  and  the  most 
powerful  inducements  to  action,  the  hero  of 
eiuiui  makes  no  advances  towards  amend- 
ment, till  he  is  deprived  of  his  title  and  estate  ! 
and  the  victim  of  fashion  is  left,  at  the  end  of 
the  tale,  pursuing  her  weary  career,  with  fa- 
ding hopes  and  wasted  spirits,  but  with  in- 
creased an.vietyand  perseverance.  The  moral 
use  of  these  narratives,  therefore,  must  consist 
in  warning  us  against  the  first  approaches  of 
evils  which  can  never  afterwards  be  resisted. 

These  are  the  great  twin  scourges  of  the 
prosperous:  But  there  are  other  maladies,  of 
no  slight  malignity,  to  which  they  are  pecu- 
liaily  liable.  One  of  these,  ari.sing  mainly 
from  want  of  more  worthy  occupation,  is  that 
perpetual  use  of  stratagem  and  contrivance — 
that  little,  artful  diplomacy  of  private  life,  by 
which  the  simplest  and  most  natural  transac- 
tions are  rendered  complicated  and  difficult, 
and  the  common  business  of  existence  made 
to  depend  on  the  success  of  plots  and  counter- 
plots. By  the  incessant  practice  of  this  petty 
policy,  a  habit  of  duplicity  and  anxiety  is  in- 
fallibly generated,  which  is  equally  fatal  to 
integrity  and  enjoyment.  We  gradually  come 
to  look  on  others  with  the  distrust  which  we 
are  conscious  of  deserving;  and  are  insensibly 
formed  to  sentiments  of  the  most  unamiable 
selfishness  and  suspicion.  It  is  needless  to 
say,  that  all  these  elaborate  artifices  are  worse 
than  useless  to  the  person  who  employs  them ; 
and  that  the  ingenious  plotter  is  almost  always 
baffled  and  exposed  by  the  downright  honesty 
of  some  undesigning  competitor.  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  in  her  tale  of  '•  Manccuvring."  has  given 
a  very  complete  and  most  entertaining  repre- 
sentation of  "  the  by-paths  and  indirect  crook'd 
ways,"  by  which  these  artful  and  inefficient 
people  generally  make  their  way  to  disap- 
pointment. In  the  tale,  entitled  •'•^ladame  de 
Fleury,"  she  has  given  some  useful  examples 
of  the  ways  in  which  the  rich  may  most  ef- 
fectually do  good  to  tho  poor — an  operation 
which,  we  really  believe,  fails  more  frequently 
from  want  of  skill  than  of  inclination  :  And,  in 
'•The  Dan,"  she  has  drawn  a  touching  and 
most  impressive  picture  of  the  wretchedness 
which  the  poor  so  frequently  suffer,  from  the 
unfeeling  thoughtlessness  which  withholds 
from  them  the  scanty  earnings  of  their  labour. 

Of  these  tales,  "  Ennui "  is  the  best  and  the 
most  entertaining — though  the  leading  char- 
acter is  somewhat  caricatured,  and  the  de- 
nouement is  brought  about  by  a  discovery 
which  shocks  by  its  needless  improbability. 
Lord  Glenthorn  is  bred  up,  by  a  false  and  in- 
dulgent guardian,  as  the  heir  to  an  immense 
P",;i^1ish  an  1  Irish  estat ' ;  nuil.  long  before  he 
is  of  ag^,  exhausts  almost  all  the  resources  by 


which  life  can  be  made  tolerable  to  those  \vi 
have  nothing  to  wish  for.  Born  on  the  vf 
pinnacle  of  human  fortune,  --he  had  noth  ■ 
to  do  but  to  sit  still  and  enjoy  the  barrenn' 
of  the  prospect."  He  tries  travelling,  gamii 
gluttony,  hunting,  pugilism,  and  coach-dr 
ing;  but  is  so  pressed  down  wiih  the  load 
life,  as  to  be  repeatedly  on  the  eve  of  suicii 
He  passes  over  to  Ireland,  where  he  recei\ 
a  temporary  relief,  from  the  rebellion — a 
from  falling  in  love  with  a  lady  of  high  eh 
acter  and  accomplishments ;  but  the  effect 
these  stimulants  is  speedily  expended,  a 
he  is  in  danger  of  falling  into  a  confirm 
lethargy,  when  it  is  fortunately  discovei 
that  he  has  been  changed  at  nurse  !  and  th 
instead  of  being  a  peer  of  boundless  fortui 
he  is  the  son  of  a  cottager  who  lives  on  po 
toes.  With  great  magnanimity,  he  instan 
gives  up  the  fortune  to  the  rightful  own 
who  has  been  bred  a  blacksmith,  and  tal 
to  the  study  of  the  law.  At  the  commeiii 
ment  of  this  arduous  career,  he  forlunati 
falls  in  love,  for  the  second  time,  with  I 
lady  entitled,  after  the  death  of  the  blai 
smith,  to  succeed  to  his  former  estate.  Pov 
ty  and  love  now  supply  him  with  irresistili 
motives  for  exertion.  He  rises  in  his  prof; 
sion;  marries  the  lady  of  his  heart:  and' 
due  time  returns,  an  altered  man.  to  the  p 
session  of  his  former  alllnence. 

Such  is  the  naked  outline  of  a  story,  in( 
rich  in  character,  incident,  and  reflection,  th 
any  English  narrative  which  we  can  now  c 
to  remembrance : — as  rapid  and  various 
the  best  tales  of  Voltaire,  and  as  full  of  pn 
tical  good  sense  and  moral  pathetic  as  any 
the  other  tales  of  Miss  Edgeworth.  The  Ir 
characters  are  inimitable  ; — not  the  coarse  i 
ricatures  of  modern  playwriijhts — but  dra' 
with  a  spirit,  a  delicacy,  and  a  precision, 
which  we  do  not  know  if  there  be  any  par 
lei  among  national  delineations.  As  these  ; 
tales  of  fashionable  life,  we  shall  present  t 
readers,  in  the  first  place,  with  some  traits 
an  Irish  lady  of  rank.  Lady  Gcraldine— t 
enchantress  whose  powerful  magic  alrm 
raised  the  hero  of  ennui  from  his  leaden  slu 
bers  is  represented  with  such  excjuisite  livt 
ness  and  completeness  of  effect,  that  i 
reader  can  scarcely  help  imagining  that 
has  formerly  been  acquainteil  with  the  ori 
nal.  Every  one,  at  least  we  conceive,  mr 
have  known  somebody,  the  recollection  - 
whom  must  convince  him  that  the  followi 
description  is  as  true  nature  as  it  iscredital 
to  art  :— 

"  As  Lady  Geraldine  entered,  I  gave  one  involi 
tary  glance  of  curio.sity.  I  saw  a  tall,  fincly-shn[ 
woniaii.  with  ilie  cotnmandinii  air  of  a  person 
rank  :  she  moved  well ;  hot  wiih  feminine  nmidi 
yet  with  ease,  promptitude,  and  decision.  She  I' 
fine  eves,  and  a  fine  complexion,  yet  no  regular 
of  feature.  The  only  thincr  that  struck  mens  rea 
e.xtraordinary,  was  her  indifference  when  I  «asi 
troduced  to  her.  Every  hody  had  seemed  extrenn 
desirous  that  I  should  see  her  lndy.«hip,  and  i 
her  ladyship  should  see  me;  and  I  was  rather? 
prised  bv  her  unconcerned  air.  This  piqued  n 
and  fi.ved  my  aiientioii.  She  turned  fnnii  mc,  u 
ho^an  lo  converse  with  others.  Her  voice  v 
agreeable,  though  rather  loud:  8he  did  noispe, 


^IISS  EDGEWORTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


515 


\}\  Ihe  Irish  aceeiu  ;  but,  when  I  listened  ma- 
lionsiy,  I  de'.fcied  certain  Hibernian  inflexions— 

I  hing  ot   the  vulvar  Irish  idiom,  but  sometliinc: 

I I  was  more  interrogative,  more  exchunatory,  and 
j*haps  more  rhetorical,  than  the  common  language 
cKnglish  ladies,  accompanied  with  infinitely  more 
PiinaHon  of  countenance  and  demonstrative  gcs- 
\.e.  This  appeared  to  me  peculiar  and  unusual,  hut 
I  affected.  She  was  uncommoniy  eloquent ;  and 
y,  without  action,  her  words  were  not  sufficiently 
r'id  to  express  her  ideas.  Her  manner  appeared 
t3ign,  yet  it  was  not  quite  French.  It  I  had 
bn  obliged  to  decide,  I  should,  however,  have 
fi'nouneed  it  rather  more  French  than  English. 
'  determine  which  it  was,  or  whether  I  had  ever 
gin  any  thing  similar,  I  stood  considering  her  lady- 
sp  with  more  attention  than  I  had  ever  bestowed 
c'any  other  woman.  The  words  atrikiv^—fasci- 
ring — bewitcki?i,s-  occurred  to  me  as  I  looked  at 
I  and  heard  her  speak.  I  resolved  to  turn  my 
C'S  away,  and  shut  my  ears;  ibr  I  was  positively 
c«rmiiied  not  to  like  her:  I  dreaded  so  much  the 
i^a  of  a  second  Hymen.  I  retreated  to  the  farthest 
vidow,  and  looked  out  very  soberly  upon  a  dirty 
f.-pond. 

'  If  she  had  treated  me  with  tolerable  civility  at 
ft,  I  never  should  have  thought  about  her.  High- 
h.n  and  high-bred,  she  seemed  to  consider  more 
vat  she  should  think  of  others,  than  what  others 
lught  of  her.  Frank,  candid,  and  affable,  yet 
oliionated,  insolent,  and  an  egotist:  her  candour 
ai.  affability  appeared  the  effect  of  a  naturally  good 
tciper;  her  insolence  and  egotism  only  that  of  a 
s.iled  child.  She  seemed  to  talk  of  herself  purely 
toblige  others,  as  the  most  interesting  possible 
ti.c  ol  conversation :  for  such  it  had  always  been 
tner  fond  mother,  who  idolized  her  ladyship  as  an 
o'v  daughter,  and  the  representative  of  an  ancient 
h  se.  Confident  of  her  talents,  conscious  of  her 
c  rms,  and  secure  of  her  station.  Lady  Geraldine 
ge  free  scope  to  her  high  spirits,  her  fancy,  and 
h. turn  for  ridicule.  She  looked,  spoke,  and  acted, 
li:  a  person  privileged  to  think,  say,  and  do,  what 
s  pleased.  Her  raillery,  like  the  raillery  of  princes, 
v;  without  fear  of  retort.  She  was  not  iU-natured. 
y,  careless  to  whom  she  gave  offence,  provided 
s,  produced  amusement ;  and  in  this  she  seldom 
fi!?d;  for.  in  her  conversation,  there  was  much  of 
tl'  raciness  of  Irish  wit,  and  the  oddity  of  Irish 
hjaour.  The  singularity  that  struck  me  most 
aait  her  ladyship  was  her  indifference  to  flattery. 
!j|;  certainly  preferred  frolic.  Miss  Bland  was  her 
hnble  companion  ;  Miss  Tracey  her  butt.  It  was 
o  of  Lady  Geraldine's  delights,  to  humour  Miss 
'i'lcey's  r.ige  for  imitating  "the  fashions  of  fine 
p'ple.  '  Now  you  shall  see  Miss  Tracey  appear 
a  he  ball  to-morrow,  in  every  thing  that  I  have 
sorn  to  her  is  fashionable.  Nor  have  I  cheated 
h  in  a  single  article  :  but  the  tout  ensemble  I  leave 
ti,aer  better  judgment ;  and  you  shall  see  her,  I 
Hit,  a  perfect  monster,  formed  of  every  creature's 
bt:  Lady  Kilrush's  feathers,  Mrs.  Moore's  wig. 
?3.  O'Connor's  gown,  IVIrs.  Leighton's  sleeves, 
3'  all  the  necklaces  cf  all  the  Miss  Ormsbys. 
S'!  has  no  taste,  no  judgment;  none  at  all,  poor 
ttig;  but  she  can  imitate  as  well  as  those  Chinese 

ilko 
D'led  with  the  leaves  of  a  third 


p  Iters,  who,  in  their  drawings,  give  you  the  flower 
0  ne  plant  stuck  on  the  stalk  of  another,  and  gar- 


130—139. 

This  favourite  character  is  afterwards  ex- 
h  ited  in  a  great  variety  of  dramatic  contrasts. 
li.-  example : — 

■  Lord  Craiglethorpe  was,  as  Miss  Tracey  had 
d'cribed  him,  very  stiff,  cold,  and  A;>//.  His  man- 
is  were  in  the  extreme  of  English  reserve ;  and 
It  ill-bred  show  of  contempt  for  the  Irish  was  suf- 
fi;nt  provocation  and  justification  of  Lady  Geral- 
flj's  ridicule.  He  was  much  in  awe  of  his  fair 
a  witty  cousin :  and  she  could  easily  put  him  out 
o:ountenance,  for  he  was,  in  his  way,  extremely 
b.hful.    Once,  when  he  was  out  of  the  room,  Lady 


Geraldine  exclaimed,  'That  cousin  Craiglethorpe 
of  mine  is  scarcely  an  agreeable  man  :  The  awk- 
wardness of  mni/vnise-hotit  might  be  pitied  and  par- 
doned, even  in  a  nobleman,'  continued  her  ladyship, 
'if  it  really  proceeded  from  humility;  but  here, 
when  I  know  it  is  connected  with  secret  and  inordi- 
nate arrogance,  'tis  past  all  endurance.  As  the 
Frenchman  said  of  the  Ennjlishmati,  for  wliom  even 
his  politeness  could  not  fnid  another  compliment, 
"  II  taut  avouer  que  ce  Monsieur  a  un  grand  talent 
pour  le  silence  ;'" — he  holds  his  tongue  till  people 
actually  believe  that  he  has  somotlung  to  say — a 
mistake  they  could  never  fall  into  it  he  would  but 
speak.— It  is  not  timidity  ;  it  is  all  pride.  I  would 
pardon  his  dulness,  and  even  his  ignorance  ;  tor  one, 
as  you  say,  might  be  the  fault  of  his  nature,  and  (he 
other  of  his  education  :  but  his  self-sufficiency  is  his 
own  fault ;  and  that  I  will  not,  and  cannot  pardon. 
Somebody  says,  that  nature  may  make  a  fool,  but 
a  coxcomb  is  always  of  his  own  making.  Now, 
my  cousin — (as  he  is  my  cousin.  I  may  say  what  I 
please  of  him,) — my  cousin  Craiglethorpe  is  a 
soleiim  coxcomb,  who  thinks,  because  his  vanity  is 
not  talkative  and  sociable,  that  it's  not  vanity. 
What  a  mistake  !'  " — i.  146 — 14S. 

These  other  traits  of  her  character  are  given, 
on  different  occasions,  by  Lord  Glenthorn : — 

"At  first  I  had  thought  her  merely  superficial, 
and  intent  solely  upon  her  own  amusement  ;  but  I 
soon  found  that  she  had  a  taste  for  literature  beyond 
what  could  have  been  expected  in  one  who  lived  so 
dissipated  a  life  ;  a  depth  of  reflection  that  seemed 
inconsistent  with  the  rapidity  with  which  she 
thought ;  and,  above  all,  a  degree  of  generous  in- 
dignation against  meanness  and  vice,  which  seemed 
incompatible  w'ith  the  selfish  character  of  a  fine 
lady  ;  and  which  appeared  quite  incomprehensible  to 
the  imitating  tribe  of  her  fashionable  companions."' 
i.  174. 

"  Lady  Geraldine  was  superior  to  manoeuvring 
little  arts,  and  petty  stratagems,  to  attract  attention". 
She  would  not  sloop,  even  to  conquer.  From  gen- 
tlemen she  seemed  to  expect  attention  as  her  right, 
as  the  right  of  her  sex ;  not  to  beg.  or  accept  of  it 
as  a  favour :  if  it  were  not  paid,  she  deemed  the  gen- 
tleman degraded,  not  herself  Far  from  being 
mortified  by  any  preference  shown  to  other  ladies. 
her  countenance  betrayed  only  a  sarcastic  sort  of 
pity  for  the  bad  taste  of  the  men.  or  an  absolute  in- 
difference and  look  of  haughty  absence.  I  saw  that 
she  beheld  with  disdain  tt)e  paltry  competitions  of 
the  young  ladies  her  companions:  as  her  compan- 
ions, indeed,  she  hardly  seemed  to  consider  them  ; 
she  tolerated  their  foibles,  forgave  their  envy,  and 
never  exerted  any  superiority,  except  to  show  her 
contempt  of  vice  and  meanness." — i.  19S,  199. 

This  may  suffice  as  a  specimen  of  the  high 
life  of  the  piece :  which  is  more  original  and 
characteristic  than  that  of  Belinda — and  alto- 
gether as  lively  and  natural.  For  the  low  life. 
we  do  not  know  if  we  could  extract  a  more 
felicitous  specimen  than  the  following  de- 
scription of  the  equipage  in  which  Lord  Glen- 
thorn's  English  and  French  servant  were  com- 
pelled to  follow  their  master  in  Ireland. 

"  From  the  inn  yard  came  a  hackney  chaise,  in 
a  most  deplorably  crazy  state;  the  body  mounted 
up  to  a  prodigious  height,  on  unbending  springs, 
nodding  forwards,  one  door  swinging  open,  three 
blinds  up,  because  they  could  not  be  let  down, 
the  perch  tied  in  two  places,  the  iron  of  the  wheels 
half  oft",  half  loose,  wooden  pegs  for  linch-pins,  and 
ropes  for  harness.  The  horses  were  worthy  of  the 
harness;  wretched  little  do£r-tired  creatures,  that 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  driven  to  the  last  gasp, 
and  as  if  llicy  had  never  been  rubbed  down  in  their 
lives  ;  their  bones  starting  through  their  skin  ;  one 
lame,  the  other  blind:  one  with  a  raw  back,  the 


516 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


other  with  a  galled  breast ;  one  with  his  neck  poking  I 
down  over  his  collar,  and  the  other  with  his  head  | 
dragged  forward  by  a  hit  of  a  broken  bridle,  held  at 
arms'  le:igth  by  a  man  dressed  like  a  mad  beggar, 
in  half  a  hat.  and  half  a  wig.  both  awry  in  opposite 
directions  ;  a  long  tattered  coat,  lied  round  his  waist 
by  a  hay-rope  ;  the  jagged  rents  in  the  skirts  of  this 
coat  sho\ving  his  bare  le^s,  marbled  of  many  co- 
lours;  svhiie  something  like  stockiM<,'S  hung  lnose 
about  his  ankles.  The  noises  he  made,  by  way  of 
threatening  or  encouraging  his  steeds,  I  pretend 
not  to  describe.  In  an  indignant  voice  I  called  to 
the  landlord — '  I  hope  these  are  not  the  horses — I 
hope  this  is  not  the  chaise,  intended  lor  my  ser- 
vants.' Tlie  innkeeper,  and  the  pauper  who  was 
preparing  to  officiate  as  postilion,  both  in  the  saiie 
instant  exclaimed — '  Sorrow  better  chaise  in  the 
county!'  '  Sorrovi !'  said  I — what  do  you  mean 
by  sorrow?'  *  That  there's  no  beuer,  plase  your 
honour,  can  be  seen.  We  have  two  more  to  be 
sure — but  one  has  no  top,  and  the  oilier  no  bottom. 
Any  way,  there's  no  better  can  be  seen  than  this 
same.'  "And  these  horses!'  cried  I — '  why  this 
horse  is  so  lame  he  can  hardly  stand.'  '  Oh,  plase 
your  hon(nir,  tho'  he  can't  stand,  he'll  eo  last 
enough.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  ihc  rogue  in  him. 
plase  your  honour.  He's  always  that  way  at  first 
setting  out.'  '  And  that  wretched  animal  with  the 
galled  breast  !'  '  He's  all  the  belter  for  it,  when  i 
once  he  warms  ;  it's  he  that  will  go  with  the  speed 
of  light,  plase  your  honour.  Sure,  is  not  he  Kiiocke- 
croghery  ?  and  didn't  I  give  fifteen  guineas  tor  him, 
barring  the  luckpenny,  at  the  fair  of  Knockecrog- 
hery,  and  he  rising  four  year  old  at  the  .<ame  time? ' 
'■  Then  seizing  his  whip  and  reins  in  one  hand. 
he  clawed  up  his  stockings  with  the  other  :  so  with 
one  easy  step  he  got  into  his  plane,  and  seated  him- 
self, coachman-like,  upon  a  well-worn  bar  of  wood, 
that  served  as  a  coach-box.  '  Throw  me  the  loan 
oi  a  trusty,  Bartly,  for  a  cushion.'  said  he.  A 
frieze  coat  was  thrown  up  over  the  horse's  heads. 
Paddy  caught  it.  '  Where  are  ynu,  Hosey  !'  cried 
he  to  a  lad  in  charge  of  the  leaders.  '  Sure  I'm 
only  rowling  a  wisp  of  straw  on  my  leg,'  replied 
Hosey.  '  i'hiow  me  up.'  added  this  paragon  of 
postilions,  turning  to  one  of  the  crowd  of  idle  by- 
standers. •  Arrah.  push  me  up,  can't  ye  ?' — A 
man  took  hold  of  his  knee,  and  threw  him  upon  ihe 
horse.  He  was  in  his  seat  in  a  trice.  Then  cliiiff- 
ing  by  the  mane  of  his  horse,  he  scrambled  for  the 
bridle  which  was  under  the  other  horse's  feet, 
reached  it.  and.  well  satisfied  wiih  himself,  looked 
round  at  Paddy,  who  looked  back  to  ihc  chaise- 
door  at  my  angry  servp.nts,  '  secure  in  the  last  event 
of  things.'  In  vain  the  Englishman,  in  monotonous 
anger,  and  the  Frenchman  in  every  note  of  the 
igamut,  abused  Paddy.  Necessity  and  wit  were  on 
Paddy's  side.  He  parried  all  that  was  said  against 
his  chaise,  his  horses,  himself,  and  his  country, 
with  invincible  comic  dexterity;  till  at  l.-ist,  both 
his  adver^iaries,  dumb-founded,  clambered  into  the 
vehicle,  where  they'were  instantly  shut  up  in  straw 
and  darkness.  Paddy,  in  a  triumphant  tone,  called 
to  my  postilions,  bidding  them  '  gel  on.  and  not  be 
stop()iiig  the  way  any  longer.'  " — i.  64,  G5. 

By  and  by  the  wheel  horse  .stopped  short; 
and  began  to  kick  furiously. 

"  '  Never  fear,'  reiterated  Paddy.  '  I'll  engage 
I'll  be  up  wid  him.  Now  for  it,  Knockecroghcry  ! 
Oh  the  roirue,  he  thinks  he  has  me  at  a  nonpluah; 
but  I'll  show  him  tlio  differ.' 

"  After  this  brag  of  war,  Paddy  whipped,  Knock- 
ecroghery  kicked,  and  Paddy,  seemingly  uncon- 
scious of  danger,  sat  within  reach  of  the  kicking 
horse,  twitching  up  first  one  of  his  legs,  then  the 
other,  and  shifting  as  the  animal  aimed  his  hoofs, 
escaping  every  time  as  it  were  by  miracle.  With  a 
mixture  of  temerity  and  presence  of  mind,  which 
made  us  alternately  look  upon  him  as  a  madman 
and  a  hero,  he  gloried  in  the  danger,  secure  of  suc- 
cess, and  of  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators. 


"'  Ah  !  didn't  I  compass  him  cleverly  then? 
the  villain,  to  be  browbating  me  !  I'm  too  cutej 
him  yet.  See,  there,  now,  he's  come  too ;  and 
l>e  his  bail  he'll  go  asy  enough  wid  me.  Ogh  ! 
has  a  fine  spirit  of  his  own  ;  but  it's  I  that 
match  him.  "I'would  be  a  poor  case  if  a  man  Ik 
me  couldn't  match  a  horse  any  way,  let  aloni 
mare,  which  this  is,  or  it  never  would  be 
cious.'  "' — i.  68,  69. 


H 

J 


The   most  delectable  personage,  howe^ 
in  the  whole  tale,  is  the  ancient  Irish  nuii^,  ,, 
Ellinor.  The  devoted  affection,  infantine  sijfll'"''' 
plicity.  and  strange  pathetic  eloquence  oitJ^Ut^^ 
half- savage,  kind-hearted  creature,  afford  M^Pifc' 
Edgeworth  occasion  for  many  most  origi 
and  characteristic  representations.     We  sb 
scarcely  prepossess  our  English   readers 
her  favour;  by  giving  the  description  of  1 
cottage. 

"  It  was  a  wretched  looking,  low,  mud-wa! 
cabin.     At  one  end  it  was  propped  by  a  butires? 
loose  stones,  upon  which  stond  a  goat  reared  on 
hind  legs,  to  browse  on  the  grass  that  grew  on 
housetop.    A  dunghill  was  before  the  only  windc 
at  the  other  end  of  the  house,  and  close  to  the  d 
was  a  puddle  of  the  dirties:  of  dirty  water,  in  wh 
ducks  were  dabbling.  At  my  approach,  there C8j^' 
out  of  the  cabin  a  pig.  a  calf,  a  lamb,  a  kid.  andt^^H' 
geese,  all  with  their  legs  tied;  followed  by  eoci  "i 
hens,   chickens,  a  dog,  a  cat,  a  kitten,  a  begg^ 
man.  a  beggar-woman,  with  a  pipe  in  her  momi 
children  innumerable,  and  a  stout  girl,  with  a  pit' 
fork  in  her  hand ;  altogether  more  than  I,  look- 
down  upon  the  roof  as  I   sat  on   horseback,  i 
measuring  the  superficies  wiih  my  eye.  could  hi 
possibly  supposed  the  mansion  capable  of  containi 
I  asked  if  Ellinor  O'Donoghoe  was  at  home; 
the  d(>2   barked,   the   geese   cackled,  the   turk< 
gobbled,  and  the  beggars  beimed  with  one  accoi      »"' 
so  loudly,  that  there  was  no  chance  of  my  |>e|^Biiin 
heard.     When  the  eirl  had  at  last  succeeded  in#^*f4j,J 
peasinjj  them  all  with  her  pitchfork,  she  answer' 
that  Ellinor  (VDonoahoe  was  at  home,  but  that ; 
was  nut  with  the  potatoes  :  and  she  ran  to  fetch  h 
after  calling  to  the  hoys,  who  iras  iritliin  in  the  rt, 
smoki/i!!.  'o  come  mit  to  his  honour.     As  soon 
they  bad  crouched  under  the  door,  and  were  a 
to  stand  upright,  they  welcomed  me  wiih  a  vi 
good  grace,  and  were  proud  to  see  me  in  the  kit 
dam.     I  asked  if  they  were  all  Ellinor's  sons.   '. 
entirely,'  was  the  first  answer.    '  Not  one  but  on 
was  the  second  answer.     The  third  made  the  oil 
two  intelligible.     '  Plase  your  Honour,  we  are 
her  sons-in-law.  except  myself,  who  am  her  la« 
son.'     '  Then  you  are  my  fosier  brother?'     '  f 
plase  your  Honour,  it's  not  me,  but  my  broth 
and  he's  not  in  it.'    '  Not  i?!  it  ?'     '  No.  plase  Ji 
Honour  ;  becaase  he's  in  the  foree  up  above,     bi 
he's  the  blacksmith,  my  lard.  '  And  what  are  yoi 
'  I'm  Ody,  plase  your  honour;'  the  short  forOwei 
&,c.— i.  94—96. 

It  is  impossible,  however,  for  us  to  self 
any  thing  that  could  give  our  readers  even 
vague  idea  of  the  interest,  both  serious  a 
comic,  that  is  produced  by  this  original  ch; 
acter,  without  quoting  more  of  the  story  ih 
we  can  now  make  room  for.  We  cant 
leave  it,  however,  without  making  our  ;■ 
knowledgmiMits  to  IMiss  F^dgtnvorth  for  t 
handsome  way  in  which  she  has  treated  r 
country,  and  "for  the  judgment  as  well 
liberality  she  has  shown  in  the  character 
Mr.  Macleod,  the  proud,  sag-acious,  friend 
and  reserved  agent  of  her  hero.  There  is 
finite  merit  and  powers  of  observation  even 
i  her  .short  sketch  of  his  exterior. 


IVnSS  EDGEWORTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


Si: 


"  He  was  a  hard-featiired,  strong  built,  perpen- 
ii-«ilur  mail,  wiih  a  reniarkal>le  quietness  of  deport- 
)eiil:  lie  spoke  with  dt'liberaie  distinctness,  m  an 
[■cent  sligliily  Scoicli  ;  and,  in  speaUiii;;,  he  made 
se  oliiogesiicula'.ioii,  bu!  ht-ld  liitns-elt' surprisingly 
ill.  No  pari  of  liini  but  his  eyes,  uiovod  ;  and 
Ley  Ijad  an  expression  lA  slow,  but  deierinined 
'i>od  sense.  He  was  sparing  ol' his  words  ;  but  the 
w  ihai  lie  used  said  iiuicli,  and  weiil  directly  to 
se  point." — i.  82. 

*  But  we  must  now  ttike  an  abiiipt  and  relnct- 
liit  leave  of  Miss  Kilutnvorlh.  Tliiiikiiiy  us 
le  doj  that  lier  writinas  are.  beyoml  all  t-om- 
^risoii.  the  most  useful  of  any  llitii  have  come 
'?fore  us  since  the  comnienceinent  of  our 
hi tical  career,  it  woultl  be  a  puinl  of  conscience 
ilh  us  to  give  them  all  the  notoriety  that  they 
m  derive  liom  our  recommeiKlalioii,  even  if 
leir  execution  were  in  some  measure  liable 
f  objection.  In  our  opinion,  however,  they 
re  as  enteitainiiiir  ;is  they  are  instructive; 
'id  the  genius,  and  wit,  and  imaiiinalion  they 
'splay,  are  at  least  as  remarkable  as  the  just- 
[jssof  the  sentiments  they  so  powerfully  iii- 


cnlcate.  To  some  readers  they  may  seem  to 
want  the  fairy  colouring  of  high  fancy  and  ro- 
mantic tenderness;  and  it  is  very  true  that 
they  are  not  poetical  love  tales,  any  more  than 
they  are  anecdotes  of  scandal.  We  have 
great  respect  for  the  admirers  of  Ixousscau  anil 
I  Petrarca  ;  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  Mi.ss 
[  Edgeworth  has  great  respect  for  them  ; — but 
tkc  world,  both  high  and  low,  which  .she  is 
I  labouring  to  mend,  have  no  sjTnpathy  with 
this  respect.  They  laugh  at  these  things,  and 
I  do  not  understand  them;  and  therefore,  the 
j  solid  seii.se  which  she  presses  perhaps  rather 
'  too  closely  upon  them,  though  it  admits  of  re- 
I  lief  from  wit  and  direct  pathos,  really  could 
not  be  combined  with  the  more  luxuriant  or- 
!  namenls  of  an  ardent  and  tender  imagination. 
j  We  say  this  merely  to  obviate  the  only  objec- 
I  tion  which  we  think  can  be  made  to  the  exe- 
cutioii  of  these  stories;  and  to  justify  our 
decided  opinion,  that  they  are  actually  as 
perfect  as  it  was  possible  to  make  them  with 
salely  to  the  great  object  of  the  author. 


(3uln.   1S12.) 


Iies   of  Fashionable    Life.       By    Miss    Koukworth,   Author  of   "Practical    Education," 
"Belinda," '-'Castle  Rackrenl,"' &c.     3  vols.     12mo'.  pp.  1450.    Johnson.    London:  1812. 

rrHE  writings  of  Miss  Edgeworlh  exhibit  so    and  away  from  real  gratification,  as  jwwerfully 

ugular  an  union  of  sober  sense  and   iiiex-    -'    — ' "- '  "'  '-   "   '^ 

ju.stible  invemion — .so  minute  a  knowledije 
I'all  that  distiiiiruishes  mainier.s.  or  touches 


r  happiness  in  every  condition  of  htmian  for- 
I'le — and  .so  ju.st  an  estimate  both  of  the  real 
ijrcesof  enjoyment,  and  of  the  illusions  by 
'iiich  they  are  obstructed,  that  it  cainiot  be 


as  mere  ignorance  or  passion.  It  is  to  tht 
conection  of  those  erroneous  theories  that 
Miss  Ecliieworth  has  applied  herself  in  that 
series  of  moral  fictions,  the  last  portion  of 
which  has  recently  come  to  our  hands;  and 
in  which;  we  think,  she  has  combined  more 
soliil  instruction  with  more  univer.sal  enter- 
tHJght  wonderful  that  we  should  separate  j  tainment,  and  given  more  practical  lessons  of 
I'rfrom  the  ordinary  manufactuiersof  novels,  t  wisdom,  with  less  tediousness  and  le.ss  pre- 
i|d  speak  of  her  Tales  as  works  of  more  se-  '  tension,  than  any  other  writer  with  whom  we 
!i«s  importance  than  much  of  the  true  history  !  are  acquainted. 

JJJ  solemn  philosophy  that  come  daily  under  |  When  we  reviewed  the  first  part  of  these 
<|r  inspection.  The  great  busine.ss  of  life,  i  Tales  which  are  devoted  to  the  delineation 
d  the  object  of  all  arts  and  acquisitions,  is  \  of  fashionable  life,  we  ventured  to  expre-ss  a 
I'jJoubtedly  to  be  happy:  and  though  our  i  doubt,  whether  the  author  was  justifiable  for 
fWss  in  this  grand  endeavour  depetuls,  in  ,  expending  so  laige  a  quantity  of  her  moral 
f|ne  degree,  upon  external  circumstances,  I  medicines  on  so  small  a  body  of  patients — 
(Br  which  we  have  no  control,  and  still  more  land  upon  patients  too  whom  she  had  every 
<i  temper  and  dispo.siiions,  which  can  only  be  j  reason  to  fear  would  turn  out  incuiable.  Up- 
Citrolledby  gradual  and  systematic  exertion,  |  on  refl(>ction,  however,  we  are  now  inclined 
S|'ery  great  deal  depends  also  upon  creeds  [  to  recall  this  sentiment.  The  vices  and  illu- 
£ji  opinions,  which  may  be  effectually  and  !  sions  of  fashionable  life  are,  for  the  most  part, 
tpn  suddenly  rectified,  "by  a  few  hints  from  |  merely  the  vices  and  illusionsof  human  nature 
sthority  that  cannot  be  questioned,  or  a  few  i  — presented  sometimes  in  their  most  con- 
i[istrations  so  fair  and  striking,  as  neither  to  I  spicuous,  and  almost  always  in  only  thei^ 
Ij misapplied  nor  neglected.  We  are  all,  no  j  most  seductive  form  ; — and  even  where  they 
cjabt,  formed,  in  a  great  degree,  by  the  cir-  are  not  merely  fostered  and  embellished,  but 
tvnstancos  in  which  we  are  placed,  and  the  !  actually  generated  only  in  that  exalted  region. 
l|iigs  by  whom  we  are  surrounded  ;  but  still  ]  it  is  very  well  known  that  they  "drop  upon 
V)  have  all  theories  of  happiness — notions  of  \  the  place  beneath,"  and  are  speedily  piopa- 
sibition.  and  opinions  as  to  the  summum  bo-  \  gated  and  diffused  into  the  world  below.  To 
'•(71  of  our  own — more  or  less  developed,  and  :  expose  them,  therefore,  in  this  their  original 

J"e  or  less  original,  according  to  our  situa-    and  proudest  .sphere,  is  not  only  to  purify  the 
.  and  character — but  iiifluoi^cing  our  con-    stream  at  its  source,  but  to  counteract  then- 
t  and  feelinss  at   every  moment  of  our    pernicious   influence    precisely   where    it   is 
I's.  and  leading  us  on  to  disappointment,  i  most  formidable  and  extensive.     To  point  out 

2T 


518 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


ihe  miseries  of  those  infinite  and  laborious 

pursuits  in   which  persons   who  pretend   to 

be  fasionable  consume  their  days,  would  be 

but  an  unprofitable  task ;  while  nobody  could 

be  found  who  would  admit  that  they  belong-  |  ^<*l^va   k^j  h^.    ..  wv.ijjcj  ..;,  ^j^^,^,,Kxt,j  ..uw 

ed  to  the  class  of  pretenders  ;   and  all  that  |  teristic,  and  peculiarly  entitled  to  praise, 

remained   therefore   was  to  show,    that   the  i  should  specify  the  snigular  force  of  iud_^ 

pursuits  themselves  were  preposterous  ;  and  I  and  self-denial,  which  hus  enabled  her  to 

'  ifiicted  the  same  miseries  upon  the  unques- 


Edgeworth,  however,  we  think^  is  not  in  n 
very  imminent  danger  of  being  disabled 
this  ingenious  imputation  :  since,  if  we  w 
to  select  any  one  of  the  traits  that  are  ij 
cated  by  her  writings  as  peculiarly  chai 


x.ii.i^i^u  u*»^  - -  •"— i'- 1"--   I  sist  the  temptation  of  being  the  most  brilU     *f^„ 

tioned  leaders  of  fashion,  as  upon  the  hum-  i  and  fashionable  writer  ol'  her  day,  in  ordes     f  2,( 


be  the  most  useful  and  instructive 


ue  ine  inusi  u&eiui  aim  uisiiucuve,  -   ^ 

1      The  writer  who  conceived  the  characU     ^f,,j 


blest  of  their  followers.     For  this  task,  too. 

Miss  Edgeworth  possessed  certain  advantage^  ,       ^„v.  ,.  ,..v. ^  ^^,.^^.,^ ^   "^"^^tlisirt.'t 

of  which  it  would  have  been  equally  uiniatu-  j  and  reported  the  conversations  of  Lady  Dd     !^,  .j 

1  and  unfortunate  for  her  readers,  if  she  had  1  cour — Lady   Geraldine — and   Lailv  Dashj      'v\i, 

-  '  1   .  .       .    ^      .  .  ^^.    ,_-__ jjiiU 

lipltf 


not  sought  to  avail  herself. 

We  have  said,  that  the  hints  by  which  we 
may  be  enabled  to  correct  those  errors  of 
opinion  which  so  frequently  derange  the  whole 
scheme  of  life,  must  be  given  by  one  who.se 
authority  is  not  liable  to  dispute.  Persons  of 
fashion,  therefore,  and  pretenders  to  fashion, 
will  never  derive  any  considerable  benefit 
from  all  the  edifying  essays  and  apologues 
that  superannuated  governesses  and  precep- 
tors may  indite  for  their  reformation  ; — nor 
from  the  volumes  of  sermons  which  learned 
divines  may  put  forth  for  the  amendment  of 
the  age  j — nor  the  ingenious  discourses  which 
philosophers  may  publish,  from  the  love  of 
fame,  money,  or  mankind.  Their  feeling  as 
to  all  such  monitors  is.  that  they  know  nothing 
at  all  about  the  matter,  and  have  nothing  to 
do  with  personages  so  much  above  them  ; — 
and  so  they  laugh  at  their  prosing  and  pre- 
sumption— and  throw  them  aside,  with  a  min- 
gled sense  of  contempt  and  indignation .  Now, 
Miss  Edgeworth  happens  fortunately  to  be 
born  in  the  condition  of  a  lady — familiar  from 
early  life  with  the  polite  world,  and  liable  to 
no  suspicion  of  having  become  an  author  from 
any  other  motives  than  those  she  has  been 
pleased  to  assign. 

But  it  is  by  no  means  enough  that  we  should 
be  on  a  footing,  in  point  of  rank,  with  those 
to  whom  we  are  moved  to  address  our  instruc- 
tions. It  is  necessary  that  we  should  also 
have  some  relish  for  the  pleasures  we  accuse 
them  of  overrating,  and  some  pretensions  to 
the  glory  we  ask  them  to  despise.  If  a  man, 
without  stomach  or  palate,  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  lecture  against  the  pleasures  of  the 
table — or  an  old  maid  against  flirtation — or  a 
miser  against  extravagance,  they  may  say  as 
many  wi.se  and  just  things  as  they  please — 
but  thev  may  be  sure  that  they  will  either  be 
laughed  at,  or  not  listened  to ;  and  that  all 
their  dissuasiveswill  be  .set  down  to  the  .score 
of  mere  ignorance  or  envy.  In  the  sjime  way, 
a  man  or  woman  who  is  obviously  without 
talents  to  shine  or  please  in  fashionable  life, 
may  utter  any  (juantity  of  striking  truths  as 
to  its  folly  or  unsatisfactoriness,  without  ever 
commanding  the  attention  of  one  of  its  vota- 
ries. The  inference  is  so  ready,  and  so  con- 
solatory— that  all  tho.se  wise  reflections  are 
the  fruit  of  disappointment  and  mortification 
— that  they  want  to  reduce  all  the  world  to 
their  own  dull  level — and  to  deprive  others 
of  gratifications  which  they  are  themselves 
iacapatle  of  tasting.     The  judgment  of  Miss 


If- 


(to  take  but  these  three  out  of  her  copi 
j  dramatjs  persona),  certainly  need  not  be  ab 
j  of  being  excelled  by  any  of  her  contempi      f', 
I  ries,  in  that  faithful  but  fiallermg  represeu     rlh 
tion  of  the  spoken  language  of  persons  of-     j*|^^ 
and  politeness  of  the  pit-sent  day — in  t 
light  and  graceful  tone  of  raillery  and 
ment — and  in  that  gift  of  sportive  but  cutti 
imdisance,  which  is  sure  of  success  in  th(      '', 
circles,  where  success  is  supposed  to  be  ni      i*,  , 
difficult,  and  most  desirable.     With  the-*™**" 
sciousness  of  such  rare  qualifications, 
think  it  required  no  ordinary  degree  of 
tude  to  withstand  the  temptation  of  bei: 
flattering  delineator  of  fashionable  m 
instead  of  their  enlightened  corrector  j 
prefer  the   chance  of  amending  tlie  age 
which  she  lived,  to  the  certainty  of  enjoy 
its  applauses.     Miss  Edgeworth,  however 
entitled  to  the  praise  of  this  magnanimity 
For  not  only  has  she  abstained  from  dress 
any  of  her  favourites  in  this  glittering  dra] 
but  she  has  uniformly  exhibited  it  in  sui 
way  as  to  mark  its  subordination  to  the  nal 
graces  it  is  sometimes  allowed  to  eclipse,  a' 
to  point  out  the  defects  it  still  more  frequ 
conceals.     It  is  a  very  rare  talent,  cer 
to  be  able  to  delineate  both  solid  virtues 
captivating  accomplishments  with  the 
force  and  fidelity ; — but  it  is  a  still  rarer 
ercise  of  that  talent,  to  render  the  former  b! 
more  amiable  and  more  attractive  than  the 
ter — and,  without  depriving  wit  and  vivai 
of  any  of  their  advantages,  to  win  not  oi' 
our  affections,  but  our  admiration  away  fpi 
them,  to  the  less  dazzling  qualities  of  the' 
and  the  understanding.     By  what  resou: 
Miss  Edgeworth  is  enabled  to  perform  I 
feat,  we  leave  our  readers  to  discover,  fp' 
the  perusal  of  her  writings; — of  which  ill 
our  present  business  to  present  them  w' 
slender  account,  and  a  scanty  sample. 

The.se  three  new  volumes  contain  butthi 
stories  ; — the  first  filling  exactly  a  volume, 
second  half  a  volumi>,  and   the  last  no  I 
than  a  volitme  and  ii  half.     Tin-  first,  w! 
is  entitled  ''Vivian."  is  intended  to  show 
only  into  what  absurdities,  but  into  what 
and  wretchedness,  a  person,  othcrways 
raable,  may  be  brouglit  by  that  ••  infirmityj 
purpose"   Vvhich  renders   him    incapable 
resisting  the  solicitations  of  others,— of  pa; 
No,  in  short,  on  proper  occasions.    Themoi 
perhaps,  is  brought  a  little  too  con.staiitly 
ward  ;  and  a  little  more  exnggeiiition  is 
mitted  into  the  construction  of  the  story,  ll 


MISS  EDGEWORTH'S  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


519 


1  Jss  Edgeworth  generally  employs  j — but  it 
It;  ilfull  of  characters  and  incidents  and  good 
•  ^ise,  like  all  her  other  productions.* 
:  |But  we  pass  at  once  to  the  last,  the  longest, 
i  ^j  by  far  the  most  interesting  of  these  tales 
sljis  entitled.  '-The  Absentee  j"  and  is  in- 
3  tkded  to  expose  the  folly  and  misery  of  re- 
II  Hieing  the  respectable  ckai-acter  of  country 
]  ii's  and  gentlemen,  to  push,  through  in- 
t  inble  expense,  and  more  intolerable  scorn, 
io  the  outer  circles  of  fashion  in  London. 
s  'ja.t  the  case  may  be  sufficiently  striking, 
ss  Edgeworth  has  taken  her  example  in  an 
h  family,  of  large  fortune,  and  consider- 
4e  rank  in  the  peerage  ;  and  has  enriched 
Ijr  main  story  with  a  greater  variety  of  col- 
lieral  incidents  and  characters,  than  in  any 
cher  other  productions. 
Lord  and  Lady  Clonbrony  are  the  absentees; 
-uid  they  are  so.  because  Lady  Clonbrony 
i  smitten  with  the  ambition  of  making  a 
f  jre  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  London; — 
■vera  her  very  eagerness  obstructs  her  suc- 
Cjss;  and  her  inward  shame,  and  affected 
citempt  for  her  native  country,  only  make 
h|-  national  accent,  and  all  her  other  nation- 
aiies  more  remarkable.  She  has  a  niece, 
hvever,  a  jVIiss  Grace  Nugent,  who  is  full 
ogentleness,  and  talent,  and  love  for  Ireland 
-ind  a  son.  Lord  Colambre,  who,  though 
eicated  in  England,  has  very  much  of  his 
cisin's  propensities.  The  first  part  of  the 
6ry  represents  the  various  mortifications  and 
r'ulses  which  Lady  Clonbrony  encounters, 
ii,her  grand  attempt  to  be  very  fashionable 
ii;Londoa — the  embarrassments,  and  gradual 
di'lension  into  low  company,  of  Lord  Clon- 
b-iiy — their  plots  to  marry  Lord  Colambre  to 
alieiress — and  the  growth  of  his  attachment 
tfMiss  Nugent;  who  cordiall}'  shares  both  in 
h|  regret  for  the  ridicule  which  his  mother  is 
aj;o  much  expense  to  excite,  and  his  v^'ish  to 
Sijtch  her  from  a  career  at  once  so  inglorious 
a|  so  full  of  peril.  Partly  to  avoid  his  moth- 
ef  importunities  about  the  heiress,  and  partly 
t(jscape  from  the  fascinations  of  Miss  Nugent. 
Mpse  want  of  fortune  and  high  sense  of  duty 
Bim  to  forbid  all  hopes  of  their  union,  he  sets 
on  a  visit  to  Ireland  ;  where  the  chief  in- 
st  of  the  story  begins.  There  are  here 
ly  admirable  delineations  of  Irish  charac- 
in  both  extremes  of  life  ;  and  a  very  natu- 
r;  development  of  all  its  most  remarkable 
fcures.  At  first,  his  Lordship  is  very  nearly 
e.iiigled  in  the  spells  of  Laily  Dashfort  and 
h  (laughter ;  and  is  led  by  their  arts  to  form 
njier  an  unfavourable  opinion  of  his  country- 
Hji.  An  accidental  circumstance,  however, 
dilosing  the  aitful  and  unprincipled  charac- 
tt  of  these  fair  ladies,  he  breaks  from  his 
b'dage.  and  travels  incog,  to  his  father's  two 
eates  of  Colambre  and  Clonbrony: — the 
01,  flourishing  under  the  management  of  a 
cijscientious  and  active  agent:  the  other 
g'jig  to  ruin  under  the  dominion  of  an  un- 
pkipled  oppressor.  In  both  places,  he  sees 
a  "eat  deal  of  the  native  politeness,  native 


ll  now  omit  thBorigrinal  nccoiint  of  the  two  first 
'a,'  ;  and  wive  only  what  relates  to  the  last, — atid 
mjt  iniercsiing,  and  characteristic. 


wit,  and  kind-heartedness  of  the  lower  Irish ; 
and  makes  an  acquaintance  at  the  latter  with 
one  group  of  Catholic  cottagers,  more  inter- 
esting, and  more  beautifully  painted,  in  the 
simple  colouring  of  nature,  than  all  the  Arca- 
dians of  pastoral  or  romance.  After  iletecting 
the  frauds  and  villatiy  of  the  tyrainiical  agent, 
he  hurries  back  to  London,  to  tell  his  story  to 
his  father:  and  arrives  just  in  time  to  hinder 
him  from  being  irretrievably  entangled  in  his 
snares.  He  and  Miss  Nugent  now  make  joint 
suit  to  Lady  Clonbrony  to  retire  for  a  while 
to  Ireland, — an  application  in  which  they  are 
powerfully  seconded  by  the  terrors  of  an  exe- 
cution in  the  house;  and  at  last  enabled  to 
succeed,  by  a  solemn  promise  that  the  yellow 
damask  furniture  of  the  great  drawing-room 
shall  be  burnt  on  the  veiy  day  of  their  arrival. 
In  the  mean  time.  Loril  Colambre,  whose 
wider  survey  of  the  female  world  had  finally 
determined  him  to  seek  happiness  with  Grace 
Nugent,  even  with  an  humble  fortune,  suffers 
great  agony,  from  a  discovery  maliciously 
made  by  Lady  Dashfort,  of  a  stain  on  her 
mother's  reputation  ;  which  he  is  enabled  at 
length  to  remove,  and  at  the  same  time  to  re- 
cover a  splendid  inheritance,  which  had  been 
long  withheld  by  its  prevalence,  from  the  wo- 
man of  his  choice.  This  last  event,  of  course, 
reconciles  all  parties  to  the  match ;  and  they 
all  set  out,  in  bliss  and  harmony,  to  the  para- 
dise regained,  of  Clonbrony; — their  arrival 
and  reception  at  which  is  inimitably  described 
in  a  letter  from  one  of  their  postilions,  with 
which  the  tale  is  concluded. 

In  this  very  brief  abstract,  we  have  left  out 
an  infinite  multitude  of  the  characters  and 
occurrences,  from  the  variety  and  profusion 
of  which  the  story  derives  its  principal  attrac- 
tion ;  and  have  only  attempted  indeed  to  give 
such  a  general  notice  of  the  relations  and 
proceedings  of  the  chief  agents,  as  to  render 
the  few  extracts  we  propose  to  make  intelli- 
gible. The  contrivance  of  the  story  indeed  is 
so  good,  and  the  different  parts  of  it  so  con- 
cisely represented,  that  we  could  not  give  an 
adequate  epitome  of  it  in  much  less  compass 
than  the  original.  We  can  venture  on  nothing, 
therefore,  but  a  few  detached  specimens: 
And  we  take  the  first  from  a  class  of  society, 
which  we  should  scarcely  have  thought  char- 
acteristic of  the  country  in  question  :  \\  e  mean 
the  Fine  ladies  of  the  Plebeian  order,  who 
dash  more  extravagantly,  it  seems,  in  Dublin, 
than  any  othor  place  in  this  free  and  com- 
mercial empire.  Lord  Colambre  had  the 
good  fortune  to  form  an  acquaintance  with 
one  of  these,  the  spouse  of  a  rich  grocer, 
who  invited  him  to  dine  with  her  at  her  villa, 
on  his  way  back  from  the  county  of  Wick- 
low.  The  description,  though  of  a  different 
character  from  most  of  Miss  Edgewortli's 
delineations,  is  so  picturesque  and  livc^l}',  that 
we  cannot  help  thinking  it  must  have  been 
taken  from  the  life.  We  are  tempted,  there- 
fore, to  give  it  at  full  length. 

"  After  a  chnrming  tour  in  the  ronnty  of  WicU- 
low,  where  the  beauty  ol  the  namral  scenery,  and 
the  \na\e  with  whieh  iho?c  naiiiral  hcaiitins  have 
been  cultivated,  far  surpassed  the  sanguine  expect- 


520 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


ntions  Lord  Colambre  had  formed,  his  Lordship 
and  his  companions  arrived  at  Tuscuium  ;  where 
he  found  Mrs.  Rafl'ariy,  and  Miss  Juliana  O'Leary, 
— very  elegant — with  a  large  party  of  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  Bray  assembled  in  a  drawing-room, 
fine  with  bad  pictures  and  gaudy  gilding  ;  the  win- 
dows were  all  shut,  and  the  company  were  playing 
cards,  Willi  all  ihcir  might.  This  was  the  fashion 
of  the  neighbourhood.  In  compliment  to  Lord 
Colambre  and  the  officers,  the  ladies  left  the  card- 
tables  ;  and  .Mrs.  RafTarty.  observing  that  his  Lord- 
ship seemed  partial  to  walking,  took  him  out,  as 
she  said,   '  to  do  the  honours  of  nature  and  art.' 

"  The  dinner  had  two  great  faults — profusion  and 
pretension.  There  was,  in  fact  ten  times  more  on 
the  table  than  was  necessary  ;  and  the  entertain- 
ment was  far  above  the  circumstances  of  the  person 
by  whom  it  was  given:  for  instance,  the  dish  of 
fish  at  the  head  of  the  table  had  been  brought  across 
the  island  from  Sligo,  and  had  cost  five  guineas  ; 
as  the  lady  of  the  house  failed  not  to  make  known. 
But,  after  all,  things  were  not  of  a  piece:  there 
was  a  disparity  between  the  entertainment  and  the 
attendants  ;  there  was  no  proportion  or  fitness  of 
things.  A  painful  endeavour  at  what  could  not  be 
attained,  and  a  toiling  in  vain  to  conceal  and  repair 
deficiencies  and  blunders.  Had  the  mistriss  of  the 
house  been  quiet ;  had  she,  as  .Mrs.  Broadhurst 
would  say,  but  let  things  alone,  let  things  take  their 
course;  all  would  have  passed  ofi"  with  well-bred 
people  :  but  she  was  incessantly  apologising,  and 
fussing  and  fretting  inwardly  and  outwardly,  and 
directing  and  calling  to  her  servants — striving  to 
make  a  butler  who  was  deaf,  and  a  boy  who  was 
hair-brained,  do  the  business  of  five  accomplished 
footmen  of  parts  aiid  figure.  Mrs.  Raflarty  called 
'  Larry  !  Larry  !  My  Lord's  plate  there  ! — James  I 
bread,  to  Captain  Bowles! — James!  port  wine,  to 
the  Major. — James  I  James  Kenny  !  James  I'  And 
panting  James  toiled  after  her  in  vain.  At  length 
one  course  was  fairly  got  through  ;  and  after  a  tor- 
luring  half  hour,  the  second  course  appeared,  and 
James  Kenny  was  intent  upon  one  thing,  and  Lar- 
ry upon  another,  so  that  the  wine  sauce  tor  the  hare 
was  spilt  by  iheir  collision  ;  but  what  was  worse, 
there  seemed  little  chance  that  the  whole  of  this 
second  course  should  ever  be  placed  altogether 
rightly  upon  the  table.  Mrs.  Raffarty  cleared  her 
throat  and  nodded,  and  pointed,  and  sighed,  and 
pet  Larry  after  Kenny,  and  Kenny  after  Larry  ;  for 
what  one  did.  the  other  undid  ;  but  at  last,  the 
lady's  anger  kindled,  and  she  spoke  ! — '  Kenny  ! 
James  Kenny,  set  the  sea-cale  at  this  corner,  and 
put  down  the  grass,  cross-corners  ;  and  match  your 
maccaroni  yonder  with  thum  piiddens.  set — Ogh  ! 
James!  the  pyramid  in  the  middle  can't  ye.'  The 
pyramid  in  changing  places  was  overturned.  Then 
it  was,  that  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  falling  back 
in  her  seat,  and  lifting  up  her  hands  and  eyes  in 
despair,  ejaculated  :  •  Oh.  James  !  James  !' — The 
pyramid  was  raised  by  tlie  assistance  of  the  tnili- 
tary  engineers,  and  stood  trembling  again  on  its 
base  ;  but  the  lady's  temper  could  not  be  so  easily 
restored  to  its  equilibrium." — pp.  25 — 23. 

We  hurry  forward  now  to  the  cottajre  scene 
at  Cloiibrony;  which  has  made  us  almost 
equally  in  love  with  the  Irish,  and  with  the 
writer  who  has  painted  them  with  such  truth, 
patho.s,  and  simplicity.  An  insenious  and 
good-natured  po.<tboy  overturns  his  Lord.ship 
in  the  night,  a  few  miles  from  Clonbrony ; 
and  then  says, 

"  '  If  your  honour  will  lend  me  your  hand  till  T 
pull  you  up  the  back  of  I  lie  diich.'the  horses  will 
Stand  while  we  go.  I'll  find  you  as  pretty  a  lodging 
for  the  night,  with  a  widow  of  a  brother  of  my  sliis- 
ter's  husband  that  was.  as  ever  you  slepi  in  yoiir  life  ; 
and  your  honour  will  be,  no  compare,  snugger  than 
the  inn  ai  Clonbrony,  which  has  no  roof,  the  devil 


a  stick.  But  where  will  I  get  your  honour's  h.  i  i 
for  it's  coming  on  so  dark.  I  can't  see  right  ~ 
There!  you're  up  now  sale.  Yonder  candle' be 
house.'  '  Well,  go  and  ask  whether  they  can  ve 
us  a  night's  lodging.'  '  Is  it  ask  ?  When  I  set  ,« 
light! — Sure  they'd  be  proud  to  give  the  traver 
all  the  beds  in  the  house,  lei  alone  one.  Take  re 
of  the  polaioe  furrows,  that's  all,  and  follov  le 
straight.  I'll  go  on  to  meet  the  dog,  who  ki  .j 
me,  and  might  be  strange  to  your  honour.' 

"  'Kindly  welcome  !'  were  the  first  words  rd 
Colambre  heard  when  he  approached  the  con  - 
and  'kindly  welcome'  was  in  ihe  sound  oi  le 
voice,  and  in  the  countenance  of  the  old  woin, 
who  came  out  shading  her  rush  candle  froime 
wind,  and  holding  it  so  as  to  light  the  path.  V^ 
he  entered  the  cottage,  he  saw  a  cheerful  fire  i  t 
neat  pretty  young  woman  making  it  blaze  :ie 
curtsied,  put  her  spinning  wheel  out  of  the  ->, 
set  a  stool  by  the  fire  for  the  stranger ;  and  re|  i! 
irig  in  a  very  low  tone  of  voice,  '  Kindly  welci!. 
sir,'  retired.  '  Put  down  some  eggs,  dear,  tln'j 
plenty  in  the  bowl,'  said  the  old  woman,  rallii  o 
her  ;  '  I'll  do  the  bacon.  W^as  not  we  lucky  he 
up  ? — The  boy's  gone  to  bed,  but  waken  him,'  d 
she,  turning  to  the  postilion  ;  '  and  he  will  help  u 
with  the  chay,  and  put  your  horses  in  the  bie  ir 
the  night.'  " 

"  No:  Larry  chose  to  go  on  to  Clonbrony  h 
the  horses,  that  he  might  get  the  chaise  mei.d 
betimes  for  his  honour.  The  table  was  set ;  c'n 
trenchers,  hot  potatoes,  milk,  eggs,  bacon,  d 
'  kindly  welcome  to  all.'  '  Set  the  salt,  dear;  d 
the  butler,  love;  where's  your  head,  Grace,  de" 
'Grace!'  repeated  Lord  Colambre,  lookino  ; 
and  to  apologise  for  his  involuntary  exclania'io  . 
added,  '  Is  Grace  a  common  name  in  Ireland  ?  1 
can't  say,  plase  your  honour,  bui  it  was  give  h(  v 
Lady  Clonbrony,  from  a  niece  of  her  ow'n  that  9 
her  foster-sister,  God  bless  her;  and  a  very  d 
lady  she  was  to  us  and  to  all  w  hen  she  was  livii  n 
it ;  but  those  limes  are  gone  past,'  said  the  d 
woman,  with  a  sigh.  The  young  wdinansi'd 
too;  and  silling  down  by  the  fire,  began  to  c  1 
the  notches  in  a  little  bit  of  slick,  which  she  he  a 
her  hand;  and  after  she  had  counted  ihem,  sii.,J 
again.  '  But  don't  be  sighing,  Grace,  now,'  d 
the  old  woman  ;  '  sighs  is  bad  sauce  for  ihe  irn  • 
ler's  supper;  and  we  won't  be  trotibling  him  ''1 
more,'  added  she,  turning  to  Lord  Colambre,  m 
a  smile — '  Is  your  egg  done  to  your  liking  ?'  '  I  • 
fecily,  thank  you.'  '"Then  I  w'ish  it  was  a  rhi<  1 
for  your  sake,  which  it  should  have  been,  and  r<  i 
too.  had  we  time.  I  wish  I  could  see  you  eai  ■ 
other  egg.'  No  more,  thank  you,  my  good  l;i  ; 
I  never  ate  a  better  supper,  nor  received  a  n 
hospitable  welcome.'  '  O,  the  welcome  is  all  ■ 
have  to  ofier.' 

"  '  .May  I  ask  what  that  is  ?'  said  Lord  Colani  ■, 
looking  at  the  noiched  slick,  which  the  young  • 
man  held  in  her  hand,  and  on  which  her  eyes  v  '. 
siill  fixed.     'It's  a  taUy.  plase    vmir  hoiour-' 
you're  a  foreigner — It's  ihe  way  the  labourer  kt  < 
ihe  account  of  the  day's  work  wi:h  ihe  overs 
And  there's  been  a  mistake,  and  is  a  dispme  1 
between   our   boy  and  the  overseer  ;  and  she 
couiiiing  the  boy's  tally,  that's  in  lied,  lircd,  U  1 
iroih  he's  over-worked.'     'Would  you  want 
thing  more  trom  me,  moiher.'  said  the  girl,  ri- ; 
and  turning  her  head  away.    '  No,  child  ;  gel  bv  . 
for  your  heart's  full  '      She  went  iiisumily. 
die  boy  her  brother?'  said  Lord  Colambre.    '  ' 
he's  her  bachelor,'  said  the  old  woman.  lowc; : 
her  voice.     '  Her  bachelor?'     '  Thai  is.  hersw  • 
heart :  for  she  is  not  my  daughter,  though  you  h(  I 
her  call  me  nioiher.     The  boy's  mv  son  ;  but  I  1 
nfeard  they  must  give   it   up;  for  they're  100  pi  , 
and  ihe  limes  is  hard — and  the  agent's  harden  1 
ihe    times!   There's  two  of  them,  the  under    I 
the   upper;  and  they  grind  the  sub.siance  of   ! 
between  them,  and  then  blow  one  away  like  ch  : 
but  we'll  not  be  talking  of  that,  to  spoil  your  h  • 


MISS  EDGEWORTirS  TALES  OF  FASHIONABLE  LIFE. 


J2J 


c's  night's  re3i.  The  room's  ready,  and  here's 
tj  rush  light.'  She  showed  iiiin  into  a  very  small, 
t  neat  room.  '  V\  hat  a  comtoriable  looking  bod,' 
gl  Lord  Colamhre.  '  Ah,  these  red  check  cur- 
t:i3.'  said  she.  letting  them  down  ;  '  these  have 
ll:ed  well ;  they  were  give  me  by  a  good  friend 
fy  tar  away,  over  the  seas,  my  Lady  Clonbrony  ; 
al  made  by  the  prettiest  hands  ever  you  see,  her 
roe's.  Miss  Grace  N agent's,  and  shea  litiie  child 
tt  time  ;  sweet  love  !  all  gone  !'  The  old  woman 
vied  a  tear  trom  her  eye,  and  Lord  Colamhre  did 
vat  he  could  to  appear  indiilerent.  She  set  down 
t  candle  and  left  the  room  ;  Lord  Colainbre  went 
t.bed.  but  he  lay  awake,  '  revolving  sweet  and 
biCr  ihou^his.' 

'  The  kettle  was  on  the  fire,  tea  things  set, 
ery  thing  prepared  tor  her  guest,  by  the  hospita- 
b  hostess,  who,  thinking  the  gentleman  would 
t;e  tea  to  his  breakfast,  had  sent  off  a  gossoo7i  by 
it  first  light  to  Clonbrony,  for  an  ounce  of  tea,  a 
qrter  of  sugar, -dud  a  loaf  of  white  bread;  and 
tire  was  on  the  little  table  good  cream,  milk, 
bter,  eggs — all  the  proiniseof  an  excellent  break- 
fi.  It  was  a  fresh  morning,  and  there  was  a  plea- 
s.t  fire  on  the  hearth  neatly  swept  up.  The  old 
Hiian  svas  sitting  in  her  chiinney  corner,  behind  a 
lie  skreen  of  white-washed  wall,  built  out  into 
liroDin,  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  those  who  sat 
a  tie  fire  from  ihe  blast  of  the  door.  There  was  a 
l()-hole  in  this  wall,  to  let  the  light  in,  just  at  the 
ht.'ht  of  a  person's  head,  who  was  sitting  near  the 
c  iiney.  The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  now  came 
ihdgh  it,  shining  across  the  face  of  the  old  woman, 
a  he  sat  knitting  ;  Lord  Colamhre  thought  he  had 
61  Jtn  seen  a  more  agreeable  countenance  ;  intelli- 
gteyes.  benevolent  smile,  a  natural  expression 
0|lieerfuhies9,  subdued  by  age  and  misfortune. 
' ,  good  morrow  to  you  kindly,  sir,  and  I  hope 
y;  got  the  night  well  ? — A  fine  day  for  us  this 
Sjday  morning ;  my  Grace  is  gone  to  early  prayers, 
Bi-our  honour  will  be  content  with  an  old  woman 
tcjiake  your  breakfast. — O,  let  me  put  in  plenty, 
Oij  will  never  be  good  ;  and  if  your  honour  takes 
Slibout,  an  old  hand  will  engage  to  make  that  to 
yc  liking  any  way.  for  by  great  happiness  we  have 
»fii  will  just  answer  for  you,  of  tiie  nicest  ineal 
tH  miller  made  my  Grace  a  compliment  of,  last 
tip  she  went  to  the  mill.'  " — pp.  171 — 179. 

b  the  course  of  conversation,  she  informs 
hjijuest  of  the  precarious  tenure  on  which 
si;  held  tlie  Httle  possession  that  formed  her 
0);,-  means  of  subsistence. 

j' The  good  lord  himself  granted  us  the  ?ase; 
th|life's  dropped,  and  the  years  is  out :  but  we 
hj.a  promise  of  renewal  in  writing  from  the  land- 
loj. — God  bless  him  I  if  he  was  not  away,  he'd 
b<j  good  gentleman,  and  we'd  be  happy  and  safe.' 
'  .'it  if  you  have  a  promise  in  writing  of  a  renewal, 
8i,ly,  you  are  sale,  whether  your  landlord  is  absent 
oiTesent.' — '  Ah,  no  I  that  makes  a  great  differ, 
y.n  there's  no  eye  or  hand  over  the  agent. — Yet, 
in.fd.  there,'  added  she,  after  a  pause,  'as  you 
8^  I  think  we  are  safe  ;  for  we  have  that  memo- 
ra  iini  in  writing,  with  a  pencil,  under  his  own 
hil,  on  the  bark  of  the  lose,  to  me.  by  the  same 
tO|M  when  my  good  lord  had  his  foot  on  the  step 
ofie  coach,  goin;;  away  ;  and  I'll  never  forget 
thsinjie  of  her  that  got  that  good  turn  done  for 
"1  Miss  Grace.  And  just  when  she  was  going  to 
Eiland  and  London,  and  young  as  she  was,  to 
ni;  the  thought  to  slop  and  turn  to  the  likes  of 
ni|  0,  then,  if  you  could  see  her,  and  know  her 
a»  did  !  That  was  the  comforting  angel  upon 
e«i — look  and  voice,  and  heart  and  all !  O,  that 
BRiwas  here  present,  this  minute  I — But  did  you 
8C.1  yourself?'  said  the  widow  to  Lord  Colambre. 
~.^ure.  you  must  have  scalded  yourself;  for  yon 
peed  the  kettle  straight  over  your  hand,  and  it 
Kng  !  0  deear  !  to  think  of  so  young  a  gentle- 
nii's  hand  shaking  so  like  my  own.  Luckily,  to 
66 


prevent  her  pursuing  her  observaiioiis  from  the  hand 
to  the  inca,  which  might  have  betrayed  more  than 
Lord  Colambre  wislied  she  should  know,  her  own 
Grace  came  in  at  this  insinni — '  There,  it's  lor  you 
safe,  muilier  dtar — the  lasv  !'  said  Grace,  throwing 
a  packet  into  her  lap.  The  old  woman  lilted  up  her 
hands  to  heaven  with  the  lease  between  them — 
'  Thanks  be  to  Heaven  I'  Grace  passed  on,  .iiid 
sunk  down  on  the  first  seal  she  could  reach.  Her 
face  flushed,  and,  looking  much  fatigued,  she  loos- 
ened the  strings  of  her  bonnet  and  cloak. — '  Then, 
I'm  tired  !'  but  recolleciiiig  herself,  she  rose,  and 
curtsied  to  the  gentleman. — '  What  tired  ye,  dear  V 
— '  Why,  after  prayers,  we  had  to  go — for  the  agent 
was  not  at  prayers,  nor  at  home  lor  us,  when  we 
called — we  had  to  go  all  the  way  up  to  the  castle  ; 
and  there  by  great  good  luck,  we  (ound  Mr.  iS'ick 
Garragluy  himself,  come  from  Dublin,  and  the  lase 
in  his  hands  ;  and  he  sealed  it  up  that  way,  and 
handed  it  to  me  very  civil.  I  never  saw  him  so 
good  —  though  he  offered  me  a  glass  of  spirits, 
which  was  not  maimers  to  a  decent  young  woman, 
in  a  mornmg — as  Brian  noticed  after.' — "  But  why 
didn't  Brian  come  home  all  the  way  with  you, 
Grace  V — '  He  would  have  seen  me  home,'  said 
Grace,  '  only  that  he  went  up  a  piece  of  the  moun- 
tain tor  some  stones  or  ore  tor  the  gentleman, — for 
he  had  the  manners  to  think  of  him  this  morning, 
though  shame  for  me,  I  had  not,  when  I  came  in, 
or  I  would  not  have  told  you  all  this,  and  he  himself 
by.  See,  there  he  is,  mother.' — Brian  came  in  very 
hot,  GUI  of  breath,  with  his  hat  full  of  stones.  'Good 
morrow  to  your  honour.  I  was  in  bed  last  night  ; 
and  sorry  they  did  not  call  me  up  to  be  of  sarvice. 
Larry  was  telling  us,  this  morning,  your  honour's 
from  W^ales,  and  looking  for  mines  in  Ireland,  and 
I  heard  talk  that  there  was  one  on  our  mountain — 
may  be,  you'd  be  curious  to  see  ;  and  so,  1  brought 
the  best  I  could,  but  I'm  no  judge.'  " 

Vol.  vi.  pp.  182—188. 

A  scene  of  villainy  now  begins  to  disclose 
itself,  as  the  experienced  reader  must  have 
anticipated.  The  pencil  writing  is  rubbed 
out  :  but  the  agent  promises,  that  if  they  pay 
up  their  arrears,  and  be  handsome,  with  their 
sealing  money  and  glove  money,  &c.  he  will 
grant  a  renewal.  To  obtain  the  rent,  the 
widow  is  obliged  to  sell  her  cow. — But  she 
shall  tell  her  story  in  her  own  words. 

"  '  Well,  still  it  was  but  paper  we  got  for  the  cow  ; 
then  that  must  be  gold  before  the  agent  would  take, 
or  touch  it — so  I  was  laying  out  to  sell  the  dresser, 
and  had  taken  the  plates  and  cups,  and  liitle  things 
off  it,  and  my  boy  was  lifting  it  out  with  Andy  the 
carpenter,  that  was  agreeing  for  it,  when  in  comes 
Grace,  all  rosy,  and  out  of  breath — it's  a  wonder  I 
minded  her  run  out,  and  not  missed  her — Mother, 
says  she,  here's  the  gold  for  you,  don't  be  stirring 
your  dresser. — And  where's  your  own  gown  and 
cloak,  Grace?  says  L  But,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir  ;  may  be  I'm  tiring  you  ?' — Lord  Colambre  en- 
couraged her  to  go  on. — '  Where's  your  gown  and 
cloak,  Grace,  says  I.' — '  Gone,'  says  she.  '  The 
cloak  was  too  warm  and  heavy,  and  I  don't  doubt, 
mother,  but  it  was  that  helped  to  make  me  faint 
this  morning.  And  as  to  the  gown,  sure  I've  a 
very  nice  one  here,  that  you  spun  for  me  yourself, 
mother  ;  and  that  I  prize  above  all  the  gow  ns  that 
ever  came  out  of  a  loom  ;  and  that  Brian  said  be- 
came me  to  his  fancy  above  any  gown  ever  he  see 
me  wear,  and  what  could  I  wish  lor  more.' — Now, 
I'd  a  mind  to  scold  her  for  going  to  sell  the  gown 
unkiiown'st  to  me  ;  but  I  don't  know  how  it  was, 
I  couldn't  scold  her  just  then, — so  kissed  her,  and 
Brian  the  same ;  and  that  was  what  no  man  ever 
did  before. — And  she  had  a  mind  to  be  angry  with 
him,  but  could  not,  nor  ought  not,  says  I ;  tor  he's 
as  good  as  your  husbatid  now,  Grace  ;  aiul  no  man 
can  part  yees  now,  says  I,  putting  their  hands  to- 
2t  2 


522 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


gether. — Well,  I  never  saw  her  look  so  pretty  ;  nor 
there  was  not  a  happier  boy  that  minute  on  God's 
earth  than  my  son,  nor  a  happier  mother  than  my- 
eelf ;  and  I  thanked  God  tliat  he  had  given  them  to 
me  ;  and  down  they  both  fell  on  their  knees  for  my 
blessing,  little  worih  as  it  was;  and  my  heart's 
blessing  they  had,  and  I  laid  my  hands  upon  them. 
'It's  the  priest  you  must  get  to  do  this  for  you  to- 
morrow, says  I.'  "—Vol.  vi.  pp.  205—207. 

Next  morning  they  go  up  in  high  spirits  to 
the  castle,  where  the  villanous  agent  denies 
his  promise  ;  and  is  laughing  at  their  despair, 
when  Lord  Colambre  is  fortunately  identified 
by  Mrs.  RafTarty.  who  turns  out  to  ho  a  sister 
of  the  said  agent,  and.  like  a  god  in  epic 
poetry,  turns  airony  into  triumph ! 

We  can  make  room  for  no  more  now,  but 
the  epistle  of  Larry  Brady,  the  good-natured 
postboy,  to  his  brother,  giving  an  account  of 
the  return  of  the  family  to  Clonbrony.  If 
Miss  Edgeworth  had  never  written  any  other 
thing;  this  one  letter  must  have  placed  her 
at  the  very  top  of  our  scale,  as  an  observer  of 
character,  and  a  mistress  in  the  simple  pa- 
thetic. We  give  the  greater  part  of  this  e.v- 
traordinary  production. 

"  My  dear  brother, — Yours  of  the  16th,  enclo- 
sing thf  five  poinid  note  for  my  father,  came  safe 
to  hand  Monday  last  ;  and.  with  his  thanks  and 
blessins  to  you,  he  commends  it  to  you  herewith 
enclosed  back  again,  on  account  of  his  being  in  no 
immediate  necessity,  nor  likelihood  to  want  in  fu- 
ture, as  you  shall  hear  forthwiih;  but  wants  you 
over,  with  all  speed,  and  the  note  will  answer  for 
travelling  charges  ;  fir  we  can't  enjoy  the  luck  it 
has  pleased  God  to  give  us,  without  yees:  put  the 
rest  in  your  pocket,  and  read  it  when  you've  time. 

"  Now,  cock  up  your  ears,  Pat !  for  the  great 
news  is  coming,  and  the  good.  The  master's  come 
home — long  life  to  him  ! — and  family  come  home 
yesterday,  all  entirely  1  The  ould  lord  and  the 
voung  lord,  (ay  there's  the  man,  Paddy  !)  and  my 
lady,  and  Miss  Nugent.  And  I  driv  Miss  Nugent's 
maid,  that  maid  that  was,  and  another;  so  I  had 
the  luck  to  be  in  it  alone  wid'em,  and  see  all,  from 
first  to  last.  And  first,  I  must  tell  you,  niy  young 
Lord  Colambre  remembered  and  noticed  me  the 
minute  he  lit  at  our  inn,  and  condescended  to 
beckon  at  me  out  of  the  yard  to  him,  and  a.ved  me — 
'  Friend  Larry.'  says  he,  'did  you  keep  your  pro- 
mise ?' '  -My  oath  again  the  whiskey  is  it  ?'  says 

L  'My  Lord,  I  surely  did,'  said  I;  which  was 
true,  as  all  the  country  knows  I  never  tasted  a  drop 
since.  And  I'm  proud  to  see  your  honour,  my 
lord,  as  good  as  your  word  too,  and  hack  again 
among  us.  So  then  there  was  a  call  for  the  hor.«es  ; 
and  no  more  at  that  time  passed  betwi.x'  my  young 
lord  and  me,  bill  that  he  pointed  me  on'  to  thi>  ould 
one,  as  I  went  off.  I  noticed  and  thanked  him  for 
it  in  my  heart,  though  I  did  not  know  all  the  good 
was  to  come  of  it.  Well  no  more  of  myself,  for 
the  present. 

"  Ogh,  it's  I  driv  'em  well;  and  we  all  got  to 
the  great  gate  of  the  park  before  sunset,  and  as 
fine  an  evening  as  ever  you  see  ;  with  the  sun 
shinina  on  the  tops  of  the  trees,  as  the  ladies  no- 
ticed the  leaves  changed.  i>ut  not  dropped,  though 
po  late  in  'he  season.  I  believe  the  leaves  knew 
what  they  were  about,  and  kept  on,  on  purpose  to 
welcome  them  ;  and  the  birds  were  singing;  and  I 
ptopped  whisilmg.  that  thfy  might  hear  them  :  but 
sorrow  bit  could  they  hear  when  they  got  to  the 
park  gale,  for  there  was  such  a  crowd,  and  such  n 
shout,  as  you  never  see — and  they  had  the  horses 
offevery  carriage  entirely,  and  drew 'em  home,  with 
blessings,  through  the  park.  And,  God  bless  'em. 
when  they  got  out,  they  didn't  go  shiU  themselves 
up  in  the  great  drawing-room,  but  went  straight  out 
to  the  tirraaa,  to  satisiy  the  eyes  and  hearts  that 


followed  them.  My  lady  Za/iiwg  on  my  young  ^ 
and  -Miss  Grace  Nugent  that  was,  the'  beautit  ^ 
angel  that  ever  you  set  eyes  on,  with  the  -s' 
complexion  and  sweetest  of  smiles,  lanitig  j- 
the  old  lord's  arm,  who  had  his  hat  of}",  bowji  t , 
all,  and  noticing  the  old  tenants  as  he  passt  jy 
name.  O,  there  was  great  gladness,  and  tears  i  lie 
midst ;  for  joy  I  could  scarcely  keep  from  my." 

"  After  a  turn  or  two  upon  the  fjVrass.  my  rd 
Colambre  quit  his  mother's  arm  for  a  minuie  id 
he  come  to  the  edge  of  the  slope,  and  looked  t^n 
and  through  all  the  crowd  lor  some  one.  "  Is  I  le 
widow  O'Neill,  my  lord?'  says  I ;  •  ^lie's  yoi  r, 
with  the  spectacles  on  her  no.'^c.  ifwi.xi  bei  i: 
and  daughter,  as  usual.'  Then  my  lord  beckc  d 
and  they  did  not  know  which  of  the  fr^e  would  ■; 
and  then  he  gave  tree  beckons  with  his  ownfii  • 
and  they  all  tree  came  fast  enough  to  the  tiotlo:  ii 
the  slope,  fovcnent  my  lord  ;  and  he  went  i  :, 
and  helped  the  widow  up.  (O,  he's  the  trueja  ?. 
man,)  and  brought  'em  all  tree  upon  the  tirr&i ;, 
my  lady  and  .Miss  Nugent;  and  I  was  up  .  .. 
after,  that  I  might  hear,  which  wasn't  mam; 
but  I  couldn't  Tielp  it !  So  what  he  said  1 1  •. 
well  know,  for  I  could  not  get  near  enough  :r 
all.  But  I  saw  my  lady  smile  very  kind,  and  e 
the  widow  O'Neill  by  the  hand,  and  then  my  -d 
Colambre  'troducfd  Grace  to  Miss  Nugent,  d 
there  was  the  word  namesake,  and  something  a  it 
a  check  curtains  ;  but  whatever  ii  was.  they  weiII 
greatly  pleased:  then  my  Lord  Colambre  tu  d 
and  looked  for  Brian,  who  had  fell  back,  and  k 
him  wiih  some  commendation  to  my  lord  his  fa  r 
.And  my  lord  the  master  said,  which  I  didn't  k  a 
till  alter,  that  they  should  h_ave  their  bouse  and  n 
at  the  ould  rent;  and  at  the  surprise,  the  w:  # 
dropped  down  dead  ;  and  there  was  a  cry  as  fon 
herrin<is.  '  Be  qu'iie,'  says  I,  '  she's  only  kil  ir 
joy;'  and  I  went  and  lift  her  up,  for  her  son  d 
no  more  strength  that  minu'e  than  the  child  »• 
born  ;  and  Grace  trembled  like  a  leaf,  as  wbii  i« 
the  sheet,  but  not  long,  for  the  mother  came  to  d 
was  as  well  as  ever  when  I  brought  some  w  r, 
which  Miss  Nugent  handed  to  her  with  her  n 
hand. 

"  '  That  was  always  pretty  and  good,'  said  c 
widow,  laying  her  hand  upon  Miss  Nugent,  'd 
kind  and  good  to  me  and  mine.    That  minute  i  t 
was  music  from  below.  The  blind  harper,  0'^ 
with  his  harp,  that  struck  up  '  Gracey  Nugt 
And  that  finished,  and  my  Lord  Colambre  em% 
with  the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes  too,  and  the  ji    -1% 
lord  quite  wiping  his,  I  ran  to  the  tinass  brin,0    — 
bid  O'Neill  play  it  again  ;  but  as  I  run,  I  the  il 
I  heard  a  voice  call  Larry. 

"  '  Who  calls  Larry  ?'  says  I.  'My  Lord  y 
lambre  calls  you,  Larry,'  says  all  at  once  ;  and  ir 
takes  me  by  the  shoulders,  and  spins  me  ro'i- 
'  There's  my  young  lord  calling  you,  Larry- n 
for  your  life.'  So  I  run  back  for  my  life,  and  w  ■ 
ed  respectful,  with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  when  I  >i 
near.  '  Put  on  your  hat,  my  father  desires:,' 
says  my  Lord  Colambre.  The  ould  lord  mt  « 
sign  to  that  purpose,  but  was  loo  full  to  si  i 
'  Where's  your  father  ?'  continues  my  yoiiiig  i 
— '  lie's  very  ould,  my  lord,'  says  I. — '  I  diJii  -" 
you  how  ould  he  was,'  say.s  he  ;  '  but  where  is  ' 
— '  He's  behind  the  crowd  below  ;  on  accoin  ' 
his  infirmities  he  couldn't  walk  so  fast  as  the 
my  lord,'  says  I ;  '  but  his  heart  is  with  you,  i  ' 
his  bodv.' — 'I  must  have  his  body  too:  so  t  >: 
him  bodily  before  us;  and  this  shall  be  your  : 
rant  for  so  doing,'  said  my  lord,  joking.  Fi>  ' 
knows  the  nntur  o{  us,  Pacldy,  and  how  we  Ir  » 
joke  in  our  hearts,  as  well  as  if  he  had  lived  al,i» 
iife  in  Ireland  ;  and  by  the  same  token  will,  for  »i 
rason.  do  what  he  pleases  with  us,  and  more  f 
be  than  a  man  twice  as  good,  that  never  w  d 
smile  on  us.  T' 

"But  I'm  telling  you  of  my  father.  '  I  ,  •  * 
warrant  for  you,  father.'  says  I :  '  and  must  l;«  ;*t 
you  bodily  before  the  justice,  and  my  lord  c»  it: 
justice.'     So  he  changed  colour  a  bit  at  first;"     '^tt 


WAVERLEY. 


523 


ji  saw  me  smile.  '  And  I've  done  no  sin,'  said  he  ;  j 
hnd,  Larry,  you  may  lead  me  now,  as  you  led  me  | 
|.  my  life.' — And  up  (he  slope  he  went  with  me,  as  : 
(;ht  as  fifteen  ;  and  when  we  got  up,  my  Lord  Clon- 
lony  said,  '  I  am  sorry  an  old  tenant,  and  a  good  , 
[J  tenant,  as  I  hear  you  were,  should  have  been  ] 
bied  out  of  your  farm.' — '  Uoii't  fret,  it's  no  great  j 
atter,  my  lord,'  said  my  father.  '  I  shall  be  soon 
t  of  the  way  ;  but  if  you  would  be  so  kind  to  ' 
leak  a  word  for  my  boy  here,  and  that  I  could  af-  I 
S-d,  while  the  life  is  in  me,  to  bring  my  other  boy  j 
Ick  out  of  banishment — '  i 

i"  '  Then.'  says  my  Lord  Clonbrony,  'I'll  give  ' 
lu  and  your  sons  three  lives,  or  thirty-one  years, 
!>m  this  day,  of  your  former  farm.  Return  to  it 
|)en  you  please.'  '  And,'  added  my  Lord  Co- 
[nbre,  '  the  fln<;gers,  I  hope,  will  soon  be  banish- 
I.'  O,  how  could  I  thank  him — not  a  word  could 
.jroffer — but  I  know  I  clasped  my  two  hands  and 
jyed  for  him  inwardly.  And  my  father  was 
lopping  down  on  his  knees,  but  the  master  would 
t  let  him  :  and  ohsarvcd,  that  posture  should  only 
f  f)r  his  God  !  And.  sure  enough,  in  that  posture, 
iien  he  was  out  of  sight,  we  did  pray  for  him  that 
»ht,  and  will  all  our  days. 

I"  But  before  we  quit  his  presence,  he  call  me 
jck,  and  bid  me  write  to  my  brother,  and  bring 
'u  back,  if  you've  no  objections  to  your  own 
iunlry. — So  come,  my  dear  Pat.  and  make  no 
flay,  for  joy's  not  joy  complate  till  you're  in  it — 
\f  father  sends  his  blessing,  and  Peggy  her  love. 
16  family  entirely  is  to  settle  for  good  in  Ireland  ; 
d  (ii'-re  was  in  the  castle  yard  last  night  a  bonfire 
ide  by  my  lord's  orders  of  the  ould  yellow  da- 
isk  furiiiiure,  to  plase   my  lady,  my  lord  says.  ' 


And  the  drawing-rooms,  the  butler  was  telling  me, 
is  new  hung ;  and  the  chairs,  with  velvet,  as  white 
as  snow,  and  shaded  over  with  natural  flowers,  bv 
Miss  Nugent. — Oh  !  how  I  hope  what  I  guess  will 
come  true,  and  I've  rason  to  believe  it  will,  for  I 
drcam't  in  my  bed  last  night,  it  did.  Hut  keep 
yourself  to  yourself — that  Miss  Nugent  (who  is  no 
more  Miss  Nugent,  they  say.  but  Miss  Reynolds, 
and  has  a  new-found  grandfather,  and  is  a  big 
heiress,  which  she  did  not  want  in  my  eyes,  nor  in 
my  young  lord's,)  I've  a  notion,  will  be  sometime, 
and  may  be  sooner  than  is  expected,  my  Lady  Vis- 
countess Colambre — so  haste  to  the  wedding  !  And 
there's  another  thing  :  they  say  the  rich  ould  grand- 
father's coming  over  ; — and  another  thing,  Pat,  you 
would  not  be  out  of  the  fashion.  And  you  see  it's 
growing  the  fashion,  not  to  be  an  Absentee  !'' 

If  there  be  any  of  our  readers  who  is  not 
moved  with  delight  and  admiration  in  the 
perusal  of  this  letter,  we  must  say,  that  we 
have  but  a  poor  opinion  either  of  his  taste  or 
his  moral  sensibility  ;  and  shall  think  all  the' 
better  of  ourselves,  in  future,  lor  appearing 
tedious  in  his  eyes.  For  our  own  parts,  we 
do  not  know  whether  we  envy  the  author 
most,  for  the  rare  talent  she  has  shown  in 
this  description,  or  for  the  experience  by  which 
its  materials  have  been  supplied.  She  not 
oidy  makes  us  know-  and  love  the  Irish  nation 
far  better  than  any  other  writer,  but  seems  to 
us  more  qualified  than  most  others  to  promote 
the  knowledsfe  and  the  love  of  mankind. 


j  (^CoDcmbcr,  ISl'i.) 

'avcrhj.  or  Ti's  Sixty  Years  Since.     In  three  vohimes   12mo.    pp.  1112.     Third  Edition. 
!  '  Edinburo-h:  1814.* 


!It  is  wonderful  what  genius  and  adherence 

I  nature  will  do.  in  spite  of  all  disadvan- 
Kes.  Here  is  a  thing  obviously  very  hastily, 
ad,  in  many  places,  somewhat  unskilfully 

r  I  have  been  a  good  deal  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 
Ipse  famous  novels  of  Sir  Waller.  On  the  one 
hd,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  let  this  collection 
(I forth,  without  some  notice  of  works  which,  for 
limy  years  together,  iiad  occupied  and  delighted 
k  more  than  any  thing  else  that  ever  came  under 
11' critical  survey:  While,  on  the  other.  I  could 
lii  but  feel  that  it  would  be  absurd,  and  in  some 
ijise  almost  dishonest,  to  fill  these  pages  with  long 
••iiions  from  books  which,  for  the  last  twenty-five 
firs,  have  been  in  the  hands  of  at  least  fifty  times 
imany  readers  as  are  ever  likely  to  look  into  this 
Ijlication — and  are  still  ns  familiar  to  the  genera- 
in  which  has  last  come  into  existence,  as  to  those 
'lO  can  yet  remember  the  sensation  produced  by 
tl'ir  first  appearance.  In  point  of  fact  I  was  in- 
ftmed,  but  the  other  dav.  by  Mr.  Caddell.  that  he 

II  actually  sold  not  less  than  sixtif  thmisavd 
iumcs  of  these  extraordinary  productions,  in  the 
•jirse  of  the  preceding  year  I  and  that  the  demand 
i\  them,  instead  of  slackening — had  been  for  some 
tjie  sensibly  on  the  increase.  In  these  circum- 
flnces  I  think  I  mav  safely  as.^ume  that  their  con- 
Ijits  are  still  so  perfpcllv  known  as  not  to  require 
i>y  citations  to  introduce  such  of  the  remarks  orig- 
i|lly  made  on  them  as  I  may  nnw  wish  to  repeat, 
-jid  I  have  therefore  come  to  the  determination  of 
<iittine  almost  all  the  quotations,  and  most  of  the 
i;.ailed  abstracts  which  appeared  in  the  original 


written — composed,  one  half  of  it.  in  a  dia- 
lect unintelligible  to  four-fifths  of  the  reading 
population  of  the  country — relating  to  a  period 
too  recent  to  be  romantic,  and  too  far  gone  by 


reviews  ;  and  to  retain  only  the  general  criticism, 
and  character,  or  estimate  of  each  performance — 
together  with  such  incidental  observations  as  may 
have  been  suggested  by  the  tenor  or  success  of 
these  wonderful  productions.  By  this  course,  no 
doubt,  a  sad  shrinking  will  beefiecied  in  the  primi- 
tive dimensions  of  the  articles  which  are  here  re- 
produced ;  and  may  probably  give  to  what  is  re- 
tained something  of  a  naked  and  jejune  appear- 
ance. If  it  should  be  so.  I  can  only  say  that  I  do 
not  see  how  I  could  have  helped  it  :  and  after  all  it 
may  not  be  altogether  wiilioui  interest  to  see,  fiom 
a  contemporary  record,  what  were  the  first  impres- 
sions produced  by  the  appearance  of  this  new  lu- 
minary on  our  horizon;  while  the  secret  of  the 
authorship  was  yet  undivulged.  and  before  the  rapid 
accumulation  of  its  ghiries  had  forced  on  the  dullest 
spectator  a  sense  of  its  magnitude  and  power.  I 
may  venture  perhaps  also  to  add,  thai  some  of  the 
general  speculations  of  which  these  revi(^ws  sug- 
gested the  occasion,  may  probably  be  fomulHs  well 
worth  preservini,'  aw  most  of  those  which  have  been 
elsewhere  embodied  in  this  experimenial,  and  some- 
what hazardous,  puhlica'ion. 

Though  living  in  familiar  intercourse  with  Sir 
Walter.  1  need  scarcely  say  that  I  was  noi  in  the 
secret  of  his  authorshin :  and  in  iruih  Imd  no 
assurance  of  the  fact,  till  the  time  of  its  promul- 
gation. 


624 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


to  be  familiar — and  published,  mnreover,  in  a 
quarter  of  the  island  where  materials  and 
talents  for  novel-writing  have  been  supposed 
to  be  equally  wanting  ;  And  yet.  by  the  mere 
force  and  truth  and  vivacity  of  its  colouring, 
already  casting  the  whole  tribe  of  ordinary  no- 
vels into  the  shade,  and  taking  its  place  rather 
with  the  most  popular  of  our  modern  poems, 
than  with  the  rubbish  of  provincial  romances. 

The  spcnn  of  this  success,  we  take  it,  is 
merely  that  the  author  is  a  man  of  Genius: 
and  that  he  has.  notwithstanding,  had  virtue 
enough  to  be  true  to  Nature  throughout;  and 
to  content  himself,  even  in  the  marvellous 
parts  of  his  story,  with  copying  from  actual 
existences,  rather  than  from  the  phantasms 
of  his  own  imagination.  The  chami  which 
this  communicates  to  all  works  that  deal  in 
the  representation  of  human  actions  and  char- 
acter, is  more  readily  felt  than  understood  ; 
and  operates  with  unfailing  efficacy  even  upon 
those  who  have  no  acquaintance  with  the 
originals  from  which  the  picture  has  been  bor- 
rowed. It  requires  no  ordinary  talent,  indeed, 
to  choose  such  realities  as  may  outshine  the 
bright  imaginations  of  the  inventive,  and  so  to 
combine  them  as  to  produce  the  most  advan- 
tageous effect;  but  when  this  is  once  accom- 
plished, the  result  is  sure  to  be  something 
more  firm,  impressive,  and  engaging,  than  can 
ever  be  produced  by  mere  fiction. 

The  object  of  the  work  before  us,  was  evi- 
dently to  present  a  fahhful  and  animated  pic- 
ture of  the  manners  and  state  of  society  that 
prevailed  in  this  northern  part  of  the  island,  in 
the  earlier  part  of  last  century ;  and  the  au- 
thor has  judiciously  fixed  upon  the  era  of  the 
Rebellion  in  1745,  not  only  as  enriching  his 
pages  with  the  interest  inseparably  attached 
to  thf^  narmtion  of  such  occurrences,  but  as 
affording  a  fair  opportunity  for  bringing  out  all 
the  contrasted  principles  and  habits  which 
distinguished  the  different  classes  of  per.sons 
who  then  divided  the  country,  and  formed 
among  them  the  basis  of  almost  all  that  was 
peculiar  in  the  national  character.  That  un- 
fortunate contention  brought  conspicuously  to 
light,  and,  for  the  last  time,  the  fading  image 
of  feudal  chivalry  in  the  mountains,  and  vul- 
gar fanaticism  in  the  plains;  and  startled  the 
more  polished  parts  of  the  land  with  the  wild 
but  brilliant  picture  of  the  devoted  valour,  in- 
corruptible fidelity,  patriarchal  brotherhood, 
and  savage  habits  of  the  Celtic  Clans,  on  the 
one  hand, — and  the  dark,  intractable,  and  do- 
mineering bigotry  of  the  Covenanters  on  the 
other.  Both  aspects  of  society  had  indeed 
been  formerly  prevalent  in  other  parts  of  the 
country. — but  had  there  been  so  long  super- 
seded by  more  peaceable  habits,  and  milder  j 
manners,  that  their  vestiges  were  almost  ef-  ! 
faced;  and  their  verv  memorv  nearly  e.xtin-  I 
guished.  The  fe\]dal  principalities  had  been  ; 
destroyed  in  the  South,  for  near  three  hundred  ' 
years, — and  the  dominion  of  the  Puritans  from 
the  time  of  the  Rpstoration.  Wh^n  the  sflens. 
and  banded  clans,  of  the  central  Highlands, 
therefore,  were  opened  up  to  the  gaze  of  the 
English,  in  the  course  of  that  insurrection,  it 
seemed  as  if  they  were  carried  back  to  the 


day!5  of  the  Heptarchy ; — and  when  thej-  s£ 
the  array  of  the  West  country  Whigs,  th 
might  imagine  themselves  transported  to  I 
age  of  Cromwell.     The  effect,  indeed,  is; 
most  as  startling  at  the  present  moment ;  -ai 
one  great  source  of  the  interest  which  tl 
volumes  before  us  undoubtedly  possess,  is 
be  sought  in  the  surprise  that  is  excited 
discovering,  that  in  our  own  country,  and  ^| 
most  in  our  own  age,  manners  and  characte|| 
existed;  and  were  conspicuous,  which  we  hi|i 


been  accustomed  to  consider  as  belon 


ging 


remote  antiquity,  or  extravagant  romance.  I 
The  way  in  which  they  are  here  represer 
ed  must  satisfy  every  reader,  we  think,  by; 
inward  tact  and  conviction,  that  the  deline,  .,-iffi. 
tion  has  been  made  from  actual  experiemj^Unjii 
and  observation ; — experience  and  observat«i"jfe 
employed  perhaps  only  on  a  few  survivii 
relics  and  specimens  of  what  was  familiar 
little  earlier — but  generalised  from  instanc 
suificiently  numerous  and  complete,  to  vra 
rant  all  that  may  have  been  added  to  the  pc 
trait : — And,  indeed,  the  existing  records  ar  .^,„, 
vestiges  of  the  more  extraordinary  parts  (B^Bm. 
the  representation  are  still  suflicientlyabun*^H[„)j( 
ant,  to  satisfy  all  who  have  the  means  of  co 
suiting  them,  as  to  the  perfect  accuracy  of  tl 
picture.  The  great  traits  of  Clannish  depeiii 
ence,  pride,  and  fidelity,  may  still  be  detecti 
in  many  districts  of  "the  Highlands,  tliour, 
the)^do  not  now  adhere  to  the  chieftains  wht 
the)-  mingle  in  general  society  ;  and  the  e 
istiiig  contentions  of  Burghers  and  Antiburgj 
ers.  and  Cameronians,  though  shrunk  iui  .  ,, 
comparative  insignificance,  and  left,  indeeABgi  ' 
without  protection  to  the  ridicule  of  the  pr^^i 
fane,  may  still  be  referred  to,  as  comple 
verifications  of  all  that  is  here  stated  uboi 
Gifted  Gilfillan,  or  Ebenezer  Cruickshan; 
The  traits  of  Scottish  national  character  in  tl 
lower  ranks,  can  still  less  be  regarded  as  ai 
tiquated  or  traditional ;  nor  is  there  any  thir 
in  the  whole  compass  of  the  work  whic 
gives  us  a  stronger  impression  of  the  nice  ol 
servation  and  graphical  talent  of  the  autho 
than  the  extraordinary  fidelity  and  felicil 
with  w  hich  all  the  inferior  agents  in  the  .stoi 
are  represented.  No  one  who  has  not  livt 
extensively  among  the  lower  orders  of  all  di' 
scriptions,  and  made  himself  familiar  wit 
their  various  tempers  and  dialects,  can  pe 
ceive  the  full  merit  of  those  rapid  and  cha 
acteristic  sketches;  but  it  retiuires  only 
general  knowledge  of  human  nature,  to  id 
that  they  must  be  faithful  copies  from  knov 
originals:  and  to  be  aware  of  the  extraord 
nary  facility  and  flexibility  of  hand  which  li: 
touched,  for  instance,  with  such  discriminn 
\ns  shades,  the  various  gradations  of  the  Celt 
character,  from  the  savage  imperturbabilil 
of  Dnnfald  Mahony,  who  stalks  grimly  aboi' 
with  his  battle-axe  on  his  shoulder,  withoi 
speaking  a  word  to  anv  one. — to  the  lively  m 
])rincipled  activity  of  Galium  Beg. — the  coar; 
unreflecting  hardihood  and  heroism  of  Ev^ 
aiaccombich. — and  the  pride,  gallantrv,  el' 
gance,  and  ambition  of  Fergus  himself,  I 
the  lower  class  of  the  Lowland  character 
again,  the  vulgarity  of  Mrs.  Plockhart  and  c 


VVAVERLEY 


'eutenant  Jinker  is  perfectly  distinct  and 
^Winal : — as  well  as  the  puritanism  of  Gillil- 
:i  and  Cruickshank — the  atrocity  of  Mrs. 
iucklewrath  —  and  the  slow  solemnity  of 
.exander  Saunderson.  The  Baron  of  Brad- 
iirdine,  and  Baillie  Macwheeble,  are  carica- 
ires  no  doubt,  after  the  fashion  of  the  carica- 
I'res  in  the  novels  of  Snioliet, — or  pictures,  at 
ii  best,  of  individuals  who  must  always  have 
jen  unique  and  extraordinary :  but  almost 
(  the  other  personages  in  the  history  are  fair 
ijresentatives  of  classes  that  are  still  exist- 
ir,  or  may  be  remembered  at  least  to  have 
(jsted,  by  many  whose  recollections  do  not 
ttend  quite  so  far  back  as  to  the  year  1745. 
Waverley  is  the  representative  of  an  old  and 
c'.dent  Jacobite  family  in  the  centre  of  Ena:- 
l|;d — educated  at  home  in  an  irregular  man- 
r'.\  and  living,  till  the  age  of  majority,  mostly 
i,the  retirement  of  his  paternal  mansion — 
vere  he  reads  poetry,  feeds  his  fancy  with 
rnantic  musings,  and  acquires  amiable  dis- 
pitions,  and  something  of  a  contemplative, 
psive,  and  undecided  character.  All  the 
Ighsh  adherents  of  the  abdicated  family 
h'uig  renounced  any  serious  hopes  of  their 
cise  long  before  the  year  1745,  the  guardians 
oVoung  Waverley  were  induced,  in  that  cele- 
bted  year,  to  allow  him  to  enter  into  the 
aiiy,  as  the  nation  was  then  engaged  in  for- 
ein  war — and  a  passion  for  military  glory  had 
a^ays  been  characteristic  of  his  line.  He  ob- 
tijis  a  commission,  accordingly,  in  a  regiment 
0.  horse,  then  stationed  in  Scotland,  and 
p'ceeds  forthwith  to  head-quarters.  Cosmo 
Cn\nie  Bradwnrdine,  Esq.,  of  Tully-Veolan 
ii?erthshire.  had  been  an  ancient  friend  of 
tl  house  of  Waverley,  and  had  been  enabled. 
bjtheir  good  othces.  to  set  over  a  very  awk- 
Wfd  rencontre  with  the  King's  Attorney- 
Glieral  soon  after  the  year  1715.  The  young 
hj:  was  accordincly  furnished  with  creden- 
ti'i  to  this  faithful  ally ;  and  took  an  early 
0],ortunity  of  payinsr  his  respects  at  the  an- 
ci'it  mansion  of  Tully-Veolan.  The  house 
ai,  its  inhabitants,  and  their  way  of  life,  are 
a<,urably  described.  The  Baron  himself 
hi  been  bred  a  lawyer  ;  and  was,  by  choice, 
a;iligent  reader  of  the  Latin  classics.  His 
pi'.'ession,  however,  v.-as  that  of  arms;  and 
h^ng  served  several  campaigns  on  the  Con- 
tiiint,  he  had  superadded,  to  the  pedantry 
ai,  jargon  of  his  forensic  and  academical 
St  lies,  the  technical  slang  of  a  German  mar- 
tiiit — and  a  sprinkling  of  the  coxcombry  of  a 
Fiich  mousquetaire.  He  was,  moreover, 
prligiou.sly  proud  of  his  ancestry  :  and,  with 
alais  peculiarities,  which,  to  say  the  truth, 
ar  rather  more  than  can  be  decently  accu- 
nrialed  in  one  character,  was  a  most  honour- 
at,.  valiant,  and  friendly  person.  Tie  had 
on;  fair  daughter,  and  no  more — who  was 
S^ile,  feminine,  and  affectionate.  Waverley, 
ih'nrh  struck  at  first  with  the  stranire  man- 
"fj  of  this  northern  baron,  is  at  length  do- 
mrticated  in  the  family ;  and  is  led,  bv  curi- 
09r,  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  cave  of  a  famous 
Hidand  robber  or  freebooter,  from  which  he 
is'nducted  to  the  caslle  of  a  neiirhbouring 
chftain,  and  sees  the  Highland  life  in  all  its 


barbarous  but  captivating  characters.  This 
chief  is  Fergus  Vich  Ian  Vohr — a  gallant  and 
ambitious  youth,  zealously  attached  to  the 
cause  of  the  exiled  family,  and  busy,  at  the 
moment,  in  fomenting  the  insurrection,  by 
which  liis  sanguine  spirit  never  donbt<'d  that 
iheir  restoration  was  to  be  efl'ected.  He  has 
a  sister  still  more  enthusiastically  devoted  lo 
the  same  cans* — recentlv  returned  from  a  re- 
sidence at  the  Court  of  I'Vance,  and  dazzling 
the  romantic  imagination  of  Waverley  not  less 
by  the  exaltation  of  her  sentiments,  than  his 
eyes  by  her  elegance  and  beauty.  While  he 
lingers  in  this  perilous  retreat,  he  is  .suddenly 
deprived  of  his  commission,  in  consequence 
of  some  misunderstandings  and  misre])resen- 
tatioiis  which  it  is  unnece.'^sary  to  detail )  and 
in  the  tirsl  heat  of  his  indignation,  is  almost 
tempted  to  throw  himself  into  the  array  of 
the  Children  of  Ivor,  and  join  the  insurgents, 
whose  designs  are  no  longer  seriously  disguis- 
ed from  him.  He  takes,  however,  the  more 
prudent  resolution  of  returning,  in  the  first 
place,  to  his  family  ;  but  is  stopped,  on  the 
borders  of  the  Highlands,  by  the  magistracy, 
whom  rumours  of  coming  events  had  made 
more  than  usually  suspicious,  and  forwarded 
as  a  prisoner  to  Stirlinn--  Qn  the  march  he  is 
rescued  by  a  band  of  unknown  Highlanders, 
who  ultimately  convey  him  in  safety  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  deposit  him  in  the  hands  of  his 
friend  Fergus  ]\Tac-Ivor,  who  was  mounting 
guard  with  his  Highlanders  at  the  ancient  pal- 
ace of  Holyrood.  where  the  Royal  Adventurer 
was  then  actually  holding  his  court.  A  com- 
bination of  temptations  far  too  powerful  for 
such  a  temper,  now  beset  Waverley  :  and, 
inflamed  at  once  by  the  ill-usage  he  thought 
he  had  received  from  the  government — the 
recollection  of  his  hereditary  predilections — 
his  friendship  and  admiration  of  Fergus — his 
love  for  his  sister — and  the  graceful  conde- 
scension and  personal  solicitations  of  the  un- 
fortunate Prince. — he  rashly  vows  to  unite  his 
fortunes  with  theirs,  and  enters  as  a  volunteer 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Children  of  Ivor. 

During  his  attendance  at  the  court  of  Holy- 
rood,  his  passion  for  the  magnanimous  Flora 
is  gradually  abated  by  her  continued  indiffer- 
ence, and  too  entire  devotion  to  the  public 
cause  :  and  his  affections  gradually  decline 
upon  Miss  Brad  ward  ine.  who  has  leisure  for 
less  important  co)icerrifnents.  He  accom- 
panies the  Adventurers  army,  and  signalises 
himself  in  the  battle  of  Preston, — where  he 
has  the  good  forturie  to  save  the  life  of  an 
English  officer,  who  turns  out  to  be  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  his  family,  and  remonstrates 
with  him  with  considerable  effect  on  the  rash 
step  he  has  taken.  It  is  now  impossible, 
however,  he  thinks,  to  recede  with  honour; 
and  he  pursues  the  disastrous  career  of  the 
invaders  into  England — during  which  he 
quarrels  with,  and  is  aaain  reconciled  to  Fer- 
gu.< — till  he  is  finally  separated  from  his  corps 
in  the  confusion  and  darkness  of  the  night- 
skirmish  at  Clifton— and,  after  lurking  for 
some  time  in  concealment,  finds  his  v.ay  to 
T,ondon,  where  he  is  protected  by  the  grate- 
ful friend  whose  life  he  had  saved  at  Preston^ 


526 


WORKS  OF  FICTIOX. 


and  sent  back  to  Scotland  till  some  arrange- 
ments could  be  made  about  his  pardon.  Here 
he  learns  the  liiud  discorntiture  of  his  former 
associates — is  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  both 
his  own  pardon,  and  that  of  old  Bradwardine 
— and,  after  making  sure  of  his  interest  in  the 
heart  of  the  young  lady,  at  last  bethinks  him 
of  going  to  give  an  account  of  himself  to  his 
family  at  VVaverley-Honour. — In  his  way.  he 
attends  the  assizes  at  Carlisle,  where  all  his 
efTorts  are  inelTectual  to  avert  the  fate  of  his 
gallant  friend  Fergus — whose  heroic  demean- 
our in  that  last  extremity,  is  depicted  with 
great  feeling: — has  a  last  interview  with  the 
desolated  Flora — obtains  the  consent  of  his 
frientis  to  his  marriage  with  Miss  Bradwar- 
dine— puts  the  old  Baron  in  possession  of  his 
forfeited  manor,  and.  m  due  time,  carries  his 
blooming  bride  to  the  peaceful  shades  of  his 
own  paternal  abode. 

Such  is  the  outline  of  the  story : — although 
it  is  broken  and  diversified  with  so  many  sub- 
ordinate incidents,  that  what  we  have  now 
given,  will  aiford  but  a  very  inadequate  idea 
even  of  the  narrative  part  of  the  performance. 
Though  that  narrative  is  always  lively  and 
easy,  the  great  charm  of  the  work  consists, 
undoubtedly,  in  the  characters  and  descrip- 
tions— though  we  can  scarcely  venture  to  pre- 
sent our  readers  with  more  than  a  single 
specimen  ;  and  we  select,  as  one  of  the  most 
characteristic,  the  account  of  Waverley's  night 
visit  to  the  cave  of  the  Highland  freebooter. 

"  In  a  short  time,  he  found  himself  on  the  banks 
of  a  large  river  or  lake,  where  his  conductor  gave 
him  to  understand  they  must  sit  down  for  a  little 
while.  The  moon,  which  now  began  to  rise, 
showed  obscurely  the  expanse  of  water  which 
spread  before  them,  and  the  shapeless  and  indistinct 
forms  of  mountains,  with  which  it  seemed  to  be 
surrounded.  The  cool,  and  yet  mild  air  oi  the  sum- 
mer night,  refreshed  Waverlcy  alter  his  rapid  and 
toilsome  walk;  and  the  perfume  which  it  wafted 
from  the  birch  trees,  bathed  in  the  evening  dew, 
was  e.xquisiiely  fragrant. 

"  He  had  now  time  to  give  himself  up  to  the  full 
romance  ot  his  situation.  Here  he  sat  on  the  banks 
of  an  unknown  lake,  under  the  guidance  of  a  wild 
native,  whose  language  was  unknown  to  him,  on  a 
visit  to  the  den  of  some  renowned  outlaw,  a  second 
Robin  Hood  perhaps,  or  Adam  o'  Gordon,  and  that 
at  deep  midnight,  through  scenes  of  difficulty  and 
toil,  separated  from  his  attendant,  and  left  by  his 
guide. 

■'  While  wrapt  in  these  dreams  of  imagination, 
his  companion  gently  touched  him,  and  pointing  in 
a  direction  nearly  straight  across  the  lake,  said, 
'  Yon's  ta  cove.'  A  small  point  of  light  was  seen 
to  twinkle  in  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed,  and, 
gradually  increasing  in  size  and  lustre,  seemed  to 
flicker  like  a  meteor  upon  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 
While  Rdward  watched  this  plienomenon,  the  dis- 
tant dash  of  oars  was  heard.  The  measured  splash 
arrived  near  and  more  near ;  and  presently  a  loud 
whistle  was  heard  in  the  same  direction.  His 
friend  with  the  battle-axe  immediately  whistled 
clear  and  shrill,  in  reply  to  the  signal ;  and  a  boat, 
manned  with  four  or  five  Highlanders,  pushed  for 
a  linle  inlet,  near  which  Edward  was  seated.  He 
advanced  to  meet  them  with  his  attendant:  was 
immediately  assisted  into  the  boat  by  the  officious 
attention  of  two  stout  mountaineers ;  and  had  no 
sooner  seated  himself,  than  they  resumed  their 
oars,  and  began  to  row  across  the  lake  with  great 
rapidity. 


"The  party  preserved  silence,  interrupted  i.jr 
by  the  monotonous  and  murmured  chant  of  a  Gmc 
song,  sung  in  a  kind  of  low  recitative  by  the  ste  j. 
man,  and  by  the  dash  of  the  oars,  which  the  n-s 
seemed  to  regulate,  as  they  dipped  to  them  in  i. 
dence.  The  light,  which  they  now  approai  d 
more  nearly,  assumed  a  broader,  redder,  and  r-e 
irregular  splendour.  It  appeared  plainly  to  !  a 
large  fire ;  but  whether  kindled  upon  an  islanir 
the  mainland,  Edward  could  not  determine.  A  le 
saw  it,  the  red  glaring  orb  seemed  to  rest  opie 
very  surface  of  the  lake  itself,  and  resembled  ,e 
fiery  vehicle  in  which  the  Evil  Genius  of  an  orifij 
tale  traverses  land  and  sea.  1  hey  approai  d 
nearer;  and  the  light  of  the  fire  suflficed  to  s  * 
that  it  was  kindled  at  the  bottom  of  a  huge  dark  : 
or  rock,  rising  abruptly  from  the  very  edge  ot  , 
water;  itsiront,  changed  by  the  reflection  lodi  . 
red.  formed  a  strange  and  even  awful  contra; 
the  banks  aromid,  which  were  from  tinte  to 
faintly  and  partially  enlightened  by  pallid  moonl  • 

"The  boat  now  neared  the  shore,  and  Kd\  a 
could  discover  that  this   large  fire  was  ki:.ii'f  n 
the  jaws  of  a  lofty  cavern,  into  which  an  initt    :n 
the  lake  seemed  to  advance  ;  and  he  conjecti  i, 
which  was  indeed  true,  that  the  fire  had  been  \. 
died  as  a  beacon  to  the  boatmen  on  their  ret  i. 
They  rosved  right  for  the  mouth  of  the  cave ;  id 
then  shipping  their  oars,  permitted  the  boat  loi^r 
with  the  impulse  which  it  had  received.     The  ;ff 
passed  the  little  point,  or  platform  of  rock  on  w  :h 
the  fire  was  blazing,  and  running  about  two  b  ,- 
length  farther,  stopped  where  the  cavern,  for  it  i- 
already  arched  overhead,  ascended  from  the  v  • 
by  five  or  six  broad   ledges  of  rock,  sc       - 
regular  that  they  might  be  termed  n;; 
At  this  moment,  a  quantity  of  water  w    - 
flung  upon  the  fire,  which  sunk  with  a  h- 
and  with  it  disappeared  the  light  it  had  i 
forded.     Four  or  five  active  arms  liftui 
out  of  the  boat,  placed  him  on  his  feet,  w 
carried  him  into  the  recesses  ot  the  cave,    il^  i 
a  few  paces  in  darkness,  guided  in  this  ni:u.:  <  r 
advancing  towards  a  hum  of  voices,  whin;  si .    : 
to  sound  from  the  centre  of  the  rock,  a:  ;in  ;  -t 
turn   Donald  Bean  Lean  and  his  whole  <::^;:il  i- 
ment  were  before  his  eyes. 

"The  interior  of  the  cave,  which  heri   .    -    - 
high,  was  illuminated  by  torches  made  u: 
which  emitted  a  bright  and  bickering  ligi.  .  .   • 
by  a  strong,  though  not  unpleasant  odour.       't 
light  was  assisted  by  the  red  glare  of  a  large  ,«■• 
coal  fire,  round  which  were  seated  five  or  six  a  ed 

Highlanders,   while  others  were  indisti 'v  "■ 

couched  on  their  plaids,  in  the  morerenu  : 
of  the  cavern.     In  one  large  aperture, 
robber  facetiously   called    his  spence    ^j:    , .-: 
there  hung  by  the  heels  the  carcases  of  a  she  i 
ewe.  and  two  cows,  lately  slaughtered. 

"  Being  placed  at  a  convenient  distance  froi  h< 
charcoal  fire,  the  heat  of  which  the  season  rem  t 
oppressive,  a  strapping  Highland  damsel  place;f 
fore   Waverlcy.   Evan,   and   Donald    Bean,    !■ 
cogues,  or  wooden  vessels,  composed  ot  ^      ■ 
hoops,   containing   imriixh,  a   sort  of  .- 
made  out  of  a  particular  part  of  the  in- 
beeves.     After   this   relreshment,    wlm  i..   ' 
coarse,    fiiiigue   and    hunger   rend- red    p;ii:i 
steaks,  roasted  on  the  coals,  were  siippli'  r.  i: 
ral  abundance,  and  disappeared  before   \'.\-\n 
and  their  host  with  a  promptitude  that  s ( t  ii!i 
magic,  and  astonished  Waverley,  who  wa.- 
puzzled  to  reconcile  their  voracity  with  whii  1 
heard  of  the  abstemiousness  of  the  Hid 
A  heath  pallet,  with  the  flowers  stuck  • 
had  been  prepared  for  him  in  a  rece.'^s  ct 
and  here,  covered  with  such  'spare  plaids  as  ' 
be  mustered,  he  lay  (or  some   time  watchin'l'' 
motions   of  the   other   inhabitants  of  the  c  n^ 
Small  parlies  of  two  or  three  entered  or  It''' 
plate  without  any  other  ceremony  than  a  few   ^^- 
in  Gaelic  to  the  principal  outlaw,  and  when  l''"- 


WAVERLEV, 


527 


iepp,  to  a  tall  Hitrhlander  who  actpd  as  his  lieuten- 
:,  and  seemed  To  keep  watch  during  his  repose, 
lose  whoeniered,  seemed  lo  have  reiurned  from 
(me  excursion,  of  which  they  reported  the  success, 
Id  went  wiihtuit  farther  ceremony  to  the  larder, 
here  cutting  with  their  dirks  their  rations  from 
\i  carcases  which  were  there  suspended,  they  pro- 
\ided  to  broil  and  eat  them  at  their  own  time  and 
feiire. 

■•  At  length  the  fluctuating  groupes  began  to 
iim  before  the  eyes  of  our  hero  as  they  gradually 
|ised  ;  nor  did  he  reopen  them  till  the  morning 
h  was  hiiih  on  the  lake  without,  though  there  was 
h  a  faint  and  glimmering  twilight  in  Ihe  recesses 
(il'ainih  an  Ri,  or  the  King's  cavern,  as  the  abode 
(IDonald  Bean  Lean,  was  proudly  denominated. 
I '  Wlien  F.dward  had  collected  his  scattered  rccol- 
jltion,  lie  was  surprised  to  observe  the  cavern  lo- 
i'!y  deserted.  Having  arisen  and  put  his  dress  in 
•uie  order,  he  looked  more  accurately  around  him, 
lit  all  was  still  solitary.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
(i-ayed  brands  of  the  fire,  now  simk  into  grey 
ties,  and  the  remnants  of  the  festival,  consisting 
c!)ones  half  burned  and  half  gnawed,  and  an  empty 
iiT  or  two,  there  remained  no  traces  of  Donald  and 
i;  band. 

\'  Near  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave  he  heard  the 
rresof  a  lively  Gaelic  song,  guided  by  which,  in 
alanny  recess,  shaded  by  a  glittering  birch  tree, 
ol  carpetted  with  a  bank  ot  firm  white  sand,  he 
find  the  damsel  of  the  cavern,  whose  lay  had 
a|.'ady  reached  him,  busy  to  the  best  of  her  power, 
ij.rranging  to  advantage  a  morning  repast  of  milk, 
e|;s.  barley  bread,  fresh  butter,  and  honeycomb. 
'  le  poor  girl  had  made  a  circuit  of  four  miles  that 
pTning  in  search  of  the  eggs,  of  the  meal  which 
b  ed  her  cakes,  and  of  the  other  materials  of  the 
bakfast,  being  all  delicacies  which  she  had  to  beg 
O'orrow  from  distant  cottagers.  The  followers 
oiDonald  Bean  Lean  used  little  food  except  the 
tlih  of  the  animals  which  they  drove  away  from 
'  tl;  Lowlands;  bread  itself  was  a  delicacy  seldom 
■tfjght  of,  because  hard  to  be  obtained;  and  all 
■tltdomesiic  accommodations  of  milk,  poultry,  but- 
<:  td  &,c.  were  out  of  the  question  in  this  Scythian 
Sc|ip.  Yet  it  must  not  be  omitted,  that  although 
fi.:e  had  occupied  a  part  of  the  morning  in  provi- 
>dl;  those  accommodations  for  her  guest  which  the 
cibrn  did  not  afford,  she  had  secured  time  also  to 

■  a.jnge  her  own   person  in  her  best  trim.     Her 

■  firy  was  very  simple.  A  short  russet-coloured 
IE  j'-ket,  and  a  petticoat  of  scanty  longitude,  was  her 
aw|»!e  dress:  but  these  were  clean,  and  neatly  ar- 
':n;ed.  A  piece  oi  scarlet  embroidered  cloth,  called 
<<l\ snood,  confined  her  hair,  which  fell  over  it  in  a 
*  pi'usion  of  rich  dark  curls.  'J'he  scarlet  plaid, 
:wch  formed  part  of  her  dress,  was  laid  aside,  that 
i^iljiight  not  impede  her  activity  in  attending  the 

6i[nger.  I  should  forget  Alice's  proudest  orna- 
(' niit  were  I  to  omit  mentioning  a  pair  of  gold  ear- 
'ris,  and  a  golden  rosary  which  her  father,  (for 
[islwas  the  daughter  of  Donald  Bean  Lean)  had 
;i' bi  ight  from  France — the  plunderprobably  of  some 
s'bilie  or  storm. 

Her  form,  though  rather  large  for  her  years, 
very  well  proportioned,   and  her  demeanour 

hi  a  natural  and  rustic  grace,  with  nothing  of  the 
|i8Lpishness  of  an  ordinary  peasant.  The  smiles, 
ifioiiayinga  row  of  teeth  ot  exquisite  whiteness,  and 
E'llhaughing  eyes,  with  which,  in  dumb-show,  she 
ssgi!  Waverlev  that  morning  greeting  which  she 
ijwvied  English  words  to  express,  might  have  been 
;l!un;preied  by  a  coxcomb,  or  perhaps  a  young 
lifSOier, Who,  without  being  stich,  was  conscious  of 
iffi  idsome  person,  as  meant  to  convey  more  than 
(ith  courtesy  of  a  hostess.  Nor  do  I  take  it  upon 
liisni  0  say,  that  the  little  wild  mountaineer  would 
(inn  welcomed  any  staid  old  gentleman  advanced 
ilf'n  fe,  the  Baron  of  Bratlwardine,  for  example, 
(1:^1  thft  cheerful  pains  which  she  bestowed  upon 
idiEtfard's  accommodation.  She  seemed  eager  to 
IsPfe  him  by  the  meal  which  she  had  so  sedulous- 


ly arranged,  and  to  which  she  now  added  a  few 
bunches  of  cranberries,  gathered  in  an  adjacent  mo- 
rass. Having  had  the  saiisl'aciion  of  seeing  him 
seated  at  breaki'ast,  she  placed  herself  demurely 
upon  a  stone  at  a  lew  yard.H'  distance,  and  appeared 
to  watch  with  great  complacency  for  some  oppor 
tunity  of  serving  him. 

"  ]\Ieanwhile  Alice  had  made  up  in  a  small  bas 
ket  what  she  thought  worth  removing,  and  flinging 
her  plaid  around  her,  she  advanced  up  to  Edward, 
and,  with  tlie  utmost  simplicity,  taking  hold  of  his 
hand,  offered  her  cheek  to  his  salute,  dropping,  at 
the  same  time,  her  little  courtesy.  Evan,  who  was 
esteemed  a  wag  among  the  mountain  fair,  advanced, 
as  if  to  secure  a  similar  favour ;  but  Alice,  snatch- 
ing up  her  basket,  escaped  up  the  rocky  bank  as 
tleetly  as  a  deer,  and,  turning  round  and  laughing, 
called  something  out  to  him  in  Gaelic,  which  he 
answered  in  the  sanie  tone  and  language  ;  ilien 
waving  her  hand  to  Edward,  she  resumed  her  r<iad, 
and  was  soon  lost  among  the  thickets,  though  they 
continued  for  soine  time  to  hear  her  lively  carol,  as 
she  proceeded  gailv  on  her  solitary  journey."  — 
Vol.  i.  pp.  240—271). 

The  gay  scenes  of  the  Adventurer's  court 
— the  breaking  up  of  his  army  from  Edin- 
burgh— the  battle  of  Preston — and  the  whole 
process  of  his  disastrous  advance  and  retreat 
from  the  Enijlish  provinces.  ;ire  given  with 
the  greatest  brilliancy  and  effect — as  well  as 
the  scenes  of  internal  disorder  and  rising  dis- 
union that  prevail  in  his  scanty  army — the 
quarrel  with  Fergus — and  the  mystical  visions 
by  which  that  devoted  chieftain  foresees  hi3 
disastrous  fate.  The  lower  scenes  again  with 
Mrs.  Flockhart.  Mrs.  Nosebag.  Cailum-Beg, 
and  the  Cumberland  peasants,  though  to  some 
fastidious  readers  they  may  appear  coarse  and 
disgusting,  are  painted  with  a  force  and  a 
truth  to  nature,  which  equally  bespeak  the 
powers  of  the  artist,  and  are  incomparably 
superior  to  any  thing  of  the  sort  which  has 
been  offered  to  the  public  for  the  last  "si.xty 
years."  There  are  also  various  copies  of 
verses  scattered  through  the  work,  which 
indicate  poetical  talents  of  no  ordinary  de- 
scription— though  bearing;  perhaps  still  more 
distinctly  than  the  prose,  the  traces  of  consid- 
erable carelessness  and  haste. 

The  worst  part  of  the  book  by  far  is  that 
portion  of  the  first  volume  which  contains  the 
history  of  the  hero's  residence  in  England — 
and  ne.xt  to  it  is  the  laborious,  tardy,  and  ob- 
scure e.xplanation  of  some  puzzling  occur- 
rences in  the  story,  which  the  reader  would, 
in  general,  be  much  better  pleased  to  be  per- 
mitted to  forget — and  which  are  neither  well 
e.\p]ained  after  all,  nor  at  all  worth  explaining. 

There  has  been  much  speculation,  at  least 
in  this  quarter  of  the  i.sland,  about  the  author- 
ship of  this  singular  performance — and  cer- 
tainly it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture  why  it  is 
still  anonymous. — judging  by  internal  evi- 
dence, to  which  alone  we  pietend  to  have 
access,  we  should  not  scruple  to  ascribe  it  to 
the  hi2-hest  of  those  authors  to  whom  it  has 
been  assigned  by  th'-;  sagaeious  conjectures 
of  the  public  : — and  this  at  lea.st  we  will  ven- 
ture to  say,  that  if  it  be  indeed  the  work  of 
an  author  hitherto  unknown,  Mr.  J^cott  would 
do  well  to  look  to  his  laurels,  and  to  rouse 
himself  for  a  stuidir-r  coniiK'lition  than  any 
he  has  yet  had  to  encounter ! 


S28 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


(fllavtl),   1817.) 

Tales  of  My  Landlord,  collected  and  arranged  by  Jedediah  Cleishbotham,  Schoolmaster  a. 
Parish  Clerk  of  the  Parish  of  Gandercleugh.     4  vols.     12mo.*  Edinburgh:  1816. 

This,  we  think,  is  beyond  all  question  a 
new  coinage  from  the  mint  which  produced 
VVaverley,  Guy  Mannering,  and  the  Antiquary: 
— For  though  it  does  not  bear  the  legend  and 
superscription  of  the  Master  on  the  face  of 
the  pieces,  there  is  no  mistaking  either  the 
quality  of  the  metal  or  the  execution  of  the 
die — and  even  the  private  mark,  we  doubt 
not,  may  be  seen  plain  enough,  by  those  who 
know  how  to  look  for  it.  It  is  quite  impos- 
sible to  read  ten  pages  of  this  work,  in  short, 
without  feeling  that  it  belongs  to  the  same 
school  with  those  very  remarkable  produc- 
tions :  and  no  one  who  has  any  knowledge  of 
nature,  or  of  art,  will  ever  doubt  that  it  is  an 
original.  The  very  identity  of  the  leading 
characters  in  the  whole  set  of  stories,  is  a 
stronger  proof,  perhaps,  that  those  of  the  la.st 
series  are  not  copied  from  the  former,  than 
even  the  freshness  and  freedom  of  the  drape- 
ries with  which  they  are  now  invested — or 
the  ease  and  spirit  of  the  new  groups  into 
which  they  are  here  combined.  No  imitator 
would  have  ventured  so  near  his  originals, 
and  yet  come  off  so  entirely  clear  of  ihem  : 
And  we  are  only  the  more  assured  that  the 
old  acquaintances  we  continually  recognise  in 
these  volumes,  are  really  the  persons  they 
pretend  to  be,  and  no  false  mimics,  that  we 
recollect  so  perfectly  to  have  seen  them  be- 
fore,— or  at  least  to  have  been  familiar  with 
some  of  their  near  relations  ! 

We  have  often  been  astonished  at  the 
quantity  of  talent — of  invention,  observation, 
and  knowledge  of  character,  as  well  as  of 
spirited  and  graceful  composition,  that  may 
be  found  in  those  works  of  fiction  in  our  lan- 
guage, which  are  generally  regarded  as 
among  the  lower  productions  of  our  litera- 
ture,— upon  which  no  great  pains  is  under- 
stood to  be  bestowed,  and  which  are  seldom 
regarded  as  titles  to  a  permanent  reputation. 
If  Novels,  however,  are  not  fated  to  last  as 
long  as  Epic  poems,  they  are  at  least  a  great 
deal  more  popular  in  their  season ;  and,  slight 
as  their  structure,  and  imperfect  as  their  fin- 
ishing may  often  be  thought  in  comparison, 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  sayine:,  that  the  better 
specimens  of  the  art  are  incomparably  more 
entertaining,  and  considerably  more  instruc- 
tive. The  great  objection  to  them,  indeeil.  is, 
that  they  are  too  entertaining  —  and  are  so 
pleasant  in  the  reading,  as  to  be  apt  to  pro- 
duce a  disrelish  for  other  kinds  of  reading, 
which  may  be  more  necessary,  and  can  in 
no  way  be  made  so  agreeable.  Neither  sci- 
ence, nor  authentic  history,  nor  political  nor 
professional  instruclion,  can  be  rightly  con- 
veyed, we  fear,  in  a  pleasant  tale  ;  and,  there- 
fore, all  those  things  are  in  danger  of  appear- 


•  ing  dull  and  uninteresting  to  the  votaries  < 
:  these  more  seductive  studies.  Among  il 
i  most  popular  of  these  popular  productio 
that  have  appeared  in  our  times,  we  mi 
rank  the  works  to  which  we  just  alludei 
and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  sjiy,  that  they  a 
I  well  entitled  to  that  distinction.  They  a 
;  indeed,  in  many  respects,  very  extraoidina 
:  performances — though  in  nothing  more  exli 
I  ordinary  than  in  haviiiii'  remained  so  long  u 
claimed.  There  is  no  name,  we  think,  in  o 
I  literature,  to  which  they  would  not  adil  lust 
[ — and  lustre,  too,  of  a  very  enviable  kin< 
j  for  they  not  only  show  great  talent,  but  i 
finite  good  sense  and  rrood  nature, — a  mo 
vigorous  and  wide-reaching  intellect  than 
often  displayed  in  novels,  and  a  moie  powe 
ful  fancy,  and  a  deeper  sympathy  with  v 
rious  passion,  than  is  often  combined  \vi 
such  strength  of  understanding. 

The  author,  whoever  he  is,  has  a  tni 
graphic  and  creative  power  in  the  inventii 
and  delineation  of  characters — which  1 
sketches  with  an  ease,  and  colouis  with 
brilliancy,  and  scatters  about  with  a  pi 
fusion,  which  reminds  us  of  Shakespea 
himself:  Yet  with  all  this  force  and  feliri 
in  the  representation  of  living  agents,  he  h 
the  eye  of  a  poet  for  all  the  striking  aspec 
external  of  nature:  aiid  usually  contrive 
both  in  his  scenery  and  in  the  groups  wi, 
which  it  is  enlivened,  to  combine  the  picti; 
esque  with  the  natural,  with  a  grace  that  h 
rarely  been  attained  by  artists  so  copious  ai 
rapid.  His  narrative,  in  this  way,  is  kept  co 
stantly  full  of  life,  variety,  and  colour:  ai 
is  so  interspersed  with  glowing  descriptioi 
and  lively  allusions,  and  flying  traits  of  >* 
gacity  and  pathos,  as  not  only  to  keep  o, 
attention  continually  awake,  but  to  afford, 
pleasine  exercise  to  most  of  our  other  faci 
ties.  The  prevailing  tone  is  very  gay  at 
pleasant ;  but  the  author's  most  remarkabi; 
and.  perhaps,  his  most  delightful  talent, 
that  of  representing  kindness  of  heart  in  unii 
with  lightness  of  spirits  and  great  simplici 
of  character,  and  of  bending  the  expressit 
of  warm  and  generous  and  exalted  all'eelio 
with  scenes  and  persons  that  are  in  themselv 
both  lowly  and  ludicrous.  This  gift  he  shgr 
with  his  illustrious  countryman  Burns— a?  i 
does  many  of  the  other  qualilits  we  ha', 
mentioned  with  another  livine:  poet. — who 
only  inferior  perhaps  in  that  to  v.  hich  we  ha' 
last  alluded.  It  is  very  honourable  inder 
we  think,  both  to  the  author,  and  to  the  readf 
among  whom  he  is  so  extremely  popular,  th 
the  great  interest  of  his  pieces  is  for  the  me 
part  a  Moral  intetest— that  the  concern  v 
take  in  his  favourite  characters  is  less  on  a 


TALES  OF  MY  LANDLORD. 


(iant  of  their  adventures  than  of  their  amia- 1 
lioness — and  that  the  great  charm  of  his  works  \ 
i  derived  from  the  kindness  of  heart,  the 
Caacity  of  generous  emotions,  and  the  hghts 
cnative  taste  which  he  ascribes,  so  lavishly, 
si  at  the  same  time  with  such  an  air  of  truth 
3I  familiarity,  even  to  the  humblest  of  these 
f'ourites.  VVilh  all  his  relish  for  the  ridicu- 
1  3,  accordingly,  there  is  no  tone  of  misan- 
tiopy,  or  even  of  sarcasm,  in  his  representa- 
I'ls;  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  indulgence 
ai  relenting  even  towards  those  who  are  to 
t  the  objects  of  our  disapprobation.  There 
i'lo  keen  or  cold-blooded  satire — no  bitter- 
ri;s  of  heart,  or  fierceness  of  resentment,  in 
a,'  part  of  his  writings.  His  love  of  ridicule 
iiittle  else  than  a  love  of  mirth;  and  savours 
toughout  of  the  joyous  temperament  in 
Vjich  it  appears  to  have  its  origin  ;  while  the 
toyancy  of  a  raised  and  poetical  imagination 
lis  him  continually  above  the  region  of  mere 
jfity  and  good  humour,  to  which  a  taste,  by 
D'means  nice  or  fastidious,  might  otherwise 
bin  danger  of  sinking  him.  He  is  evidently 
aerson  of  a  very  sociable  and  liberal  spirit 
-vith  great  habits  of  observation — who  has 
r'ged  pretty  extensively  through  the  varie- 
ty of  human  life  and  character,  and  mingled 
vjh  them  all,  not  only  with  intelligent  famili- 
ay.  but  with  a  free  and  natural  sympathy 
fi' all  the  diversities  of  their  tastes,  pleasures, 
a'l  pursuits — one  who  has  kept  his  heart  as 
V;ll  as  his  eyes  open  to  all  that  has  offered 
il'-lf  to  engage  them  ;  and  learned  indulgence 
f(j  human  faults  and  follies,  not  only  from 
fijiing  kindred  faults  in  their  most  intolerant 
cisors.  but  also  for  the  sake  of  the  virtues  by 
M[ich  they  are  often  redeemed,  and  the  suf- 
ftjngs  by  which  they  have  still  oftener  been 
cj-sfised.  The  temper  of  his  writings,  in 
&lrt.  is  precisely  the  reverse  of  those  of  our 
Ljireates  and  Lakers,  who,  being  themselves 
tlimost  whimsical  of  mortals,  make  it  a  con- 
sii!nce  to  loathe  and  abhor  all  with  whom 
tliy  happen  to  disagree;  and  labour  to  pro- 
nie  mutual  animosity  and  all  manner  of 
utharitableness  among  mankind,  by  refer- 
ri,if  every  supposed  error  of  taste,  or  pecu- 
li|ity  of  opinion,  to  some  hateful  corruption 
othe  heart  and  understanding. 

jVith  all  the  indulgence,  however,  which 
w'.so  justly  ascribe  to  him,  we  are  far  from 
ciiiplaining  of  the  writer  before  us  for  being 
tc'neutial  and  undecided  on  the  great  sub- 
jfjs  which  are  most  apt  to  engender  exces- 
sil!  zeal  and  intoleiance — and  we  are  almost 
a;[ar  from  agieeinar  with  him  as  to  most  of 
the  subjects.  In  politics  it  is  sufficiently 
niKifest,  that  he  is  a  decided  Tory — and.  we 
aiiafraid.  something  of  a  latitudinarian  both 
in'iorals  and  religion .  He  is  very  apt  at  least 
tojiake  a  mock  of  ail  enthusiasm  for  liberty 
oijihh — and  not  only  gives  a  decided  prefer- 
ei3  to  the  social  over  the  austerer  virtues — 
bi'seldom  expresses  any  warm  or  hearty  ad- 
mjUion.  except  for  those  graceful  and  gentle- 
niji-liie  principles,  which  can  generally  be 
add  upon  with  a  gay  countenance — and  do 
nciimply  any  great  effort  of  self-denial,  or 
aiiidftep  sense  of  the  rights  of  others,  or  the 
67 


helplessness  and  humility  of  our  common 
nature.  Unless  we  misconstrue  very  gro.-^sly 
the  indications  in  these  volumes,  the  author 
thinks  no  times  so  happy  as  those  in  which  an 
indulgent  monarch  awards  a  reasonable  por- 
tion of  liberty  to  grateful  subjects,  who  do 
not  call  in  (juestion  his  right  either  to  give  or 
to  withhold  it — in  which  a  dignified  and  de- 
cent hierarchy  receives  the  homage  of  their 
submissive  and  uniiuiuiiiiig  ilockg — and  a 
g-allant  nobility  redeems  the  venial  immo- 
ralities of  their  gayer  hours,  by  brave  and 
honourable  conduct  towards  each  other,  and 
spontaneous  kindness  to  vassals,  in  whom 
they  recognise  no  independent  rights,  and  not 
many  features  of  a  common  nature. 

It  is  very  remarkable,  however,  that,  with 
propensities  thus  decidedly  aristocratical,  the 
ingenious  author  has  succeeded  by  far  the 
best  HI  the  representation  of  rustic  and  homely 
characters;  and  not  in  the  ludicrous  or  con- 
temptuous representation  of  them — but  by 
making  them  at  once  more  natural  and  more 
interesting  than  they  had  ever  been  made 
before  in  any  work  of  fiction  ;  by  showing 
them,  not  as  clowns  to  be  laughed  at — or 
wretches,  to  be  pitied  and  despised — but  as 
human  creatures,  with  as  many  pleasures  and 
fewer  cares  than  their  superiors — with  affec- 
tions not  only  as  strong,  but  often  as  delicate 
as  those  whose  language  is  smoother — and 
with  a  vein  of  humour,  a  force  of  sagacity, 
and  very  frequently  an  elevation  of  fancy,  as 
high  and  as  natural  as  can  be  met  with  among 
more  cultivated  beings.  The  great  merit  of 
all  these  delineations,  is  their  admirable  truth 
and  fidelity — the  whole  manner  and  cast  of 
the  characters  being  accurately  moulded  on 
their  condition — and  the  finer  attributes  that 
are  ascribed  to  them  so  blended  and  harmonis- 
ed with  the  native  rudeness  and  simplicity  of 
their  life  and  occupations,  that  they  are  made 
interesting  and  even  noble  beings,  without  the 
least  particle  of  foppery  or  exaggeration,  and 
delight  and  amuse  us,  without  trespassing  at 
all  on  the  province  of  pastoral  or  romance. 

Next  to  these,  we  think,  he  has  found  his 
happiest  subjects,  or  at  least  displayed  his 
greatest  powers,  in  the  delineation  of  the  grand 
and  gloomy  jaspects  of  nature,  and  of  the  dark 
and  fierce  passions  of  the  heart.  The  natural 
gaiety  of  his  temper  does  not  indeed  allow 
him  to  dwell  long  on  such  themes; — but  the 
sketches  he  occasionally  introduces,  are  exe- 
cuted with  admirable  force  and  spirit — and 
give  a  strong  impression  both  of  the  vigour  of 
his  imagination,  and  the  variety  of  his  talent. 
It  is  only  in  the  third  rank  that  we  would  place 
his  pictures  of  chivalry  and  chivalrous  char- 
acter— his  traits  of  gallantry,  nobleness,  and 
honour — and  that  bewitching  combination  of 
gay  and  gentle  manners,  with  generosity,  can- 
dour, and  courage,  which  has  long  been  fa- 
miliar enough  to  readers  and  writers  of  novels, 
but  has  never  before  been  represented  with 
such  an  air  of  truth,  and  so  much  ease  and 
happiness  of  execution. 

Among  his  faults  and  failures,  we  must  give 
the  first  place  to  his  descriptions  of  virtuous 
young  ladies — and  his  representations  of  the 
2U 


630 


WORKS  OF  JICTION. 


ordinary  business  of  courtship  and  conversa- 
tion ill  polished  life.  We  admit  that  those 
things,  as  they  are  commonly  conducted  in 
real  life,  are  apt  to  be  a  little  insipid  to  a  mere 
critical  spectator  ; — and  that  while  they  conse- 
quently require  more  heightening  than  strange 
adventures  or  grotesque  persons,  they  admit 
less  of  exaggeration  or  ambitious  ornament : 
— Yet  we  cannot  think  it  necessary  that  they 
should  be  altogether  so  tame  and  mawkish  as 
we  generally  find  them  in  the  hands  of  this 
spirited  writer, — whose  powers  really  seem 
to  re(juire  some  stronger  stimulus  to  bring 
them  into  action,  than  can  be  supphed  by  the 
flat  realities  of  a  peaceful  and  ordinary  exist- 
ence. His  love  of  the  ludicrous,  it  must  also 
be  observed,  often  betrays  him  into  forced 
and  vulgar  exaggerations,  and  into  the  repeti- 
tion of  common  and  paltry  stories, — though  it 
is  but  fair  to  add,  that  he  does  not  detain  us 
long  with  them,  and  makes  amends  by  the 
copiousness  of  his  assortment  for  the  indiffer- 
ent  quality  of  some  of  the  specimens.  It  is 
another  consequence  of  this  extreme  abund- 
ance in  which  he  revels  and  riots,  and  of  the 
fertility  of  the  imagination  from  which  it  is 
supplied,  that  he  is  at  all  times  a  little  apt  to 
overdo  even  those  things  which  he  does  best. 
His  most  striking  and  highly  coloured  char- 
acters appear  rather  too  often,  and  go  on  rather 
too  long.  It  is  astonishing;  indeed,  with  what 
spirit  they  are  supported,  and  how  fresh  and 
animated  they  are  to  the  very  last ; — but  still 
there  is  something  too  much  of  them — and 
they  would  be  more  waited  for  and  welcomed, 
if  they  were  not  quite  so  lavish  of  their  pres- 
ence.— It  was  reserved  for  Shakespeare  alone, 
to  leave  all  his  characters  as  new  and  unworn 
as  he  found  them, — and  to  carry  Falstaff 
through  the  business  of  three  several  plays, 
and  leave  us  as  greedy  of  his  sayings  as  at  the 
moment  of  his  first  introduction.  It  is  no 
light  praise  to  the  author  before  us,  that  he 
has  sometimes  reminded  us  of  this,  as  well 
as  other  inimitable  excellences  in  that  most 
gifted  of  all  inventors. 

To  complete  this  hasty  and  unpremeditated 
sketch  of  his  general  characteristics,  we  must 
add.  that  he  is  above  all  things  national  and 
Scottish, — and  never  seems  to  feeJ  the  powers 
of  a  Giant,  except  when  he  touches  his  native 
soil.  His  countrymen  alone,  therefore,  can 
have  a  full  sense  of  his  merits,  or  a  perfect 
relish  of  his  excellences ; — and  those  only, 
indeed,  of  them,  who  have  mingled,  as  he 
has  done,  pretty  freely  with  the  lower  orders, 
ami  made  themselves  familiar  not  onlv  with 
their  language,  but  with  the  habits  and  traits 
of  character,  of  which  it  then  only  becomes 
expressive.  It  is  one  thing  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  words,  as  they  are  explained  by 
other  words  in  a  glossary,  and  another  to  know 
their  value,  as  expressive  of  certain  feelings 
and  humours  in  the  speakers  to  whom  they 
are  native,  and  as  signs  both  of  temper  and 
condition  among  those  who  are  familiar  with 
their  import. 

We  must  content  ourselves,  v/e  fear,  with 
this  hasty  and  superficial  sketch  of  the  gene- 
ral charauift!!  oi  this  author's  performances,  in 


the  place  of  a  more  detailed  examination 
those  which  he  has  given  to  tlie  public  sii 
we  first  announced  him  as  the  author 
Waverley.  The  time  for  noticing  his  t\ 
intermediate  works,  has  been  peraiitted 
by  so  far.  that  it  would  probably  be  diffici] 
to  recal  the  public  attention  to  tiiem  with  ai 
effect  ]  and,  at  all  events,  impossible  to  affed 
by  any  observations  of  ours,  the  judgme: 
which  has  been  passed  upon  them,  with  ye'? 
little  assistance,  we  must  say.  from  profess< 
critics,  by  the  mass  of  their  intelligent  readei 
— by  whom,  indeed,  we  have  no  doubt  tb 
they  are,  by  this  time,  as  well  known,  and 
correctly  estimated,  as  if  they  had  been 
debted  to  us  for  their  first  impressions  on  tl 
subject.  For  our  own  parts  we  must  confer 
that  Waverley  still  has  to  us  all  the  fascinatit 
of  a  first  love  !  and  that  we  cannot  help  thin 
ing,  that  the  greatness  of  the  public  transa 
tions  in  which  that  story  was  involved,  ; 
well  as  the  wildness  and  picturesque  nrac: 
of  its  Highland  scenery  and  characti  rs.  hai 
invested  it  with  a  chann.  to  which  the  mo 
familiar  attractions  of  the  other  pieces  ha\ 
not  quite  come  up.  In  this,  perhaps,  oi 
opinion  diff"ers  from  that  of  belter  judges  ;- 
but  we  cannot  help  suspecting,  that  the  latti 
publications  are  most  admired  by  many,  . 
least  in  the  southern  part  of  the  island 
because  they  are  more  easily  and  perfi 
understood,  in  consequence  of  the  trainiTf 
which  had  been  gone  through  in  the  perus 
of  the  former.  But,  however  tliat  be,  we  ai 
far  enough  from  denying  that  the  two  su 
ceeding  works  are  performances  of  extraord 
nary  merit, — and  are  willing  even  to  admi 
that  they  show  quite  as  much  power  ar 
genius  in  the  author — though,  to  our  taste  i 
least,  the  subjects  are  less  happily  selected' 
Dandie  Dinmont  is,  bej-ond  all  (juestion,  v 
think,  the  best  rustic  portrait  that  has  evi 
yet  been  exhibited  to  the  public — the  mo 
honourable  to  rustics,  and  the  most  creditab 
to  the  heart,  as  well  as  the  genius  of  thearti 
— the  truest  to  nature — tjie  most  iiUerestir 
and  the  most  complete  in  all  its  lineament 
— Meg  Merrilees  belongs  more  to  the  depar 
ment  of  poetry.  She  is  mo.'^t  akin  to  th 
witches  of  Macbeth;  with  some  traits  of  th 
ancient  Sybil  engrafted  on  the  coarser  slot 
of  a  Gipsy  of  the  last  century.  Though  m 
absolutely  in  nature,  however,  she  must  \ 
allowed  to  be  a  very  imposing  and  em]  ha! 
personage,  and  to  be  mingled,  both  with  th 
business  and  the  scenery  of  the  piece,  wil 
the  greatest  possible  skill  and  efi'ect. — Ple\ 
dell  is  a  liarsh  caricature  ;  and  Dirk  Hatten 
a  vulgar  bandit  of  the  German  school.  Tli 
lovers,  too,  are  rather  more  faultless  and  moi 
insipid  than  usual, — and  all  the  genteel  pei 
sons,  indeed,  not  a  little  fatiguing.  Yet  thef 
are  many  passages  of  great  merit,  of  a  gentk 
and  less  obtrusive  character.  The  grief  o 
old  Ellengowan  for  the  loss  of  his  child,  an  i 
the  picture  of  his  own  dotage  and  death,  ar 
very  touching  and  natural ;  while  the  manj 
descriptions  of  the  coast  scenery,  and  of  th.. 
various  localities  of  the  story,  are  given  ^\i\ 
a  freedom,  force,  and  effect,  that  bring  eter] 


TALES  OF  MY  L.-ViXOLORD. 


531 


^  feluTe  before  our  eyes,  and  impress  us  with 
■  ai'rresistible  conviction  of  their  realitj'. 

"he  Antiquary  is,  perhaps,  on  the  whole, 
'  le'  interesting; — though  there  are  touches  in 
it  cjual,  if  not  superior,  to  any  thing  that 
ocirs  in  either  of  the  other  works.  The 
aifiilnre  of  the  tide  and  night  storm  under 
tlifclitTs,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  the 
^  v<)^■  best  description  we  ever  met  with, — in 
:  vAe  or  in  prose,  in  ancient  or  in  modern 
W'ing.  Old  Edie  is  of  the  family  of  Meg 
Rlriiees, — a  younger  brother,  we  confess, 
wi  less  terror  and  energy,  and  more  taste 
ai  ffiiety,  but  equally  a  poetical  embellish- 
mit  of  a  familiar  character;  and  yet  resting 
eiimh  on  the  great  points  of  nature,  to  be 
bllided  without  extravagance  in  the  trans- 
acbns  of  beings  so  perfectly  natural  and 
tbioughly  alive  that  no  suspicion  can  be  en- 
te'iined  oUhcir  reality.  The  Antiquary  hirn- 
se'  is  the  great  blemish  of  the  work, — at 
le  t  in  so  far  as  he  is  an  Antiquary  ; — though 
wmust  say  for  him,  that,  unlilcfe  most  oddi- 
lit'  he  wearies  us  most  at  first ;  and  is  so 
m  aged,  as  to  turn  out  both  more  interesting 
arj  more  amusing  than  we  had  any  reason 
tofxpect.  The  low  characters  in  this  book 
arnot  always  worth  drawing ;  but  they  are 
e.>|aisitely  finished;  and  prove  the  extent  and 
ac'iracy  of  the  author's  acquaintance  with 
hiian  life  and  human  nature. — The  family 
ofie  fisherman  is  an  exquisite  group  througli- 
ou  and,  at  the  scene  of  the  funeral,  in  the 
hiiest  degree  striking  and  pathetic.  Dous- 
te\vivel  is  as  wearisome  as  the  genuine 
Sjtzheim  himself:  And  the  tragic  story  of 
fh'Lord  is,  on  the  whole,  a  miscarriage; 
th  gh  interspersed  with  passages  of  great 
fo^sand  enercy.  The  denouement  which  con- 
ne's  it  with  the  active  hero  of  the  piece,  is  al- 
tojther  forced  and  unnatural.— We  come  now, 
at  lice,  to  the  work  immediately  before  us. 

he  tales  of  My  Landlord,  though  they  fill 
foil  volumes,  are,  as  yet,  but  two  in  number ; 
thbne  being  thi-ee  times  as  long,  and  ten 
lirfs  as  interesting  as  the  other.  The  intro- 
dujion,  from  which  the  geneial  title  is  de- 
rive, is  as  foolish  and  clumsy  as  may  be  ; 
an'is  another  instance  of  that  occasional  im- 
belity,  or  self-willed  caprice,  which  every 
no  and  then  leads  this  author,  before  he 
ge- afloat  on  the  full  stream  of  his  narration, 
inl:  absurdities  which  excite  the  astonish- 
raiit  of  the  least  gifted  of  his  readers.  This 
wHe  prologue  of  My  Landlord,  which  is 
vu'ar  in  the  conception,  trite  and  lame  in  the 
ex  ution,  and  utterly  out  of  harmony  with 
thinories  to  which  it  is  prefixed,  should  be 
en  ely  retrenched  in  the  future  editions; 
anthe  two  novels,  which  have  as  little  cou- 
nejon  with  each  other  as  with  this  ill-fancied 
prfide,  given  separately  to  the  world,  each 
un.'r  its  own  denomination. 

18  first,  which  is  comprised  in  one  volume, 
is  died  '-The  Black  Dwarf"— and  is,  in 
ev^yr  respect,  the  least  considerable  of  the 
fariy — though  very  plainly  of  the  legitimate 
fac— and  possessing  merits,  which,  in  any 
fth  company,  would  have  entitled  it  to  no 
slijt  distinction.     The  Dwarf  himself  is  a 


little  too  much  like  the  hero  of  a  fairy  tale; 
and  the  structure  and  contrivance  of  the  story, 
in  general,  would  bear  no  small  affinity  to 
that  meritorious  and  edifying  class  of  compo- 
sitions, was  it  not  for  the  nature  of  the  details, 
and  the  quality  of  the  other  persons  to  whom 
they  relate — who  are  as  real,  intelligible,  and 
tangible  beings  as  those  with  whom  we  are 
made  familiar  in  the  course  of  the  author's 
former  productions.  Indeed  they  are  very 
apparently  the  same  sort  of  people,  and  come 
hf>re  before  us  again  with  all  the  recommenda- 
tions of  old  acquaintance.  The  outline  of  the 
story  is  soon  told.  The  scene  is  laid  among  the 
Elliots  and  Johnstons  of  the  Scottish  border, 
and  in  the  latter  part  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  ; 
when  the  union  then  newly  effected  between 
the  two  kingdoms,  had  revived  the  old  feel- 
ings of  rivalry,  and  held  out,  in  the  general 
discontent,  fresh  encouragement  to  the  parti- 
zans  of  the  banished  family.  In  this  turbulent 
period,  two  brave,  but  very  peaceful  and  loyal 
persons,  are  represented  as  plodding  their  way 
homewards  from  deer-stalking,  in  the  gloom 
of  an  autumn  evening,  when  they  are  encoun- 
tered, on  a  lonely  moor,  by  a  strange  mis- 
shapen Dwarf,  who  rejects  their  proffered 
courtesy,  in  a  tone  of  insane  misantln-opy,  and 
leaves  Hobbie  Elliot,  who  is  the  successor  of 
Dandie  Dinmont  in  this  tale,  perfectly  per- 
suaded that  he  is  not  of  mortal  lineage*  but  a 
goblin  of  no  amiable  dispositions.  He,  and 
his  friend  Mr.  EarnsclifF,  who  is  a  gentleman 
of  less  credulity,  revisit  him  again,  however, 
in  daylight ;  when  they  find  him  laying  the 
foundations  of  a  small  cottage  in  that  dreary 
spot.  With  .some  casual  assistance  the  fabric 
is  completed;  and  the  Solitary,  who  still 
maintains  the  same  repulsive  demeanour, 
fairly  settled  in  it.  Though  he  shuns  all  so- 
ciety and  conversation,  he  occasionally  ad- 
ministers to  the  diseases  of  men  and  cattle; 
and  accjuires  a  certain  awful  reputation  in  the 
country,  half  between  that  of  a  wizard  and  a 
heaven-taught  cow-doctor.  In  the  mean  time 
poor  Hobble's  house  is  burned,  and  his  cattle 
and  his  bride  carried  ofT  by  the  band  of  one 
of  the  last  Border  foragers,  instigated  chiefly 
by  Mr.  Vere,  the  profligate  Laird  of  Ellieslaw, 
who  wishes  to  raise  a  party  in  favour  of  the 
Jacobites  ;  and  between  whose  daughter  and 
young  Earnscl iff  there  is  an  attachment,  which 
her  fjither  disapproves.  The  mysterious  Dwarf 
gives  Hobbie  an  oracular  hint  to  seek  for  his 
lost  bride  in  the  fortress  of  this  plunderer, 
which  he  and  his  friends,  under  the  conmiand 
of  young  Earnseliff,  speedily  invest ;  and 
v.'hen  they  are  ready  to  smoke  him  out  of 
his  inexpugnable  tower,  he  capitulates,  and 
leads  forth,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  the  be- 
siegers, not  Grace  Armstrong,  but  Miss  Vere. 
who,  by  some  unintelligible  refinement  of^ 
iniquity,  had  been  sequestered  by  her  worthy 
fath(n-  ni  that  appropriate  custody.  The  Dwarf, 
who,  with  all  his  misanthropy,  is  the  most 
benevolent  of  human  beings,  gives  Hobbie  a 
fur  bag  full  of  gold,  and  contrives  to  have  his 
bride  restored  to  him.  He  is  likewise  coji- 
sulted  in  secret  by  Miss  Vere,  who  is  sadly 
distressed,  like  all  other  fictitious  damsels,  by 


532 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


her   father's  threats   to   solemnise   a   forced  I  upon  the  monument  of  the  slaughtered  Presb) 
-         -  .  .     ,         ,.J3„g  .  3j,j  busily  employed  in  deepening,  with  \ 

chisel,  the  letters  of  the  inscription,  which  annou 
ing,  in  scriptural  language,  the  promised  blessi  • 
otTu'urity  to  be  the  lot  of  the  slain,  anaihemati  ; 
the  murderers  with  corresponding  violence.  A  L  : 
bonnet  of  unusual  dimensions  covered  the  grey  h  , 
of  the  pious  workman.     His  dress  was  a  large  ( 


marriage  between  her  and  a  detestable  ba- 
ronet.—and  promi!*es  to  appear  and  deliver 
her.  however  imminent  the  hazard  my  ap- 
pear. AccordiiJiilv.  when  they  are  all  ranged 
for  the  sacrifice  before  the  altar  in  the  castle 
chapel,  his  portentous  figure  pops  out  from 
behind  a  monument,. — when  he  is  instantly 
recognised  bv  the  {jxiilty  ElUeslaw.  for  a  cer- 
tain Sir  Edward  Mauley,  who  was  the  cousin 
and  destined  husband  of  the  lady  he  had  af- 
terwards married,  and  who  had  been  plunged 
into  temporary  insanity  by  the  shock  of  that 
fair  one's  inconstancy",  on  his  recovery  from 
which  he  had  allowed  Mr.  Vere  to  retain  the 
greatest  part  of  the  property  to  which  he  suc- 
ceeded by  her  death  :  atid  fiad  been  s^upposed 
to  be  sequestered  in  some  convent  abroad, 
when  he  thus  appears  to  protect  the  daughter 
of  his  early  love.  The  desperate  Ellieslaw  at 
first  thinks  of  having  recourse  to  force,  and 
calls  in  an  armed  band  which  he  had  that 
dav  assembled,  in  order  to  iavonr  a  rising  of 
the  Catholics — when  he  is  suddenly  surround- 
ed by  Hobble  Elliot  and  Earnscliff.  at  the 
head  of  a  more  loyal  party,  who  have  just 
overpowered  the  insurgents,  and  taken  po»-. 
sess  on  of  the  castle.  Ellieslaw  and  the  Ba- 
ronet of  course  take  horse  and  shipping  forth 
of  the  realm  ;  while  his  fair  daughter  is  given 
away  to  EarnsclifT  by  the  benevolent  Dwarf; 
who"  immediately  aft"erwards  disappears,  and 
seeks  a  more  profound  retreat,  beyond  the 
reach  of  their  gratitude  and  gaiety. 

The  other  and  more  considerable  story, 
which  fills  the  three  remaining  volumes  of 
this  publication,  is  entitled,  though  with  no 
great  resrard  even  to  its  fictitious  origin.  '•  Old 
"  ^    "    -for.  at  most,  it  should  only  have 


fashioned  coat,  of  the  coarse  cloth  called  hodc 
grey,  usually  worn  by  the  elder  ptasanis,  v. 
waistcoat  and  breeches  of  the  same  ;  and  the  wl 
suit,  though  still  in  decent  repair,  had  oh^ioi 
.seen  a  train  of  long  service.  Strong  clouted  shi 
studded  with  hob-nails,  and  gramoches  "ir  lesg, 
made  of  thick  black  cloth,  completed  his  eqi 
nient.  Beside  hini.  fed  among  the  graves,  a  p.i 
the  companion  of  his  journey,  whose  extreme  wli 
ness,  as  well  as  its  projeecting  bones  and  hoi 
eyes,  indicated  its  antiquity.  It  was  harncssec 
the  most  simple  manner,  with  a  p:iir  of  braiiUs, 
hair  tether,  or  halier,  and  a  svnk,  or  cushion 
straw,  instead  of  bridle  and  saddle.  A  can\  i 
pouch  huns  round  the  neck  of  the  animal,  tor  the  | 
pose,  probably,  of  containing  the  rider's  tools,  [ 
anv  thing  else  he  might  have  occasion  to  carry  \ 
him.  Abhough  I  had  never  seen  the  old  man 
fore,  yet,  from  the  singularity  of  his  employm' 
and  the  style  of  his  equipage,  I  had  no  difficult  . 
recognising  a  religious  itinerant  whom  I  had  o 
heaid  talked  of,  and  who  was  known  in  rar 
parts  of  Scotland  by  the  name  of  Old  Mortality 

"  Where  this  man  was  born,  or  what  was  ■ 
real  name,  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn,  nor 
the  motives  which  nvide  him  desert  his  home,  i 
adopt  the  erratic  mode  of  life  which  lie  pursi 
known  to  me  except  very  generally.  He  is  sai  ' 
have  held,  at  one  period  of  his  lite,  a  small  nii 
land  farm  ;  but,  whetfier  from  pecuniary  losses 
domestic  misfortune,  he  had  long  renounced 
and  every  other  gainful  calling.  In  the  langt 
of  Scripture,  he  left  his  house,  his  home,  and 
kindred,  and  wandered  about  until  the  day  ot 
death — a  period,  it  is  said,  of  nearly  thirty  year 

"  During  this  long  pilgrimage,  the  pious  enih 
ast  regulated  his  circuit  so  as  annually  to  visit 
graves  of  the  unfortunate  Covenanters,  w  ho  sufTi : 


Mortality  .       

b-en  called  the  tale  or  story  of  Old  Mortality  ,  by  the  sword,  or  by  the  executioner,  during 
— beinjr  supposed  to  be  collected  from  the  in-  i  reigns  of  the  two  last  monarchs  of  the  Stuart 
uciu^  rii«Pl.ii^--v.    yj  •  1  „^  1  Tbe.se  tombs  are  o  ten  apart   rom  al    human  h: 

formation  of  a  singular  person  who  ,s  said  at    ^^.^^   .^^  ^^^  ^^^^,^  ^^  J^^  ^^^  ^.,^^  ,^  ^^,^-^^ 
one  time  to  have  been  known  by  that  strange    v^.a,lderers  had  fled  for  concealment.  But  wher 


appellation.  The  redacteur  of  his  interesting 
traditions  is  here  supposed  to  be  a  village 
schoolmaster ;  and  though  his  introduction 
brinirs  us  again  in  contact  with  My  Landlord 
and  his  parish  clerk,  we  could  have  almost 
forgiven  that  unlucky  fiction,  if  it  had  often 
presented  us  in  conipany  with  sketches,  as 
graceful  as  we  find  in  the'  following  passage. 
of  the  haunts  and  habits  of  this  singular  per- 


they  existed,  Old  Mortality  was  sure  to  visit  tli 
when  his  annual  round  brought  them  within 
reach.  In  the  most  lonely  rei  esses  of  the  nii 
tains,  the  moorfowl  shooter  has  been  ofien 
prised  to  find  him  busied  in  cleaning  the  mosst 
the  grey  stones,  renewing  with  his  chisel  the  I 
defaced  inscriptions,  and  repairing  the  emblem 
death  with  which  these  simple  monuments 
usually  adorned. 

"  As  the  wanderer  was  usually  to  be  seen 

sonage.    After  mentioiiii^  that  tnere  was.  on  ,  -  '^^  ^,l^^^'l!^'\J^.J^'Z'^;U 

the  steep  and  heathy  banks  of  a  lonely  rivulet,  j  ,on,bstone  among  the  hea.h,  disturbing  the  pi 

deserted  burying  ground  to  which  he  used    ^r^^  ,he  blackcock  with  the  clink  of  his  chi! 


mallet,  with  his  old  whi'e  pony  grazing  by  hi? 
he  acquired,  from  his  converse  amonc  the  dead 
popular  appellation  of  Old  Moriabiv.'" 

Vol.  ii.  pp  7—1 

The  scene  of  the  story  thus  strikingly  ii 
duced  is  laid— in  Scotland  of  course— in  tl 


frequently  to  turn  his  walks  in  the  evening, 
the  gentle  pedagogue  proceeds — 

"  One  summer  evening  as,  in  a  stroll  such  as  I 
have  described.  I  approached  this  deserted  mansion 
of  the  dead.  I  was  somewhat  surprised  to  hear 
sounds  disimct  from  those  which  usually  soothe  its 

sohtude.  the  gentle  chiding,  namely,  of  the  brook.  |  disastrous  times  which  immediately  precc 
and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  m  the  boughs  of  three  j  ^^^  Revolution  of  1688  :  and  exhibits  a  li.)f 
lii^k'of^^^rt^ierS.Tpt' tL^Tc^Sn.^dis!  I  picture,  both  of  the  geneiul  state  of  man^ 
linctly  heard  ;  and  I  entertained  some  alarm  that  a  !  at  that  period,  and  of  the  conduct  and  ten  r 
march-dike,  long  meditated  by  the  two  proprietors  ,  and  principles  of  the  two  great  parties  in 
whose  estates  were  divided  by  my  favourite  brook,  ;  tj^s  and  religion  that  were  then  engage 
was  about  to  be  drawn  up  the  glen,  in  order  to  sub-  |  u„ennal  and^rancorous  hosfilitv.     Thert^ 
stitute  its  rectilinear  deformity  for  ihe  graceful  wind-  i         .'        certaiulv.  within  the  reach  of  aiiti 
ing  of  the  natural  boundary.     As  I  approached   I    "."  il    f        '  „ 'U,nh  It  i^  more  niinful  to   ' 
wL  agreeably  undeceived.  An  old  man  wae  seated  1  tic  history,  on  \Ahich  it  i.>  moie  painlul  to 


TALES  OF  MV  LANDLORD. 


533 


Lck — which  show  a  afovemmeiit  more  base 
Id  tyrannical,  or  a  people  more  helpless  and 
iserable :  And  though  all  pictures  of  the 
Jeater  passions  are  full  of  interest,  and  a 
j-ely  representation  of  strong  and  enthusiastic 
hotions  never  fails  to  be  deeply  attractive, 
|e  piece  would  have  been  too  full  of  distress 
id  humiliation,  if  it  had  been  chiefly  eng-aged 
Ith  the  course  of  public  events,  or  the  record 
I  public  feelings.  So  sad  a  subject  would 
nnave  suited  many  readers — and  the  author, 
];  suspect,  less  than  any  of  them.  Accoril- 
tly,  in  this,  as  in  his  other  works,  he  has 
kde  use  of  the  historical  events  which  came 
mis  way,  rather  to  develope  the  characters, 
Jd  bring  out  the  peculiarities  of  the  individu- 
«  whose  adventures  he  relates,  than  for  any 
jrpose  of  political  information  ;  and  makes 
lipresent  to  the  times  in  which  he  has  placed 
Km,  less  by  his  direct  notices  of  the  great 
l.nsactionsby  which  they  were  disthiguished, 
ftn  by  his  casual  intimations  of  their  effects 

t private  persons,  and  by  the  very  contrast 
ich  their  temper  and  occupations  often  ap- 
r  to  furnish  to  the  colour  of  the  national 
Riry.  Nothing,  indeed,  in  this  respect  is  more 
(llusive,  or  at  least  more  woefully  imperfect, 
tin  the  suggestions  of  authentic  history,  as^ 
lis  generally — or  rather  universally  written 
-ind  nothing  more  exaggerated  than  the  im- 
jjssions  it  conveys  of  the  actual  state  and 
ciditiou  of  those  who  live  in  its  most  agitated 
|riods.  The  great  public  events  of  which 
{ ne  it  takes  cognisance,  have  but  little  direct 
iluence  upon  the  body  of  the  people:  and 
( not.  in  general,  form  the  principal  business, 
cjhappiness  or  misery  even  of  those  who  are 
i(some  measure  concerned  in  them.  Even 
ijthe  worst  and  most  disastrous  times — in 
iHods  of  civil  war  and  revolution,  and  public 
clcord  and  oppression,  a  great  part  of  the 
tke  of  a  great  part  of  the  people  is  still  spent 
ipnaking  love  and  money — in  social  amuse- 
nnt  or  professional  industry — in  schemes  for 
vrldly  advancement  or  personal  distinction, 
jll  as  in  periods  of  geneial  peace  and  pros- 
{jfity.  Men  court  and  marry  very  nearly  as 
rjich  in  the  one  season  as  in  the  "other  ;  "and 
&  as  merry  at  weddings  and  christenings — 
sjgallantat  balls  and  races — as  busy  in  their 
fidies  and  counting  houses — eat  as  heartily, 
i  short,  and  sleep  as  sound — prattle  with 
tiir  children  as  pleasantly — and  thin  their 
ibtations  and  scold  their  servants  as  zeal- 
c?ly,  as  if  their  contemporaries  were  not  fur- 
rhing  materials  thus  abundantly  for  the 
Tigic  muse  of  history.  The  quiet  uiider- 
ciTent  of  life,  in  short,  keeps  its  deep  and 
elady  course  in  its  eternal  channels,  unaf- 
fited,  or  but  slightly  disturbed,  by  the  storms 
tU  agitate  its  surface  :  and  while  long  tracts 
cltime,  in  the  history  of  every  country,  seem, 
tihe  distant  student  of  its  annals,  to  be  dark- 
fbd  over  with  one  thick  and  oppre.ssive  cloud 
Cjunbroken  misery,  the  greater  part  of  those 
ViO  have  lived  through  the  whole  acts  of  the 
t|gedy  will  be  found  to  have  enjoyed  a  fair 
sprage  share  of  felicity,  and  to  have  been 
rich  less  impressed  by  the  shocking  events 
cj  their  day,  than  those  who  know  nothing 


else  of  it  than  that  such  events  took  place  in 
its  course.  Few  men,  in  short,  are  historical 
characters — and  scarcely  any  man  is  alwa}  s, 
or  most  usually,  performing  a  public  part. 
The  actual  happiness  of  every  life  depends 
far  more  on  things  that  regard  it  exclusively, 
than  on  those  political  occurrences  which  are 
the  common  concern  of  society;  and  though 
nothing  lends  such  an  air,  both" of  reality  and 
importance,  to  a  fictitious  narrative,  as  to  con- 
nect its  persons  with  events  in  real  history, 
still  it  is  the  imaginary  individual  himself  that 
excites  our  chief  interest  throughout,  and  we 
care  for  the  national  affairs  only  in  so  far  as 
they  afiect  him.  In  one  sense,  indeed,  this 
is  the  true  end  and  the  best  use  of  history ; 
for  as  all  public  events  are  important  only  as 
they  ultimately  concern  individuals,  if  the  in- 
dividual selected  belong  to  a  large  and  com- 
prehensive class,  and  the  events,  and  their 
natural  operation  on  him,  be  justly  represent- 
ed, we  shall  be  enabled,  in  following  out  his 
adventures,  to  form  no  bad  estimateof  their 
true  character  and  value  for  all  the  lest  of  the 
community. 

The  author  before  us  has  done  all  this,  we 
think  ;  ar.d  with  admirable  talent  and  effect : 
and  if  Iw  has  not  been  quite  impartial  in  the 
management  of  his  historical  persons,  has  con- 
trived, at  any  rate,  to  make  them  contribute 
largely  to  the  interest  of  his  acknowledged 
inventions.  His  view  of  the  effects  of  great 
political  contentions  on  private  happiness,  is 
however,  we  have  no  doubt,  substantially 
true  ;  and  that  chiefly  because  it  is  not  exag- 
gerated— because  he  does  not  confine  himself 
to  show  how  gentle  natures  may  be  roused 
into  heroism,  or  rousher  tempers  exasperated 
into  rancour,  by  public  oppression, — but  turns 
still  more  willingly  to  show  with  what  ludi- 
crous absurdity  genuine  enthusiasm  may  be 
debased,  how  little  the  gaiety  of  the  light- 
hearted  and  thoughtless  may  be  impaired  by 
the  spectacle  of  public  calamity,  and  how,  in 
the  midst  of  national  distraction,  selfishness 
will  pursue  its  little  g-ame  of  quiet  and  cun- 
ning speculation — and  gentler  affections  find 
time  to  multiply  and  to  meet ! 

It  is  this,  we  think,  that  constitutes  the  great 
and  peculiar  merit  of  the  work  before  us.  It 
contains  an  admirable  picture  of  manners  and 
of  characters;  and  exliibits.  we  think,  with 
great  truth  and  discrimination,  the  extent  and 
the  variety  of  the  shades  which  the  stoimy 
aspect  of  the  political  horizon  would  be  likely 
to  throw  on  such  objects.  And  yet,  though 
exhibiting  beyond  all  doubt  the  greatest  pos- 
sible talent  and  originality,  we  cannot  help 
fancyinc  that  we  can  trace  the  rudiments  of 
almost  all  its  characters  in  the  very  first  of  the 
author's  publications. — Morton  is  but  another 
edition  of  Waverley  ; — taking  a  bloody  part  in 
politic^il  contention,  without  caringmuchaboiit 
the  cause,  and  interchanging  high  olfices  of 
generosity  with  his  political  opponents. — 
Claverhouse  has  many  of  the  features  of  the 
gallant  Fergus. — Cuddie  Headrigg,  of  whose 
merits,  by  the  way,  we  have  given  no  fair 
specimen  in  our  extracts,  is  a  Daiidie  Dinmont 
of  a  considerably  lower  species; — and  even 
2u2 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


the  Covenanters  and  their  leaders  were  sha- 
dowed out,  though  afar  off,  in  the  gifted  Gil- 
fillan,  and  mine  host  of  the  Candlestick.  It  is 
in  the  picture  of  these  hapless  enthusiasts, 
undoubtedly,  that  the  great  merit  and  the 
great  interest  of  the  work  consists.  That  in- 
terest, indeed,  is  so  great,  that  we  perceive  it 
has  even  given  rise  to  a  sort  of  controversy 
among  the  admirers  and  contemners  of  those 
ancient  worthies.  It  is  a  singular  honour,  no 
doubt,  to  a  work  of  fiction  and  amusement,  to 
be  thus  made  the  theme  of  serious  attack  and 
defence  upon  points  of  historical  and  theologi- 
cal discussion  ;  and  to  have  grave  dissertations 
written  by  learned  contemporaries  upon  the 
accuracy  of  its  representations  of  public  events 
and  characters,  or  the  moral  effects  of  the  style 
of  ridicule  in  which  it  indulges.  It  is  difficult 
for  us,  we  confess,  to  view  the  matter  in  so 
serious  a  light ;  nor  do  we  feel  much  disposed, 
even  if  we  had  leisure  for  the  task,  to  venture 
ourselves  into  the  array  of  the  disputants. 
One  word  or  two,  however,  we  shall  say.  be- 
fore concluding,  upon  the  two  great  points 
of  difference.  First,  as  to  the  author's  pro- 
fanity, in  making  scriptural  expressions  ridicu- 
lous by  the  misuse  of  them  he  has  ascribed  to 
the  fanatics ;  and.  secondly,  as  to  the  fairness 
of  his  general  representation  of  the  conduct 
and  character  of  the  insurgent  party  and  their 
opponents. 

As  to  the  first,  we  do  not  know  very  well 
■what  to  say.     Undoubtedly,  all  light  or  jocu- 
lar use  of  Scripture  phraseology  is  in  some 
measure  indecent  and  profane  :  Yet  we  do  not 
know  in  what  other  way  those  hypocritical 
pretences    to    extraordinary   sanctity   which 
generally  disguise  themselves  in  such  a  garb, 
can  be  so  effectually  exposed.  And  even  where 
the  ludicrous  misapplication  of  holy  writ  arises 
from  mere  ignorance,  or  the  foolish  mimicry 
of  more  learned  discoursers,  as  it  is  impossible 
to  avoid  smiling  at  the  folly  when  it  actually 
occurs,  it  is  difficult  for  witty  and  humorous 
writers,  in  whose  way  it  lies,  to  resist  fabri- 
cating it  for  the  purpose  of  exciting  smiles. 
In  so  far  as  practice  can  afford  any  justification 
of  such  a  proceeding,  we  conceive   that  its 
justification  would  be  easy.     In  all  our  jest- 
books,  and  plays  and  works  of  humour  for  two 
centuries  back,  the  characters  of  Quakers  and 
Puritans  and  Method ist.s,  have  been  constantly 
introduced  as  fit  objects  of  ridicule,  on  this 
very  account.     The  Reverend  Jonathan  Swift  j 
is  full  of  jokes  of  this  description ;  and  the  ; 
pious  and  correct  Addison  himself  is  not  a  little 
fond  of  a  sly  and  witty  application  of  a  text  [ 
from  the  sacred  writings.     When  an  author,  j 
therefore,  whose  aim  was  amusement,  had  to 
do  uith  a  set  of  people,  all  of  whom  deaU  in  | 
familiar  applications  of  Bible  phrases  and  Old  ' 
Testament  adventures,  and  who,  undoubtedly, 
very  often  maiie  absurd  and  ridiculous  appli-  | 
cations  of  them,  it  would  be  rather  hard,  we  j 
think,  to  interdict  him  entirely  from  the  repre- 
sentation of  these  absurdities:  or  to  put  in  j 
force,  for  him  alone,  those  statutes  against 
profaneness  which  so  many  other  people  have 
been  allowt-d  to  transgress,  in  their  hours  of 
gaiety,  without  censure  or  punishment.  i 


On  the  other  point,  also,  we  rather  lean 
the  side  of  the  author.     He  is  a  Tory,  «| 
think,  pretty  plainly  in  principle,  and  scare 
disg-uises  his  preference  for  a  Cavalier  overl 
Puritan :    But,   with   these   propensities 
think  he  has  dealt  pretty  fairly  with  bot 
sides — especially  when  it  is  considered  tha 
though  he  lays  his  scene  in  a  known  crisis  o 
his  national  history,  his  work  is  professedly 
work  of  fiction,  and  cannot  well  be  accuse' 
of  misleading  any  one  as  to  matters  of  fact 
He  might  have  made  Claverhouse  victoriou 
at  Drumclog,  if  he  had  thought  fit — and  no 
body  could  have  found  fault  with  him.    Th 
insurgent  Presbyterians  of  1666  and  the  sut 
se(|uent  years,  were,  beyond  all  question, : 
pious,  brave,  and  conscientious  race  of  men- 
to  whom,  and  to  whose  efforts  and  sufferingf 
their  descendants  are  deeply  indebted  for  th- 
liberty  both  civil  and  religious  which  tbell 
still  enjoy,  as  well  as  for  the  spirit  of  resiBJJ 
ance  to  tyranny,  which,  we  trust,  they  havf 
inherited  along  with  it.  Consitlered  generallil 
as  a  party,  it  is  impossible  that  they  shoulis 
ever  be  lemcmbered,  at  least  in  Scotland,  buj 
with  gratitude  and  veneration — that  theirsuff 
ferings  should  ever  be  mentioned  but 
deep  resentment  and  horror — or  iheir  her 
both  active  and  passive,  but  with  pride  anil 
exultation.     At  the  same  time,  it  is 
sible  to  deny,  that  there  were  among 
many   absurd    and    ridiculous    persons — anij 
some  of  a  savage  and  ferocious  character-] 
old  women,  in  short,  like  Mause  Headrigg-a 
preachers   like   Ketiledrummle — or  despera 
does  like  Balfour  or  Burley.     That  a  TorJ 
novelist  should  bring  such  chaiacters  promii 
nently  forward,  in  a  tale  of  the  times,  appean 
to  us  not  only  to  be  quite  natural,  but  reallj 
to  be  less  blameable  than  almost  any  olhej 
way  in  which  party  feelings  could  be  shown, 
But,  even  he.  has  not  represented  the  bulk  o 
the  party  as  falling  under  this  description,  o 
as  fairly  represented  by  such  personages.   H 
has  made  his  hero — who,  of  course,  possesse 
all  possible  virtues — of  that  persuasion;  an' 
has  allowed  them,  in  general,  the  courage  o 
martyrs,  the  self-denial  of  hermits,  and  th 
zeal  and  sincerity  of  apostles.  His  representa 
tion  is  almost  avowedly  that  of  one  who  i, 
not  of  their  communion  ;  and  yet  we  think  i 
impossible  to  peruse  it.  without  feeling  th 
greatest  respect  and  pity  for  those  to  whomi; 
is  applied.     A   zealous  Presbyterian  might 
no  doubt,  have  said  more  in  their  favour,  with 
out  violating,  or  even  concealing  the  truth ;- 
but.  while "  zealous    Presbyterians   will  no 
write   entertaining   novels   themselves,  the; 
cannot  expect  to  be  treated  in  them  with  ex 
actly  the  same  favour  as  if  that  had  been  thv 
character  of  their  authors. 

With  regard  to  the  author's  picture  of  thci, 
opponents,  we  must  say  that,  with  the  e.xcep 
tion  of  Claverhouse  himself,  whom  he  ha 
invested  gratuitously  with  many  graces  am. 
liberalities  to  which  we  are  persuaded  he  ha 
no  title,  and  for  whom,  indeed,  he  has  a  fool 
ish  fondness,  with  which  it  would  be  absuri, 
to  deal  seriously — he  has  shown  no  signs  of  >j 
partiality  that  can  be  blamed,  nor  exhibite(i 


it! J 


ink 

Hill  CO! 


ROB  ROY. 


535 


riiiiy  traits  in  them  with  which  their  enemies 
Jye  reason  to  quarrel.  If  any  person  can 
Uk\  his  strong  and  lively  pictures  of  military 
i>olence  and  oppression,  without  feeling  his 
Ijiod  boil  within  him,  we  must  conclude  the 
flilt  to  be  in  his  own  apathy,  and  not  in  any 
e'tenings  of  the  partial  author; — nor  do  we 
low  any  Whig  writer  who  has  exhibited  the 
Irenes?  and  cruelty  of  that  wretched  gov- 
{■iment.  in  more  naked  and  revolting  de- 
Imity,  than  in  his  scene  of  the  torture  at 
f  Privy  Council.  The  military  executions 
c  Claverhouse  himself  are  admiUed  without 


palliation  :  and  the  bloodthirstiness  of  Dalzell. 
and  the  brutality  of  Lauderdale,  are  ri>pre- 
sented  in  their  true  colours.  In  short,  if  this 
author  has  been  somewhat  severe  upon  the 
Covenanters,  neither  has  he  spared  their  op- 
pressors ;  and  the  truth  probably  is,  that  never 
dreaming  of  being  made  responsible  for  his- 
torical accuracy  or  fairness  in  a  composition 
of  this  description,  he  has  exaggerated  a  little 
!  on  both  sides,  for  the  sake  of  elfect — and  been 
I  carried,  by  the  bent  of  his  humour,  most  fre- 
quently to  exaggerate  on  that  which  afforded 
;  the  greatest  scope  for  ridicule. 


(februarn,    ISIS.) 

ib  Roy.     By  the  author  of  Waverley,  Guy  Mannering,  and  The  Antiquary.    12mo.   3  vols, 
pp.  930.     Edinburgh:   1818. 


This  is  not  so  good,  perhaps,  as  some  others 
cthe  family  ; — but  it  is  better  than  any  thing 
<e;  and  has  a  charm  and  a  spirit  about  it 
tU  draws  us  irresistibly  away  from  our  graver 
Vrks  of  politics  and  science,  to  expatiate 
ion  that  which  every  body  understands  and 
scees  in ;  and  after  setting  us  diligently  to 
l^.d  over  ag-ain  what  we  had  scarce  finished 
riding;  leaves  us  no  choice  but  to  tell  our 
riders  what  they  all  know  already,  and  to 
i:,5uade  them  of  that  of  which  they  are  most 
ilimately  convinced. 

Such,  we  are  perfectly  aware,  is  the  task 
Aiich  we  must  seem  to  perform  to  the  greater 
jU  of  those  who  may  take  the  trouble  of  ac- 
c'npanying  us  through  this  article.  But  there 
ny  still  be  some  of  our  readers  to  whom  the 
\}rk  of  which  we  treat  is  unknown ; — and 
V  know  there  are  many  who  are  far  from 
I'ng  duly  sensible  of  its  merits.  The  public, 
i.eed,  is  apt  now  and  then  to  behave  rather 
iliandsomely  to  its  greatest  benefactors  ;  and 
tiJeserve  the  malison  which  Milton  has  so 
etphatically  bestowed  on  those  impious  per- 
Eis.  who, 

!  ' 

j        "  with  senseless  base  ingratimde, 

Cram,  and  blaspheme  their  feeder.'' 

-jiothing,  we  fear,  being  more  common,  than 
t/see  the  bounty  of  its  too  lavish  providers 
rjaid  by  increased  captiousness  at  the  quality 
C'the  banquet,  and  complaints  of  imaginary 
fangs  off — which  should  be  imputed  entirely 
t;the  distempered  state  of  their  own  pam- 
Pfed  app-etites.  We  suspect,  indeed,  that  we 
Vre  ours(dvep  under  the  influence  of  this 
•i-.udable  feeling-  when  he  wrote  the  first 
1.3  of  this  paper:  For,  except  that  the  sub- 
pl  setms  to  us  somewhat  less  happily 
c')sen,  and  the  variety  of  characters  rather 
1''5  than  in  some  of  the  author's  former  pub- 
lilions,  we  do  not  know  what  right  we  had 
t  say  that  it  was  in  any  respect  inferior  to 
t;'m.  Sure  we  are,  at  all  events,  that  it  has 
t-  same  brilliancy  and  truth  of  colouring — 
t'  same  gaiety  of  tone,  rising  every  now 
al  then  ailo  feelings  both  kindly  and  exalt-  ^ 


ed — the  same  dramatic  vivacity — the  same 
deep  and  large  insight  into  human  nature — 
and  the  same  charming  facility  which  distin- 
guish all  the  other  works  of  this  great  master; 
and  make  the  time  in  which  he  flonrished  an 
era  never  to  be  forgotten  in  the  literary  history 
of  our  country. 

One  novelty  in  the  present  work  is,  that  it 
is  thrown  into  the  form  of  a  continued  and 
unbroken  narrative,  by  one  of  the  persons 
principally  concerned  in  the  story — and  who 
is  represented  in  his  declining  age,  as  detail- 
ing to  an  intimate  friend  the  most  interesting 
particulars  of  liis  early  life,  and  all  the  recol- 
lections with  which  they  were  associated. 
We  prefer,  upon  the  whole,  the  communica- 
tions of  an  avowed  author;  who,  of  course, 
has  no  character  to  sustain  but  that  of  a 
pleasing  writer — and  can  praise  and  blame, 
and  wonder  and  moralise,  in  all  tones  and 
directions,  without  subjecting  himself  to  any 
charge  of  vanity,  ingratitude,  or  inconsistency. 
The  thing,  however,  is  very  tolerably  man- 
aged on  the  present  occasion ;  and  the  hero 
contrives  to  let  us  into  all  his  exploits  and 
perplexities,  whhout  much  violation  either  of 
heroic  modesty  or  general  probability; — to 
which  ends,  indeed,  it  conduces  not  a  little, 
that,  like  most  of  the  other  heroes  of  this  inge- 
nious author,  his  own  character  does  not  rise 
very  notably  above  the  plain  level  of  medi- 
ocrity— being,  like  the  rest  of  his  brethren,  a 
well-conditioned,  reasonable,  agreeable  young 
gentleman — not  particularly  likely  to  do  any 
thing  w  hich  it  would  be  very  boastful  to  speak 
of.  and  much  better  fitted  to  be  a  spectator  and 
historian  of  strange  doings,  than  a  partaker  in 
them. 

This  discreet  hero,  then,  our  readers  will 
probably  have  anticipated,  is  not  Rob  Koy — 
though  his  name  stands  alone  in  the  title — but 
a  Mr.  Francis  Osbaldistone,  the  only  son  of 
a  great  London  Merchant  or  Banker,  and 
nephew  of  a  Sir  Hiklebrand  Osbaldistone,  a 
worthy  Catholic  Baronet,  who  spent  his  time 
in  hunting,  and  drinking  Jacobite  toasts  in 
Is'orthumberland,  some  time  about  the  yeai 


536 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


1714.     The  young   gentleman   having  been 
educated  among  the  muses  abroad,  testilies  i 
a  decided  aversion  to  the  gainful  vocations  in  | 
which   his   father   had   determined    that   he  | 
should  assist  and    succeed  him; — and  as  a| 

Sunishment  for  this  contumacy,  he  banishes 
im  for  a  season  to  the  Siberia  of  Osbaldistone 
Hall,  from  which  he  himself  had  been  es- 
tranged ever  since  his  infancy.  The  young  i 
exile  jogs  down  on  horseback  rather  merrily,  i 
riding  part  of  the  way  with  a  stout  man,  who  | 
was  scandalously  afraid  of  being  robbeti.  and  i 
meeting  once  with  a  sturdy  Scotchman,  whose  i 
resolute  air  and  energetic  discourses  make  a  ■ 
deep  impression  on  him. — As  he  approaches 
the  home  of  his  fathers,  he  is  surrounded  by 
a  party  of  fox  hunters,  and  at  the  .same  mo- 
ment electrified  by  the  sudden  apparition  of 
a  beautiful  young  woman,  galloping  lightly 
at  the  head  of  the  field,  and  managing  her 
sable  palfrey  with  all  the  grace  of  an  Angelica. 
Making  up  to  this  elherial  personage,  he 
soon  discovers  that  he  is  in  the  heart  of  his 
kinsfolks — that  the  tall  youths  about  him  are 
the  five  sons  of  Sir  Hildebrand  ;  and  the  virgin 
huntress  herself,  a  cousin  and  inmate  of  the 
family,  by  the  name  of  Diana  Vernon.  She 
is  a  very  remarkable  person  this  same  Diana. 
Though  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  ex- 
quisitely lovely,  she  knows  all  arts  and  sci- 
ences, elegant  and  inelegant — and  has,  more- 
over, a  more  than  masculine  resolution,  and 
more  than  feminine  kindness  and  generosity 
of  character — wearing  over  all  this  a  playful, 
free,  and  reckless  manner,  more  characteristic 
of  her  age  than  her  various  and  inconsistent 
accomplishments.  The  rest  of  the  household 
are  comely  savages;  who  hunt  all  day,  and 
drink  all  night,  without  one  idea  beyond  those 
heroic  occupations — all.  at  least,  except  Rash- 
leigh,  the  youngest  son  of  this  hopeful  family 
— who,  having  been  designed  for  the  chuich, 
and  educated  among  the  Jesuits  beyond  seas, 
had  there  acquired  all  the  knowledge  and  the 
knavery  which  that  pious  brotherhood  was  so 
long  supposed  to  impart  to  their  disciples. — 
Although  very  plain  in  his  person,  and  very 
depraved  in  his  character,  he  has  great  talents 
and  accomplishments,  and  a  very  insinuating 
address.  He  had  been,  in  a  good  degree,  the 
instructor  of  Diana,  who,  we  should  have 
mentioned,  was  also  a  Catholic,  and  having 
lost  her  parents,  was  destined  to  take  the  veil 
in  a  foreign  land,  if  she  did  not  consent  to 
marry  one  of  the  sons  of  Sir  Hildebrand.  for 
all  of  A\hom  she  cherished  the  greatest  aver- 
sion and  contempt. 

Mr.  Obaldistone,  of  course,  can  do  nothing 
but  fall  in  love  with  this  wonderful  infant ; 
for  which,  and  some  other  transgressions,  he 
incurs  the  deadly,  though  concealed,  hate  of 
Rashleigh,  and  meets  with  several  unpleasant 
adventures  through  his  means.  But  we  will 
not  be  tempted  evun  to  abridye  the  details  of 
a  story  with  which  we  cannot  allow  ourselves 
to  doubt  tiiat  all  our  readers  have  long  been 
familiar :  and  indeed  it  is  not  in  his  .story  that 
this  author's  strength  ever  lies;  and  here  he 
has  lost  sight  of  probability  even  in  the  con- 
ception of  some  of  his  characters;  and  dis- 


played the  extraordinary  talent  of  being.ue 
to  nature,  even  in  the  representation  oi'tn. 
possible  persons. 

The  serious  interest  of  the  work  res  on 
Diana  Vernon  and  on  Rob  Roy ;  the  c  lic 
ert'ect  is  left  chiefly  to  the  ministratioi'of 
Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie  and  Andrew  Fairser'^. 
with  the  occasional  assistance  of  less  ie»ai 
performers.  Diana  is,  in  our  appreheiisi  .a 
very  bri<>ht  and  felicitous  creation — thou  It 
is  certain  that  there  never  could  have  j|| 
any  such  person.  A  girl  of  eighteen.  (/, 
only  with  more  wit  and  learning  than  iv 
man  of  forty,  but  with  more  sound  Sf  e, 
and  firmness  of  character,  than  any  ;in 
whatever — and  with  perfect  frankness  ul 
elegance  of  manners,  though  bred  anig 
boors  and  biiiots — is  rather  a  more  vi(nt 
fiction,  we  think,  than  a  king  with  male 
legs,  or  a  youth  with  an  ivory  shoulder.  :: 
spite  of  all  this,  however,  this  particulair- 
tion  is  e.vtremely  elegant  and  imprest': 
and  so  many  features  of  truth  are  blerd 
with  it.  that  we  soon  forget  the  impo.-sibi  s\ 
and  are  at  least  as  much  interested  as  .. 
more  conceivable  personage.  The  coml  i- 
tion  of  fearlessness  with  perfect  purity  : 
delicacy,  as  well  as  that  of  the  iiiexliiigi  ;- 
able  gaiety  of  youth  with  sad  antlcipaii, 
and  present  suffering,  are  all  strictly  iiati !, 
and  are  among  the  traits  that  are  wrought :: 
in  this  portrait  with  the  greatest  tident  v 
efTect.  In  the  deep  tone  of  feeling,  and  . 
capacity  of  heroic  purposes,  this  heroine  I  - 
a  family  likeness  to  the  Flora  of  Wavei  . 
but  her  greater  youth,  and  her  unjjroledi 
situation,  add  prodigiously  to  the  interes  t 
these  qualities.  Andrew  Fairservice  is  an  ■, 
and  a  less  interesting  incarnation  of  Cm  i 
Headrigg ;  with  a  double  allowance  of  sell  i- 
ness,  and  a  top-dressing  of  pedantry  and  i  • 
ceit — constituting  a  very  admirable  and 
representation  of  the  least  amiable  of 
Scottish  vulgar.  The  Baillie,  we  think,  i: 
original.  It  once  occurred  to  ns.  thai 
might  be  described  as  a  mercantile  and  !(■  ■ 
ish  Dandie  Dinmont ;  but  the  points  of  res  • 
blance  are  rtally  fewer  than  those  of  conti 
He  is  an  inimitable  picture  of  an  acute,  e; 
cious,  upright,  and  kind  man,  thoroui;hly  v 
bred,  and  beset  with  all  sorts  of  vnlgaril 
Both  he  and  Andrew  are  rich  mines  of  " 
true  Scottish  language;  and  affoid,  in  ' 
hands  of  this  singular  writer,  not  oi.ly  an  • 
ditional  proof  of  his  perfect  familiarity  vi 
all  its  dialects,  but  also  of  its  cxtniordir  / 
copiousness,  and  capacity  of  adajitalion  lo  I 
tones  and  subjects.  The  reader  may  tak  i 
brief  specimen  of  Andrew's  elocution  in  ' 
following  characteri.sfic  account  of  the  i  • 
gation  of  the  Cathedral  Church  of  Glasi.' 
and  its  consequent  preservation  from 
hands  of  our  Gothic  reformers. 

"  'All!  it's  a  hrave  kirk — nane  o'  yrre  «!• 
malpprip.?  and  rnriie-wiiilios  and  open-sieek  hi' 
about  it — a'  solid,  wepj-joiiiied  nuison-wark,  l^ 
will  stand  as  long  as  the  warld,  k(  ep  handB  J 
giinpowtlior  afTii.  It  had  amaist  a  dmin-come  I.T 
pyne  at  the  Rpformation,  wlipn  ihey  pn'd  doun  ' 
kirks  of  St.  Andrews  and  Penh,  and  dierea 
10  cleanae  ihern  o'  Papery,  and  idolatry,  and  im  ' 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


537 


whip,  and  surplices,  and  sic  liive  rags  o'  the 
11  klf  liODr  that  siiteth  on  seven  hills,  as  if  ane 
V  iiu  braid  aiienaih  for  her  auld  hinder  end.  Sae 
tUMinnioiis  o'  Renfrew,  and  o'  the  Barony,  and 
il  (Jorbals.  and  a'  about,  they  behooved  to  come 
in  (Glasgow  af  fair  morning  to  try  their  hand  on 
pi';ing  the  High  Kirk  o'  Popisii  nick-nackeis. 
B'lhe  townsmen  o'  Glasgow,  they  were  feared 
lljr  auld  edifice  might  slip  the  girths  in  gmm 
tli'Ugh  siccan  rough  physic,  sae  tiiey  rang  the 
cilmon  bell,  and  assembled  the  train  bands  wi' 
td;  o'  drum — By  good  luck,  the  worthy  James 
R.at  was  Dean  o'  Guild  that  year — (and  a  glide 
nioti  he  was  hinisell,  made  him  the  keener  to 
k<p  up  I  he  auld  bigging).  and  the  trades  assein- 
bl,  and  offered  downright  battle  to  the  com- 
raiher  than  their  kirk  should  coup  the  crans. 


^' 


as  they  had  done  elsewhere.  It  was  na  for  luve 
o'  Faparie — na,  na  ! — nane  could  ever  say  that  o' 
the  trades  o'  CJlasgow — Sac  they  sune  cam  to  an 
agreement  to  take  ii'  the  idolatrous  statutes  of  saiiis 
(sorrow  be  on  them)  out  o'  their  neuks  —  And 
sae  the  bits  o'  siaiie  idols  were  broken  in  pieces  by 
Scripture  warrant,  and  flung  into  the  Molenuinar 
Burn,  and  the  auld  kirk  stood  as  croiise  as  a  cat 
when  the  fleas  are  canned  afl'  her,  and  a'body  was 
alike  pleased.  And  I  hae  heard  wise  folk  say, 
that  if  the  same  had  been  done  in  ilka  kirk  in  Scot- 
land, the  Reform  wad  just  hae  been  as  pure  as  it 
is  e'en  now,  and  we  wad  had  mair  Chrisiiati-like 
kirks;  fori  hae  been  sae  lang  in  England,  that 
nac;hing  will  drive  it  out  o'  my  head,  that  the  dog- 
kennell  at  Osbaldistime-FIallis  belter  than  mony 
a  house  o'  God  in  Scotland.'  " 


(Sanuanj,  1820.) 


^  By  me  All t nor  oi  vvaveriey,  6:c.  ;i  vols.  Edinburgh,  Con.stabIe  &  Co. 

2!riie  Novels  and  Tales_of  the  Author  of  Waverley ;  comprising  IVaverlcy,  Ghiy  Muiincnng, 

„     ,  -r.     .   „         ,      i3  Third  Series :  New  Edition, 


;l  UC  iVL/(/ct.>  u/iLt   ji  wtc.^  \jj     live  ^±ufn,ui     uf     ri'  Livci  ivu  J    Lwtnu/  i^ttii^    n 

\.ntiquary,  Rob  Roij,  Talcs  of  My  Landlord,  First,  Second,  and  T 
Hth  a  copious  Glossary.     Edinburgh,  Constable  &  Co. :     1820. 


[NCE  the  time  when  Shakespeare  wrote  his 

thty-eight  plays   in  the  brief  space  of  his 

y  manhood — besides  acting  in  them,  and 

"king  and  living  idly  with  the  other  actors 

;rd  then  went  carelessly  to  the  country, 

lived  out  his  days,  a  little  more  idly,  and 

aiirently  unconscious  of  having  done  any 

thtg  at  all  extraordinary — there  has  been  no 

sm  prodigy  of  fertility  as  the  anonymous 

aiiior  before  us.     In  the  period  of  little  more 

thti  five  years,  he  has  founded  a  new  school 

ofhvention ;  and  established  and  endowed  it 

wh  nearly  thirty  volumes  of  the  most  ani- 


own  satisfaction,  that  heaven  knows  how 
many  of  these  busy  bodies  have  been  before- 
hand with  us,  both  in  the  genus  and  the  sjKcies 
of  our  invention ! 

The  author  before  us  is  certainly  in  Jess 
danger  from  such  detections,  than  any  other 
we  have  ever  met  with  ;  but,  even  in  him,  the 
traces  of  imitation  are  obvious  and  abundant  5 
and  it  is  impossible,  therefore,  to  give  him  the 
same  credit  for  absolute  originality  as  those 
earlier  writers,  who,  having  no  successful 
author  to  imitate,  were  obliged  to  copy  direct- 
ly from  nature.  In  naming  him  along  with 
mled  and  original  compositions  that  have  j  Shakespeare,  we  meant  still  less  to  say  tliat 
eiiched  Etiglish  literature  for  a  century —  j  he  was  to  be  put  on  a  level  with  Him,  as  to 
vtjiines  that  have  cast  sensibly  into  the  shade  I  the  richness  and  sweetness  of  his  fancy,  or 
aljcontemporaiy  prose,  and  even  all  recent  |  that  living  vein  of  pure  and  lofty  poetry  which 
p'jtry — (except  perhaps  that  inspired  by  the  ,  flows  with  such  abundance  through  every  part 
Giius — or  the  Demon,  of  Byron) — and.  by  of  his  compositions.  On  that  level  no  other 
thjr  force  of  colouring  and  depth  of  feeling —  writer  has  ever  stood — or  Avill  ever  stand — 
bjtheir  variety,  vivacity,  magical  facility,  :  though  we  do  think  that  there  is  fancy  and 
ail  living  presentment  of  character,  have  :  poetry  enough  in  these  contemporary  pages, 
rejlered  conceivable  to  this  later  age  the  if  not  to  justify  the  comparison  we  have  ven- 
tured to  suggest,  at  least  to  save  it,  for  the 
first  time  for  two  hundred  years,  from  being 
altogether  ridiculous.  In  saying  even  this, 
however,  we  wish  to  observe,  that  we  have  in 
view  the  prodigious  variety  and  facility  of  the 
modem  writer — at  least  as  much  as  the  (jual- 
ity  of  his  several  productions.  The  v;iriety 
hijwit  and  humour,  as  well  as  his  poetry,  are  stands  out  on  the  face  of  each  of  them  ;  and 
aljays  his  own.  In  our  times,  all  the  higher  the  facility  is  attested,  as  in  the  case  of 
wks  of  literature  have  been  so  long  and  so    Shakespeare  himself,  both  by  the  inimitable 


mlicles  of  the  Mighty  Dramatist. 

ihakespeare,  to  be  sure,  is  more  purely 
orjinal ;  but  it  should  not  be  forgotten,  that, 
injistime,  there  was  much  less  to  borrow — 
arlthat  he  too  has  drawn  freely  and  largely 
frii  the  sources  that  were  open  to  him,  at 
le|t  for  his  fable  and  graver  sentiment ; — for 


ofh  trodden,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to 
kfb  out  of  the  footsteps  of  some  of  our  pre- 
cijiors;  and  the  ancients,  it  is  well  known, 
h;le  stolen  most  of  our  bright  thou<rhts — and 
n([  only  visibly  beset  all  the  patent  ap- 
pi^ches  to  glory — but  swarm  in  such  am- 
bijlied  multitudes  behind,  that  when  we 
tljik  we  have  gone  fairly  beyond  their  pla- 
gi  isms,  and  honestly  worked  out  an  original 
ejbllence  of  our  own,  up  starts  some  deep- 
reil  antiquary,  and  makes  it  out,  much  to  his 


freedom  and  happy  carelessness  of  the  style 
in  which  they  are  executed,  and  by  the  match- 
less rapidity  with  which  they  have  been  lav- 
ished on  the  public. 

Such  an  author  would  really  require  a  re- 
view to  hims(>lf — and  one  too  of  swifter  than 
quarterly  recurrence  :  and  accordinidy  w(!  have 
long  since  acknowledged  our  inability  to  keep 
up  with  him,  and  fairly  renounced  the  task 
of  keeping  a  regular  account  of  his  successive 
publications ;  contenting  ourselves  with  greet- 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


ing  him  now  and  then  in  the  pauses  of  his 
brilliant  career,  and  casting,  when  we  do 
meet,  a  hurried  glance  over  the  wide  field  he 
has  traversed  since  we  met  before. 

We  gave  it  formerlj",  we  think,  as  our  reason 
for  thus  pnssing  over,  without  special  notice, 
some  of  the  most  remarkable  productions  of 
the  age.  that  thf*v  were  in  fact  too  remarkable 
to  need  any  notice  of  ours — that  they  were  as 
soon,  and  as  extensively  read,  as  we  could 
hope  our  account  of  them  to  be — and  that  in 
reality  all  the  world  thought  just  what  we 
were  inclined  to  say  of  them.  These  reasons 
certainly  remain  in  full  force :  and  we  may 
now  venture  to  mention  another,  which  had 
in  secret,  perhaps,  as  much  weight  with  us  as 
all  the.  rest  put  together.  We  mean  simply, 
that  when  we  began  with  one  of  those  works. 
we  were  conscious  that  we  never  knew  how 
to  leave  off;  but.  finding  the  author's  words 
so  much  more  agreeable  than  our  own,  went 
on  in  the  most  unreasonable  manner  copying 
out  description  after  description,  and  dialogue 
after  dialosTje.  till  we  were  abused,  not  alto- 
gether without  reason,  for  selling  our  readers 
in  small  letter  what  they  had  already  in  large, 
— and  for  the  abominable  nationality  of  filling 
up  our  pages  with  praises  of  a  Scottish  author, 
and  specimens  of  Scottish  pleasantry  and  pa- 
thos. While  we  contritely  admit  the  justice 
of  these  imputations,  we  humbly  trust  that 
our  Southern  readers  will  now  be  of  opinion 
that  the  offence  has  been  in  some  degree  e.\- 
piated,  both  by  our  late  forbearance,  and  our 
present  proceeding:  For  while  we  have  done 
violence  to  our  strongest  propensities,  in  pass- 
ing over  in  silence  two  very  tempting  publi- 
cations of  this  author,  on  Scottish  subjects  and 
in  the  Scottish  dialect,  we  have  at  last  recur- 
red to  him  for  the  purpose  of  noticing  the  only 
work  he  has  produced  on  a  subject  entirely 
English :  and  one  which  is  nowhere  graced 
either  with  a  trait  of  our  national  character,  or 
a  (voluntary)  .'^ample  of  our  national  speech. 

Before  entering  upon  this  task,  however,  we 
must  be  permitted,  just  for  the  sake  of  keep- 
ing our  chronology  in  order,  to  say  a  word  or 
two  on  those  neglected  works,  of  which  we 
constrained  ourselves  to  say  nothing,  at  the 
time  when  they  formed  the  subject  of  all  other 
disceptation. 

'■'The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian"'  is  remarkable 
for  containing  fewer  characters,  and  less  va- 
riety of  incident,  than  any  of  the  author's 
former  productions: — and  it  is  accordingly,  in 
some  places,  comparatively  languid.  The 
Porteous  mob  is  rather  heavily  described  :  and 
the  whole  part  of  George  Robertson,  or  Stan- 
ton, is  extravagant  and  unpleasing.  The  final 
cata.strophe,  too,  is  needlessly  improbable  and 
startling;  and  both  Saddletrees  and  Davie 
Deans  become  at  last  somewhat  tedious  and 
unreasonable  :  while  we  miss,  throughout,  the 
character  of  the  generous  and  kindheartcd 
rustic,  which,  in  one  form  or  another,  gives 
such  spirit  and  intere.st  to  most  of  the  other 
stories.  But  with  all  these  defects,  the  work 
has  both  beauty  and  power  enough  to  vindi- 
cate its  title  to  a  legitimate  descent  from  its 
mighty  father — ^and  even  to  a  place  in  "  the 


valued  file"  of  his  productions.    The  Ula.ni 
condemnation  of  Etfie  Deans  are  patheticnd 
beautiful  in  the  ver}-  highest  degrtc 
scenes  with  the  Duke  of  Argyle  ai 
full  of  spirit;  and  strangely  compi  l 
perfect  knowledge  of  life  and  of  strong ..^i 
deep  feehng.     But   the   great   boast  of  he 
piece,  and  the  great  exploit  of  the  autl- 
perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  his  expiuits— ihe 
character  and  history  of  Jeanie  Deans,  m 
the  time  she  first  reproves  her  si.-ter's  1  a- 
tions  at  St.  Leonard's,  till  she  settles  ii  ;, 
manse  in  Argyleshire.     The  singular  I ;; 
with  which  he  has  engrafted  on  the  hu 
and  somewhat  coarse  stock  of  a  quiet  i  . 
sumhig  peasant  girl,  the  heroic  alit'Ctioii  . 
strong  sense,  and  lofty  purposes,  which  - 
tinguish  this  heroine — or  rather,  the  ait  ■; 
which  he  has  so  tempered  and  modified  t  v 
great  qualities,  as  to  make  them  appeai  i- 
ways  unsuitable  to   the   station   or  ordi  , 
bearing  of  such  a  person,  and  so  ordered  . , 
disposed   the   incidents   b}"  which   lhe\  r^ 
called  out,  that  they  seem  throughout  ada 
and  native  as  it  were,  to  her  conditioi. 
superior  to  any  thing  we  can  recollect  ii 
history  of  invention  ;  and  must  appear,  tc 
one  who  attentively  considers  it,  as  a  ren  • 
able  triumph  over  the  greatest  of  all  diti 
ties  in  the  conduct  of  a  fictitious  iiarra  ■ 
Jeanie  Deans,  in  the  cour.^e  of  her  ativenti 
undertaking,  excites  our  admiration  and  :  . 
j  pathy  a  great  deal  more  powerfully  than  - 
heroines,  and  is  in  the  highest  degree    . 
j  pathetic  and  sublime; — and  yet   she  i 
says  or  does  any  one  thing  that  the  liau: 
of  a  Scotch  cow  feeder  might  not  be  supi 
to  say — and  scarcely  any  thing  indeed  tl 
not  characteristic  of  her  rank  and   hab.. 
occupations.     She  is  never  sentimental 
refilled,  nor  elegant;  and  though  actini 
ways,   and  in  very  difficult  situations, 
the  greatest  judgment  and  proprielj-,  i. 
eems  to  exert  more  than  that  downright 
bvious  good  sense  which  is  so  often  foui  . 
ule  the  conduct  of  persons  of  her  comii 
"his  is  the  great  ornament  and  charm  oi 
work.     Dumbiedykes,  however^  is  an  ao 
able  sketch  in  the  grotesque  way; — and  ■ 
Captain  of  Knockdunder  is  a  very  spii 
and,  though  our  Saxon  readers  will  scai 
believe  it.  a  very  accurate  representation 
Celtic  deputy.     There  is  less  descriptii 
scenery,  and  less  sympathy  with  externa 
ture.  in  this,  than  in  any  of  the  other  talt 
•''  The    Bride   of    Lammeimoor"   is   i 
sketchy  and  romantic  than  the  usual  vei  : 
the  author — and  loses,  perhaps,  in  the  i 
!  geration  that  is  incident  to  that  style,  son 
I  the  deep  and  heartfelt  interest  that  beloi 
I  more  familiar  situations.     The  hmnoui 
I  Caleb  Balderstone,  too,  are  to  our  taslf 
;  least  successful  of  this  author's  altemp: 
pleasantry — and  belong  rather  to  the  s 
;  of  French  or  Italian  buflfoonery,  than  to 
I  of  Enirlish  humour ; — and  yet,  to  give  .'• 
j  to  these  farcical  exhibitions,  the  poveri 
j  the  Master  of  Ravenswood  is  exnggerateo 
J  yond  all  credibility,  and  to  the  injury  evt 
i  his  personal  dignity.   Sir  W.  Ashton  is  tedi 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


539 


iii  Bucklaw  and  his  Captain,  tliougli  cxcel- 
liitly  drawn,  take  up  rather  too  much  room 
1  suboalinate  agents. — There  are  splendid 
tns?,  however,  in  this  work  also. — The  pic- 
t  e  of  old  Ailie  is  exquisite — and  beyond  the 
liich  of  any  other  hving  writer. — The  hags 
iit  convene  in  the  churchyard,  have  all  the 
t  ror  and  sublimity,  and  more  than  the  na- 
fe  of  Macbeth's  witches ;  and  the  courtship 
Ethe  iVIermaiden's  well,  as  well  as  some  of 
t;  immediately  preceding  scenes,  are  full  of 
(jaity  and  beauty.  There  is  a  deep  pathos 
ileed,  and  a  genuine  tragic  interest  in  the 
Viole  story  of  the  ill-omened  loves  of  the  two 
itims.  the  final  catastrophe  of  the  Bride, 
iwever,  though  it  may  be  founded  on  fact, 
iitoo  horrible  for  fiction. — But  that  of  Ravens- 
\|iod  is  magnificent — and,  taken  along  with 
te  prediction  which  it  was  doomed  to  fulfil, 
jjj  the  mourning  and  death  of  Balderstone, 
ibne  of  the  finest  combinations  of  snpersti- 
tii  and  sadness  which  the  gloomy  genius  of 
Cf  fiction  has  ever  put  together. 
p'The  Legend  of  Montrose"  is  also  of  the 
t^ure  of  a  sketch  or  fragment,  and  is  still 
litre  vigorous  than  its  companion. — There  is 
t|i  much,  perhaps,  of  Dalgetty — or,  rather,  he 
(i|rosses  too  great  a  proportion  of  the  work, 
-for,  in  himself,  we  think  he  is  uniformly 
«)tertaining ; — and  the  author  has  nowhere 
sown  more  aflinity  to  that  matchless  spirit 
^10  could  bring  out  his  Falstafis  and  his  Pis- 
tjs,  in  act  after  act,  and  play  after  play,  and 
(prcise  them  every  time  in  scenes  of  un- 
handed loquacity,  without  either  exhausting 
t'ir  humour,  or  varying  a  note  from  its  char- 
a:eristic  tone,  than  in  his  large  and  reiterated 
Kcimens  of  the  eloquence  of  the  redoubted 
Ijtmaster.  The  general  idea  of  the  charac- 
t;  is  familiar  to  our  comic  dramatists  after 
tl;  Restoration — and  may  be  said  in  some 
rpasure  to  be  compounded  of  Captain  Fluel- 
lii  and  Bobadil  ; — but  the  ludicrous  combi- 
i[;ionof  the.syWado  with  the  Divinity  student 
((jVIarischal  college,  is  entirely  original ;  anci 
tb  mixture  of  talent,  selfishness,  courage, 
(irseness,  and  conceit,  was  never  so  happily 
ejjraplified.  Numerous  as  his  speeches  are,' 
tjjre  is  not  one  that  is  not  characteristic — 
£|i,  to  our  taste,  divertingly  ludicrous.  An- 
ij:  Lyle,  and  the  Childreri  of  the  Mist,  are  in 
f  ery  different  manner — and,  though  extrava- 
mt,  are  full  of  genius  and  poetry.  The 
\iiole  scenes  at  Argyle's  Castle,  and  in  the 
fpape  from  it — though  trespassing  too  far 
Ityond  the  bounds  of  probability — are  given 
^|fh  great  spirit  and  effect:  and  the  mixture 
cl romantic  incident  and  situation,  with  the 
tie  of  actual  business  and  the  real  transac- 
tlnsof  a  camp,  give  a  life  and  interest  to  the 
v.rlike  part  of  the  story,  which  belong  to  the 
Ijiions  of  no  other  hanil.  There  is  but  little 
ijidft  of  Montrose  himself;  and  the  wager 
iOut  the  Candlesticks — though  said  to  be 
ffinded  in  fact,  and  borrowed  from  a  very 
>pll  known  and  entertaining  book,  is  one  of 
t|;  few  things  in  the  writings  of  this  author, 
t[which  we  are  constrained  to  apply  the  epi- 
t.5ts  of  stupid  aiul  silly. 
jHaving  thus  hastily  set  our  mark  on  those  1 


productions  of  which  we  have  been  prevented 
from  sjieaking  in  detail,  we  proceed,  without 
further  preface,  to  give  an  account  of  the 
work  before  us. 

The  story,  as  we  have  already  stated,  is  en- 
tirely English ;  and  consequently  no  longer  pos- 
sesses the  charm  of  that  sweet  Doric  dialect, 
of  which  even  strangers  have  been  made  ot 
late  to  feel  the  force  and  tlie  beauty.  But  our 
Southern  neighbours  will  be  no  great  gainers, 
after  all,  in  point  of  familiarity  with  the  per- 
sonages, by  this  transference  of  the  scene  of 
action  : — For  the  time  is  laid  as  far  back  as 
the  reign  of  Richard  L — and  we  suspect  that 
the  Saxons  and  Normans  of  that  age  are  rather 
less  known  to  them  than  even  the  Highlanders 
and  Cameronians  of  the  present.  This  was 
the  great  diiriculty  the  author  had  to  contend 
with,  and  the  great  disadvantage  of  the  sub- 
ject with  whicii  he  had  to  deal.  Nobody  now 
alive  can  have  a  very  clear  or  complete  con- 
ception of  the  actual  way  of  lite  and  manure 
d'etre  of  our  ancestors  in  the  year  1 194.  Some 
of  the  more  prominent  outlines  of  their  chiv- 
alry, their  priesthood,  and  their  villenage, 
may  be  known  to  antiquaries,  or  even  to  gen- 
eral readers ;  but  all  the  filhng  up,  and  de- 
tails, which  alone  could  give  body  and  life  to 
the  picture,  have  been  long  since  effaced  by 
time.  We  have  scarcely  any  notion,  in  short, 
of  the  private  life  and  conversation  of  any 
class  of  persons  in  that  remote  period  ;  and, 
in  fact,  know  less  how  the  men  and  women 
occupied  or  amused  themselves — \\-hat  they 
talked  about — how  they  looked — or  \\  hat  they 
habitually  thought  or  felt,  at  that  time  in  Eng- 
land, than  we  know  of  what  they  did  or 
thought  at  Rome  in  the  time  of  Augustus,  or 
at  Athens  in  the  time  of  Pericles.  The  me- 
morials and  relics  of  those  earlier  ages  and 
remoter  nations  are  greatly  more  abundant 
and  more  familiar  to  us,  than  those  of  our  an- 
cestors at  the  distance  of  seven  centuries. 
Besides  ample  histories  and'  copious  orations, 
we  have  plays,  poems,  and  familiar  letters  of 
the  fonner  periods;  while  of  the  latter  we 
have  only  some  vague  chronicles,  some  su- 
perstitious legends,  and  a  few  fragments  of 
foreign  romance.  We  scarcely  know,  indeed, 
what  language  was  then  either  spoken  or 
written.  Yet,  with  all  these  helps,  how  cold 
and  conjectural  a  thing  would  a  novel  be,  of 
hich  the  scene  was  laid  hi  ancient  Rome '. 
The  author  might  talk  with  perfect  propriety 
of  the  business  of  the  Forum,  and  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  Circus — of  the  baths  and  the 
suppers,  and  the  canvass  for  oflice — and  the 
.sacrifices,  and  musters,  and  assemblies.  He 
might  be  quite  correct  as  to  the  dress,  furni- 
tuie,  and  utensils  he  had  occasion  to  mention  ; 
and  might  even  engross  in  his  work  various 
anecdotes  and  sayings  preserved  in  contem- 
porary authors.  But  when  he  came  to  repre- 
sent the  details  of  individual  character  and 
feeling,  and  to  delineate  the  daily  conduct, 
and  report  the  ordinary  jonver.sation  of  his 
persons,  he  would  find  himself  either  frozen 
in  among  n^ked  and  barren  generalitie.^.  oi 
engaged  will^  modern  F.nglishmen  in  the  mas- 
querade habits  of-  antiquity. 
\      , 


540 


WORKS  OF  FICTIOxN. 


In  stating  these  difficulties,  however,  we 
really  mean  less  to  account  for  the  defects, 
than  to  enhance  the  merits  of  the  work  before 
us.  For  though  the  author  has  not  worked 
impossibilities,  he  has  done  wonders  with  his 
subject;  and  though  we  do  sometimes  miss 
those  fresh  and  living  pictures  of  the  charac- 
ters which  we  know,  and  the  nature  with 
which  we  are  familiar — and  that  high  and 
deep  interest  which  the  home  scenes  of  our 
own  times,  and  our  own  people  could  alone 
generate  or  sustain,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
that  he  has  made  marvellous  good  use  of  the 
scanty  materials  at  liis  disposal — and  eked 
them  out  both  by  the  greatest  skill  and  dex- 
terity in  their  arrangement,  and  by  all  the  re- 
sources that  original  genius  could  render  sub- 
servient to  such  a  design.  For  this  purpose 
he  has  laid  his  scene  in  a  period  when  the 
rivalry  of  the  victorious  Norman  and  the  con- 
quered Saxon,  had  not  been  finally  composed ; 
and  when  the  courtly  petulance,  and  chival- 
rous and  military  pride  of  the  one  race,  might 
yet  be  set  in  splendid  opposition  to  the  manly 
steadiness,  and  honest  but  homely  simplicity 
of  the  other:  And  has,  at  the  same  time, 
given  an  air  both  of  dignity  and  of  reality  to 
his  story,  by  bringing  in  the  personal  prowess 
of  Coeur  de  Lion  himself,  and  other  person- 
ages of  historical  fame,  to  assist  in  its  devel- 
opment.— Though  reduced,  in  agreat  measure. 
to  the  vulgar  staple  of  armed  knights,  and 
jolly  friars  or  woodsmen,  imprisoned  damsels, 
lawless  barons,  collared  serfs,  and  househokl 
fools — he  has  made  such  admirable  use  of  his 
great  talents  for  description,  and  invested 
those  traditional  and  theatrical  persons  with 
60  much  of  the  feelings  and  humours  that  are 
of  all  ages  and  all  countries,  that  we  frequent- 
ly cease  to  regard  them — as  it  is  generally 
right  to  regard  them — as  parts  of  a  fantastical 
pageant ;  and  are  often  brought  to  consider 
the  knights  who  joust  in  panoply  in  the  lists, 
and  the  foresters  who  shoot  deer  with  arrows, 
and  plunder  travellers  in  the  woods,  as  real 
mdividuals,  with  hearts  of  flesh  and  blood 
beating  in  their  bosoms  like  our  own — actual 
existences,  in  short,  info  whose  views  we  may 
still  reasonably  enter,  and  with  whose  emo- 
tions we  are  bound  to  sympathise.  To  all 
this  he  has  added,  out  of  the  prodigalitv  of 
his  high  and  inventive  genius,  the  grace  and 
the  interest  of  some  lofty,  and  sweet,  and 
Ruperhuman  characters — "for  which,  though 
evidently  fictitious,  and  unnatural  in  any 
stage  of  society,  the  remoteness  of  the  scene 
on  which  they  are  introduced,  may  serve  as 
an  apology — if  they  could  need  any  other 
than  what  they  bring  along  with  them  in 
their  own  sublimity  and  beauty. 

In  comparing  this  work  then  with  the  former 
productions  of  the  same  master-hand,  it  is 
impossible  not  to  feel  that  we  are  passing  in 
a  good  degree  from  the  reign  of  nature  and 
reality,  to  that  of  fancy  and  romance  ;  and  ex- 
changing for  scenes  of  wonder  and  curiosity, 
those  more  homefelt  sympathies  and  deeper 
touches  of  delight  that  can  only  be  e.xcited  by 
the  people  among  whom  we  live,  and  the  ob- 
jects that  are  constantly  around  us.     A  far 


greater  proportion  of  the  work  is  accordin;- 
made  up  ot  splendid  descriptions  of  arms  a' 
dresses — moated  and  massive  castles — toun, 
ments  of  mailed  champions — solemn  feastsj. 
formal  courtesies,  and  other  mattersof  e.\len**i 
and  visible  presentment,  that  are  only  entitlh 
to  such  distinction  as  connected  with  the  old 
time,  and  new  only  by  virtue  of  their  antiqull 
— while  the  interest  of  the  story  is  maintaimfl 
far  more  by  surprising  adventures  and  exti! 
ordinary  situations,  the  startling  eficct  of  (' 
aggerated  sentiments,  and  the  strong  cotitn 
of  e.vaggerated  characters,  than  by  the  sol 
charms  of  truth  and  reality. — the  exquisi^j^i 
representation  of  scenes  with  which  we  ejSiiiy 
familiar,  or  the  skilful  development  of  gtSf      -ilm! 
tions  which  we  have  often  experienced. 

These  bright  lights  and  deep  shadows — tl 
succes,<5ion  of  brilliant  pictures,  addressed 
often  to  the  eye  as  to  the  imagination,  a 
oftener  to  the  imagination  than  the  heart — tl 
preference  of  striking  generalities  to  honii 
detail.';,  all  belong  more  properly  to  the  p 
vince  of  Poetry  than  of  Prose ;,  and  Ivanli 
accordingly  seems  to  us  much  more  akin 
the  most  splendid  of  modern  poems,  than  t 
most  interesting  of  modern  novels;  and  savoi 
more  of  Marmion,  or  the  Lady  of  the  Lak 
than  of  Waverley,  or  Old  Mortality.  For  o 
part  we  prefer,  and  we  care  not  who  kno\ 
it,  the  prose  to  the  poetry — whether  in  met 
or  out  of  it ;  and  would  willingly  exchange, 
the  proud  alternative  were  in  our  choice,  ev. 
the  great  fame  of  Mr.  Scott,  for  that  whii 
awaits  the  mighty  unknown  who  has  he 
raised  his  standard  of  rivalry,  within  the  a 
cient  limits  of  his  reign.  We  cannot  nc 
however,  give  even  an  abstract  of  the  slor; 
and  shall  venture,  but  on  a  brief  citation,  fro 
the  most  striking  of  its  concluding  scene 
The  majestic  Rebecca,  our  readers  will  recc 
lect,  had  been  convicted  before  the  grai 
master  of  the  Templar.s  and  sentenced  to  lii 
unless  a  champion  appeared  to  do  battle  wi 
her  accuser,  before  an  appointed  day.  Tl 
appointed  day  at  last  arrives.  Rebecca  is  It 
out  to  the  scaffold — faggots  are  prepared  1 
the  side  of  the  lists — and  in  the  lists  appea 
the  relentless  Templar,  mounted  and  arret 
for  the  encounter.  No  ch;im))ion  appears  f 
Rebecca  ;  and  the  heralds  ask  her  if  she  yieh 
herself  as  justly  condemned. 

"  '  Say  to  the  Grand  Master,'  replied  Rebeco 
'  tliiit  I  maintain  my  innocence,  and  do  not  yi^ld  n 
as  ju.sily  I'ondenined,  lest  I  become  guilty  of  niii 
own  blood.     Say  to  him,  that  I  challenge  such  d 
lay  as  his  (orms  will  permit,  to  see  if  God,  who 
opportunity  is  in  man's  extremity,  will  raise  me  i 
a  deliverer;    and   when    such    uttermost  space 
passed,  may  his  Holy  will  be  done!'     The  hera,       ,>^ 
retired  to  carry  this  answer  to  the  Grand  Master.il       yj^ 
'  God  forbid,'  said  Lucas  Beaumanoir,  '  that  Jf*'^      %^l 
Pagan  should  impeach  us  of  injustice. — Until  'I 
shadows  be  cast  from  the  west  to  the  eastward,  w 
we  wail    to  see  if  a  champion  will  appear  foril 
unfortunate  woman.' 

The  hours  pass  away — and  the  shadov 
begin  to  pass  to  the  eastward .  The  assembit 
multitudes  murmur  with  impatience  and  con 
passion — andthe  Judges  whisper  to  each  othc 
that  it  is  time  to  proceed  to  doom. 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


541 


t'A'.  ihia  instant  a  knight,  urging  his  horse  to 
ff.ed,  appeared  on  the  plain  advancing  towards  the 
Is.  An  hundred  voices  exclaimed,  '  A  champion  I 
,;hanipion  !'  And,  despite  the  prcpasscssion  and 
pjudices  of  the  multitude,  they  sliouted  nnani- 
imsly  as  the  knight  rode  rapidly  into  the  tilr-yard. 
'i  the  summons  of  the  herald,  who  demnnded  his 
Ilk,  his  name,  and  purpose,  the  stranger  kniiiht 
i-iiwered  readily  and  boldly,  '  I  am  a  good  knight 
i\  noble,  come  hither  to  sustain  with  Uince  and 
f'ord  the  just  and  lawful  quarrel  of  thisdam«el, 
jbecoa,  daughter  of  Isaac  of  York  ;  to  uphold  the 
om  pronounced  against  her  to  be  false  and  truth- 
is;  and  to  defy  Sir  Brian  de  Bois-Guilhert,  as  a 
vitor,  muriherer,  and  liar.'  '  The  stranger  must 
lit  show,'  said  .Alalvoisin,  'that  he  is  a  good 
flight,  and  of  honourable  lineage.  The  Temple 
odeih  not  forth  her  champions  against  nameless 
iin.'— 'My  name.'  snid  the  Knight,  raising  his 
llniet,  'is  belter  known,  mv  lineasfe  more  pure, 
;ilvoisin,  than  thine  own.  X  atn  Wilfred  o!"  Ivan- 
jj." — '  I  will  not  light  with  thee,'  said  the  Templar, 
ia  changed  and  hollow  voice.  '  Get  thy  wounds 
liled.  and  purvey  thee  a  better  horse,  and  it  may 
1 1  will  hold  it  worth  my  while  to  scourge  out  of 
t:e  this  boyish  spirit  of  bravade.' — '  Ha  I  proud 
'mplar,'  said  Ivanhoe,  'hast  thou  forgotten  that 
tjce  didst  thou  fall  before  this  lance  ?  Remember 
I  lists  at  Acre — remember  the  Passage  of  Arms 
lAshby — remember  thy  proud  vaunt  in  the  halls 
(Roiherwood,  and  the  g.igc  of  your  go!d  chain 
fiinst  my  reliquary,  that  thou  wouldst  do  battle 
vh  Wilfred  of  Ivanhoe,  and  recover  the  lioudur 
tu  hadst  lost!  By  that  reliquary,  and  the  holy 
I  que  it  contains,  I  will  proclaim  thee,  Templar, 
toward  in  every  court  in  Europe — in  every  Pre- 
cMory  of  thine  drder — unless  thou  do  battle  v.iih- 
C;  farther  delay.' — Bois-Guilbert  turned  his  coun- 
t  ance  irresolutely  towards  Rebecca,  and  then  e.\- 
(imed,  looking  fiercely  at  Ivanhoe.  '  Dog  of  a 
iion.  take  thy  lance,  and  prepare  for  the  death 
liu  hast  drawn  upon  thee!' — '  Does  the  Grand 
.'.ster  allow  me  the  combat  ?'  said  Ivanhoe. — '  I 
ry  not  deny  what  you  have  challenged,'  said  the 
(and  Master,  '  yet  I  would  thou  wert  in  better 
ffht  to  do  battle.  An  enemy  of  our  Order  hast 
tu  ever  been,  yet  would  I  have  ihce  honourably 
tit  with.'  '  Thus — thus  as  I  am,  and  not  other- 
^)e,'  said  Ivanhoe  ;  '  it  is  the  jtidginent  of  God  ! — 
t'lis  keeping  I  commend  myself  " 

nVe  cannot  make  room  for  the  whole  of  this 
f|astrophe.  The  overtired  horse  of  [vauhoe 
ih  in  the  shock ;  but  the  Templar,  ihoui^h 
sjrcely  touched  by  the  lance  of  his  adver- 
siy,-  reels,  and  falls  also  ; — and  when  they 
s'^k  to  raise  him.  is  found  to  be  utterly  dead  ! 
arictim  to  his  own  contending  pa.ssions. 

'iVe  will  give  but  one  scene  more — and  it  is 
i  lonour  of  the  divine  Rebecca — for  the  fate  of 
a  the  rest  may  easily  be  divined .  Richard  for- 
g;e,s  his  brother  ;  and  Wilfred  weds  Rowena. 

I'll  wasupon  the  second  morning  after  this  hnppy 
Mai.  that  the  Lady  Rowena  was  made  acquainted 
b'her  handmaid  Elgitha,  that  a  damsel  desired  ad- 
r  sion  lo  her  presence,  and  solicited  that  their  par- 
ii: might  be  without  witness.  Rowena  wondered. 
hHtated.  became  curious,  and  ended  by  command - 
it' the  damsel  to  be  admitted,  and  her  atiendants 
•'Withdraw. — She  entered — a  noble  and  cominand- 
ii;  figure ;  the  long  white  veil  in  which  she  was 
SDuded,  overshadowing  rather  than  concealing 
t' elegance  and  majesty  of  her  shape,  [fer  de- 
rnnoiir  wa«  that  of  respect,  iinmingled  by  the 
<»;'t  shade  cither  of  bar.  or  of  a  v.  isli  to  propi'ia'e 
laur.  Rowena  was  ever  ready  to  acknowledge 
•":  claims,  and  attend  to  the  feelings  of  others.  She 
a;e,  and  would  have  conducted  the  lovely  stranger 
li  seal;  hut  she  looked  al  Elgitha,  and  again  in- 
tiated  a  wish  to  discourse  with  the  Lady  Rowena 


alone.  Elgitha  had  no  sooner  retired  with  imwilling 
steps,  than,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Lady  of  Ivanhoe, 
her  fair  visitant  kneeled  suddenly  on  one  knee, 
pressed  her  hands  to  her  forehead,  and,  bciulingher 
head  lothe  ground,  in  sjuie  ol  Howena's  resistance, 
kissed  the  embroidered  hem  of  her  tunic. — '  What 
means  this  ?'  said  the  surprised  bride  ;  '  or  why  do 
you  offer  to  me  a  deference  so  unusual  ?' — '  Be- 
caijse  to  you,  Lady  of  Ivanhoe,'  said  Rebecca, 
rising  up  and  resuming  the  usual  quiet  dignity  of 
her  manner.  '  I  may  lawfully,  ami  without  rebuke, 
pay  the  debt  of  gratitude  which  I  oweto  Wilfred  of 
Ivanhoe.  I  am — forgive  the  boldness  which  has 
ofl'ered  to  you  the  homage  of  my  country — I  am  the 
unhappy  Jewess,  for  whom  your  husband  hazarded 
his  life  against  such  fearful  odds  in  the  tili-yard  of 
Templesiowe. — '  Damsel,' said  Rowena,  '  Wilfred 
of  Ivanhoe  on  that  day  rendered  back  but  in  a  shght 
measure  your  unceasing  charity  towards  him  in  nis 
wounds  and  misfortunes.  Speak,  is  there  aught 
remains  in  which  he  and  I  can  serve  thee  ?' — '  Noth- 
ing,' said  Rebecca,  calmly,  '  unless  you  will  trans- 
mu  to  him  my  grateful  farewell.' — '  You  leave  Eng- 
land, then,'  said  Rowena,  scarce  recovering  the  sur- 
prise of  this  extraordinary  visit. — '  I  leave  it,  lady, 
ere  this  moon  again  chants.  i\Iy  father  hath  a 
brother  high  in  f'avour.with  Mohammed  Boabdil, 
King  of  Grenada — thither  wc  go,  secure  of  peace 
and  protection,  tor  the  payment  of  such  ransom  as 
the  Moslem  e.xact  from  our  people.' — '  And  are  you 
not  then  as  well  protected  in  England  ?'  said  Rowe- 
na. '  My  husband  has  favour  with  the  King — the 
King  himself  is  just  and  generous." — '  Lady,'  said 
Rebecca,  '  I  doubt  it  not — but  England  is  no  safe 
abode  for  the  children  of  my  people.  Ephraim  is  an 
heartless  dove — Issachar  an  over-laboured  drudge, 
which  Sloops  between  two  burthens.  Not  in  a  land 
of  war  and  blood,  surrounded  by  hostile  neighbours, 
and  distracted  by  internal  factions,  can  Israel  hope 
to  rest  during  her  wanderings.' — '  But  yon,  maiden,' 
said  Rowena — '  you  surely  can  have  nothing  to  fear. 
She  who  nursed  the  sick-bed  of  Ivanhoe,'  she  con- 
tinued, rising  with  enthusiasm — '  she  can  have  noth- 
ing to  fear  in  England,  where  Saxon  and  Norman 
will  contend  who  shall  most  do  her  honour.' — •  Thy 
speech  is  fair,  lady,'  said  Rebecca,  '  and  thy  pur- 
pose fairer  ;  but  it  may  not  be — there  is  a  gulf  be- 
twixt us.  Our  breeding,  our  faith,  alike  forbid  either 
to  pass  over  it.  Farewell ! — yet,  ere  I  go,  indulge 
me  one  request.  The  bridal  veil  hangs  over  thy 
face  ;  raise  it,  and  let  me  see  the  features  of  which 
fame  speaks  so  highly.' — '  They  are  scarce  worthy 
of  being  looked  upon,'  said  Rowena;  '  but.  expect- 
ing the  same  from  my  visitant,  I  remove  the  veil.' — 
She  took  it  offaccordingly,  and  partly  from  the  con- 
sciousnes.'!  of  beauty,  partly  from  basiifulness,  she 
blushed  so  intensely,  that  cheek,  brow,  neck,  and 
bosom,  were  sufllised  with  crimson.  Rebecca  blush- 
ed also,  but  it  was  a  momentary  feeling  ;  and,  mas- 
tered by  higher  emotions,  passed  slowly  from  her 
features  like  the  crimson  cloud,  which  changes  co- 
lour when  the  sun  sinks  beneath  the  horizon. 

"  '  Lady,  she  said,  '  the  countenance  you  have 
deigned  to  show  me  will  long  dwell  in  my  remem- 
brance. There  reigns  in  it  gentleness  and  good- 
ness;  and  if  a  tinge  of  the  world's  pride  or  vanities 
may  mix  with  an  expression  so  lovely,  how  may  we 
!  chide  that  which  is  of  earth  for  bearing  some  colour 
!  of  its  original  ?  Long,  long  shall  I  remember  your 
features,  and  bless  God  that  I  leave  my  noble  dc- 
I  liverer  united  with' — She  stopjied  short — her  eyes 
I  filled  with  tears.  She  hastily  wiped  them,  and  an- 
I  swered  to  the  anxious  inquiries  of  Rowena — '  I  am 
j  well,  lady — well.  But  my  heart  swells  when  I  think 
of  Torquilstone  and  the  lists  of  Templestowe  ! — 
I  Farewell  !  One.  ilie  most  trifling  part  of  my  duly, 
I  remains  undischarged.  Accept  this  casket — startle 
;  not  at  its  contents.' — Rowena  opened  the  small  sil- 
I  ver-chased  casket,  and  perceived  a  carcanet,  or 
necklace,  with  ear-jewels,  of  diamonds,  which  were 
I  visibly  of  immense  value. — '  It  is  impossible.'  she 
;  said,  tendering  back  the  casket,  '  I  dare  not  accept 
2V 


542 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


a  gift  of  such  consequence.' — '  Yet  keep  it,  lady,'  I 
returned  Rebecca. — '  Let  me  not  think  you  deem 

80  wretchedly  ill  of  my  natinn  as  your  commons  be-  I 
lieve.     Think  ye  thai  I  prize  these  sparkling  frag-  - 
meats  of  stone  above  my  lil)erty  ?  or  that  my  father  j 
values  them  in  cotnparison  to  the  honour  of  his  only  j 
child?  Accept  ihein,  lady — to  me  they  are  valueless,  j 
I  will  never  wear  jewels  more.' — '  You  are  then  j 
unhappy.'  said  Rowena,  struck  with  the  manner  in  j 
which  flebecca  uttered  the  last  words.  '  O,  remain  j 
with  us — the  counsel  of  holy  men  will  wean  you 
from  your  unhappy  law,  and  I  will  be  a  sister  to 
you.' — '  No,  hady,'  answered  Rebecca,  the  same 
calm  melancholy  reigning  in  her  soft  voice  and  beau- 
tiful features, — '  that  may  not  be.  I  inay  not  change 
the  faith  of  my  fathers,  like  a  garment  unsuited  to 
the  climate  in  which  I  seek  to  dwell ;  and  unhappy, 
lady,  I  will  not  be.     He,  to  whom  I  dedicate  my 
future  life,  will  be  my  comforter,  if  I  do  Mis  will.' — 
'  Have  you  then  convents,   to    one  of  which   you 
mean  to  retire  ?'  asked  Rowena. — '  No,  lady,' said 
the  Jewess ;  '  but  among  our  people,  since  the  time 
of  Abraham  downward,  have   been  women  who 
have  devoted  their  thoughts  to  Heaven,  and  their 
actions  to  works  of  kindness  to  men,  tending  the 
sick,  feeding  the  hungry,  and  relieving  the  distress- 
ed.   Among  these  will  Rebecca  be  numbered.    Say 
this  to  thy  lord,  should  he  inquire  after  the  fate  of 
her  whose  life  he  saved  I' — There  was  an  involun- 
tary tremor  in  Rebecca's  voice,  and  a  tenderness 
of  accent,  which  perhaps  betrayed  more  than  she 
would  willingly  have  expressed.     She  hastened  to 
bid   Rowena  adieu. — '  Farewell,'  she  said,  '  may 
He,  who  made  both   Jew  and  Christian,   shower 
down  on  you  his  choicest  blessings  !' 

"  She  glided  from  the  apartment,  leaving  Rowena 
surprised  as  if  a  vision  had  passed  before  her.  The 
fair  Saxon  related  the  singular  conference  to  her 
husband,  on  whose  mind  it  made  a  deep  impression. 
He  lived  long  and  happily  with  Rowena;  for  they 
were  attached  to  each  other  by  the  bonds  of  early 
affection,  and  they  loved  each  other  the  more,  from 
recollection  of  the  obstacles  which  had  impeded 
their  union.  Yet  it  would  be  inquiring  too  curiously 
to  ask,  whether  the  recollection  of  Rebecca's  beauty 
and  magnanimity  did  not  recur  to  his  mind  more 
frequently  than  the  fair  descendant  of  Alfred  might 
altogether  have  approved." 

The  work  before  us  shows  at  least  as  much 
genius  as  any  of  those  with  which  it  must  now 
be  numbered — and  excites,  perhaps,  at  least 
on  the  first  perusal,  as  strong  an  interest  :  But 
it  does  not  delight  so  deeply — and  we  rather 
think  it  will  not  please  so  long.  Rebecca  is 
almost  the  only  lovely  being  in  the  story — and 
she  is  evidently  a  creature  of  the  fancy — a 
mere  poetical  personification.  Next  to  her — 
for  Isaac  is  but  a  milder  Shylock,  and  by  no 
means  more  natural  than  his  original — the 
heartiest  interest  is  e.xcited  by  the  outlaws  and 
their  merry  chief — because  the  tone  and  man- 
ners ascribed  to  them  are  more  akin  to  those 
that  prevailed  among  the  yeomanry  of  later 
days,  than  those  of  the  Knights,  Priors,  and 
Princes,  are  to  any  thing  with  which  a  more 
recent  age  has  been  acquainted. — Cedric  the 
Saxon,  with  his  thralls,  and  Bois-Guilbert  the 
Templar  with  his  Moors,  are  to  us  but  theoreti- 
cal or  mythological  persons.  We  know  noth- 
ing about  them — and  never  feel  assured  that 
we  fully  comprehend  their  drift,  or  enter 
rightly  into  their  feelings.  The  same  genius 
which  now  busies  us  with  their  concerns, 
might  have  excited  an  equal  interest  for  the 
adventures  of  Oberon  and  Pigwiggin — or  for 
any  imaginary  community  of  Giants,  Amazons, 


or  Cynocephali.  The  interest  we  do  take  is 
the  situations — and  the  extremes  of  peril,  h 
roism,  and  atrocity,  in  which  the  great  la ,  _j 
tude  of  the  fiction  eiaables  the  author  to  v^. 
dulge.  Even  with  this  advantage,  we  so( 
feel,  not  only  that  the  characters  he  brings  b 
fore  us  are  contiary  to  our  experience,  but  th 
they  are  actually  impossible.  There  could 
fact  have  been  no  such  state  of  society  as  th; 
of  which  the  story  before  us  professes  to  gi^ 
us  but  samples  and  ordinary  results.  In 
country  beset  with  such  worthies  as  Front-d: 
BoDuf,  Malvoisiii,  and- the  rest,  Isaac  the  Je 
could  neither  have  grown  rich,  nor  lived  tooi 
age  ;  and  no  Rebecca  could  either  have  z< 
quired  her  delicacy,  or  preserved  her  honou 
Neither  could  a  plump  Prior  Aymer  have  fo 
lowed  venery  in  woods  swarming  with  tl 
merry  men  of  Robin  Hood . — Rotherwood  mu 
have  been  burned  to  the  ground  two  or  thn 
times  in  every  year — and  all  the  knights  ai; 
thanes  of  the  land  been  killed  ofl'  nearly ; 
often.  The  thing,  in  short,  when  calmly  cot 
sidered,  cannot  be  received  as  a  reality  •  am 
after  gazing  for  a  while  on  the  splendid  pageai 
which  it  presents,  and  admiring  the  exagge 
rated  beings  who  counterfeit,  in  their  graii 
style,  the  passions  and  feelings  of  our  poor  hi 
man  nature,  we  soon  find  that  we  must  tui 
again  to  our  Waverleys,  and  Antiquaries,  ar 
old  Mortalities,  and  become  acquainted  wit 
our  neighbours  and  ourselves,  and  onr  dutie 
and  dangers,  and  true  felicities,  in  the  exqu 
site  pictures  which  our  author  there  exhib: 
of  the  follies  we  daily  witness  or  display,  an 
of  the  prejudices,  habits,  and  affections,  I 
which  we  are  still  hourly  obstructed,  goven 
ed,  or  cheered. 

We  end,  therefore,  as  we  began — by  pn 
ferring  the  home  scenes,  and  the  copies  c 
originals  which  we  know — but  admiring,  i 
the  highest  degree,  the  fancy  and  judgmei 
and  feeling  by  which  this  more  distant  ai; 
ideal  prospect  is  enriched.  It  is  a  spleiid: 
Poem — and  contains  matter  enough  for  si 
good  Tragedies.  As  it  is,  it  will  make  a  git 
rious  melodrame  for  the  end  of  the  season.- 
Perhaps  the  author  does  better — for  us  an 
for  himself — by  writing  more  novels  :  But  m 
have  an  earnest  wish  that  he  would  tryh 
hand  in  the  actual  bow  of  Shakespeare— ve: 
ture  fairly  within  his  enchanted  circle — an 
reassert  the  Dramatic  Sovereignty  ol"  pjiglam 
by  putting  forth  a  genuine  Tragedy  of  passio:: 
fancy,  and  incident.  He  has  all  the  quaiificij  ■'»!■ 
lions  to  insure  success* — except  perhaps  th*  ^^ 
art  of  compression  ; — for  we  suspect  it  woul' 
cost  him  no  little  effort  to  confine  his  stor; 
and  the  development  of  his  characters,  t 
some  fifty  or  .^^ixty  small  pages.  But  the  a.j  'i 
tempt  is  worth  making;  and  he  may  be  ce;j  '^* 
tain  that  he  cannot  fail  without  glory.  ,     ^^ 

*  We  take  it  for  granted,  that  the  charming  e»  t^ 
tracts  from  "Old  Plays,"  that  are  occasional! 
given  as  mottoes  to  the  chapters  of  this  and  son 
of  his  other  works,  are  original  compositions  of  tl 
author  whose  prose  they  garnish  : — and  they  eho 
that  he  is  not  loss  a  master  of  the  most  beaulif 
style  of  Dramatic  versification,  than  of  all  the  highi 
and  more  inward  secrets  of  that  forgotten  art. 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


543 


lie  Fortu 


nes  of  Nigel. 
12rao. 


(j?unc,  1822.) 

Bv  the  Author  of  "Waverley,"   ••  Kenihvorth/'  &c. 
pp.  950.     Edinburgh  :  Constable  &  Co.  1822.' 


In  3  vols 


T  was  a  happy  thought  in  us  to  review  this 
Buor's  works  in  groups,  rather  than  in  single 
p  'es ;  for  we  should  never  otherwise  have 
bai  able  to  keep  up  both  with  him  and  with 
01  other  business.  Even  as  it  is,  we  find  we 
h;e  let  him  run  so  far  ahead,  that  we  have 
nc  rather  more  of  him  on  hand  than  we  can 
wl  get  through  at  a  sitting ;  and  are  in  dan- 
St  of  forgetting  the  early  part  of  the  long 
sees  of  stories  to  which  we  are  thus  obliged 
to,)ok  back,  or  of  finding  it  forgotten  by  the 
pilic — or  at  least  of  having  the  vast  assem- 
ble of  events  and  characters  that  now  lie 
bf)re  us  something  jumbled  and  confounded, 
b(i  in  our  own  recollections,  and  that  of  our 
aciiring  readers. 

ur  last  particular  notice,  we  think,  was  of 
Ivihoe,  in  the  end  of  1819  ;  and  in  the  two 
ye.-s  that  have  since  elapsed,  we  have  had 
th  Monastery,  the  Abbot,  Kenilworth,  the 
Pi,tes,  and  Nigel, — one.  two.  three,  four,  five 
—  rge  original  works  from  the  same  fertile 
ar  inexhaustible  pen.  It  is  a  strange  manu- 
fa  are !  and.  though  depending  entirely  on 
in'Ution  and  original  fancy,  really  seems  to 
preed  with  all  the  steadiness  and  regularity 
of  thing  that  ^\■as  kept  in  operation  by  in- 
diry  and  application  alone.  Ota-  whole 
fn>mity,  for  e.vample,  with  all  the  works  of 
al  'ther  writers  to  supply  them  with  mate- 
rijv,  are  not  half  so  sure  of  bringing  out  their 
twi volumes  in  the  year,  as  this  one  author, 
w'l  nothing  but  his  own  genius  to  depend 
oii;s  of  bringing  out  his  six  or  seven.  There 
is  '■)  instance  of  any  such  experiment  beincr 
somg  continued  with  success;  and,  accord- 
in,:to  all  appearances,  it  is  just  as  far  from  a 
te  lination  now,  as  it  was  at  the  besrinning. 
If ;  were  only  for  the  singularity  of  the  thing. 
it  puld  be  worth  while  to  chronicle  the  ac- 
tujcourse  and  progress  of  this  extraordinary 
ad!nture. 

::"  the  two  first  works  we  have  mentioned, 
thMonastery  and  the  Abbot,  we  have  the 
le;!:  to  say;  and  we  believe  the  public  have 
th'ieast  curiosity  to  know  our  opinion.  They 
aryertainly  the  least  meritorious  of  the  whole 
sej's.  either  subsequent  or  precedinsr;  and 
wl,e  they  are  decidedly  worse  than  the  other 
W(!c8  of  the  same  author,  we  are  not  sure 
ihi'we  can  say,  as  we  have  done  of  some  of 
hiibther  failures,  that  they  are  better  than 
lhi;9  of  any  other  recent  writer  of  fiction. — 
SoOTspicuous,  indeed;  was  their  inferiority, 
ihii  we  at  one  time  apprehendi^d  that  we 
shjld  have  been  called  upon  to  interfere 
bejre  our  time,  and  to  admonish  the  author 
of -le  hazard  to  which  he  was  exposing  his 
fail).  But  as  he  has  since  redeemed  that 
•lilwe  shall  now  pass  it  over  hghtly,  and 


merely  notice  one  or  two  things  that  still  live 
in  our  remembrance. 

We  do  not  think  the  White  Lady,  and  the 
other  supernatural  agencies,  the  worst  blemish 
of  "The  Monastery."     On  the  contrary,  the 
first   ajiparition    of   the   spirit   by  lier   lonely 
fountain  (though  borrowed  from  Lord  Byron's 
Witch  of  the  Alps  in  Manfred),  as  well  as  the 
effect  of  the  interview  on  the  mind  of  the 
young  aspirant  to  whom  she  reveals  herself, 
have  always  appeared  to  us  to  be  very  beau- 
tifully imagined  :  But  we  must  confess,  that 
their  subsequent   descent    into  an   alabaster 
cavern,  and  the  seizure  of  a  stolen  Bible  from 
an  altar  blazing  with  cold  flames,  is  a  fiction 
of  a  more  ignoble  stock  :  and   looks  very  like 
an  unlucky  combination  of  a  French  fairy  tale 
and  a  dull  German  romance.     The  Euphuist 
too.  Sir  Piercie  Shafton,  is  a  mere  nuisance 
throughout.     Nor  can  we  remember  any  in- 
(  cident  in  an  unsuccessful  farce  more  utterly 
absurd  and  pitiable,  than  the  remembrance 
^  of  tailorship  that  is  supposed  to  be  conjured 
up  in  the  mind  of  this  chivalrous  person,  by 
the  presentment  of  the  fairy's  bndkin  to  his 
eyes.     There  is  something  ineffably  poor  at 
once,  and  extravagant,  in  the  idea  of  a  solid 
]  silver  implement  being  taken  from  the  hair  of 
I  a  spiritual  and  shadowy  being,  for  the  sage 
I  purpose  of  making  an  earthly  coxcomb  angry 
I  to  no  end  ; — while  our  delight  at  this  happy 
imagination  is  not  a  little  heightened  by  re- 
flecfing  that  it  is  all  the  time  utterly  unin'telli- 
'  jrible,  how  the  mere  exhibition  of  a  lady's 
bodkin  should  remind  any  man  of  a  tailor  in 
'  his  pedigree^or  be  thought  to  import  such  a 
I  disclosure  to  the  spectators. 
I      But,  notwithstanding  these  gross  faults,  and 
I  the  general  flatness  of  the  monkish  parts — 
■  including  that  of  the  Sub-prior,  which  is  a 
i  failure   in  spite  of  considerable   labour  —  it 
I  would  be  absurd  to  rank  this  with  com.mon 
novels,  or  even  to  exclude  it  from  the  file  of 
!  the  author's  characteristic  productions.    It  has 
'  both  humour,  and  fancy  and  pathos  enough, 
to  maintain  its  title  to  such  a  distinction. — 
The  aspiring  temper  of  Halbert  Glendinning, 
the   rustic   establishment  of  Glendearg,  the 
!  picture  of  Christie  of  Clinthill,  and.  above  all, 
the  scenes  at  the  castle  of  Aven^d,  are  all 
touched  with  the  hand  of  a  master.    Julian's 
dialogue,  or  soliloquy  rather,  to  his  hawk,  in 
presence  of  his  paramour,  with  its  accompani- 
ments and  sequel,  is  as  powerful  as  any  thing 
the  author  has  prodnced  ;  and  the  trngic  and 
historical  scenes  that  lead  to  the  conclusion 
are  also,  for  the  most  part,  excellent.     It  is  a 
work,  in   short,  which  pleases  more  upon  a 
second  reading  than  at  first — as  we  not  only 
pass  over  the  Euphuism  and  other  dull  pas- 


su 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


sages,  but,  being  aware  of  its  defects,  no  i 
longer  feel  the  disappointment  and  provoca- 
lion  which  are  apt.  on  their  first  excitement,  I 
lo  make  us  unjust  to  its  real  merits.  I 

111  point  of  real  merit.  •■  The  Abbot"  is  not 
much  better,  we  think,  than  the  Monastery — 
but  it  is  fuller  of  historical  painting,  and,  in 
the  higher  scenes,  has  perhaps  a  deeper  and 
more  exalted  interest.  The  Popish  zealots, 
wh'?thpr  in  the  shape  of  prophetic  crones  or 
heroic  monks,  are  very  tiresome  personages. 
Catherine  Seyton  is  a  wilful  deterioration  of 
Diana  Vernon,  and  is  far  too  peit  and  con- 
fident ;  while  her  paramour  Roland  Giieme  is, 
for  a  good  part  of  the  work,  little  better  than 
a  blackguard  boy,  who  should  have  had  his 
head  broken  twice  a  day,  and  been  put  nightly 
in  the  stocks,  for  his  impertinence.  Some  of 
the  scenes  at  Lochleven  are  of  a  different 
pitch; — though  the  formal  and  measured  sar- 
casms which  the  Queen  and  Lady  Douglas 
interchange  with  such  solemn  verbosity,  have 
a  very  heavy  and  unnatural  effect.  These 
faults,  however,  are  amply  redeemetl  by  the 
beauties  with  which  they  are  mingled.  There 
are  some  grand  passages,  of  enthusiasm  and 
devoted  courage,  in  Catherine  Seyton.  The 
escape  from  Lochleven  is  given  with  great 
effect  and  spirit — and  the  subsequent  muster- 
ing of  the  Queen"s  adherents,  and  their  march 
to  Langside.  as  well  as  the  battle  hself,  are 
full  of  life  and  colouring.  The  noble  bearing 
and  sad  and  devoted  love  of  George  Douglas 
— the  brawl  on  the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  and 
the  scenes  at  Holyrood.  both  serious  and 
comic,  as  well  as  many  of  the  minor  charac- 
ters, such  as  the  Ex-abbot  of  St.  Mary's  me- 
tamorphosed into  the  humble  gardener  of 
Lochleven,  are  all  in  the  genuine  manner  of 
the  author,  and  could  not  have  proceeded  from 
any  other  hand .  On  the  whole,  however,  the 
work  is  unsatisfactorj',  and  too  deficient  in 
design  and  unity.  \Ve  do  not  know  why  it 
should  have  been  called  '-The  Abbot,"  as 
that  personage  has  scarcely  any  thing  to  do 
with  it.  As  an  historical  sketch,  it  has  nei- 
ther beginning  nor  end  ; — nor  does  the  time 
which  it  embraces  possess  any  peculiar  inter- 
est: — and  for  a  history  of  Roland  Graeme, 
which  is  the  only  denomination  that  can  give 
it  coherence,  the  narrative  is  not  only  far  too 
slight  and  insignificant  in  itself,  but  is  too 
much  broken  in  upon  by  higher  persons  and 
weightier  affairs,  to  retain  any  of  the  interest 
which  it  might  otherwise  have  possessed. 

"K^iilworth,"  however,  is  a  flight  of  an- 
other \vmw=^nd  rises  almost,  if  not  alto- 
gether, to  the  level  of  Ivanhoe  ; — displaying, 
perhaps,  as  much  power  in  assembling  to- 
gether, and  distributing  in  striking  groups, 
the  copious  historical  materials  of  that  ro- 
mantic age.  as  the  other  does  in  eking  out 
their  scantiness  by  the  riches  of  the  author's 
imagination.  Elizabeth  herself,  surrounded 
as  she  is  with  lively  and  imposing  recollec- 
tions, was  a  difficult  personage  to  brins  promi- 
nently forward  in  a  work  of  fiction:  But  the 
task,  we  think,  is  here  not  only  fearlessly, 
but  admirably  performed  :  and  the  character 
brought  out.  not  merely  with  the  most  un- 


sparing fulness,  but  with  the  most  bri  v. 
and  seducing  effect.    Leicester  is  less  hfjy 
and  we  have  certainly  a  great  deal  too  nch 
both  of  the  blackguardism  of  INlichael   p. 
bourne,  the  atrocious  villany  of  Varnejnd 
Foster,  and  the  magical  dealings  of  A  ■(■! 
and  Wayland  Smith.     Indeed,  almost  a  ].• 
lower  agents  in  the  perforaiaiice  have  ;o 
of  Demoniacal  character ;  and  the  deep  i,, 
disgusting  guilt  by  which  most  of  the    . 
incidents  are  developed,  make  a  splendid  i- 
sage  of  English  history  read  like  the  Nev  ■; 
Calendar,  and  give  a  certain   horror  tc  li 
story,  which  is  neither  agreeable  to  histc 
uth,  nor  attractive  in  a  work  of  imagin;  : 
The  great  charm  and  glory  of  the  j  -,■ 
however,   consists  in  the   magnificence  lO^ 
vivacity  of  the   descriptions  with   whit,  it 
abounds  :  and  which  set  before  our  eyes,  th 
la  freshness  and  force  of  colouring  whicl : 
Iscarcely  ever  be  gained  except  by  actua  : 
'servation,  all  the  pomp  and  stateliiiess  i. 
glitter  and    solemnity,  of  that  heroic  r 
The  moving  picture  of  Elizabeth's  night  t   . 
to  Kenihvorth  is  given  with  such  spirit.  ; 
ness.  and  copiousness  of  detail,  that  we  ;  i 
actually   transported    to   the   middle  ot 
scene.    We  feel  the  press,  and  hear  the  n  .1 
and  the  din — and  descry,  amidst  the  ia  . 
lights  of  a  summer  eve.  the  majestical  pai  l 
and  waving  banners  that  surround  the  n 
of  the  heroic  Queen  :  while  the  mixtui  t : 
ludicrous  incidents,  and  the  ennui  that  s^ils 
on  the  lengthened  parade  and  fatiguing  pijo* 
ration,  give  a  sense  of  truth  and  reality  tipe 
sketch  that  seems  to  belong  rather  to  njut 
recollection  than  mere  ideal  conception.  (7a 
believe,  in  short,  that  we  have  at  this  moifflt 
as  lively  and  distinct  an  impression  otOB 
whole  scene,  as  we  shall  have  in  a  few  witi 
of  a  similar  Joyous  Entry,  for  which  pre  :  ■ 
tions  are  now  making*  in  this  our  loyal 
tropolis. — aiul  of  which  we  hope,  befort-  ; 
time,  to  be  spectators.     The  account  of  j'l- 
cester"s  princely  hospitality,  and  of  the  taJ 
divertisements    that    ensued. — the   feas  2^ 
and  huntings,  the  flatteries  and  dissembl  - 
the  pride,  the  jealousy,  the  ambition,  th 
venge, — are  all  portrayed  with  the  samej.i- 
matlng  pencil,  and  leave  every  thing  bej.i 
but  some  rival  works  of  the  same  unriv;jM 
artist.     The  most  surjirising  piece  of  lifB 
description,  however,  that  \\e  have  ever  ijn, 
is  that  of  Amy's  magnificent  apartmen.al 
Cumnor  Place,  and  of  the  dress  and  b<  '^ 
of  the  lovely  creature  for  whom  they 
adorned.     We  had   no  idea  before  tha' 
holstery  and  millinery  could  be  made  ? 
gaging;  and  though  we  are  aware  that 
the  living  Beauty  that  gives  its  enchant!. ni 
to  the  scene,  and  breathes  over  the  who«n 
air  of  voluptuousness,  innocence,  and  pi"l 
is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the  vivid, id 
clear  presentment  of  the  visible  object !oT 
which   she  is   surrounded,  and   the  an  !ue 
splendour  in  which  she  is  enshrined,  not  lly 
strengthen  our  impressions  of  the  realityiul 


•  The  visit  of  George  IV.  to  Edinburgh  in  I) 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS. 


545 


jiually  fascinate  and  delight  us  in  them- 
glves^ — ^just  as  the  draperies  and  still-life  in 
a  rand  historical  picture  often  divide  our  ad- 
1  -ation  with  the  pathetic  effect  of  the  story 
l\  by  the  principal  figures.  The  calastro- 
rf;  of  the  unfortunate  Amy  herself  is  too 
sllcening  and  full  of  pity  to  be  endured;  and 
vi  shrink  from  the  recollection  of  it.  as  \ve 
vmd  from  that  of  a  recent  calamity  of  our 
o|h.  The  part  of  Tressilian  is  unfortunate  on 
tl  whole,  though  it  contains  touches  of  in- 
t|?st  and  beauty.  The  sketch  of  young  Ra- 
lijh  is  splendid,  and  in  excellent  keeping 
v'h  every  thing  beside  it.  More,  we  think, 
n'rlit  have  been  made  of  the  desolate  age 
al  broken-hearted  anguish  of  Sir  Hugh  Rob- 
st :  though  there  are  one  or  two  little  traits 
olhis  paternal  'love  and  crushed  affection, 
tit  are  inimitably  sweet  and  pathetic,  and 
vich  might  have  lost  their  effect,  perhaps, 
ifhe  scene  had  been  extended.  We  do  not 
c'e  much  about  the  goblin  dwarf,  nor  the  host, 
n,  the  mercer, — nor  any  of  the  other  charac- 
ti;.  They  are  all  too  fantastical  and  affected. 
T:>y  seem  copied  rather  from  the  quaintness 
oi)ld  plays,  than  the  reality  of  past  and  pres- 
ef  nature  ;  and  seive  better  to  show  what 
niiner  of  personages  were  to  be  met  with  in 
tl  Masks  and  Pageants  of  the  age,  than  what 
wj-e  actually  to  be  found  in  the  living  popu- 
Uon  of  theland. 

!  The  Pii-ates  "  is  a  bold  attempt  to  furnish 
ni|a  long  and  eventful  story,  from  a  very  nar- 
rd  circle  of  society,  and  a  scene  so  circum- 
sdbed  as  scarcely  to  admit  of  any  great  scope 
oij'ariety  of  action ;  and  its  failure,  in  so  far 
ajt  may  be  thought  to  have  failed,  should, 
iriairness,  be  ascribed  chiefly  to  this  scanti- 
nk  and  defect  of  the  materials.  The  author, 
a<brdingly,  has  been  obliged  to  borrow  pretty 
lai-ely  from  other  regions.  The  character 
aij  story  of  Mertoun  (which  is  at  once  com- 
n"p-place  a'ld  extravagant), — that  of  the 
Pjite  himself, — and  that  of  Halcro  the  poet, 
hie  no  connection  with  the  localities  of  Shet- 
lal!.  or  the  peculiarities  of  an  insular  life. 
A  Yellowlees,  though  he  gives  occasion  to 
w,'ie  strong  contrasts,  is  in  the  same  situa- 
ti|.  The  great  blemish,  however,  of  the 
wjk,  is  the  inconsistency  in  Cleveland's 
cllracter.  or  rather  the  way  in  which  he.d:s- 
aijoints  us,  by  turning  out  so  much  better 
m  we  had  expected — and  yet  substantially 
f4\.  So  great,  indeed,  is  this  disappoint- 
mjit.  and  so  strong  the  grounds  of  it,  that  we 
Cctnot  help  suspecting  that  the  author  him- 
!«')  must  have  aUered  his  design  in  the  course 
oihe  woilTTlindTlinding  himself  at  a  loss 
h''  to  make  either  a  demon  or  a  hero  of  the 
pfponage  whom  he  had  introduced  with  a 
viv  to  one  or  other  of  these  characters,  be- 
toi  himself  to  the  expedient  of  leaving  him 
injhat  neutral  or  mixed  state,  which,  after 
alpuits  the  least  with  his  conduct  and  situa- 
ti|,  or  with  the  effects  which  he  is  supposed 
Introduce.  All  that  we  see  of  him  is  a  dar- 
iJi;  underbred,  forward,  heartless  fellow — 
'^tt^  unlikely,  we  should  suppose,  to  capti- 
vi,;  the  affections  of  the  high-minded,  ro- 
mliiic  Minna,  or  even  to  supplant  an  old 
69 


friend  in  the  favour  of  the  honest  Udaller. 
The  charm  of  the  book  is  in  the  picture  of 
his  family.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful 
than  the  description  of  the  two  sisters,  and 
the  gentle  and  innocent  affection  that  con- 
tinues to  unite  them,  even  after  love  has  come 
to  divide  theif  interests  and  wishes.  The  visit 
paid  them  by  Noma,  and  the  tale  she  tells 
them  at  midnight,  lead  to  a  fine  di.«p]ay  of 
the  perfect  purity  of  their  young  hearts,  and 
the  native  gentleness  and  dignity  of  their 
character.  There  is.  perhaps,  still  more  ge- 
nius in  the  development  and  full  exhibitioirof 
their  father's  character;  who  is  lirst  introduced 
to  us  as  little  else  than  a  jovial,  thoughtless, 
hospitable  housekeeper,  but  gradually  dis- 
closes the  most  captivating  traits,  not  only  of 
kindness  and  courage,  but  of  substantial  gene- 
rosity and  delicacy  of  feeling,  without  ever 
departing,  for  an  instant,  from  the  frank  home- 
liness of  his  habitual  demeanour.  Norna  is  a 
new  incarnation  of  Meg  Merrilees.  and  palpa- 
bly the  same  in  the  spirit.  Less  degi-aded  in 
her  habits  and  associates,  and  less  lofty  and 
pathetic  in  her  denunciations,  she  reconciles 
fewer  contradictions,  and  is,  on  the  whole, 
inferior  perhaps  to  her  prototype:  but  is  far 
above  the  rank  of  a  mere  imitated  or  borrowed 
character.  The  Udaller's  visit  to  her  dwell- 
ing on  the  Fitful-head  is  admirably  managed, 
and  highly  characteristic  of  both  parties.  Of 
the  humorous  characters,  Yellowlees  is  the 
best.  Few  things,  indeed,  are  better  than 
the  description  of  his  equestrian  progression 
to  the  feast  of  the  Udaller.  Claud  Halcro  is 
too  fantastical;  and  peculiarly  out  of  place, 
we  should  think,  in  such  a  region.  A  man 
who  talks  in  quotations  from  common  plays, 
and  proses  eternally  about  glorious  John  Dry- 
den,  luckilj^  is  not  often  to  be  met  with  any- 
where, but  least  of  all  in  the  Orkney  Islands. 
Bunco  is  liable  to  the  same  objection. — though 
there  are  parts  of  his  character,  as  well  as 
that  of  Fletcher  and  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
given  with  infinite  spirit  and  effect.  The  de- 
nouement of  the  story  is  strained  and  im- 
probable, and  the  conclusion  rather  unsatis- 
factory: But  the  work,  on  the  whole,  opens 
up  a  new  world  to  our  curiosity,  and  affords 
another  proof  of  the  extraordinary  pliability, 
as  well  as  vigour,  of  the  author's  genius. 

We  come  now  to  the  work  which  has  af- 
forded us  a  pretext  for  this  long  retrospection, 
and  which  we  have  approached,  as  befitteth 
a  royal  presence,  through  this  loner  vista  of 
preparatory  splendour.  Considering  that  it 
has  now  been  three  months  in  the  hands  of 
the  public — and  must  be  about  as  well  known 
to  most  of  our  readers  as  the  older  works  to 
which  we  have  just  alluded — we  do  not  very 
well  see  why  we  should  not  deal  with  it  as 
summarily  as  we  have  done  with  them  ;  and. 
sparing  our  dutiful  readers  the  fatigue  of  toil- 
ing through  a  detail  with  which  they  are  al- 
ready f;imiliar.  content  ourselves  with  marking 
our  opinion  of  it  in  the  same  general  and 
comprehensive  manner  that  we  have  ventured 
to  adopt  as  to  those  earlier  productions.  This 
accordingly  is  the  course  which,  in  the  main, 
we  propose  to  follow  :  though,  for  the  sake  of 
2v2 


546 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


our  distant  readers,  as  well  as  to  give  more  i 
lorce  and  direct  application  to  our  general  re- 
marks, we  must  somewhat  enlarge  the  scale 
of  our  critical  notice. 

This  work,  though  dealing  abundantly  in 
invention,  is,  in  substance,  like  Old  Mortality  i 
and  Ken il worth,  of  an  historical  character, 
and  may  be  correctly  represented  as  an  at- 
tempt to  describe  and  illustrate,  by  examples, 
the  manners  of  the  court,  and  generally  speak- 
ing, of  the  age,  of  James  I.  of  England.  And 
this,  on  the  whole,  is  the  most  favourable  as- 
pect under  which  it  can  be  considered:  for. 
while  it  certainly  presents  us  with  a  very 
brilliant,  and,  we  believe,  a  very  faithful  sketch 
of  the  manners  and  habits  of  the  time,  we 
cannot  say  that  it  either  embodies  them  in  a 
very  interesting  story,  or  supplies  us  with  any 
rich  variety  of  particular  characters.  E.vcept 
King  James  himself,  and  Richie  INloniplies, 
there  is  but  little  individuality  in  the  person- 
ages represented.  We  should  perhaps  add 
Master  George  Heriot ;  except  that  ht;  is  too 
staid  and  prudent  a  person  to  engage  very 
much  of  our  interest.  The  story  is  of  a  very 
simple  structure,  and  may  soon  be  told. 

Lord  Glenvarloch,  a  young  Scottish  noble- 
man, whose  fortunes  had  been  ruined  by  his 
father's  profusion,  and  chiefly  by  large  loans 
to  the  Crown,  comes  to  London  about  the  mid- 
dle of  James'  reign,  to  try  what  part  of  this 
debt  may  be  recovered  from  the  justice  of  his 
now  opulent  sovereign.  From  want  of  patron- 
age and  experience,  he  is  unsuccessful  in  his 
first  application  :  and  is  about  to  withdraw  in 
despair,  when  his  serving  man.  Richard  Moni- 
plies,  falling  accidentally  in  ihe  way  of  George 
Heriot,  the  favourite  jeweller  and  occasional 
banker  of  the  King,  that  benevolent  person  (to 
whom,  it  may  not  be  known  to  our  Southern 
roaijers,  Edinburgh  is  indebted  for  the  most 
flourishing  and  best  conducted  of  her  founded 
schools  or  charities)  is  pleased  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  his  affairs,  and  not  only  represents 
his  case  in  a  favourable  way  to  the  Sovereign, 
but  is  the  means  of  introducing  him  to  another 
nobleman,  with  whose  son,  Lord  Dalgarno,  he 
speedily  forms  a  rather  inauspicious  intimacy. 
By  this  youth  he  is  initiated  into  all  the  gaie- 
ties of  the  town  ;  of  which,  as  well  of  the 
manners  and  bearing  of  the  men  of  fashion  of 
the  time,  a  very  lively  picture  is  drawn. 
Among  other  things,  he  is  encouraged  to  try 
his  fortune  at  play;  but,  being  poorxmd  pru- 
dent, he  plays  but  for  small  sums,  and,  rather 
unhandsomely  we  must  own,  makes  it  a  prac- 
tice to  come  away  after  a  moderate  winning. 
On  this  account  he  is  slighted  by  Lord  Dal- 
garno and  his  more  adventurous  associates; 
and.  having  learned  that  they  talked  con- 
temptuously of  him.  and  that  Lord  D.  hail 
prejudiced  the  King  and  the  Prince  against 
hira,  hn  challenges  nim  for  his  perfidy  in  the 
Park,  and  actually  draws  on  him,  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  royal  abode.  This  was,  in  those 
days,  a  very  serious  offence  :  and,  to  avoid  its 
immediate  consequences,  he  is  advised  to  take 
refuge  in  Whitefriars,  then  known  by  the  cant 
name  of  Ahntia.  and  understood  to  possess  the 
unvdeges  of  a  saiictuaiy  against  ordinary  ar- 


rests. A  propos  of  this  retirement,  we  lf« 
a  very  striking  and  animated  picture  of'ie 
bullies  and  bankrupts,  and  swindlers  and  \  u 
felons  by  whom  this  city  of  refuge  was  ch  |\ 
inhabited — and  among  whom  the  young  j 
has  the  good  luck  to  witness  a  murder,  (;. 
mitted  on  the  person  of  his  miserly  host.  |, 
then  bethinks  himself  of  repairing  to  Gi  ;, 
wich.  where  the  court  was,  throwing  hin:  1: 
upon  the  clemency  of  the  King,  iand  insi>  ;_ 
on  being  confronted  with  his  accusers;  ■ 
happening  unfortunately  to  meet  with  ,. 
Majesty  in  a  retired  part  of  the  Park  to  w  :: 
he  had  pursued  the  stag,  ahead  of  all  hi;  |. 
tendants,  his  sudden  appearance  so  sta  - 
and  alarms  that  pacific  monarch,  that  he;- 
cuses  him  of  a  treasonabh,'  design  on  his  i 
and  has  him  committed  to  the  Tower,  ui  : 
that  weighty  accusation.  In  the  mean  t  ■ 
however,  a  certain  Margaret  Ramsey,  a  da  i 
terof  the  celebrated  watchmaker  of  that  nr  ■. 
who  had  privately  fallen  in  love  with  hint 
the  tabla of  George  Heiiot  her  god-father,  d 
had,  ever  since,  kept  watch  over  his  proc  i- 
ings,  and  aided  him  in  his  difficulties  b\  <.■ 
rious  stratagems  and  suggestions,  had  rep;i 
to  Greenwich  in  male  attire,  with  the  roi  : 
tic  design  of  hiteresting  and  undeceiving! le 
Kijig  with  regard  to  him.  By  a  lucky  iii- 
dent,  she  does  obtain  an  opportunity  of  ma  _• 
her  statement  to  James  ;  who,  in  ortler  tc  ■ 
her  veracity  to  the  test,  sends  her,  disgii 
as  she  was,  to  Glenvarloch's  prison  in 
Tower,  and  also  looses  upon  him  in  the  s 
place,  first  his  faithful  Heriot.  and  afterw  • 
a  sarcastic  courtier,  while  he  himself  j  ~ 
the  eavesdropper  to  their  conversation,  froj  : 
adjoining  apartment  constructed  for  that  i- 
pose.  The  result  of  this  Dionysian  e.\ 
ment  is,  to  satisfy  the  sagacions  monarch  i 
of  the  innocence  of  his  young  country t 
and  the  malignity  of  his  accusers;  wlio  ■ 
speedily  brought  to  shame  by  his  ac(]ii  : 
and  admittance  to  favour. 

There  is  an  underplot  of  a  more  extrava 
and  less  happy  structure,   about  a  sad    - 
mysterious  lady  who  inhabits  an  inacces?  ■ 
apartment  in  Heriot's  house,  and  turns  oi 
be  the  deserted  wife  of  Lord  Dalgarno.  a  a 
near  relation  of  Lord  Glenvarloch.  The  foi.T 
is  compelled  to  acknowledge  her  by  the  1\ :. 
very  much  against  his  will  ;  though  he  is 
siderably  comforted  when  he  liiids  that  \ 
this  alliance,  he  acquires  right  to  an  ant 
mortgage  over  the  lands  of  the  latter,  w  ' 
nothing  but   immediate  payment  of  a  1 
sum  can  prevent  him  from  foreclosing. 
is  accomplished  by  the  new-raised  credit 
consequential   agency   of    Richie   Monij  - 
though   not  without  a  scene  of  petlifof.';ti 
difficulties.    The  conclusion  is  something'^*      ji 
gical  and  sudden.     Lord  Dalgarno,  traveJft      xS 
to  Scotland  with  the  redemption-money  a 
portmanteau,  challenges  (glenvarloch  to  r''t 
and   fight  him,  one   stage   from  town:    1; 
while  he  is  waiting  on  the  common,  is  l;l*      jj 
self  shot  dead  by  o'^iie  of  the  AlsJitian  buli«j      5. 
who  had  heard  of  the  precious  cargo  •  " 
which  he  was  making  the  journey.     His 
tagonist  comes  up  soon   enough  to  revi . 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS 


547 


i  hJL ;  and,  soon  after,  is  m^nied  to  Miss  Ram- 
S(l,  ior  ^vhoin  the  King  find?  a  suitable  petli- 
Qi.  and  at  whose  maniage-dinniM- lie>  coiulo- 
iisitids  to  preside;  while  Richard  Moniplies 
]  ir.-ries  the  heroic  daughter  of  the  Alsatian 
-  n^er,  and  is  knighted  in  a  very  characteristic 
'  ii:iner  by  the  good-natured  monarch. 


he  best  things  m  the  book,  as  we  have 


aUdy  intimated,  are  the  pictures  of  Kii 
J^ies  and  of  Richard  Moniplies — though  my 
Ld  Dalg-arno  is  very  lively  and  witty,  nnd 
\«!  represents  the  gallantry  and  protligacy 
oilie  time;  while  the  worthy  Earl,  hisfalher, 
itt/ery  successfully  brought  forward  as  the 
tje  of  the  ruder  and  more  uncorrupted  acre  \ 
titt  preceded.  We  are  sorely  tempted  to  pro- 
dfe  a  sample  of  Jin  Via  the  smart  apprentice. 
a|i  of  the  mixed  childishness  and  heroism  of 
Jii-garet  Ramsay,  and  the  native  loftiness 
ai  austere  candour  of  Martha  Trapbois,  and 
l\  humour  of  Dame  Suddlechops,  and  div(M-s 
oier  inferior  per.sons.  But  the  rule  we  have 
Irii  down  to  ourselves,  of  abstaining  from 
c^tions  from  welldcnov.n  books,  must  not  be 
f4her  broken,  in  the  very  hour  of  its  enact- 
iTint ; — and  we  shall  therefore  conclude,  with 
anv  such  general  remarks  on  the  work  be- 
f(i;  us  as  we  have  already  bestowed  on  some 
oier  performances,  probably  no  longer  so 
fiiiliar  to  most  of  our  readers. 

Ve  do  not  think,  then,  that  it  is  a  work 

eierof  so  much  genius  or  so  much  interest 

dkenilworth  or  Ivanhoe,  or  the  earlier  his- 

t(|cal  novels  of  the  same  author — and   yet 

tlire  be  readers  who  will  in  all   likelihood 

pfer  it  to  those  books,  and  that  for  the  very 

nsons  which  induce  us  to  place  it  beneath 

m.    These  reasons  are, — Finst,   that  the 

ne  is  all  in  London — and  that  the  piece  is 

sequently   deprived   of  the    interest   and 

V  iety  derived  from  the  beautiful  descriptions 

alura]  scenery,  and  the  still  more  beautiful 

Oiibination  of  its  features  and   expression, 

h  the  feelings  of  the  living  agents,  which 

a))und  in  those  other  works  ;  and  ne.xt,  that 

characters  are   more   entirely  borrowed 

fm   the  written   memorials   of  the  age  to 

ich  they  refer,  and  less  from  that  eternal 

1  universal   nature  which  is  of  all  ages, 

n  in  any  of  his  fonner  works.     The  plays 

«i  hat  great  dramatic  era,  and  the  letters  and 

moirs  which  have  been  preserved  in  such 

nidance,  have   made  all  diligent  readers 

f  liliar  with  the  peculiarities  by  which  it  was 

rked.   But  unluckily  the  taste  of  the  writers 

(itthat  age  was  quaint  and  fantastical ;  and 

t  ugh  their  representations  necessarily  give 

Via  true  enough  picture  of  its  fashions  and 

flies,  it  is  obviously  a  distorted  and  exagge- 

rpd  picture — and    their  characlei-s   plainly 

I  h  speak  and  act  as   no  living  men  ever 

(1  speak  or  act.     Now,  this  style  of  carica- 

le  is  too  palpably  copied  in  the  work  before 

t— and.  though  "somewhat  softened  and  re- 

1  ed  by  the  good  sense  of  the  author,  is  still 

sprevalent,  that  most  of  his  characters  strike 

I  rather  ^s  whimsical  humourists  or  affected 

r  skers,  than  as  faithful  copies  of  thf«  actual 

4iety  of  any  historical  period  ;  and  though 

t[:y  may  afford  great  delight  to  such  slender 


wits  as  think  the  commentators  on  Shake- 
speare the  greatest  men  in  the  world,  and  here 
find  thi'ir  little  archivological  persons  made 
something  less  inconceivable  than  usual,  they 
cannot  fail  to  oJfend  and  disappoint  all  those 
M-ho  hold  that  nature  alone  nmst  be  thesoiuce 
of  all  natural  interest. 

Finally,  we  object  to  this  work,  as  com- 
pared with  those  to  which  we  have  alluiled. 
that  the  interest  is  moir  that  of  situation,  and 
less  of  character  or  action,  than  in  any  of  the 
former.  The  hero  is  not  .so  much  an  actor  or 
a  sufferer,  in  most  of  the  events  represented, 
as  a  spectator.  With  comparatively  little  to 
do  in  the  business  of  the  scene,  he  is  merely 
placed  in  the  front  of  it,  to  look  on  with  the 
reader  as  it  passes.  He  has  an  ordinary  and 
slow-moving  suit  at  court — and.  a  propos  of 
this — all  the  humours  and  oddities  of  llie 
sovereign  are  exhibited  in  rich  and  splendid 
detail.  He  is  obliged  to  take  refuge  for  a  day 
in  Whitefriars — and  all  the  horrors  and  atro- 
cities of  the  Sanctuary  arc  spread  out  b(^forf 
us  through  the  greater  part  of  a  volume.  Two 
or  three  murders  are  committed,  in  which  he 
has  no  interest,  and  no  other  part  than  that  of 
being  accidentally  present.  His  own  scanty 
part,  in  short,  is  performed  in  the  vicinity  ot 
a  number  of  other  separate  transactior.s  :  and 
this  mere  juxtaposition  is  made  an  apology 
for  stringing  them  all  up  together  into  one  his- 
torical romance.  We  should  not  care  very 
much  if  this  only  destroyed  the  unity  of  the 
piece — but  it  also  sensibly  weakens  its  intere.'-t 
— and  reduces  it  from  the  rank  of  a  compre- 
hensive and  engaging  narrative,  in  which, 
every  event  gives  and  receives  importaiu-e 
from  its  connection  with  the  rest,  to  that  of  a  ^ 

mere  collection  of  sketches,   relating  to  the         _  ■ 
same  period  and  state  of  society.  ,  y  ■< 

The  character  of  the  hero,  we  also  think,  f'^ 
is  more  than  usually  a  failure.  He  is  not  only 
a  reasonable  and  discreet  person,  for  whose 
prosperity  we  need  feel  no  great  apprehen- 
sion, but  he  is  gratuitously  debased  by  certain 
infirmities  of  a  mean  and  somewhat  sordid 
description,  which  suit  remarkably  ill  with 
the  heroic  character.  His  prudent  deport- 
ment at  the  gaming  table,  and  his  repeated 
borrowings  of  money,  have  been  already 
hinted  at ;  and  we  may  add,  that  when  in- 
terrogated by  Heriot  about  the  disguised  dam- 
sal  who  is  found  with  him  in  the  Tower,  he 
makes  up  a  false  story  for  the  occasion,  with 
a  cool  promptitude  of  invention,  which  re- 
minds us  more  of  Joseph  Surface  and  his 
French  milliner,  than  of  the  high-minded  son 
of  a  stern  puritanical  Baron  of  Scotland. 

These  are  the  chief  faults  of  the  woik.  and 
they  are  not  slight  ones.  Its  merits  ilo  i:<  t 
require  to  be  speciiicd.  They  embrace  all 
'  to  which  we  have  not  specially  objected.  The 
general  brilliancy  and  force  of  the  colouring, 
,  the  ease  and  spirit  of  the  design,  and  the 
:  strong  touches  of  character,  are  all  such  as 
:  we  have  have  long  admired  in  the  best  works 
of  the  author.  Besides  the  King  and  Richie 
I  Moniplies.  at  whose  merits  we  have  already 
I  hinfedj  it  would  be  unjust  to  pass  over  the 
prodigious   strength  of    writing  that   distin- 


646 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


guishes  the  part  of  Mrs.  Martha  TrapboiS;  and  i 
the  inimitable  scenes,  though  of  a  coarse  and 
revohing  complexion,  with  Duke  Hildebrod 
and  the  miser  of  Alsatia.  The  Templar 
LowesiofTe,  and  Jin  Vin.  the  aspiring  appren- 
tice, are  excellent  sketches  of  their  kind. 
So  are  John  Christie  and  his  frail  dame.  Lord 
Dalirarno  is  more  questionable.  There  are 
passages  of  extraordhiary  spirit  and  ability  in 
this  part ;  but  he  turns  out  too  atrocious.  Sir 
Mungo  Malagrowther  wearies  us  from  the 
beginning,  and  so  docs  the  horologist  Ramsay 
— because  they  are  both  exaggerated  and  un- 
natural characters.  We  scarcely  see  enough 
of  Margaret  Ramsay  to  forgive  her  all  her  ir- 
regularities, and  her  high  fortune  :  but  a  great 
deal  certainly  of  what  we  do  see  is  charm- 
ingly executed.     Dame  Ursula  is  something 


between  the  vulgar  gossippingof  Mrs.Quic  ,.■ 
in  the  merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and  •; 
atrocities  of  Mrs.  Turner  and  Lady  Suffo  ; 
and  it  is  rather  a  contamination  of  Margan  5 
purity  to  have  used  such  counsel. 

We  have  named  them  all  now,  or  riearh . 
and  must  at  length  conclude.  Indeed;  iiotli ; 
but  the  faschiation  of  this  author's  pen, ;  j 
the  difficuhy  of  getting  away  from  him,  co  ! 
have  induced  us  to  be  so  particular  in  i- 
notice.'*  of  a  story,  the  details  of  which  will . 
soon  be  driven  out  of  our  heads  by  other .. 
tails  as  interesting — and  as  little  fated  to  be 
membered.  There  are  other  two  bookscomi 
we  hear,  in  the  course  of  the  winter;  and  ; 
the  time  there  are  four  or  five,  that  is.  in  abi 
eighteen  months  hence,  we  must  hold  0 
selves  prepared  to  give  some  account  of  the 


(©ctobcr,  1S23.) 


Annals  of  the  Parish,  or  the  Chronicle  of  Ddmniling.  ibiring  the  Ministry  of  the  B 
Micah  Bahchidder.    Written  by  Himself.   1vol.  12mo.  "pp.  400."  Blackwood.    Edin.:18 

The  Ayrshire  Legatees^  or  the  Prinsje  Family.   By  the  Author  of  '-Annals  of  the  Parisf 
&c.     1vol.   12mo.  pp.395.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1820. 

The  Provost.     By  the  Author  of  '•Annals  of  the  Parish,"  "Ayrshire  Legatees," {: 
1vol.    12mo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh :  1820. 

Sir  Andreic  Wyllie  of  that  Ilk.     By  the  Author  of  '-Annals  of  the  Parish."'  &c.    3  tc 
12mo.     Blackwood.     Edin.:1822." 

The  Steam  Boat.     By  the  Author  of  "Annals  oi  the  Parish,'"  &c.     1  vol.  12mo.    Blac 
wood.     Edinburgh:  1S22. 

2'he  Entail,  or  the  Lairds  of  Grippy. 
Andrew  Wyllie,"  &c.     3  vols.   l8mo. 

Rinnan  Gilhaize^  or  the  Covenanters. 
3  vols.    J2mo.     Blackwood.     Edinbu 


By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  " 
Blackwood.     Edinburgh  :  1823. 
By  the  Author  of  "Annals  of  the  Parish,"  i 
xh:  1823. 


8.  Vfderius,  a  Roman  Story.     3  vols.    12mo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh:  1820. 

9.  Lights  and  Shadou's  of  Scotti.^h  Life.     1  vol.  8vo.     Blackwood.     Edinburgh  :  1822. 

10.  Some  Pa^^.'iagcs  in  the  Life  (f  3L\  Adam  Blair,  Minister  of  the  Gospel  at  Cross-Meih 
1  vol.  8vo.  "Blackwood."  Edinburgh:  1822. 

11.  The  Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay.     By  the  Author  of  "Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scotti 
Life."     1  vol.  8vo.     Blackwood.     Edlnburirh :  1823. 

12.  Reginald  Dalton.     By  the  Author  of   "Valerius,"'  and   "Adam  Blair.'"     3  vols.  81 
Blackwood.     Edinburi^h:  1823.* 


We  have  been  sometimes  accused,  we  ob- 
serve, of  partiality  to  the  writers  of  our  own 
country,  and  reproached  with  helping  mid- 
dlinjr  Scotch  works  into  notice,  while  far  more 
meritorious  publications  in  England  and  Ire- 
land have  been  treated  with  neglect.  We 
take  leave  to  say,  that  there  could  not  possi- 
bly be  a  more  unjust  accusation  :  and  the  list 
of  books  which  we  have  prefixed  to  this  arti- 
cle, affords  of  itself,  we  now  conceive,  the 
most  triumphant  refutation  of  it.     Here  is  a 

*  I  have  retained  most  of  the  citations  in  this 
article : — the  hooka  from  which  they  are  taken  not 
being  so  universally  known  as  those  of  .Sir  Waller 
Scott — and  yet  deserving,  I  think,  of  being  thus 
recalled  to  the  attention  of  general  readers.  The 
whole  seem  to  have  been  oritrinally  put  out  anony- 
mously: — But  the  authorship  has  been  long  ago 
acknowlpdsred  ; — so  that  it  is  scarcely  necessary  tor 
me  to  meiiiion  that  the  tirst  seven  in  the  list  are  tlie 
works  of  tbe  late  Mr.  (Jalt,  Valerius  and  Adam 
Blair  of  Mr.  Lockhart — and  the  Lisrh's  and  Sha- 
dows, and  Margaret  Lindsay,  of  Professor  Wilson. 


I  set  of  lively  and  popular  works,  that  have  ; 
traded,  and  vei7  deservedly,  a  large  share 
attention  in  every  part  of  the  empire — issni 
I  from  the  press,  sucqessively  for  four  or  (i 
,  years,  in  this  very  city,  and  under  our  eyt 
j  and  not  hitherto  honoured  by  us  with  any  1 
dication  of  our  being  even  conscious  of  thi 
existence.  The  causes  of  this  long  neglect 
can  now  be  of  no  importance  to  explain.  I' 
sure  we  are,  that  our  ingenious  conntryni 
have  far  greater  reason  to  complain  of  it,  th 
any  aliens  can  have  to  impute  this  tardy  rep 
ration  to  national  partiality. 

The  works  tiiemselves  are  evidently  t ' 
numerous  to  admit  of  our  now  giving  mo 
than  a  very  general  account  of  them :— ai 
indeed,  some  of  their  authors  emulate  tin; 
great  prototype  so  successfully  in  the  rap 
succession  of  their  performances,  that,  evi 
if  they  had  not  been  so  far  ahead  of  nsat  ll 
starting,  we  must  soon  have  been  reduced 
deal  with  them  as  we  have  done  with  hir 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


549 


81  only  to  have  noticed  their  productions 
vhn  they  had  grown  up  into  groups  and  fa- 
iries— as  they  increased  and  multiplied  in 
tl'land.  In  intimating  that  we  reijard  them 
a:niitations  of  the  inimitable  novels. — which 
!/•  who  never  presume  to  peep  under  ma!>ks,  ' 
St  hold  10  be  by  an  author  unknown, — we 
h;e  already  exhausted  more  than  half  their 
crieral  character.  They  are  inferior  certainly 
(al  what  is  not?)  to  their  great  originals. 
B  they  are  the  best  copies  which  have 
VI  been  produced  of  them ;  and  it  is  not 
a  ttle  creditable  to  the  genius  of  our  be-  , 
lo'd  country,  that,  even  in  those  gay  and 
ai'  walks  of  literature  from  which  she  had 
bm  so  long  estranged,  an  opening  was  no 
scier  made,  by  the  splendid  success  of  one 
gi^d  Scotsman,  than  many  others  were  found 
rely  to  enter  upon  them,  with  a  spirit  of  en- 
teTise.  and  a  force  of  invention,  that  prom- 
is  still  farther  to  extend  their  boundaries — 
ai  to  make  these  new  adventurers,  if  notform- 
itlile  rivals,  at  least  not  unworthy  followers 
ohim  by  whose  example  they  were  roused. 

here  are  three  authors,  it  seems,  to  the 
w,ks  now  before  us ; — so  at  least  the  title- 
p;?s  announce ;  and  it  is  a  rule  with  us,  to 
iri'  implicit  faith  to  those  solemn  intimations. 
W  think,  indeed,  that  without  the  help  of 
th  oracle,  we  should  have  been  at  no  loss  to 
asibe  all  the  works  which  are  now  claimed 
b\he  author  of  the  Annals  of  the  ParJ.sh,  to 
Grand  the  same  hand;  But  we  should  cer- 
taly  have  been  inclined  to  suppose,  that 
the  was  only  one  author  for  all  the  rest, — 
wi  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Valerius, 
w:'h^has  little  resemblance,  either  in  sub- 
8t;ce  or  manner,  to  any  of  those  with  which 
it  now  associated. 

.  the  arduous  task  of  imitating  the  great 
no'list,  they  have  apparently  found  it  neces- 
saj  to  resort  to  the  great  princi])]e  of  division 
ofabour;  and  yet  they  have  not,  among 
thn,  been  able  to  equal  the  work  of  his  single 
ha'l !  The  author  of  the  Pa  ri.sh  Annals  seems 
toave  sought  chiefly  to  rival  the  humorous 
an''  less  dignified  parts  of  his  original ;  by 
la»i  representations  of  the  chamcter  and 
mmers  of  the  middling  and  lower  orders  in 
Poland,  intermingled  with  traits  of  sly  and 
sa'istic  sasracity,  and  occasionally  softened 
an!  relieved  by  touches  of  unexpected  ten- 
de[ess  and  simple  pathos,  all  harmonised  by 
thi;sarae  truth  to  nature  and  fine  sense  of 
na[)nal  peculiarity.  In  these  delineations 
thi?  is.  no  doubt,  more  vulgarity,  both  of 
6t_v:  and  conception,  and  less  poetical  inven- 
tio;  than  in  the  corresponding  passages  of 
thi.vorks  he  aspires  to  imitate ;  but.  on  the 
otlr  hand,  there  is  more  of  that  peculiar 
huiour  which  depends  on  the  combination  of 
grtt  naivete,  indolence,  and  occasional  ab- 
6u:|ity,  with  natural  good  sense,  and  taste, 
an^iind  feelings  in  the  principal  characters — 
8Ui  combinations  as  Sir  Roirer  de  Coverlev. 
th.yicar  of  Wakefield,  and  My  Uncle  Toby, 
bat  made  familiar  to  all  English  readers,  but 
of  hich  we  have  not  hitherto  had  any  good 
^c(!ish  representative.  There  is  also  more 
*y-'niatic.  though  very  good-humoured,  sar- 


casm, and  a  more  distinct  moral,  or  unity  of 
didactic  purpose,  in  most  of  his  writings,  than 
it  would  be  easy  to  discover  in  the  playful,  Ca- 
pricious, and  fanciful  sketches  of  his  great 
master. 

The  other  two  authors  have  formed  them- 
selves more  upon  the  poetical,  reflective,  and 
pathetic  parts  of  their  common  model ;  and 
have  aimed  at  emulating  such  beautiful  pic- 
tures as  that  of  JNlr.  Peter  Pattison,  the  blind 
old  women  in  Old  Mortality  and  the  Bride  of 
Lammermoor,  the  courtship  at  the  Mermaid- 
en's  Well,  and,  generally,  his  innumerable 
and  exquisite  descriptions  of  the  soft,  simple, 
and  sublime  scenery  of  Scotland,  as  viewed 
in  connection  with  the  character  of  its  better 
rustic  population.  Though  far  better  skilled 
than  their  associate,  in  the  art  of  composition, 
and  chargeable,  perhaps,  with  less  direct  imi- 
tation, we  cannot  but  reg-ard  them  as  much 
less  original,  and  as  having  perlbrmed,  upon 
the  whole,  a  far  easier  task.  They  have  no 
irreat  variety  of  style,  and  but  little  of  actual 
invention. — and  are  mannerists  in  the  strongest 
sense  of  that  term.  Though  unquestionably 
pathetic  in  a  very  powerful  degree,  they  are 
pathetic,  for  the  most  part,  by  the  common 
recipes,  which  enable  any  one  almost,  to  draw 
tears,  who  will  condescend  to  employ  them. 
They  are  mighty  religious  too. — but  appa- 
rently on  the  same  principle ;  and,  while  their 
laboured  attacks  on  our  sympathies  aie  felt,  at 
last,  to  be  somewhat  importunate  and  puerile, 
their  devotional  orthodoxies  seem  to  tend, 
every  now  and  then,  a  little  towards  cant. 
This  is  perhaps  too  harshly  said  ;  and  is  more, 
we  confess,  the  result  of  the  second  reading 
than  the  first;  and  suggested  rather  by  a  com- 
parison with  their  great  oriainal,  than  an  im- 
pression of  their  own  independent  merits. 
Compared  with  that  high  standard,  it  is  im- 
possible not  to  feel  that  they  are  somewhat 
wanting  in  manliness,  freedom,  and  liberality ; 
and,  while  they  enlarge,  in  a  sort  of  pastoral, 
emphatic,  and  "melodious  style,  on  the  virtues 
of  our  cottagers,  and  the  apostolical  sanctity 
of  our  ministers  and  elders,  the  delights  of 
pure  affection,  and  the  comforts  of  the  Bible, 
are  lamentably  deficient  in  that  bold  and  free 
vein  of  invention,  that  thorough  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  rectifying  spirit  of  good 
sense,  which  redeem  all  that  great  author's 
!  fliirhts  from  the  imputation  either  of  extrava- 
[  gance  or  atTf>ctation,  and  give  weight,  as  well 
as  truth,  to  his  most  poetical  delineations  of 
nature  and  of  pa.ssion.  But,  though  they  can- 
not pretend  to  this  rare  merit,  which  has 
scarcely  fallen  to  the  share  of  more  than  one 
.since  thf^  days  of  Sh.ikespeare,  there  is  no 
doubt  much  "beautiful  writinc:,  much  admi- 
rable description,  and  much  both  of  tender 
and  of  lofty  feeling,  in  the  volumes  of  which 
we  are  now  speaking;  and  though  their  infe- 
rior and  borrowed  lights  are  dimmed  in  the 
broader  blaze  of  the  luminary,  who  now  fills 
our  Northern  sky  with  his  glory,  they  still  hold 
their  course  distinctly  within  the  orb  of  his  at- 
traction, and  make  a  visible  part  of  the  splen- 
dour which  draws  to  that  quarter  of  the  hea- 
vens the  admiration  of  so  many  distant  eyes. 


550 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


We  must  now,  however,  say  a  word  or  two  | 
on  the  particular  works  we  have  enumerated ;  : 
arfiong  which,  and  especially  in  the  first  series, 
there  is  a  very  great  difference  of  design,  as 
well  as  inequality  of  merit.     The  first  with 
which  we  happened  to  become  acquainted,  , 
and,  after  all,  perhaps  the  best  and  most  in-  j 
teresting  of  the  whole,  is  that  entitled  "An-  | 
nals  of  the  Parish."  comprising  in  one  little 
volume  of  about  four  hundred  pages  the  do-  i 
mestic  chronicle  of  a  worthy  minister,  on  the 
coast  of  Ayrshire,  for  a  period  of  no  less  than 
fifty-one   years,    from    1760   to    1810.      The 
primitive  simplicity  of  the  pastor's  character, 
tinctured  as  it  is  by  his  professional  habits  and 
sequestered  situation,  form  but  a  part  of  the  j 
attraction  of  this  work.     The  brief  and  natural 
notices  of  the  public  events  which  signalised  ' 
the  long  period  through  which  it  e.\tends,  and 
the  slight  and  transient  effects  they  produced 
on  the  tranquil  lives  and  peaceful  occupations 
of  his  remote  parishioners,  have  not  only  a 
natural,  we  think,  but  a  moral  and  monitory 
effect :   and,  while  they  revive  in  our  own  i 
breasts  the  almost  forgotten  impressions  of  our 
childhood  and  early  youth,  as  to  the  same 
transactions,  make  us  feel  the  actual  insignifi- 
cance of  those  successive  occurrences  which, 
each  in  its  turn,  filled  the  minds  of  his  con-  ' 
temporaries, — and  the  little  real  concern  which  i 
the  bulk  of  mankind  have  in  the  public  history  i 
of  their  day.     This  quiet  and  detailed  retro-  ; 
spect  of  fifty  years,  brings  the  true  moment 
and  value  of  the  events  it  embraces  to  the 
test,  as  it  were,  of  their  actual  operation  on 
particular  societies;  and  helps  to  dissipate  the 
illusion,  by  which  private  persons  are  so  fre- 
quently led  to  suppose,  that  they  have  a  per- 
sonal interest  in  the  wisdom  of  cabinets,  or 
the  madness  of  princes.     The  humble  sim- 
plicity of  the  chronicler's  character  assists,  no 
doubt,  this  sobering  effect  of  his  narrative. 
The  natural  and  tranquil  manner  in  which  he 
puts  down  great  things  by  the  side  of  little — 
and  con.siders  as  exactly  on  the  same  level, 
the  bursting  of  the  parish  mill-dam  and  the 
commi'iicement  of  the  American  troubles — 
the  victory  of  Admiral  Rodney  and  the  dona- 
tion of  50L  to  his  kirk-session, — are  all  equally 
edifying  and  agreeable ;  and  illustrate,  in  a 
very  pleasins:  way,  that  law  of  intellectual,  as 
well  as  of  physical  optics,  by  which  small 
things  at  hand  uniformly  appear  greater  than 
large  ones  at  a  distance. 

The  great  charm  of  the  work,  however,  is 
in  the  traits  of  character  which  it  disclo.ses, 
and  the  commendable  brevity  with  which 
the  whole  chronicle  is  digested.  We  know 
scarcely  any  instance  in  which  a  modern 
writer  has  shown  such  forbearance  and  con-  I 
sideration  for  his  readers.  With  very  consider- 
able powers  of  humour,  the  ludricous  incidents 
are  never  dwelt  upon  with  any  tediousness, 
nor  pushed  to  the  Immth  of  burlesque  or  caric- 
ature— and  the  more  seducing  touches  of 
jiathos  with  which  the  work  abounds,  are 
intermingled  and  cut  short,  with  the  same 
sparing  and  judicious  hand  ; — so  that  the  tem- 
perate and  natural  character  of  the  pastor  is 
thus,  by  a  rare  merit  and   felicity,  made  to 


preponderate  over  the  tragic  and  comic  geij 
of  the  author.     That  character  is,  as  we  ] 
already  hinted,  as  happily  conceived  as 
admirably  executed — contented,  humble, 
perfectly  innocent  and  sincere — very  orlhoc' 
and  zealously  Presbyterian,  without  leari; ; 
or  habits  of  speculation — soft-hearted  and  \ 
of  indulgence  and  ready  sympathy,  with  t 
any  enthusiasm  or  capacity  of  devoted  atta  . 
meiit — given  to  old-fashioned  prejudices,  ut 
an  instinctive  sagacity  in  practical  affair  ■ 
and  unconsciously  acute  in  tletectingths  ct  ■ 
acters  of  others,  and  singularly  awake  to  • 
beauties  of  nature,  without  a  notion  either 
observation  or  of  poetry — very  patient  i 
primitive  in  short,  indolent  and  gossiping,  i 
scarcely  ever  stirring  either  iu«nmd  or  per? 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  parish.     The  st 
of  the  book  is  curiously  adapted  to  the  cL 
acter  of  the  supposed  author — very  genu 
homely  Scotch  in  the  idiom  and  many  of  ; 
expressions  —  but   tinctured    with   scriptu 
phrases,  and  some  relics  of  college  learuiii^^ 
and  all  digested  in  the  grave  and  melhodi, 
order  of  an  old-fashioned  sermon.  ; 

After  so  much  praise,  we  are  rather  afr.^ 
to  make  any  extracts — lor  the  truth  is.  li 
there  is  not  a  great  deal  of  matter  hi  the  lx»| 
and  a  good  deal  of  \-idgarity — and  that  il 
only  good-natured  people,  with  something 
the  annalist's  own  simplicity,  that  will  bt-' 
much  pleased  with  it  as  we  have  been.  1 
the  sake  of  such  persons,  however,  we  v| 
venture  on  a  few  specimens.  Here  is  l. 
descripti-on  of  Mrs.  Malcolm. 

"  Secondly.  I  have  now  to  speak  of  the  bom 
of  Mrs.  Malcolm.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  CI' 
shipmaster,  that  was  lost  ai  sea  wiih  his  vessel,  t 
was  a  gejily  body,  calm  and  meihodical.  Fr 
morning  to  night  slic  sat  at  her  wheel,  spinning 
finest  lint,  which  suited  well  with  her  pale  haii 
She  never  changed  her  widow's  weeds,  and  : 
was  aye  as  if  she  had  just  been  la"en  out  ol  a  ba 
bo.\.  The  tear  was  atten  in  iiere'ewhen  ihe  bai 
were  at  the  school  ;  Imt  when  liiey  came  home, 
spirii  was  lighted  up  wiih  gladness,  although,  p 
woman,  she  had  many  a  time  very  linle  lo  t 
them.  They  were,  however,  wonaerful  weli-b 
ihings,  and  took  with  thankfulness  whatever  ; 
set  before  them,  for  they  knew  that  their  lather, 
breadwinner,  was  away,  and  that  she  had  to  »r 
sore  lor  their  bit  and  drap.  1  dare  say.  the  o 
vexation  iliat  ever  she  had  from  any  o(  tliem. 
their  own  account,  was  when  Charlie,  the  elii, 
laddie,  had  won  fourpence  at  pilch  and  toss  at 
school,  which  he  brought  home  wiih  a  proad  hi' 
to  his  mother.  I  happened  to  be  daunrin' bye 
the  lime,  and  just  looked  in  at  the  door  lo  f»y  g' 
nighi.  .And  ilare  was  she  silling  with  the  pi1 
te;ir  on  her  cheek,  and  Charlie  greciing  as  it  kc  i 
done  a  great  fault,  and  the  other  lour  looking 
wiih  sorrowful  laces.  Never,  I  am  sure,  did  CHl. 
Malcolm  gamble  after  that  nighi. 

"I  often  wondered  what  brought  Mrs.  Malc( 
to  our  clachan.  instead  of  going  to  a  populous  io\' 
where  she  might  have  taken  up  a  huxiry-sliop., 
she  was  but  ot'a  silly  constitution,  the  which  w.r 
have  been  better  for  "her  than  spinning  from  morn 
to  far  in  the  night,  as  if  she  was  in  veniy  araw 
the  thread  ol  hie.  But  it  was,  no  doubt,  Iroin 
honest  pride  to  hide  her  poveriy;  (or  when 
daughter  Efiie  was  ill  wiih  the  measles— lie  l' 
lassie  wasverv  ill — nobody  thought  she  could  o. 
ihrough;  and' when  .^he  did  get  die  iiiiii,  sh<  ■ 
lor  m:lnv  a  day  a  heavy  h.iiidful ;— our  session  L( 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


551 


n,  and  nobody  on  it  but  cripple  Tammy  Daidles, 
t|l  was  at  thai  time  known  through  all  the  country 
si;  for  begging  on  a  horse,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to 
cs  upon  Mrs.  Malcolm  in  a  sympathising  way,  and 
o  r  her  some  assistance — but  she  refused  it.  '  No, 
si'  said  she.  '  I  canna  take  help  from  the  poor's 
b  ,  although  it's  very  true  that  I  am  in  great  need  ; 
ft  it  might  hereafter  be  cast  up  to  my  bairns,  whom 
'tiay  please  God  to  restore  to  better  circumstances 
wn  I  am.  no  to  see't ;  but  I  would  fain  borrow 
fii  pounds,' and  if,  sir,  you  will  write  to  Mr.  Maii- 
lii,  that  is  now  the  Lord  Provost  of  Glasgow,  and 
t(  him  that  Marion  Shaw  would  be  obliged  to 
h  for  the  lend  of  that  soom,  I  think  he  will  not 
([to  send  it.' 

f  I  wrote  the  letter  that  night  to  Provost  Mait- 
y,  and,  by  the  retonrof  the  post,  I  got  an  answer, 
wi  twenty  pounds  for  !\Irs.  ^Malcolm,  saying,  '  that 
ii,as  with  sorrow  he  heard  so  small  a  trifle  could 
b'serviceablc,'  When  I  took  the  letter  and  the 
iney.  which  was  in  a  bank-bill,  she  said,  '  This 
isust  like  himsel.'  She  then  told  me,  that  Mr. 
Sitiand  had  been  a  gentleman's  son  of  the  east 
entry,  but  driven  out  of  his  father's  house,  when 
a  ddie,  liy  his  step-mother  ;  and  that  he  had  served 
ai  servant  lad  with  her  father,  who  was  the  Laird 


thought  it  was  but  a  foreign  hawk,  with  a  yellow 
head  and  green  feathers." — Ibid.  pp.  44,  45. 

The  good  youth  fjets  into  the  navy,  and  dis- 
tiiiiruishes  himself  in  various  actions.  This  is 
the  catastrophe. 

"But,  oh !  the  wicked  wastry  of  life  in  war  !  In 
less  than  a  month  after,  the  news  came  of  a  victory 
over  the  French  fleet,  and  by  the  same  post  I  got  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Howard,  that  was  the  midshipman 
who  came  to  see  ns  with  Charles,  telling  me  that 
poor  Charles  had  been  mortally  wounded  m  the  ac- 
tion, and  had  afterwards  died  of  his  wounds,  •  He 
was  a  hero  in  the  engagement,'  said  Mr,  Howard, 
'  and  he  died  as  a  good  and  a  brave  man  should.' — 
These  tidin<rs  gave  me  one  of  the  sorest  hearts  I 
ever  suffered  ;  and  it  was  long  before  I  could  gather 
fortitude  to  disclose  the  tidings  to  poor  Charles' 
mother.  But  the  callants  of  the  school  had  heard  of 
the  victory,  and  were  going  shouting  about,  and  had 
set  the  steeple  bell  a-ringing,  by  which  Mrs.  Mal- 
colm heard  the  news;  and  knowing  that  Charles' 
ship  was  with  the  fleet,  she  came  over  to  the  Manse 
in  great  an.\iety,  to  hear  the  particulars,  somebody 


a.  =...  Tu.,.  .,.„ .>.,>.^.,  .,  ..„  ..„„  ...V.  ^....^  I  leuiii^  her  that  there  had  been  a  foreign  letter  to  me 

oYillcogie,  but  ran  through  his  estate,  and  left  j  by  the  post-man. 
h,  his  only  daughter,  in  little  better  than  beggary  j  '"  When  T  saw  her  I  could  not  speak,  but  looked 
vh  her  auntie,  the  mother  of  Captain  Malcolm,  |  at  her  in  pity  !  and  the  tear  fleeing  up  into  my  eyes, 
h  husband  that  was.  Provost  Maitland  in  his  s^he  guessed  what  had  happened.  After  givin'g  a 
syitude,  had  la'en  a  notion  of  her;  and  when  he  |  deep  and  sore  sigh,  she  inquired,  '  How  did  lie  be- 
r  jvered  his  patrimony,  and  had  become  a  great  i  have?  I  hope  well,  for  he  was  aye  a  gallant  lad- 
(.sgow  merchant,  on  hearing  how  she  was  left  by  ',  die  !' — and  then  she  wept  very  bitterly.  However, 
h  father,  he  ofl^ered  to  marry  her,  but  she  had  ,  growina  calmer,  I  read  to  her  the  letter,  and  when 
pmised  herself  to  her  cousin  the  Captain,  whose  |  [  had  done,  she  begiied  nie  to  give  it  her  to  keep. 


vlow  she  was.     He  then  married  a  rich  lady,  and 
iifime  grew,  as  he  w 


saying.  '  It's  all  that  I  have  now  left  of  my  preity 
Lord  Provost  of  ihe  City  :  j  boy  ;  but  it's  niair  precious  to  me  than  the  wealth 


bj  his  letter  with  the  twenty  pounds  to  me,  showed  j  of  the  Indies;'  and  she  begged  me  to  return  thanks 
lit  he  had  not  forgotten  his  first  love.     It  was  a  |  ,„  the  Lord,  for  all  the  comforts  and  manifold  mer- 


s  rt,  but  a  well-written  letter,  in  a  fair  hand  of 
v'te,  containing  much  of  the  true  gentleman  :  and 
J?.  Malcolm  said,  '  Who  knows  but  out  of  the 
rard  he  once  had  for  their  mother,  he  may  do 
slieihing  for  my  five  helpless  orphans.'  " — Annals 
qjAe  Parish,  pp.  IG — 21. 

Charles  afterwards  goes  to  sea,  and  comes 
h'ne  unexpectedly. 

•  One  evening,  towards  the  gloaming,  as  I  was 
t:,ing  my  walk  of  mednaiion,  I  saw  a  brisk  sailor 
hjfie  coming  towards  me.  He  had  a  pretty  green 
pj-oi,  silling  on  a  bundle,  tied  in  a  Barcelona  silk 
nldkerchiet,  which  he  carried  with  a  stick  over  his 
sjal^r,  and  in  this  bundle  was  a  wonderful  big 
It,  such  as  no  one  in  our  parish  had  ever  seen.  It 
vji  called  a  coeker-mit.  This  blithe  callant  was 
C;irlie  Malcolm,  who  had  come  all  the  way  that 
d'  his  leaful  lane,  on  his  own  legs  from  Greenock, 
Visre  the  Tobacco  trader  was  then  'livering  her 
ego.  I  told  him  how  his  mother,  and  his  brothers, 
aj.  his  sisters  were  all  in  good  health,  and  went  to 
C.voy  him  home  ;  and  as  we  were  going  along,  be 
t^  me  many  curious  things  :  and  he  gave  me  six 
blmiful  yellow  limes,  that  he  had  brought  in  his 
p.ch  all  the  way  across  the  seas,  for  me  to  make 
abwl  of  punch  with  !  and  I  ihouaht  more  of  them 
t!:n  if  thcv  had  been  golden  guineas — it  was  so 
rdful  of  t'he  laddie, 

f  VVhen  we  got  to  the  door  of  his  mother's  house, 
8|  was  sitting  at  the  fire-side,  with  her  three  other 
^\-ns  at  iheir  bread  and  milk,  Kate  being  then  with 
Ijly  Skimmill;,  at  the  Breadland,  sewinir.  It  was 
b'weeii  ihn  day  and  dark,  when  ihe  shuttle  stands 
ej  till  ihe  lamp  is  lighted.  But  such  a  shout  of  joy 
a  thankfulness  as  rose  from  that  hearth,  when 
(|arlie  went  in  !  The  very  parrot,  ye  would  have 
tlushf,  was  a  participator,  for  the  beast  gied  a 
»aik  that  made  my  whole  head  dirl  ;  and  the 
r.ghboiirs  came  flying  and  flocking  to  see  what 
the   matter,  for   if   was   the    first 


cies  with  which  her  lot  had  been  blessed,  since  the 
hour  she  put  her  trust  in  Him  alone,  and  ihat  was 
when  she  was  left  a  pennyless  widow,  with  her  five 
fatherless  bairns.  It  was  just  an  edification  of  the 
spirit,  to  see  the  Christian  resignation  of  this  wor- 
thy woman.  Mrs.  Balwhidder  was  confounded, 
and  said,  there  was  more  sorrow  in  seeing  the  deep 
grief  of  her  fortitude,  than  tongue  could  tell. 

"  Having  taken  a  glass  of  wine  with  her,  I  walk- 
ed out  to  conduct  her  to  her  own  house,  but  in  the 
way  we  met  with  a  severe  trial.  All  the  weans 
were  out  parading  with  napkins  and  kail-blades  on 
sticks,  rejoicing  and  triumphing  in  the  glad  tidings 
of  victory.  But  when  they  saw  me  and  Mrs.  Mal- 
colm coming  slowly  along,  they  guessed  what  had 
happened,  and  threw  away  their  banners  of  joy  ; 
and,  standing  all  up  in  a  row,  with  silence  and  sad- 
ness, along  the  kirk-yard  wall  as  we  passed,  show- 
ed an  instinct  of  compassion  that  penetrated  to  my 
very  soul.  The  poor  mother  burst  into  fresh  afflic- 
tion, and'  some  of  the  bairns  into  an  audible  weep- 
ing ;  and,  taking  one  another  by  the  hand,  they  fol- 
lowed us  to  her  door,  like  mourners  at  a  funeral. 
Never  was  such  a  siglit  seen  in  any  town  before. 
The  neighbours  came  to  look  at  it,  as  we  walked 
along  ;  and  the  men  turned  aside  to  hide  their  lares, 
while  the  mothers  pressed  their  babies  fqndlier  to 
j  their  bosoms,  and  watered  their  innocent  faces  with 
their  tears, 

"  I  prepared  a  suitable  sermon,  taking  as  the 
words  of  my  text,  '  Howl,  ye  ships  of  Tarshish,  for 
your  strength  is  laid  waste,'  But  when  I  saw  around 
me  .so  many  of  my  people,  clad  in  complimentary 
mourning  for  the  gallant  Charles  Malcolm,  and  that 
even  poor  daft  Jenny  GafTaw,  and  her  daughter,  had 
on  an  old  black  ribbon  ;  and  when  I  ihtinghi  of  him, 
the  spirited  laddie,  coming  home  from  Jamaica,  with 
his  parrot  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  limes  for  mo,  my 
heart  filled  full,  and  I  was  obliged  to  .«it  down  in  the 
pulpit  and  drop  a  tear.'' — Ihid.  pp.  214 — 218. 

We  like  these  tender  pas^saces  the  bcst- 


>,*  tne   matter,  tor   if   was   the    hrst    parrot  ever  ""    ""^   l...  .,v_  ,.v,..,..v,.  , 

fin  within  the  bounds  of  the  parish,  and  some  .  but  the  reader  .should  have  a  specimeu  ol  tne 


552 

humorous  vein  also. 
excellent. 


The  follow 


WORKS  OF  FICTION 
12:  we  think 


:-^!' 


In  the  course  of  ilie  summer,  just  as 


a  cartel,  took  up  a  dancing-school  at  Ireville  «  lle""^ 

which  art  he  had  learned  in  the  genteeiest  fash*  gl^'f 
I  in  the  mode  of  Paris,  at  the  French  court.    Su.a     *'^' 
.  J""".  1  '^'"S  as  a  dancing-school  had  never,  in  the  meir " 


was  closing  in  of  the  school-house,  my  lord  came  to  !  of  man,  been  known  in  our  countryside  •  anri  I ' 


the  casile  with  a  great  company,  and  was  not  there 
a  day  till  he  sent  for  me  to  come  over  on  the  next 
Sunday,  to  dine  with  him  ;  but  I  sent  him  word  that 
I  could  not  do  so,  for  it  would  be  a  transgression  of 
the  Sabbath;  which  made  him  send  his  own  gentle- 
man, to  make  his  apology  for  having  taken  so  great 
a  liberty  with  me,  and  to  beg  me  to  come  on  the 
Monday,  which  I  accordingly  did,  and  nothing  could 
be  better  than  the  discretion  with  which  I  was  used. 
There  was  a  vast  company  of  English  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  and  his  lordship,  in  a  most  jocose  man- 
ner, told  them  all  how  he  had  fallen  on  the  midden, 
and  how  I  had  clad  him  in  my  clothes,  and  there 
was  a  wonder  of  laughing  and  diversion  :  But  the 
most  particular  thing  in  the  coinpanv,  was  a  large, 
round-faced  man,  with  a  wig,  that  was  a  dignitary 
in  some  great  Episcopalian  church  in  London,  who 
was  extraordinary  condescending  towards  me, 
drinking  wine  with  me  at  the  taole.  and  saving 
weighty  sentences  in  a  fine  style  of  language,  aboiu 
the  becoming  grace  of  simplicity  and  innocence  of 
heart,  in  the  clergy  of  all  denominations  of  Chris- 
tians, which  I  was  pleased  to  hear;  for  really  he 
had  a  proud  red  countenance,  and  I  could  not  have 
thought  he  was  so  mortified  to  humility  within,  had 
I  not  heard  with  what  sincerity  he  delivered  him- 
eell,  and  seen  how  much  reverence  and  attention 
was  paid  to  him  by  all  present,  particularly  by  my 
lord's  chaplain,  who  was  a  pious  and  pleasant  young 
divine,  though  educated  at  Oxford  for  the  Episco- 
palian persuasion. 

"  One  day  soon  after,  as  I  was  silting  in  my 
closet  conning  a  sermon  for  the  next  Sunday,  I  was 
surprised  by  a  visit  from  the  dean,  as  the  dignitary 
was  called.  He  had  come,  he  said,  to  wait  on  me 
as  rector  of  the  parish,  for  so  it  seems  they  call  a 
pasior  in  England,  and  to  say.  that,  ifit  was  agree- 
able, he  would  take  a  family  dinner  with  us  before 
he  left  the  castle.  I  could  make  no  objeciion  to  his 
kindness,  but  said  I  hoped  my  lord  would  come 
with  him,  and  that  we  would  do  onr  best  to  enter- 
tain them  with  all  suitable  hospitality.  About  an 
hour  or  so  after  he  had  returned  to  the  castle,  one  of 
the  flunkies  brought  a  letter  from  his  lordship  to 
say,  that  not  only  he  would  come  with  the  dean, 
but  that  they  would  bring  the  other  guests  with 
them,  and  that,  as  they  could  only  drink  London 
wine,  the  butler  would  send  me  a  hamper  in  the 
morning,  assured,  as  he  was  pleased  tosay,  that  Mrs. 
Balwhidder  would  oiherwise  provide  good  cheer. 

"  This  noiiticalion,  however,  was  a  great  trouble 
to  my  wife,  who  was  only  used  to  manufacture  (he 
produce  of  our  glebe  and  yard  to  a  profiiable  pur- 
pose, and  not  used  to  the  "treatment  of  deans  and 
lords,  and  other  persons  of  quality.  However,  she 
was  determined  to  siretch  a  point  on  this  occasion. 
and  we  had,  as  all  present  declared,  a  chnrining 
dinrier;  for  foriunaiely  one  of  the  sows  had  a  litter 
of  pigs  a  few  days  before,  and.  in  addition  to  ti  goose, 
that  is  but  a  boss  bird,  we  had  a  roasted  pig,  with 
an  apple  in  its  mouth,  which  was  just  a  curio.sity  to 
see  ;  and  my  lord  called  it  a  tyihe  pig,  hut  I  told 
hint  it  wis  one  of  Mrs.  Balwhidder's  own  cleckinir, 
which  saying  of  mine  made  no  lilile  sport  when 
expounded  to  the  dean." — Annnh  of  Ike  Parish, 
pp.  136— 14L 

We  add  the  description  of  the  first  dancing- 
master  that  had  been  seen  in  these  parts  in 
the  year  1762. 

"  Also  a  thing  happened  in  this  year,  which  de- 
serves to  be  recorded,  as  manifcsiing  what  efT'ect  the 
stnuggling  was  beginning  to  take  on  the  morals  of 
the  countryside.  One  Air.  Macskii)nish,  of  High- 
land parentage,  who  had  been  a  valet-de-chambre 
with  a  Major  in  the  campaigns,  and  taken  a  prisoner 
with  him  by  the  French,  he  having  come  home  in 


....o  such  a  sound  about  the  steps  and  cotillion, f 
Mr.  Macskipnish,  that  every  lad  and  lass,  that  ct  I 
spare  time  and  siller,  went  to  him,  to  ihe  great 
gleet  of  their  work.  The  very  bairns  on  the  k 
instead  of  iheir  wonted  play,  gaed  linking  and  lo 
ing  in  the  steps  of  Mr.  .Macskipnish,  who  was.  l( . 
sure,  a  great  curiosity,  with  long  j^pindle  legs,  . 
breast  shot  out  like  a  duck's,  and  his  head  powi. 
ed  and  frizzled  up  like  a  lappit-hen.  He  was 
deed,  the  proudest  peacock  that  could  be  seen.'i 
he  had  a  ring  on  his  finger,  and  when  he  carjie 
drink  his  tea  at  the  Breadland.  he  brought  no  hai: 
his  head,  but  a  droll  cockit  ihing  under  his  ai 
which,  he  said,  was  after  the  manner  of  the  coiirii 
at  the  petty  suppers  of  one  Madame  Fumpadotir. « 
was  at  that  time  the  concubine  of  the  French  ki 
"  I  do  not  recollect  any  other  remarkable  th 
that  happened  in  this  year.  The  harvest  was  vi' 
abundant,  and  the  meal  so  cheap,  that  it  causi. 
great  defect  in  my  stipend,  so  that  I  wasobhgaiet 
postpone  the  purchase  of  a  mahogany  scruioire 
my  study,  as  I  had  intended.  But  I  had  not  i 
heart  to  complain  of  this  ;  on  ihe  contrary,  I  rejok 
thereat,  for  what  made  me  want  my  scrutoire 
another  year,  had  carried  hliihenessinio  tlieht<a, 
of  the  cotter,  and  made  the  widow's  heart  singw 
joy;  and  I  would  have  been  an  unnatural  cream 
had  I  not  joined  in  the  universal  gladness,  becai 
plenty  did  abound."— i/nVi.  pp.  30—32. 

We  shall  only  try  the  patience  of  our  rea 
ers  farther  with  the  death  of  Nanse  Banks,  t . 
old  parish  school-mistress.  ; 

"She  had  been  long  in  a  weak  and  frail  s!a 
but,  being  a  methodical  creature,  still  kept  on  i: 
school,  laying  the  foundation  for  many  a  worthy  w ! 
and  mother.  However,  about  the  decline  of  i 
year  her  complaints  increased,  and  she  sent  for  i 
to  consult  about  her  giving  up  the  school;  and 
went  to  see  her  on  a  Saturday  afiernoon,  when  i 
bit  lassies,  her  scholars,  had  put  the  house  in  ordi! 
and  gone  home  till  the  Monday. 

"  She  was  sitting  in  the  window-nook,  rendir 
THE  WORD  to  herself,  when  I  entered  ;  butsheclu 
ed  the  book,  and  put  her  spectacles  in  for  a  ma 
when  she  saw  me  :  and,  as  it  was  expected  I  won 
come,  her  easy  chair,  with  a  clean  cover,  had  bn 
set  out  for  me  by  the  scholars,  by  which  I  discern 
that  there  was  sotiipihing  more  than  common 
happen,  and  so  it  appeared  when  I  had  tal^  n 
seat.  '  Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  hae  sent  for  you  on  a  dm 
irouldes  me  sairly.  I  have  warsled  with  pooriith  ^ 
this  shed,  which  it  has  pleased  the  Lord  loallnw  nj 
to  pos?-ess;  but  my  strength  is  worn  out,  and  Iff' 
I  maun  yield  in  the  sirile;'  and  she  wiped  her  e>l 
with  her  apron.  I  told  her,  however,  to  be  ofgof 
cheer  ;  and  then  she  said,  '  that  she  could  no  loiii" 
thole  the  din  of  the  school;  and  that  she  waswenr, 
and  ready  to  lay  herself  down  to  die  whenever  il 
fiOrd  was  pleased  to  permit.  But,"  coniinued  shtf 
'what  can  I  do  without  the  school?  and,  alas!) 
can  neiihor  work  nor  want  ;  and  I  am  wae  lo  (fo  c 
ihe  Session,  for  I  am  come  of  a  decent  family.'  ' 
comforted  her,  and  told  her.  that  I  ihoujlif  she  h» 
done  so  much  good  in  the  parish,  thai  ibe  Sessio 
was  deep  in  her  debt,  and  that  what  they  niigl 
give  her  was  but  a  just  payment  for  her  service, 
would  rather,  however,  sir.'  said  she.  '  try  fir 
■what  some  of  my  aidd  scholar.s  will  do.  aiid  it  «' 
for  that  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you.  It  some  > 
them  would  but  jnst,  from  time  lo  lime,  look  i 
upon  me.  ihnt  I  may  not  die  alatie ;  and  the  lit' 
pick  and  drnpthat  I  require  would  not  be  hard  upi 
ihem — I  am  more  sure  that  in  this  way  their  grai 
lude  would  be  no  discredit,  than  I  am  of  having  on 
claim  on  the  Session.' 

"  As  I  had  always  a  great  respect  for  an  honti 


SCOTCH  NOVELS 


S'o3 


p:e,  I  assured  her  that  I  would  do  what  she 
wilted ;  and  accordingly,  the  very  morning  nfier, 
bigSabbaih,  I  preached  a  sermon  on  the  lu>\\)- 
Idiess  of  them  that  have  no  help  of  man  ;  meaii- 
ir  aged  single  women,  living  in  garret-rooms, 
vise  forlorn  state,  in  the  gloaming  of  life,  I  made 
niilest  to  the  hearts  and  understandings  of  the 
ci!,'regaiion,  in  such  a  manner  liiat  many  shed 
1(3,  and  went  away  sorrowful. 

Having  thus  roused  the  feelings  of  my  people, 
I  ent  round  the  houses  on  the  Monday  morning, 
ai  mentioned  what  I  had  to  say  more  particularly 
bIjI  poor  old  Nanse  Banks  the  schoolmistress, 
ai  trulv  I  was  rejoiced  at  the  condition  of  the 
h.rts  of  my  people.  There  was  a  universal  syiii- 
puy  among  them  ;  and  it  was  soon  ordered  that, 
wit  with  one  arid  another,  her  decay  should  be 
pi.'ided  for.  But  it  was  not  ordained  that  she 
glild  be  long  heavy  on  their  good  will.  On  the 
ftiday  the  schoul  was  given  up,  and  there  was 
nuing  but  wailing  among  the  hit  lassies,  the 
solars,  for  getting  the  vacance,  as  the  poor  things 
SI,  because  the  mistress  was  going  to  lie  down 
icee.  And.  indeed,  so  it  came  lo  pass  ;  for  she 
tc;  to  her  bed  the  same  afternoon,  and,  in  the 
ccse  of  the  week,  dwindled  away,  and  slippet 
oiof  this  howling  wilderness  into  the  kingdom  of 
hiv-en,  on  the  Sabbath  following,  as  quietly  as  a 
blsed  saint  could  do.  And  here  I  should  men- 
tis that  the  Lady  Macadam,  when  I  told  her  of 
K'lse  Banks'  case,  iirquired  it  she  was  a  snufler, 
at,  being  answered  by  me  that  she  was,  her  lady- 
si  sent  her  a  pretty  French  enamel  box  full  of 
Ai'abaw,  a  fine  snufi"that  she  had  in  a  bottle  ;  and, 
ai-ng  the  Macabaw,  was  found  a  guinea,  at  the 
biom  of  the  bo.x,  after  Nanse  Banks  had  departed 
th  life,  which  was  a  kind  thing  of  Ladv  Macadam 
{0]0."— Annals  of  the  ParwA,^  pp.  87—91. 

j'he  next  of  this  author's  publications,  we 
bieve,  was  "The  Ayrshire  Legatees,"  also 
irjDiie  volume,  and  a  work  of  great,  and 
sililar,  though  inferior  merit,  to  the  former. 
It';  the  story  of  the  proceedings  of  a  worthy 
Stttish  clergyman  and  his  family,  to  whom 
afge  property  had  been  unexpectedly  be- 
qilathed  by  a  relation  in  India,  in  the  course 
oi;heir  visit  to  London  to  recover  this  prop- 
el-. The  patriarch  himself  and  his  wife, 
ai;  his  sou  and  daughter,  who  form  the  party, 
alivrite  copious  accounts  of  what  they  see, 
to  heir  friends  in  Ayrshire — and  being  all 
lojly  and  simply  bred,  and  quite  new  to  the 
8Cies  in  which  they  are  now  introduced, 
m'yti  up  among  them  a  very  entertaining 
recellany.  of  original,  vaive  and  preposterous 
ol^rvations.  The  idea  of  thus  making  a 
faiily  club,  as  it  were,  for  a  varied  and  often 
C(|:radictory  account  of  the  same  objects — 
ei(.i  tinging  the  picture  with  his  own  peculi- 
aifes,  and  unconsciously  drawing  his  own 
ctracter  in  the  course  of  the  description, 
w'l  first  exemplified,  we  believe,  in  the  Hum- 
pljW  Clinker  of  Smollett,  and  has  been  since 
cc:ed  with  success  in  the  Bath  Guide,  Paul's 
Lijers  to  his  Kinsfolk,  the  Fudge  Family, 
another  ingenious  pieces,  lioth  in  pro.se  and 
Vf;.e.  Though  the  conception  of  the  Ayr- 
8t«  Legatees,  however,  is  not  new,  the  exe- 
cvjon  and  details  must  be  allowed  to  be 
orliiial ;  and,  along  with  a  good  deal  of 
tiildlc.  and  too  much  vulgarity,  certainly 
di'lay  very  cotisiderable  powers  both  of 
hiiour,  invention,  and  acute  observation. 

he  author's  next  work  is  --The  Provost," 

^'ch  is  decidedly  better  than  the  Legatees^ 

70 


and  on  a  Ifvel  nearly  with  the  Annals  of  the 
Parish.  There  is  no  inconsiderable  resem- 
blance, indeed,  it  appears  to  us,  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  two  Biograi  hies :  for  if  we  sub- 
stitute the  love  of  joblntig  and  little  mtinage- 
ment,  which  is  inseparable  from  the  situation 
of  a  magistrate  in  otie  of  our  petty  Burghs, 
for  the  zeal  for  Presbyterian  discipline  which 
used  to  attach  to  our  orthodox  clergy,  and 
make  a  proper  allowaiice  for  the  opposite 
elfects  of  their  respective  occupations,  we 
shall  find  a  good  deal  of  their  remaining  pe- 
culiarities common  to  both  those  pt-rsonages, 
— the  same  kindiiessof  naluie  \\ith  the  same 
tranquillity  of  temper — and  the  same  practi- 
cal sagacity,  \\  ith  a  similar  deficiency  oi  large 
views  or  ingenious  speculations.  The  Provost, 
to  be  sure,  is  a  more  worldly  person  than  the 
Pastor,  and  makes  no  scruple  about  using  in- 
direct methods  to  obtain  his  ends,  from  which 
the  simplicity  of  the  other  would  have  re- 
coiled ; — but  his  ends  are  not,  on  the  whole, 
unjust  or  dishonest :  and  his  good  nature,  and 
acute  simplicity,  with  the  Burghal  authority 
of  his  tone,  would  almost  incline  us  to  con- 
clude, that  he  was  somehow  related  to  the 
celebrated  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie  of  the  Salt- 
market  !  The  style  of  his  narrative  is  ex- 
ceedingly meritorious;  for  while  it  is  pitched 
on  the  self-same  key  of  picturesque  homeli- 
ness and  deliberate  method  with  that  of  the 
parish  Annalist,  it  is  curiously  distinguished 
from  it,  by  a  sensible  inferiority  in  literature, 
and  an  agreeable  intermixture  of  malaprops, 
and  other  figures  of  rhetoric  befitting  tne 
composition  of  a  loyal  chief  magistrate.  By 
far  the  most  remarkable  and  edifying  thing, 
however,  in  this  volume,  is  the  discovery, 
which  the  worthy  Provost  is  represented  as 
having  gradually  made,  of  the  necessity  of 
consulting  public  opinion  in  his  later  transac- 
tions, and  the  impossibility  of  managing  pub- 
he  affairs,  in  the  present  times,  with  the  same 
barefaced  assertion,  and  brave  abuse,  of  au- 
thority, which  had  been  submitted  to  by  a 
less  instructed  generation.  As  we  cannot  but 
suspect,  that  this  great  truth  is  not  yet  suffi- 
ciently familiar  with  all  in  authority  among 
us,  and  as  there  is  something  extremely  en- 
gaging in  the  Provost's  confession  of  his  slow 
and  reluctant  conversion,  and  in  the  honest 
simplicity  with  which  he  avows  his  adherence 
to  the  principles  of  the  old  school  of  corrup- 
tion, though  convinced  that  the  manner  of 
advancing  them  must  now  be  changed,  we 
are  tempted  to  extract  a  part  of  his  lucubra- 
tions on  this  interesting  subject.  After  notic- 
ing the  death  of  old  Bailie  M-Lucre,  he  takes 
occasion  to  observe  : — 

"  And  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  and  also  all 
those  whom  I  found  conjunct  with  him,  when  I 
first  came  into  power  and  office,  I  may  venture  to 
say,  that  things  in  yon  former  limes  were  not  guided 
so  thoroughly  by  the  hand  of  a  disinterested  integ- 
rity as  ill  these  latter  years.  On  the  contrary,  it 
.seemed  to  he  the  use  and  wont  of  men  in  jjublic 
trusts,  to  think  they  were  tree  to  indemnity  them- 
selves, in  a  lelt-handed  way,  for  the  time  and 
trouble  they  bestowed  in  the  same.  But  the  thing 
was  not  so  far   wrong  in  principle,  as  in  the  liug 


germuggering  way  in  w 


hich  it  was  done,  and  which 
2W 


554 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


gave  to  it  a  guilty  colour,  that,  by  the  judicious 
stratagem  of  a  right  system,  it  would  never  have 
had.  And.  sooth  to  say,  through  the  whole  course 
of  my  public  life,  I  met  with  no  greater  difliculties 
and  iiinis,  than  m  cleansing  myself  from  the  old 
habitudes  of  ofTice.  For  I  must,  in  verity,  confess, 
that  I  nivself  partook,  ig  a  degree,  at  my  beginning. 
of  the  caterpillar  nature,  ifec. — While,  therelore,  I 
think  it  has  been  of  a  great  advantage  to  the  public 
to  have  survived  that  meihod  of  adniinisiraiion  in 
which  the  like  of  Bailie  M'Lucre  was  engendered, 
I  would  not  have  it  understood  that  I  think  the 
men  who  held  the  public  trust  in  those  days  a  whit 
less  honest  than  the  men  of  my  own  time.  The 
spirit  of  their  own  age  was  upon  them,  as  that  of 
ours  is  upon  us  ;  and  their  ways  of  working  the 
wherry  entered  more  or  less  into  all  their  Irainck- 
ing,  whether  for  the  commonality,  or  for  their  own 
particular  behoof  and  advantage. 

"  I  have  been  thus  large  and  frank  in  my  re- 
flections anent  the  death  of  the  Bailie,  because, 
poor  man,  he  had  outlived  the  times  for  w'hich  he 
was  qualified  ;  and  instead  of  the  merriment  and 
joculariiy  that  his  wily  by-hand  ways  used  to  cause 
amontr  his  neighbours,  the  rising  generation  began 
to  pick  and  dab  at  him,  in  sucli  a  manner,  that,  had 
he  been  much  longer  spared,  it  is  to  be  I'eared  he 
would  not  have  been  allowed  to  enjoy  his  earnings 
both  with  ease  and  honour." 

The  Provost,  pp.  171—174. 

Accoidingly,  afterwards,  when  a  corps  of 
volunteers  was  raised  in  his  Burirh,  he  ob- 


"I  kept  myself  aloof  from  all  handling  in  the 
pecuniaries  of  the  business;  but  T  lent  a  friendly 
countenance  to  every  feasible  project  that  was  likely 
to  strengihen  the  confidence  of  the  King  in  the 
loyally  and  bravery  of  his  people.  For  by  this 
time  1  had  learnt,  that  there  was  a  wakerife  Com- 
mon Sense  abroad  among  the  opinions  of  men  ; 
and  that  the  secret  of  the  new  way  of  ruling  the 
world  was  to  follow,  not  to  control,  the  evident 
dictates  of  the  popular  voice  ;  and  I  soon  had  rea- 
son to  fuliciiaie  myself  on  this  prudent  and  season- 
able discovery  ;  for  it  won  nic  sireat  reverence 
among  the  forward  young  men,  who  started  up  at 
the  call  of  their  country. — The  which,  as  I  tell 
frankly,  was  an  admonition  to  me,  that  the  peremp- 
tory vvill  of  auihority  was  no  longer  sufficient  for 
the  rule  of  mankind  ;  and,  therefore,  I  squared  my 
after  conduct  more  by  adei'erence  to  public  opinion, 
than  by  any  laid  down  ma.xims  and  principles  of  my 
own.  The  consequence  of  which  was,  that  my 
influence  snll  continued  to  grow  and  gather  strength 
in  the  community,  and  I  was  enabled  to  accompli.sh 
mniiy  things  that  my  predecessors  would  have 
thought  it  was  almost  beyond  the  compass  of  man 
to  undertake.''— /^*ai.  pp.' 208— 217. 

Upon  occasion  of  his  third  and  last  promo- 
motion  to  the  Piovostry,  he  thus  records  his 
own  final  conversion. 

"  When  I  returned  home  to  my  own  house,  I 
retired  into  my  private  chamber  for  a  time,  to  con- 
sult with  myself  in  what  manner  my  deiwriment 
should  be  resiilaicd  ;  (or  1  was  conscious  that  here- 
tofore I  had  been  overly  governed  with  a  disposiiion 
to  do  things  my  own  way  ;  and  all  bough  not  in  an 
avaricious  temper,  yet  something,  I  must  confess, 
with  a  sort  of  sinister  respect  for  my  own  interests. 
It  may  be,  that  siandinix  now  clear  and  free  of  the 
world.  I  had  less  inciicmeni  to  he  so  grippy.  and  so 
was  thought  of  me,  I  very  well  know  ;  but  in  so- 
briety and  irnih  I  conscientiously  affirm,  and  herein 
rceord,  that  T  had  lived  to  partake  of  the  purer  .spirit 
whieh  the  great  mutations  of  the  n^e  had  conjured 
into  public  affairs;  and  I  saw  ihnt  there  was  a  ne- 
cessity to  carry  into  all  dealinirs  with  the  concerns 
of  the  community,  the  same  probity  which  helps  a 


jeanie  was  what  all  expecied  would jp* 
when  the  news  reached  the  town  CM 
rs  of  the  sentence,  the  wail  was  ailw 
a  pestilence,  and  fmn  would  the  co'cil 


man  to  prosperity,  in  the  sequestered  traffic  o  rj. 
vale  Me."— Ibid.  pp.  315,  316. 

Trusting  that  these  lessons  from  a  pe  y 
of  such  prudence,  experience,  and  ley  y 
will  not  be  lost  on  his  successors,  we  ;  i:, 
now  indulge  ourselves  by  quoting  a  fews]  •;. 
mens  of  -what  will  generally  be  regarde  t- 
his  more  interesting  style  ;  and.  with  ouf  i  al 
predilection  for  the  tragic  vein,  shall  bin 
with  the  following  very  touching  accoui  li 
the  execution  of  a  fair  young  woman  foi  |.' 
murder  of  her  new-born  infant. 

"  The  heinousness  of  the  crime  can  by  no  i 
bility  be  lessened;  but  the  beauty  of  the  inu  r 
her  tender  years,  and  her  light-headedness.  j. 
won  many  favourers,  and  there  was  a  great  lei  ig 
in  the  hearts  of  all  the  town  to  compassionate j«, 
especially  when  they  thought  of  the  ill  exaraplcat 
had  been  set  to  her  in  the  walk  and  conversatinf 
her  mother.  It  was  not,  however,  within  the  p  , 
of  the  ma2isirates  to  overlook  the  accusaiioi  ^ 
we  were  obligated  to  cause  a  precognition  ijt 
taken,  and  the  search  lelt  no  doubt  of  the  wilfujU 
of  the  murder.  Jeanie  was  in  consequence  reitr;ad 
to  the  Tolbooth(  where  she  lay  till  the  Lords  iIb 
coming  to  Ayr,  when  she  was  sent  thither  lond 
her  trial  before  them;  but,  from  the  hoursh'id 
the  deed,  she  never  spoke. 

"  Her  trial  was  a  short  procedure,  and  she«i 
cast  to  be  hanged — and  not  only  to  be  hangedjiM 
ordered  to  be  executed  in  our  town,  and  her  'ly 
given  to  the  doctors  to  make  an  Atomy-  Thegi 
cuiion  of  Jeanie  was  what  all  expected  would 
pen  ;  but 
other  parr 
sough  of  a  pes 

have  got  it  dispensed  with.  But  the  Lord  Adv'iie 
was  just  wud  at  the  crime,  both  because  ihereiid 
been  no  previous  concealment,  so  as  to  have^sn 
an  exiennaiion  for  the  shame  of  the  birih,  ani|«- 
cause  Jeanie  would  neither  divulge  the  nameoihe 
father,  nor  make  answer  to  all  the  inlerroga « 
that  were  put  to  her,  standing  at  the  bar  LSt 
dumbie,  and  looking  round  her.  and  at  the  ju,*, 
like  a  demented  creature — and  beautiful  as  a  .'n- 
ders  baby  !  It  was  thought  by  many  that  htjd- 
vocaie  might  have  made  great  use  of  her  v-tle 
consternation,  and  plead  that  she  was  by  he  if; 
for  in  truth  she  had  every  appearance  of  beiri«. 
He  was,  however,  a  dure  man,  no  doubi  .ell 
enough  versed  in  the  particulars  and  puiiciuii6l 
of  the  law  for  an  ordinary  plea,  but  no  of  the  (W 
sort  of  knowledge  and  talent  to  take  up  lhe>e 
of  a  forlorn  la.osie,  misled  by  ill  example  and  ajn- 
some  nature,  and  clothed  in  the  allurement  of  (»• 
liness,  as  the  judge  himself  said  to  the  jury,   i 

"  On  the  nisht  before  the  day  of  executiorjbe 
was  brought  over  in  a  chaise  trom  Ayr  beren 
two  (own-officers,  and  placed  again  in  our  hils. 
and  still  she  never  spoke.  Nothing  could  e;^ed 
the  compassion  that  every  one  had  for  poor  Je,e; 
so  she  was  na  committed  to  a  common  celfUl 
laid  in  the  council  room,  where  the  ladies  (!M 
town  made  up  a  comfortable  bed  for  her.  and  ne 
of  them  sat  up  all  night  and  prayed  for  her  ;"| 
her  tlionshts  were  gotle,  and  she  sat  silent.  l;ii« 
morning:  bv  break  of  day,  her  wanton  moihejiM 
had  been  trolloping  in  Glasgow  came  to  tneJOlj 
booth  door,  and  made  a  dreadful  wally  waeuigJM 
the  ladies  were  obliEaled,  for  the  sake  of  pea  » 
bid  her  be  let  in.  But  Jeanie  noticed  her  noi|im 
siitintr  with  her  eves  cast  down,  waiting  the  C((ng 
on  of  the  hour  of  her  doom.  .  ■ 

"There  had  not  been  an  exerunon  in  the  w" 
in  the  memorv  of  the  oldest  person  then  livini;ne 
last  that  suffered  was  one  of  the  martyrs  iM 
time  of  the  persecution,  so  that  we  were  not  SjIM 
in  the  business,  and  had  besides  no  hangniaijjui 
were  necessitated  to  borrow  the  Ayr  one.    I"*"' 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


555 


keing  the  youngest  bailie,  was  in  terror  tiiat  the 
'ligation  might  have  fallen  on  ine.  A  scaffuld 
13  erected  at  the  Tron  just  under  the  Tolbooih 
ndows,  by  Thomas  Gimblet,iiie  Masier-ol-work, 
.10  had  a  good  penny  ot  protit  by  liic  iob  ;  for  lie 
niracted  with  the  town  council,  and  had  the  boards 
fer  the  business  was  done  to  the  bargain  ;  but 
iiotnas  was  then  deacon  of  the  wrights,  and  him- 
jf  a  member  of  our  body. 

'  At  the  hour  appointed,  Jeanie,  dressed  in  while, 
IS  led  out  by  the  town-officers,  and  in  the  midst 

the  maiiistraies  from  among  the  ladies,  with  her 
nds  tied'behind  her  with  a  black  ribbon.  At  the 
si  sight  of  her  at  the  Tolbooih  stairiiead.  a  uni- 
rsal  sob  rose  from  all  the  multitude,  and  the  siern- 
.  ee  could  na  refrain  from  shedding  a  tear.  We 
arched  slowly  down  the  stair,  and  on  to  the  foot 

ihescafTild,  where  her  younger  brother,  Willy, 
at  was  stable-boy  at  my  lord's,  was  standing  by 
mself,  in  an  open  ring  made  round  him  in  the 
d;  every  one  compassionating  the  dejected 
Idle,  for  he  was  a  fine  youth,  and  of  an  orderly 
irit.  As  his  sister  came  towards  the  foot  of  the 
ider.  he  ran  towards  her,  and  embraced  her  with 
wail  of  sorrow  that  melted  every  heart,  and  made 

all  stop  in  the  middle  of  our  solemnity.  Jeanie 
jked  at  him  (for  her  hands  were  tied),  and  a  silent 
ir  was  seen  to  drop  from  her  cheek.  But  in  the 
urse  of  little  more  than  a  minute,  all  was  quiet, 
d  we  proceeded  to  ascend  the  scaffold.  Willy, 
ho  had  by  this  time  dried  his  eyes,  went  up  with 
1,  and  when  Mr.  Pittle  had  said  the  prayer,  and 
the  psalm,  in  which  the  whole  multitude  join- 
1,  as  it  were  with  the  contrition  of  sorrow,  the 
mgman  stepped  forward  to  put  on  the  fatal  cap. 
It  Willy  took  it  out  of  his  hand,  and  placed  it  on 

sister  himself,  and  then  kneeling  down,  withhis 

k  towards  her,  closing  his  eyes  and  shutting  his 
jS  with  his  hands,  he  saw  not  nor  heard  when 
18  was  launched  into  eternity  ! 

When  the  awful  act  was  over,  and  the  stir  was 
the  magistrates  to  return,  and  the  body  to  be 
It  down,  poor  Willy  rose,  and,  without  looking 
and,  went  down  the  steps  of  the  scaffold  ;  the 
altitude  made  a  lane  for  him  to  pass,  and  he  went 
I  through  them  hiding  his  face,  and  gaed  straight 
It  of  the  town." — The  Provost,  pp.  67 — 73. 

This  is  longer  than  we  had  expected — and 
lerefore,  omitting  all  the  stories  of  his  wiles 
id  jocosities,  we  shall  take  our  leave  oT  the 
rovost.  with  his  very  pathetic  and  picturesque 
ascription  of  the  catastrophe  of  the  Windy 
ule.  which  we  think  would  not  di.scredit  the 
ill  of  the  great  novelist  himself. 

"  In  the  morning,  the  weather  was  bla?ty  and 
;eiv,  w«xing  more  and  inore  tempestuous,  till 
out  mid-day,  when  the  wind  checked  suddenly 
and  from  the  nor-east  to  the  sou-west,  and  blew 
^ale,  as  if  the  prince  of  the  powers  of  the  air  was 
lin-i  his  utmost  to  work  mi.schief.  The  rain  blat- 
reif,  the  windows  clattered,  the  shop  shutters  flap- 
d,  pigs  from  the  him-heads  came  rattling  down 
«e  thundT-olaps.  and  thp  skies  were  dismal  both 
ith  cloud  and  carry.  Yet.  for  all  that,  there  was 
the  streets  a  stir  and  a  busy  visitation  between 
ighbours.  and  every  one  «ent  to  their  high  win- 
iws  lo  look  ai  the  five  poor  barks,  iliat  were  wars- 
\g  against  the  strong  arm  of  the  elements  of  the 
urm  and  the  ocean. 

"  Siill  the  liti  fifloomed,  and  the  wind  roared  ;  and 
was  as  doli'liil  a  sight  as  ever  was  seen  in  any 
wn  afflicied  with  calamity,  ti>  see  the  sailor's 
,  with  their  red  cloaks  about  their  heads,  f<j|- 
wed  by  their  hirpling  and  disconsolate  bairns. 
)ing  one  after  another  to  the  kirkyard,  to  look  at 
e  vessels  where  their  helpless  breadwinners  were 
(itling  with  the  tempest  My  heart  was  really 
frrowful,  and  lull  of  a  sore  an.xiety  to  think  of 
fhat  misht  happen  to  the  town,  whereof  so  many 
ere  ia  ptril,  and  to  whom  no  human  magistracy 


(ii)wn  mv 
gloatmngi 


could  extend  the  arm  of  protection.  Seeing  no 
abatement  of  the  wrath  of  heaven,  that  howled 
and  roared  aroutid  us,  I  put  onrny  bi-r  coat,  and 
taking  my  stafl'  in  my  hand,  having  ticci 
hat  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  toward 
walked  likewise  to  the  kirkyard,  where  1  beheld 
such  an  assemblage  of  sorrow,  as  tew  men  in  situ- 
ation have  ever  been  put  to  the  trial  to  witness. 

•'In  the  lea  of  the  kirk  many  hundreds  ol  the 
town  were  gathered  together;  but  there  was  no 
discourse  among  them.  The  major  part  were  sai- 
lors' wives  and  weans,  and  at  every  new  thud  of 
the  blast,  a  sob  rose,  and  the  mcjihers  drew  their 
bairns  closer  in  about  them,  as  if  ihey  saw  the 
visible  hand  of  a  foe  raised  to  smile  them.  Apart 
from  the  multitude,  I  observed  three  or  four  young 
lasses,  standing  behind  the  Whinnyhill  taniilies 
tomb,  and  I  jealoused  that  ihey  had  joes  in  the 
ships,  for  they  often  looked  to  the  bay,  with  long 
necks  and  sad  faces,  from  behind  the  monument. 
But  of  all  the  piteous  objects  there,  on  that  doleful 
evening,  none  troubled  my  thoughts  more  than 
three  motherless  children,  that  belonged  to  the 
mate  of  one  of  the  vessels  in  the  jeopardy.  He 
was  an  Englishman  that  had  been  settled  some 
years  in  the  town,  where  his  family  had  neither 
kith  nor  kin;  and  his  wife  having  died  aliout  a 
month  before,  the  bairns,  of  whom  the  eldest  was 
but  nine  or  so,  were  friendless  enough,  though 
both  my  gudewife,  and  other  well-disposed  ladies, 
paid  them  all  manner  of  attention  till  their  father 
I  would  come  home.  The  three  poor  little  things, 
knowing  that  he  was  in  one  of  the  ships,  had  been 
often  out  and  anxious,  and  they  were  then  sitting 
!  under  the  lea  of  a  headstone,  near  their  mother's 
]  grave,  chittering  and  creeping  closer  and  closer  at 
j  every  squall !  Never  was  such  an  orphan-like 
sight  seen. 

"  When  it  began  to  be  so  dark,  that  the  vessels 
could  no  longerlie  discerned  trom  the  churchyard, 
inany  went  down  to  the  shore,  and  1  took  the  three 
babies  home  with  me,  and  Mrs.  Pawkie  made  tea 
for  them,  and  they  soon  began  to  play  with  our  own 
younger  children,  in  blythe  forgetluliiess  of  the 
storm;  every  now  and  then,  however,  the  eldest 
of  them,  when  the  shutters  rattled,  and  the  lum- 
head  roared,  would  pause  in  his  innocent  daffing, 
and  cower  in  towards  Mrs.  Pawkie,  as  if  he  was 
daunted  and  dismayed  by  something  he  knew  not 
what. 

"  Many  a  one  that  night  walked  the  sounding 
shore  in  sorrt)W,  and  fires  were  lighted  along  it  to  a 
ereat  extent,  but  the  darkness  and  the  noise  of  the 
rarrins  deep,  and  the  howling  wind,  never  intermit- 
ted till  about  midnight;  at  which  lime  a  message 
was  brought  to  me,  that  it  might  be  needful  to  send 
a  i^uard  of  soldiers  to  the  beach,  for  that  broken 
inasis  and  tackle  had  come  in,  and  that  surely  some 
of  the  barks  bad  perished,  i  lost  no  time  in  obey- 
ing this  sn^sestion,  which  was  made  to  me  by  one 
oMhe  owners  of  the  Loiipiiig  Mec ;  and  to  .show 
that  I  sincerely  sympathised  wiili  all  those  in  afflic- 
tion, I  rose  and  dressed  myself  and  went  down  to 
the  shore,  where  I  directed  several  old  boats  to  be 
drawn  up  by  the  fires,  and  blankets  to  be  brought, 
and  cordials  prepared,  tor  them  that  might  be  spared 
with  life  to  reach  the  land;  audi  walked  the  beach 
with  the  mourners  till  the  morning. 

"As  the  day  dawned,  the  wind  began  lo  abate 

in  its  violence,  and  to  wear  away  trom  the  sou-west 

into  the  norit  ;    but  it  was  soon  discovered,   ihat 

some  of  the  vessels  with  the  corn  had  perished  ! 

tiir  the  first  thing  seen,  was  a  long  frinue  of  tangle 

and  grain,  along  the  line  of  the  hi^'hwater  mark, 

and  every  one  strained   with    greedy  and   grieved 

I  eyes,  ns  the  davlighf  brightened,  lo  discover  which 

I  hiid   suff(^red.    'But  I  can  proceed  no  fariher  with 

the  dismal  recital  of  thai  dolelul  monunti  I     Let  it 

suffice   here   to   be    known,  thai,  ihiounh  the  haze, 

we  at  last  saw  three  of  the  vessels  lying  on  llieir 

beam-ends,  wiih  their  masis  broken,  and  ihewaveB 

I  riding  like  the  furious   lior.ses  of  desiruciion  over 

I  them".      What  had  beLoine  of  the  other  two,  was 


556 


WORKS  OF  FICTION'. 


never  known  ;  but  it  was  supposed  that  they  had  I 
foundered  at  their  anchors,  and  that  all  on  board 
perished. 

"  The  day  being  now  Sabbath,  and  the  whole 
town  idle,  every  body  in  a  manner  was  down  on 
the  beach,  to  'nelp,  and  inourn,  as  the  bodies,  one 
after  another,  were  cast  out  by  the  waves.  Alas  1 
few  were  the  better  of  my  provident  preparation, 
and  it  was  a  thin?  not  to  be  described,  to  see.  for 
more  than  a  mile  along  the  coast,  the  new-made 
widows  and  fatherless  bairns,  mourning  and  weep- 
ing over  the  corpses  of  those  they  loved  !  Seventeen 
bodies  were,  before  ten  o'clock,  carried  to  the  deso- 
lated dwellings  of  their  families;  and  when  old 
Thomas  Pull,  the  betherei,  went  to  ring  the  bell 
for  public  worship,  such  was  the  universal  sorrow 
of  the  town,  that  Nanse  Donsie,  an  idiot  natural, 
ran  up  the  street  to  stop  him.  crying,  in  the  voice 
of  a  pardonable  desperation,  '  Wha,  in  sic  a  time, 
can  praise  the  Lord  ?'  " — The  Provost,  pp.  177-184. 

The  ne.\t  work  on  our  list  is  the  history  of 
"Sir  Andrew  Wylie,"  in  three  volumes — and 
this,  we  must  e^ay.  is  not  nearly  so  good  as  any 
of  the  former.  It  contains,  however,  many 
passages  of  great  interest  and  originality,  and 
displays,  throughout,  a  power  which  we  think 
ought  naturally  to  have  produced  something 
better:  but  the  story  is  clumsily  and  heavily 
managed,  and  the  personages  of  polite  life 
very  unsuccessfully  dealt  with.  The  author's 
great  error,  we  suspect,  was  in  resolving  to 
have  three  volumes  instead  of  one — and  his 
writing,  which  was  full  of  spirit,  while  he 
was  labouring  to  confine  his  ideas  within  the 
space  assigned  to  them,  seems  to  have  be- 
come flat  and  languid,  the  moment  his  task 
was  to  find  matter  to  fill  that  space. 

His  next  publication,  however,  though  only 
in  one  volume,  is  undoubtedly  the  worst  of 
the  whole — we  allude  to  the  thing  called  the 
''  The  Steam-Boat."  which  has  really  no  merit 
at  all ;  and  should  never  have  been  trans- 
planted from  the  Magazine  in  which  we  are 
informed  it  first  made  its  appearance.  With 
the  exception  of  some  trash  about  the  Corona- 
tion, which  nobody  of  course  could  ever  look 
at  three  months  after  the  thing  itself  was 
over,  it  consists  of  a  series  of  vulgar  stories, 
with  little  either  of  probability  or  originality 
to  recommend  them.  The  attempt  at  a  paral- 
lel or  paraphrase  on  the  story  of  Jeanie  Deans, 
is,  without  any  exception,  the  boldest  and  the 
most  unsuccessful  speculation  we  have  ever 
seen  in  literary  adventure. 

The  piece  that  follows,  though  in  three 
volumes,  is  of  a  far  higher  order — and  though 
in  many  points  unnatural,  and  on  the  whole 
rather  tedious,  is  a  work  undoubtedly  of  no 
ordinary  merit.  We  mean  -'The  Entail."  It 
contains  many  strong  pictures,  much  sarca.stic 
observation,  and  a  great  deal  of  native  and 
effective  humour,  though  too  often  debased 
by  a  tone  of  wilful  vulgarity.  The  ultimate 
conversion  of  the  Entailer  himself  into  a 
sublime  and  sentimental  personage,  is  a  little 
too  romantic — the  history  of  poor  Watty,  the 
innocent  imbecile,  and  his  Betty  Bodle,  is 
perhaps  the  best  lull-lens'th  narrative — and 
the  drowning  of  honest  Mr.  Walkinshaw  the 
most  powerful  single  sketch  in  the  work.  We 
can  afford  to  make  no  extracts. 

"  Ringan  Gilhaize,"  also  in  three  volumes, 


is  the  last,  in  so  far  as  we  know,  of  this  rea ; 
writer's  publications  ;  and  is  a  bold  atteir 
to  emulate  the  fame  of  the  Historical  nov( 
of  his  original;  and    to   combine  a   stiiki 
sketch  of  great  public  occurrences,  with  I 
details  of  individual  adventure.     By  the  i 
sistance   of    his   grandfather's   recoUectio: 
which  fill  nearly  half  the  book,  the  hero  cc 
trives  to  embrace  the  period  both  of  the  Ri 
ormation  from  Popery,  in  the  Reign  of  Que 
IMary,  and  of  the  sufferings  of  the  Covenante 
from  that  of  King  Charles  till  the  Revolutic 
But  with  all  the  benefit  of  this  wide  ranj 
and  the  interest  of  those   great  events,  \ 
cannot  say  that  he  has  succeeded  in  maki 
a  good  book  ;  or  shown  any  spark  of  that  spi 
which  glows  in  the  pages  of  Waverley  a 
Old  Mortality.  The  work,  however,  is  writl 
with  labour  and  care  :  and,  besides  a  ftill  n; 
rative  of  all  the  remarkable  jjassairps  of  c 
ecclesiastical  story,  from  the  burning-  of  j\ 
Wishart  at  St.  Andrew's,  to  the  death  of  Di- 
dee  at  Killicrankie.  contains  some  aniraat 
and  poetical  descriptions  of  natural  scene) 
and  a  few  sweet  pictures  of  humble  virt; 
and  piety.     Upon  the  whole,  however,  it  'a 
heavy  work — and   proves  conclusively,  th 
the  genius  of  the  author  lies  much  more 
the  quieter  walks  of  humorous  simplicity,  i 
termixed  with  humble  pathos,  than  the  lot 
paths  of  enthusiasm  or  heroic  emotion, 
the  first  part  we  meet  with  nothing  new 
remarkable,  but  the  picture  of  the  Archbish 
of  St.  Andrews'  luxurious  dalliance  with  1 
paramour,  and  of  the   bitter  penitence  ai 
tragical  death  of  that  fair  victim  of  his  sedu 
tions,  both  which  are  sketched  with  considt 
able  power  and  efiect.     In  the  latter  pa 
there  is  some  good  and  minute  description  ■ 
the  perils  and  sufferings  which  beset  the  jxi 
fugitive  Coveiianters,  in  the  days  of  their  loi 
and  inhuman  persecution.    The  cruel  desol 
tion  of  Gilhaize's  own  household  is  also  givi 
with  great  force  and  pathos  ;  as  well  as  the  d 
scriptionof  that  irresistible  impulse  of  zeal  ai 
vengeance  that  drives  the  sad  survivor  to  ru: 
alone  to  the  field  of  Killicrankie.  and  to  rep; 
at  last,  on  the  head  of  the  slaughtered  vicl 
of  that  fight,  the  accumulated  wrongs  and  o; 
pressionsof  his  race.   But  still  the  book  istir 
some,  and  without  effect.  The  narrative  ism 
ther  pleasing  nor  probable,  and  the  calamiti 
are  too  numerous,  and  too  irmch  alike;  whi 
the  uniformity  of  the  tone  of  actual  sufferii' 
and  dim  religious  hope,  weighs  like  a  load  < 
the  spirit  of  the  reader.    There  is  no  intere? 
ing complication  of  events  or  adventure,  ai 
no  animating  development  or  catastrophe, 
short,  the  author  has  evidently  gone  beyoi 
his  means  in  entering  the  lists  with  the  mast 
of  historical  romance  ;  and  must  be  contentc , 
hereafter,  to  follow  his  footsteps  in  the  mo 
approachable  parts  of  his  career. 

Of  the  other  set  of  publications  before  u 
"  Vajorius"  is  the  first  in  point  of  date;  at 
the  most  original  in  conception  and  desig 
It  is  a  Roman  story,  the  scene  of  which  is  la 
in  the  first  age  of  Christianity  ;  and  its  obje 
seems  to  be,  partly  to  present  us  with  a  livii 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


557 


licturfe  of  the  manners  and  characters  of  those 
bcient  times,  and  partly  to  trace  the  effects 
if  the  true  faith  on  the  feehngs  and  affections 
f  those  who  first  embraced  it,  in  the  dans^ers 
j:id  darkness  of  expiring  Paganism.  It  is  a 
!-ork  to  be  excepted  certainly  from  our  gene- 
Ll  remark,  that  the  productions  before  us 
fere  imitations  of  the  celebrated  novels  to 
rhich  we  have  so  often  made  reference,  and 
[leir  authors  disciples  of  that  areat  school, 
luch  as  it  is,  Valerius  is  undoubtedly  original ; 
;•  at  least  owes  nothing  to  that  new  souice  of 
iispiration.  It  would  be  more  plausible  to 
;iy,  that  the  author  had  borrowed  somelhiiig 
iom  the  travels  of  Anacharsis,  or  thi;  ancient 
itmance  of  Hcliodorus  and  Charielea — or  the 
j.ter  effusions  of  M.  Chateaubriand.  In  the 
lain,  however,  it  is  original:  and  it  is  written 
lith  very  considerable  power  and  boldness. 
ut  we  cannot,  on  the  whole,  say  that  it  has 
pen  successful ;  and  even  greater  powers 
jiuld  not  have  insured  success  for  such  an 
[ulertaking.  We  must  know  the  daily  life 
jid  ordinary  habits  of  the  people  in  whose 
|3mestic  adventures  we  take  an  interest : — 
,id  we  really  know  nothing  of  the  life  and 
iibits  of  the  ancient  Romans  and  primitive 
Ihristians.  We  may  patch  together  a  cento 
It  of  old  books,  and  pretend  that  it  exhibits 
view  of  their  manners  and  conversation : 
ut  the  truth  is,  that  all  that  is  authentic  in 
ich  a  compilation  can  amount  only  to  a  few 
agments  of  such  a  picture;  and  that  any 
ing  like  a  complete  and  living  portrait  must 
'  made  up  by  conjecture,  and  inferences 
awn  at  hazard.  Accordingly,  the  work  he- 
re us  consists  alternately  of  enlarged  tran- 
ripts  of  particular  acts  and  usages,  of  which 
counts  have  been  accidentally  transmitted 
us,  and  details  of  dialogue  and  observation 
which  there  is  nothing  antique  or  Roman 
jit  the  names, — and  in  reference  to  which, 
,e  assumed  time  and  place  of  the  action  is 
ih  as  a  mere  embarrassment  and  absurdity. 
3  avoid  or  disguise  this  awkwardness,  the 
\\y  resource  seems  to  be,  to  take  shelter  in 
vague  generality  of  talk  and  description, — 
id  to  save  the  detection  of  the  modern  in 
s  masquerade  of  anticjuity,  by  abstaining 
pm  every  thing  that  is  truly  characteristic 
jther  of  the  one  age  or  the  other,  and  conse- 
lienlly  from  every  thing  by  which  either 
laracter  or  manners  can  be  effectually  de- 
,ieated  or  distinguished.  The  very  .style  of 
je  work  before  us  affords  a  curious  example 
the  neces.sity  of  this  timid  indefiniteness, 
jider  such  circurnstances,  and  of  its  aw  kwarcl 
"ect.  To  exclude  the  tone  of  modern  times, 
is  without  idiom,  without  familiarity,  with- 
t  any  of  those  natural  marks  by  which 
ne  either  individuality  of  character,  or  the 
mp  and  pressure  of  the  time,  can  possibly 
I'  conveyed, — and  runs  on.  even  in  the  <ray 
jid  satirical  passaires,  in  a  inmblinp.  rouncl- 
j>out,  rhetorical  measure,  like  a  translation 
pm  solemn  Latin,  or  some  such  academical 
lercitation.  It  is  an  attempt,  in  short,  which, 
k)ugh  creditable  to  the  spirit  and  talents  of 
p  author,  we  think  he  has  done  wisely  in 
H  seeking  to  repeat, — and  which,  though  it 


has  not  failed  through  anj'  deficiency  of  his. 
has  been  prevented,  we  think,  from  succeed- 
ing by  the  very  nature  of  the  subjt'ct. 

The  next  in  order,  we  believe,  is  '•'  Lights 
and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life."' — an  affected, 
or  at  least  too  poetical  a  title. — and,  standing 
before  a  book,  not  very  natural,  hut  brii;ht 
with  the  lights  of  poetry.  It  is  a  collection 
of  twenty-live  stories  or  little  pieces,  half 
novels  half  idylls,  characteristic  of  Scottish 
sceneiy  and  manners — mostly  pathetic,  and 
mostly  too  favourable  to  the  country  to  which 
they  relate.  They  are,  on  the  whole,  we 
think,  very  beauliVnlly  and  sweetly  written, 
and  in  a  .soft  spirit  of  humanity  and  gentlenes)^. 
Rut  the  style  is  too  elaborate  and  uniform  ; — 
there  is  occasionally  a  good  deal  of  weakness 
and  commonplace  in  the  passages  that  are 
most  emphatically  expressed. — and  the  poet- 
ical heightenings  are  often  introduced  where 
they  hurt  both  the  truth  and  the  simplicily  of 
the  picture.  Still,  however,  they  have  their 
foundation  in  a  tine  sense  of  the  peculiarities 
of  our  national  character  and  scenery,  and  a 
deep  feeling  of  their  exc(dlence  and  beauty — 
and,  though  not  executed  according  to  tlie  dic- 
tates of  a  severe  or  correct  taste,  nor  calcu- 
lated to  make  much  impression  on  those  who 
have  studied  men  and  books,  "with  a  learned 
spirit  of  observation,"  are  yet  well  fitted  to 
minister  delight  to  less  fastidious  spirits, — 
and  to  revive,  in  many  world-wearied  hearts, 
those  illusions  which  had  only  been  succeeded 
by  illusions  less  innocent  and  attractive,  and 
those  affections  in  which  alone  there  is  neither 
illusion  nor  disa])pointment. 
I  As  the  authors  style  of  narration  is  rather 
copious,  we  cannot  now  afford  to  present  our 
readers  w-ith  any  of  his  stories — but,  as  a 
specimen  of  his  tone  and  manner  of  composi- 
tion, we  may  venture  on  one  or  two  of  his  in- 
troductory descriptions.  The  following,  of  a 
snowy  morning,  is  not  the  least  characteristic. 

"  It  was  on  a  fierce  and  howling  winter  day  that 
I  was  crossing  the  dreary  moor  of  .^iichindown,  on 
my  way  lo  the  .Manse  of  thai  parish,  a  Pdlitnry  pe- 
destrian. The  snow,  whieli  had  hecn  incessant iy 
fallinpf  for  a  week  past,  was  drifted  into  beaiiiiful 
but  dangerous  wreaths,  far  and  wide,  over  the 
melancholy  e.xpanse — and  the  scene  kept  visibly 
sliifiing  before  me,  as  tiie  .strong  wind  that  bb-w 
fiotn  every  point  of  ihe  compass  struck  the  dazzling 
masses,  and  heaved  them  up  and  down  in  endless 
trnnslormation.  There  was  something  inspiriting 
in  the  labour  with  whirh,  in  the  buoyant  strengtii 
of  youth,  I  toreed  my  way  through  the  storm — and 
I  could  not  but  enjoy  those  gieamings  of  sunlight 
that  ever  and  anon  t)iirst  through  some  unexpected 
opening  in  the  sky,  and  gave  a  character  of  cheer- 
fulness, and  even  warmth,  to  the  .«idc8  or  summits 
of  the  .stricken  hills.  As  the  momentary  cessations 
of  the  sharp  drift  allowed  my  eyes  to  look  onwards 
and  around,  I  saw  here  and  ihcrc  up  the  liiile  open- 
ing valleys,  cottages  just  visible  beneath  the  black 
s'emsofiheir  snow-covered  clumps  of  trees,  or  be- 
side some  small  spot  of  jrreen  pasnire  kept  open  for 
ibe  shf  ep.  Thesf  intimations  of  lile  and  happiness 
came  delifrhifully  to  me  in  the  mid.'it  ol  the  de.--ola. 
lion;  and  the  barking  of  a  do?,  atiendiig  some 
.'^'hcpherd  in  his  (piest  on  the  hill,  put  frcHh  vigour 
iniii  niv  lirnbs,  Telling  me  that,  lonely  ns  J  seemed 
'o  he.  I  was  surrc.tnded  by  cheerful  thnii»h  trufpn 
company,  ai^d  ttia!  I  was  tiot  the  oidy  wnnc'frer 
over  the  snows. 

2w  2 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


"As  I  walked  alon^,  my  mind  was  insensibly 
filled  wiib  a  crowd  of  pleasant  images  ol'  rural  win- 
ter life,  thai  helped  me  gladly  onwards  over  many 
miles  of  moor.  I  thought  of  the  severe  but  cheertul 
labours  of  the  barn— the  mending  of  farm-gear  by 
I  he  fireside — the  wheel  turned  by  the  fool  of  old 
age,  less  for  gain  than  as  a  thrifty  pastime — the  skil- 
ful mother,  making  '  auld  claes  look  amaist  aa 
weel's  the  new' — the  ballad  unconsciously  listened 
to  by  the  family,  all  busy  at  their  own  tasks  routid 
the  singing  maiden — the  old  traditionary  tale  told 
by  some  wayfarer  hospitably  housed  till  the  storm 
should  blow  by — the  unexpected  visit  of  neighbours, 
on  need  or  friendship — or  the  footstep  of  lover  uti- 
deierred  by  the  snow-drifts  that  have  buried  up  his 
flocks; — but  above  all,  I  thought  of  those  hours  of 
religious  worship  that  have  not  yet  escaped  from 
the  "domestic  life  of  the  Peasantry  of  Scotland — of 
the  sound  of  psalms  that  the  depth  of  snow  cannot 
deaden  to  the  ear  of  Him  to  whom  they  are  clianted 
— and  of  that  sublime  Sabbath-keeping,  which,  on 
days  too  tempestuous  for  the  kirk,  changes  the  cot- 
tage of  the  Shepherd  into  the  'I'etnple  ofClod. 

"  With  such  glad  and  peaceful  images  in  my 
heart,  I  travelled  along  that  dreary  tnoor.  with  the 
cutting  wind  in  my  face,  and  my  feet  sinking  in  the 
snow,  or  sliding  on  the  hard  blue  ice  beneath  it — as 
cheerfully  as  1  ever  walked  in  the  dewy  warmth 
of  a  sunimer  morning,  through  fields  of  fragrance 
and  of  flowers.  And  now  I  could  discern,  within 
half  an  hour's  walk  before  me,  the  spire  of  the 
church,  close  to  which  stood  the  Manse  of  my  aged 
friend  and  benefactor.  My  heart  burned  within  rue 
as  a  suddfui  gleam  of  stormy  sunlight  tipt  it  with 
fire — and  I  felt,  at  that  moment,  an  inexpressible 
sense  of  the  sublimity  of  the  character  of  that  gray- 
headed  Shepherd  who  had,  for  fifty  years,  abode  in 
the  wilderness,  keeping  together  his  own  happy 
little  flock." — Lights  and  Shadows,  pp.  131 — 133. 

The  next,  of  a  summer  storm  among  the 
mountains,  is  equally  national  and  appropriate. 

"  An  enormous  thunder-cloud  had  lain  all  day 
over  Beti-Nevis,  shrouding  its  summit  in  thick 
darkness,  blackening  its  sides  and  base,  wherever 
they  were  beheld  from  the  surrounding  country, 
with  masses  of  deep  shadow,  and  especially  flinging 
down  a  weight  of  gloom  upon  that  tntignificenl  Glen 
that  bears  the  same  name  with  the  Mountain  ;  till 
now  the  afternoon  was  like  twilight,  and  the  voice 
of  all  the  streams  was  distinct  in  the  breathlessnesa 
of  the  vast  solitary  hollow.  The  inhabiiants  of  all 
the  straths,  vales,  glens,  and  dells,  round  and  about 
the  Monarch  of  Scottish  mountains,  had,  during 
each  successive  hour,  been  e.\pecting  the  roar  of 
thunder  and  the  deluge  of  rain  ;  but  the  huge  con- 
glomeratioti  of  lowering  clouds  would  not  rend 
asunder,  althotigh  it  was  certain  that  a  calm  blue 
sky  could  not  be  restored  till  all  that  dreadful  as- 
semblage had  melted  away  into  torrents,  or  been 
driven  ofT  by  a  strong  wind  from  the  sea.  All  the 
cattle  on  the  hills,  and  on  the  hollosvs,  stood  still  or 
lay  down  in  their  fear, — the  wild  di'cr  sought  in 
herds  the  shelter  of  the  pitie-covered  clifls — the 
raven  hushed  his  hoarse  croak  in  some  grim  cavern, 
and  the  eagle  left  the  dreadful  silence  of  the  upper 
heavens.  Now  and  then  the  slnpherds  looked 
from  their  huts,  while  the  shadow  of  the  thunder- 
clouds deepened  the  hues  of  their  plaids  and  tar- 
tans !  and  at  every  creaking  of  the  heavy  branches 
of  the  pines,  or  wide-armed  oaks  in  the  solitude  of 
their  inaccessible  birth-place,  the  hearts  of  the  lone- 
ly dwellers  quaked,  and  they  lifted  up  their  eyes  to 
see  the  first  wide  flash — the  disparting  of  the  nitisses 
of  darkness — and  paused  to  hear  the  long  loud  rat- 
tle of  heaven's  artillery  shaking  the  foundation  of 
the  everlasting  mountains.     But  all  was  yet  silent. 

"  The  peal  came  at  last !  and  it  seemed  as  if  an 
earthquake  had  smote  the  silence.  Not  a  tree — not 
a  blade  of  gras«  moved  ;  but  the  blow  stunned,  as 
it  were,  the  tieart  of  the  solid  globe.  Then  was 
there  a  low,  wild,  whispering,  wailing  voice,  as  of 


many  spirits  all  joining  logetner  from  every  p  t 
of  heaven  :  It  died  away — and  then  the  rushin<f 
rain  was  heard  ihrouiih  the  darkness  ;  and,  in  a  i- 
minutes,  down  cante  all  the  mountain  torrent  t 
their  power,  and  the  sides  of  all  the  steeps  we 
suddenly  sheeted,  far  and  wide,  with  waterli ;. 
The  element  of  water  was  let  loose  to  run  its  . 
joicing  race — and  that  of  fire  lent  it  illuniinai  . 
whether  sweeping  in  floods  along  the  great  cm 
straths,  or  tumbling  in  cataracts  from  clifl^s  o  - 
hanging  the  eagle's  eyrie. 

"  Great  rivers  were  suddenly  flooded — and  t- 
little  mountaiti  rivulets,  a  tew  minutes  before  ( y 
silver  threads,  and  in  whose  fairy  basins  the  mini  v 
played,  were  now  scarcely  fordable  to  shephe  s 
feet.     It  was  time  for  the  strongest  to  take  she 
and  none  now  would  have  liked  to  issue  iron  ; 
for  while  there  was  real  danger  to  life  and  lini  ; 
the   many  ranging  torrents,  and  in  the  liiihtii;  ; 
flash,  the  imagination  and  the  soul  themselves  \ 
touched  with  awe  in  the  long  resounding  glens, 
beneath  the  savage  scowl  of  the  angry  sky. 

"It  was  not  a  time  to  be  abroad:  Yet  al  y 
herself  was  hastening  down  Glen-Nevis,  fro  u 
shealing  far  up  the  river,  a  little  Girl,  not  more  ■  ii 
twelve  years  of  age — in  truth,  a  very  child.  G  f 
and  fear,  not  for  herself,  but  for  another,  bore  r 
along  as  upon  wings,  through  the  storm;  e 
crossed  rivulets  from  which,  on  any  other  ocof  i, 
she  would  have  turned  hack  trembling;  andje 
did  not  even  hear  many  of  the  crashes  of  th'n','r 
that  smote  the  smoking  hills.  Sometimes  :  a 
fiercer  flash  of  lightning  she  just  lifted  her  hnr^o 
her  dazzled  eyes,  and  then,  unappalled.  hurriein 
through  the  hot  and  sulphurous  air.  Had  she  U\ 
a  maideti  of  that  tender  age  from  village  or  city  -r 
course  would  soon  have  been  fatally  stopt  sh.; 
but  she  had  been  born  among  the  hills;  had  |sl 
learned  to  walk  among  the  heather,  holding  bjii 
blooming  branches,  and  many  and  many  a  solijjr 
mile  had  she  tripped,  young  as  she  was,  over  rjn 
and  moor,  glen  and  mountain,  even  like  the  roejit 
had  its  lair  in  the  coppice  beside  her  own  belid 
Shealing."— 76(W.  pp.  369— 37-3.  | 

We  must  add  a  part  of  the  story  of  a  ,ir 
child's  sickness,  in  the  family  of  one  of  nr 
cheerful  and  pious  cottagers. 

"  The  surgeon  of  the  parish  lived  some  mile.'^  • 
tant,  but  they  expected  him  now  every  uion  ;. 
and  many  a  wistful  look  was  directed  by  tearful  :s 
along  the  mr)nr.  The  daughter,  who  was  oi^it 
service,  came  anxiously  home  on  this  night,  le 
only  one  that  could  be  allowed  her,  lor  the  ir 
must  work  in  their  grief,  and  servants  must  do  ir 
duty  to  those  whose  bread  they  eat,  even  whet  i- 
ture  is  sick, — sick  at  heart.  Another  of  the  da  ji- 
tcrs  came  in  from  the  potatoe-ficld  beyond  the  l;e, 
with  what  was  to  be  their  frugal  sufiper.  Them 
noiseless  spirit  of  life  was  in  and  around  the  hrf. 
while  death  seemed  dealing  with  one  who,  a.wf 
days  ago,  was  like  light  upon  the  floor,  aiic'ie 
sound  of  music,  that  always  breathed  up  wheii^  ,sl 
wan'ed. — '  Do  you  think  the  child  is  dying?'  id 
Gilbert  with  a  calm  voire  to  the  surgeon,  whein 
his  wearied  horse,  had  just  arrived  from  am  er 
sick-bed.  over  the  misty  range  of  hills,  and  id 
been  looking  stedfastly  for  some  minutes  on|i« 
little  patient.  The  humane  man  knew  the  fn  W 
well,  in  the  midst  of  whom  he  was  standing  jiu 
replied.  '  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope  ;  bu|iy 
pretty  little  Margaret  is,  I  fear,  in  the  la.st  exir,ii- 
ty.'  There  wa<i  no  loud  lamentation  at  these  wis 
—all  had  before  known,  though  they  wouklot 
cotifess  it  to  thetnselves,  what  they  now  were  t(i-- 
and  thouuh  the  certainty  that  was  in  the  woriijl 
the  skilful  man  made  their  hearts  beat  for  a  le 
with  sicker  throbbings,  made  their  pale  lace.o  \-^< 
and  brought  out  from  some  eyes  a  greater  giiol 
tears,  yet  death  had  been  before  in  this  house  no 
in  this  case  he  came,  as  he  always  docs,  in  ^'Cr 
but  not  in  terror. 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


559 


"  The  child  was  now  left  with  none  but  her 
l)lher  by  the  bedside,  for  it  was  said  to  be  best  so ; 
ij  Gilbert  and  his  taniiiy  sat  down  round  the 
(chen  fire,  for  a  svhile  in  silence.  In  about  a 
ilarter  of  an  hour,  liiey  began  to  rise  cahnly,  and 
|go  each  to  his  aliotied  work.  One  of  tlie  daugii- 
i|s  went  Ibrih  with  ihe  pail  to  milk  the  cow.  and 
iDther  began  to  set  out  the  table  in  the  middle  of 
j;  floor  fur  supper,  covering  it  witii  a  white  cloth. 
'Ibert  viewed  the  usual  household  arrangements 
',lh  a  solemn  and  untroubled  eye;  and  there  was 
Inost  the  taint  light  of  a  grateful  smile  on  his 
(Isek,  as  he  said  to  the  worthy  surgeon,  '  You  will 
ftake  of  our  fare  after  your  day's  travel  and  toil 
Jhumaiiity-"  In  a  short  silent  half  hour,  the  po- 
ijoes  and  oat-cakes,  butter  and  nulk,  were  on  the 
Ijird;  and  Gilbert,  lifting  up  his  toil-hardened. 
U  manly  hand,  with  a  slow  moiion,  at  which  the 
inn  was  as  hushed  as  if  it  had  beeti  empty,  closed 

I  eyes  in  reverence,  and  asked  a  blessing.  There 
's  a  little  stool,  on  which  no  one  sat,  by  the  old 
i.n's  side  !  It  had  been  put  there  unwittingly, 
Ven  the  otiier  seals  were  all  placed  in  their  usual 
ctler ;  but  the  golden  head  that  was  wont  to  rise 
tihat  part  of  the  table  was  now  wanting.  There 
\a  silence — not  a  word  was  said — their  meal  was 
Fore  them, — God  had  been  thanked,  and  they 
Ijan  10  eat. 

'•  Anotlier  hour  of  trial  pnssed,  and  the  child  was 
sjl swimming  forits  life.  The  very  dog.s  knew  there 
vs  grief  in  the  house;  and  lay  without  siirring, 
slif  hiding  themselves,  below  the  long  tal)le  at  the 
vidow.  One  sister  sat  with  an  unfinished  gown 
c  her  knees,  that  she  had  been  sewing  for  the 
cjir child,  and  still  continued  at  tiie  hopeless  work, 
sj'  scarcely  knew  why  ;  and  often,  otien  putting  up 
f  hand  to  wipe  away  a  tear.  '  What  is  that  ?' 
sjl  the  old  man  to  his  eldest  daughter — 'what  is  that 
>|i  are  laying  on  the  shelf?'  She  could  scarcely 
rjy  that  it  was  a  riband  and  an  ivory  comb  that  she 

II  brought  for  little  Margaret,  against  the  night 
C(the  dancing-school  ball.  And,  at  these  words, 
t:  father  could  not  restrain  a  long,  deep,  and  bitter 
san  ;  at  which  the  boy,  nearest  in  age  to  his  dying 
Sjcr,  looked  up  weeping  in  his  face,  and  letting 
t|  tattered  book  of  old  ballads,  which  he  had 
bn  poring  on,  but  not  reading,  fall  out  of  his  hands, 
b'rose  from  his  seat,  and,  going  into  his  father's 
bjom,  kissed  him,  and  asked  God  to  bless  him  ; 
H  the  holy  heart  of  the  boy  was  moved  within 
hji;  and  the  old  man.  as  he  embraced  him,  felt 
Ij!,  in  his  innocence  and  simplicity,  he  was  indeed 
ajomforter.  Scarcely  could  Gilbert  reply  to  his 
ti|t  question  about  his  child,  when  the  surgeon 
cjiefrom  the  bed-room,  and  said,  '  Margaret  seems 
iifd  up  by  God's  hand  above  death  and  the  grave  ; 
Ijiink  she  will  recover.  She  has  fallen  asleep  ; 
a[.  when  she  wakes,  I  hope — I  believe — that  the 
djger  will  be  past,  and  that  your  child  will  live.' 
'ley  were  all  prepared  for  death  ;  but  now  they 
vhe  found  unprepared  for  hfu.  One  wept  that  had 
lithen  locked  up  all  her  tears  within  her  heart; 
aether  gave  a  short  palpitating  shriek  ;  and  thp 
iiper-hearted  Isobel,  who  had  nursed  the  child 
*S3n  it  \v,as  a  baby,  fainted  away.  The  youmjest 
bkher  gave  way  to  gladsome  smiles  ;  and,  calling 
0  his  dog  Hector,  who  used  to  sport  with  him  and 
h|litiie  sister  on  the  moor,  he  told  the  tidings  to 
llldumb  irrational  creature,  whose  eyes,  it  is  cer- 
"     pparklfd   with   a  sort  of  jov." — Lights  and 

kdomt,  pp.  36—43. 


;re  are  many  things  better  than  ihi.s  in 
tij  book — antl  there  are  many  not  so  gootl. 
♦f  had  marked  some  passajje?  for  ceiisurt^, 
aj  some  for  ridicule— but  the  soft-heart ed- 
"b  of  the  author  has  softened  our  h'^arts  to- 
\yd.s  him — and  we  cannot,  just  at  present, 
s:!  any  thing  but  good  of  him. 

j'he  next  book  is  '•Adam  Blair,"  which,  it 
B«ms,  is  bj-  the  author  of  Valerius,  though  it 


is  much  more  in  the  manner  of  the  Lights  and 
Shadows.  It  is  a  story  of  great  power  and  in- 
terest, llioiigh  neither  very  pleasing,  nor  very 
moral,  nor  very  intelligible.  Mr.  IJlan-  is  an  ex- 
emplary clergyman  in  Scotland,  w  iio,  w  lule  yet 
in  the  prime  of  life,  loses  a  beloved  wile,  and 
is  for  a  time  plung(Hi  in  unspeakable  adlic- 
tion.  In  this  sttite  he  is  visiteil  by  INlrs.  Camp- 
bell, the  inlimate  friend  of  hisdecta>eil  wile, 
who  had  iet'l  her  husband  abroad — and  soon 
after  saves  his  little  dtuighter,  and  iiitleed 
himself,  from  drowning.  There  are  evident 
marks  of  love  on  the  lady's  part,  and  much 
affection  on  his — but  both  si;em  unconscious 
of  the  true  state  of  their  hearts,  till  she  is 
harshly  ordered  home  to  the  Highland  tower 
of  her  husband,  and  he  is  left  alone  in  the 
home  she  had  so  long  cheered  u  ith  her  smiles. 
With  nothing  but  virtue  and  prudence,  as  thp 
author  assures  us,  in  his  heart — hi;  unaccount- 
ably runs  oir  from  his  child  and  his  parish, 
and  makes  a  clandestine  visit  to  her  Celtic 
retreat — arrives  there  in  the  night — is  raptur- 
ously welcomed — drinks  copiously  of  w  inc — 
gazes  with  heron  the  moonlight  sea— is  again 
pressed  to  the  wine  cup — and  linds  himself 
the  next  morning — antl  is  found  by  her  ser- 
vants, clasped  in  her  embraces  !  His  remorse 
and  horror  are  new  abundantly  frantic — ho 
flies  from  her  into  the  desert — and  drives  her 
from  him  with  the  wilde.st  execrations.  His 
contrition,  however,  brings  on  frenzy  ami 
fever — he  is  carried  back  to  her  tower,  and 
watched  over  by  her  for  a  while  in  his  deli- 
rium. As  he  begins,  after  many  days,  to  re- 
cover, he  hears  melancholy  music,  and  sees 
slow  boats  on  the  water  beneath  his  window — 
and  soon  after  learns  that  she  had  caught  the 
fever  from  him,  and  died  !  and  that  it  was  the 
ceremony  of  her  interment  he  had  seen  and 
heard  on  the  water.  He  then  journies  slowly 
homeward  ;  proclaims  his  laj)se  to  the  presby- 
tery, solemnly  resigns  his  othce,  and  betakes 
himself  to  the  humble  task  of  a  day-labourer 
in  his  own  former  parish.  In  this  state  of 
penitence  and  humiliation  he  passes  ten  lonely 
and  blameless  years — gradually  winning  back 
the  respect  antl  esteem  of  his  neighbours,  by 
the  depth  of  his  contrition  and  the  zeal  of  his 
humble  piety — till  at  last  his  brethrpti  of  the 
presbytery  remove  the  sentence  of  depriva- 


tion, and,  on  the  next  vacancy,  restore  him  to 
the  pastoral  c 
tionate  flock. 


the  pastoral  charge 


xt  vacancy, 
of  his  afflit 


icted  and  aflec- 


There  is  no  great  merit  in  the  desisn  of  this 
story,  and  there  are  many  things  both  absurd 
and  revolting  in  its  details:  but  there  is  no 
ordinary  power  in  the  execution  ;  and  there  is 
a  spirit  and  richness  in  the  writing,  of  which 
no  notion  can  be  formed  from  our  little  ab- 
stract of  its  substance.  It  is  but  fair,  there- 
fore, to  the  author,  to  let  him  spnak  for  him.scif 
in  one  specimen  ;  and  we  take  the  account, 
with  which  the  book  opens,  of  the  death  ol 
the  pastor's  wife,  and  his  own  conse(|nent  des- 
olation. She  had  sulFered  dreadfully  from 
the  successive  loss  of  three  children,  and  her 
health  had  gradually  sunk  und-^r  her  allliction. 

"  The  long  melancholy  sunnner  pa.-^sed  nw:;v, 
and  the  songs  of  the  harvest  reapers  were  heard  lu 


560 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


the  surrounding  fidds  ;  while  all,  from  day  to  day, 
was  becoming  darker  and  darker  within  the  Manse 
of  Cross- Meikle.  Worn  to  a  shadow — as  pale  as 
ashes — leeble  as  a  child — the  dying  mother  had,  for 
many  weeks,  been  unable  to  quit  her  chamber;  and 
the  lonu-hoping  husband  at  last  felt  his  spirit  faint 
within  him  ;  for  even  lie  perceived  that  the  hour  of 
separaiion  could  not  much  farther  be  deferred.  He 
watched — he  prayed  by  her  bed-side — lie  strove 
even  yet  to  snnie  and  to  speak  of  hope,  but  his  lips 
tremtJIed  as  he  spake ;  and  neither  he  nor  his  wife 
were  deceived;  for  their  thoughts  were  the  same, 
and  years  of  love  had  taught  them  too  well  all  the 
secrets  of  each  other's  looks  as  well  as  hearts. 

"  Nobody  witnessed  their  last  parting;  the  room 
was  darkened,  and  no  one  was  within  it  but  them- 
selves and  their  child,  who  sat  by  the  bed-side, 
weeping  in  silence  she  knew  not  wherefore — for  of 
death  she  knew  little,  except  the  terrible  name  ; 
and  her  father  had  as  yet  been,  if  not  brave  enough 
to  shed  no  tears,  at  least  strong  enough  to  conceal 
them. — ^^ilently  and  gently  was  the  pure  spirit  re- 
leased from  its  clay;  but  manly  groans  were,  for 
the  first  time,  heard  above  the  sobs  and  waitings  of 
the  infant ;  and  ihe  listening  household  shrunk  back 
from  the  door,  for  they  knew  that  the  blow  had  been 
stricken  ;  and  the  voice  of  humble  sympathy  feared 
to  make  itself  be  heard  in  the  sanctuary  of  such 
affliction.  The  village  doctor  arrived  just  at  that 
moment ;  he  listened  for  a  few  seconds,  and  being 
satisfied  that  all  was  over,  he  also  turned  awav. 
His  horse  had  been  fastened  to  the  hook  by  the 
Manse  door ;  he  drew  out  the  bridle,  and  led  the 
animal  softly  over  the  turf,  but  did  not  mount  again 
until  he  had  far  passed  the  outskirts  of  the  green. 

"  Perhaps  an  hour  might  have  passed  before  Mr. 
Blair  ripened  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  his 
wife  had  died.  His  footstep  had  been  heard  for 
some  time  hurriedly  traversing  and  re-traversing  the 
floor  ;  but  at  last  he  stopped  where  the  nearly  fas- 
tened shutters  of  the  window  admitted  but  one 
broketi  line  of  light  into  the  chamber.  He  threw 
every  thing  open  wiih  a  bold  hand,  and  the  uplifting 
of  the  window  produced  a  degree  of  noise,  to  the 
hke  of  which  the  house  had  for  some  time  been  un- 
accustomed :  he  looked  out,  and  saw  the  external 
world  bright  before  him,  with  all  the  rich  colourings 
of  a  September  evening. — The  hum  of  the  village 
sent  an  occasional  echo  through  the  intervening 
hedge-rows  ;  all  was  quiet  and  beautiful  above  and 
below  ;  the  earth  seemed  to  be  clothed  all  over  with 
sights  and  sounds  of  serenity;  and  the  sky,  deep- 
ening into  darker  and  darker  blue  overhead,  show- 
ed the  earliest  of  its  stars  intensely  twinkling,  as  if 
ready  to  harbinger  or  welcome  the  coming  nioon. 

"  The  widowed  man  gazed  for  some  minutes  in 
silence  upon  the  glorious  calm  of  nature,  and  then 
turned  with  a  sudden  start  to  the  side  of  the  room 
where  the  wife  of  his  bosom  had  so  lately  breathed  : 
— he  saw  the  pale  dead  face ;  the  black  ringlets 
parted  on  the  brow  ;  the  marble  hand  extetided 
upon  the  sheet ;  the  unclosed  glassy  eyes  ;  and  the 
little  girl  leaning  towards  her  mother  in  a  gaze  of 
half- horrified  bewilderment  ;  he  closed  the  stiffen- 
ing eyelids  over  the  soft  but  ghastly  orbs  ;  kissed 
the  brow,  the  cheek,  the  lips,  the  bosom,  and  then 
rushed  down  the  stairs,  and  went  out,  bare-headed, 
into  the  fields,  before  any  one  could  stop  him,  or 
ask  whiiher  he  was  going. 

"  There  is  an  old  thick  grove  of  pines  almost 
immediately  behind  the  house  ;  and  after  staring 
about  him  tor  a  moment  on  the  green,  he  leapt  hastily 
over  the  little  l)rook  that  skirts  it,  and  plunged 
within  the  shadi-  of  the  trees.  The  breeze  was 
rustling  \ht'  black  boughs  high  over  his  head,  and 
whistling  along  the  bar"  nrnund  benpath  him.  He 
rushed  he  knrw  not  whither,  on  and  on.  between 
those  naked  brown  trunks,  till  he  was  in  the  heart 
of  the  wood  ;  and  th're.  at  last,  he  tossed  himself 
down  on  his  back  among  the  withered  fern  leaves 
and  mouldering  tir-coi;es.  All  the  past  things  of 
life  floated  before  him,  distinct  in  their  lineaments, 


]  yet  twined  together,  the  darkest  and  the  gayi, 

into  a  sort  of  union  that  made  them  all  appear  ah 

1  dark.     The  mother,  that  had  nursed  his  years 

j  infancy — the  father,  whose  grey  heirs  he  had  i( 

before  laid  in  the  grave — sisters,  brothers,  frien 

all  dead  and  buried — ihe  angel   forms  ol  hisoi 

early-ravisiied   offspring — all   crowded   round  ; 

'  round  him,  and  then  rushing  away,  seemed  to  b 

I  from  him,  as  a  prize  and  a  trophy,  the  pale  im; 

of  his  expiring  wife.     Again  sue  returned,  and 

alone  was  present  with  him — not  the  pale  expir 

wife,    but    the   young    radiant    woman — blusln 

trembling,  smiling,  panting,  on  his  bosom,  whisp 

ing  to  him  all  her  hopes,  and  fears,  and  pride, ; 

'  love,  and  tenderness,  and  meekness,  like  a  brie 

I  and  then  again  all  wpuld  be  black  as  night, 

I  would  start  up  and  gaze  around,  and  see  noth 

but  the  sepulchral  gltKjm  of  the  wood,  and  h 

I  nothing  but  the  cold  blasts  among  the  leaves, 

lay  insensible  alike  to  all  things,  stretched  out  at 

I  his  length,  with  his  eyes  fi.\ed  in  a  siupid  steadfr 

I  ness  upon  one  great  massy  branch  that  hung  o 

]  him — his  bloodless  lips  fastened  together  as  if  tl 

had  been  glued — his  limbs  like  ihnigs  entirely  d 

titute  of  life  and   motion— every  thing  aboui  I 

cold,  stiff",  and  senseless.  Minute  after  minute  pat 

heavily  away  as  in  a  dream — hour  after  hour  rol 

unheeded  into  the  abyss — the  stars  twinkled  ihroi 

the  pine  tops,  and  disappeared — the  moon  amsf 

her  glory,  rode  through  the  clear  autumn  heav> 

and  vanished — and  all  alike  unnoted  by  the  pr, 

trate  widower. 

"  Adam  Blair  came  forth  from  among  the 
trees  in  the  grey  light  of  the  morning,  walked  li 
iirely  and  calmly  several  times  round  the  gard 
green,  which  lay  immediately  in  front  of  hie  hoii 
then  lifted  the  latch  for  himself',  and  glided  v 
light  and  hasty  footsteps  up  stairs  to  the  roi 
where,  for  some  weeks  past,  he  had  been 
customed  to  occupy  a  solitary  lied.  The  waki 
servants  heard  him  shut  his  door  behind  him;  < 
of  them  having  cone  out  anxiously,  had  traced  I 
to  bis  [irivacy,  but  none  of  them  had  ventured 
think  of  disturbing  it,  Tiitil  he  came  back, 
one  of  them  ihtiiight  of  going  to  bed.  Now,  hi 
ever,  they  did  so,  and  the  bouse  ol  sorrow  was 
over  silent.'' — Adiim  Blair,  pp,  4 — 12. 

There  is  great  merit  too.  though  of  a  difl, 
ent  kind,   in   the   scenes  with  Stiahan  a. 
Campbell,  and  those  with  the  ministers  ;i 
elders.     But   the   story   is  ch}m5ily  put 
gether,  and    the  diction,   though  strorp  n 
copious,  is  frequently  tui^id  and  incorrtTt 
"The  Trials  of  Maie-aiet  Lyndsay,'"  by  i. 
author  of  Lights  and  Shadows,  is  the  la'eti       ^ 
these  publications  of  which  we  shall  nowf|      m 
any  thing:  and  it  is  too  pn!ht>tic  and  fullj       '" 
sorrow  for  us  to  say  much  of  it.     It  is  v< 
beautiful  and  tender:  but  .something  cloji  • 
perhaps,  in  the  uniformity  of  its  beauty,  :•■ 
exceedingly   oppressive   in   the   unrcmitl 
weight  of  the  pity  with  which  it  pressfs 
our  souls.     Nothinsr  was  ever  imagined  n> 
lovely   than  the  beauty,   the  imioccnce;  ;■ 
the  sweetness  of  IMargaret   tyndsay,  in 
earlier  part  of  her  trials  :  and  nothing,  we 
lieve,  is  more  true,  than  x\\e  comfortable  ! 
son  which  her  tale  is  meant  to  ii;culcate' 
that  a  gentle  and  aflectionatc  nature  is  ne- 
inconsolable  nor  peimaneiilly   unhappy,  1. 
easily  proceeds  frtun  t^ubmissioii  to  new  eiij' 
menf.     Rut  the  tale  of  her  trials,  the  ao 
mulation  of  sufferin:,^  on    the  heads  ol 
humblest  and  most  innocent  of  God's  cr 
I  tures,  is  too  painful  to  be  volniilarily  lecallt 
I  and  we  cannot  now  undertake  to  givi;  < 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


561 


reilers  any  account  of  her  father's  desertion 
oiiis  helpless  family — of  their  dismal  ban- 
islnetit  from  the  sweet  retreat  in  which  they 
hi  been  imiturcd — their  painful  struggle 
■vvji  poverty  and  discomfort,  in  the  darksome 
la?s  of  the"  city — the  successive  deaths  of  all 
tl  affectionate  and  harmless  household,  and 
h!  own  ill-starred  marriage  to  the  husband 
ohnother  wife.  Yet  we  must  enable  them 
ti'orm  some  notion  of  a  work,  which  has 
dwn  more  tears  from  us  than  any  we  have 
h;  to  peruse  since  the  commencement  of 
or  career.  This  is  the  account  of  the  migra- 
ti  of  the  ruined  and  resigned  family  from 
tt!  scene  of  their  early  enjoyments. 

The  twenty-fourth  day  of  November  came  at 
la'— a  dim,  diill,  dreary,  and  obscure  day,  fit  for 
piing  everUisiiii»ly  from  a  place  or  person  tcn- 
div  beloved.  1  here  was  no  sun — no  wind — no 
s(id  in  the  misty  and  unechoing  air.  A  deadness 
iaover  the  wet  earth,  and  tliere  was  no  vi-sibh; 
H.ven.  Their  goods  and  chattels  were  few ;  but 
iriy  little  delays  occurred,  some  accidental,  and 
rre  i"  the  unwillingness  of  their  hearts  to  take  a 
fi !  farewell.  A  neighbour  had  lent  his  cart  tor 
tl 'flitting,  and  it  was  now  standing  loaded  at  the 
d«r,  ready  to  move  away.  The  hre,  which  had 
ba  kindled  in  the  morning  with  a  few  borrowed 
p.  s,  was  now  out — the  shutters  closed — the  door 
w  locked — and  the  key  put  into  the  hand  of  the 
pn'ion  sent  to  receive  it.  And  now  there  was 
njiing  more  to  be  said  or  done,  and  the  impatient 
h^e  started  briskly  away  from  Braehead.  The 
b  d  girl,  and  poor  Marion,  were  sitting  in  the  can 
-largaret  and  her  mother  were  on  foot.  Esther 
h' two  or  three  small  flower-pots  in  her  lap,  for 
irner  blindness  she  loved  the  sweet  fragrance, 
B  the  felt  forms  and  imagined  beauty  of  flowers  ; 
a' the  innocent  carried  away  her  tame  pigeon  in 
h  bosom.  Just  as  Margaret  lingered  on  the 
tl^shold,  the  Robin  red-breast  that  had  been  her 
b  rder  for  several  winters,  hopped  upon  the  stone- 
B'.  at  the  side  of  the  door,  and  turned  up  its  merry 
e  s  to  her  face.  '  There,'  said  she,  '  is  your  last 
cub  from  us,  sweet  Roby,  but  there  is  a  God 
v)  takes  care  o'  us  a'.  The  widow  had  by  this 
tie  shut  down  the  lid  "of  her  memory,  and  left  all 
til  hoard  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  joyful  or 
dpairing,  buried  in  darkness.  The  assembled 
gup  of  neighbours,  mostly  mothers  with  their 
c  dren  in  their  arms,  had  given  the  '  God  bless 
v!,  Alice,  God  bless  you,  Margaret,  and  the 
l."J,'  and  began  to  disperse  ;  each  turning  to  her 
01  cares  and  anxieties,  in  which,  before  night,  the 
Iidsays  would  either  be  forgotten,  or  thought  on 
vh  that  unpaiiiful  sympathy  which  is  ail  the  poor 
c^  afford  or  e.xpect,  but  which,  as  in  this  case, 
o':n  yields  the  fairest  fruits  of  charity  and  love. 
!'  A  cold  sleety  rain  accompanied  the  cart  and  the 
fi;  travellers  all  the  way  to  the  city.  .Shorr  as  the 
diance  was,  they  met  with  several  other  flitiinga, 
B'lie  seemingly  cheerful,  and  from  good  to  better, 
-thers  with  woe-begone  faces,  going  like  thcm- 
B'es  down  the  path  of  poverty,  on  a  journey  from 
vch  they  were  to  rest  at  night  in  a  bare  and  hnn- 
g  house.  And  now  they  drove  through  the  sub- 
11'."'.  and  into  the  city,  passing  unheeded  among 
Cj'.vds  of  people,  all  on  their  own  business  of 
plisure  or  profit,  laughing,  jibing,  shouting,  curs- 
ii'. — the  stir,  and  tumult,  and  torrent  of  conL'rc- 
pi-?d  life.  Margaret  could  hardly  help  leeling 
e  ed  with  the  glitter  of  all  the  shining  windows, 
>,  ihe  hurry  of  the  streets.  Marion  sat  silent 
"i't  her  pigeon  vmrm  in  her  breast  below  her  hrowri 
<-'\k,  unknowing  she  of  change,  of  time,  or  of 
P;e,  and  reconciled  to  sit  patiently  there,  with 
'I  soft  plumage  touching  her  heart,  if  the  cart  had 
Be  on,  through  the  cold  and  sleet,  to  midnight ! 

The  cart  stopt  at  the  foot  of  a  lane  too  narrow 
71 


to  admit  the  wheels,  and  also  too  steep  for  a  Inden 
horse.  Two  or  three  of  tiuir  new  neit-iibours, — 
persons  in  the  very  humblest  condition,  conrcely 
and  negligently  dressed,  but  seemingly  kind  anil 
decent  people,  came  out  from  their  houses  at  llie 
stopping  of  the  cart-wheels.  The  cart  was  soon 
unladen,  and  the  furiiiiure  put  into  the  empty  room. 
A  cheerful  fire  was  bla/ing,  and  the  animated  and 
interested  faces  of  the  honest  folks  who  crowded 
into  it,  on  a  slight  acquniniance,  unceremoniously 
and  curiously,  but  without  rudeness,  gave  n  cheer- 
ful welcome  to  the  new  dwelling.  In  a  qunrier  of 
an  hour  the  beds  were  laid  down, — the  room  de- 
cendy  arranged, — one  and  all  of  the  neighbours 
said  '  Gude  night.' — and  the  door  was  closed  upon 
the  Lyndsays  m  their  new  dwelling. 

"  They  blessed  and  eat  their  bread  in  pi'ace.  The 
Bible  was  then  opened,  and  .Margaret  read  a  chap- 
ter. There  was  Ireiiuenl  and  loutl  noise  in  the  lane, 
of  pissing  merriment  or  anger, — but  this  little  con- 
gregation worshipped  Cnicf  in  a  hymn,  Esther's 
sweet  voice  leading  the  sacred  melody,  and  they 
knelt  together  in  prayer." — Trials  of  Margaret 
Lyndsay,  pp.  66 — 70. 

Her  brother  goes  to  sea,  and  relurns,  affec- 
tionate and  hai)py.  with  a  young  companion, 
whom  the  opening  beauty  of  Margaret  Lynd- 
say charms  into  his  first  dream  of  love,  and 
whose  gallant  bearing  and  open  heart,  cast 
the  tirst,  and  almost  the  last  gleam  of  joy  and 
enchantment  over  the  gentle  and  chastened 
heart  of  the  maiden.  But  this,  like  all  her 
other  dawnings  of  joy,  led  only  to  more  bitter 
affliction.  She  had  engaged  to  go  with  him 
and  her  brother  to  church,  one  fine  summer 
Sunday,  and — the  author  shall  tell  the  rest 
of  the  story  himself. 

"  Her  heart  was  indeed  glad  within  her,  when 
she  saw  the  young  sailor  at  the  spot.  His  brown 
sun-burnt  face  was  all  one  smile  of  exulting  joy — 
and  his  bold  clear  eyes  burned  through  the  black 
hair  that  clustered  over  his  Ibrehead.  Tliere  was 
not  a  handsomer,  finer-looking  boy  in  the  British 
navy.  Although  serving  before  the  mast,  as  many 
a  noble  lad  has  done,  he  was  the  son  of  a  poor  gen- 
tleman ;  and  as  he  came  up  to  Margaret  Lyndsay, 
in  his  smartest  suit,  with  his  white  straw  hat,  his 
clean  shirt-neck  tied  with  a  black  riband,  and  a 
small  yellow  cane  in  his  hand,  a  brighter  boy  and  a 
fairer  girl  never  met  in  aflection  in  the  calm  sun- 
shine of  a  Scottish  Sabbaih-day. 

"  '  Why  have  not  you  brought  Laurence  with 
you?'  Harry  made  her  put  her  arm  within  his, 
and  then  told  her  that  it  was  not  her  brother's  day 
on  shore.  Now  all  the  calm  air  was  filled  with  the 
sound  of  bells,  and  Leith  Walk  covered  with  well- 
dressed  families.  The  nursery-gardens  on  each 
side  were  almost  in  their  greaiest  beauty — so  soft 
and  delicate  the  verdure  of  the  young  imbedded 
trees,  and  so  bright  the  glow  of  intermingled  early 
flowers.  '  Let  us  go  to  Leith  by  a  way  1  have  dis- 
covered,' said  the  joyful  sailor — and  he  drew  Mar- 
craret  gently  away  from  the  public  walk,  into  a  re- 
tired path  winding  with  many  little  white  gales 
through  these  luxuriantly  cultivated  enclosures. 
The  insects  were  dancing  in  the  air — birds  singing 
all  about  them — the  sky  was  without  a  cloud — and 
a  briijht  dazzling  line  of  lisht  was  nil  that  was  now 
socn  for  the  sea.  The  youthful  pair  loitered  in  their 
happiness — they  never  marked  that  the  bells  had 
ceased  ringing  ;  and  when  at  last  they  hurried  to 
reach  the  ciiapel,  the  door  was  closed,  and  ihey 
heard  the  service  chanting.  Margaret  durst  not 
knock  at  the  door,  or  go  in  so  long  afier  worship 
was  begim  ;  and  she  secretly  upbraided  herselt  lor 
her  forgetfulness  of  a  well-known  and  holy  hour. 
She  felt  unlike  herself  walking  on  the  street  during 
the  time  of  church,  and  btseec1i«  d  Harry  to  go  wiih 
her  out  of  the  bight  of  the  windows,  that  all  Bccmcd 


562 


WORKS  OF  FICTION. 


watching  her  in  her  neglect  of  Divine  worship.   So 
they  bent  their  steps  towards  the  shore. 

"  Harry  Needham  had  not  perhaps  had  any  pre- 
conceived inieiiiion  to  lieep  Margaret  iroin  church  ; 
but  he  was  very  well  pleased,  that,  iiisiead  of  being 
with  her  ill  a  pew  tlicre,  in  a  crowd,  he  was  now 
walking  alone  wiih  her  on  the  brink  of  his  own 
elesnent.  The  tide  was  coming  fast  in,  hurrying 
on  its  beauiilul  httle  bright  ridges  of  variegated 
loam,  by  short  successive  encroachments  over  the 
smooth  hard  level  shore,  and  impatient,  as  it  were, 
to  reacii  the  highest  line  oi"  intermingled  sea- weed, 
silvery  sand,  and  deep-stained  or  glittering  shells. 
The  friends,  or  lovers — and  their  siiort  dream  was 
both  friendship  and  love — retreated  playfully  from 
every  little  watery  wall  that  fell  in  pieces  at  their 
feet,  and  Margaret  turned  up  her  sweet  face  in  the 
sun-light  to  watch  (he  slow  dream-like  motion  of 
the  sea-mews,  who  seemed  sometimes  to  be  yield- 
ing to  the  breath  of  the  shifting  air.  and  someiimes 
obeying  only  some  wavering  impulse  of  joy  within 
their  own  whiie-plumaged  breasts.  Or  she  walked 
softly  behind  them,  as  they  alighted  on  the  sand, 
that  she  might  come  near  enough  to  observe  that 
beautifully  wild  expression  that  is  in  the  eyes  of  all 
winged  creatures  whose  home  is  on  the  sea. 

"  Alas!  home  —  church — every  thing  on  earth 
was  forgotten — for  her  soul  was  filled  exclusively 
with  its  present  joy.  She  had  never  before,  in  all 
her  hfe,  been  down  at  the  sea-shore — and  she  never 
again  was  within  hearing  of  its  bright,  sunny,  hol- 
low-sounding and  melancholy  waves  ! 

'•  '  See.'  said  Harry,  with  a  laugh,  '  the  kirks 
have  scaled,  as  you  say  here  in  Scotland — the  pier- 
head is  like  a  wood  of  bonnets. — Let  us  go  there, 
and  I  think  I  can  show  them  the  bonniest  face 
among  them  a'.'  I'he  fresh  sea  breeze  had  tinged 
Margaiet's  pale  face  with  crimson, — and  her  heart 
now  sent  up  a  sudden  blush  to  deepen  and  brighten 
that  beauty.  They  mingled  with  the  cheerful,  but 
calm  and  decent  crowd,  and  stofid  together  at  the 
end  of  the  pier,  looking  towards  the  ship.  '  Tl  at 
is  our  frigate,  Margaret,  the  Tribune  ; — she  sits  like 
a  bird  on  the  water,  and  sails  well,  both  in  calm 
and  storm.'  The  poor  girl  looked  at  the  ship  with 
Iter  flags  flying,  till  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  If 
we  had  a  glass,  like  one  my  father  once  had,  we 
might,  perhaps,  see  Laurence.'  And  for  the  mo- 
ment she  used  the  word  '  father'  without  remem- 
bering what  and  where  he  was  in  his  misery. — 
'There  is  one  of  our  jigger-rigged  boats  coming 
right  before  tiie  wind. —  Why,  Margaret,  this  is  the 
last  opportunity  you  may  have  of  seeing  your 
brother.  We  may  sail  lo-morrow;  nay  to-night.' 
— A  sudden  wish  to  go  on  board  the  ship  seized 
Margaret's  heart.  liarry  saw  the  struggle — and 
wiling  her  down  a  flight  of  steps,  in  a  moment  lifted 
her  into  the  boat,  which,  with  the  waves  rushing  in 
foam  within  an  inch  of  the  gunwale,  went  dancing 
out  of  harbour,  and  was  soon  half-way  over  to  the 
anchored  frigate. 

"The  novelty  of  her  situation,  and  of  all  the 
scene  around,  at  first  prevented  the  poor  girl  from 
thinking  deliberately  of  the  great  error  she  had 
committed,  in  thus  employing  her  Sabbath  hours 
in  a  way  eo  very  difTerenl  to  what  she  had  been  ac- 
customed; but  she  soon  could  not  help  thinking 
what  she  was  to  say  to  her  mother  when  she  went 
home,  and  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she  had  not 
been  at  church  at  all,  and  had  paid  a  visit  to  her 
brother  on  Imard  the  .ship.  It  was  very  sinful  in 
her  thus  to  disobey  her  own  conscience  and  her 
niolhcr's  will,  and  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes. — 
The  young  sailor  thought  she  was  afraid,  and  only 
pressed  In  r  closer  to  him,  with  a  few  soothing 
words.  At  that  moment  a  sea-mew  canie  winnow- 
ing its  way  towards  the  lioat,  and  one  of  the  sailors 
rising  up  with  a  mu.squet,  took  aim  as  it  flew  over 
their  heads.  Margaret  suddenly  started  up,  crying, 
'  Do  not  kill  the  pretty  bird,'  and  stumbling,  fell 
forward  upon  the  man,  who  also  lost  hi.<  balance. — 
A  flaw  of  wind  struck  the  mainsail — the  helmsman 


was  heedless — the  sheet  fast — and  the  boat  insfan! 
filling,  went  down  in  a  moment,  head  foremost, 
twenty  fathom  water  ! 

"  The  accident  was  seen  both  from  the  shore  a 
ship;  und  a  crowd  of  boats  put  off"  to  their  reli' 
But  death  was  beforehand  with  them  all;  at' 
when  the  frigate's  boat  came  to  the  place,  nothii 
was  seen  upon  the  waves.  Two  of  the  men, ; 
was  supposed,  had  gone  to  the  bottom  entangii 
with  ropes  or  beneath  the  sail, — in  a  few  momer' 
the  grey  head  of  the  old  steersman  was  apparer' 
and  he  was  lifted  up  with  an  oar — drowned.  ! 
woman's  clothes  were  next  descried  ;  and  Margai 
was  taken  up  with  something  heavy  weighing  dov! 
the  body.  It  was  Harry  Needham.  who  had  sui'j 
in  trying  to  save  her  ;  and  in  one  of  his  hands  w] 
grasped  a  tress  of  her  hair  that  had  given  way.] 
the  desperate  struggle.  There  seemed  to  betai! 
symptoms  of  life  m  both;  but  they  were  uiieii 
insensible.  "^I'he  crew,  among  which  was  Lauren  I 
Lyndsay,  pulled  swiftly  back  to  the  ship  ;  and  ilj 
bodies  were  first  of  all  laid  down  together  side  |i 
side  in  the  captain's  cabin." — Trials  of  Margai] 
Lyndsay,  pp.  125—130. 


'{ir}^'.'"" 

Ml  (el 

iff*; 

iidlitii™ 


We  must   conclude  with   something  lej    *!"»"' 


desolating  —  and  we  can  only  find  it  in  tli 
account  of  the  poor  orphan's  reception  froj 
an  ancient  miserly  kinsman,  to  whom,  aft' 
she  had  buried  all  her  immediate  family,  slj 
went  like  Ruth,  in  the  simple  streiioth  of  hij 
innocence.  After  walking  all  day,  she  comti 
at  night  within  sight  of  his  rustic  abode.     I 

"  With  a  beating  heart,  she  stopt  for  a  little  whi 
at  the  mouth  of  the  avenue,  or  lane,  that  seeniij 
to  hud  up  lo  the  house.  It  was  much  overgrowi 
with  grass,  and  there  were  but  few  marks  of  wheel:] 
the  hedges  on  each  side  were  thick  and  green,  hi 
undipped,  and  with  frequent  gaps ;  someihiii 
melancholy  lay  over  all  about  ;  and  the  place  bij 
the  air  of  being  uninhabited.  But  still  it  was  beaij 
liful  ;  for  it  was  bathed  in  the  dews  of  a  rich  mil 
summer  gloaming,  and  the  clover  filled  the  air  wi< 
fragrance  that  revived  the  heart  of  ihe  soliiat 
orphan,  as  she  stood,  for  a  few  minutes,  irresoluK 
and  apprehensive  of  an  unkind  reception. 

"  At  last  she  found  heart,  and  the  door  of  lb 
house  being  open,  Margaret  walked  in,  and  slw 
on  the  floor  of  the  wide  low-roofed  kitchen.  A 
old  man  was  sitting,  as  if  half  asleep,  in  a  higl 
backed  arm-chair,  by  the  side  of  the  chimney 
Before  she  had  time  or  courage  to  speak,  her  eh  i 
dow  fell  upon  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  towards  hi 
with  strong  visible  surprise,  and,  as  she  thoueli 
with  a  slight  displeasure.  'Ye  liae  got  oft"  ym 
road,  I'm  thinking,  young  woman  ;  what  .seek  yi, 
here  ?'  Margaret  asked  respectfully  if  she  migi* 
sit  down.  'Aye,  aye,  ye  may  sit  down,  but  wj 
keep  nae  refreshment  here — this  is  no  a  piiblin 
house.  There's  ane  a  mile  west  in  the  Clachaii 
The  old  man  kept  looking  upon  her,  and  with 
countenance  somewhat  relaxed  from  its  inhospiti 
ble  austerity.  Iler  appearance  did  not  work  08 1 
charm  or  a  spell,  iiir  she  was  no  enchantress  inj 
fairy  tale  ;  but  the  lone  of  her  voice,  so  sweet  ar] 
gentle,  the  serenity  of  her  face,  and  the  nieeknc! 
of  her  manner,  as  she  took  her  seat  upon  a  sio 
not  far  from  the  door,  had  an  efl^eci  upon  old  Dam 
Craig,  and  he  bade  her  coine  forward,  and  laki 
chair  '  farther  ben  the  house.' 

"  '  I  am  an  Orphan,  and  have  perhaps  but  lit' ' 
claim  ufxin  you.  but  I  have  ventured  to  come  he; 
— my  name  is  Margaret  Lyndsay,  and  my  mmher 
nnine  was  Alice  Craig.'  The  old  man  moved  upc 
his  chair,  as  if  a  blow  had  struck  him.  and  look* 
long  nnd  earnestly  into  her  face.  Her  feanirc."  coi 
firmed  her  words.  Her  counienance  possesFCil  li 
strong  power  over  him  that  goes  down  mys'erion- 
through  the  generations  ot  perishable  man.  c  : 
neding  love  with  likeness,  so  that  the  child  h 
cradle  maybe  smiling  almost  with   the  buil-ni; 


.pi;|lllill 

■iitooi 

:#iittH 
■iiiwt- 

iiii,-in 
.i|,Hii 
'ted 

tjlijn 
aim 
iM 

(lii'b 
■Mk 
fkiidii 
nkW 
'ibWoii 

t)ll»! 


SCOTCH  NOVELS. 


563 


e  ression  that  belonged  to  some  one  of  its  fore- 
fijiers  mouldered  into  ashes  many  hundred  years 
ai.  '  Nae  doubt,  nae  doubt,  ye  are  the  daughter 
0 Walter  Lyndsay  and  Alice  Craig.  Never  were 
1 1  faces  niair  unlike  than  theirs,  yet  yours  is  like 
tlm  baiih.  Margaret — that  is  your  name — I  give 
yi  my  blessing.  Ilae  you  walked  far  ?  Mysie's 
din  at  the  Rashy-riggs,  wi'  milk  to  the  calf,  but 
vl  be  in  helyve.  Come,  my  bonny  bairn,  take  a 
s  ke  o'  your  uncle's  hand.' 

'  Margaret  told,  in  a  few  words,  the  principal 
e  nts  ot  the  last  three  years,  as  far  as  she  could  ; 
al  the  old  man,  to  whom  they  had  been  almost 
a  unknown,  heard  her  story  with  attention,  but 
sJ  httle  or  nothing.  Meanwhile,  Mysie  came  in 
-,n  elderly,  hard-featured  woman,  but  with  an 
egression  of  homely  kindness,  that  made  her  dark 
f»  not  unpleasant. 

!'  Margaret  felt  herself  an  inmate  of  her  uncle's 
Yise,  and  her  heart  began  already  to  warm  towards 
t  old  grey-headed  solitary  man.  His  manner  e.x- 
i,ited,  as  she  thought,  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
kdness;  but  she  did  not. disturb  his  taciturnity, 
ol  only  returned  immediate  and  satisfactory  an- 
83rs  to  his  few  short  and  abrupt  questions.  He 
edently  was  thinking  over  the  particulais  which 
6^  had  given  him  of  her  life  at  Braehead,  and  in 
t  lane ;  and  she  did  not  allow  herself  to  fear,  but 
tt,  in  a  day  or  two,  if  he  permitted  her  to  stay, 
S!  would  be  able  to  awaken  in  his  heart  a  natural 
il3rest  in  her  behalf.  Hope  was  a  guest  that  never 
1':  her  bosom — atid  she  rejoiced  when  on  the  return 
ckhe  old  domestic  from  the  bed-room,  her  uncle 
r;uested  her  to  read  aloud  a  chapter  of  the  Bible. 
is  did  so, — and  the  old  man  took  the  book  out  of 
V'  hand  with  evident  satisfaction,  and,  fasteninir 
ti  clasp,  laid  it  by  in  the  little  cupboard  in  the  wall 
rar  his  chair,  and  wished  her  good  night. 

'■  Mysie  conducted  her  into  the  bed-room,  where 
('try  thing  was  neat,  and  superior,  indeed,  to  the 
(l.inary  accommodation  of  a  farm-house.  '  Ye 
iM  na  fear,  for  feather-bed  and  sheets  are  a'  as 
if  as  last  year's  hay  in  the  stack.  I  keep  a'  things 
i;he  house  weel  aired,  for  damp's  a  great  di.sasier. 
I't,  for  a'  that,  sleepin'  breath  has  na  been  drawn 
i'lhat  bed  liiese  saxteen  years  I'  Margaret  thanked 
]'•  for  the  trouble  she  had  taken,  and  soon  laid 
e'A-n  her  limbs  in  grateful  rest.  A  thin  calico  cur- 
t|i  was  before  the  low  window  ;  but  the  still  serene 
tiiance  of  a  midsummer  night  glimmered  on  the 
in.  Ail  was  silent — and  in  a  few  minutes  Mar- 
{i'et  Lyndsay  was  asleep. 


"  In  the  quiet  of  the  succeeding  evening,  the  old 
man  took  her  witii  him  along  (he  burn-side,  and 
into  a  green  ewe-bught,  where  they  sal  down  fur  a 
while  in  silence.  At  last  he  said,  '  1  have  nae  wife 
— nae  children — nae  friends,  I  may  say,  Margaret 
— natie  that  cares  for  me,  but  the  servant  in  the 
house,  an  auld  friendless  body  like  mysel'  ;  but  if 
you  choose  to  bide  wi'  us,  you  are  mair  than  wel- 
come ;  for  I  know  not  what  is  in  that  face  o'  thine  ; 
but  this  is  the  pleasantest  day  that  has  come  to  me 
these  last  thirty  years.' 

"Margaret  was  now  requested  lo  tell  her  uncle 
more  about  her  parents  and  herself,  and  she  com- 
plied with  a  full  heart.  She  went  back  with  all  the 
power  of  nature's  eloquence,  lo  the  history  of  her 
young  years  at  Braehead — recounted  all  her  father's 
miseries — her  mother's  sorrows — and  her  own  trials. 
All  the  while  she  spoke,  the  tears  were  streaming 
from  her  eyes,  and  her  sweet  bosom  heaved  with  a 
crowd  of  heavy  sighs.  The  old  man  sat  silent ; 
but  more  than  once  he  sobbed,  and  passed  his 
withered  toil-worn  hands  across  his  forehead. — 
They  rose  up  together,  as  by  mutual  consent,  and 
returned  to  the  house.  Before  the  light  had  loo  far 
died  away,  Datiiel  Craig  asked  Margaret  to  read  a 
chapter  in  the  Bible,  as  she  had  done  the  night  be- 
fcn-e;  and  when  she  had  concluded,  he  said,  'I 
never  heard  the  Scriptures  so  well  read  in  all 
my  days  —  did  yoti,  Mysie?'  The  quiet  creature 
looked  on  Margaret  with  a  smile  of  kindness  and 
admiration,  and  said,  that  'she  liad  never  un- 
derstood that  chapter  sae  weel  before,  although, 
aiblins,  she  had  read  it  a  hundred  times.' — '  Ye  can 
gang  to  your  bed  without  Mysie  to  show  you  the 
way  to-night,  my  good  niece — ye  are  one  of  the 
fatiiily  now — and  Nether-Place  will  after  this  be 
as  clieerfu'  a  house  as  in  a'  the  parish.'  " — Trials 
of  Margaret  Lyudsay,  pp.  2.51,  252. 

We  should  now  finish  our  task  by  saying 
something  of  ''Reginald  Dalton ;" — but  such 
of  our  readers  as  have  accompanied  us  through 
this  long  retrospect,  will  readily  excuse  us, 
we  presume,  for  postponing  our  notice  of  that 
work  till  another  opportunity.  There  are  two 
decisive  reasons,  indeed,  against  our  proceed- 
ing with  it  at  present. — one,  that  we  really 
have  not  yet  read  it  fairly  through — the  other, 
that  we  have  no  longer  room  to  say  all  of  it 
that  we  foresee  it  witl  require. 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


A  GREAT  deal  that  should  naturally  come  under  thjs  title  has  been  unavoidably  giv, 
already,  under  that  of  History ;  and  more,  I  fear,  may  be  detected  under  still  less  appropria 
denominations.  If  any  unwary  readers  have  been  thus  unwittingly  decoyed  into  Poliiii 
while  intent  on  more  innocent  studies.  I  can  only  hope  that  they  will  now  take  comfort,  fro 
finding  how  little  of  this  obnoxious  commodity  has  been  left  to  appear  in  its  proper  colour 
and  also  from  seeing,  from  the  decorous  title  now  assumed,  that  all  intention  of  enga^q; 
them  in  Party  discussions  is  disclaimed. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  was  ever  a  violent  or  (consciously)  imcandid  partisan  j  and  at  ; 
events,  ten  years  of  honest  abstinence  and  entire  segregation  from  party  contentions  (to  sa 
nothing  of  the  sobering  effects  of  threescore  antecedent  years!),  should  have  pretty  mucj 
effaced  the  vestiges  of  such  predilections,  and  awakened  the  least  considerate  to  a  sense  >•■ 
the  exaggerations,  and  occasional  unfairness,  which  such  influences  must  almost  unavoidabi 
impart  to  political  disquisitions.  In  what  I  now  reprint  I  have  naturally  been  anxious  to  s 
lect  what  seemed  least  liable  to  this  objection  :  and  though  I  camiot  flatter  myself  that  a  toi 
of  absolute,  Judicial  impartiality  is  maintained  in  all  these  early  productions,  I  trust  th 
nothing  will  be  found  in  them  that  can  suggest  the  idea  either  of  personal  animosity,  or  of ; 
ungenerous  feeling  towards  a  public  opponent. 

To  the  two  first,  and  most  considerable,  of  the  following  papers,  indeed,  I  should  wit 
particularly  to  refer,  as  fair  exponents  both  of  the  principles  I  think  I  have  always  maintaine-; 
and  of  the  temper  in  which  I  was  generally  disposed  to  maintain  them.  In  some  of  tlj 
others  a  more  vehement  and  contentious  tone  may  no  doubt  be  detected.  But  as  they  touc' 
upon  matters  of  pennanent  interest  and  importance,  and  advocate  opinions  which  I  still  thir, 
substantially  right,  I  have  felt  that  it  w-ould  be  pusillanimous  now  to  suppress  them,  from 
poor  fear  of  censure,  w  hich.  if  just,  I  cannot  but  know  that  I  deserve — or  a  still  poorer  distru 
of  those  allowances  which  I  have  no  reason  to  think  will  be  withheld  from  me  by  the  beU>, 
part  of  my  readers.  i 


(3»'oi)cmbcr,  1812.) 

Essay  on  the  Practice  of  the  British  Government,  distinguished  from  the  abstract  Theory  ( 
which  it  is  supposed  to  be  founded.     B}- Gould  Francis  Leckie.   8vo.    London:  1812.* 


This  is  the  most  direct  attack  which  we 
have  ever  seen  in  English,  upon  the  free  con- 
stitution of  England ; — or  rather  upon  political 
liberty  in  general,  and  upon  our  government 
only  in  so  far  as  it  is  free : — and  it  consists 
partly  in  an  eager  exposition  of  the  inconveni- 
ences resulting  from  parliaments  or  represen- 
tative legislatures,  and  partly  in  a  warm  de- 
fence and  undisguised  panegyric  of  Absolute, 
or,  as  the  author  more  elegantly  phrases  it,  of 
Simple  monarchy. 


*  I  used  to  think  that  ihis  paper  contained  a  verv 
good  delence  of  our  Irep  consiiiuiion  ;  and  especially 
the  most  complete,  (einpcr.-ue,  and  searching  vindi- 
caiion  of  our  Hereditary  Moiiartliv  thai  was  any 
where  to  he  met  with  :  And,  though  it  now  appears 
to  me  rather  more  elementary  and  elahorate  than 
was  necessary,  I  am  still  of  opinion  that  it  may  be 
of  use  to  young  politicians, — and  suggest  cautions 
and  grounds  of  disirust,  to  rash  discontent  and 
thoughtless  presumption. 
564 


The  pamphlet  which  contains  these  coi' 
solatory  doctrines,  has  the  further  merit  cl 
being,  without  any  exception,  the  worst  wrij 
ten.  and  the  worst  reasoned,  that  has  ev(' 
fallen  into  our  hands  ;  and  there  is  nothing  if 
deed  but  the  extreme  importance  of  the  sul 
ject,  and  of  the  singular  complexion  of  lli 
times  in  which  it  appears,  that  could  indue 
us  to  take  any  notice  of  it.  The  rubbish  th;' 
is  scattered  in  our  common  walks,  we  merel' 
push  aside  and  disregard:  but,  when  it  detil* 
the  approaches  to  the  temple,  or  is  heaped  c 
the  sanctuary  itself,  it  must  be  cast  out  wit 
other  rites  of  expiation,  and  visited  with  .m 
verer  penalties.  When  the  season  is  health; 
we  may  walk  securely  among  the  elemeni 
of  corruption,  and  warrantal-ly  decline  the  ii 
glorious  labour  of  sweeping  them  away:- 
but,  when  the  air  is  tainted  and  the  bloo 
impure,  we  should  look  with  jealousy  upo 
every  speck,  and  consider  that  the  slightei 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


565 


tlni&jion  of  our  police  may  spread  a  pesti- 
liice  through  all  the  borders  of  the  land. 
There  are  two  periods,  it  appears  to  us, 
>'ien  the  promulgation  of  such  doctruies  as 
;j?  maintained  by  this  author  may  be  con- 
•jlered  as  dangerous,  or  at  least  as  of  evil 
'jion,  in  a  country  like  thivS.  The  one.  when 
13  friends  of  arbitrary  power  are  strong  and 
■jring,  and  advantageously  posted  :  and  when, 
k  ii?ditating  some  serious  attack  on  the  liber- 
}»  of  the  people,  they  send  out  their  emis- 
.  Jfies  and  manifestoes,  to  feel  and  to  prepare 
'  feir  way: — the  other,  when  they  are  sub- 
■  lintially  weak,  and  unfit  to  maintain  a  con- 
«  k  with  their  opponents,  but  where  the  great 
■i  ?dy  of  the  timid  and  the  cautious  are  alarmed 
i  the  prospect  of  such  a  conflict,  and  half 
■.>posed  to  avert  the  crisis  by  supporting 
liatever  is  in  actual  possession  of  po^-er. 
■hether  either  of  these  descriptions  ma}  suit 
ie  aspect  of  the  present  times,  we  willingly 
|ive  it  to  our  readers  to  determine  :  But  be- 
I  re  going  farther,  we  think  it  proper  to  say,  that 
'3  impute  no  corrupt  motives  to  the  author 
[fore  us ;  and  that  there  is,  on  the  contrary, 
[ery  appearance  of  his  being  conscientious- 
'  persuaded  of  the  advantages  of  arbitrary 
iwer,  and  sincerely  eager  to  reconcile  the 
inds  of  his  countrymen  to  the  introduction 
so  great  a  blessnig.  The  truth  indeed 
[ems  to  be.  that  having  lived  so  long  abroad 
evidently  to  have  lost,  in  a  great  degree, 
[e  use  of  his  native  language,  it  is  not  sur- 
i'isiiig'  that  he  should  have  lost  along  with 
i  a  great  number  of  those  feelings,  without 
I'hich  it  really  is  not  possible  to  reason,  in 
(.is  country,  on  the  English  constitution  ;  and 
lis  gradually  come,  not  only  to  speak,  but  to 
iel,  like  a  foreigner,  as  to  many  of  those 
liiiigs  which  still  constitute  both  the  pride 
lid  the  happiness  of  his  countrymen.  We 
ive  no  doubt  that  he  would  be  a  very  useful 
id  enlightened  patriot  in  Sicily;  but  we 
;iink  it  was  rather  harsh  in  him  to  venture 
jfore  the  public  with  his  speculations  on  the 
inglish  government,  with  his  present  stock 
f  information  and  habits  of  thinking.  Though 
ie  do  not,  however,  impute  to  him  any  thing 
'Orse  than  these  disqualification.s,  there  are 
arsons  enough  in  the  country  to  whom  it 
fill  be  a  .sufficient  recommendation  of  any 
i'ork,  that  it  inculcates  principles  of  servility: 
jad  who  v.ill  be  abundantly  ready  to  give  it 
very  chance  of  making  an  impression,  which 
;  may  derive  from  their  approbation  ;  and  in- 
deed we  have  already  heard  such  testimonies 
ji  favour  of  this  slender  performance,  as  seem 
1)  impose  it  upon  us  as  a  duty  to  give  some 
■tile  account  of  its  contents,  and  some  short 
pinion  of  its  principles. 

:  The  lirst  part  of  the  task  may  be  perfonned 
1  a  very  moderate  compass ;  for  though  the 
iJarned  author  has  not  always  the  gift  of 
t-rijing  inteliigiblv-  it  is  impossible  for  h  dili- 
|eiit  reader  not  to  see  what  he  would  be  at: 
pid  his  doctrine,  v,  hen  once  fairly  understood, 
iiay  readily  be  reduced  to  a  fe\\  very  simple 
jropositions  After  preluding  on  a  variety 
If  minor  topics,  and  suggesting  some  curious 
(aough  ifmedies  for  our  present  unhappy  con- 


dition, he  candidly  admits  that  none  of  those 
would  reach  to  the  root  of  the  evil ;  which 
consists  entirel}',  it  seems,  in  our  "loo  great 
jealou.sy  of  the  Crown  :""  and  accordingly  pro- 
ceeils  to  draw  a  most  seducing  picturt;  of  his 
favourite  Simple  monarchy  ;  and  indirectly  in- 
deed, but  quite  uneciuivocally,  to  intimate, 
that  the  only  elfectual  cure  for  the  evils  uiuler 
which  we  now  sutler  is  to  be  found  in  the  total 
abolition  of  Parliaments,  and  the  conversion 
of  our  constitution  into  an  absolute  monarchy  : 
or,  shortly  to  '-advert,"  as  he  expresses  him- 
self, "to  the  advantages  which  a  Monarcliy, 
such  as  has  been  described,  has  over  our 
boasted  British  Constitution."  These  advan- 
tages, after  a  good  deal  of  puzzling,  he  next 
settles  to  be — First,  that  the  !<overeign  will  be 
"  more  likely  to  feel  a  pride,  as  well  as  a  zeal, 
to  act  a  great  and  good  part :"" — secondly,  that 
the  ministers  will  have  mori'  time  to  attend  to 
their  duties  when  they  have  no  parliamentary 
contentions  to  manage  ; — thirelly,  that  the  pub- 
lic councils  will  be  guided  by  fixed  and  steady 
principles;  —  fourthly,  that  if  the  Monarch 
should  act  in  an  oppressive  manner,  it  will  be 
easier  for  the  jieople  to  get  the  better  of  him 
than  of  a  whole  Parliament,  w  ho  might  act  in 
the  same  manner; — fifthly,  that  the  heir  ap- 
parent might  then  be  allowed  to  tiavel  in 
foreign  countries  for  the  improvement  of  his 
manners  and  understanding; — sixthly,  and 
lastly,  that  there  would  be  no  longer  any  pre- 
text for  a  cry  against  -'what  is  styled  buck- 
stair  influence  !l' 

Such  is  the  sum  of  Mr.  Leckie's  publica- 
tion ;  of  which,  as  a  curious  specimen  of  the 
infinite  diversity  of  human  opinions  and  en- 
dowments, and  of  the  license  of  political  specu- 
lation that  is  still  occasionally  indulged  in  in 
this  country,  we  have  thought  it  right  that 
some  memorial  should  be  preserved — a  little 
more  durable  than  the  pamphlet  itself  seemed 
likely  to  aflbrd.  But  though  what  we  have 
already  said  is  probably  more  than  enough  to 
settle  the  opinion  of  all  reasonable  persons 
with  regard  to  the  merits  of  the  work,  we 
think  we  can  trace,  even  in  some  of  the  most 
absurd  and  presumptuous  of  its  positions,  the 
operation  of  certain  errors,  which  we  have 
found  clouding  the  views,  and  infecting  the 
opinions  of  persons  of  far  sounder  understand- 
ing; and  shall  presume,  therefore,  to  offer  a 
few  very  plain  and  simple  remarks  upon  .some 
of  the  points  which  we  think  we  have  most 
frequently  found  either  misrepresented  or 
misunderstood. 

The  most  important  and  radical  of  those,  is 
that  which  relates  to  the  nature  and  uses  of 
Monarchy,  and  the  rights  and  powers  of  a 
sovereign ;  uj)on  which,  therefoie.  we  beg 
leave  to  begin  with  a  few  observations.  Ana 
here  we  shall  take  leave  to  consider  Royalty 
as  being,  on  the  whole,  but  a  Human  Institu- 
tion.— originating  in  a  view  to  the  general 
good,  and  not  to  the  uralitication  of  the  indi- 
vidual upon  whom  the  ofiice  is  conferred  ;  or 
at  least  only  capable  of  being  justified,  or  de- 
serving to  b<'  retaincfl.  where  it  is  found,  or 
believed,  to  be  actually  lieneticial  to  lln'  wliole 
society.  Now  we  think  that,  generally  .•"peak- 
2X 


56S 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ing,  it  is  a  highly  beneficial  institution:  and 
that  the  benefits  v.hich  it  is  calculated  to  confer 
are  great  and  obvious. 

From  the  first  moment  that  men  began  to 
associate  together,  and  to  act  in  concert  for 
their  general  good  and  protection;  it  would  be 
found  that  all  of  th^em  could  not  take  a  share 
in  consulting  and  regulating  their  operations, 
and  that  the  greater  part  must  submit  to  the 
direction  of  certain  managers  and  leadens. 
Among  these,  again,  some  one  would  naturally 
assume  a  pre-eminence;  and  m  tmie  oi  war 
especially,  would  be  allowed  to  exercise  a  great 
authority.  Struggles  would  as  necessarily  en- 
sue for  retaining  this  post  of  distinction,  and 
for  supplanting  its  actual  possessor:  and 
whether  there  was  a  general  acquiescence  in 
the  principle  of  having  one  acknowledged 
chief,  or  a  desire  to  be  guided  and  advised  by 
a  plurality  of  those  who  seemed  best  qualified 
for  the  task,  there  would  be  equal  hazard,  or 
rather  certainty,  of  perpetual  strife,  tumult, 
and  dissension,  from  the  attempts  of  ambitious 
individuals,  either  to  usurp  an  a.scendancy 
over  all  their  competitors,  or  to  dispute  with 
him  who  had  already  obtained  it,  his  right  to 
continue  its  possession .  Every  one  possessed 
of  any  considerable  means  of  influence  would 
thus  be  tempted  to  aspire  to  a  precarious 
Sovereignty;  and  while  the  inferior  persons 
of  the  community  would  be  oppo.sed  to  each 
otherasadherentsof  the  respective  pretenders, 
not  only  would  all  care  of  the  general  good  be 
omitted,  but  the  society  would  become  a  prey 
to  perpetual  feuds,  cabals,  and  hostilities, 
subversive  of  the  first  prmciples  of  its  insti- 
tution. 

Among  the  remedies  which  would  naturally 
present  themselves  for  this  great  evil,  the 
most  efficacious,  though  not  perhaps  at  first 
sight  the  most  obviou.s,  would  be  to  provide 
some  regular  and  authentic  form  for  the  elec- 
tion of  One  acknowledgi'd  chief,  by  a  fair  but 
pacific  competition  ; — the  term  of  whose  au- 
thority would  be  gradually  prolonged  to  that 
of  his  natural  life, — and  afterwards  extended 
to  the  lives  of  his  remotest  descendants.  The 
advantages  which  seem  to  us  to  be  peculiar 
to  this  arrangement  are,  first,  to  disarm  the 
ambition  of  dangerous  and  turbulent  indi- 
viduals, by  removing  the  great  prize  of  Su- 
preme authority,  at  all  times,  and  entirely, 
from  competition;  and,  secondly,  to  render 
this  authority  itself  more  manageable,  and 
less  hazardous,  by  delivering  it  over  peace- 
ably, and  upon  expressed  or  understood  con- 
ditions, to  an  hereditary  prince ;  instead  of 
letting  it  be  seized  upon  by  a  fortunate  con- 
queror, who  would  think  himself  entitled  to 
use  it — as  con(|uerors  commonly  use  their 
booty — for  his  own  exclusive  gratification. 

The  step.s,  then,  by  which  we  are  conducted 
to  the  justification  of  Hereditary  Monarchy, 
are  shortly  as  follows.  Admitting  all  men  to 
be  equal  in  rights,  they  can  never  be  equal  in 
natural  endowments, — norlongcqual  in  wealth 
and  other  acquisitions: — Absolute  liberty, 
therefore,  or  ecjual  participation  of  power,  is 
altogether  out  of  the  question  ;  and  a  kind  of 
Aristocracy  or  disonlerly  and  fluctuating  su- 


premacy of  the  richest  and  most  accomplish* 
may  he  considered  as  the  primeval  state ' 
society.     Now  this,  even  if  it  could  be  si 
posed  to  be  peaceable  and  permanent,  is 
no  means  a  desirable  state  for  the  perse 
subjected  to  this  multifarious  and   irregu 
authority.     But  it  is  plain  that  it  could  not 
peaceable, — that  even  among  the  rich,  a 
the  accomplished,  and  the  daring,  some  woi 
be  more  rich,  more  daring,  and  rtiore  acco! 
plished  than  the  rest:  and  that  those  in  t: 
foremo.st  ranks  who  were  most  nearly  oii 
equality,  would  be  armed  against  each  oth 
by  muiiial  jealousy  and  ambition  ;  while  tho 
who  were  a  little  lower,  would  combine,  o 
of  envy  and  resentment,  to  defeat  or  resist,  1 
their  junction,  the  pretensions  of  the  fewM\! 
had  thus  outstripped  their  original  associate; 
Thus  there  would  not  only  be  no  liberty 
security  for  the  body  of  the  people,  but  i 
whole  would  bo  exposed  to  the  horror  a; 
distraction  of  perpetual  intestine  contentior 
The   creation   of    one    Sovereign,   therefoi 
whom  the  whole  society  would  acknowled; 
as  supreme,  was  a  great  point  gained  fortra. 
quillity  as  well  as  individual  independenci! 
and  in  order  to  avoid  the  certain  evils  of  pe 
petual  struggles  for  dominion,  and  the  iron 
nent  hazard  "of  falling  at  last  under  the  abs 
lute  will  of  an  exasperated  concjueror,  nothii 
could  be  so  wisely  devised  as  to  agree  upcj 
the  nomination  of  a  King:  and  thus  to  get  rj 
of  a  multitude  of  petty  tyrants,  and  the  riil 
of  military  despotism,  by  the  eslablishme:) 
of  a  legitimate   monarchy.     The   first  kii| 
would  probably  be  the  most  popular  and  po\^ 
erful  individual  in  the  community;  and  ill 
first  idea  would  in  all  likelihood  be  to  appoiij 
his  successor  on  account  of  the  same  qualill 
cations  :  But  it  would  speedily  be  discoyere«| 
that  this  would  give  rise  at  the  death  of  eveij 
sovereign — and  indeed,  prospectively,  longbij 
fore  it — to  the  same  fatal  competitions  ani 
dissensions,  which   had    formerly  been  pe 
petual ;  and  not  only  hazard  a  civil  war  c 
every  accession,  but  bring  the  successful  con 
petitor,  to  the  throne,  with  feelings  of  extreir 
hostility  towards  one  half  of  his  subjects,  an 
of    extreme   partiality    to    the    other.      Tl: 
chances  of  not  finding  eminent   talents  fc 
command    in    the   person   of   the   sovereign 
therefore,  would  soon  be  seen  to  be  a  far  U. 
eml   than   the   sanguinary  competitions  th; 
would  ensue,  if  merit  were  made  the  soi' 
ground  of  preferment ;  and  a  very  little  reflei. 
tion,  or  experience,  would  also  serve  to  shov 
that  the  sort  of  merit  which  was  most  likel 
to  succeed  in  such  a  competition,  did  notpn 
mise  a  more  desirable  sovereign,  than  migl 
be    probably   reckoned   on,    in    the   commo 
course  of  hereditary  succes.sion.     The  oiil 
safe  course,  therefore,  was,  to  take  this  Gre; 
Prize  altogether  out  of  the  Lottery  of  humn 
life — to  make  the  supreme  dignity  in  the  stati 
professedly  and   altogether   independent  o 
merit  or  popularity;  and  to  fix  it  immutabl 
in  a  place  quite  out  of  the  career  of  ambitioi 
This  great  jMiint   then  was  gained  by  ih 
mere  institution  of  Monarc-liy.  ;nid  by  renclei 
ing  it  hereditary :  The  chief  cause  of  interns 


LECKIE  OX  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


567 


^cord.was  removed,  and  the  most  dangerous 
jlentive  to  ambition  placed  in^  a  irieat  mea- 
ge  beyond  the  spliere  of  it*  operation  ; — and 
ts  we  have  always  considered  to  be  the  ]ie- 
(jliar  and  characteristic  advantasfe  of  that 
fin  of  government.  A  pretty  important  chap- 
tl  however,  remains,  as  to  the  extent  of  the 
Ijwers  that  ought  to  be  vested  in  the  I\lon- 
tfh,  and  the  nature  of  the  Checks  by  which 
ll!  limitation  of  those  powers  should  be  ren- 
c-ed  effectnal.  And  here  it  will  be  readily 
iderstood,  that  considering,  as  we  do.  the 
cef  advantage  of  monarchy  to  consist  in  its 
tang  away  the  occasions  of  contention  for 
f  First  Place  in  the  state,  and  in  a  manner 
mtralizingthat  place  by  separating  it  entirely 
fm  any  notion  of  merit  or  popularity  in  the 
jf.9essor — we  cannot  consistently  be  for  al- 
j|:ing  a  greater  measure  of  actual  power  to  it 
lj.n  is  absolutely  necessary  for  answering 
tS  purpose.  Our  notions  of  this  measure, 
hvever,  are  by  no  means  of  a  jealous  or  po- 
rrious  description.  We  must  give  enough  of 
r«l  power,  and  distinction  and  prerogative,  to 
r'ke  it  truly  and  substantially  the  first  place 
i'the  State,  and  also  to  make  it  impossible 
f-  the  occupiers  of  inferior  places  to  endan- 
cr  the  general  peace  by  their  contentions; — 
fl,  otherwise,  the  whole  evils  which  its  in- 
s^ution  was  meant  to  obviate  would  recur 
v'h  accumulated  force,  and  the  same  fatal 
cnpetitions  be  renewed  among  persons  of 
('■orderly  ambition,  for  those  other  situations, 
b  whatever  name  they  might  be  called,  in 
v'ich,  though  nominally  subordinate  to  the 
tlone,  the  actual  powers  of  sovereignty  were 
embodied.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  would 
g|e  no  powers  to  the  Sovereign,  or  to  any 
o!er  officer  in  the  community,  beyond  what 
v're  evidently  required  for  the  public  good  ; 
4nd  no  powers  at  all.  on  the  exercise  of 
\vich  there  was  not  an  efficient  control,  and 
f:the  use  of  which  there  was  not  a  snbstan- 
ti  responsibility.  It  is  in  the  reconciling  of 
t^se  two  conditions  that  the  whole  difficulty 
olthe  theory  of  a  perfect  monarchy  consi-sts. 
l)}-ou  do  not  control  your  sovereign,  he  will 
b|  in  danger  of  becoming  a  despot ;  and  if 
yi  do  control  him,  there  is  danger,  unless 
yi  choose  the  depository  of  this  control  with 
s'?ular  caution,  that  you  create  anotheryiow- 
eUhat  is  uncontrolled  and  uncontrollable — 
ti!5e  the  prey  of  audacious  leaders  and  out- 
r;eous  factions,  in  spite  of  the  hereditary  set- 
tJnent  of  the  nominal  sovereignty.  Though 
tire  is  some  difficulty,  however,  in  this  pro- 
tjm,  and  though  we  learn  from  history,  that 
viious  errors  have  been  committed  in  an  at- 
t'hpt  at  its  practical  solution,  yet  we  do  not 
Cfceive  it  as  by  any  means  insoluble  :  and 
tlpk  indeed  that,  with  the  licrhts  which  we 
i>;y  derive  from  the  experience  of  our  own 
cistitution.  its  demonstration  may  be  efTected 
ba  very  moderate  exertion  of  sagacity.  It 
V;l  be  best  understood,  however,  by  a  short 
vKv  of  the  nature  of  the  powers  to  be  control- 
li}.  and  of  the  system  of  checks  which  have, 
iijlifferent  time's,  been  actually  resorted  to. 

n  the  first  place,  then,  we  must  be^  leave 
^■'•emind  our  readers,  however  superfluous  it 


may  appear,  that  as  kings  are  now  generally 
allowed  to  be  mere  mortals,  they  cannot  of 
themselves  have  any  greater  power.s,  either 
of  body  or  mind,  than  other  imlividuals,  and 
must  ni  fact  be  inferior  in  both  respects  to 
very  many  of  their  subjects.  Whatever  powers 
lh(!y  have,  therefore,  must  be  ]ioweis  confer- 
red upon  ihem  by  the  consent  of  ihi?  stronger 
part  of  their  subjects,  and  are  in  fact  really 
and  truly  the  powers  of  those  person.'*.  The 
most  absolute  despot  accordingly,  of  whom  his- 
tory furnishes  any  record,  must  h^ve  govern- 
ed merely  by  the  free  will  of  tlio.se  who  chose 
to  obey  him.  in  compelling:  the  rest  of  his  sub- 
jects to  obediotcc.  The  Sultan,  as  Mr.  Ihime 
remarks,  may  indeetl  drive  the  bulk  of  his 
unarmed  subjects,  like  brutes,  by  mere  force  ; 
but  he  must  lead  his  armed  .Janissaries  like 
men,  by  their  reason  and  free  will.  And  so  it 
is  in  all  other  governments:  The  power  of  the 
sovereign  is  nothing  el.se  than  the  power — the 
actual  force  of  muscle  or  of  mind — which  a 
certain  part  of  his  subjects  choose  to  lend  for 
carrying  his  orders  into  eflecl;  and  the  check 
or  limit  to  this  power  is,  in  all  cases,  ultimately 
and  in  effect,  nothing  else  than  llieir  relusal 
to  act  any  longer  as  the  instruments  of  his 
pleasure.  The  check,  therefore,  is  substan- 
tially the  same  in  kind,  in  all  cases  whatever ; 
and  must  necessarily  exist  in  full  vigour  in 
every  country  in  the  world ;  though  the  like- 
lihood of  its  beneficial  application  depends 
greatly  on  the  structure  of  society  in  each  par- 
ticular nation;  and  the  possibility  of  applying 
it  with  ease  and  safety  must  result  wholly 
from  the  contrivances  that  have  been  adopted 
to  make  it  bear,  at  once  gradually  and  steadily, 
on  the  power  it  is  destined  to  regulate.  It  is 
here  accordingly,  and  here  only,  that  there  is 
any  material  difference  between  a  good  and  a 
bad  constitution  of  Monarchical  government. 
The  ultimate  and  only  real  limit  to  what  is 
called  the  power  of  the  sovereign,  is  ihe  re- 
fusal or  th  ■  consent  or  co-operation  of  those 
who  possess  the  substantial  power  of  the  com- 
munity, and  who,  during  their  voluntary  con- 
cert w'ith  the  sovereign,  allow  this  power  of 
theirs  to  pass  under  his  name.  In  considering 
whether  this  refusal  is  likely  to  be  wisely  and 
beneficially  interposed,  it  is  material  therefore 
to  inquire  in  whom,  in  any  particular  case, 
the  power  of  interposing  it  is  vested  ;  or,  in 
other  words,  in  whatyindividnals  the  actual 
power  of  coercing  and  compellinii  the  submis- 
sion of  the  bulk  of  the  community  is  intrinsic- 
ally vested.  If  every  individual  were  equally 
cifted,  and  equally  situated,  the  answer  would 
be.  In  the  numerical  majority:  But  as  this 
never  can  be  the  ca.se,  this  power  will  fre- 
j  cjuently  be  found  to  reside  in  a  very  small 
proportion  of  the  whole  society. 
I  In  rude  times,  when  there  is  little  intelli- 
i  genceor  meansof  concert  and  communication, 
j  a  very  moderate  number  of  armed  and  disci- 
plined forces  will  be  able,  so  long  as  they 
keep  toirether.  to  overawe,  and  actually  over- 
pow.-^r  the  whole  unarmed  iidiabitants,  even 
of  an  extensive  region  ;  and  jiccoidii  yly.  in 
such  times,  the  nects.sily  of  jiroeuriii^  liu- 
i  good  will  and  consent  of  "the  Soldiery,  is  the 


568 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


only  check  upon  the  power  of  the  Sovereign ; 
or,  in  other  words,  the  soldiers  may  do  what 
they  choose — and  their  nominal  master  can 
do  nothing  which  they  do  not  choose.  Such 
is  the  btate  of  the  worst  despotisms.  The 
check  upon  the  royal  authority  is  the  same  in 
substance  as  in  the  best  administered  mon- 
archies; viz.  the  refusal  of  the  consent  or  co- 
operation of  those  who  po.ssess  for  the  time  the 
natural  power  of  the  community;  But,  from 
the  unfortunate  structure  of  society,  which  (in 
the  case  supposed)  vests  this  substantial  power 
in  a  few  bands  of  disciplined  ruffian.s,  the 
check  will  scarcely  ever  be  interposed  for  the 
benetit  of  the  nation,  and  will  merely  operate 
to  prevent  the  king  from  doing  any  thing  to 
the  prejudice  or  oppression  of  the  soldiery 
themselves. 

When  civilis-ition  has  made  a  little  further 
progress,  a  number  of  the  leaders  of  the  army, 
or  their  descendants,  acquire  landed  property, 
and  associate  together,  not  merely  in  their 
military  capacitj-,  but  as  guardians  of  their 
new  acquisition.*  and  hereditary  dignities. — 
Their  soldiers  become  their  vassals  in  time  of 
peace;  and  the  real  power  of  the  State  is 
gradually  transferred  from  the  hands  of  de- 
tached and  mercenary  battalions,  to  those  of 
a  Feudal  Nobility.  The  check  on  the  royal 
authority  comes  then  to  lie  in  the  refusal  of 
this  body  to  co-operate  in  such  of  his  mea-sures 
as  do  not  meet  with  their  approbation ;  and  the 
king  can  now  do  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of 
the  order  of  Nobility.  The  body  of  the  peo- 
ple fare  a  little  better  under  the  operation  of 
this  check; — because  their  interest  is  much 
more  identified  v.ith  that  of  their  feudal  lords, 
than  with  that  of  a  standing  army  of  regular 
or  disorderly  forces. 

As  society  advances  in  refinement,  and  the 
arts  of  peace  ai  e  developed,  men  of  the  lower 
orders  assemble,  and  fortify  themselves  in 
Towns  and  Cities,  and  thus  come  to  acquire  a 
power  independent  of  their  patrons.  Their 
consent  also  accordingly  becomes  necessary 
to  the  development  of  the  public  authority 
within  their  communities;  and  hence  another 
check  to  what  is  enlled  the  power  of  the  sove- 
reign. And,  finally,  to  pass  over  some  inter- 
mediate stages,  when  society  has  attained  its 
full  measure  of  civility  and  intelligence,  and 
is  filled  from  top  to  bottom  with  wealth  and 
industry,  and  reflection ;  when  every  thing 
that  is  done  or  felt  by  anyone  class,  is  com- 
municated on  the  instant  to  all  the  rest, — and 
a  vast  proportion  of  the  whole  population  takes 
an  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  country,  and 
po.ssessesa  certain  intelligence  as  to  the  public 
conduct  of  its  ruler.s. — then  the  substantial 
power  of  the  nation  may  be  said  to  be  vested 
in  the  Nation  at  large;  or  at  least  in  those 
individuals  wlio  can  habitually  command  the 
good-will  and  support  of  the  greater  part  of 
them  ; — and  the  ultimate  check  to  the  power 
of  the  sovereign  comes  to  consist  in  the  gen- 
eral unwillingness  of  Tlie  People  to  comply 
vrith  those  Orders,  v.hidi,  if  at  all  united  in 
their  resolution,  they  may  now  effectually 
disobey  and  resi.s*.  Thix  chock,  when  ap- 
ulied  at  all,  is  likely,  of  course,  to  be  applied 


for  the  general  good ;  and.  though  the  .'ne 
in  substance  with  those  which"  have  en 
already  considered,  namely,  the  refuse  Df 
those  in  whom  the  real  power  is  vestei  to 
lend  it  to  the  monarch  for  purposes  w  -h 
they  do  not  approve,  is  yet  iiilinitely  i  n. 
beneficial  in  its  operation,  in  consequenc  ; 
the  more  fortunate  position  of  thosa  to  w  n, 
that  power  now  belongs. 

Thus  we  see  that  Knigs  have  no  powe  )f 
their  own;  and  that,  even  hi  the  purest  5. 
potisms,  they  are  the  mere  organs  or  direc  [> 
of  that  power  which  they  who  truly  poe,, 
the  physical  and  intellectual  force  of  the  i- 
tion  may  choose  to  put  at  their  disposal ;  J 
are  at  all  times,  and  under  every  forn  t' 
monarchy,  entirely  under  the  control  of  u 
only  virtual  and  eilective  power.  There  it 
bottom,  therefore,  no  such  thing,  as  an  i- 
limited  monarchy  ;  or  indeed  as  a  nionai  v 
that  is  potentially  either  more  or  less  Urn  j 
than  every  other.  All  kings  imist  act  by  e 
consent  of  that  order  or  portion  of  the, 11a  „ 
which  can  really  command  all. the  rest,  ,i 
may  generally  do  whatever  these  substai . 
masters  do  not  disapprove  of:  But  as  . 
their  power  which  is  truly  exerted  in  ■ 
name  of  the  .'sovereign,  so,  it  is  not  so  m  h 
a  necessary  consequence  as  an  identical  ;  1- 
position  to  say,  that  where  they  are  de  v 
opposed  to  the  e.xercise  of  that  power.  ■ 
king  has  no  means  whatever  of  assertinc 
slightest  authority.  This  is  the  universal  ■ 
indeed  of  all  governments;  and  though  • 
different  consfitution  of  society,  hi  the  a 
ous  stages  of  its  progress,  may  give  a  dil- 
ent  character  to  the  controlling  power,  le 
principles  which  regulate  its  operation  e 
substantially  the  same  in  ail.  There  ieic 
room,  therefore,  for  the  question,  whel'r 
there  should  be  any  control  on  the  powe  if 
a  king,  or  ^^hat  that  control  should  be:  - 
cause,  as  the  power  really  is  not  the  kiiijs 
but  belongs  inalienably  to  the  stronger  ];t 
of  the  nation  itself,  whether  it  derive  t  t 
strength  from  discipline,  talents,  numbers  r 
situation,  it  is  impossible  that  it  shouLI 
exercised  at  his  instigation,  without  the  i 
currence,  or  acquiescence  at  least, of  thofr,. 
whom  it  is  substantially  vested. 

Such,  then,  is  the  abstract  and  fundiime  ,1 
doctrine  as  to  the  true  nature  of  Monarch;  1, 
and  indeed  of  every  other  species  of  Poliljl 
power;  and,  abstract  as  it  is,  we  cannot  l.p 
thinking  that  it  goes  far  to  settle  all  co:.  - 
versiesas  to  the  rights  of  sovereigns, 
ought  to  be  kept  clearly  in  mind  in  prcci 
ing  to  the  more  practical  views  of  the  ,subj 
For,  though  what  we  have  now  said  as  tc  I 
actual  power  beloiiiiing  to  the  predomii).t 
mass  of  physical  and  intellectual  force  in  evy 
community,  and  the  certainty  of  its  ultimaiy 
impelling  "the  public  authority  iii  the  dired^ 
of  its  interests  and  inclinations,  be  uiiqucst.  • 
ably  true  in  itself;  it  is  still  of  infinite  in)]r 
tance  to  consider  what  provisions  are  made* 
the  form  of  the  government,  or  what  is  cal'J 
its  Constitution,  for  the  ready  opei-ation  1 
those  interests  and  inclinations  upon  the  - 
mediate  agents  of  the  public  authority.  T  I 


LECKIE  OX  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


569 


i  ttv  will  opprate  with  full  efTcct  in  the  loiig- 
^  nt  whether  those  provisions  be  irood  or  bail, 
^  oJvhether  there  be  any  such  provision  tor- 

*  inly  recogn'sevl  in  the  p-overnment  or  not, 
!i  V  take  tobe  altogether  indisputable  :  Hut.  in 
s  U  one  case,  they  will  operate  only  after  long 
4  ii  irvals  of  suffering, — and  by  means  of  much 

*  gtering;  while,  on  the  other,  they  will   be 
cistanlly  and  almost  insensibly  in   action, 

:c  a,  willcorrect  the  first  declination  of  the 

*  vible  index  of  public  authority,   from  the 
nviral  hno  of  action  of  the  radical  power  of 

;  wich  it  should  be  the  ex^wnent.  or  rather 
\xl  prevent  any  sensible  variation  or  discon- 
$  fcinity  in  their  respective  movements.  The 
;  \wle  difference,  indeed,  between  a  good  and 
&,id  government,  appears  to  us  to  consist  in 
-  tl'  particular,  viz.  in  the  greater  or  the  less 
fi  litv  which  it  affords  for  the  early,  the  gra- 
d'l  and  steady  operation  of  the  substantial 
Pyer  of  the  community  upon  its  constituted 
Aharities;  while  the  freedom,  again,  and 
uimate  happiness  of  the  nation  depend  on 
:  tJi  degree  in  which  this  substantial  power  is 
i  {^ssed  by  a  greater  or  a  smaller,  and  a 
,  me  or  less  moral  and  instructed  part  of  the 
\a\e  society — a  matter  almost  independent 
o:he  form  or  name  of  the  government,  and 
dlermined  in  a  great  degree  by  the  progress 
vjich  the  society  itself  has  made  in  civilisa- 
tiji  and  refiiiement. 
I^'hus,  to  take  the  most  abominable  of  all 
g  eriiments — a  ferocious  despotism,  such  as 
iht  of  Morocco — where  an  Emperor,  in  con- 
c:l  with  a  banditti  of  armed  ruffians,  butch- 
ej  plunders,  and  oppresses  the  whole  un- 
aied  population, — the  check  to  the  monar- 
Cjcal  power  is  complete,  even  there,  in  the 
dbbedience  or  dissatisfaction  of  the  banditti ; 
ajiough,  from  the  character  of  that  body,  it 
a(irds  but  little  protection  to  the  community. 
al.  from  the  want  of  any  contrivance  for  its 
eiy  or  systematic  operation,  can  scarcely 
er  be  applied,  even  for  its  own  objects,  but 
vh  irreparable  injury  to  both  the  parties 
c  cemed.  As  there  is  no  arrangement  by 
vich  the  general  sense  of  this  lawless  sol- 
dry  can  be  collected,  upon  any  proposed 
niasures  of  their  leader,  or  the  moment  ascer- 
ti-ied  when  the  degree  of  his  oppression  ex- 
rids  that  of  their  patience,  they  never  begin 
t'lict  till  his  outrages  have  gone  far  beyond 
vlat  was  neces.sary  to  decide  their  resistance  ; 
aa  accordingly,  he  on  the  one  hand,  goes  on 
dtapilating  and  torturing,  for  months  after 
a  the  individuals,  by  whose  consent  alone  he 
x^p  enabled  to  take  this  amusement,  were 
tily  of  opinion  that  it  should  have  been  dis- 
Cjtinued ;  and.  on  the  other,  receives  the 
ii[mation  at  last,  not  in  the  f^rm  of  a  re- 
n[iistrance,  upon  which  he  might  amend, 
Ij  in  the  shape  of  a  bow-string,  a  dose  of  | 
pson,  or  a  stroke  of  the  dagger.  Thus,  from 
l{  mere  want  of  any  provision  for  ascertain-  | 
the  sentiments  of  the  individuals  possess-  - 
the  actual  power  of  the  state,  or  for  com- 
ntriicatnig  them  to  the  individual  appointed  i 
t'Mminister  it.  infinite  evils  result  to  both  ; 
lies.  The  first  suffer  intolerable  oppres-  i 
mioie  they  feel  such  confidence  in  their  I 
72 


unanimity  as  to  interfere  at  all ;  and  then, 
ihey  do  it  at  last,  in  the  form  of  brutal  vio- 
lence antl  vindictive  infliction.  Every  admo- 
nition, in  short,  given  to  their  elected  leadei 
is  precedetl  by  their  suffering,  and  followed 
by  his  death ;  and  every  ajjplication  of  the 
check  which  nature  itself  lias  provided  lor 
the  abuse  of  all  delegated  power,  i.s  accom- 
jvmied  by  a  total  dissolution  of  the  govern- 
ment, and  the  hazard  of  a  long  serie.s  of  revo- 
lutionary tumults. 

This  is  the  history  of  all  Military  despo- 
tisms, m  barbarous  and  uninstrucled  comnm- 
nities.  When  they  gel  on  to  Feudal  aristoc- 
racie.-^.  matters  are  a  little  mended  ;  both  by 
the  transference  of  the  actual  power  to  a 
larger  and  worthier  body,  and  by  the  intro- 
duction of  some  sort  of  machinery  or  contri- 
vance, however  rutle,  to  insure  or  facilitate 
the  operation  of  this  power  upon  the  ostensible 
agents  of  the  government.  The  person  of  the 
Sovereign  is  now  surrounded  by  some  kind 
of  Council  or  parliament ;  and  threats  and 
remonstrances  are  addressed  to  him,  with 
considerable  energy,  by  such  of  its  members 
as  take  offence  at  the  measures  he  proposes. 
Such,  however,  is  the  imperfection  of  the 
means  devised  for  these  communications,  and 
such  the  difficulty  of  collecting  the  sentiments 
of  those  who  can  make  them  with  efl'ect.  that 
this  necessary  operation  is  still  performed  in 
a  very  clumsy  and  hazardous  manner.  These 
are  the  times,  accordingly,  when  Barons  enter 
their  protests,  by  openly  waginji  war  on  their 
Sovereign,  or  each  other :  and.  even  when 
they  are  tolerably  agreed  among  themselves, 
can  think  of  no  better  way  of  controlling  or 
enlightening  their  monarch,  than  by  marching 
down  in  arms  to  Runnymede,  and  compelling 
him,  by  main  force,  and  in  sight  of  all  his 
people,  to  sign  a  charter  of  their  liberties. 
The  evils,  in  short,  are  the  same  in  substance 
as  in  the  sanguinary  revolutions  of  Morocco. 
The  mischief  goes  to  a  dan<i:erous  length  be- 
fore any  remedy  is  applied ;  and  the  rem.edy 
itself  is  a  great  mischief :  Although,  from  the 
improved  state  of  intelligence  and  civilisation, 
the  outrages  are  not  on  either  side  so  horrible. 

The  ne.xt  stage  brings  us  to  commercial  and 
enlightened  times,  in  which  the  real  strength 
and  power  of  the  nation  is  scattered  pretty 
widely  through  the  whole  of  its  population, 
and  in  which,  accordiiiirly,  the  check  upon 
the  misapplication  of  that  power  must  arise 
from  the  dissatisfaction  of  that  great  body. 
The  check  must  always  exist, — and  is  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  operate  with  sufficient 
efficacy;  but  the  safety  and  the  promptitude 
of  its  operation  depend,  in  this  case  as  in  all 
the  others,  upon  the  nature  of  the  contri\'ances 
which  the  Constitution  has  provided,  first,  for 
collecting  and  ascertaining  the  sentiments  of 
that  great  and  miscellaneous  aggrco-ate  in 
whom  the  actual  power  is  now  vested  ;  and. 
secondly,  for  communicating  this  in  an  au- 
thentic manner  to  the  executive  officers  of 
the  government.  The  most  effectual  and 
complete  way  of  effecting  this,  is  undoubtedly 
by  a  Parliament,  so  elected  as  to  rejirejienl 
pretty  fairly  the  views  of  al!  the  considerable 
2x2 


570 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


Classes  of  the  people,  and  so  constituted  as 
to  have  at  all  times  the  means,  both  of  sug- 
gesting those  views  to  the  executive,  and  of 
effectually  checking  or  preventing  its  malver- 
sations. Where  no  such  institution  exists,  the 
iranquillity  of  the  state  will  always  be  ex- 
jiosed  to  considerable  hazard;  and  the  danger 
of  great  convulsions  will  unfortunately  become 
greater,  exactly  in  proportion  as  the  body  of  the 
people  become  more  wealthy  and  intelligent. 

Under  the  form  of  society,  however,  of 
which  we  are  now  speaking,  there  must 
always  be  some  channels,  however  narrow 
and  circuitous,  by  which  the  sense  of  the  peo- 
ple may  be  let  in  to  act  upon  the  administrators 
of  their  government.  The  channel  of  the  press, 
for  example,  and  of  general  literature — provin- 
cial magistracies  and  assemblies,  such  as  the 
States  and  Parliaments  of  old  France — even 
the  ordinary  courts  of  law — the  stage  —  the 
pulpit — and  all  the  innumerable  occasions  of 
considerable  assemblages  for  deliberation  on 
local  interests,  election  to  local  offices,  or  for 
mere  solemnity  and  usage  of  festivity — which 
must  exist  in  all  large,  ancient,  and  civilised 
communities,  may  alTord  indications  of  that 
general  sentiment,  which  must  ultimately  gov- 
ern all  things  ;  and  may  serve  to  admonish  ob- 
servant kings  and  courtiers  how  far  the  true 
possessors  of  the  national  power  are  likely  to 
sanction  any  of  its  proposed  applications. — 
Where  those  indications,  however,  are  ne- 
glected or  misconstrued,  or  where,  from  other 
circumstances,  institutions  that  may  seem 
better  contrived,  fail  either  to  represent  the 
true  sense  of  the  ruling  part  of  the  commu-  \ 
nitV;  or  to  convince  the  Executive  magistrate 
that  they  do  represent  it.  there,  even  in  the 
most  civilised  and  intelligent  countries,  the 
most  hazardous  and  tremendous  distractions 
may  ensue ; — such  distractions  as  broke  the 
peace,  and  endangered  the  liberties  of  this 
country  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  First — or 
such  as  have  recently  torn  in  pieces  the  frame 
of  society  in  France ;  and  in  their  conse- 
quences still  threaten  th^' destiny  of  the  world. 

Both  those  convulsions,  it  appears  to  us, 
arose  from  nothing  else  than  the  v.ant  of  some 
proper  or  adequate  contrivance  for  ascertain- 
ing the  sentiments  of  those  holding  the  actual 
strength  of  the  nation, — and  for  conveying 
those  sentiments,  with  the  full  evidence  of 
their  authenticity,  to  the  actual  administrators 
of  their  affairs.  And  the  two  cases,  we  take 
it;  were  more  nearly  alike  than  has  generally 
been  imagined  ;  for  though  the  House  of  Com- 
mons had  an  existence  long  before  the  time 
of  King  Charles,  it  had  not  previously  been 
recognised  as  the  vehicle  of  commanding 
opinions,  nor  the  proper  organ  of  that  great 
body  to  whom  the  actual  power  of  the  State 
had  been  recently  and  insensibly  transferred. 
The  Court  .still  considered  the  effectual  power 
to  reside  in  the  feudal  aristocracy,  by  the 
greater  part  of  which  it  was  supported;  and, 
when  the  Parliament,  or  rather  the  House  of 
Commons,  spoke  in  name  of  the  People  of 
England,  thought  it  might  safely  disregard  the 
admonitions  of  a  body  which  had  not  hitherto 
advanced  any  such  auilioritative  claims  to  at- 


tention. It  refused,  therefore,  to  acknoAvIe  e 
this  body  as  the  organ  of  the  supreme  por 
of  the  State  ;  and  was  only  undeceived  w  i 
it  fell  before  its  actual  exertion.  In  Fra  ? 
again,  the  error,  though  more  radical,  wa.-  f 
the  very  same  nature.  The  administra  i 
of  the  government  was  conducted,  up  to  ^ 
very  eve  of  the  Revolution,  upon  the  » ;• 
principles  as  when  the  Nobles  were  ev  ,■ 
thing,  and  the  People  nothing'; — ^hough  • 
people,  in  the  mean  time,  had  actually  beco  > 
far  more  than  a  match  for  the  nobilitv  i 
wealth,  in  intelligence,  and  in  the  knowl'ei . 
of  their  own  importance.  The  Constilut. 
however,  provided  no  means  for  the  peacea  • 
but  authoritative  intimation  of  this  change  > 
the  official  rulers  ;  or  for  the  gradual  dei-el  • 
ment  of  the  new  power  which  had  thus  bt , 
generated  in  the  community:  and  the  con 
quence  was,  that  its  more  mdirect  iiidicati  ; 
were  overlooked,  and  nothing  yielded  to  i 
accumulating  pressure,  till  it  overturned  • 
throne, — and  overwhelmed  with  its  waste: 
flood  the  whole  ancient  institutions  of  ■ 
country.  If  there  had  been  any  provision  ' 
the  structure  of  the  government,  by  which  ■ 
increasing  power  of  the  lower  orders  had  bt 
enabled  to  make  it.'self  distinctly  felt,  arjc 
bear  upon  the  constituted  authorities,  as  grai 
ally  as  it  was  generated,  the  great  calamil  > 
which  have  befallen  that  nation  might  h; 
been  entirely  avoided, — the  condition  of 
monarchy  might  have  insensiblj'  accomi 
dated  itself  to  the  change  in  the  conditio:: 
the  people, — and  a  most  beneficial  altera; 
might  have  taken  place  in  its  administrati 
without  any  shock  or  convulsion  in  anv  f 
of  the  community.  For  want  of  some  si 
provision,  however,  the  Court  was  held  in 
norance  of  the  actual  power  of  the  people, 
it  burst  in  thunder  on  their  heads.  The  pe 
up  vapours  disploded  with  the  force  of 
earthquake;  and  those  very  elements  ti 
would  have  increased  the  beauty  and  strein 
of  the  constitution  by  their  harmonious  co 
bination,  crumbled  its  whole  fabric  into  n 
by  their  sudden  and  untempered  collisii 
The  bloody  revolutions  of  the  Sei-aglio  \\i 
acted  over  again  in  the  heart  of  the  m 
polished  and  enlightened  nation  of  Europe  . 
and  from  the  very  same  cause — the  want  o 
channel  for  conveying,  constantly  and  temp 
ately  and  effectually,  the  sense  of  those  \\ 
possess  power,  to  those  whose  office  it  \va~ 
direct  its  application; — and  the  outrage '.* 
only  the  greater  and  more  extensive,  that  i 
body  among  whom  this  power  was  diffii? 
was  larger,  and  the  period  of  its  unsuspecl 
accumulation  of  longer  duration. 

The  great  point,  then,  is  to  insure  a  fn 
an  authoritative,  and  an  uninterrupted  co; 
munication  between  the  ostensible  admir.. 
trators  of  the  national  power  and  its  act' 
constituents  and  depositories:  and.  the  chi 
distinction  between  a  good  and  a  bad  govc 
ment  consists  in  the  degree  in  which  it  affoi 
the  means  of  .'<uch  a  communication.  T 
main  end  of  government,  to  be  sure  is,  tl 
wise  laws  should  be  enacted  and  enforce 
but  such  is  the  condition  of  human  infinn:: 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


671 


th:  the  hazards  of  sanguinary  contentions 
ab':t  the  exercise  of  power,  is  a  much  greater 
animore  imminent  evil  than  a  considerable 
ob'iuction  in  the  nnaking  or  execution  of  the 
lai :  and  the  best  government  therefore  is, 
no'that  which  promises  to  make  the  best 
la|.  and  to  enforce  them  most  vigorously, 
bd:hat  which  guards  best  against  the  tre- 
mulous contlicts  to  which  all  administrations 
of  iivernrnent,  and  all  exercise  of  political 
iH)  "r  is  so  apt  to  give  rise.  It  happens,  for- 
tuttt'iy  indeed,  that  the  same  arrangements 
wl  h  most  effectually  insure  the  peace  of 
soctv  against  those  disorders,  are  also,  on 
thtivKole,  the  best  calculated  for  the  pur- 
pO!.3  of  wise  and  elFicient  legislation.  But 
welo  not  hesitate  to  look  upon  their  negative 
orleventive  virtues  as  of  a  far  higher  cast 
thr  their  positive  and  active  ones:  and  to 
corder  a  representative  legislature  as  incom- 
pa  jly  of  more  value,  when  it  truly  enables 
thi  tti'cient  force  of  the  nation  to  control  and  di- 
rec  he  executive,  than  when  it  merely  enacts 
wlesorae  statutes  in  its  legislative  capacity. 

'|ie  result  of  the  whole  then  is,  that  in  a 
civised  and  enlightened  country,  the  actual 
po'T  of  the  State  resides  in  the  great  body 
of  '3  people,  and  especially  among  the  more 
we'thv  and  intelligent  in  all  the  different 
ran?  of  which  it  consists  ;  and  consequently, 
thathe  administration  of  a  government  can 
iie^r  be  either  safe  or  happy,  unless  it  be 
cor'irmable  to  the  wishes  and  sentiments  of 
tha'ireat  body :  while  there  is  little  chance 
of  ;>  answering  either  of  these  conditions. 
unlj.s  the  forms  of  the  Constitution  provide 
son'  means  for  the  regular,  constant,  and  au- 
theic  expression  of  their  sentiments, — to 
whih,  when  so  expressed,  it  is  the  undoubted 
dut!  as  well  as  the  obvious  interest  of  the 
e.xt'itive  to  conform,  A  Parliament,  there- 
fori|  which  really  and  truly  represents  the 
sen|  and  opinions — we  mean  the  general  and 
majre  sense,  not  the  occasional  prejudices 
andjleeting  passions — of  the  efficient  body 
of  je  people,  and  which  watches  over  and 
efff  uaily  controls  every  important  act  of  the 
ex^itive  magistrate,  is  necessary,  in  a  coun- 
try p  this,  for  the  tranqnilhty  of  the  govern- 
me!  and  the  ultimate  safety  of  the  Monarchy 
itsej — much  more  even  than  for  the  enact- 
me!  of  laws:  and,  in  proportion  as  it  varies 
Ifomhis  description,  or  relaxes  in  this  con- 
trolVill  the  peace  of  the  country  and  the 
secSty  of  the  government  be  endangered. 

E:  then  comes  Mr.  Leckie,  and  a  number 
ofWal  gentlemen,  from  Sicily,  or  other  places, 
•exc'iming  that  this  is  mere  treason  and  re- 
pubpanism. — and  asking  whether  the  king  is 
to  h'e  no  will  or  voice  of  his  own  ? — what  is 
to  l;;ome  of  the  balance  of  the  Constitution 
-  if  hSs  to  be  reduced  to  a  mere  cypher  adiied 
lo  l"?  end  of  every  ministerial  majority? — 
and'ow,  if  the  office  is  thus  divested  of  all 
■  realjower,  it  can  ever  fulfil  the  purposes  for 
whi'i  we  ourselves  have  preferred  Monarchy 
to  aother  constitutions  1  We  shall  endeavour 
to  a  wer  the.se  questions ; — and  after  the  pre- 
ced  r  full  exposition  of  our  premises,  we 
thin  they  may  be  answered  very  briefly. 


In  the  first  place,  then,  it  does  not  appear 
to  us  that  it  can  be  seriously  maintained  that 
an}"  national  or  sjilutary  purjwse  can  ever  be 
served  by  recognising  the  j)rivate  will  or  voice 
of  the  King  as  an  individual,  as  an  element  in 
the  political  government,  especially  in  an  He- 
reditary monarchy.  The  person  upon  whom 
that  splendid  lot  may  tall,  not  having  been 
selected  for  the  olfice  on  account  of  any  proot 
or  presumption  of  his  fitness  for  it.  but  being 
called  to  it  as  it  were  by  mere  accident,  may 
be  fairly  presumed  to  have  less  talent  or  ca- 
pacity than  any  one  of  the  individuals  who 
have  made  their  own  way  to  a  place  of  in- 
fluence or  authority  in  his  councils;  and  his 
voice  or  opinion  therefore,  considered  naturally 
and  in  itself,  must  be  of  less  value  or  intrinsic 
authority  than  that  of  any  other  person  in  high 
office  under  him  :  And  when  it  is  farther 
considered  that  this  Sovereign  may  be  very 
young  or  very  okl — almost  an  idiot — almost  a 
madman — and  altogether  a  dotard,  while  he 
is  still  in  the  full  posscst^iun  and  the  lawful 
exercise  of  the  whole  authority  of  his  station, 
it  must  seem  perfectly  extravagant  to  main- 
tain that  it  can  be  of  advantage  to  the  nation, 
that  his  individual  wishes  or  opinions  should 
be  the  measure  or  the  condition  of  any  one 
act  of  legislation  or  national  policy. — Assured- 
ly it  is  not  for  his  wisdom  or  his  patriotism, 
and  much  less  for  his  own  delight  and  gratifi- 
cation, that  an  hereditary  monarch  is  placed 
upon  the  throne  of  a  free  people;  and  this 
obvious  consideration  alone  might  lead  us  at 
once  to  the  true  end  and  purpose  of  royalty. 

But  the  letter  and  theory  of  the  English 
Constitution  recognise  the  individual  will  of 
the  Sovereign,  just  as  little  as  reason  and 
common  sense  can  require  it,  as  an  integral 
element  in  that  constitution.  It  declares  that 
the  King  as  an  indiviilual  can  do  no  wrong, 
and  can  be  made  accountable  for  nothing — 
but  that  his  ministers  and  advisers  shall  be 
responsible  for  all  his  acts  without  any  excep- 
tion— or  at  least  with  the  single  exception  of 
the  act  of  naming  those  advisers.  In  every 
one  act  of  his  peculiar  and  official  Prerogative, 
in  which,  if  in  any  thing,  his  individual  and 
private  will  must  be  understood  to  have  been 
exerted,  the  Constitution  sees  only  the  will 
and  the  act  of  his  ministers.  The  King's  speech 
— the  speech  pronounced  by  his  ovvn  lips,  and 
as  his  voluntary  act  in  the  face  of  the  whole 
nation — is  the  speech  of  the  minister ;  and  as 
such,  is  openly  canvassed,  and  condemned  if 
need  be,  by  the  houses  of  Parliament,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  their  duty.  The  King's 
personal  answers  to  addresses — his  declara- 
tions of  peace  or  war — the  honours  he  person- 
ally confers — the  bills  he  personally  passes  or 
rejects — are  all  considered  by  the  Constitution 
as  the  acts  only  of  his  counsellors.  It  is  not 
only  the  undoubted  right,  but  the  unquestion- 
able duty  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  to  con- 
sider of  their  propriety — to  complain  of  them 
if  they  think  them  inexpedient— to  get  them 
rescinded  if  they  admit  of  such  a  correctiofi ; 
and  at  all  events  to  prosecute,  impeach,  and 
punish  those  advisers — to  whom,  and  not  to 
the  Sovereign  in  whose  name  they  run,  they 


572 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


are  exclusively  attributed.     This  great  doc- 1 
trine,  then,  of  ministerial  responsibility,,  an- ! 
swers  the  first  question  of  Mr.  Leckie  and  his  | 
adherents,  as  to  the  enormity  of  subjecting  the 
personal  will  and  opinion  of  the  Sovereign  at 
all  times  to  the  control  of  those  vho  represent 
the  efficient  power  of  the  community.     Mr. 
Leckie  himself,  it  is  to  be  observed,  is  for  leav- 
ing this  grand  feature  of  ministerial  responsi- 
bility, even  when  he  is  for  dispensing  with 
the  attendance  of  Parliaments; — though,  to  be 
sure,  among  his  other  omissions,  he  has  for- 
gotten to  tell  us  by  whom,  and  in  what  man- 
ner, it  could  be  enforcetl,  after  the  abolition 
of  these  troublesome  assemblies. 

The  next  question  relates  to  the  theoretical 
balance  of  the  Constitution,  which  they  say 
implies  that  the  will  and  the  power  of  the 
Monarch  is  to  be  a  separate  and  independent 
element  in  the  government.  We  have  not  left 
ourselves  room  now  to  answer  this  at  large ; 
nor  indeed  do  we  think  it  necessary  ;  and  ac- 
cordingly we  shall  make  but  two  remarks  in 
regard  to  it,  and  that  in  the  most  summary 
manner.  The  first  is,  that  the  powers  ascribed 
to  the  Sovereign,  in  the  theory  of  the  Consti- 
tution, are  not  supposed  to  be  vested  in  him 
as  an  insulated  and  independent  individual — 
but  in  him  as  guided  and  consubstantiated 
with  his  responsible  counsellors — that  the  King, 
in  that  balance,  means  not  the  person  of  the 
relgniuir  prince,  but  the  department  of  the 
Executive  government — the  \\*hole  body  of 
ministers  and  their  dependants — to  whom,  for 
the  sake  of  convenience  and  dispatch,  the  ini- 
tiative of  many  important  measures  is  entrust- 
ed ;  and  who  are  only  entitled  or  enabled  to 
carry  on  business,  under  burden  of  their  re- 
sponsibility to  Parliament,  and  in  reliance  on 
it.-<  ultimate  support.  The  second  remark  is, 
that  the  balance  of  the  Constitution,  in  so  far 
as  it  has  any  real  e.xistence.  will  be  found  to 
subsist  almost  entirely  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, which  possesses  exclusively  both  the 
power  of  impeachment;  anil  the  power  of 
granting  snpplies;  and  has  besides,  the  most 
natural  and  immediate  communication  with 
that  great  boily  of  the  Nation,  in  whom  the 
power  of  control  over  all  the  branches  of  the 
Legislature  is  ultimately  vested.  The  Execu- 
tive, therefore,  has  its  chief  Ministers  in  that 
House,  and  exerts  in  that  place  all  the  influ- 
ence which  is  attached  to  its  situation.  If  it 
is  successfully  opposed  there,  it  would  for  the 
most  part  be  infinitely  dangerous  for  it  to  think 
of  resisting  in  any  other  (juarter.  But  if  it 
were  to  exercise  its  legal  prerogative,  by  re- 
fusing a  series  of  favourite  bill.s,  or  di.sregard- 
ing  an  unanimous  address  of  the  Commons, 
the  natural  consecjuence  would  be,  that  the 
Commons  would  retort,  by  e.xercising  their 
legal  privilege  of  withholding  the  supplies; 
and  as  thin';^s  could  not  go  on  for  a  moment  on 
such  a  footing,  the  King  must  either  submit 
at  discretion,  or  arain  bethink  himself  of  rais- 
ing his  royal  standard  against  that  of  a  Parlia- 
mentary army.  The  general  view,  indeed, 
which  we  have  taken  above  of  the  true  nature 
of  that  which  is  called  the  jwwer  of  the  Mon- 
arch, is  enough  to  show,  that  it  can  only  be 


upon  the  very  unlikely,  but  not  impose  < 
supposition,  that  the  nominal  represeriiati ; 
of  the  people  are  really  more  estranged  fi 
their  true  sentiments  than  the  ministers  of 
Crown,  that  it  can  ever  be  safe  or  allowii  ■ 
for  the  latter  to  refuse  immediate  complia  ■ 
with  the  will  of  those  representatives. 

There  remains  then  but  one  other  quest 
viz.  Whether  we  are  really  for  reducing 
King  to  the  condition  of  a  mere  tool  -in 
hands  of  a  ministerial  majority,  without  i 
real  power  or  influence  whatsoever;  and  w 
ther,  upon  this  supposition,  there  can  be  ; 
ui*e  in  the  institution  of  monarchy — as 
minister,  on  this  view  of  things,  must  be 
garded  as  the  real  sovereign,  and  his  offici 
still  open  to  competition,  as  the  reward  of  li 
gerous  and  disorderly  ambition?  Now,  the 
swer  to  this  is  a  denial  of  the  assumption  u 
which  the  question  is  raised.  The  King,  u 
our  view  of  his  office — which  it  has  been  si 
is  exactly  that  taken  by  the  Constilutioi 
would  still  hold,  indisputably,  the  first  pi 
in  the  State,  and  possess  a  substantial  pov 
not  only  superior  to  that  which  any  mini; 
could  ever  obtain  under  him.  but  sufficien 
repress  the  pretensions  of  any  one  who,  uii 
any  other  form  of  government,  might 
tempted  to  aspire  to  the  sovereignty.  1 
King  of  England,  it  will  be  remembered, 
perpetual  member  of  the  cabinet — and  ] 
petually  the  First  Member  of  it.  No  di.« 
probation  of  its  measures,  whether  expres 
by  votes  of  the  Houses,  or  addresses  from 
people,  can  turn  him  out  of  his  situation:  ; 
he  has  also  the  power  of  nominating  its  ot 
members  ;  not  indeed  the  power  of  maint; 
ing  them  in  their  offices  against  the  senst 
the  nation — but  thp  power  of  trying  the 
pcrimcntjiiud  putting  it  on  the  country  tot: 
the  painful  and  difficult  step  of  insisting 
their  removal.  If  he  have  any  portion 
ministerial  talent.s.  therefore,  he  nuist  h; 
in  the  first  place,  all  the  power  that  could 
tach  to  a  Perpetual  Minister — with  all  the 
culiar  influence  that  is  in.separable  from 
sjilendour  of  his  oflicial  station  :  and,  in 
second  place,  he  has  the  actual  power,  if 
absolutely  to  make  or  unmake  all  the  ot 
members  of  hi?  cabinet  at  his  pleasure,  at  li  • 
to  choose,  at  his  own  discretion,  among 
who  are  not  upon  very  strong  grounds  e.xi 
tionable  to  the  country  at  large. 

Holding  it  to  be  quite  clear,  then,  that 
private  and  individual  will  of  the  sovereig 
not  to  be  recognised  as  a  separate  elemen 
the  actual  legislation,  or  administrative  : 
ernment  of  the  countrv.  and  that  it  mu.-^ 
all  cases  give  way  to  the  mature  sense  of 
nation,  we  shall   still  find,  thnt   his  placi 
conspicuously  and   beyond   all   question 
First  in  the  State,  and  that  it  is  invested  \' 
quite  as  much  substantial  power  as  isnece 
ry  to  maintain  all  other  offices  in  a  conditio 
.subordination.     To  see  this  clear!)-,  indec 
is  oidy  necessary  to  consider,  a  little  in  de 
what   is  the  ordinary  operation  of  the  n  ■ 
power,  and  on  what  occasions  the  necesff     ^,,- 
checks  to  which  we  have  alluded  come  if     J 
control  it.     The  King,  then,  as  the  presic'I     Z 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


tpmber  of  the  cabinet,  can  not  only  resist, 
Ct  suggest,  or  propose,  or  recommend  any 
ttng  which  he  pleases  for  the  adoption  of 
tit  executive  council; — and  his  suggeptious 
rjist  at  all  times  he  more  attended  to  than 
Ifise  of  any  other  person  of  the  same  kaow- 
ij!ge  or  capacity.  Such,  indeed,  are  the  in- 
tfetructible  sources  of  influence  belonging  to 
},  situation,  that,  if  he  be  only  compos  mentis, 
hmay  rely  upon  having  more  authority  than 
ay  twro  of  the  grav(^st  and  most  experienceil 
ii.ividuals  with  whom  he  can  communicate  ; 
a  I  that  there  will  be  a  far  greater  disposition 
t^adopt  his  recommendations,  than  those  of 
th  wisest  and  most  popular  minister  that  the 
cnitry  has  ever  seen.  He  may,  indeed,  be 
oVoted  even  in  the  cabinet  : — the  absurdity 
tfiis  suggestions  may  be  so  palpable,  or  their 
diiger  so  great,  that  no  habitual  deference, 
0;feeling  of  personal  dependence,  may  be 
sficient  to  induce  his  advisers  to  venture  on 
tiir  adoption.  This,  however,  we  imagine, 
vl  scarcely  be  looked  upon  as  a  source  of 
n'ional  weakness  or  hazard  ;  and  is,  indeed, 
a  accident  that  may  befal  any  sovereign, 
bvever  absolute — since  the  veriest  despot 
cinot  work  without  tools — and  even  a  mili- 
tik'  sovereign  at  the  head  of  his  army,  must 
elimit  to  abandon  any  scheme  which  that 
aiy  positively  refuses  to  execute.  If  he  is 
hfied  in  one  cabinet,  however,  the  King  of 
Edand  may  in  general  repeat  the  experi- 
n'nt  in  another :  and  change  his  counsellors 
o;r  and  over,  till  he  find  some  who  are  more 
orageous  or  more  complying. 

j5ut,  suppose  that  the  Cabinet  acquiesces : — 
til  Parliament  also  may  no  doubt  oppose,  and 
deal  the  execution  of  the  project.  The 
Ciinet  may  be  outvoted  in  the  House  of 
Cnimons.  as  the  Sovereign  may  be  outvoted 
irlthe  Cabinet;  and  all  its  other  members 
m  be  displaced  by  votes  of  that  House. 
T;  minister  who  had  escaped  being  dis- 
ntsed  by  the  King  through  his  compliance 
wih  the  Royal  pleasure,  may  be  dismissed 
J\  that  compliance,  by  the  voice  of  the 
Ljjislature.  But  the  Sovereign,  with  whom, 
ujn  this  supposition,  the  objectionable  mea- 
8ib  originated,  is  not  dismissed ;  and  may 
niionly  call  another  minister  to  his  councils 
tc!ry  this  same  measure  a  second  time,  but 
Ti\v'  himself  dismiss  the  Parliament  by  which 
itiad  been  censured;  and  submit  its  pro- 
cijdings  to  the  consideration  of  another  as- 
stjibly !  We  really  cannot  see  any  want  6f 
eljctive  power  in  such  an  order  of  things; 
ni}  comprehend  how  the  royal  authority  is 
rf^ered  altogether  nugatory  and  subordinate, 
tr^ely  by  requirinir  it  to  have  ultimately  the 
ciburrence  of  the  Cabinet  and  of  the  Legis- 
Jafre.  The  last  stage  of  this  hypothesis, 
hij^ever,  will  clear  all  the  rest. 

:'he  King's  measure  may  triumph  in  par- 
liiient  as  well  as  in  the  council — and  yet  it 
T)!,-  be  resisted  by  the  Nation.  The  parlia- 
nifit  may  be  outvoted  in  the  country,  as  well 
aijhe  cabinet  in  the  parliament ;  and  if  the 
niiisure,  even  in  this  last  stage,  and  after  all 
'ti'fe  tests  of  its  safety,  be  not  abandoned, 
till  most  dreadful  consequences  may  ensue. 


If  addresses  and  clamours  are  disregarded, 
recourse  may  be  had  to  arms ;  and  an  open 
civil  war  be  left  again  to  determine,  whether 
the  sense  of  the  people  at  large  be,  or  be  not, 
resolutely  again.st  its  adoption.  This  last 
species  of  check  on  the  power  of  the  Sove- 
reign, no  political  arrangement,  and  no  change 
in  the  Constitution,  can  obviate  or  prevent, 
and  as  all  the  other  checks  of  which  we  have 
spoken  refer  ultimately  to  this,  so,  the  defence 
of  their  necessity  anil  justice  is  complete, 
when  we  merely  say,  that  their  use  is  tu  pre- 
vent a  recurrence  to  this  last  extremity — and, 
by  enabling  the  sense  of  the  nation  to  repress 
pernicious  counsels  in  the  outset,  through  the 
safe  and  pacific  channels  of  the  cabinet  and 
the  parliament,  to  remove  the  necessity  of  re- 
sisting them  at  last,  by  the  dreadful  expedient 
of  actual  force  and  compulsion. 

If  a  king,  under  any  form  of  monarchy, 
attempt  to  act  against  the  sense  of  the  com- 
manding part  of  the  population,  he  will  inev- 
itably be  resisted  and  overthrown.  This  is 
not  a  matter  of  institution  or  policy;  but  a 
necessary  result  from  the  nature  of  hisofiice, 
and  of  the  power  of  which  he  is  the  adminis- 
trator— or  rather  from  the  principles  of  human 
nature.  But  that  form  of  monarchy  is  the 
worst — both  for  the  monarch  and  ibr  the  peo- 
ple— which  exjwses  him  the  most  to  the  shock 
of  such  ultimate  resistance ;  and  that  is  the 
best,  which  interposes  the  greatest  number 
of  intermediate  bodies  between  the  oppressive 
purpose  of  the  king  and  his  actual  attempt  to 
carry  it  into  execution, — which  tries  the  pro- 
jected measure  upon  the  greatest  number  of 
selected  samples  of  the  public  sense,  before 
it  comes  into  collision  with  its  general  mass, — 
and  affords  the  most  opportunities  for  retreat, 
and  the  best  cautions  for  advance,  before  the 
battle  is  actually  joined.  The  cabinet  is  pre- 
sumed to  know  more  of  the  sentiments  of  the 
nation  than  the  king ; — and  the  parliament  io 
know  more  than  the  cabinet.  Both  these 
bodies,  too,  ai'e  presumed  to  be  rather  more 
under  the  personal  influence  of  the  king  than 
the  great  body  of  the  nation ;  and  therefore, 
whatever  suggestions  of  his  are  ultimately 
rejected  in  those  deliberative  assemblies, 
must  be  held  to  be  such  as  would  have  been 
still  less  acceptable  to  the  bulk  of  the  com- 
munity. By  rejecting  them  there,  however, 
by  silent  votes  or  clamorous  harangues,  the 
nation  is  saved  from  the  necessity  of  rejecting 
them,  by  actual  resistance  and  insurrection  in 
the  field.  The  person  and  the  office  of  the 
monarch  remain  untouched,  and  untainted  for 
all  purposes  of  good  ;  and  the  peace  of  the 
country  is  maintained,  and  its  rights  asserted, 
without  any  turbulent  exertion  of  its  power. 
The  whole  frame  and  machinery  of  the  con- 
stitution, in  short,  is  contrived  for  the  express 
piirpose  of  preventing  the  kingly  power  from 
dashing  itself  to  pieces  against  the  more  rad- 
ical power  of  the  people :  and  those  institu- 
tions that  are  absurdly  supposed  to  restrain 
the  authority  of  the  sovereign  within  too  nar- 
row limits,  are  in  fact  its  great  safeguards 
and  protectors,  by  providini;  for  the  timely 
and  peaceful  operation  of  that  great  control- 


574 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ling  power,  which  it  could  only  elude  for  a 
season,  at  the  expense  of  much  certain  mis- 
ery to  the  people,  and  the  hazard  of  final 
destruction  to  itself. 

Mr.  Leckie,  however,  and  his  adherents, 
can  see  nothing  of  all  this.  The  facility  of 
casting  down  a  single  tyrant,  we  have  already 
seen,  is  one  of  the  prime  advantages  which 
he  ascribes  to  the  institution  of  Simple  mon- 
archy;— and  so  much  is  this  advocate  of 
kingly  power  enamoured  of  the  uncourtly 
doctrine  of  resistance,  that  he  not  only  recog- 
nises it  as  a  familiar  element  in  the  constitu- 
tion, but  lays  it  down  in  express  terms,  that 
it  affords  the  only  remedy  for  all  political  cor- 
ruption. "History,"  he  observes,  "has  fur- 
nished us  with  no  example  of  the  reform  of  a 
corrupt  and  tyrannical  government,  but  either 
from  intestine  xcar,  or  conquest  from  without. 
Thus,  the  objection  against  a  simple  mon- 
archy, because  there  is  no  remedy  for  its 
abuse,  holds  the  same,  but  in  a  greater  ile- 
gree,  against  any  other  form.  Each  is  borne 
with  as  long  as  possible  ;  and  when  the  evil  is 
at  its  greatest  height,  the  nation  eilher  rises 
against  it.  or,  not  having  the  means  of  so  doing, 
sinks  into  abject  degradation  and  misery." 

Such,  however,  are  not  our  principles  of 
policy  ;  on  the  contrary,  we  hold,  that  the 
chief  use  of  a  free  constitution  is  to  prevent 
the  recurrence  of  these  dreadful  extremities ; 
aud  that  the  e.vcellence  of  a  limited  monarchy 
consists  less  in  the  good  laws,  and  the  good 
administration  of  law,  to  which  it  naturally 
gives  birth,  than  in  the  security  it  affords 
against  such  a  melancholy  alternative.  To 
some,  we  know,  who  have  been  accustomed 
to  the  spectacle  of  long-established  despo- 
tisms, the  hazards  of  such  a  terrific  regenera- 
tion appear  distant  and  inconsiderable  ;  and, 
if  they  could  only  prolong  the  intervals  of 
patient  submission,  and  polish  away  some 
o(  the  harsher  features  of  oppression,  they 
imagine  a  state  of  things  would  result  more 
tranquil  and  desirable  than  can  ever  be  pre- 
sented by  the  eager  and  salutary  contentions 
of  a  free  government.  To  such  persons  we 
shall  address  but  two  observations.  The  first, 
that  though  the  body  of  the  people  may  in- 
deed be  kept  in  brutish  subjection  for  ages, 
where  the  state  of  society,  as  to  intelligence 
and  property,  is  such  that  the  actual  power 
and  command  of  the  nation  is  vested  in  a  few 
bands  of  disciplined  troops,  this  could  never 
be  done  in  a  nation  abounding  in  independent 
wealth,  very  generally  given  to  reading  and 
reflection,  and  knit  together  in  all  its  parts 
by  a  thousand  means  of  communication  and 
ties  of  mutual  interest  and  sympathy:  and 
least  of  all  could  it  be  done  in  a  nation  already 
accu.stomed  to  the  duties  and  eiijoymeiitsof 
freeilom,  and  regartling  the  safe  and  honour- 
able struggles  it  is  constantly  oblige*!  to  main- 
tain in  its  defence,  as  the  most  ennobling  and 
delightful  of  its  exercises.  The  other  remark 
is,  that  even  if  it  were  possible,  as  it  is  not. 
to  rivet  and  shackle  down  un  enlightened  na- 
tion in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  submit  for 
sometime,  inapparent  quietness,  to  the  abuses 
of  arbitrary  power,  it  is  never  to  be  forgotten 


that  this  submission  is  itself  an  e'vil — and 
evil  only  inferior  to  those  through  which ' 
must  ultimately  seek  its  relief.  If  any  foi 
of  tyranny,  therefore,  were  as  secure  <"rc 
terrible  convulsions  as  a  regulated  freedo, 
it  would  not  cease  for  that  to  be  a  far  less  c 
sirable  condition  of  existence;  and  as  t 
mature  sense  of  a  whole  nation  may  be  fail 
presumed  to  point  more  certainly  to  the  tr 
means  of  their  happiness  than  the  sint 
opinion  even  of  a  patriotic  king,  so  it  must 
right  and  reasonable,  in  all  cases,  that  1 
opinion  should  give  way  to  theirs;  and  thai 
power  should  be  generated,  if  it  did  not  nat 
rally  and  necessarily  exist,  to  insure  hs  pi 
dominance. 

We  have  still  a  word  or  two  to  say  on  I 
alleged  inconsistency  and  fluctuation  of  : 
public  councils  that  are  subjected  to  the  co 
trol  of  popular  assemblies,  and  on  the  unpn 
cipled  violence  of  the  factions  to  which  thi 
are  said  to  give  rise.  The  first  of  these  topii 
however,  need  not  detain  us  long.  If  it 
meant,  that  errors  in  public  measures  a 
more  speedily  detected,  and  more  certain 
repaired,  when  they  are  maturely  and  free 
discussed  by  all  the  wisdom  and  all  the  tale, 
of  a  nation,  than  when  they  are  left  to  li 
blind  guidance  of  the  passions  or  conceit  i. 
an  individual; — if  it  be  meant,  that,  under 
Simple  monarchy,  we  should  have  perseven 
longer  and  more  steadily  in  the  principles  i' 
the  Slave  Trade,  of  Catholic  Proscription,  a: 
of  the  Orders  in  Council : — then  we  cheerful 
admit  the  justice  of  the  charge — we  readi 
yield  to  those  governments  the  praise  of  su( 
consistency  and  such  perseverance — andotf 
no  apology  for  that  change  from  folly  to  w; 
dom,  and  from  cruelty  to  mercy,  which  is  pi 
duced  by  the  variableness  of  a  free  cons 
tution.  But  if  it  be  meant  that  an  absoJu 
monarch  keeps  the  faith  which  he  pltHL' 
more  religiously  than  a  free  people,  or  that  1 
is  less  liable  to  sudden  and  capricious  van 
tions  in  his  policy,  we  positively  deny  tl 
truth  of  the  imputation,  and  boldly  appeal 
the  whole  course  of  history  for  its  coiifutalio 
What  nation,  we  should  like  to  know,  eversloi 
half  so  high  as  our  own,  for  the  reputation  ( 
good  faith  and  inviolable  lidelity  to  its  allie; 
Or  in  what  instance  has  the  national  hono 
been  impeached,  by  the  refusal  of  one  set  ( 
ministers  to  abide  by  the  engagements  entt' 
eil  into  by  their  predecessors  ? — With  rega 
to  mere  caprice  and  inconsistency  again,  w 
it  be  seriously  maintained,  that  councils,  <1 
pending  upon  the  individual  will  of  an  ab.'s 
lute  sovereign — who  may  be  a  boy,  or  a  ?i 
or  a  dotard,  or  a  driveller — are  more  like 
to  be  steadily  and  wisely  pursued,  than  tho 
that  are  taken  up  by  a  set  of  e.xperienct 
statesmen,  under  the'control  of  a's'igilant  af 
intelligent  public  ?  It  is  not  by  mere  iwpul 
clamour— by  the  shouts  or  hisses  of  an  igit, 
rant  and  disortlerly  mob— but  by  the  deep,  ll 
slow,  and  the  collected  voice  of  the  intellifre 
and  enlightened  part  of  the  coniin unity,  ili 
the  councils  of  a  free  nation  are  ultimate 
guided.  But  if  th.>y  were  at  the  disiKiwd  m 
rabble— what  rabble,  we  would  ask,  is  so  ., 


n 


LECKIE  ON  BRITISH  GOVERNMENT. 


576 


ncmt,  so  contemptible,  so  fickle,  false,  and 
ei^ty  of  all  energy  of  purpose  or  principle, 
asiie  rabble  that  invests  the  palaces  of  arbi- 
tns'  kiiii;* — the  favourites,  the  mistresses, 
thpanLbMS,  the  flatterers  and  intriguers,  who 
8ii:eed  or  supplant  each  other  in  the  crum- 
ble soil  of  his  favour,  ami  so  frequently  dis- 
pc-of  all  that  ought  to  be  at  the  command 
of'isdom  and  honour  ? 

ooking  only  to  the  eventful  history  of  our 
ov  day,  will  any  one  presume  to  say.  that 
th conduct  of  the  simple  monarchies  of  Eu- 
ro has  afforded  us,  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
ail  such  lessons  of  steady  and  unwavering 
po;y  as  to  make  us  blush  for  our  own  demo- 
oncal  inconstancy  ?  What,  during  that  pe- 
ric.  has  been  the  conduct  of  Prussia — of 
Rifia — of  Austria  herself — of  every  state,  in 
sht,  that  has  not  been  terrified  into  constan- 
cy y  the  constant  dread  of  French  violence? 
Ai  where,  daring  all  that  time,  are  we  to  look 
founy  traces  of  manly  firmness,  but  in  the 
CO  act  and  councils  of  the  only  nation  whose 
misures  were  at  all  controlled  by  the  influ- 
en  of  popular  sentiments  1  If  that  nation 
tocvas  not  exempt  fiom  the  common  charge 
of  iicillation — if  she  did  fluctuate  between 
de';ns  to  restore  the  Bourbons,  and  to  enrich 
heielf  by  a  share  of  their  spoils — if  she  did 
coi-act  one  deep  stain  on  her  faith  and  her 
huanity.  by  encouraging  and  deserting  the 
parol  the  Royalists  in  La  Vendee — if  she 
ditvaver  and  wander  from  expeditions  into 
Fliders  to  the  seizure  of  West  Indian  islands, 
aiiifrom  menaces  to  extirpate  Jacobinism  to 
mliions  courting  its  alliance — will  any  man 
prend  to  say.  that  these  signs  of  infirmity 
of  arpose  were  proiluced  by  yielding  to  the 
vaiing  impulses  of  popular  opinions,  or  the 
altaate  preponderance  of  hostile  factions  in 
thtstate?  Is  it  not  notorious,  on  the  contia- 
ry.  lat  they  all  occurred  during  that  lament- 
abl  but  memorable  period,  when  the  alarm 
ex(  ed  by  the  aspect  of  new  dangers  had  in 
a  niiner  exiingiiishcd  the  constitutional  spirit 
of  irty,  and  composed  the  salutary  conflicts 
of  le  nation — that  they  occurred  in  the  first 
tenl-ears  of  Mr.  Pitt's  war  administration, 
wh'i  opposition  was  almost  extinct,  and  when 
the  overnment  was  not  only  more  entirely  in 
theiands  of  one  man  than  it  had  been  at  any 
lirr^since  the  days  of  Cardinal  Wolsey,  but 
whii  the  temper  and  tone  of  its  administra- 
tioiipproached  very  nearly  to  that  of  an  ar- 
bitiry  monarchy  1 

_  ('  the  doctrine  of  parties  and  party  dissen- 
sioij,  it  is  now  too  late  for  us  to  enter  at 
lank — and  indeed  when  we  recollect  what 
Mr'iurke  has  written  upon  that  subject,*  we 
do  t  know  why  we  should  wish  for  an  op- 
poriiiity  of  expressing  our  feeble  sentiments. 
Pail^s  are  necessary  in  all  free  govenmients 
— ail  are  indeed  the  characteristics  by  which 
suc'sovernments  may  be  known.  One  party, 
tha)f  (he  Rulers  or  the  Court,  is  necessarily 
forti'd  and  disciplined  from  the  permanence 
of  ii chief,  and-the  uniformity  of  the  interests 

'?e  hi.s  "  Thniitrhis  on  the  Cause  of  the  present 
Disntents."     Sub  initio— et  passim. 


it  has  to  maintain ; — the  party  in  Opposition, 
therefore,  must  be  marshalled  in  the  same 
way.  When  bad  men  combine,  good  men 
must  unite: — and  it  would  not  be  less  hope- 
less for  a  crowd  of  worthy  citizens  to  take  the 
field  without  leaders  or  discipline,  against  a 
regular  army,  than  for  individual  patriots  to 
think  of  opposing  the  influence  of  the  Sove- 
reign by  thi'ir  separate  and  uncombined  ex- 
ertions. As  to  the  length  which  they  shoulcl 
be  permitted  to  go  in  sujijOTrt  of  the  common 
cause,  or  the  extent  to  which  each  ought  to 
submit  his  private  opinion  to  the  general  sense 
of  his  associates,  it  does  not  appear  to  us — 
though  casuists  may  varnish  over  dishonour, 
and  purists  startle  at  shadows — either  that 
any  man  of  upright  feelings  can  be  often  at  a 
loss  for  a  rule  of  conduct,  or  that,  in  point  of 
fact,  there  has  ever  been  any  blameable  ex- 
cess in  the  maxims  upon  which  the  great  par- 
ties of  this  country  have  been  generally  con- 
ducted. The  leading  principle  is.  that  a  man 
should  satisfy  himself  that  the  party  to  which 
he  attaches  himself  means  well  to  the  coun- 
try, and  that  mor(;  substantial  good  will  ac- 
crue to  the  nation  from  its  coming  into  power, 
than  from  the  success  of  any  other  body  of 
men  whose  success  is  at  all  within  the  limits 
of  probability.  Upon  this  principle,  therefore, 
he  will  support  that  party  in  all  things  which 
he  approves — in  all  things  that  are  indifferent 
— and  even  in  some  things  which  he  partly 
disapproves,  provided  they  neither  touch  the 
honour  and  vital  interests  of  the  country,  nor 
imply  any  breach  of  the  ordinary  rules  of 
morality. — Upon  the  same  principle  he  will 
attack  not  only  all  that  he  individually  disap- 
]n-oves  in  the  conduct  of  the  adversary,  but  all 
that  might  appear  indifferent  and  tolerable 
enough  to  a  neutral  spectator,  if  it  afibrd  an 
opportunity  to  weaken  this  adversary  in  the 
public  opinion,  and  to  increase  the  chance  of 
bringnig  that  party  into  power  from  which 
alone  he  sincerely  believes  that  any  sure  or 
systematic  good  is  to  be  expected.  Farther 
than  this  we  do  not  believe  that  the  leaders 
or  respectable  followers  of  any  considerable 
party,  intentionally  allow  themselves  to  go. 
Their  zeal,  indeed,  and  the  heats  and  passions 
engendered  in  the  course  of  the  conflict,  may 
sometimes  hurry  them  into  measures  for 
which  an  impartial  spectator  cannot  find  this 
apology : — but  to  their  own  consciences  and 
honour  we  are  persuaded  that  they  generally 
stand  acc|uitted  ; — and,  on  the  score  of  duty  or 
moralitv.  that  is  all  that  can  be  required  of 
human  beings.  For  the  baser  retainers  of  the 
]!arty  indeed — those  marauders  who  follow  in 
the  rear  of  every  army,  not  for  battle  but  for 
booty — who  concern  themselves  in  no  way 
about  the  justness  of  the  quarrel,  or  the  fair- 
ness of  the  field  —  who  plunder  the  dead, 
and  butcher  the  wounded,  and  desert  the  un- 
prosperous,  and  betray  the  darintr; — for  those 
wretches  who  truly  belong  to  no  party,  and  arf? 
a  disgrace  and  a  drawback  upon  all,  we  shall 
assuredly  make  no  apology,  nor  propose  any 
measures  of  toleration.  The  spirit  by  which 
they  are  actuated  is  the  very  opposit(|  of  thai 
spirit  which  is  generated  by  the  parties  of  a 


GENEILVL  POLITICS. 


free  people  ;  and  accordingly  it  is  among  the 
advocates  of  arbitrary  power  that  such  per- 
sons, after  they  have  served  their  purpose  by 
a  pretence  of  patriotic  zeal,  are  ultimately 
found  to  range  themselves. 

We  positively  deny,  then,  that  the  interests 
jf  the  country  nave  ever  been  sacrificed  to  a 
vindictive  desire  to  mortify  or  humble  a  rival 
party ; — though  we  freely  admit  that  a  great 
deal  of  the  time  and  the  talent  that  might  be 
devoted  more  directly  to  her  service,  is  wasted 
in  such  an  endeavour.  This,  however,  is  un- 
avoidable— nor  is  it  possible  to  separate  those 
discussions,  which  are  really  necessary  to  ex- 
pose the  dangers  or  absurdity  of  the  practical 
measures  proposed  by  a  party,  from  those 
which  have  really  no  other  end  but  to  expose 
it  to  general  ridicule  or  odium.  This  too, 
however,  it  should  be  remembered,  is  a  point 
in  which  the  country  has  a  still  deeper,  though 
a  more  indirect  interest  than  in  the  former : 
since  it  is  only  by  such  means  that  a  system 
that  is  radically  vicious  can  be  exploded,  or  a 
set  of  men  fundamentally  corrupt  and  incapa- 
pable  removed.  If  the  time  be  well  spent, 
therefore,  which  is  occupied  in  preventing  or 
palliating  some  particular  act  of  impolicy  or 
oppression,  it  is  impossible  to  grudge  that  by 
which  the  spring  and  the  fountain  of  all  such 
acts  may  be  cut  off. 

With  regard  to  the  tumult — the  disorder — 
the  danger  to  public  peace — the  vexation  and 
discomfort  which  certain  sensitive  persons 
and  creat  lovers  of  tranquillity  represent  as 
the  fruits  of  our  political  dissensions,  we  can- 
not help  saying  that  we  have  no  sympathy 
with  their  delicacy  or  their  timidity.  What 
they  look  upon  as  a  frightful  commotion  of  the 
elements,  we  consider  as  no  more  than  a  whole- 
some agitation ;  and  cannot  help  regarding 
the  contentions  in  which  freemen  are  engaged 
by  a  conscientious  zeal  for  their  opinions,  as 
an  invigorating  and  not  ungenerous  exercise. 
What  serious  breach  of  the  public  peace  has 
it  occasioned  ? — to  what  insurrections,  or  con- 
spiracies, or  proscriptions  has  it  ever  given 
rise  ? — what  mob  even,  or  tumult,  has  been 
excited  by  the  contention  of  the  two  great 
parties  of  the  state,  since  their  contention  has 
been  open,  and  their  weapons  appointed,  and 
their  career  marked  out  in  the  fiee  lists  of  the 
constitution? — Suppress  lhe.se  contentions,  in- 
deed— forbid  these  weapons,  and  shut  up 
these  lists,  and  you  will  have  conspiracies 
and  insurrections  enough. — These  are  the 
short-sighted  fears  of  tyrants. — The  di.ssen- 
s:ons  of  a  free  people  are  the  preventives 
and  not  the  indications  of  i-ailical  disorder — 
and  the  noises  which  make  the  weak-hearted 
tremble,  are  but  the  natural  murmurs  of  those 
mighty  and  rningjiiig  currents  of  public  opin- 
ion, which  are  destined  to  fertilize  and  unite 
the  country,  and  can  iiever  become  danger- 
ous till  an  attempt  is  made  to  obstruct  their 
course,  or  to  disturb  their  level. 

Mr.  Leckie  has  favoured  his  readers  wjth 


an  enumeration  of  the  advantages  of  al  Infe 
monarchy ; — and  we  are  tempted  to  foil  •  hi? 
example,  by  concluding  with  a  dry  cat  igne 
of  the  advantages  of  free  government- -ach 
of  which  would  require  a  chapter  at  h^as 
long  as  that  which  we  have  now  besvlpd     ^ 
upon  one  of  them.     Next,  then,  to  thatfjig     ;.'i 
superior  security  from  great  reverses  an.Uhj.     ;, 
cities,  of  which  we  have  already  spoli  at     «( 
sufficient  length,  we  should  bedispoij  to 
rank  that  pretty  decisive  feature,  of  t  su-      ' 
perior  Happiness  which  it  confers  up  -all     a, 
the  individuals  who  live  under  it.     Tb'ijon-     i 
sciousnessof  liberty  is  agreaiblessinga:jai.      j 
joyment  in  itself. — The  occupation  it^jrts     « 
— ^the  importance  it  confers — the  excit'ient     - 
of  intellect,  and  the  elevation  of  spirit  jjjJi     ', 
it  implies,  are  all  elements  of  happine  pe-     ; 
culiar  to  this  condition  of  society,  andwe      : 
separate  and  independent  of  the  exten'td-     n 
vantages   with  which   it   may  be  atlt'ied. 
In  the  second  place,  however,  libi  rty  .  Jties 
men  more  Industrious,  and  coi!sequi"i!tl';Mie 
generally  prosperous  and  Wealthv  ;  the.soh     ■^■ 
of  which  is,  both  that  they  have  ai.ioiic.iem 
more  of  the  good  things  that  wealih  csipio- 
cure,  and  that  the  resources  of  tlie  StJare 
greater  for  all  public  purposes.     In  ihfiiird 
place,  it  renders  men  more  Valiant  and  igh- 
minded,  and  also  promotes  the  develo.ient 
of  Genius  and  Talents,  both  by  the  uiibo.dfii 
career  it  opens  up  to  the  emulation  of  let)- 
individual  in  the  land,  and  by  the  i.atu|.  ef- 
fect of  all  sorts  of  intellectual  or  moi' ex- 
citement to  awaken  all  sorts  of  iittelliloal 
and  moral  capabilities.     In  the  fourth  jice. 
it  renders  men  more  Patient,  and  Docil^acd 
Re,solute  in  the  pursuit  of  any  public  c'jct: 
and  consequently  both  makes  iheii  chai'iot 
success  greater,  and  enables  thi'ni  to  ,«ke 
much  greater  efforts  in  every  way,  in  j  Jpor- 
j  tion   to  the  extent  of  their  population!  No 
j  slaves  could  ever  have  undergone  the  lis  to 
i  which  the   Spartans  or  the   Romans  tjked 
i  themselves  for  the  good  or  the  glory  oliheir 
I  country  : — and  no  tyrant  could  ever  ha  ei- 
j  torted   the  sums  in  which  the  Comnu.  of 
:  England  have  voluntarily  assessed  ihenutes 
I  for  the  exigencies  of  the  state.     ThojJare     > 
'among  the  positive  advantages  of  frei'iin; 
and,  in  our  opinion,  are  its  chief  r.Jvaiiiief. 
I  — But  we  must  not  forget,  in  the  fil:h  aijast 
place,  that  there  is  nothing  else  but  >"rrp 
government  by  which  men  can  be  s««red 
from  those  arbitrary  invasions  of  lh"ir  P,«nJ 
and  Properties — those  cruel  perseiutioi; op- 
pressive  imprisonments,  and   lawless  «"C0- 
tions,  which  no  formal  code  can  prevr;  an 
ab.solute  monarch  from  regarding  as  a  1 1  of 
his  prerogative:  and,  above  all,  f;omio»e 
provi  ciai    exactions    and    oppres.iiof.f and 
those  universal  Insults,  and  Contnmelieand 
Indig.ities,  by  which  the  inferior  mini|Jof 
power  spread  misery  and  degradation  ifonfi 
the  whole  mass  of  every  people  w  hich  ■  < '"' 
political  independence. 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


(:=lpril,    ISll.) 

Song  of  Triumph.     By  W.  Sotiieby,  Esq.     8vo.     Lotulon:   1814. 
\Acte  Constitutionnel,  en  la  Seance  dit  9  Avril,  1814.     8vo.     Loiulrc.'* :   IS  14. 
if  Bomparte.  the  Bourbons,  and  (he  Necessity  of  rallying  round  our  legitimate  Princes,  for  the 
'Happiness  of  France  and  of  Europe.     By  F.  A.  Chatkaubriand.    8Vo.    London:   1814.* 


It  woulJ  be  strange  indeed,  we  think,  if 
tges  dedicated  like  ours  to  topics  of  present 
Iterest,  and  the  discussions  of  the  pa.ssing 
fur.  should  be  ushered  into  the  world  at  such 
jmomeiit  as  this,  without  some  stamp  of  that 
immon  joy  and  anxious  emotion  with  which 
!e  wwnderful  events  of  the  last  three  months 
■e  still  filling  all  the  regions  of  the  earth.  In 
,|ch  a  situation,  it  must  be  difficult  for  any 
(e  who  has  the  means  of  being  heard,  to  re- 
iiiu  from  giving  utterance  to  his  sentiments; 
lit  to  us,  whom  it  has  assured,  for  the  first 
ine,  of  the  entire  sympathy  of  all  our  coun- 

!Tnen,  the  temptation,  we  own.  is  irresisti- 
j ;  and  the  good-natured  part  of  our  readers, 
!  are  persuaded,  will  rather  smile  at  our 
mplicity,  than  fret  at  our  presumption,  when 
?  add,  that  we  have  sometimes  permitted 
t'rselves  to  fancy  that,  if  any  copy  of  these 
^r  lucubrations  should  go  down  to  another 
f'neration.  it  maybe  thought  curious  to  trace 
I  them  the  first  effects  of  events  that  are  pro- 
fbly  destined  to  li\  the  fortune  of  succeed- 


i>j  centuries,  and  to  observe  the  impressions 
lich  were  made  on  the  minds  of  contempo- 
iries,  by  those  mighty  transactions,  which 
•jll  appear  of  yet  greater  moment  in  the  eyes 
lia  distant  posterity.  We  are  still  too  near 
ijit  great  image  of  Deliverance  and  Reform 
'jiich  the  Genius  of  Europe  has  just  set  up 
llfore  us,  to  discern  with  certainty  its  just 
lieaments,  or  construe  the  true  character  of 
lb  Aspect  with  which  it  looks  onward  to  fu- 
tity  I  We  see  enough,  however,  to  fill  us 
'jth  innumerable  feelings,  and  the  germs  of 

r  This,  I  am  afraid,  will  now  be  thought  to  be  too 
ijich  of  a  mere  "  Sons  of  Triumph  ;"  or,  at  least, 
ijlie  conceived  throughout  in  a  tar  more  sanguine 
i|rit  than  IS  consistent  either  with  a  wise  observa- 

Ji  of  passiriir  events,  or  a  philosophical  estimate 
the  frailtie.'s  of  hiintan  nature  :  And,  having  eer- 
ily been  written  under  that  prevailing  c.Kciie- 
i|n»,  of  which  I  chiefly  wish  to  preserve  it  as  a 
ij'morial,  I  have  no  doubt  that,  to  some  extent,  it 
i|K).  At  the  same  time  it  should  be  recollected, 
lit  it  was  written  immediately  after  the  first  res- 
t[aiiou  of  liie  Boitrhons  ;  and  before  the  startling 
(j.maof  the  Hundred  Days,  and  its  grand  catastro- 
\}  at  Waterloo,  had  dispelled  tiie  first  wholesome 
•irs  of  the  Allies,  or  sown  the  seeds  of  more  l)itter 
nklingsaiid  resentments  in  the  body  of  the  French 
|i)ple:  and,  above  all,  that  it  was  so  written,  be- 
l[e  the  many  lawless  invasions  of  national  inde- 
Iiidence,  and  broken  promises  of  ."Sovereigns  to  j  s 
I'.ir  sul«j"c:s.  which  h.ave  since  revived  that  dis- 
tjsi,  which  both  nations  and  philosophers  were 
t|'n.  perhaps,  too  ready  to  renounce.  And  after 
II,  I  must  gay,  that  an  attentive  reader  may  find, 
•|inin  this  strain  of  good  auguries,  both  such  traces 
[imisgivings,  and  such  iteration  of  anxious  warn- 
•|;8,  as  to  save  me  from  the  imputation  of  having 
yrely  predicted  a  IWillenniutn. 
73 


many  high  and  anxious  speculations.  Tlie  feel- 
ings, we  are  sure,  are  in  unison  with  all  that 
exists  around  us  ;  and  W(«  reckon  therefort!  on 
more  than  usual  indulgence  for  the  specula- 
tions into  which  they  may  exjxind. 

The  first  and  predominant  feeling  which 
rises  on  contemplating  the  scenes  that  have 
just  burst  on  our  view,  is  that  of  deep-felt 
gratitude  and  delight, — for  the  libei;ition  of 
so  many  oppres.sed  nations, — for  the  cc^it^ilion 
1  of  blood.shed  and  fear  and  misery  over  the 
fairest  portions  of  the  civilised  world, — and 
\  for  the  enchanting,  though  still  dim  and  un- 
certain prospect  of  long  peace  and  mcastireless 
improvement,  which  seems  at  last  to  be  open- 
ing on  the  suffering  kingdoms  of  Europe.  The 
very  novelty  of  such  a  state  of  things,  which 
could  be  known  only  by  description  to  the 
greater  part  of  the  existing  generation — the 
suddenness  of  its  arrival,  and  the  contrast 
which  it  forms  with  the  anxieties  and  alarms 
to  which  it  has  so  immediately  succeeded,  all 
concur  most  powerfully  to  enhance  its  vast 
intrinsic  attractions.  It  has  corne  upon  the 
j  world  like  the  balmy  air  and  fiushing  verdure 
I  of  a  late  spring,  after  the  dreary  chills  of  a 
long  and  interminable  winter;  and  the  re- 
freshing sweetness  with  which  it  has  visited 
the  earth,  feels  like  Elysium  to  those  who 
have  just  escaped  from  the  driving  tempests 
it  has  banished. 

We  have  reason  to  hope,  too,  that  the  riches 
of  thg  harvest  will  corresixind  with  the  splen- 
dour of  this  early  promise.  All  the  periods 
in  which  human  society  and  human  intellect 
have  been  known  to  make  great  and  memor- 
able advances,  have  followed  close  ur)on 
periods  of  general  ;igitation  and  ilisoriJer. 
Men's  minds,  it  would  appear,  must  be  deeply 
and  roughly  stirred,  before  they  become  pro- 
lific of  great  conceptions,  or  vigorous  resolves; 
and  a  vast  and  alarming  fermentation  must 
pervade  and  agitate  the  mass  of  societv,  to 
inform  it  with  that  kindly  warmth,  by  \vhich 
alone  the  seeds  of  genius  and  improvement 
can  be  expanded.  The  fact,  at  all  events,  is 
abundantly  certain  ;  and  may  be  accounted 
for,  we  conceive,  without  mystery,  and  with- 
out metaphors. 

A  popular  revolution  in  government  or  re- 
ligion— or  any  thing  else  that  gives  rise  to 
general  and  long-continued  contention,  natu- 
rally produces  a  prevailing  disdain  of  anlhor- 
ity,  and  boldness  of  thinking  in  the  leaders 
of  the  fraj-. — together  with  a  kindling  of  the 
imagination  and  development  of  intellect  in  a 
great  multitude  of  persons,  who,  in  ordinary 
times,  would  have  vegetated  stupidly  in  the 
places  where  fortune  had  fixed  them.  Power 
2Y 


578 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


and  distinction,  and  all  the  higher  prizes  in 
the  lottery  of  life,  are  then  brought  within  the 
reach  of  a  larger  proportion  of  the  community  ; 
and  that  vivifying  spirit  of  ambition,  which  is 
the  true  source  of  all  improvement,  instead 
of  burning  at  a  few  detached  points  on  the 
summit  of  society,  now  pervades  every  por- 
tion of  its  frame.  Much  extravagance,  and,  in 
all  probability,  much  guilt  and  much  misery, 
result,  in  the  first  instance,  from  this  sudden 
e.vtrication  of  talent  and  enterprise,  in  places 
\vhere  they  can  as  yet  have  no  legitimate 
issue,  or  points  of  application.  But  the  con- 
tending elements  at  last  find  their  spheres, 
and  their  balance.  The  disorder  ceases  ;  but 
the  activity  remains.  The  multitudes  that 
had  been  raised  into  intellectual  existence  by 
dangerous  passions  and  crazy  illusions,  do  not 
all  relapse  into  their  original  toi-por,  when 
their  passions  are  allayed  and  their  illusions 
dispelled.  There  is  a  great  permanent  addi- 
tion to  the  power  and  the  enterprise  of  the 
community  ;  and  the  talent  and  the  activity 
which  at  first  convulsed  fhs  state  by  their 
tinmeasured  and  misdirected  exertions,  ulti- 
inately  bless  and  adorn  it,  under  a  more  en- 
lightened and  less  intemperate  guidance.  If 
we  may  estimate  the  amount  of  this  ultimate 
good  by  that  of  the  disorder  which  preceded 
it,  we  cannot  be  too  sansruine  in  our  calcula- 
tions of  the  happiness  that  awaits  the  rising 
generation.  The  fermentation,  it  will  readily 
be  admitted,  has  been  long  and  violent  enough 
to  extract  all  the  virtue  of  all  the  ingredients 
that  have  been  submitted  to  its  action  ,:  and 
enough  of  scum  has  boiled  over,  and  enouirh 
of  pestilent  vapour  been  exhaled,  lo  afford  a 
jeasonable  assurance  that  the  residuum  will 
be  both  ample  and  pure. 

If  this  delight  in  the  spectacle  and  the 
prospect  of  boundless  good,  be  the  first  feeling 
that  is  excited  by  the  scene  before  us.  the 
second,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  is  a  stern 
and  vindictive  joy  at  the  downfal  of  the  Tyrant 
and  the  tyranny  by  whom  that  good  had  been 
so  long  intercepted.  We  feel  no  compassion 
for  that  man's  reverses  of  fortune,  whose 
heart,  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  was 
steeled  against  that,  or  any  other  humanising 
'emotion.  He  has  fallen,  substantially,  with- 
'Out  the  pity,  as  he  rose  without  the  love,  of 
any  portion  of  mankind;  aad  the  admiration 
which  was  excited  by  his  talents  and  activity 
and  success,  having  no  solid  stay  in  the  mag- 
nanimity or  generosity  of  his  character,  has 
been  turned,  perhaps  rather  too  eagerly,  into 
scorn  and  derision,  now  that  he  is  deserted 
by  fortune,  and  appears  without  extraordinary 
resources  in  th-  day  of  his  calamity. — We  do 
not  think  that  an  ambitions  despot  and  ,san- 
^inary  conqueror  can  be  too  much  execrated, 
or  too  little  respected  by  mankind  ;  but  the 
popular  clamour,  at  this  moment,  seems  to  us 
to  be  carried  too  far,  even  against  this  very 
dangerous  individual.  It  is  now  discovered. 
it  seems,  that  he  has  neither  genius  nor  com- 
mon sense ;  and  he  is  accused  of  cowardice  for 
not  killing  himself,  by  the  very  persons  who 
would  infallibly  have  exclaimed  against  his 
•suicide,  as  a  clear  proof  of  weakness  and 


folly.  Histor)'.  we  think,  will  not  class  h 
quite  so  low  as  the  English  newspapers  of  t 
present  day.  He  is  a  creature  to  be  dread 
and  condemned,  but  not,  assuredly,  to 
despised  by  men  of  ordinary  dimensions.  1 
catastrophe,  so  far  as  it  is  yet  visible,  see: 
unsuitable  indeed,  and  incongruous  with  t 
part  he  has  hitherto  sustained  ;  but  we  ha 
perceived  nothing  in  it  materially  to  alter  t 
estimate  which  we  formed  long  ago  of  '. 
character.  He  still  seems  to  us  a  man 
consummate  conduct,  valour,  and  decision 
war,  but  without  the  virtues,  or  even  t 
generous  or  social  vices  of  a  soldier  of  fcrtur 
— of  matchless  activity  indeed,  and  bonndit 
ambition,  but  entirely  without  principle,  fe 
ing,  or  affection  } — suspicious,  vindictive,  a 
overbearing ; — selfish  and  solitary  in  all  1 
pursuits  and  gratifications } — proud  and  ov 
weening,  to  the  very  borders  of  insanity, 
and  considering  at  last  the  laws  of  honour  a 
the  principles  of  morality,  equally  beneath  1 
notice  with  the  interests  and  feelings  of  otl 
men. — Despishig  those  who  submitted  to  1 
pretensions,  and  pursuing,  with  implacal 
hatred,  all  who  presumed  to  resist  them, 
seems  to  have  gone  on  in  a  growing  cor 
dence  in  his  own  fortune,  and  contempt 
mankind. — till  a  serious  check  from  withe 
showed  him  the  error  of  his  calculation,  a 
betrayed  the  fatal  insecurity  of  a  career  whi 
reckoned  only  on  prosperity. 

Over  the  downfal  of  such  a  man,  it  is  fitti 
that  the  world  should  rejoice;  and  his  dow 
fal,  and  the  circumstances  with  which  it  h 
been  attended,  seem  to  us  to  hold  out  ihr 
several  grounds  of  rejoicing. 

In  the  first  place,  we  think  it  has  establi; 
ed  for  ever  the  impracticability  of  any  schei 
of  universal  dominion  ;  and  proved,  thai  E 
rope  possesses  sufficient  means  to  maint; 
and  assert  the  independence  of  her  seve 
states,  in  despite  of  any  power  that  can 
brought  asfainst  them.  It  might  formerly  ha 
been  doubted, — and  many  minds  of  no  abjt 
cast  were  depresseil  with  more  than  doul 
on  the  subject, — whether  the  undivided  sw 
which  Rome  exercised  of  old.  by  means 
superior  skill  and  discipline,  mjeht  not  be  : 
vived  in   modem  times  by  arrangement,: 
tivity,   and    intimidation, — and   whether, 
spite  of  the  boasted  intelligence  of  P^uropei     .Ssgt, 
the  present  day,  the   ready  communicapl     »ilfe 
between  all  its  parts,  and  the  supposed  weig     'i^} 
of  its  publ  c  opinion,  the  sovereign  of  oiWi     nina 
two  great  kingdoms  might  not  subdne  all  H    ''<H}> 
rest,  by  rapidity  of  movemeiit  and  deci?! 
of  conduct,  and  retain  them  in  .objection 
a  strict  system  of  disarming  and  cspiona^( 
by  a  constant  interchange  of  armies  and  s- 
tions — and,  in  short,  by  a  dexterous  and  ali 
use  of  those  very  means,  of  extensive  intei 
gence  and  communication,  which  their  civ 
isation  seemed  at  first  to  liohl  out  as  th' 
surest  protection.    The  e.vperiment,  howev' 
has  now  been  tried  ;  and  the  result  is,  ll 
the  nations  of  Europe  can  never  be  broiij. 
under  the  rule  of  one  conquering  sovereiji       i,^^ 
No  individual,  it  may  be  fairly  presumed,  w      <ii|^ 
ever  try  that  fatal  experiment  again,  with!     w 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


tti-.y  extraordinary  advaiitages,  and  chances 
oj^uccess,  as  he  in  whose  hands  it  has  now 
fiillv  miscarried.  The  difierent  states,  it  is 
tdbe"  hoped,  will  never  again  be  found  so 
slimefully  unprovided  for  defence — so  lonij 
irNisible  to  their  danger  —  and,  let  us  not 
8(.]ple  at  last  to  speak  the  truth,  so  little 
wjthy  of  being  saved — as  most  of  tlieni  were 
afhe  beginning  of  that  awful  period;  while 
tljre  is  still  less  chance  of  any  military  sove- 
ni'ii  au"ain  hnding  himself  invested  with  the 
aolute  disposal  of  so  vast  a  population,  at 
oie  habituated  to  war  and  victory  by  the 
eiigies  of  a  popular  revolution.and  disposed 
tcubmit  to  any  hardships  and  privations  for 
a  uler  who  would  protect  them  from  a  re- 
cueiice  of  revolutionary  horrors.  That  ruler, 
hvx'ver,  and  that  population,  reinforced  by 
irnense  drafts  from  the  countries  he  had 
a  ;ady  overrun,  has  nov/  been  fairly  beaten 
dvn  by  the  other  nations  of  Europe  —  at 
luth  cordially  united  by  a  sense  of  their 
CJimon  danger.  Henceforward,  therefore, 
tly  show  their  strength,  and  the  means  and 
Oi'asions  of  bringing  it  into  action  ;  and  the 
vy  notoriety  of  that  strength,  and  of  the 
Sines  on  which  it  has  been  proved,  will  in 
a;probability  prevent  the  recurrence  of  any 
n  essity  for  proving  it  again. 

'he  second  ground  of  rejoicing  in  the  down- 
fjof  Bonaparte  is  on  account  of  the  impres- 
si;  lesson  it  has  read  to  Ambition,  and  the 
svking  illustration  it  has  afforded,  of  the  in- 
eiable  tendency  of  that  passion  to  bring  to 
riti  the  power  and  the  greatness  which  it 
siiks  so  madly  lo  increase.  No  human  being, 
phaps,  ever  stooti  on  so  proud  a  pinnacle  of 
wddly  grandeur,  as  this  insatiable  conqueror, 
ajhe  beginning  of  his  Russian  campaign. — 
Hlhad  done  more — he  had  acquired  more — 
al  he  possessed  more,  as  to  actual  power, 
iruence,  and  authority,  than  any  individual 
tilt  ever  figured  on  the  scene  of  European 
8ify.  He  had  visited,  with  a  victorious  army, 
alost  every  capital  of  the  Continent ;  and 
dfated  the  terms  of  peace  to  their  astonished 
pjices.  He  had  consolidated  under  his  im- 
mliate  dominion,  a  territory  and  population 
ajiarenlly  sufficient  to  meet  the  combination 
ojdl  that  it  did  not  include ;  and  interwoven 
hhself  with  the  government  of  almost  all 
tljt  was  left.  He  had  cast  down  and  enacted 
thnes  at  his  pleasure;  and  surrounded  hira- 
81;'  with  tributary  kings,  and  principalities 
ohis  own  creation.  He  had  connected  him- 
fii"  by  marriage  with  the  proudest  of  the 
a  lent  sovereigns  ;  and  was  at  the  head  of 
tl,  largest  and  the  finest  army  that  was  ever 
asmbled  to  desolate  or  dispose  of  the  world, 
tl  he  known  where  to  stop  in  his  aggres- 
s  IS  upon  the  peace  and  independence  of 
n!nkind,  it  seems  as  if  this  terrific  sove- 
rirnty  might  have  been  permanently  e.s- 
U'lish-^d  in  his  person.  But  the  dem.on  by 
vom  he  was  possessed  urged  him  on  to  his 
if.  He  could  not  bear  that  any  power  should 
ejst  which  did  not  confess  its  dependence  on 
hi.  Without  a  prete.xt  for  quarrel,  he  at- 
tiked  Russia  —  insulted  Austria — trod  con- 
taptuously  on  the  fallen  fortunes  of  Prussia 


— and  by  new  aggressions,  and  the  menace 
of  more  intolerable  evils,  drove  them  nito  that 
league  which  rolled  back  the  tide  of  ruin  on 
himself,  and  ultinKU<'ly  hurled  him  into  ihe 
insignificance  from  w  liicfi  he  originally  sj>iung. 
It  is  for  this  reason,  chii'ily,  that  we  join  ju 
the  feeling,  which  we  tliink  universal  in  this 
country,  of  joy  and  satisliictioii  at  the  utter 
destruction  of  this  victim  of  Ambition, — and 
at  the  failure  of  those  negotiations,  which 
would  have  left  him,  though  humbled,  in 
possession  of  a  sovereign  state,  and  of  irreat 
actual  power  and  authority.  We  s;iy  nothing 
al  present  of  the  policy  or  the  necessity,  that 
may  have  dictated  those  propositions  ;  but  the 
actual  result  is  far  more  satisfactory,  than  any 
condition  of  their  ac"'-ptance.  Without  this, 
the  lesson  to  Ambition  would  have  been  im- 
perfect, and  the  retribution  of  Eternal  Justice 
apparently  incomplete.  It  was  fitting,  that 
the  world  should  see  it  again  demonstrated, 
by  this  great  example,  that  the  appetiti;  of 
comiuest  is  in  its  own  nature  insatiable; — 
and  that  a  being,  once  abandoned  to  that 
bloody  career,  is  fated  to  pursue  it  to  the  end  ; 
and  must  persist  in  the  work  of  desolation 
and  murder,  till  the  accumulated  wrongs  aid 
resentments  of  the  harassed  world  sweep  him 
from  its  face.  The  knowledge  of  this  may 
deter  some  dangerous  spirits  from  entering  on 
a  course,  which  will  infallibly  bear  them  on 
to  destruction  ; — and  at  all  events  should  in- 
duce the  sufferers  to  cut  short  the  measure 
of  its  errors  and  miseries,  by  accomplishing 
their  doom  at  the  beginning.  Sanguinr.iy 
conquerors,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  should 
be  devoted  by  a  perpetual  proscription,  in 
mercy  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Our  last  cause  of  rejoicing  over  this  grand 
catastrophe,  arises  from  the  discredit,  and 
even  the  derision,  which  it  has  so  opportunely 
thrown  upon  the  character  of  conquerors  in 
general.  The  thinking  part  of  mankind  did 
not  perhaps  need  to  be  disabused  upon  this 
j  subject ; — but  no  illusion  was  ever  so  strong, 
j  or  so  pernicious  with  the  multitude,  as  that 
which  invested  heroes  of  this  description  with 
I  a  sort  of  supernatural  grandeur  and  dignity, 
I  and  bent  the  spirits  of  men  before  them,  as 
j  beings  intrinsically  entitled  to  the  homage  and 
[  submission  of  inferior  natures.  It  is  above 
I  all  things  fortunate,  therefore,  when  tliis  spell 
I  can  be  broken,  by  merely  reversing  the  opera- 
!  tion  bv  which  it  had  been  imposed  ;  when  the 
j  idols  that  success  had  tricked  out  in  the  mock 
I  attributes  of  divinity,  are  stripped  of  their 
j  disguise  by  the  rough  hand  of  misfortune,  and 
1  exhibited  before  the  indignant  and  wondering 
eyes  of  their  admirers,  in  the  naked  littleness 
of  humbled  and  helpless  men, — depending, 
for  life  and  subsistence,  on  the  pity  of  their 
■  human  conquerors, — and  spared  with  safety, 
'  in  consequence  of  their  insignificance. — Such 
I  an  exhibition,  we  would  fain  hope,  will  rescue 
!  men  for  ever  from  that  most  humiliating  devo- 
I  tion,  which  has  hitherto  so  often  temiUed  the 
I  ambition,  and  facilitated  the  juogress  of  con- 
!  querors. — It  is  not  in  our  days,  at  least,  that 
I  it  will  be  forgotten,  that  Bonaparte  turned  out 
i  a  mere  mortal  in  the  end ;— and  neither  in  our 


580* 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


days,  nor  in  those  of  our  children,  is  it  at  all 
likely,  that  any  other  adventurer  will  arise  to 
efface  the  impressions  connected  with  that 
recollection,  by  more  splendid  achievements, 
than  distinguished  the  greater  part  of  his 
career.  The  kind  of  shame,  too,  that  is  felt 
by  those  who  have  been  the  victims  or  the 
instruments  of  a  being  so  weak  and  fallible. 
will  make  it  difficult  for  any  successor  to  his 
ambition,  so  to  overawe  the  minds  of  the 
world  again  ]  and  will  consequently  diminish 
the  dread,  while  it  exasperates  the  hatred. 
with  which  presumptuous  oppression  ought 
always  to  be  regarded. 

If  the  downfal  of  Bonaparte  teach  this 
lesson,  and  fix  this  feeling  in  the  minds  of 
men,  we  should  almost  be  tempted  to  say  that 
the  miseries  he  has  inflicted  are  atoned  for ; 
and  that  his  life,  on  the  whole,  will  ha^e  been 
u.seful  to  mankind.  Undoubtedly  there  is  no 
other  single  source  of  wretchedness  so  prolific 
as  that  strange  fascination  by  which  atrocious 
guilt  is  converted  into  an  object  oi  admiration, 
and  the  honours  due  to  the  benefactors  of  the 
human  race  lavished  most  profusely  on  their 
de.stroyers.  A  sovereign  who  pursues  schemes 
of  conquest  for  the  gratification  of  his  personal 
ambition,  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  being 
who  inflicts  violent  death  upon  thousands, 
and  miseries  still  more  agonising  on  millions, 
of  innocent  individuals,  to  relieve  his  own 
ennui,  and  divert  the  languors  of  a  base  and 
worthless  e.xistence  : — and,  if  it  be  true  that 
the  chief  e.vcitement  to  such  exploits  is  found 
in  the  false  Glory  with  which  the  madness 
of  mankind  has  surrounded  their  successful 
performance,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  calculate 
how  much  we  are  indebted  to  hira  whose  his- 
tory has  contributed  to  dispel  it. 

Next  to  our  delight  ;it  the  overthrow  of 
Bonaparte,  is  our  exultation  at  the  glory  of 
England. — It  is  a  proud  and  honourable  dis- 
tinction to  be  able  to  say.  in  the  end  of  such 
a  contest,  that  we  belong  to  the  only  nation 
that  has  never  been  conquered  : — to  the  nation 
that  set  the  first  example  of  successful  resist- 
ance to  the  power  that  was  desolating  the 
world, — and  who  always  stood  erect,  though 
she  sometimes  stood  alone,  before  if.  From 
England  alone,  that  power,  to  which  all  the 
rest  had  successively  bowed,  has  won  no  tro- 
phies, and  extorted  no  submission :  on  the 
contrary,  she  has  been  constantly  baffled  and 
disgraced  whenever  she  has  grappled  directly 
with  the  might  and  energy  of  Encland.  Dur- 
ing the  proudest  part  of  her  continental  career. 
England  drove  her  ships  from  the  ocean,  and 
annihilated  her  cr)lonies  and  her  commerce. 
The  first  French  army  that  capitulated,  capit- 
ulated to  the  English  forces  in  Egypt  ;  and 
Lord  Wellington  is  the  only  commander 
against  whom  six  Marshals  of  France  have 
successively  tried  in  vain  to  procure  any  ad- 
vantage. 

The  efforts  of  England  have  not  always 
been  well  directed. — nor  her  endeavours  to 
rouse  the  other  nations  of  Europe  very  wisely 
timed  : — Kut  she  has  set  a  magnificent  ex- 
ample of  unconquerable  fortitude  and  unalter- 
able constancy ;  and  she  may  claim  the  proud 


distinction  of  having  kept  alive  the  sacn; 
Hame  of  liberty  and  the  spirit  of  national  i; 
dependence,  when  the  chill  of  general  appr 
hension,  and  the  rushing  whirlwind  of  co 
quest,  had  apparently  extinguished  them  f. 
ever,  in  the  other  nations  of  the  earth.  J 
courses  of  prosperity,  indeed,  and  no  harve 
of  ultimate  success,  can  ever  eAtinguish  tJ, 
regret  of  all  the  true  friends  of  our  uatioiiii 
glory  and  happiness,  for  the  many  prepost& 
ous,  and  the  occasionally  disreputable  expi 
ditions,  in  which  English  blood  was  mo- 
than  unprofitably  wasted,  and  English  ch?! 
acter  more  than  imprudently  involved  j  n 
can  the  delightful  assurance  of  our  actui 
deliverance  from  danger  efface  the  remer 
brance  of  the  tremendous  hazard  to  w  hich  », 
were  so  long  exposed  by  the  obstinate  ini( 
government  of  Ireland .  These,  however,  \re* 
the  sins  of  the  Government. — and  do  not  (( 
all  detract  from  the  excellent  spirit  of  tt^ 
People,  to  which,  in  its  main  beariiiiis,  itwj-, 
necessary  for  the  government  to  confonj 
That  spirit  Avas  always,  and  we  believe  ur-;' 
versally,  a  spirit  of  strong  attachment  to  tl: 
country,  and  of  stern  resolution  to  do  fj 
things,  and  to  suffer  all  things  in  its  cause ;-j 
mingled  with  more  or  less  confidence,  ormoj 
or  less  anxiety,  according  to  the  temper  or  til 
information  of  individuals. — but  sound,  steacj 
and  erect  we  believe  upon  the  whole,— aij 
equally  detemiined  to  risk  all  for  indepeii'i 
ence,  whether  it  was  believed  to  be  ingrej 
or  in  little  danger.  I 

Of  our  own  sentiments  and  professions, a»j 
of  the  consistency  of  our  avowed  principle! 
from  the  first  to  the  last  of  this  momentoij 
period,  it  would  be  impertinent  to  speak  ] 
large,  in  discussing  so  areat  a  theme  as  tlj 
i  honour  of  our  common  coniitry.  None  of  o  | 
readers,  and  none  of  our  censors,  can  bo.moj 
persuaded  than  we  are  of  the  extreme  insij 
nificance  of  such  a  discussion — and  not  maij 
I  of  them  can  feel  more  completely  indiffereji 
about  the  aspersions  with  which  we  haij 
\  been  distinguished,  or  more  fully  conTinai' 
of  the  ultimate  justice  of  jniblic  opinion.  V] 
shall  make  no  answer  therefore  to  the  sneej 
and  calumnies  of  which  it  has  been  though 
worth  while  to  make  us  the  subject,  excei 
just  to  say,  that  if  any  man  can  read  what^j 
have  written  on  public  affairs,  and  entertaj 
any  serious  doubt  of  our  zeal  for  the  safet' 
the  honour,  and  the  freedom  of  England,  1( 
must  attach  a  different  meaning  to  all  thej 
phrases  from  that  which  we  have  most  sii 
cerelv  believed  to  belon::  to  them  ;  and  thi' 
though  we  do  not  jiretend  to  have  either  io\\ 
seen  or  foretold  the  happy  events  that  have  J 
lately  astonished  the  woild,  we  cannot  fail  J 
see  in  them  the  most  gratifying  confirmati(] 
of  the  very  doctrines  we  have  been  the  longti 
and  the  most  loudly  abused  for  asserting.    { 

The  last  sentiment  in  which  we  think  »j 
candid  observers  of  the  late  great  eventsmtj 
cordially  agree,  is  that  of  admiration  and  puj 
and  unmingled  approbation  of  the  magnar 
mitv.  the  prudence,  the  dignity  and  forben 
ance  of  the  Allies.  There  has  been  som 
thins  in  the  manner  of  those  extraordina 


RESTOrxATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


6M 


((.nsactions  as  valuable  as  the  substance  of 
\aX  has  been  achieveil, — and.  if  possible, 
til  more  meritorious.  History  records  no  in- 
fince  of  union  so  faithful  and  comjilrte — of 
(uneils  so  firm — of  gallantry  so  generous — 
(moderation  so  dignified  and  wise.  In  read- 
ij  the  addresses  of  the  Allied  Sovereigns  to 
p  people  of  Europe  and  of  France ;  and, 
I'ove  all,  in  tracing  every  step  of  their  de- 
leanour  after  they  got  jx)ssession  of  the  me- 
l^polis.  we  seem  to  be  transported  from  the 
'Igar  and  disgusting  realities  of  actual  story, 
Ithe  beautiful  inuiginations  and  exalted  tie- 
ins  of  poetry  and  romance.  The  proclama- 
('n  of  the  Emperor  Alexander  to  the  military 
tn  who  might  be  in  Paris  on  his  arrival — his 
j-dress  to  the  Senate — the  terms  in  which  he 
Is  always  spoken  of  his  fallen  adver.^ary, 
j>  all  conceived  in  the  very  highest  strain  of 
rbleness  and  wisdom.  They  have  all  the 
lirit,  the  courtesy,  the  generosity,  of  the  age 
•  chivalry;  and  all  the  liberality  and  mild- 
iss  of  that  of  philosophy.  The  disciple  of 
>nelon  could  not  have  conducted  himself 
'th  more  perfect  amiablenessand  grandeur; 
:d  the  fabulous  hero  of  the  loftiest  and  most 
jiilanthropic  of  moralists,  has  been  equalled, 
iinot  outdone,  by  a  Russian  monarch,  in  the 
ibt  flush  and  tumult  of  victor}-.  The  sub- 
hity  of  the  scene  indeed,  and  the  merit  of 
13  actors,  will  not  be  fairly  appreciated,  if 
'>  do  not  recollect  that  they  were  arbitrary 
it-ereigns,  who  had  been  trained  rather  to 
(iisult  their  own  feelings  than  the  rights  of 
rmkind — who  had  been  disturbed  on  their 
Ijreditary  thrones  by  the  wanton  aggressions 
(Ithe  man  who  now  lay  at  their  mercy — and 
M  seen  their  territories  wasted,  their  people 
Ijtchered,  and  their  capitals  pillaged,  by  him 
ihy  had  at  last  chased  to  his  den,  and  upon 
iioee  capital,  and  whose  people,  they  might 
i;\v  repay  the  insults  that  had  been"  offered 
litheirs.  They  judged  more  magnanimously, 
liwever;  and  they  judged  more  wisely — for 
Ijir  own  glory,  for  the  objects  they  had  in 
'Bw,  and  for  the  general  interests  of  humani- 
ty By  their  generous  forbearance,  and  sin- 
jjlar  moderation,  they  not  only  put  their  ad- 
rrsarj'  in  the  wrong  in  the  eyes  of  all  Europe, 
k  they  made  him  appear  little  and  ferocious 
ii  comparison ;  and,  while  overbearing  all 
(position  by  superior  force,  and  heroic  reso- 
1  ion,  they  paid  due  honour  to  the  valour  by 
^lich  they  had  been  resisted,  and  gave  no 
sbidable  offence  to  that  national  pride  which 
I'ght  have  presented  the  greatest  of  all  ob- 
t'cles  to  their  success.  From  the  beginning 
t(the  end  of  their  hostile  operation?,  they 
f'pided  naming  the  name  of  the  ancient 
fnily;  and  not  in  words  merely,  but  in  the 
Mole  strain  and  tenor  of  their  conduct,  re- 
acted the  inherent  right  of  the  nation  to 
(oose  its  own  government,  and  stipulated  for 
1  hing  but  what  was  indispensable  for  the 
Pety  of  its  neighbours.  Born,  as  they  were, 
funlimited  thrones,  and  accustomed  in  their 
tin  persons  to  the  exercise  of  power  that  ad- 
rited  but  little  control,  they  did  not  scruple 
tjdeclare  publicly,  that  France,  at  least,  was 
f|ifled  to  a  larger  measure  of  freedom;  and 


that  the  intelligence  of  its  population  entitled 
it  to  a  share  in  its  own  government.  They 
exerted  themselves  sincerely  to  mediate  be- 
tween the  ditferent  parties  that  might  be  sup- 
poseil  to  exist  in  the  state;  and  tiv;iled  each 
with  a  respect  that  taught  its  opj Diients  that 
they  might  coalesce  w  uhout  being  dishonour- 
ed. In  this  way  the  seeds  of  civil  discord, 
which  such  a  crisis  could  scarcely  have  failed 
to  quicken,  have,  we  trust,  been  almost  en- 
tirely destroyed  ;  and  if  France  escapes  the 
visitation  of  internal  (lissei.s;()n.  it  will  be 
chiefly  owing  to  the  considerate  ami  magnani- 
mous pruilence  of  those  very  persons  to  w  horn 
Europe  has  been  indebteii  lor  her  deliverance. 
In  this  high  and  unqualiJied  praise,  it  is  a 
singular  satisfaction  to  us  to  be  able  to  sjiy, 
thai  our  own  Goveniment  seems  fully  entitled 
to  participate.  In  the  whole  of  those  most  im- 
portant proceedings,  the  Ministry  of  England 
appears  to  have  conducted  itself  with  wisdom, 
moderation,  and  propriety.  In  spile  of  the 
vehement  clamours  of  many  in  their  own 
party,  and  the  repugnance  which  was  saiti  to 
exist  in  higher  quarters  to  any  negotiation  with 
Bonaparte,  they  are  understood  to  have  ad- 
hered with  laudable  firmness  to  the  clear  po- 
licy of  not  disjoining  their  country  from  that 
great  confederacy,  through  which  alone,  either 
peace  or  victory,  was  rationally  to  be  expect- 
ed : — and,  going  heartily  along  with  their 
allies,  both  in  their  unrivalled  efforts  and  in 
their  heroic  forbearance,  they  too  refrained 
from  recog-nising  the  ancient  family,  till  they 
were  invited  to  return  by  the  spontaneous 
voice  of  their  own  nation  ;  and  thus  gave  them 
the  glory  of  being  recalled  by  the  appearance 
at  last  of  afl'ection,  instead  of  being  replaced 
by  force  :  \\  hile  the  nation,  which  force  would 
either  have  divided,  or  disgusted  entire,  did 
all  that  was  wanted,  as  the  free  act  of  their 
own  patriotism  and  wisdom.  Considering  the 
temper  that  had  long  been  fostered,  and  the 
tone  that  had  been  maintained  among  their 
warmest  supporters  at  home,  we  think  this 
conduct  of  the  ministry  entitled  to  the  highest 
credit:  and  we  give  it  our  praise  now,  with 
the  same  freedom  and  sincerity  with  which 
we  pledge  ourselves  to  bestow  our  censure, 
whenever  they  do  any  thing  that  seems  to  call 
for  that  less  grateful  exercise  of  our  duly. 

Having  now  indulged  ourselves,  by  express- 
ing a  few  of  the  sentiments  that  are  irresistibly 
suggested  by  the  events  that  lie  before  us, 
we  turn  to  our  more  laborious  and  appropriate 
vocation  of  speculating  on  the  nature  and  con- 
sequences of  those  events.  Is  the  restoration 
of  the  Bourbons  the  best  possible  issue  of  the 
long  struggle  that  has  preceded  1  Will  it  lead 
to  the  establishment  of  a  free  government  in 
France  ?  Will  it  be  favourable  to  the  geneial 
interests  of  liberty  in  England  anti  the  rest  of 
the  world  ?  These  are  great  and  momentous 
questions. — which  we  are  farlrom  jiresuming 
to  think  we  can  answer  explicitly,  without  the 
assistance  of  that  great  expositor — time.  Yet 
we  should  think  the  man  unworthy  of  the 
great  felicity  of  having  lived  to  the  presmt 
day,  who  could  help  asking  them  ot  himself; 
2  y  2 


582^ 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


and  we  seem  to  stand  in  the  particular  pre- 
dicament of  being  obliged  to  try  at  least  for 
an  answer. 

The  first,  we  think,  is  the  easiest ;  and  we 
scarcely  scruple  to  answer  it  at  once  in  the 
atfinnative.  We  know,  indeed,  that  there  are 
many  who  think,  that  a  pemianeiit  change  of 
dynasty  might  have  afforded  a  better  guarantee 
against  the  return  of  those  ancient  abuses 
which  first  gave  rise  to  the  revolution,  and  may 
again  produce  all  its  disasters ;  and  that  France, 
reduced  within  moderate  limits,  would,  under 
such  a  dynasty,  both  have  served  better  as  a 
permanent  warning  to  other  states  of  the  dan- 
ger of  such  abuses,  and  been  less  likely  to 
unite  itself  with  any  of  the  old  corrupt  govern- 
ments, in  schemes  against  the  internal  liberty 
or  national  independence  of  the  great  European 
communities.  And  we  are  far  from  under- 
rating the  value  of  these  suggestions.  But 
there  are  considerations  of  more  urgent  and 
immediate  importance,  that  seem  to  leave  no 
room  for  hesitation  in  the  present  position  of 
affairs . 

In  the  first  place,  the  restoration  of  the 
Bourbons  seems  the  natural  and  only  certain 
eml  of  that  series  of  revolutionary  movements, 
and  that  long  and  disastrous  experiment  which 
has  so  awfully  overshadowed  the  freedom 
and  happiness  of  the  world.  It  naturally 
figures  as  the  final  completion  of  a  cycle  of 
convulsions  and  miseries;  and  presents  itself 
to  the  imagination  as  the  point  at  which  the 
tempest-shaken  vessel  of  the  state  again 
reaches  the  haven  of  tranquillity  from  the 
stormy  ocean  of  revolution.  Nor  is  it  merely 
to  the  imagination,  or  through  the  mediation 
of  such  figures,  that  this  truth  presents  itself. 
To  the  coldest  reason  it  is  manifest,  that  by 
the  restoration  of  the  old  line,  the  whole  tre- 
mendous evils  of  a  disputed  title  to  the  crown 
are  at  once  obviated  :  For  when  the  dynasty 
of  Napoleon  has  once  lost  posscssimi.  it  has 
lost  all  upon  which  its  pretensions  could  ever 
have  been  foinided,  and  may  fairly  be  con- 
sidered as  annihilated  and  extinguished  for 
ever.  The  novelty  of  a  government  is  in  all 
cases  a  prodigious  inconvenience — but  if  it  be 
substantially  unpopular,  and  the  remnants  of 
an  old  government  at  hand,  its  insecurity  be- 
comes not  only  obvious  but  alarming :  Since 
nothing  but  the  combination  of  great  severity 
and  great  success  can  give  it  even  the  appear- 
ance of  stability.  Now,  the  2'overnment  of 
Napoleon  was  not  only  new  and  oppressive, 
and  consequently  insecure,  but  it  was  abso- 
lutely dissolved  and  at  an  end,  before  th(?  pe- 
riod had  arrived  at  which  alone  the  restoration 
of  the  Bourbons  could  be  made  a  subject  of 
deliberation. 

The  chains  of  the  Continent,  in  fact,  were 
broken  at  Leipsic  ;  and  the  Despotic  sceptre 
of  the  great  nation  cast  down  to  the  earth,  as 
soon  as  the  allies  set  foot  as  conquerors  on  its 
ancient  territory.  If  the  Bourbons  were  not 
then  to  be  restored,  there  were  only  three 
other  ways  of  settlinjj  the  government. — To 
leave  Bonaparte  at  the  head  of  a  limited  and 
reduced  monarchy — to  vest  the  sovereignty 
m   his   infant  son — or  to  call  or  permit  some 


new  adventurer  to  preside  over  an  entire  ne 
constitution,  republican  or  monarchical,  j 
might  be  most  agreeable  to  his  supporters. 

The  first  would  have  been  fraught  wit 
measureless  evils  to  France,  and  dangers  I 
all  her  neighbours  ; — but,  fortunately,  thou" 
it  was  tried,  it  was  in  its  own  nature  impia. 
ticable  :  and  Napoleon  kneM"  this  well  enou"! 
when  he  rejected  the  propositions  made  to  hii 
at  Chatilloii.  He  knew  well  enough  wh; 
stulf  his  Parisians  and  his  Senators  were  mad 
of;  and  what  were  the  only  terms  upon  whic 
the  nation  would  submit  to  his,,£lominion.  H 
knew  that  he  had  no  real  hold  of  the  Affei 
tions  of  the  people ;  and  ruled  but  in  the 
fears  and  their  Vanity — that  he  held  his  throiii 
in  short,  only  because  he  had  identitied  h 
own  greatness  with  the  Glory  of  France,  an 
surrounded  himself  with  a  vast  army,  draw 
from  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  so  poste 
and  divided  as  to  be  secured  against  an 
general  spirit  of  revolt.  The  moment  ih 
army  was  ruined  therefore,  and  lie  came  bac 
a  beaten  and  humbled  sovereign,  he  felt  th; 
his  sovereignty  was  at  an  end.  To  rule  ; 
all,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  rule  wit 
glory,  and  with  full  possession  of  the  meaij 
of  intimidation.  As  soon  as  these  left  hin 
his  throne  must  have  tottered  to  its  falj 
Royalist  factions  and  Republican  factioi 
woukl  have  arisen  in  every  part  of  the  n:. 
tion — discontent  and  insurrection  would  ha\ 
multiplied  in  the  capital,  and  in  the  pn 
vinces — and  if  not  cut  off  by  the  ami  ( 
some  new  competitor,  he  must  soon  ha\ 
been  overwhelmed  in  the  tempest  of  civ 
commotion. 

The  second  plan  would  have  been  less  dai| 
gerous  to  other  states,  but  still  more  impractj 
cable  with  a  view  to  France  itself.  Tbi 
nerveless  arm  of  an  infant  could  never  havj 
wielded  the  iron  sceptre  of  Napoleon, — an] 
his  weakness,  and  the  utter  want  of  nativl 
power  or  inllueiice  in  the  members  of  hi 
family,  would  have  invited  all  soitsof  preteij 
sions,  and  called  forth  to  open  dayallthowil' 
and  terrific  faction;*  which  the  terror  of  h 
father's  power  had  chased  for  a  season  to  the 
dens  of  darkness.  Jealousy  of  the  influemi 
of  Austria,  too.  would  have  facilitated  thedt| 
position  of  the  baby  despot ; — and  even  if  h| 
state  could  have  been  upheld,  it  is  plain  thi 
it  could  have  been  only  by  the  faithful  energl 
of  his  predecessor's  ministers  of  oppression,-j 
and  that  the  dynasty  of  Napoleon  could  oiii| 
have  maintained  itself  by  the  arts  and  tlj 
crimes  of  its  founder.  I 

The  third  expedient  must  plainly  have betj 
the  most  inexpedient  and  unmerciful  of  alj 
since,  after  the  experience  of  the  last  iwen" 
A-ears.  we  may  venture  to  say  wilh  conlidenc 
ihat  it  could  only  have  led,"  through  a  repe' 
tion  of  those  monstrous  disorders  over  wni(i 
reason  has  blushed  and  humanity  sickened;: 
long,  to  the  dead  repose  of  another  militai; 
despotism. 

The  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  therefor 
we  conceive,  was  an  act,  not  merely  of  wi 
dom,  but  of  necessity,— or  of  thnt  strong  ai, 
obvious   expediency,  with   a  view  either 


II 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


p4;ce  or  security,  which  in  politics  amounts 
tc  ecessity.  It  is  a  separate,  however,  or  at 
le>t  ati  ulterior  question,  whether  this  Tes- 
tation is  hkely  to  give  a  Free  Government 
tc'rance,  or  to  bring-  it  hack  to  the  condition 
oJts  old  aibitrary  monarchy  1  a  question  cer- 
taly  of  great  interest  and  curiosity, — anil 
urii"  which  it  does  not  appear  to  us  that  the 
pUicians  of  this  country  are  by  any  means 
a:red. 

Vhere  are  many,  we  think,  who  cannot  be 
bu'^'ht  to  understand  that  the  restoration  of 
(1  ancient  line  can  mean  any  thing  else  but 
ll  ivstoratlon  of  the  ancient  constitution  of 
til  monarch V, — who  take  it  for  granted,  that 
tlv  must  return  to  the  substantial  exercise 
oall  their  former  functions,  and  conceive, 
tit  all  restraints  upon  the  sovereign  authori- 
ty and  all  stipulations  in  favour  of  public 
lifrty,  must  be  looked  upon  with  contempt 
a;  aversion,  and  be  speedily  swept  away,  as 
vitiges  of  that  tremendous  revolution,  the 
Miole  brood  and  progeny  of  which  must  be 
hd  in  abhorrence  at  the  Court  of  the  new 
Sjaarch: — And  truly,  when  we  remember 
wat  Mr.  Fox  has  said,  with  so  much  solem- 
ny.  upon  this  subject,  and  call  to  mintl  the 
ojasion,  with  reference  to  which  he  has  de- 
clred.  that  "'a  Restoration  is,  for  the  most  part, 
tli  most  pernicious  of  all  Revolutions," — it  is 
n'l  easy  to  divest  ourselves  of  apprehensions, 
tljt  such  may  in  some  degree  be  the  conse- 
q;'nce  of  the  events  over  which  we  are  re- 
jtfing..  Yet  the  circumstances  of  the  present 
c[e,  we  will  confess,  do  not  seem  to  us  to 
wjnant  such  apprehensions  in  their  full  ex- 
t<:t;  and  our  augury,  upon  the  whole,  is  fa- 
virable  ujjou  this  branch  of  the  question  also. 

[hey  who  think  differently,  and  who  hope, 
o>ear,  that  things  are  to  go  back  exactly  to 
tl(  slate  in  which  they  were  in  1788;  and 
tit  all  the  sufferings,  and  all  the  sacrifices. 
o,th8  intermediate  period,  are  to  be  in  vain, 
Itji  only,  as  It  appears  to  us,  to  the  naked 
fi!:,  that  the  olil  line  of  kings  is  restored,  and 
tlj  ancient  nobility  re-established  in  their 
h|iours.  They  consider  the  case,  as  It  would 
hj'C  been,  if  this  restoration  had  been  efTect- 
e|by  the  triumphant  return  of  the  emigrants 
fi|n' Coblentz  in  1792— by  the  success  of  the 
I>],-alist  arms  in  La  Vendee — or  by  the  gone- 
rijprevalence  of  a  Royalist  party,  spontane- 
Ojly  reieni^nitcd  over  the.  kingdom: — For 


pjting  that  the  ancient  family  has  only  been 
rijalled  in  a  crisis  brought  on  by  foreigii  suc- 
Cjses;  when  the  actual  government  was 
T^ually  dissolved,  and  no  alternative  left  to 
tl|  nation,  but  those  which  we  have  just  enu- 
n';rate<l;  —  forgetting  that  it  is  not  restored 
Ufonditionally.  and  as  a  matter  of  right,  but 
r;j\er  called  anew  to  the  throne,  upon  terms 
av  stipulations,  propounded  in  the  name  of  a 
riion,  free  to  receive  or  to  reject  it : — forget- 
ti?  thai  an  interval  of  twenty-five  long  years 
h,  separated  the  subjects  from  the  Sovereiirn  ; 
a.  broken  all  those  ties  of  habitual  loyalty, 
bjwh'ch  a  people  is  most  effectually  bound 
t<)an  hf^reditTiry  monarch;  and  that  those 
yl^rs,  filled  with  ideas  of  democratic  license, 
o'lespotic  oppression,  cannot  have  tended  to 


foster  associations  favourable  to  royalty,  or  to 
propagate  kindly  conceptions  of  the  connec- 
tion of  subject  and  king; — forgetting,  above 
all,  that  along  with  her  ancient  monarchy,  a 
iH'w  legislative  body  is  associated  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  France, — that  a  constitution  has 
bi'en  actually  adopteil,  by  which  the  powers 
of  those  monarchs  may  bt?  eilV'ctually  control- 
led ;  and  that  the  iiiuslrious  person  who  has 
ascended  the  throne,  has  already  bound  hirn- 
.self  to  govern  according  to  that  constitution, 
and  to  assume  no  power  with  which  it  does 
not  expressly  invest  him. 

If  Louis  XVIII.;  then,  trained  in  the  school 
of  misfortune,  and  S(>eing  and  feeling  all  the 
permanent  changes  whicli  these  twenty-live 
eventful  years  have  wrought  in  the  condition 
of  his  people  ; — if  this  monarch,  mild  ami  un- 
ambitious as  he  is  understood  to  be  in  his 
character,  is  but  faithful  to  his  oath,  grateful 
to  his  deliverers,  and  observant  of  the  coun- 
sels of  his  most  prudent  and  magnanimous 
Allies,  he  will  feel,  that  he  is  not  the  lawful 
inheritor  of  the  powers  that  belongeil  to  his 
predecessor ;  that  his  crown  is  not  the  crown 
of  Louis  XVI.;  and  that  to  assert  hix  privi- 
leges, would  be  to  provoke  his  fate.  By  this 
time,  he  probably  knows  enough  of  the  nature 
of  his  countrymen,  perhaps  we  should  say  of 
mankind  in  general,  not  to  rely  too  much  on 
those  warm  expressions  of  love  and  loyalty, 
with  which  his  accession  has  been  hailed,  and 
which  would  probably  have  been  lavished 
with  equal  profusion  on  his  antagonist,  if  vic- 
tory had  again  attended  his  arms,  in  this  last 
and  decisive  contest.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  he  may  be  more  acceptable  to  the  body 
of  the  nation,  than  the  despot  he  has  supplant- 
ed ;  and  that  some  recollections  or  traditions 
of  a  more  generous  loyalty  than  the  sullen 
nature  of  that  ungracious  ruler  either  invited 
or  admitted,  have  mingled  themselves  with 
the  hopes  of  peace  and  of  liberty,  which  must 
be  the  chief  solid  ingredients  in  his  welcome  ; 
and  acting  upon  the  constitutional  vivacity  of 
the  people,  and  the  servility  of  mobs,  always 
ready  to  lackey  the  heels  "of  the  successful, 
have"  taken  the  form  of  ardent  affection,  and 
the  most  sincere  devotedness  and  attachment. 
But  we  think  h  is  very  apparent,  that  there  is 
no  great  love  or  spontaneous  zeal  for  the  Bour- 
bons in  the  body  of  the  French  nation;  that 
the  joy  so  tardily  manifested  for  their  return, 
is  mainly  grounded  upon  the  hope  of  conse- 
!  quential"  benefits  to  themselves;  and,  at  all 
\  events,  that  there  is  no  personal  attachment, 
which  will  lead  them  to  submit  to  any  thing 
that  may  be  supposed  to  be  encroaching,  or 
I  felt  to  be  oppressive.  It  will  probably  require 
great  temper  and  great  management  in  the 
new  sovereigns  to  exercise,  without  offence, 
the  powers  with  which  they  are  legitimately 
'invested;  but  their  danger  will  be  great  in- 
deed, if  they  suddenly  attempt  to  iro  beyond 
them.  With' temper  and  circnmsi)ection,  they 
may  in  time  establish  the  solid  foundations  of 
a  .splendid,  though  limited,  throne;  if  they 
'  aspire  again  to  be  absolute,  the  i)robability  is 
1  that  they  will  soon  cease  to  reisn. 
,      The  realoratiou  of  the  old  Nobility  seems, 


584 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


at  first  sight,  a  more  hazardous  operation  than 
than  that  of  the  ancient  mouarchs ; — but  the 
danger,  there  also,  is  more  apparent  than  real. 
The  various  inclemencies  of  a  twenty-live 
)'ears'  exile  have  sadly  thinned  the  ranks  of 
those  rash  ami  sanguine  spirits  who  assem- 
bled at  Coblentz  hi  1792,  and  may  be  pre- 
sumed to  have  tamed  the  pride  and  lowered 
the  pretensions  of  the  few  that  remain.  A 
groat  multitude  of  families  have  become  ex- 
tinct,— a  still  greater  number  had  reconciled 
themselves  to  the  Imperial  Government, — and 
the  small  remnant  that  have  contirmed  faith- 
ful to  the  fortunes  of  their  Royal  Master,  will 
probably  be  satisfied  with  the  conditions  of 
his  return.  Thus  dwindled  in  number, — de- 
cayed in  fortune, — and  divided  by  diversities 
of  conduct  that  will  not  be  speedily  forgotten, 
we  do  not  think  that  there  is  any  great  hazard 
of  their  attempting  either  to  assert  those  priv- 
ileges as  a  body,  or  to  assume  that  tone,  by 
which  they  formerly  revolted  the  inferior 
classes  of  the  state,  and  would  now  be  con- 
sidered as  invading  the  just  rights  and  con- 
stitutional dignity  of  the  other  citizens. 

We  do  not  see  any  thing,  therefore,  in  the 
restoration  itself,  either  of  the  Prince  or  of  his 
nobles,  that  seems  to  us  very  dangerous  to  the 
freedom  of  the  people,  or  very  likely  to  per- 
vert those  constitutional  provisions  by  which 
it  is  understood  that  their  freedom  is  to  be 
secured.  Yet  we  did  not  need  the  example 
that  France  herself  has  so  often  afforded,  to 
make  us  distrustful  of  constitutions  on  paper; 
— and  are  not  only  far  from  feeling  assured  of 
the  practical  benefits  that  are  to  result  from 
this  new  experiment,  but  are  perfectly  con- 
vinced that  all  the  benefit  that  does  result, 
must  be  ascribed,  not  to  the  wistlom  of  the 
actual  institutions,  but  to  the  continued  opera- 
tion of  the  extraordinary  circumstances,  by 
which  the.se  institutions  have  been  suggested, 
and  by  the  permanent  pressure  of  which  alone 
their  operation  can  yet  be  secured.  The  bases 
of  the  new  constitution  sound  well  certainly; 
and  may  be  advantageously  contrasted  with 
the  famous  declaration  of  the  rights  of  man, 
which  initiated  the  labours  of  the  Constituent 
As.sembly.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the  bases 
of  most  paper  constitutions  sound  well ;  and 
that  principles  not  much  less  wise  and  liberal 
than  those  which  we  now  hope  to  see  retluced 
into  practice,  have  been  laiti  down  in  most  of 
the  constitutions  which  have  proved  utterly 
ineffectual  within  the  last  twenty-five  years, 
to  repress  popular  disord'r  or  despotic  usur- 
pation in  this  very  countrv.  The  constitution 
now  adopted  by  Louis  XVHI.  is  not  very  un- 
like that  which  was  imp)si'(I  on  his  unfortu- 
nate predecessor,  in  the  Champs  de  Mars  in 
1790;  and  it  certainly  leaves  less  power  to 
the  crown  than  was  conceded  by  that  first  ar- 
rangement. Yet  the  power  vested  in  Louis 
XVI.  was  fonnd  quite  itiadeiiuatc  to  y)rotect 
the  regal  office  against  thi^  encroachments  of 
an  insane  democracy;  and  thi^  throne  was 
overthrown  by  the  suddt'ii  irruption  of  the 
popular  part  of  the  government.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  still  more  rem;ukable  that  the  con- 
stitution now  about  to  be  put  on  its  trial,  is 


yet   more  like  the   constitution  adopte  by 
Bonaparte  on  his  accession  to  the  sove  mj 
authority.    He  too  had  a  Senate  and  a  Le;  fa. 
live  Body, — and  trial  by  jury, — and  uiii\  ^1 
eligibility, — and  what  was  pretended  tb^ 
liberty  of  printing.     The  freedom  of  the -o. 
pie,  in  short,  was  as  well  guarded,  in    ist 
respects,  by  the  words  and  the  forms  oiftt    r,.- 
constitution,  as  they  are  by  those  of  thiswSHpi^' 
is  now  under  consideration ;   and  yet  }wf^^^ 
words  and  forms  were  found  to  be  no  obs-le      '*" 
at  all  to  the  practical  exercise  and  svster  ic 
establishment  of  the  most  elficient  despc  ni 
that  Europe  has  ever  witnessed.  , 

What  then  shall  we  say  ?  Since  the  t!)e 
institutions,  and  the  same  .sort  of  balanc  )t 
power,  give  at  one  time  too  much  weig  to 
the  Crown,  and  at  another  too  much  inj. 
gence  to  popular  feeling,  shall  we  concie 
that  all  sorts  of  institutions  and  balances  iv 
indifferent  or  nug-atory  '.  or  only,  that  ;  ir 
efficacy  depends  greatly  on  the  circum.sta  ■- 
to  which  they  are  applied,  and  on  the  a(  i, 
balance  and  relation  in  which  the  dilft  •. 
orders  of  the  state  previously  stood  to  i  ;, 
other  ?  The  last,  we  think,  is  the  only  .' 
conclusion  ;  and  it  is  by  attending  to  the  ,- 
ditions  which  it  involves,  that  we  shall  >; 
be  enabled  to  conjecture,  whether  an  e.\]  i- 
ment,  that  has  twice  failed  already  in  so  .■• 
nal  a  manner,  is  now  likely  to  be  attei  x. 
with  success. 

When  a  limited  monarchy  was  propose  ir 
France  in  1790.  the  whole  body  of  the  iia  u 
had  just  emancipated  itself  by  force  fro  :i 
state  of  political  vassalage,  and  had  been  " 
feel  the  delight  and  intoxication  of  that   i- 
.sciousness  of  power,  which  always  tempi  a 
first  to  so  many  experiments  on  its  reality  d 
e.xtent.     New  to  the  exercise  of  this  po'  -, 
and  jealous  of  its  securit}'  so  long  as  an;  i 
those  institutions  remained  which  had  so  ^ . 
repressed  or  wilhhekl  it,  they  first  impi  • 
dently  subverted  all  that  was  left  of  their  - 
cient  establ.slinients;  and  then,  from  thes  i 
impel nositv  of  inexperience,   they  split 
factions,  that  began  with  abuse,  and  eiult^  . 
bloodshed ;  and,  setting  out  with  an  extn 
zeal  for  reason  and  humanity,  plunged  th  ■ 
selves   very  speedily  in    the  very  abys? 
atrocity  and  folly.     In  such  a  violent  stali 
the  public  mind,  no  institutions  had  any  chii 
of  being  permanent.    The  root  of  the  evil   ■ 
in  the  suddenness  of  the  extrication  of  sm  • 
volumeof  political  energy, — or  rather,  perh^ 
in  the  arrangements  by  which  it  had  bei-i 
long  pent  up  and  compressed.     The  only  Iji 
policy  would  have  been  for  those  among®        , 
ancient   leaders,  whose  interest  or  judgml^       j 
enabled  them  to  see  the  hazards  upon  whjl       ^ 
the  new-sprung  enthusiasts  were  rushing-j)       ;|, 
have  thrown  themselves  info  their  ranks:-) 
have  united  cordially  with   those  who  v,  ' 
least  in.sane or  intemperate;  and,  lygoin":ii I 
with  them  at  all  hazards,  to  have  retarded 
impetuosity  of  their  movements,  and  watiM 
the  first  opportunity  to  bring  them  back  to  • 
briety  and  rea.son.  "instead  of  this,  they  ah- 
doned  them,  with  dom-^nstralion?  uf  coMfert 
and  hostility,  to  the  career  upon  which  tl' 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  HOUKBOXS. 


585 


hal  entered.  They  emigrated  from  the  ter- 
liiny— and  thus  threw  the  mass  of  the  popu- 
Jafn  at  once  into  the  hands  of  tho  inoenciia- 
riflof  the  capital.  Twenty-five  years  have 
nejly  elapsed  since  the  period  of  that  terrible 
ex(o'sioi).  A  great  pari  of  its  force  has  been 
wjjed  and  finally  dissipated  in  that  long  in- 
tenl ;  and  though  its  natural  flow  has  been 
air  1  repressed  in  the  latter  part  of  it,  there  is 
iioazard  of  such  another  eruption,  now  that 
tho  obstructions  are  again  thrown  off.  That 
\vr  produced  by  the  accumulation  of  all  the 
eiiLTV,  intelligence,  and  discontent,  that  had 
be  irenerated  among  a  people  deprived  of 
poical  rights,  during  a  full  century  of  peace- 
lul'nrsuits  and  growing  intelligence,  without 
ancxperience  or  warning  of  the  perils  of  its 
BUicn  expansion.  This  can  be  but  the  col- 
lec'on  of  a  few  years  of  a  very  different  de- 
sciition,  and  with  all  the   dreadful    conse- 

3u;:ces  of  its  untempered  and  undirected  in- 
iift'iice  still  glaring  in  view.  We  do  not 
thi:.  therefore,  that  the  attempt  to  establish 
a  liited  monarchy  is  now  in  very  great  dan- 
gp  f  miscarrying  in  the  same  way  as  in  1790 ; 
ant'conceive.  that  the  conduits  of  an  ordhiary 
re]  >sentative  assembly,  if  instantly  prepared 
ail' diligently  watched,  may  now  be  quite 
?u;:ient  to  carry  off  and  direct  all  the  popu- 
laniergy  that  is  generated  in  the  nation — 
lh(jh  the  quantity  was  then  so  great  as  to 
teaall  the  machinery  to  pieces,  and  blow^  the 
an-i'^nt  monarchy  to  the  clouds,  with  the  frag- 
me:sof  the  new  constitution. 

iith  regard  to  the  late  experiment  under 
Boi parte,  it  is  almost  enough  to  observe,  that 
it  iiims  to  us  to  have  been  from  the  begin- 
riina  mere  piece  of  mockery  and  delusion. 
Th  government  was  substantially  despotic 
arKimilitary,  or,  at  all  events,  a  government 
of  iidisguised  force,  ever  since  the  time  of 
iheiriumvirs. — perhaps  we  might  say,  since 
iha'of  Robespierre  ;  and  when  Bonaparte  as-  I 
PuiM  the  supreme  power,  the  nation  wil-  | 
linV  gave  up  its  liberty,  for  the  chance  of 
trajuilhty  and  protection.  Wearied  out  with  | 
thtperpetual  succession  of  sanguinary  fac- 
tiot.  each  establishing  itself  by  bloody  pro- 
scrtions,  deportations,  and  confiscation.s,  it 
llajv  threw  itself  into  the  arms  of  a  ruler 
wh  seemed  sufficiently  strong  to  keep  all 
lesir  tyrants  in  subjection  ;  and,  despairing 
of  leedom,  was  thankful  for  an  interval  of 
rej-j^.  In  such  a  situation,  the  constitution 
wa[ dictated  by  the  master  of  the  state  for 
bisjwn  glory  and  convenience, — not  impo.sed 
iip<  him  by  the  nation  for  his  direction  and 
wi:ol ;  and,  with  whatever  names  or  pre-  ; 
len-s  of  liberty  and  popular  prerogative  the 
me  hers  of  it  miirht  be  adorned,  it  Was  suffi- 
cieilv  known  to  all  parties  that  it  was  intend-  , 
P<l  bstantiallyas  an  instrument  of  Command. 
—Lit  the  only  effective  power  that  was  meant 
to  l>  exercised  or  recognised  in  the  govem- 
mej,  was  the  power  of  the  Emperor,  abetted 
t>yls  Army;  and  that  all  the  other  function- 
ari'l  were  in  reality  to  be  dependent  upon 
'iir;  That  the  Senate  and  Legislative  Body, 
the  tore,  did  not  convert  the  military  despot- 
itiiiipon  which  they  were  thus  engrafted  into  , 
74 


a  free  government,  is  no  considerable  pre- 
sumption against  the  fitness  of  such  institu- 
tions to  maintain  the  jirinciples  of  freedom 
under  different  circunislances ;  nor  can  the 
fact  be  justly  regarded  as  a  new  example  of 
their  inefficiency  for  that  purpose.  In  this 
instance  they  were  never  intended  to  minister 
to  the  interests  of  liberty;  nor  instituted  with 
any  serious  expectation  that  ihey  would  have 
that  effect.  Here,  iJwrofore,  there  was  truly 
no  failure,  and  no  disappointment.  They  ac- 
tually answered  all  the  ends  of  llieir  establish- 
ment ;  by  facilitating  the  execution  of  the  Im- 
perial will,  and  disguising,  to  those  who  chose 
to  look  no  farther,  the  naked  oppression  of  the 
government.  It  does  not  seem  to  us,  therefore, 
that  this  instance  more  than  the  olher,  should 
materially  discourage  our  expectations  of  now 
seeing  something  like  a  system  of  regulated 
freedom  in  that  country.  The  people  of  France 
have  lived  long  enough  under  the  capricious 
atrocities  of  a  crazy  democracy,  to  be  aware 
of  the  dangers  of  that  form  of  government, — 
to  feel  the  necessity  of  contriving  some  retard- 
ing machinery  to  break  the  impulse  of  the 
general  will,  and  providing  .some  apparatus 
for  purifying,  concentrating,  and  cooling  the 
first  fiery  runnings  of  popular  .spirit  and  enthu- 
siasm ;  while  they  have  also  felt  enough  of 
the  oppressions  and  miseries  of  arbitrary  pow- 
er, to  instruct  them  in  the  value  of  some  regu- 
lar and  efficient  control.  In  such  a  situation, 
therefore,  when  a  scheme  of  government  that 
has  been  found  to  answer  both  these  purposes 
in  other  countries,  is  offered  by  the  nation  as 
the  accompaniment  and  condition  of  the  mon- 
archy, and  is  freely  accepted  by  the  Sovereign 
on  his  accession,  there  seems  to  be  a  reason- 
able hope  that  the  issue  will  at  length  be  for- 
tunate; — and  that  a  free  and  stable  constitu- 
tion may  succeed  to  the  calamitous  experiments 
which  have  been  suggested  by  the  imperfec- 
tions of  that  which  was  originally  established. 
All  this,  however,  we  readily  admit,  is  but 
problematical ;  and  affords  ground  for  nothing 
more  than  expectation  and  conjecture.  There 
are  grounds  certainly  for  doubting,  whather 
the  French  are  even  yet  cajuible  of  a  .Tirula- 
ted  freedom  ; — and  forbelievina:,  at  all  events, 
that  they  will  for  a  good  while  be  but  awk- 
ward in  discharging  the  ordinary  offices  of 
citizens  of  a  limited  monarchy.  They  have 
probably  learned,  by  this  time,  that  for  a  na- 
tion to  be  free,  something  more  is  necessary 
than  that  it  should  will  it.  To  be  practically 
and  tranquilly  free,  a  p-cat  deal  more  is  neces- 
sary ;  and  though  we  do  not  ascribe  much  to 
positive  institutions,  we  ascribe  almost  every 
thing  to  temper  and  habit. — A  genuine  system 
of  national  representation,  for  example,  can 
neither  be  devised,  nor  carried  into  operation 
in  a  day.  The  practical  benefits  of  such  a 
system  depend  in  a  great  measure  uj)on  the 
internal  arrangements  of  the  society  in  which 
it  exists,  by  means  of  which  the  sentiments 
and  opinions  of  the  peoj.le  maybe  peacefully 
and  safefy  transmitted  from  their  first  .small 
and  elementary  gatherings,  to  the  great  public 
depositories  of  national  energy  and  wisdom. 
The  structure,  which  answers  ihosc  purposes, 


486 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


however,  is  in  all  cases  more  the  work  of  time 
than  of  contrivance  :  and  can  never  be  im- 
pressed at  once  upon  a  society,  which  is  aim- 
in£r  for  the  first  time  at  these  objects. — With- 
out some  such  previous  and  internal  arrange- 
ment, however  —  and  without  the  familiar 
existence  of  a  long  gradation  of  virtual  and 
unelected  representatives,  no  pure  or  fair 
representation  can  ever  be  obtained.  Instead 
of  the  cream  of  the  society,  we  shall  have  the 
froth  only  in  the  legislature — or,  it  may  be, 
the  scum,  and  the  fiery  spirit,  instead  of  the 
rich  extract  of  all  its  strength  and  its  virtues. 
But  even  independent  of  the  common  hazards 
and  disadvantages  of  novehy,  there  are  strong 
grounds  of  apprehension  in  the  character  and 
habits  of  the  French  nation.  The  very  vi- 
vacity of  that  accomplished  people,  and  the 
raised  imairination  which  they  are  too  apt  to 
carry  with  them  into  projects  of  every  descrip- 
tion, are  all  against  them  in  those  political 
adventures.  They  are  too  impatient,  we  fear 
— too  ambitious  of  perfection — too  .studious 
of  effect,  to  be  satisfied  with  the  attainable 
excellence  or  vulgar  comforts  of  an  English 
constitution.  If  it  captivate  them  in  the 
theory,  it  will  be  sure  to  disappoint  them  in 
the  vi-orking: — From  endeavouring  univer- 
sally, each  in  his  own  department,  to  lop  their 
parts,  they  will  be  very  apt  to  go  beyond 
them ; — and  will  run  the  risk,  not  only  of  en- 
croaching upon  each  other,  but,  generally,  of 
missing  the  substantial  advantages  of  the  plan, 
through  distlain  of  that  sobriety  of  effort,  and 
calm  mediocrity  of  principle,  to  which  alone 
it  is  adapted. 

The  project  of  giving  them  a  free  constitu- 
tion, therefore,  may  certainly  miscarry, — and 
it  may  miscarry  in  two  ways.  If  the  Court 
can  effectually  attach  to  itself  the  Marshals 
and  Military  Senators  of  Bonaparte,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  old  Nobility  : — and  if.  through  their 
means,  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  the  turbu- 
lent and  aspiring  spirits  of  the  nation  can  be 
turned  either  towards  military  advancement. 
or  to  offices  and  distinction  about  the  Court, 
the  legislative  bodies  may  be  gradually  made 
subservient  in  most  things  to  the  will  of  the 
Government ; — and  by  skilful  management, 
may  be  rendered  almost  as  tractable  and  in- 
significant, as  they  have  actually  been  in  the 
previous  .stages  of  their  existence.  On  the 
other  hand;  if  the  discordant  materials,  out 
of  which  the  higher  branch  of  the  legislature 
is  to  be  composed,  should  ultimately  arrange 
it  into  two  hostile  parties. — of  the  old  Noblesse 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  active  individuals 
who  have  fought  their  way  to  distniction 
through  scenes  of  democratic  and  impeiial 
tvranny,  on  the  other,  it  is  greatly  to  be  learrd. 
that  the  body  of  the  nation  will  .«oon  be  divi- 
ded into  the  same  factions;  and  that  while 
the  Court  throws  all  its  influence  into  the 
scale  of  the  former,  the  latter  will  in  time 
tmite  the  far  more  formidable  weight  of  the 
military  body — the  old  republicans,  and  all 
who  are  either  discontented  at  their  lot,  or 
impatient  of  peaceful  times.  By  their  a.ssist- 
ance.  and  that  of  the  national  vehemence 
and  love  of  change,  it  will  most  probably  gel 


the  command  of  the  legislative  body  an  },^ 
capital ; — and  then,  uidess  the  Prince  ph  -  . 
part  with  singular  skill,  as  well  as  tei  p- 
there  will  be  imminent  hazard  of  a  re ; 
tion. — not  less  disastrous  perhaps  thauii; 
which  has  just  been  completed. 

Of  these  two  catastrophes,  the  first,  \  ch 
would  be  the  least  lamentable  or  hop.  >- 
seems,  in  the  present  temper  of  iht-  tini  ■ 
be  rather  the  most  likely  to  happen  ;- 
even  though  it  should  occur,  the  j^oven.  i 
would  most  probably  be  coiisaierably  i, 
advanced  toward  freedom  than  ithaseVi  , 
been  in  that  country — and  the  organir . , 
would  remain  entire,  into  which  the  b  ;; 
of  liberty  might  be  breathed,  as  soon  a  ::• 
growing  spirit  of  patriotism  and  intellii  i 
had  again  removed  the  shackles  of  auth  ;< 
Against  the  second  and  more  dreadful  i  ;- 
trophe,   and    in    some    considerable  d  • 
against  both,  there  seems  to  exist  a  re 
able  security  in  the  small  numbers  ami  g.  ;, 
weakness  of  that  part  of  the  old  arisli. 
which  has  survived  to  reclaim  its  privii  - 
One  of  the  bases  of  the  new  constitutioi  ; 
I^erhaps  the  most  important  of  thtm  a  ■ 
that  every  subject  of  the  kingdom  sh;: 
equally  capable  of  all  honours  or  en. 
j  ments.     Had  the  Sovereign,  however,  v 
I  the  fountain  of  honour  and  the  giver  o! : 
ployment,  returned   with  that  grtat  tra 
nobility  which  waited  in  the  court  of  hi. 
decrssor,  this  vital  regulation,  we  fear,  i 
have  proved  a   mere   dead   letter;   ai.t : 
same  unjust  monopoly  of  power  and  dj 
1  tion    that    originally   overthrevv    the  th 
I  might  again  have  sapped   its  foundatie  - 
i  As  things  now  are,  however,  there  are  1: 
few  of  that  order  to  sustain  such  a  mono  ■ 
and  the  prince  must  of  necessity  eraplo)  ; 
jects  of  all  ranks  and  degrees,  in  situaticot 
the  greatest  dignity  and  importance.    A;«l 
equality  of  rights  will  thus  be  practical  re- 
cognised ;  and  a  fair  and  intelligent  dis 
tion  of  power  and  consideration  will  go    ' 
.satisfy  the  wi.she5  of  every  party  in  the 
or  at  least  to  disaim  those  who  would  f( 
discontents   and   disaffection,    of  their 
plausible  topics  and  pretexts. 

On  the  whole,  then,  we  think  Franci 
j  now  a  tolerable  prospect  of  obtaining  r 
'  government — and,  without  cxtraordinarv   ■ 
management,  is  almost  sure  of  many    ' 
improvements  on  her  ancient  system.    ' 
great  security  and  panacea  must  be  a  spi  ' 
general  mildness,  and  mutual  indulgenci 
toleration.      All    parties   have   somethii 
forgive,  and   something  to  be  forgiven 
there   is   much   in    the   history   of   th<^ 
twenty-five  years,  which  it  would  be  {v 
general  interest,  and   the  general  crcii 
the  country,  to  consign  to  oblivion.   The  ■ 
has   opened,  we  think,  under  the   haj 
auguries  in  this  respect.     The  manner  e 
abdication,  and  the  manner  of  the  restor; 
are  ominous,  we  think,  of   forbearancf 
conciliation  in  all  the  quarters  from   v  . 
intractable  feelings  were  most  to  be  r.  ■ 
hended  ;  and  the  commanding  examph" 
Emperor  Alexander,  will  go  further  to  d.  ■ 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


587 


in.  confirm  this  spirit,  than  the  professions 
ar  Lvhortations  of  any  of  the  parties  more 
imeiliately  concerned.  The  blood  of  the 
Bo  bons  too.  we  believe  to  be  mild  and  tein- 
pelte;  and  the  adversity  by  which  their 
lUitrious  Chief  has  so  long  been  tried,  we 
ariijersuaded,  has  not  altered  its  sweetness. 
Htjis  more  anxious,  we  make  no  doubt,  to 
re'^ve  the  sufferings,  than  to  punish  the  of- 
feies,  of  any  part  of  his  subjects — and  re- 
tu  s.  we  trust,  to  the  impoverished  cities  and 
w;  ed  population  of  his  country,  with  feel- 
in.,  not  of  vengeance,  hut  of  pity.  If  to  the 
phiiithropy  which  belongs  to  his  race,  he 
col  but  join  the  firmness  and  activity  in 
wl'li  thev  have  been  supposed  to  be  want- 
inithe  might  be  the  most  glorious  king  of  the 
haziest  people  that  ever  escaped  from  ty- 
ran-;  and,  we  fondly  hope  that  fortune  and 
prlence  will  combine  to  render  the  era  of 
hijiccession  for  ever  celebrated  in  the  grate- 
fiijnemory  of  his  people.  In  the  mean  time, 
hi'nost  dangerous  enemies  are  the  Royalists  ; 
anithe  onlv  deadly  error  he  can  commit,  is  to 
re(  on  his  own  popularity  or  personal  au- 
thity. 

we  are  at  all  right  in  this  prognostication, 
the  should  be  little  doubt  on  the  only  re- 
in iiing  subject  of  discussion.     It  must  be 
fa  urable  to  the  general  interests  of  free- 
dc,'.  that  a  free  government  is  established  in 
Fiice;  and  the  principles  of  liberty,  both 
lic:  and  elsewhere,  must  be  strengiheneil  by 
th  large  accession  to  her  domains.     There 
persons  among  us,  however,  who  think 
rwise, — or  profess  at  least  to  see,  in  the 
t  drama  which  has  just  been  completed, 
ncbther  moral   than    this  —  that    rebellion 
nst  a  lawful  sovereign,  is  uniformly  fol- 
;d  with  jiieat  disasters,  and  ends  in  the 
iplete  demolition  and  exposure  of  the  in- 
ents.  and  the  triumphal  restoration  of  the 
tful  Prince.     These  reasoners  find  it  con- 
vejent  to  take  a  very  compendious  and  sum- 
mk'view  indeed  of  the  creat  transactions  of 


h  they  thus  extract  the  essence  —  and 

ively  refuse  to  look  at  any  other  points  in 

eventful  history  before  them,  but  that  the 

of  the  Bourbons  was  expelled,  and  that 

t  atrocities  and  great  miseries  ensued — 

the  nation  then  fell  under  a  cruel  despo- 

.  and  that  all  things  are  set  to  rights  again 

b\[he  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  I    The  com- 

fojible  conclusion  which  they  <lraw,  or  wish 

at-ast  to  be  drawn,  from  these  premises,  is. 

til  if  the  lesson  have  its  proper  effect,  this 

rebration  will  make  every  king  on  the  Con- 

titfit  more  absolute  than  ever :  and  confirm 

evly  old  government  in  an  attachment  to  its 

mit  inveterate  abuses. 

1  is  not  worth  while,  perhaps,  to  combat 
thje  extravagancies  by  reasoning  ; — Yet,  in 
thir  spirit,  they  come  so  near  certain  opinions 
th:  seem  to  have  obtained  currency  in  this 
co;itry,  that  it  is  necessary  to  say  a  word  or 
t\\'with  regard  to  them.  We  .shall  merely 
objrve,  therefore,  that  the  Bourbons  were 
explled.  on  account  of  great  faults  and  abuses 
in  ,e  old  system  of  the  government ;  and  that 
ihr  have  only  been  restored  upon  condition 


that  these  abuses  shall  be  abolished.  They 
were  expelled,  in  short,  because  they  were 
Arbitrary  monarchs  ;  and  they  are  ordy  re- 
stored, upon  paction  and  security  that  they 
shall  be  arbitrary  no  longer.  77ti.s-  is  the  true 
summary  of  the  great  transaction  that  haa 
just  been  completeil  :  and  the  correct  result 
of  the  principles  that  regulated  its  bt-gin- 
ning  and  its  ending.  The  intermediate  pro- 
ceedings, too,  bear  the  very  same  charac- 
ter. After  the  abolition  of  the  old  royally, 
the  nation  fell  no  doubt  into  great  disorders 
and  disasters, — not,  however,  for  want  of  the 
old  abuses, — or  ev«Mi  of  the  old  line  of  sove- 
reigns,— but  in  con.seepience  of  new  abuses, 
crimes,  and  usurpations.  These  also  they 
strove  to  risclify  and  repress  as  they  best 
could,  by  expelling  or  cutting  off  the  delin- 
quents, and  making  provision  against  the  re- 
currence of  this  new  form  of  tyranny; — at 
last,  they  fell  under  the  arbitrary  rule  of  a 
great  military  commander,  and  for  some  time 
rejoiced  in  a  subjection  which  insured  their 
tranquillity.  By  and  by,  however,  the  evils 
of  this  tyranny  were  founil  far  to  outweigh  its 
advantages;  and  when  the  destruction  of  his 
military  force  gcive  them  an  opporlunit}'  of 
expressing  their  sentiments,  the  nation  rose 
ag-ainst  him  as  one  man.  and  expelled  him 
also,  for  his  tyranny,  from  that  throne,  from 
which,  for  a  much  smaller  degree  of  the  same 
fault,  they  had  formerly  expelled  the  Bour- 
bons.— Awakinu'  then  to  the  advantages  of  an 
undisputed  title  to  the  crown,  anil  recovered 
from  the  intoxication  of  their  first  burst  into 
political  independence,  they  ask  the  ancient 
line  of  their  kings,  whether  they  will  renounce 
the  arbitrary  powers  which  had  been  claimed 
'  by  their  predecessors,  and  submit  to  a  con- 
stitutional control  from  the  representatives  of 
the  people  ?  and  upon  their  solemn  consent 
and  cordial  acquiescence  in  those  conditions, 
thev  recal  them  to  the  throne,  and  enrol  them- 
selves as  their  free  and  loyal  subjects. 

The  lesson,  then,  which  is  taught  by  the 
whole  history  is,  that  oppressive  governments 
must  also  be  insecure  :  and  that,  after  nations 
have  attained  1o  a  certain  measure  of  intel- 
ligence, the  liberty  of  the  people  is  necessary 
to  the  stability  of  the  throne.     We  may  dis- 
pute for  ever  about  the  immediate  or  acci- 
dental causes  of  the  French  revolution  ;  but 
no  man  of  refiection  can  now  doubt,  that  its 
true  and  efficient  cause,  was  the  undue  limi- 
tation of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  ihe  great 
!  body  of  the  people,   after  their  wealth   and 
I  intelbeence   had   virtually   entitled   them   to 
greater    consequence.      Embarras.sments   iix 
I  finance,  or  blunders,  or  ambition  in  particular 
i  individuals,  may  have  ilctermiiied    the   time 
j  and  the  maimer  of  th"  exjjlosion  :  but  it  wns 
j  the  system  which  wilhh'-Id   all   honours  and 
I  distinctions  from  the  mass  of  the  people,  alter 
I  nature  had  made  them  capable  of  ihem,  which 
I  laid  the  train,  and   tilled  the  mine  that  pro- 
I  duced    it.     Had    the   ffovernment  of  France. 
j  been  free  in   1788.  the  throne  of  its  monarch 
might   have  bid  a  proud  defiance  to  (hficits 
I  in   the  treasury,   or  disorderly  ambition  in  a 
i  ihou.sand   Mirabeaus.      Had   the  people   eu- 


588 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


joyed  their  due  ^veight  in  the  administra- 
tion of  the  government,  and  their  due  share 
in  the  distribution  of  its  patronage,  there 
wonid  have  been  no  democratic  insurrection, 
and  no  materials  indeed  for  such  a  catastrophe 
as  ensued.  That  movement,  like  all  great 
national  movements,  was  produced  by  a  sense 
of  injustice  and  oppression  ;  and  though  its 
immediate  consequences  were  far  more  dis- 
astrous than  the  evils  by  which  it  had  been 
provoked,  it  should  never  be  forgotten,  that 
those  evils  were  the  necessary  and  lamented 
causes  of  the  whole.  The  same  principle, 
indeed,  of  the  necessary  connection  of  oppres- 
sion and  insecurity,  may  be  traced  through 
all  the  horrors  of  the  revolutionary  period. 
What,  after  all,  was  it  but  their  tyranny  that 
supplanted  Marat  and  Robespierre,  and  over- 
threw the  tremendous  power  of  the  wretches 
for  whom  they  made  way  ?  Or,  to  come  to  its 
last  and  most  conspicuous  application,  does 
any  one  imagine,  that  if  Bonaparte  had  been 
a  just,  mild,  and  equitable  sovereign,  under 
whom  the  people  enjoyed  equal  rights  and 
impartial  protection,  he  would  ever  have  been 
hurled  from  his  throne,  or  the  Bourbons  in- 
vited to  replace  him  1  He,  too.  fell  ultimately 
a  victim  to  his  tyranny: — and  his  fall,  and 
their  restoration  on  the  terms  that  have  been 
stated,  concur  to  show,  that  there  is  but  one 
condition  by  which,  in  an  enlightened  age, 
the  loyalty  of  nations  can  be  secured — the 
condition  of  their  being  treated  with  kindness; 
and  but  one  bulwark  by  which  thrones  can 
now  be  protected — the  attachment  and  con- 
scious interest  of  a  free  and  intelligent  people. 
This  is  the  lesson  which  the  French  revo- 
lution reads  aloud  to  mankind  ;  and  which,  in 
its  origin,  in  its  progress,  and  in  its  termina- 
tion, it  tends  equally  to  impress.  It  shows 
also,  no  doubt,  the  dangers  of  popular  insur- 
rection, and  the  dreadful  excesses  into  which 
a  people  will  be  hurried,  who  rush  at  once 
from  a  condition  of  servitude  to  one  of  un- 
bounded licentiousness.  But  the  state  of 
servitude  leads  necessarily  to  resistance  and 
insurrection,  when  the  measure  of  wrong  and 
of  intelligence  is  full :  and  thouirh  the  history 
before  us  holds  out  most  awful  warnings  as 
to  the  reluctance  and  the  precautions  with 
■which  resistance  should  be  attempted,  it  is 
so  far  from  showing  that  it  either  can  or  ought 
to  be  repressed,  that  it  is  the  very  moral  of 
the  whole  tragedy,  and  of  each  of  its  separate 
acts,  that  resistance  is  as  inevitably  the  eiTect, 
as  it  is  immediately  the  cure  and  the  punish- 
ment of  oppression.  The  crimes  anil  excesses 
with  which  the  revolution  may  be  attended, 
will  be  more  or  less  violent  in  proportion  to 
the  severity  of  the  preceding  tyranny,  and 
the  degree  of  ignorance  and  degradation  in 
which  it  has  kept  the  body  of  the  people. 
The  rebellion  of  VVe.st  India  slaves  is  more 
atrocious  than  the  insurrection  of  a  Parisian 
populace ; — and  that  airain  far  more  fierce 
and  sanguinary  than  the  movements  of  an 
English  revolution.  But  in  all  casijs,  the 
radical  guilt  is  in  the  tyranny  which  compels 
the  resistance ;  and  they  who  are  the  authors 
of  the  misery  and  the  degradation,  are  also 


responsible  for  the  act'.;  of  passion  and  debai. 
ment  to  which  they  naturally  lead.  If-, 
natural  course  of  a  stream  be  obstructed.  !• 
pent  up  waters  will,  to  a  certainty;  soonei  • 
later  bear  down  the  bulwarks  by  w  hich  tl 
are  confined.  The  devastation  which  n 
ensue,  however,  is  not  to  be  ascribed  to  ' 
weakness  of  those  bulwarks,  but  to  the  fur.i 
mental  folly  of  their  erection.  The  stron: 
they  had  been  made,  the  more  dreadful.  ;i 
not  the  less  certain,  world  have  been  i 
ultimate  eiTiption  ;  and  the  oidy  practical  1 
son  to  be  learned  from  the  cacastrophe  is,  tl 
the  great  agents  and  elementary  energies] 
nature  are  never  dangerous  but  when  tbj 
are  repressed  :  and  that  the  only  way  to  gU:.' 
and  disarm  them,  is  lo  provide  a  safe  a' 
ample  channel  for  their  natural  operalii' 
The  laws  of  the  physical  world,  however, ; 
not  more  absolute  than  those  of  the  mon 
nor  is  the  principle  of  the  rebound  of  elat 
bodies  more  strictly  demonstrated  than  In 
reaction  of  rebellion  and  tyranny.  ! 

If  there  ever  was  a  time,  however,  wher' 
might  be  permitted  to  doubt  of  this  principi 
it  certainly  is  7iot  the  timi'  when  the  tyrani 
of  Napoleon  has  just  overthrown  the  mighti ; 
empire  that  pride  and  ambition  ever  erect! 
on  the  ruins  of  justice  and  freedom.  P; 
tected  as  he  was  by  the  vast  military  sf 
tern  he  had  drawn  up  before  him,  and  s! 
more,  perhaps,  by  the  dread  of  that  chao' 
and  devouring  gulf  of  Revolution  which  s' 
yawned  behind  him,  and  threatened  to  sw; 
low  up  all  who  might  drive  him  from  Y 
place,  he  was  yet  unable  to  maintain  a  i; 
minion  which  stood  openly  arrayed  agaii' 
the  rights  and  liberties  of  mankind.  But" 
tyranny  and  oppression,  and  the  abuse  of  i| 
perial  power  have  cast  down  the  throne  ! 
Bonaparte,  guarded  as  it  was  with  force  a! 
terror,  and  all  that  art  could  devi.se  to  embi 
rass,  or  glorv  furnish  to  dazzle  and  over-avj 
what  tyrannical  throne  can  be  expected  | 
stand  hereafter?  or  what  contrivances  can  .; 
cure  an  oppressive  sovereign  from  the  v(' 
geaiice  of  an  insurgent  people  ?  Looking  oi , 
to  the  extent  of  his  resources,  and  the  slj 
and  vigour  of  his  arrangements,  no  soverei| 
on  the  Gnitinent  seemed  half  so  firm  in 
place  as  Bonaparte  did  but  two  years  a;| 
There  \^-as  the  canker  of  tyranny,  howev. 
in  the  full-blown  flower  of  his  greatne 
With  all  the  external  signs  of  power  and  pri 
perity.  he  was  weak,  becau.se  he  was  unj'j 
— he  w  as  insecure,  because  he  was  oppress! 
— and  his  state  was  assailed  from  witnout,  a' 
deserted  from  within,  for  no  other  reason  th! 
that  his  ambitious  and  injurious  proceediil 
had  alienated  the  affections  of  his  people,  a 
alarmed  the  fears  of  his  neighbours.  J 

The  moral,  then,  of  the  grand  drama  whi 
has  occujjied  the  scene  of  civilised  Europe 
upwards  of  twenty  years,  is,  we  think,  at  I 
sntTicicntlv  unfolded  ;— and  strange  imie; 
and  (lei>lorable  it  certainly  were,  if  all  tl| 
labour  should  have  been  without  fruit,  and  ; 
that  suffering  in  vain.  Something,  surely, 
our  own  guidance,  and  for  that  of  our  postt 
tv,  we  ought  at  last  to  learn,  from  so  pain 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


68t 


aii  so  costly  in  experiment.  We  have  lived 
aji=i  in  these  twenty  years;  and  have  seen 
cdlensed,  into  the  period  of  one  t^hort  life, 
ti  experience  of  eventful  centuries.  All  the 
nrid  and  all  the  political  elements  that  eii- 
ijaler  or  diversify  great  revolutions,  have 
bin  set  in  action,  and  made  to  produce  their 
h,  effect  before  us;  and  all  the  results  of 
mijovernmeiit,  in  all  its  forms  and  in  all  its 
e.'"emes,  have  been  e.xhibited.  on  the  grand- 
e  scale,  in  our  view.  Whatever  quiescent 
iijlence  or  empiric  rashness,  individual  am- 
b  3n  or  popular  fury,  unrectified  enthusiasm 
oprutal  proHigacy;  could  do  to  disorder  the 
ccMsels  and  embroil  the  aflairs  of  a  mighty 
nion.  has  beeii  tried,  without  fear  and  with- 
01  moderation.  We  have  witnessed  the  full 
0] ration  of  every  sort  of  guilt,  and  of  every 
St  of  energy — the  errors  of  strength  and  the 
oiii-s  of  weakness — and  the  mingling  or  con- 
tr  ting  effects  of  terror  and  vanity,  and  wild 
simulations  and  antiquated  prejudices,  on  the 
w  jle  iwpulation  of  Europe.  There  has  been 
ai?.vcitement  and  a  conflict  to  which  there 
isothing  parallel  in  the  history  of  any  past 
ffieration  ;  and  it  may  be  said,  perhaps  with- 
01  any  great  extravagance,  that  during  the 
ft  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  break- 
in  out  of  the  French  revolution,  men  have 
tl.ight  and  acted,  and  sinned  and  suffered, 
rr-e  than  in  all  the  ages  that  have  passed 
si'e  their  creation.  In  that  short  period. 
e'lry  thing  has  been  questioned,  every  thing 
h:  been  suggested — and  every  thing  has 
bm  tried.  There  is  scarcely  any  conceiva- 
bicombination  of  circumstances  under  which 
rri  have  not  been  obliged  to  act,  and  to  aii- 
tipate  and  to  suffer  the  consequences  of 
tl,r  acting.  The  most  insane  imaginations 
-ae  most  fantastic  theories — the  most  hor- 
riie  abominations,  have  all  been  reduced  to 
p.:tice,  and  taken  seriously  upon  trial.  Nolh- 
ir!is  now  left,  it  would  appear,  to  be  projected 
oijttempted  in  government.  We  have  ascer- 
taed  experimentally  the  consequences  of  all 
e  ernes ;  and  exhausted,  in  the  real  history 
oijwenty-five  years,  all  the  problems  that  can 
b*upplied  by  the  whole  science  of  politics. 
iomefhing  7mist  have  been  learned  from 
tK  great  condensation  of  experience  ; — .some 
lejling  propcsition.?;  either  positive  or  nega- 
tiJ!,  must  have  been  established  in  the  course 
oU: — And  although  7'r  perhaps  are  as  yet 
tcnear  the  tumult  and  agitation  of  the  calas- 
tr:)he.  to  be  able  to  judge  with  precision  of 
tl  r  positive  value  and  amount,  we  can  hard- 
lye  mistaken  as  to  their  general  tendency 
ai  import.  The  clearest  and  most  indis- 
piible  result  i.s,  that  the  prodigious  advan- 
c<made  by  the  body  of  the  people,  t  h  rough - 
01  the  better  parts  of  Europe,  in  wealth, 
Cfsideration.  and  intelligence,  had  rendered 
tl  ancient  institutions  and  exclusions  of  the 
ol  connnental  governments  alt02''lh('r  iin- 
'^lidile  to  their  actual  condition  ;  that  ])ublic 
oiiion  had  tacitly  acquired  a  commanding 
ai  nncoiitroilable  power  in  every  enliglil- 
ei.l  community ;  and  that,  to  render  its 
oiiation  in  cny  degree  safe,  or  consiatr.nt 
wSi  any  regular  plan  of  administration,  it 


was  absolutely  necessary  to  contrive  some 
means  for  bringing  it  to  act  directly  on  the 
machine  of  government,  and  for  bringing  it 
regularly  and  openly  to  bear  on  the  public 
couiisfls  of  the  country.  This  was  not  ne- 
cessary while  the  bulk  of  the  people  were 
poor,  abject,  and  I'rutish, — ;ukI  the  nobles 
alone  had  either  education,  property,  or  ac- 
i|uanilance  with  afl'aiis;  and  it  was  during 
j  that  ncriod  that  the  institutions  were  adopteii, 
I  which  were  maintained  too  long  for  the  j)eace 
and  credit  of  the  world.  Public  opinion  over- 
threw those  in  France ;  and  the  shock  was 
felt  in  every  feutlal  monarchy  in  Europe. 
But  this  sudden  extrication  of  a  noble  and 
beneficent  principle,  produced,  at  first,  far 
greater  evils  than  those  which  had  proceeded 
from  Its  repression.  "Th'  extravagant  and 
erring  spirit  ""  was  not  yet  enshrined  in  any 
fitting  org-anisalion  ;  and,  acting  without  bal- 
ance or  control,  threw  the  whole  mass  of 
society  into  wilder  and  more  terrible  disorder 
than  had  ever  been  experienced  before  its 
disclosure.  It  was  then  tried  to  compress  it 
again  into  inactivity  by  violence  and  intimida- 
tion :  But  it  could  not  be  so  over-mastered — 
nor  laid  to  rest,  by  all  the  powerful  conjura- 
tions of  the  reign  of  terror;  and,  after  a  long 
and  painful  struggle  under  the  pressure  of  a 
military  despotism,  it  has  again  broken  loose, 
and  pointed  at  last  to  the  natural  and  appro- 
priate remedy,  of  embodying  it  in  a  free  Rep- 
resentative Constitution,  through  the  medita- 
tion of  which  it  may  diffuse  life  and  vigour 
through  every  member  of  society. 

The  true  theory  of  that  great  revolution 
therefore  is,  that  it  was  produced  by  the  re- 
pression or  practical  disregard  of  public  opin- 
ion, and  that  the  evils  with  which  it  was 
attended,  were  occasioned  by  the  want  of 
any  institution  to  control  and  regulate  the 
application  of  that  opinion  to  the  actual  man- 
agement of  aflairs : — And  the  grand  moral 
that  may  be  gathered  from  the  w  hole  event- 
ful history,  seems  therefore  to  be.  that  in  an 
enlightened  period  of  society,  no  government 
can  be  either  prosperous  or  secure,  which 
does  not  provide  for  expressing  and  giving 
effect  to  the  general  sense  of  the  community. 
This,  it  must  be  owned,  is  a  les.son  worth 
buying  at  some  cost : — and,  looking  back  on 
the  enormous  price  we  have  paid  for  it.  it  is  no 
slight  gratification  to  perceive,  that  it  seems 
not  only  to  have  been  emphatically  taught, 
but  effectually  learned.  In  every  corner  of 
Europe,  principles  of  moderation  and  liber- 
ality are  at  last  not  only  professed,  but,  to 
some  extent,  acted  upon ;  and  doctrines  e(|ual- 
ly  favourable  to  the  liberty  of  individuals, 
and  the  independence  of  nations,  are  univer- 
sally promulgated,  in  quarters  where  some 
little  jealou.sy  of  their  influence  might  have 
been  both  expected  and  excused.  II  iiny  one 
doubts  of  the  progress  which  the  i)rinci])leR 
of  liberty  havn  made  since  the  beginning  of 
the  Krench  n  volution,  and  of  the  etlicacy  of 
that  lesson  which  its  events  have  inijireBBed 
on  every  court  of  the  Continent,  let  liim  com- 
pare the  conduct  of  the  Allies  at  ihi.'^  moment, 
with  that  which  thev  held  in  1790— let  him 
'2Z 


590 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


contrast  the  treaty  of  Pilnitz  with  the  deck- ' 
ration  of  Frankfort — and  set  on  one  hand 
the  proclamation  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick 
upon  entering  the  French  territories  in  1792,  | 
and  that  of  the  Emperor  of  Russia  on  the  j 
same  occasion  m  1814; — let  him  think  how 
La  Fayette  and  Dumourier  were  treated  at  j 
the  former  period,  and  what  honours  have  : 
been  lavished  on  Moreau  ami  Bernadotte  in 
the  latter — or,  without  dwelling  on  particu- 
lars, let  him  ask  himself,  whether  it  would  j 
have  been  tolerated  among  the  loyal  Antigal-  j 
licans  of  that  day,  to  have  proposed,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  victory,  that  a  representative  assem- 
bly should  share  the  powers  of  legislation 
with  the  restored  sovereign — that  the  noblesse 
should  renounce  all  their  privileges,  except 
such  as  were  purely  honorary — that  citizens 
of  all  ranks  should"  be  equally  eligible  to  all 
employments — that  all  the  officers  and  digni- 
taries of  the  revolutionary  government  should 
retain  their  rank — that  the  nation  should  be 
taxed  only  by  its  representatives — that  all 
sorts  of  national  property  should  be  ratified, 
and  that  perfect  toleration  in  religion,  liberty 
of  the  press,  and  trial  by  jury,  should  be  es- 
tablished. Such,  however,  are  the  chief  bases 
of  that  constitution,  which  was  cordially  ap- 
proved by  the  Allied  Sovereigns,  after  they 
were  in  possession  of  Paris ;  and,  with  refer- 
ence to  which,  their  August  Chief  made  that 
remarkable  declaration,  in  the  face  of  Europe, 
"  That  France  stood  in  need  of  strong  institu- 
tions, and  such  as  were  suited  to  the  intelli- 
gence of  the  age." 

Such  is  the  improved  creed  of  modern  courts, 
as  to  civil  liberty  and  the  rights  of  individuals. 
With  regard  to  national  justice  and  independ- 
ence again, — is  there  any  one  so  romantic  as 
to  believe,  that  if  the  Allied  Sovereigns  had 
dissipated  the  armies  of  the  republic,  and 
entered  the  metropolis  as  conquerors  in  1792, 
they  would  have  left  to  France  all  her  ancient 
territories, — or  religiously  abstained  from  in- 
terfering in  the  settlement  of  her  government, 
— or  treated  her  bailed  warriors  and  states- 
men with  honourable  courtesies,  and  her 
humbled  and  guilty  Chief  with  magnanimous 
forbearance  and  clemency  1  The  conduct  we 
have  just  witnessed,  in  all  these  particulars, 
is  wise  and  prudent,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mag- 
nanimous : — and  the  splendid  successes  which 
have  crowned  the  arms  of  the  present  Deliv- 
erers of  Europe,  may  be  ascribed  even  more 
to  the  temper  than  to  the  force  with  which 
they  have  been  wielded  ;— certainly  more  to 
the  plain  justice  and  rationalty  of  the  cause 
in  which  they  were  raised,  than  to  either. — 
Yet  those  very  successes  exclude  all  supposi- 
tion of  this  justice  and  liberality  being  assum- 
ed out  of  fear  or  necessity  : — and  establish  the 
sincerity  of  those  professions,  which  it  would 
no  doubt  have  been  the  best  of  all  policy  at 
any  rate  to  have  made.  It  is  equally  decisive, 
however,  of  the  merit  of  the  agents  and  of 
the  principles,  that  the  most  liberal  maxims 
were  held  out  by  the  most  decided  victors; 
and  the  greatest  honours  paid  to  civil  and  to 
national  freedom,  when  it  was  most  in  their 
power  to  have  crushed  the  one,  and  invaded 


the  other.  Nothing,  in  short,  can  accou  for 
the  altered  tone  and  altered  policy  of  the  '^ai 
Sovereigns  of  the  Continent,  but  their  grc  : 
conviction  of  the  necessity  of  regulated  ■, . 
dom  to  the  peace  and  prosperity  of  the  v  i, 
— but  their  feeling  that,  in  the  more  en  n; 
ened  parts  of  Europe,  men  could  no  long  i 
governed  but  by  their  reason,  ami  that  ji  , 
and  moderation  were  the  only  true  .sifegi , 
of  a  polished  throne.  By  this  high  testin  , 
we  think,  the  cause  of  Liberty  is  at  lengi ., 
up  above  all  hazard  of  calumny  or  disco  ; 
nance  ; — and  its  interests,  we  make  no  d  j 
will  be  more  substantially  advanced,  byl , . 
thus  freely  and  deliberately  recognised,  i :.. 
face  of  Europe,  by  its  mightiest  and  - 
absolute  princes,  than  they  could  olhe  - 
have  been  by  all  the  reasonings  of  philos< ; 
and  the  toils  of  patriotism,  for  many  su  ■ 
sive  generations. 

while  this  is  the  universal  feeling  a: : 
those  who  have  the  best  opportunity,  ai:  : 
strongest  interest   to  form  a  just  opinii  ( 
the  subject,  it  is  not  a  little  strange  and 
tifying.  that  there  should  still  be  a  pai 
this  country,  who  consider  those  great  I  - 
actions  under  a  different  aspect ; — who  - 
with  jealousy  and  grudging  upon  all  th;i 
been  done  for  the  advancement  of  free 
and  think  the  splendour  of  the  late  e 
considerably  tarnished  by  those  stipul;  : 
for  national  liberty,  which  form  to  other 
their  most  glorious  and  happy  feature.  \ 
do  not  say  this  invidiously,  nor  out  o! 
spirit  of  faction  ;  But  the  fact  is  unque: 
able  ; — and  it  is  worth  while  both  to  re 
and  to  try  to  account  for  it.    An  arranger 
which   satisfies   all  the  arbitrary  Sover 
of  Europe,  and    is  cordially  adopted  b  : 
Monarch  who  is  immediately  afl'ected 
is  objected  to  as  too  democra'tical,  by  a    ■ 
in  this  free  country  !     The  Autocrator  >. 
the  Russias — the  Imperial  Chief  of  the 
manic  principalities — the  Military  Sove  . 
of  Prussia — are  all  agreed,  that  France  si 
have   a  free  government:    Nay,  the  Ki  oi 
France  himself   is  thoroughly  persuadfjoC 
the    same   great  truth;  —  and  all   the  ••rid 
rejoices  at    its   ultimate    acknowledgmi - 
j  except  only  the  Tories  of  England!      ■ 
!  cannot  conceal  their  mortification  at  this  a 
triumph  of  the   popular  cause;    and,  Vile 
they  rejoice  at  the  restoration  of  theKi'lO 
I  the'throne  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  rec"* 
I  his  loyal  nobility  to  their  ancient  honoui 
j  evidently  not  a' little  hurt  at  the  advaii 
which  have  been,  at  the  .^^ame  time,  sec  ' 
'  to  the  People.    They  are  very  glad,  cerl; 
;  to  see  Louis  XVIII.  on  the  throne  of  Nap  '• 
I  —but  they  would  have  liked  him  better  ihe 
I  had  not  spoken  so  graciously  to  the  MarjUl 
I  of  the  revolution, — if  he  had  not  so  f'lv 
accepted  the  constitution  which  restraim 
prerogative, — nor   so   cordially  held  on  ' 
hand  of  conciliation  to  all  descriptions  f 
subjects  ; — if  he  had  been  less  magnann 
in  short,  less  prudent,  and  less  amiabh   ■ 
would  have  answered  better  to  ihcir  idc  oi 
a  glorious  restoration,  if  it  could  have  j*" 
accomplished  without  any  conditions;  ai  >' 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOlTvBOXS. 


591 


tb' Prince  had  thrown  himself  entirely  into 
tW  hands  of  those  biirotted  emiirrants,  who 
alct  to  be  dispieased  with  his  acceptanci' 
limited  crown.     In  their  eyes,  the  thing 
Id  have  been  more  complete,  if  the  no- 
se had  been  restored  at  once  to  all  their 
feilal  privileges,  and  the  church  to  its  ancient 
jwments.     And  we  cannot  help  snsj)ect- 
in!  that  they  think  the  loss  of  those  vain  and 
oijessive  trappings,  but  ill  compensated  by 
thincreased  dignity  and  worth  of  the  whole 
prilation,  by  the  equalisation  of  essential 
ruls.  and  the  provision  made   for  the  free 
eiivment  of  life,  property,  and  conscience, 
b\!he  great  boily  of  the  people. 

erhaps  we  exaggerate  a  little  in  our  rep- 
rewitation  of  sentiments  in  which  we  do  not 
atdl  concur : — But,  certainly,  in  conversa- 
tidand  in  common  newspapers — those  light 
gluvs  that  best  show  how  the  wind  sits — 
oil'  hears  and  sees,  every  day,  things  that 
aj  oach  at  least  to  the  spirit  we  have  at- 
tested to  delineate, — and  afford  no  slight 
prumption  of  the  prevalence  of  such  opin- 
loij  as  we  lament.  In  lamenting  them,  how- 
evl'.  we  would  not  indiscriminately  blame, 
—hey  are  not  all  to  be  ascribed  to  a  spirit 
oflervility,  or  a  disregard  of  the  happiness 
of'iankind.  Here,  as  in  other  heresies,  there 
is  in  intermixture  of  errors  that  are  to  be 
paoned,  and  principles  that  are  to  be  re- 
spted.  There  are  patriotic  prejudices,  and 
illiionsof  the  imagination,  and  misconcep- 
tiq;  from  ignorance,  at  the  bottom  of  this 
urjitural  antipathy  to  freedom  in  the  citizens 
of  j  free  land  ;  as  well  as  more  sordid  inter- 
esl  and  more  wilful  perversions.  Some 
stdy  Englishmen  are  staunch  for  our  mo- 
no!)ly  of  liberty ;  and  feel  as  if  it  was  an 
in^lent  invasion  of  British  privileges,  for  any 
otllr  nation  to  set  up  a  free  constitution  ! — 
OtjTS  apprehend  serious  dangers  to  our  great- 
nc).  if  this  mainspring  and  fountain  of  our 
priperity  be  communicated  to  other  lands. — 
Ajill  greater  proportion,  we  believe,  are  in- 
flujiced  by  considerations  yet  more  fantasti- 
cal—They have  been  so  long  used  to  consider 
thiiid  government  of  Fiance  as  the  perfect 
inijel  of  a  feudal  monarchy,  softened  and 
adlned  by  the  refinements  of  modern  society. 
tWthey  are  quite  sorry  to  part  with  so  fine 
a  fecimen  of  chivalrous  manners  and  inslitu- 
tio[;;  and  look  upon  it,  with  all  its  character- 
istjand  imposing  accompaniments,  of  a  bril- 
lial  and  warlike  nobility, — a  gallant  court. — 
a  kgeous  hierarchy. — a  gay  and  familiar 
vablage,  with  the  same  sort  of  feelings  with 
wlj'h  they  would  be  apt  to  reg-ard  the  .sump- 
tU(s  pageantry  and  splendid  solemnities  of 
thf^omish  ritual.  They  are  very  good  Pro- 
terjnts  themselves  j  and  know  too  well  the 
vaj3  of  religious  truth  and  liberty,  to  wish 
forjny  less  simple,  or  more  imposing  system 
dti)me:  but  they  have  no  objection  that  it 
shijld  exist  among  their  neighbours,  that 
thij  taste  may  be  gratified  by  the  magnificent 
spijtacles  it  affords,  and  their  imiiginations 
wrincd  with  the  ideas  of  venerable  and 
pooous  antiquity,  whicli  it  is  so  well  fitted 
to  ggest.    The  case  is  nearly  the  Bame  with 


their  ideas  of  the  old  French  monarchy.  They 
have  read  Bnrke,  till  their  fancies  ai'e  some- 
M  hat  heated  with  tlie  jwcturesque  image  of 
tempeit'd  royaUy  ami  jwlished  aristocracy, 
which  he  has  lu-id  out  in  his  splendid  pictures 
of  Fiance  as  it  was  before  the  revolution; 
and  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  contrast 
those  comparatively  hajijjy  and  prosperous 
days,  with  thr  horrors  and  vulgar  atrocities 
that  ensued,  that  they  forget  tiie  many  real 
evils  and  oppn>ssioiis  of  which  that  biilliant 


monarchy  was 


dncti 


d  think  that  the 


succeeding  abominations  cannot  be  complete- 
ly e.vpiated  till  it  be  restored  as  it  originally 
existed. 

All  these,  and  we  believe  many  other  illu- 
sions of  a  similar  nature,  slight  and  fanciful 
as  they  may  appear,  contribute  largtdy,  we 
have  no  doubt,  to  that  i)ardoiiabIf  feeling  of 
dislike  to  the  limitation  of  the  old  monarchy, 
which  we  conceive  to  be  very  discernible  in 
a  certain  part  of  our  population.  The  great 
source  of  that  feeling,  however,  and  that 
which  gives  root  and  nourishment  to  all  the 
rest,  is  the  Ignorance  which  prevails  in  this 
country,  both  of  the  evils  of  arbitrary  govern- 
ment, and  of  the  radical  change  in  tlie  feel- 
ings and  opinions  of  the  ConlintMit.  which  has 
rendered  it  no  longer  ])racticable  in  its  more 
enlightened  quarters.  Our  insular  situation, 
and  the  measure  of  freedom  wc  enjoy,  have 
done  us  this  injury;  along  with  the  infinite 
good  of  which  they  have  been  the  occasions. 
We  do  not  know  either  the  extent  of  the  misery 
and  weakness  produced  by  tyranny,  or  the 
force  and  prevalence  of  the  conviction  which 
has  recently  arisen,  where  they  are  best  known, 
that  they  are  no  longer  to  be  tolerated.  On 
the  Continent,  experitnice  has  at  last  done 
far  more  to  enlighten  public  opinion  upon 
these  subjects,  than  reflection  and  reasoning 
in  this  Island.  There,  nations  have  been 
found  irresistible,  when  the  popular  feeling 
was  consulted  ;  and  absolutely  impotent  and 
indefensible  where  it  had  been  outraged  and 
disregarded:  And  this  necessity  of  consnltiiig 
the  general  opinion,  has  led.  on  both  sides,  to 
a  great  relaxation  of  many  of  the  principles 
on  which  they  originally  went  to  issue. 

Of  this  change  in  the  terms  of  the  ques- 
tion— and  especially  of  the  great  abatement 
which  it  had  been  found  necessary  to  make 
in  the  pretensions  of  the  old  governments,  we 
were  generally  but  litth?  aware  in  this  country. 
Spectators  as  we  have  been  of  the  distant  and 
protracted  contest  between  ancient  institutions 
and  authorities  on  the  one  hand,  and  demo- 
cratical  innovation  on  the  other,  we  are  apt 
still  to  look  upon  the  i)artics  to  that  contest, 
as  occupying  nearly  the  same  ])osilioiis,  an(i 
maintaining  the  .same  piinciples,  they  did  at 
the  beginning:  Avhile  those  whf)  have  been 
nearer  to  the  scene  of  action,  or  themscdves 
partakers  of  the  fray,  are  aware  that,  in  the 
course  of  that  long  conflict,  each  party  has 

I  been  obliged  to  recede  from  some  of  its  pre- 
tensions, and  to  admit,  in  some  degree,  the 

1  justice  of  those  that  are  made  a^ininst  it. 
Here,  where  we  have  br-cu  l>iii  Ii.d  aj;t  to  c(-:  - 

1  sider  the  mighty  yame  which  has  been  plaj- 


592 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


ing  in  our  sight,  and  partlj-  at  our  expense,  as 
an  occasion  for  exercising  our  own  party  ani- 
mosities, or  seeking  illustrations  for  our  pecu- 
liar theories  of  government,  we  are  still  as 
diametrically  oppcsed.  and  as  keen  in  our 
hostilit'es,  as  ever.  The  controversy  with  us 
being  m  a  great  measure  speculative,  would 
lose  its  interest  and  attraction,  if  anything 
like  a  compromise  were  admitted  ;  and  we 
choose,  therefore,  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  great 
and  visible  approximation  into  which  time, 
and  experience,  and  necessity  have  forced  the 
actual  combatants.  We  verily  believe,  that, 
except  in  the  imaginations  of  "English  politi- 
cians, there  no  longer  exist  in  the  world  any 
such  aristocrats  and  democrats  as  actually 
divided  all  Europe  in  the  early  days  of  the 
French  revolution.  In  this  country,  however, 
we  still  speak  and  feel  as  if  they  existed  ;  and 
the  champions  of  ari.«,tocracy  in  particular,  con- 
tinue, with  very  few  exceptions,  both  to  main- 
tain pretensions  ihat  their  principals  have  long 
ago  abandoned,  and  to  impute  to  their  adver- 
saries, crimes  and  absurdities  with  which 
they  have  long  ceased  to  be  chargeable.  To 
them,  therefore,  no  other  alternative  has  yet 
presented  itself  but  the  absolute  triumph  of 
one  or  other  of  two  opposite  and  irreconcile- 
able  extremes.  Whatever  is  taken  from  the 
sovereign,  they  consider  as  being  neces.sarily 
given  to  crazy  republicans  :  and  very  naturally 
dislike  all  limitations  of  the  royal  power,  be- 
cause they  are  unable  to  di.s'tingui.sh  them 
from  usurpations  by  the  avowed  enemies  of  all 
subordination.  That  the  real  state  of  things  has 
long  been  extremely  different,  men  of  reflec- 
tion might  have  concluded  from  the  known 
principles  of  human  nature,  and  men  of  infor- 
mation must  have  learned  from  sources  of  un- 
doubted authority  :  But  no  small  proportion  of 
our  zealous  jwliticians  belong  to  neither  of 
those  classes  :  and  we  ought  not.  perhaps,  to 
wonder,  if  they  are  slow  in  admitting  truths 
which  a  predominating  party  has  so  long 
thought  it  for  its  interest  to  misrepresent  or 
disguise.  The  time,  however,  seems  almost 
come,  when  conviction  must  be  forced  even 
upon  their  reluctant  understandings. — and  by 
the  sort  of  evidence  best  suited  to  their  capa- 
city. They  would  probably  be  little  moved  by 
the  best  arguments  that  could  be  addressed  to 
them,  and  might  distrust  the  testimony  of  or- 
dinary observers:  but  they  cannot  well  refuse 
to  yield  to  the  opinions  of  the  great  Sovereigns 
of  the  Continent,  and  must  even  give  faith  to 
their  professions,  when  they  find  them  con- 
firmed at  all  points  by  their  actions.  If  the 
establishment  of  a  limited  monarchy  in  France 
would  be  dangerous  to  sovereign  authority  in 
all  the  adjoining  regions,  it  is  not  easy  to  con- 
ceive that  it  should  have  met  with  the  cordial 
approbation  of  the  Emperors  of  Austria  and 
Russia,  and  thf  King  of  Prussia,  in  the  day  of 
their  most  brilliant  success;  or  that  that  mo- 
ment of  triumph  on  the  part  of  the  old  princes 
of  Eu!0])»-  should  have  been  selected  as  the 
period  when  the  thrones  of  France,  and  Spain, 
and  Holland,  were  to  be  surrounded  with  per- 
manent limitations. — imposed  with  their  cor- 
dial as.senl;  and  v  c  might  almost  say,  by  their 


hands.     Compared  with  acts  so  unequii 
all  declarations  may  justly  be  regarded 
significant :  but  there  are  declarations  s 
the  same  purpose  : — made  freely  and  dc 
ately  on  occasions  of  unparalleled  imp 
— and  for  no  other  intelligible  purp 
solemnly  to  announce  to  mankind  the  i 
principle  on  which  those  mighty  act* 
been  i->erformed. 

But  while  these  authorities  and  the 
siderations  may  be  expected,  in  due  1 
overcome   that   pardonable  dislike  to 
nental  liberty  which  arises  from  ignon 
natural  prejudices,  we  will  confess 
by  no  means  reckon  on  the  total  dis 
ance  of  this  illiberal  jealousy.     There  i 
we  fear  there  will  always  be,  among  us,  <«■ 
of  persons  who  conceive  it  to  be  for  thr  i: 
terest  to  decry  every  thing  that  is  :;  \ 
to  liberty. — and  who  are  guided  cii.  . 
gard  to  their  interest.     In  a  gover;  : 
stituted    like   ours,   the   Court   n.r 
always  be  more  or  less  jealous,  a: 
justly,  of  the  encroachment  of  i;o]  i. ... 
ciples.  and  disposed  to  show  favour  to    - 
who  would  diminish  the  influence  am  ' 
thority  of  such  principles.    Without  intei  lu 
or  wishing  to  render  the  British  crown  ii 
gether  arbitrary,  it  still  seems  to  ihim   : 
I  in  favour  of  its  constitutional  priv:  .  . 
j  arbitrary  monarchies  should,  to  a  < 
\  tent,  be  defended  ;  and  an  artful  : 
i  tyranny  is  gratefully  received  as  ai:     _ 
\d  fortiori  in  support  of  a  vigoroi;- 
j  live.    The  leaders  of  the  party,  then  ion  . .; 
that  way  :  and  their  baser  followers  rufi  • 
morously  along  it — to  the  very  brink  of  si  : 
sedition,  and  treason  aaciinst  the  <.■<■:  -•  ■ 

Such  men  no  arauments  will  s; 
no  authorities  convert.     It  is  their  ; 
to  discredit  and  oppose  all  that  teuls  in 
mote  the  freedom  of  mankiid:  and  in 
vocation  they  will  intallibly  labour.  <"  l<i   ■ 
it  yields  them  a  profit.     At  the  ]     - 
ment,  too,  we  have  no  doubt,  that   : 
is  quickened  by  their  alarm  :  sincr.  nmcj  u- 
ent  of  the  general  damage  \\hich  the  (jii 
of  arbitrary  ETOvernment  must  sustain  frorjhf 
events  of  which  we  have  been  speaking.  ■  - 
immediate  consequences  in  this  country  • 
likely  to  be  eminently  favourable  to  th 
terests  of  regulated  liberty  and  tcmperat  ' 
form.     Next  to  the  actual  cessation  of  I  • 
.shed  and  sufTering.  indeed,  we  consider, 
to  be  the  greatest  domestic  benefit  lh;i>' 
are  likely  to  reap  from  the  peace. — arc 
circumstance,  in  our  new  situation,  w  hid)  • 
the  loudest  for  our  congi-atnlation.     Wt 
perfectly  aware,  that  it  is  a  subject  ot  r^  • 
to  many  patriotic  individuals,  that  the  brii  nt 
successes  at  which  we  all  rejoice,  should  ve 
occurred  under  an  administration  vhich'a* 
not  manifested  any  extraordinary  dislillto 
abuses,  nor  any  very  cordial  attachment  tP* 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  people:  am  ■"• 
know,  that  it  has  been  an  opinion  pretly 
rent,  both  with  thrm  and  their  ajilagoi  • 
that  those  succe.xses  will  fix  them  so  firm  '" 
power,  that  they  will  be  enabled,  if  iheyfl'd 
be  80  inclined,  to  deal  more  largely  in  ab  "* 

I 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 


593' 


ar  to  press  more  closely  on  our  liberties,  than 
an  of  their  predecessors.  For  our  own  part, 
he  ever,  we  have  never  been  able  to  see 
tliiiisin  this  inauspii-ious  light; — and  having 
nciier.sonal  or  factious  quarrel  with  our  pres- 
eiiministers,  are  easily  comforted  for  the  in- 
crsed  chance  of  their  continuance  iu  oflice. 
by  consideration  of  those  circumstances  that 
in  t  iMtaliibly.  under  any  ministry,  operate  | 
toicilitate  reform,  to  diminish  the  power  of 
thCrown,  and  to  consolidate  the  liberties  of 
th  nation.  If  our  readers  agree  with  us  in 
ov.estimate  of  the  importance  of  these  cir- 
cu  stances,  we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  they 
w;  concur  in  our  general  conclusion. 

the  p-nt  place,  their,  it  is  obvious,  that 
tli.lirect  patronage  and  indirect  influence  oi 
th  Crown  must  be  most  seriously  and  effect- 1 
ua."  abrid^red  by  the  reduction  of  our  army  j 
an  navy,  the  diminution  of  our  ta.ves,  and,  ' 
oc'rally  speaking,  of  all  our  establishments,  j 
up  the  ratilication  of  peace,  We  have  ' 
tliuht  it  a  great  deal  gained  for  the  Consti- 1 
tnm  of  late  years,  when  we  could  strike  oil  \ 
a  !«■  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  offices  in  ] 
th!j:ift  of  the  Crown,  that  had  become  use-  ] 
le:t  or  might  be  consolidated: — and  now  the  | 
pt'i-e  will,  at  one  blow,  strike  off  probably  j 
thy'  or  forty  millions  of  government  e.vpendi-  ! 
tuL  ordinary  or  extraordinary.  This  alone  • 
m  It  restore  the  balance  of  the  Constitution.  | 

the  next  place,  a  continuance  of  peace  ; 
an  prosperity  will  naturally  produce  a  greater  : 
tliiision  of  wealth,  and  consequently  a  greater  ' 
s;i  t  of  independence  in  the  body  of  the  peo- 
ple which,  co-operating  with  tire  diminished 
po.er  of  the  government  to  providp  for  its 
ba^T  adherents,  must  speedily  thin  the  ranks  ^ 
of ts  regular  supporters,  and  expose  it  far 
ni':?  effectually  to  the  control  of  a  weightier 
aiunore  impartial  public  opinion. 

tlie  third  place,  the  e\"ents  to  which  we 

h;v  alluded,  and  the  situation  in  whi'h  they 

wi;  leave  us,  will  take  away  almo.<t  all  those 

prijxts  for  resisting  incjuiry  into  abuses,  and 

priosals  for  reform,  by  the  help  of  which, 

mj?r  than  of  any  serious  dispute  on  the  prin- 

cijl'.  these  important  discussions  have  been 

Wi;'ed  for  these  la.st  twenty  years.    We  shall 

no'inger  be  .'^topped  with  the  plea  of  its  bemg 

not  time  to  (juarrel  about  the  little  faults  oi 

ouJonstitution,  when  \Te  are  .•struggling  with 

a  irocious  enemy  for  its  very  existence.     It 

wiiiot  now  do  to  tell  us.  that  it  i>  both  dan- 

ijens  an"d  disgraceful  to  show  ourselves  dis-  j 

un  'd  in  a  season  of  such  imminent  peril — or 

llii;  all  great  and  patiiotii-  mind.-  should  be 

BJijely  engrossexl  with  the  care  of  our  .s;ifety, 

an}  can  have  neither  leisure  nor  energy  to 

bejjw  upon  concerns  less  urgent  or  vital. 

riirestoratioii  of  peace,  on  the  contrary,  will 

SO'I  leave  us  little  else  to  do: — and  wli'en  we 

ha''  no  invasions  nor  expedhions — nor  coali- 

li(i  nor  campaigns — nor  even  any  loans  and 

'■.'••ts  to  liU  the  m.inds  of  our  statesmen.  an<l 

-  ''f  our  idle  politi'ians,  we  think  it  al- 

ain  that  (pTcstions  of  reform  will  rise 

nount  importance,  and  the  redre.ss 

-  bet'.me  themosi  i::!erestiogof  pub- 

.-.    We  '•hal!  Ic  o:ice  more  entitled, 


too,  to  make  a  fair  and  natural  appeal  to  the 
analogous  acts  or  institutions  of  other  nations, 
without  being  met  by  the  cry  of  revolution 
and  ilemocracy,  or  the  imputation  of  abetting 
the  proceedings  of  a  sanguinary  despot.  We 
shall  again  see  the  abuses  of  old  hereditary 
povyer,  and  the  evils  of  maladministration  in 
legitimate  hands ;  and  be  permitted  to  argue 
from  them,  without  the  reproach  of  di.«aflec- 
tion  to  the  general  cause  of  mankiml.  Men 
and  things,  in  short,  we  trust,  will  again  re- 
ceive their  true  name.s,  on  a  fair  consuleration 
of  their  merits ;  and  our  notions  of  political 
de.sert  be  no  longer  confounded  b)-  indiscrimi- 
nate praise  of  all  who  are  with  us,  and  in- 
tolerant abuse  of  all  who  are  against  us,  in  a 
struggle  that  touches  the  sources  of  so  many 
passions.  When  we  plead  for  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  we  shall  no 
longer  be  told  that  the  Pope  is  a  mere  puppet 
in  the  hands  of  an  inveterate  foe, — nor  be  de- 
terred fromi)rotestiiig  against  tlie  conliagration 
of  a  friendly  capital,  by  the  suggestion,  that 
no  other  means  were  left  to  prevent  that  same 
foe  from  possessuig  himself  of  hs  fleet.  E.x- 
eeptions  and  extreme  cases,  in  sliort,  will  no 
longer  furnish  the  ordinary  rules  of  our  con- 
duct; and  it  will  be  impossible,  by  extraneous 
arguments,  to  balhie  every  attempt  at  a  fair  es- 
tunate  of  our  public  principles  and  proceedings. 

These,  we  think,  are  among  the  necessary 
consequences  of  a  peace  concluded  in  such 
circumstances  as  we  have  now  been  consider- 
ing; and  they  are  but  a  specimen  of  the  kin- 
dred consequences  to  which  it  mu.st  infallibly 
lead.  If  ther^e  ensue,  however,  and  are  al- 
lowed to  produce  their  natural  effects,  it  is  a 
matter  of  indifference  to  us  whether  Lord 
Castlereagh  and  Lord  Liverpool,  or  Lord  Grey 
and  Lord  Grenville  are  at  the  head  of  the 
government.  The  former,  indeed,  may  prob- 
ably be  a  little  uneasy  in  so  new  a  posture  of 
allairs  ;  but  they  will  either  conform  to  it,  or 
abandon  their  posts  in  despair.  To  control  or 
alter  it,  vrjll  assuredly  be  beyond  their  power. 

^Vith  these  pleasing  anticipations,  we  would 
willingly  close  this  long  review  of  the  State  and 
Prospects  of  the  European  Commonwealth, 
in  its  present  great  crisis,  of  restoration,  or  of 
new  revolutions.  But,  cheering  and  beautiful 
as  it  is,  and  disposed  as  we  think  we  have 
shown  ourselves  to  look  hopefully  upon  it,  it 
is  impossible  to  shut  our  eyes  on  two  dark 
.stains  that  appear  on  the  briLdit  horizon,  and 
seem  already  to  tarnish  the  glories  with  which 
they  are  so  sadly  contra.sted.  One  is  of  longer 
."Standing,  and  perhaps  of  deeper  dye. — But 
both  are  most  painful  deformities  on  the  face 
of  so  fair  a  prospect;  and  may  be  mentioned 
with  less  scruple  and  greater  hope,  from  the 
consideration,  that  those  who  have  now  the 
power  of  effacing  them  can  .'Scarcely  be  charged 
with  the  i;uilt  of  their  production,  and  have 
given  strong  indications  of  dispositnnis  that 
mu.'<t  lead  them  to  wish  for  their  removal.  We 
need  scarcely  give  the  key  to  the>e  obse.-va- 
tions  by  naming  the  names  of  Polowl  and  of 
Nnnrny.  Nor  do  we  propose,  on  the  present 
occasion,  to  do  much  more  than  to  name  them. 
Of  the  latter,  we  shall  prnbablv  contrive  to 


I 


594 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


speak  fully  on  a  future  occasion.     Of  the  for- 
mer, many  of  our  readers  may  think  we  have, 
on  former  occasions,  said  at  least   enough. 
Our  zeal  in  that  cause,  we  know,  has  been 
made  matter  of  wonder,  and  even  of  derision, 
among  certain  persons  who  value  themselves 
on  the  character  of  practical  politicians  and 
men  of  the  world  ;  and  we  have  had  the  satis- 
faction of  listening  to  various  witty  sneers  on 
the  mixed   simplicity  and   extravagance   of 
supposing,  that  the  kingdom  of  the  Poles  was 
to  be  re-established  by  a  dissertation  in  an 
English  journal.    It  would  perhaps  be  enough 
to  state,  that,  independent  of  any  view  to  an 
immediate  or  practical  result  in  other  regions, 
it  is  of  some  consequence  to  keep  the  obser- 
vation of  England  alive,  and  its  feelings  awake, 
upon  a  subject  of  this  importance :   But  we 
must  beg  leave  to  add,  that  such  dissertations 
are  humbly  conceiveil  to  be  among  the  legiti- 
mate means  by  which  the  English  public  both 
instmcts  and  expresses  itself;  and  that  the 
opinion  of  the  English  public  is  still  allowed 
to  have  weight  with  its  government;  which 
again  cannot  well  be  supposed  to  be  altogether 
without  intluence  in  the  councils  of  its  allies. 
VVnatever  becomes  of  Poland,  it  is  most 
material,   we  think,  that  the  people  of  this 
country  should  judge  soundly,  and  feel  right- 
ly, on  a  matter  that  touches  on  principles  of  ' 
such   general   application.     But  every  thing 
that  has  passed  since  the  publication  of  our  ! 
former  remarks,  combines  to  justify  what  we 
then  stated ;  and  to  encourage  us  to  make  ' 
louder  and  more  energetic  appeal.*  to  the  jus-  ' 
tice  and  prudence  and  magnanimity  of  the 
parties  concerned  in  this   transaction.     The  1 
words  and  the  deeds  of  Alexander  that  have,  I 
since  that   period,  passed  into  the  page  of 
history — the  principles  he  has  solemnly  pro-  j 
fessed,  and  the  acts  by  which  he  has  sealed  j 
that  profession — entitle  us  to  ex-pect  from  him  | 
a  strain  of  justice  and  generosity,  which  vul-  I 
gar  politician.*  may  call  romantic  if  ihey  please,  | 
but  which  all  men  of  high  principles  and  en- 
larged understandings  will  feel  to  be  not  more  I 
heroic  than  judicious.    While  Poland  remains 
oppressed  and  discontented,  the  peace  of  Eu-  { 
rope  will  always  be  at  the  mercy  of  any  am- 
bitious or  intriguing  power  that  may  think  fit  ' 


to  rouse  its  vast  and  warlike  populati  witS 
the  vain  promise  of  independence;  wl  < 
perfectly  manifest  that  those,  by  whoi  , 
that  promise  could  be  effectually  kept  . 
gain  prodigiously,  both  in  security  and 
stantial  influence,  by  its  faithful  perfoi 
It    is   not,  however,  for   the  mere  ii;  . 
independence,  nor  for  the  lost  glorit-  , 
ancient   and  honourable  existence,  t 
people   of  Poland   are   thus   eager  li  : 
themselves  in  any  desperate  strife  ot 
this  may  be  proclaimed  as  the  priz' 
have  shown,  in  our  last  number,  the  > 
tial  and  intolerable  evils  which  thise."?  , 
of  their  national  dignity — this  sore  ; 
merited  wound  to  their  national   pii 
necessarily  occasioned  :  And  thinking  - 
do,  that  a  people  without  the  feeling; 
tional  pride  and  public  duty  must  be  ;i 
without  energy  and  without  enjo\Tn«  • 
apprehend  it  to  be  at  any  rate  indispo!  : 
the  present  instance,  that  the  circun,  i 
which  have  dissolved  their   political  i 
have  struck  also  at  the  root  of  their  iii' 
happiness  and  prosperity ;  and  that  i  - 
merely  the  unjust  destruction  of  an   ( 
kindom  that  we  lament,  but  the  condei  atic. 
of  fifteen   millions  of  human   beings  i  bo- 
profitable  and  unparalleled  misery. 

But  though  these  are  the  considerat  '^ 
which  the  feelings  of  private  individi  - 
most  naturally  affected,  it  should  m  m 
forgotten,  that  all  the  principles  on  wl  h  i. 
great   fabric  of  national   independeii   r 
fessedly  rests  in  Europe,  are  involved  i 
decision  of  this   question  ;   and  that 
nation  can  be  secure  in  its  separate  ex 
if  all   the  rest  do  not  concur  in  dis;i  \^ 
the  maxims  which  were  acted   upon 
partition  of  Poland.     It  is  not  only  n  - 
to  see  the  scattered  and  bleeding  men  ■' 
that  unhappy  state  still  jjalpitating  a   ■< 
nising  on  the  spot  where  if  lately  stoo  i 
in  youthful  visour  and  beauty  ;  but  it  i;   • 
to   breathe  the   noxious  vapours  wh 
melancholy  spectacle  exhales.      The  I: 
some  neighbourhood  is  poi,*oiied  by  tl  i 
fusion  ;  and  every  independence  willi  '■ 
range,  sickens  and  is  endangered  ty  ; 
tagion. 


(fcbvnarj),   ISU.) 

speech  of  the  Ri<iht  Hon.  William  Windham,  in  the  House  of  Commons.  May  26,  1? 
Mr.  Curu<en\<i  Bill,  "for  better  securing  the  Independence  and  Purity  of  rarliai «' 
preventing  the    procuring  or  obtaining  of  Seats   by  corrupt  Practices-^''     8vo. 
London:   1810.*  ' 

Mr.  Windham,  the  most  high-minded  and    in  selling  seats  in  parliament  openlj  J 
incorruptible  of  living  men,  can  see  no  hamri  [  highest  bidder,  or  for  excluding  publi  t' 

*  The  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  has  antiquated    ponent.^  of  reform  priuriplef— which  are  «'  n 
much  of  the  discusi<ion  in  this  article,  as  originally  |  to  all  times,  and  nil  conditions  of  society   "u  ^ 
written  ;  and  a  considerable  ponion  of  it  is  now,  for  '  which  recent  events  and  disrnssions  seem 
'hi=  reason,  omitted.     Rut  it  also  contains  answers  i  that  the  present,  generation  may  still  need  oe 
to  ilie  sys;?:.'.:.::c  apologistj  <A'  corruption,  and  op-  '  minded. 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


695 


gejjrally  from  the  monoy  market ;  and  is  of 

or  ioti  thnt  political   iiiHuence  arising  from 

crtv   should   be   disposed   of  iik(>   other 

city-     It  will   be  readily  suppo.sed  that 

io  not  assent  to  ai-.y  part  of  this  doctrine  ; 

indeed  we  must  beg  leave  to  say,  that  to 

!  is  no  sort  of  ariruinent  for  the  sale  of 

contend  that  such  a  transference  is 

■  than  the  possession  of  the  properly 

•d  ;  and   to   remind  us,  that  he  who 

oL  lU-  10  men  selling  their  inthience,  must 

h»i:iainst  their  having  it  to  sell.     Wc  arc 

dcldeJly  ag-.iiiist   their   having   it — to  sell! 

ail  as  to  what  is   here  considered  as  (he 

nmartj  influence  of  property  over  elections. 

wishould  think  there  could  be  no  great  difli- 

cin'  in  drawing  the  line  between  the  legili- 

mi.  harmless,  and  even  beneficial  use  of 

pr'erty.  even  as  connected  with  elections; 

an!  its  direct  employment  for  the  purchase 

of  irliamentary  induence.   Almost  all  men — 

injed,  we  think,  all  men — admit,  that  some 

iiriis  to  be  drawn; — that  the  political  influ- 

eih  of  property  should  be  confined  to  that 

whh  is  essential  to  its  use  and  enjoyment ; 

—  id  that  penalties  should  be  inflicted,  when 

it  directly  applied  to  the  purchase  of  votes  : 

ihjah  that  is  perhaps  the  only  case  in  which 

thilaw  can  interfere  vindictively,  without  in- 

trcjjcing  far  greater  evils  than  those  which 

it  ieks  to  remedy. 

j)  those  who  are  already  familiar  with  the 
faii  and  the  reasonings  that  bear  upon  this 
errt  question,  these  brief  suggestions  will 
prjably  be  sufficient ;  but  there  arc  many  to 
wmn  the  subject  will  require  a  little  more 
e.vlanation;  and  for  whose  use,  at  all  events, 
th|argument  must  be  a  little  more  opened 
uj^nd  expanded.  ■ 

I  men  were  perfectly  wise  and  virtuous, 
ihJ  would  stand  in  no  need  either  of  Govern- 
tnt'il  or  of  Representatives;  and,  therefore, 
if  ley  do  need  them,  it  is  quite  certain  that 
(hj  choice  will  not  be  influenced  by  con- 
Bic^itions  of  duty  or  wisdom  alone.  We 
assume  it  as  an  axiom,  therefore,  how- 
the  purists  may  be  scandalised,  that, 
in  political  elections,  some  other  feel- 
injlwill  necessarily  have  play  ;  and  that  pas- 
sicji.  and  pn>judices.  and  personal  interests, 
wi  always  interfere,  to  a  greater  or  less  ex- 
lei  with  the  higher  dictates  of  patriotism 
an  philanthropy.  Of  these  sinister  motives, 
inii-idual  interest,  of  course,  is  the  strongest 
injmost  steady:  and  wealth,  being  its  most 
co^Tion  and  appropriate  object,  it  is  natural 
to  xpect  that  the  possession  of  property 
shijld  bestow  some  political  influence.  The 
qujtion.  therefore,  is,  whether  this  influence 
Bii|evor  be  sjife  or  tolerable — or  whether  it 
be;)ssible  to  mark  the  limits  at  which  it  be- 
Mj?s  so  pernicious  as  to  justify  le'n.slative 
Mf.'ioii.  Now,  we  are  so  fiir  from  tninking, 
v\  Mr.  Windham,  that  there  is  no  room  for 
»niistinction  in  this  matter,  that  we  are  in- 
sliid,  on  the  whole,  to  be  of  opinion,  that 
*l:  we  would  term  the  natural  and  inevita- 
t>'«jnfluence  of  property  in  elections,  is  not 
J'ii  .safe,  but  salutary;  while  its  artificial 
im  corrupt   influence  is  among  the  most 


pernicious  and   reprehensible  of  all  political 
abuses. 

The  natural  influence  of  property  is  that 
which  results  spontaneously  from  its  ordinary 
use  and  expenditure,  anti  cannot  v.ell  b<!  mi' 
understood.  That  a  man  who  .spends  a  laige 
income  in  the  place  of  his  residence — who 
sidiscribcs  handsomely  for  building  bridges, 
hospital."*,  and  assembly-rooms,  and  generally 
to  all  works  of  pidilic  charity  or  accommoda- 
tion in  the  neighbourhood — and  who,  more- 
over, keeps  the  best  table  for  the  gentry,  and 
has  the  largest  accounts  with  the  tradesmen 
— will,  without  thinking  or  caring  about  th» 
matter,  acnuire  more  influence,  and  find  more 
people  ready  to  oblige  him,  than  a  poowr  mar:, 
of  eijual  virtue  anti  talents— i«s  a  fact,  which 
we  are  as  little  inclined  to  deplore,  as  to  call 
in  question.  Neither  does  it  cost  us  any  pang 
to  reflect,  that,  if  such  a  man  was  desirous  of 
representing  the  borough  in  which  he  resided, 
or  of  having  it  represented  by  his  .'*on  or  his 
brother,  or  some  dear  ai:d  intimate  friend,  his 
recommendation  would  go  much  farther  with 
the  electors  than  a  respectable  certificate  of 
extraordinary  worth  and  abilities  in  an  oppos- 
ing candidate. 

Such  an  influence  as  this,  it  would  evidently 
be  quite  absurd  for  any  legislature  to  think 
of  interdicting,  or  even  for  any  refonner  to  at- 
tempt to  discredit.  In  the/r.s/  place,  because 
it  is  founded  in  the  very  nature  of  men  and 
of  human  afl^airs,  and  could  not  possibly  be 
prevented,  or  considerably  weakened,  by  any 
thing  short  of  ^n  universal  regeneration;  se- 
condly, because,  though  originating  from  pro- . 
perty.  it  does  by  no  means  imply,  either  the 
baseness  of  venality,  or  the  guilt  of  corrup- 
tion; but  rests  infinitely  more  upon  feelings 
of  vanity,  and  social  instinctive  sympathy, 
than  upon  any  consciousness  of  dependence, 
or  paltry  expectation  of  personal  emolument ; 
and,  thirdly,  because,  taking  men  as  they  ac- 
tually are.  this  mixed  feeling  is,  upon  the 
whole,  both  a  safer  and  a  better  feeling  than 
the  greater  part  of  those,  to  the  influence  of 
which  they  would  be  abandoned,  if  this  .should 
be  destroyed.  If  the  question  were,  always, 
whether  a  man  of  wealth  and  family,  or  a  man 
of  sense  and  virtue,  should  have  the  greatest 
influence,  it  would  no  doubt  be  desirable  that 
the  preponderance  should  be  given  to  moral 
and  intellectual  merit.  But  this  is  by  no 
means  the  true  state  .of  the  contest : — and 
when  the  question  is  between  the  influence 
of  property  and  the  itdhience  of  intriguing  am- 
bition and  turbident  ix)i)ularily;  we  own  that 
we  are  glad  to  find  the  former  most  frequently 
prevalent.  In  ordinary  life,  and  in  common 
jiffaiLs.  this  natural  and  indirect  influence  of 
property  is  vast  and  infallible,  even  U|^on  the 
best  and  most  enlightened  part  of  the  com- 
munity; and  nothing  can  conduce  so  surely  to 
the  stability  and  excellence  of  a  politic^il  con- 
stitution, aa  to  make  it  rest  upjui  the^genera! 
principles  that  regulate  the  cOTi<luct  of  the 
better  part  of  the  individuals  who  live  under 
it,  and  to  attach  them  to  their  government  by 
the  same  feelings  which  insure  theii  afTec 
tion  or  submission  in  their  private  capacity 


596 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


n 


There  could  be  no  security,  in  short,  either 
lor  property,  or  for  any  thing  else,  in  a  coun- 
try where  the  possession  of  property  did  not 
bestow  some  political  influence. 

This,  then,  is  the  natural  influence  of  pro- 
perty ;.  which  we  would  not  only  tolerate,  but 
encourage.  We  must  now  endeavour  to  ex- 
plain that  corrupt  or  artificial  influence,  which 
we  conceive  it  to  be  our  duty  by  all  means  to 
resist  and  repress.  Under  this  name,  we  would 
comprehend  all  wilful  and  direct  employment 
:)f  property  to  purchase  or  obtain  political 
power,  in  whatever  form  the  transaction  might 
be  embodied  :  but.  with  reference  to  the  more 
common  cases,  we  shall  exemplify  only  in  the 
instances  of  purchasing  vote?  by  bribeiy,  or 
holding  the  property  oi  those  votes  distinct 
from  any  other  property,  and  selling  and  trans- 
ferring this  for  a  piice,  like  any  other  marl<,et- 
able  commodity.  All  such  practices  are  stig- 
matized, in  common  language,  and  in  common 
feelings,  as  corrupt  and  di?creditable  j  and 
the  slightest  reflection  upon  their  principles 
and  their  consequences,  will  show,  that  while 
they  tend  to  debase  the  character  of  all  who 
are  concerned  in  them,  they  lead  directly  to 
the  subversion  of  all  that  is  valuable  in  a 
representative  system  of  government.  That 
they  may,  in  so7ne  cases,  be  sombinod  with 
tliat  indirect  and  legitimate  influence  of  pro- 
perty of  which  we  have  just  been  speaking, 
and.  in  others,  be  insidiously  engrafted  upon 
it.  it  is  impossible  to  deny ;  but  that  they  ar.e 
clearly  distinguishable  from  the  geauine  fruits 
of  that  influence,  both  in  theifraoi-al  character 
and  their  political  efl"ects,  we  conceive  to  be 
equally  indisputable. 

LTpon  the  subject  of  direct  bribery  to  indi- 
vidual voters,  indeed,  we  do  not  think  it  ne- 
cessary to  say  any  thing.  The  law,  and  the 
feeling  of  all  mankind  have  marked  that  prac- 
tice with  reprobation:  and  even  Sir.  Wind- 
ham, in  the  wantonness  of  his  controversial 
scepticism,  does  not  pretend  to  say,  that  the 
law  or  the  feeling  is  enoneous,  or  that  it  would 
not  be  better  that  both  should,  if  possible,  be 
made  still  stronger  than  they  are. 

Setting  this  aside,  however,  the  creat  prac- 
tical evils  that  are  supposed  to  result  from  the 
influence  of  property  in  the  elections  of  this 
country,  are,  1st,  that  the  representation  of 
certain  boroughs  is  entirely,.  necessa;i!y  and 
perpetually,  at  the  disposal  of  certain  fami- 
lies, so  as  to  be  fffmiliarly  considered  as  a 
jiart  of  their  rightful  property  :  and,  2dly, 
that  certain  otheV  boroughs  are  held  and  ma- 
naged by  corrupt  agents  and  jobbers,  for  the 
express  purpose  of  being  sold  for  a  price  iii 
ready  moaey,  either  through  the  intervention 
of  the  Treasury,  or  directly  to  the  candidate. 
That  bo:h  lhe.se  are  evils  and  deformities  in 
oursy.stem  of  representation,  we  readily  ad- 
mit ;  though  by  no  means  to  the  same  extent, 
leading  to  the  same  effects,  or  produced  by 
the  ojjerati^i  of  the  same  causes. 

With  regard  to  the  boroughs  that  are  per- 
manently in  possession  of  certain  great  pro- 
prietors, these  are.  for  the  most  part,  such 
small  or  decayed  places,  as  have  fallen,  al- 
most insensibly,  under  their  control;  in  con- 


sequence of  the  extension  of  their  posses 

and  the  decline  of  the  population.     Coi! 

ed  in  this  light,  it  doea  not  appear  that 

can,  with  any  propriety,  be  regarded  eiti 

scenes  of  criminal  corruption,  or  a?  e.\:!; 

I  of  the  reprehensible  influence  of  propci: 

j  a  place  which  still  retains  {however  abs; 

I  the  right  of  sending  members  to  parli;t 

'  comes  to  be  entirely  depopulated,  lik 

}  Sarum,  it  is  impossible  to  supjwse  ih^ 

I  nomination  of  its  members  should  vest , 

one  but  the  Proprietor  of  the  .^pot  to 

ihe  right  is  attached:  and,  even*\vh(  • 

decay  is  less  complete  than  in  this  iii«: 

still,  if  any  great  family  has  gradually  ;■.■ 

ed  the  greater  part  of  the  property  fiom  • 

the  right  of  voting  is  deriyed.  it  is  e( 

impossible  to  hold  that  there  is  any  thii 

rupt  or  reprehensible  in  its  availing  its- 

this  influence.     Case?  of  this  sort,  thei 

we  are  inclined  to  consider  as  cases  i  ■ 

fair  hifiuence   of  property:  and  thou: 

admit  them  to  be  both  contradictory  ' 

general  scheme  of  the  Constitution,  an. 

j  versive  of  some  of  its  most  imporlant  j 

I  pies,  we  think  they  are  to  be  regarded  a- 

I  and  irregularities  brought  on  by  time  a'  • 

course  of  events,  rather  than  as  abuses 

;  duced  by  the  vices  and  corruption.";  o; 

I  The  remedy — and  we  certainly  think  ;  ■ 

I  obvious   and   proper   remedy — would 

j  take  the  right  of  election  from  ail  pini 

small  and  insignificant  as  lo  have  tin  , 

come,  in  a  great  measure,  the  propert}    . 

individual — not  to  rail  at  ihe  individn; 

avails   himself  of   the    influence  iiise} 

from  such  property — or  to  dream  of  re  i 

ing  him  in  its  e:verci.<e.  by  unjust  pei : 

j  and  impossible  regulations. 

j      The  great  evil,  however,  is  in  the  otl: 

script  ion  of  boronahs — those  that  are  li 

agents  or  jobbers,  by  a  very  diflerent 

I  from  that  of  great  proprietors  and  benet  - 

j  and   are  regularly  disposed  of  by  thi  • 

j  every  election,  for  a  price  paid  down,  i 

I  through   the  mediation   of  the  minis 

!  without  any  such  mediation:  a  part  •'■' 

price*  being  notoriously  applied  by  such 

in  direct  bribes  to  individual  voters — a  '■ 

remainder  taken  to  themselves  as  the  ' 

profits  of  ttie  trai'.saction.    Now.  withoii 

into  any  sort  of  detail,  we  think  we  m  i' 

once  venture  (o  ask,  whether  it  be  posf  'I' 

any  man  to  shut  his  eyes  upm  the  indl 

infamy  and  the  public  hazard  that  aie 

ed  hi  these  last-mentioned  proceedings 

ov.P  moment  to  confound  them,  even! 

imagination,  with  the  innocent  and  9aln*| 

flueiice  that  is  inseparable  from  the  \)os  ^ 

and  expenditure  of  large  projjerty?  Tin  ■' 

erice  between  them,  is  not  le?s  thfin  h,'* 

the  influence  which  youth  and.  manly  i''^ 

aiiled  by  acts  of  generosity  and  jiroof?    ' 

nourable  intentions  may  attain  over  ar;;'J' 

of  affection,  and  the  control  that  may  '  ■ 

quired  by  the  arts  of  a  hateful  procnrr ; : 

by  her  transferred  to  nn  object  of  natii,  >' 

gust  and  aversion.     The  one  is  fcnmh  "l 

priiiciples  which,   if  they  are  not  ihiv 

lofty  or  infallible,  are  still  among  ihnM 


WINDHAMS  SPEECH. 


597 


imble  that  belong  to  our  imperfect  nature. 
Biiiteatls  to  cousequonces  eminently  favour- 
ibl'to  the  harmony  and  stability  of  our  social 
insmtions;  while  the  other  can  only  be  ob- 
tail  J  by  working  with  the  bast'st  instruments 
an  e  blisest  jxissions;  and  tends  directly  to 
japie  foundations  of  private  honour  anti  pub- 
lic H'dom.  and  to  dissolve  the  kindly  cement 
bv  iiich  nature  herself  has  knit  society  to- 
ji't  r,  in  the  bonds  of  human  sympathy,  and 
mual  trust  and  dependence.  To  say. that 
bot  sorts  of  iniiuence  are  derived  from  pro- 
per. an4.are  therefore  to  be  con.sidered  as 
ideicai,  is  a  sophism  scarcely  more  ingeni- 
ju?han  that  which  would  confound  the  oc- 
3ur  ions  of  the  highwayman  and  the  honour- 
jbtnerchanl.  because  the  object  of  both  was 
.»ai'  or  which  should  assume  the  philoso- 
phi  1  principle,  that  all  voluntary  actions  are 
licu'd  by  a  view  to  ultimate  gratilication.  in 
ml  to  prove  that  there  was  no  distinction 
bet  -'en  vice  and  virtue :  and  that  the  felon, 
whA\'as  led  to  cvecution  amidst  the  execra- 
lioi  of  an  indignant  multitude,  was  truly  as 
me  orious  as  the  patriot,  to  whom  his  grate- 
ful )untry  decreed  uiienvied  honours  for  its 
iel/rance  from  tyrann}-.  The  truth  is,  that 
the  is  nothing -more  dangerous  than  those 
me  physical  inquiries  into  the  ultimate  con- 
stit  nts  of  merit  or  delinquency;  and  that, 
in  (isry  thing  that  is  connected  with  practice, 
uid'speciali}"  with  public  conduct,  no  wise 
ma  will  ever  employ  such  an  analytical  pro- 
wsto  counteract  the  plain  intimations  of 
sonlience  and  common  sense,  unless  for  the 
^r!ise  of  confounding  an  antagonist,  or  per- 
plejig  a  discussion,  to  the  natural  result  of 
whh  he  is  unfriendly  on  other  principles. 

Et  if  the  practices  to  which  we  are  alluding 
be  ?arly  base  and  unworthy  in  the  eyes  of 
ill  bright  and  honourable  men.  and  most 
pre'ant  with  public  danger  iii  the  eyes  of 
ill  linking  and  intelligent  men,  it  must  ap- 
pealstill  more  strange  to  find  them  defended 
jn  JB  score  of  their  Antiquity,  than  on  that 
jftJMr  supposed  affinity  to  practices  that  are 
lieko  be  iiniocent.  Yet  the  old  cry  of  [nno- 
ratji!  has  been  raised,  with  more  than  usual 
reonence,  against  those  who  offer  the  most 
aul)us  hints  for  their  correction  :  and  even 
MrlVindham  has  not  disdained  to  seek  some 
iidi  his  argument  from  a  misapplication  of 
ihe'orry  commonplaces  about  the  antiquity 
indeauty  of  our  constitution,  and  the  hazard 
rf  riddling  at  all  with  that  under  which  we 
!ia\1so  long  enjoyed  so  much  glory  ajid  hap- 
ping?. Of  the  many  good  answers  that  may 
ie  'ade  to  all  arguments  of  this  character, 
weliall  content  ourselves  with  one,  which 
sees  sufficiently  conclusive  and  simple. 

Ts  abases,  of  which  we  complain,  are  not 
ildjnt  recent :  and  those  who  seek  to  correct 
thev  are  not  innovating  upon  the  constitu- 
tiomut  seeking  to  prevent  innovation.  The 
praice  of  jobbing  in  borouirhs  was  scarcely 
tiioa  at  all  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  cen- 
iuri  and  was  not  systematized,  nor  carried 
to  ay  very  formidable  extent,  till  within  'the 
lastiorty  years.  At  all  events,  it  most  cer- 
a.in;  was  not  in  the  coatemplation  of  those 


by  whom  the  frame  of  our  constitution  was 
laid  ;  and  it  is  confessedly  a  perversion  and 
abuse  of  a  system,  devised  and  established 
lor  very  opposite  purposes.  Let  any  man  ask 
himself,  whether  such  a  scheme  of  represen- 
tation, as  is  now  actually  in  practice  iii  many 
parts  of  this  country,  can  be  supposed  to  havt^ 
been  intended  by  those  who  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  our  free  const ilution,  or  reared  upon 
them  the  proud  fabric  ol  our  liberties?  Or 
let  him  ask  himself,  whether,  if  we  were  now 
devising  a  system  of  representation  ibrsucha 
country  as  England,  there  is  any  human  being 
who  would  recommend  the  adoption  of  the 
system  that  is  practically  e.stablished  among 
us  at  this  moment. — a  systtmi  under  which 
fifty  or  sixty  members  should  be  returned  by 
twenty  or  thirty  paltry  and  beggarlv  hamlets, 
dignilied  with  the  name  of  borougKs ;  while 
twenty  or  thirty  great  and  opulent  towns  had 
no  representation : — and  where  upwards  of  a 
hundred  more  publicly  bought  their  seats, 
partly  by  a  promise  of  indiscriminate  si^)port 
to  the  minister,  and  partly  b}-  a  sum  paid 
down  to  persons  who  had  no  natural  influence 
over  the  electors,  and  controlled  them  noto- 
riously, either  by  direct  bribery,  or.  as  the 
agents  of  ministerial  corruption?  If  it  be 
clear,  however,  that  such  a  state  of  things  is 
in  itself  indefensible,  it  is  still  clearer  that  it 
is  not  the  state  of  things  which  is  required  by 
the  true  principles  of  the  constitution  ;  that,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  neither  did  nor  could  exist  at 
the  time  when  that  constitution  was  estab- 
lished ;  and  that  its  correction  would  be  no 
innovation  on  that  constitution,  but  a  benefi- 
cial restoration  of  it,  both  in  principle  and  in 
practice. 

If  some  of  the  main  pillars  of  our  mansion 
have  been  thrown  down,  is  it  a  dangerous  in- 
j  novation  to  rear  them  up  again  l  If  the  roof 
has  grown  too  heavy  for  the  building,  by  re- 
j  cent  and  injudicious  superstructures,  is  it  an 
[  innovation,  if  we  either  take  them  down,  or 
I  strengthen  the  supports  upon  which  they  de- 
I  pend  ?  If  the  waste  of  time,  and  the  ele- 
ments, have  crumbled  away  a  part  of  the 
foundation,  does  it  show  a  "disregard  to  the 
!  safety  of  the  whole  pile,  if  we  widen  the  basis 
i  upon  which  it  rests,  and  endeavour  to  place 
i  it  upon  deeper  and  firmer  materials'?  If  the 
I  rats  have  eaten  a  way  into  the  stores  and  the 
!  cellars;  or  if  knavish  servants  have  opened 
private  and  unauthorised  communications  in 
1  the  lower  parts  of  the  fabric,  does  it  indeed 
indicate  a  disposition  to  impair  the  comfort 
!  and  security  of  the  abode,  that  we  are  anxious 
to  stop  up  those  holes,  and  to  build  across 
those  new  and  suspicious  approaches? — Is  it 
I  not  obvious,  in  short,  in  all  such  cases,  that 
the  only  true  innovators  are  Guilt  and  Time  ; 
and  that  they  who.  seek  to  repair  what  time 
]  has  wasted ;  and  to  restore  what  guilt  has 
'  destroyed,  are  still  more  unequivocally  the 
;  enemies  of  innovation,  than  of  abuse  1  Those 
:  who  are  most  aware  of  the  importance  of  re- 
form, are  al.so  most  aware  of  the  hazards  of 
j  any  theoretical  or  untried  change  ;  and,  while 
I  they  strictly  confine  their  efforts  to  the  restitu- 
I  Hon  of  what  all  admit  to  have  been  in  the 


598 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


original  plan  of  our  representation,  and  to  have 
formed  a  most  essential  part  of  that  plan,  may 
reasonably  hope,  whatever  other  charges  they 
may  encounter,  to  escape  that  of  a  love  of 
innovation. 

There'is  another  topic,  on  which  Mr.  Wind- 
ham has  dwelt  at  very  great  length,  which 
appears  to  us  to  bear  even  less  on  the  merits 
of  the  question,  than  this  of  the  antiquity  of 
our  constitution.  The  abuses  and  corrup- 
tions which  Mr.  Curwen  aimed  at  correcting, 
ought  not,  he  says,  to  be  charged  to  the  ac- 
count of  ministers  or  members  of  Parliament 
alone.  The  greater  part  of  them  both  origi- 
nate and  end  with  the  people  themselves, — 
are  suggested  by  their  baseness  and  self-inter- 
est, and  terminate  in  their  corrupt  gain,  with 
very  little  voluntary  sin,  and  frequently  with 
very  little  advantage  of  any  sort  to  ministers 
or  candidates.  Now,  though  it  is  impossible  to 
forget  what  Mr.  Windham  has  himself  said, 
of  the  disgraceful  abuses  of  patronage  com- 
mitlecf  by  men  in  power,  for  their  own  indi- 
vidual emolument,*  yet  we  are  inclined,  upon 
the  whole,  to  admit  the  truth  of  this  state- 
ment. It  is  what  we  have  always  thought  it 
our  duty  to  point  out  to  the  notice  of  those 
who  can  see  no  guilt  but  in  the  envied  pos- 
sessors of  dignity  and  power;  and  forms,  in- 
eleed,  the  very  basis  of  the  answer  we  have 
repeatedly  attempted  to  give  to  those  Utopian 
or  factious  reformers,  whose  intemperance  has 
done  more  injury  to  the  cause  of  reform,  than 
all  the  sophistry  and  all  the  corruption  of  their 
opponents.  But,  though  we  admit  the  premises 
of  Mr.  Windham's  argument,  we  must  utterly 
deny  his  conclusions.  When  we  admit,  that 
a  part  of  the  people  is  venal  and  corrupt,  as 
well  as  its  rulers,  we  really  cannot  see  that 
we  admit  any  thing  in  defence,  or  even  in 
palliation,  of  venality  and  corruption  : — Nor 
can  we  imagine,  how  that  melancholy  and 
most  humiliating  fact,  can  help  in  the  least  to 
make  out,  that  corruption  is  not  an  immoral 
and  pernicious  practice  ; — not  a  malum  in  .sc, 
as  Mr.  Windham  has  been  pleased  to  assert, 
nor  even  a  practice  which  it  would  be  just 
and  expedient,  if  it  were  practicable,  to  re- 
press and  abolish !  The  only  ju.st  inference 
from  the  fact  is,  that  ministers  and  members 
of  Parliament  are  not  the  only  guilty  persons 
in  the  tratFic ; — and  that  all  remedies  will  be 
inelficient,  which  are  not  capable  of  being  ap- 
plied through  the  whole  range  of  the  malady. 
It  may  be  a  very  good  retort  from  the  gentle- 


*  "  Wiih  respect  to  the  abuse  of  patronage,  one 
of  those  by  which  the  interests  of  countries  do.  in 
reality,  most  suffer,  I  perfectly  agree,  that  ii  is  like- 
wise one,  of  which  the  government,  properly  so 
called,  that  is  to  say,  persons  in  the  highest  offices, 
are  as  likely  to  bo  guilty,  and.  from  their  opportu- 
nities, more  likely  to  be  guilty,  than  any  others. 
And  nothing,  in  point  of  fact,  can  exceed  the  greedi- 
ness, the  selfishness,  the  insatiable  voracity,  the 
profligate  disrei^ard  of  all  claims  from  merit  or  ser- 
vices, that  we  often  see  in  persons  in  high  official 
stations,  when  providing  for  themselves,  their  re- 
lations or  dependants,  f  am  as  little  disposed  as  any 
one  to  defend  them  in  this  conduct.  Lei  it  be  repro- 
bated in  terms  as  harsh  as  any  one  pleases,  a"d 
much  more  so  than  it  commonly  is." — Speech,  p.  28. 


men  within  doors  to  the  gentlemen  witnt  • 
and  when  they  are  reproached  with  not  h  in* 
clean  hands,  it  may  be  very  natural  for  em 
to  ask  a  sight  of  those  of  their  accusers.  But 
is  this  any  answer  at  all,  to  those  who  gjgi 
upon  the  infamy  and  the  dangers  of  ci  up. 
tion  in  both  quarters  !  Or,  is  the  evil  jfy 
supposed  to  be  less  iormitiabie,  because  ap. 
pears  to  be  very  widely  extended,  and  be 
the  fair  subject,  not  only  of  reproach,  I,  of 
recrimination?  The  seat  of  the  niaiad^ind 
its  extent,  may  indeed  vary  our  opiniom  to 
the  nature  of  the  remedy  which  ought  be 
administered ;  but  the  knowledge  that  hag 
pervaded  more  vital  parts  ihan  one,  cer  uly 
should  not  lead  us  to  think  that  no  re  jdy 
whatever  is  needed, — or  to  consider  the  .'  np- 
toms  as  too  slight  to  require  any  part  ilu 
attention. 

But,  though  we  differ  thus  radically  oiu 
Mr.  Windham  in  our  estimate  of  the  i  ure 
and  magnitude  of  this  evil,  we  have  al  idy 
said,  that  we  are  disposed  to  concur  wit  lim 
in  disapproving  of  the  measures  which  ive 
been  lately  proposed  for  their  correction. fhe 
bill  of  Mr.  Curwen.  and  all  bills  thatain.nly 
at  repressing  the  ultimate  trafTic  in  sea  by 
pains  and  penalties  to  be  imposed  on  ;08e 
immediately  concerned  in  the  transactioap. 
pears  to  us  to  begin  at  the  wrong  end,  knd' 
to  aim  at  repressing  a  result  which  iri' be 
regarded  as  necessary,  so  long  as  the  <.  ses 
which  led  to  it  are  allowed  to  subsist  i^un* 
diminished  vigour.  It  is  like  trying  to  .;ea 
valley  from  being  liooded.  by  building  jal- 
try  dam  across  the  gathered  torrents  tha  low 
into  it.  The  only  effect  is,  that  they  w,  ul- 
timately make  their  \^•ay,  by  a  more  de.iio- 
tive  channel,  to  worse  devastation.  Th.rue 
policy  is  to  drain  the  feeding  rills  at;ieir 
fountains,  or  to  provide  another  vent  (•  \he 
stream,  before  it  reaches  the  declivi;  by 
which  the  flat  is  commanded.  Whil'the 
spirit  of  corrujitioii  is  unchecked,  ami  un 
fostered  in  the  bosom  of  the  country,  I  in- 
terdiction of  the  common  market  wii  mly 
throw  the  trade  into  the  hands  of  the  lore 
profligate  and  daring, — or  eive  a  monojy  to 
the  privileged  and  jnotected  dealiiijus  '.Ad- 
ministration ;  and  the  evil  will  in  both  ay* 
be  aggravated,  instead  of  being  relievei 

We  cainiot  now  stop  to  point  out  the  ;tual 
evils  to  which  this  corruption  gives  ri ;  or 
even  to  dwell  on  the  means  by.whi'  we 
think  it  might  be  made  more  dillicult :  I  ugh 
among  these  we  conceive  iht'  most  eliif  ;ioM 
would  obviously  be  to  multiply  the  nui|»er», 
and,  in  some  cases,  to  raise  the  qualit'tiou 
of  voters— to  take  away  the  right  of  e.^tjon 
from  decayed,  inconsidiiable,  and  ro(/  bo- 
roughs; and  to  bestow  it  on  large  towijpo»- 
sessing  various  and  divided  wealth. But. 
though  the  increased  nnniber  of  volcjwil' 
make  it  more  difficult  to  bribe  ihcm^an'neir 
greater  opulence  render  them  less  liabi  0  W 
bribed  ;  still,  we  confess  that  the  chief  ."fn^ 


which  we  e.xpect  from  any  provisions 


this 


sort,  is  the  security  which  we  think  th'iwtl 
afford  for  the  improvement,  mainlenainiaiw 
propag-ation  of  a  Free  Spirit  among  the  iOpl<' 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


599 


eelingof  political  right,  and  of  indiviciual 
?st,  among  so  great  a  number  of  persons, 
11  make  it  not  only  discreditable,  but  un- 
i/ito  invade  their  liberties,  or  trespass  upon 
Id  rights.  It  is  never  to  be  forgotti'n,  that 
irireat  and  ultimate  barrier  against  oppres- 
iol  and  arbitrary  power,  must  always  be 
liii  on  public  opinion — and  on  opinion,  so 
alj'd  and  so  asserted,  as  to  point  resolutely 
)  iistance.  if  it  be  permanently  insultei.1,  or 
pilly  set  at  deliance.  In  order  to  have  this 
a\c  opinion,  however,  either  suliieiently 
tntLT,  or  sufficiently  enlightened,  to  adlird 
u(|  a  security,  it  is  quite  necessary  that  a 
eilarge  body  of  the  people  be  lauiiht  to  set 
vlue  upon  the?  rights  which  it  is  qualified  to 
roict, — that  their  reason,  their  moral  prin- 
i[Ve,  their  pride,  and  habitual  feelings. 
hc,d  all  be  eng-aged  on  the  side  of  their  po- 
tii!  independence. — that  their  attention 
yd  be  frequently  directed  to  their  rights 
ni  heir  duties,  as  citizens  of  a  free  state, — 
ncjheir  eye.s.  ears,  hearts,  and  afTections  fa- 
litri/ed  with  the  spectacles,  and  themes, 
ncloccasions,  that  remind  them  of  those 
\sU  and  duties.  In  a  commercial  country 
kttengland,  the  pursuit  of  wealth,  or  of  per- 
m  comfort,  is  apt  to  engross  the  whole  care 
f  p  body  of  the  people  ;  and,  if  property  he 
3l<ibly  secured  bylaw,  and  a  vigilant  police 
BBSS  actual  outrage  and  disorder,  they  are 
ki;  enough  to  fi^ll  into  a  general  forgetful- 
<'«|nf  their  political  rights j  and  even  to  le- 
arlas  burdensome  those  political  functions, 
rithut  the  due  evercise  of  which  the  whole 
rah  of  our  liberties  would  soon  dissolve,  and 
dip  pieces.  It  is  of  infinite  and  incalcula- 
lefnportance.  therefore,  to  spread,  as  widely 
s  pssible,  among  the  people,  the  feelings 
ndhe  love  of  their  political  blessings — \o 
xtjise  them  unceasingly  in  the  evolutions 
f  free  constitution — and  to  train  them  to 
Nt  >-^ntiments  of  pride,  and  jealousy,  and 
:n.  which  arise  naturally  from  their 
f  of  their  own  value  and  importance 
•at  order  of  societj',  and  upon  which 
ioi  ihe  fabric  of  a  free  government  can 
Tfpe  safely  erected. 

w  indicate  all  these  things  very  briefly ; 
flttbec^use  we  cannot  now  afford  room  for 

1e  full  exposition  of  them,  and  because  it 
our  intention  to  e.xhaust  this  <i;reat  sub- 
M   the  present  occasion,   but   rather  to 
i'a'  bi'fore  our  readers  a  few  of  the  leading 
-  upon  which  we  shall  think  it  our 
vpatiate  at  other  opportunities.     We 
.:  j'.vever,  bring  even  these  preliminary 
niscellaneous   observations   to   a  close, 
ut  taking  some  notice  of  a  topic  which 
eefcs,  at'  present,  peculiar! v  in  favour  with 
sonin?  enemies  of  reform:  ami  to  which 
arinot  reply,   without    developing   in    a 
«trikinjT  manner  than  we  havf  yet  flone, 
iture  of  our  apprehensions  from  the  in- 
•e  of  the  Crown,  and  the  holders  of  large 
r'ies,  and  of  6ur  expectations  of  good 
th"  increased  spirit  and  intelligence  of 
■opie. 
1 '  argument  to  which  we  allude,  proceeds 
Ipo!  the  concession,  that  the  patronage  of 


Government,  and  the  «-ea]th  employed  to  ob- 
tain political  inllnence,  have  increased  very 
greatly  within  the  last  fifty  years  j  and  consists 
almost  entirely  in  the  as.sertion,  that  this  in- 
crease, great  as  it  nn<loubledly  is,  yet  has  not 
kept  pace  with  the  general  increase  w  hich  has 
taken  place,  in  the  s;ime  j)eriod,  hi  the  wealth, 
weight,  and  influence  of  the  people;  so  that, 
in  point  of  fact,  the  power  of  the  Crown  ami  Bo- 
rough proprietors,  although  absolutilij  greater, 
is  propordonalhi  less  than  it  was  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  present  ri'ign ;  and  ought 
to  be  augmmited,  rather  than  diminished,  if 
our  object  be  to  preserve  the  ancient  balance 
of  the  constitution  !  We  must  do  Mr.  Wind- 
ham the  ju.stice  to  say,  that  he  does  not  make 
much  use  of  this  argument :  but  it  forms  the' 
grand  reserve  of  Mr.  Hose's  battle;  and,  we 
think,  is  more  frequently  and  triumphantly 
brought  forwartl  than  any  other,  by  those  who 
now  affect  to  justify  abuses  by  arfiumentation. 
The  first  answer  we  make  to  it,  consists  in 
denying  the  fact  upon  which  it  jiroceeds:  at 
least  in  the  sense  in  which  it  must  be  asserted, 
in  order  to  afiord  any  shatlow  of  colour  to  the 
conclusion.  There  is,  undoubtedly,  far  more 
wealth  in  the  country  than  there  was  fifty 
yearsago;  but  there  is  not  more  independence. 
There  are  not  more  men  whose  incomes  ex- 
ceed what  they  conceive  to  he  their  necessary 
expenditure; — not  nearly  so  many  who  con- 
sider themselves  as  nearly  rich  enoujih,  and 
who  would  therefore  look  on  themselves  as 
without  apology  for  doing  any  thnig  against 
their  duty  or  their  opinions,  lor  the  sake  of 
profit  to  themselves:  on  the  contrary,  it  is  no- 
toriou.*.  and  not  to  be  disputed,  that  our  luxury, 
and  habits  of  expense,  have  increased  con- 
siderably faster  than  the  riches  by  which  they 
should  be  supported — that  men,  in  general, 
have  now  far  less  tx)  spare  than  they  had  when 
their  incomes  were  smaller — and  that  if  our 
condition  may,  in  one  sen.se,  be  said  to  be  a 
condition  of  opulence,  it  is.  still  more  indis- 
putably, a  condition  of  needy  opulence.  It  is 
perfectly  plain,  however,  that  it  is  not  the  ab- 
soluti»  amount  of  wealth  existing  in  a  nation,' 
that  can  ever  contribute  to  render  it  politically 
independent  of  patronage,  or  intractable  to  the 
persuasive  voice  of  a  munificent  and  discern- 
inir  ruler,  but  the  general  state  of  content  and 
satisfaction  which  results  from  its  wealth  being 
proportioned  to  its  occasions  of  e.vpdns^  It 
neither  is,  accordingly,  nor  ever  was,  among 
the  poor,  but  among  the  expensive  yid  ex- 
travagant, that  corruption  looks  for  her  surest 
and  most  profitable  game  ;  nor  can  her  influ- 
ence ever  be  anywhere  so  great,  as  in  a  coun- 
try where  almost  all  those  to  whom  she  can 
think  it  important  to  address  herself,  are 
straitened  for  money,  and  eager  for  preferment 
— dissatisfied  with  their  corufition  as  to  fortune 
— and,  whatever  may  be  the  amoiml  of  their 
poBsessiouB.  practically  needy,  and  impatient 
of  their  embarrassments.  This  is  the  case 
with  the  greater  part  even  of  those  who  ac- 
tually pos.sess  the  riches  for  m  hich  this  couri- 
Iry  isRodistincuished.  But  the  effect  of  their 
prosperity  has  been,  to  draw  a  far  greater  pro- 
portion of  the  people  within  the  sphere  of 


« 


600 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


selfish  ambition — to  diffuse  those  habits  of 
expense  which  give  corruption  her  chief  hold 
and  purchase,  aihoiig  multitudes  who  are 
spectators  only  of  the  splendour  in  which 
they  cannot  participate,  and  are  infected  with 
the  cravings  and  aspirations  of  the  objects  of 
their  envy,  even  before  they  come  to  be  placed 
in  their  circumstances.  Such  needy  adven- 
turers are  constantly  generated  by  the  rapid 
progress  of  wealth  and  luxury;  and  are  sure 
to  seek  and  court  that  corruption  which  is 
obliged  to  seek  and  court,  though  with  too 
great  a  probability  of  success,  those  whose 
condition  they  miscalculate,  and  labour  to  at- 
tain. Such  a  state  of  things,  therefore,  is  far 
more  favourable  to  the  exercise  of  the  cor- 
rupt influence  of  government  and  wealthy 
ambition,  than  a  state  of  greater  poverty  and 
moderation ;  and  the  same  limited  means  of 
seduction  will  go  infinitely  farther  among  a 
people  in  the  one  situation  than  in  the  other. 
The  same  temptations  that  were  repelled  by 
the  simple  poverty  of  Fabricius,  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  bought  half  the  golden  sa- 
traps of  the  Persian  monarch,  or  swayed  the 
counsels  of  wealthy  and  venal  Rome,  in  the 
splendid  days  of  Catiline  and  Casar. 

This,  therefore,  is  our  first  answer;  and  it 
is  so  complete,  we  think,  as  not  to  require  any 
other  for  the  mere  purpose  of  confutation.  But 
the  argument  is  founded  upon  so  strange  and 
so  dangerous  a  misapprehension  of  the  true 
state  of  the  case,  that  we  think  it  our  duty  to 
unfold  the  whole  fallacy  upon  which  it  pro- 
ceeds; and  to  .show  what  very  opposite  con- 
sequences are  really  to  be  drawn  from  the 
circumstances  that  have  been  so  imperfectly 
conceived,  or  so  perversely  viewed,  by  those 
who  contend  for  increasing  the  patronage  of 
the  Government  as  a  balance  to  tifie  increasing 
con.sequence  of  the  People. 

There  is  a  foundation,  in  fact,  for  some  part 
of  this  proposition  ;  but  a  foundation  that  has 
been  strangely  misunderstood  by  those  who 
have  sought  to  build  upon  it  so  revolting  a 
conclusion.  The  people  Aa,s  increased  in  con- 
sequence, in  power,  and  in  political  impor- 
tance. Over  all  Europe,  we  verily  believe, 
that  they  are  everywhere  arrowing  too  strong 
fqr  their  governments;  and  that,  if  these  gov- 
ernments are  to  be  preserved,  some  measures 
must  be  taken  to  accommodate  them  to  this 
great  change  in  the  condition  and  interior 
structure  of  society.  But  this  increase  of 
consecjufnce  is  not  owing  to  their  having 
grown  richer ;  and  still  less  is  it  to  be  provi- 
ded against,  by  increasing  the  means  of  cor- 
ruption in  the  hands  of  their  rulers.  This  re- 
quires, and  really  deserves,  a  little  more  expla- 
nation. 

All  political  societies  may  be  considered  as 
divided  into  three  great  classes  or  orders.  In 
the  first  place,  the  governors,  or  those  who 
are  employed,  or  hope  to  be  employed  by  the 
governors, — and  who  therefore  either  have,  or 
expect  to  have,  profit  or  advantage  of  some 
sort  from  the  government,  or  from  subordinate 
patrons,  In  the  second  place,  those  who  are 
in  opposition  to  the  government,  who  feel  the 
burdens  and  restraints  which  it  imposes,  are 


U 


j  jealous  of  the  honours  and  emoluments  e 
joys  or  distributes,  and  grudge  the  e.\  . 
i  and  submission  which  if  requires,  uin 
I  apprehension,  that  the  good  it  accomj  i 
j  is  not  worth  so  great  a  sacrifice.  And.  t  , 
j  and  finally,  those  who  may  be  couiitt 
,  nothing  in  all  political  arrangements- 
I  are  ignorant,  indifl'ereiit,  and  quiescent-,!^^. 
1  submit  to  all  things  without  grumblLl^r^" 
I  satisfaction — and  are  contented  to  consic  a?' 
existing  institutions  as  a  part  of  the  ort  , 
j  nature  to  which  it  is  their  duty  to  acco  .,, 
j  date  themselves. 

In  rude  and  early  ages,  this  last  di  ]> 
includes  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  pi  :, 
but.  as  society  advances,  and  intellect  I  i 
to  develope  itself,  a  greater  and  agrealt  ., 
portion  is  withdrawn  from  it,  and  joii; 
the  two  other  divisions.     These  drafts,  ., 
ever,  are  not  made   indiscriminately, 
equal  numbers,  to  the  two  remaining  oi  ■ 
but  tend  to  throw  a  prepondei-ating  w  , 
either  into  the  scale  of  the  goveriirae 
into  that  of  its  opponents,  accordnig  i  : 
character  of  that  government,  and  the  i  . 
of   the  circumstances  by  which  they    . 
been  roused  from  their  neutrality,    "th- 
fusion  of  knowledge,  the  improvemeij  < 
education,  and   the  gradual  descent  ai. 
pansion  of  those  maxims  of  individual  < 
litical   wisdom  that  are  successively  i .. 
lished  by  refiection  and  experience,  uei  - 
lily  raise  up  more  and  more  of  the  m; 
the  population  from  that  stale  of  bruti> 
quiescence  and  incurious  ignorance  in  \ 
they  originally  slumbered.      They  bf; 
feel  their  relation  to  the  government  i 
which  they  live  ;  and,  guided  by  thosi'  • 
ings.  and  the  analogies  of  their  priv;, 
lerests  and  afl"ection.s,  they  begin  lo  t'c ,". 
to  borrow.  Opinions  upon  the  merit  or  de  ait 
of  the  institutions  and  administration.  I :he 
efl^ecls  of  which  they  are  subjected  ;  a   10 
conceive  Scvtimenis  either  hostile  or  fiit'lly 
to  such  institutions  and   administration' II 
the  iiovernment  be  mild  and  equilabl  -if 
its  undertakings  are  prosperous,  its  in  isi- 
tions  easy,  and  its  patronage  just  and  iiw- 
tial — the  greater  part  of  those  who  areJBS 
.successively  awakened  into  a  stale  of  po  flll 
capacity  will  be  enrolled  among  it?  sui)rt- 
ers;  and  strength<.'n  it  against  the  fnc;o«, 
ambitious,    and    disappointed   persons.  ,ho 
alone  will  be  found  in  opposition  lo  it.  lul 
if,  on  the  other  hand,  this  disclosure  of  el- 
lectual  and  political  sensibility  occur  at  ',"■• 
riod  when   the  government  is  capiicii 
oppressive — when  its  plans  are  disaMi  ■ 
its  exactions  burdensome — its  tone  repi,'*- 
— and  its  distribution  of  favours  mos^t  njpl 
and  unjust;— it    will  infallibly  happen^J 
the  greater  part  of  tho.ee  who  are  thust.'w 
into  political  existence,  will  take  part  fi'pf^ 
it,  and  be  disposed  to  exert  themselves   »« 
correction,  or  utter  subversion. 

The  last  supposition,  we  think,  is  that  Mch 
has  been  realised  in  the  history  of  Euro  w 
the  last  thirty  years:  and  when  we  sa)W 
the  people  has  almo.st  every  where  growtw 
strong  for  their  rulers,  we  mean  only  t(  aj'i 


WIXDHAMS  SPKECH. 


601 


'^thi-  in  that  period,  there  has  been  a  protii- 
'  gijs  development  in  the  understanding  and 
inl  licence  of  the  great  mass  of  tlie  popula- 
tif :  and  that  this  makes  them  much  less 
xf'mg  than  formerly  to  submit  to  the  folly 
aii  corruption  of  most  of  their  ancient  gov- 
erlnents.  The  old  instinctive  feelings  of 
!  lojltv  and  implicit  obedience,  have  pretty 
-  {TtyM-ally  given  way  to  shrewd  calculation's 
aJj  their  own  interests,  their  own  powers, 
:  aiithe  rights  which  arise  out  of  these  powers. 
:  Tiy  see  now.  pretty  quickly,  both  the  weak- 
nej.es  and  the  vices  of  their  rulers;  and,  i 
h4"S  learned  to  refer  their  own  sufferings  j 
or'irivations.  with  consiilerable  sag-acity.  to 
thl'  blundersand  injustice,  thi^y  begin  tacitly 
tolnquire.  what  right  they  have  to  a  sove- 
ity,  of  which  they  make  so  bad  a  use — 
how  they  could  protect  themselves,  if  all 
hate  and  despise  them  were  to  unite  to 
tap  it  "from  them.  Sentiments  of  this  sort, 
\v\  are  well  assured,  have  been  prevalent 
ov  all  the  enlightened  parts  of  Europe  for 
tnlast  thirty  years,  and  are  every  day  gTiiii- 
in^trength  and  popularity.  Kings  and  nobles. 
ai|  ministers  and  agents  of  government,  are 
longer  looked  upon  with  veneration  and 
— but  rather  with  a  mi,\ture  of  contempt 
jealousy.  Their  errors  and  vices  are 
c?|rassed,  among  all  ranks  of  persons,  with 
eteme  freedom  and  severity.  The  corrup- 
tifjs  by  which  they  seek  to  fortify  them- 
stjes,  are  regarded  with  indignation  and 
villictive  abhorrence ;.  and  the  excuses  with 
w|ch  they  palliate  them,  with  disgust  and  de- 
ribn.  Their  deceptions  are  almost  universally 
«p  through :  and  their  incapacity  detected 
ai  despised,  by  an  unprecedented  portion  of 
oihe  whole  population  which  they  govern. 

;  is  in  this  sense,  as  we  conceive  it.  that 
tl  people  throughout  civilised  Europe  have 
gjivn  too  strong, for  their  rulers;  and  that 
ste  alteration  in  the  balance  or  administra- 
ti  of  their  governments,  has  become  neces- 
«,•  for  their  preservation.  They  have  become 
tc  strong,  —  not  in  wealth  —  hui  m  intellect. 
ai  vity,  and  available  numbers :  and  the  tran- 
qllity  of  their  governments  has  been  endan- 
g'sd.  not  from  their  want  of  pecuniary  in- 
fl^nce,  but  from  their  want  of  moral  respec- 
tcility  and  intellectual  vigour. 

uch  is  the  true  state  of  the  evil ;  and  the 
C|e,  according  to  the  English  opponents  of 
r«|)rm,  is  to  increase  thf^  patronage  of  the 
Own !  The  remote  and  orii/inal  cause  of 
U  danger,  is  the  improved  intelligence  and 
n|re  perfect  intercourse  of  the  people, — a 
else  which  it  is  not  lawful  to  wish  removed, 
aj.  which,  at  any  rate,  the  proposed  remedy 
hi  no  tendency  to  remove.  The  immediate 
aP  proximate  cause,  is  the  abuse  of  patron - 
aj  and  the  corruptions  practised  by  the  gov- 
pjment  and  their  wealthy  supporters: — and 
tl  cure  that  is  seiiously  recommended,  is  to 
ii'rease  that  corruption  ! — to  add  to  the  weight 
ojhe  burdens  under  which  the  people  is  sink- 
ii, — and  to  multiply  the  examples  of  parti- 
ajy,  profusion,  and  profligacy,  by  which  they 
a:  revolted  ! 

|Ln  absurdity  so  extravagant,  however,  coilld 
76 


not  have  suggested  itself,  even  to  the  person? 
by  whom  it  lia?  been  so  triumphantly  recom- 
mended, unless  it  had  beeu  palliated  by  some 
colour  of  plausibility  :  And  their  error  (which 
really  does  not  seem  very  unnutuial  for  men 
of  their  il(<scription)  seems  to  havi>  consisli-d 
merely  in  supposing  lluil  all  lho.se  ^\  lio  were 
discontented  in  the  counti  y.  were  disappointi'd 
candidates  for  place  and  profit  ;  and  that  the 
whole  clamour  which  haif  been  raised  against 
the  misgovernmiMit  of  the  modem  world,  origi- 
nated in  a  violent  desire  to  jiarticipate  in  the 
emoluments  of  that  misgovernment.  Upon 
this  supposition,  it  must  no  doubt  be  admitted 
that  their  remedy  was  most  judiciously  de- 
vised. All  the  discontent  was  among  those 
who  wi.«hed  to  be  bribed — ail  the  clamour 
among  those  who  were  impatient  for  jirefer- 
ment.  Increase  the  patronage  of  the  Crown 
therefore — make  more  sinecures,  rhore  jobs, 
more  nominal  and  real  posts  of  emolument 
and  honour, — and  you  will  allay  the  discon- 
tent, and  still  the  clamour,  which  are  now 
'•frighting  our  isle  from  her  propriety  !'' 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  very  plausible  and  incre- 
nious — as  well  as  highly  creditable  to  the 
honour  of  the  nation,  and  the  moral  ej-periencc 
of  its  contrivers.  But  the  fact,  unfortunately, 
is  not  as  it  is  here  assumed.  There  are  two 
sets  of  persons  to  be  managed  and  appeased  ! 
and  the  misfortune  is,  that  what  mignt  gratify 
the  one  would  only  exasperate  the  discontents 
of  the  other.  The  one  wants  unmerited  hon- 
ours, and  unearned  emoluments — a  further 
abuse  of  patronage — a  more  shameful  misap- 
plication of  the  means  of  the  nation.  The 
other  wants  a  correction  of  abuses — an  abridg- 
ment of  patronage — a  diminution  of  the  public 
burdens — a  more  just  distribution  of  its  trusts, 
dignities,  and  rewards.  This  last  party  is  still, 
we  are  happy  to  think,  by  far  the  strongest, 
and  the  most  formidable  :  For  it  is  daily  re- 
cruited out  of  the  mass  of  the  population,  over 
which  reason  is  daily  extending  her  dominion ; 
and  depends,  for  its  ultimate  success,  upon 
nothing  less  than  the  "irresistible  progress  of 
intelligence — of  a  true  and  enlightened  sense 
of  interest — and  a  feeling  of  inherent  right, 
united  to  undoubted  power.  It  is  difficult, 
then,  to  doubt  of  its  ultimate  triumph  ;  and  it 
must  appear  to  be  infinitely  fooli.sh  to  think 
of  opposing  its  progress,  by  measures  which 
are  so  obviously  calculated  to  add  ^  to  its 
strength.  By  increa.sing  the  patronage  or  in- 
fluence of  the  Crown,  a  few  more  venal 
spirits  maybe  attracted,  by  the  precarious  tie 
of  a  dishonest  interest,  to  withustand  all  at- 
tempts at  reform,  and  to  clamour  in  behalf 
of  all  existing  practices  and  institutions.  But, 
for  every  worthless  auxiliary  that  is  thus  le- 
cruited  for  the  defence  of  eslablislied  abuses, 
is  it  not  evident  that  there  will  be  a  thousand 
new  enemies  called  forth,  by  the  additional 
abuse  exemplified  in  the  new  jintronairf*  that 
is  created,  and  the  new  scene  of  corruplion  that 
is  exhibitt^d,  in  exchanging  this  patronage  for 
this  dishonourable  support  ? — For  a  nation  to 
endeavour  to  slrenglnen  itself  against  th(! 
attempts  of  reformers  by  a  deliberate  aug- 
mentation of  its  corru])tion8,  is  not  more  poli- 
3  A 


602 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


tic,  than  for  a  spendthrift  to  think  of  relieving 
himself  of  his  debts,  by  borrowing  at  usurious 
interest  to  pay  w  hat  is  demanded,  and  thus 
increasing  the  burden  which  he  affects  to  be 
throwing  off. 

The  only  formidable  discontent,  in  short, 
that  now  subsists  in  the  country,  is  that  of 
those  who  arc  reasonablij  disco nlcnted ;  and  the 
only  part  of  the  people  whose  growing  strength 
really  looks  menacingly  on  th'^  government, 
is  that  which  has  been  alienated  by  what  it 
believes  to  be  its  corruptions,  and  enabled,  by  j 
its  own  improving  intelligence,  to  unmask  its  ' 
deceptions,  and  to  discover  the  secret  of  its 
selfishness  and  incapacity.  The  great  object  ' 
of  its  jealousy,  is  the  enoiTnous  influence  of 
the  Crown,  and  the  monstrous  abuses  of  pa- 
tronage to  which  that  influence  gives  occasion. 
It  is,  therefore,  of  all  infatuations,  the  wildest 
and  most  desperate,  to  hold  out  that  the  pro- 
gress of  this  discontent  makes  it  proper  to 
give  the  Crown  more  inflaeiice.  and  lliat  it 
can  only  be  effectually  conciliated,  by  putting- 
more  patronage  in  the  way  of  abuse  ! 

In  stating  the  evils  and  dangers  of  corrup- 
tion and  profligacy  in  a  government,  we  must 
always  keep  it  in  view,  that  such  a  system 
can  never  be  universally  palatable,  even  among 
the  basest  and  most  depraved  people  of  which 
liistor}^  has  preserved  any  memorial.  If  this 
were  otherwise  indeed — if  a  whole  nation 
were  utterly  and  entirely  venal  and  corrupt, 
aiul  each  willing  to  wait  his  time  of  dishonour- 
able promotion,  things  might  go  on  with  suffi- 
cient smoothne.ss  at  least ;  and  as  such  a  na- 
tion would  not  be  worth  mending,  on  the  one 
hand,  so  there  would,  in  fact,  be  much  less 
need,  on  the  other,  for  that  untoward  opera- 
tion. The  supposition,  however,  is  obviously 
impossible;  and,  in  such  a  country  at  least  as 
England,  it  may  perhaps  be  truly  stated,  as 
the  most  alarming  consequence  of  corruption, 
that,  if  allowed  to  go  on  without  any  effectual 
check,  it  will  infallibly  generate  such  a  spirit 
of  discontent,  as  necessarily  to  bring  on  some 
dreadt'ul  convulsion,  and  overturn  the  very 
foundations  of.  the  constitution.  It  is  thus 
fraught  with  a  double  evil  to  a  country  enjoy- 
ing a  free  government.  In  ihe  first  place, "it 
gradually  corrodes  and  destroys  much  that  is 
truly  valuable  in  its  constitution  :  arid,  secondly, 
it  insures  its  ultimate  subversion  by  the  tre- 
mf'iidous  crash  of  an  insurrection  or  revolution. 
It  first  hnakes  the  government  oppressive  and 
intolerable;  and  then  it  oveisets  it  altogether 
by  a  necessary,  but  dreadful  calamity. 

These  two  evils  may  appear  to  be  opposite 
to  each  other:  and  it  is  certain,  that,  though 
brought  on  by  the  same  course  of  conduct, 
they  cannot  be  inflicted  bv  the  same  set  of 
p'-rsons.  Those  who  are  the  slaves  and  the 
ministers  of  corruption,  assuredly  are  not  those 
who  are  minded  to  crush  it.  with  a  visiting 
vengeance,  under  the  ruins  of  the  social  order; 
and  it  is  in  foriretting  that  there  are  two  sets 
of  persons  to  be  conciliated  in  all  such  ques- 
tions, that  the  portentous  fallacy  which  we 
are  considering  mainly  consists.  The  sovern- 
ment  may  be  very  corrupt,  and  a  very  con- 
eiderable  part  of  the  nation  may  be  debased 


and  venal,  while  there  is  still  spirit  and  vi  e 
enough  left,  when  the  measure  of  provoca'u 
is  full;  to  inflict  a  signal  and  sanguinary  a;. 
geance,  and  utterly  to  overthrow  the  fa  c 
which  has  been  defiled  by  this  trafhc  of  . 
quity.  And  there  may  be  great  spirit.  ] 
strength,  and  capacity  of  heroic  reseiilmeri  i 
a  nation,  which  will  yet  allow  its  institut.g 
to  be,  for  a  long  time,  perverted,  its  le^i  . 
ture  to  be  polluted,  and  the  baser  part  ot  .s 
population  to  be  corrupted,  before  it  be  rou  j 
to  that  desperate  effort,  in  wh  ih  Us  peace.  | 
happiness  are  sure  to  sufier  along  with  j 
guilt  v.hich  brings  down  the  thunder,  in  s  i 
an  age  of  the  world  as  the  present,  howc 
it  may  be  looked  upon  as  absolutely  cert: , 
that  if  the  guilt  be  persisted  in.  the  vengea  ? 
will  follow;  and  thfil  all  reasonable  disconti 
will  accumulate  and  guin  strength,  as  rea  i 
and  experience  advance ;  till,  at  the  last ; 
works  its  own  reparation,  and  sweeps  ihe  . 
fence  from  the  earth,  with  the  force  and  ■ 
fury  of  a  whirlwind. 

In  such  a  view  of  the  moral  destiny  of  - 
tions.  there  is  something  elevating  as  wef ; 
terrible.  Yet,  the  terror  prt  pondeiates,  • 
those  who  are  to  witness  the  catastrophe: ;! 
all  reason,  as  well  as  all  humanity,  urges ,« 
to  use  every  effort'to  avoid  the  crisis  and  • 
shock,  by  a  timidly  reformation,  and  an  earn  : 
and  sincere  attempt  to  conciliate  the  ho>  ■ 
elements  of  our  society,  by  mutual  conce?.- 1 
and  indulgence. — It  is  for  this  reason,  chie. 
that  we  feel  such  extreme  solicitude  fo  . 
legislative  retbrpi  of  our  system  of  represei  • 
tion, — in  some  degree  as  a  pledge  of  the  \  • 
lingness  of  the  government  to  admit  of  reft  i 
where  it  is  requisite;  but  chiefly,  no  dot . 
as  in  itself  most  likely  to  stay  the  flood  of  • 
nality  ai^d  corruption, — to  reclaim  a  pari 
those  who  had  begun  to  yield  to  its  sed 
tions. — and  to  reconcile  those  to  the  govt- 
ment  and  constitution  of  their  country,  v 
had  begun  to  look  upon  it  with  a  mini; 
feeling  of  contempt,  hostility,  and  desj'; . 
That  such  a  reform  as  we  have  contempla 
would  go  far  to  produce  those  happy  emt 
we  think  must  appear  evident  to  all  whoa:;  • 
with  us  as  to  the  nature  and  origin  of  the  e' 
from  which  we  sufl'er,  and  the  danger.- 
which  we  are  exposed.  One  of  its  inimedi; 
and  therefore  chief  advantages,  however,  \ 
consist  in  its  relieving  and  abating  the  sji 
of  discontent  which  is  generated  by  the  sj 
facie  of  our  pi»seiit  condition  :  both  by  giv 
it  scope  and  vent,  and  by  the  vast  facilitie 
mu.st  afford  to  future  labours  of  regenerati 
By  the  extension  of  the  elective  franch 
many  of  those  who  are  most  hostile  to  the 
isting  system,  because,  under  it,  they  are 
eluded  "from  all  share  of  power  or  polili 
importance,  will  have  a  part  assigned  thi 
both  more  safe,  more  honourable,  and  ni 
active,  than  merely  murmuring,  or  medital 
vengeance  against  such  a  scheme  of  exclusi 
The  influence  of  such  men  will  be  usefi) 
exerted  in  exciting  a  popular  spirit,  and 
e.vposinc  the  base  and  dishonest  practices  i 
may  still  interfere  with  the  fieedoin  of  el 
lio«.      By    some   alteration  ui  the  boroi 


WINDHAM'S  SPEECH. 


603 


IJIifications.  the  body  of  electors  in  general 
^  be  invested  with  a  more  respectable  char- 
at'r,  and  feel  a  greater  jealousy  of  every 
thg  that  may  tend  to  degrade  or  dishonour 
tin  :  but,  above  all,  a  rigid  system  of  econo- 
iri  and  a  farther  exclusion  of  })]acemen  from 
a  legislature,  by  cutting  off  a  great  part  of 
tl  minister's  most  profitable  harvest  of  cor- 
riltion,  will  force  his  party  also  to  have  re- 
c«'rse  to  more  honourable  means  of  popu- 
Ijity,  and  to  appeal  to  principles  that  must 
uimately  promote  the  cause  of  iudepend- 
e;e. 

i'{v  the  introduction,  in  short,  of  a  system 
oi.'eform.  even  more  mciderate  and  cautious 
tin  that  which  we  have  ventured  to  indicate, 
w'lhink  that  a  wholesome  and  legitimate  play 
m  be  given  to  those  principles  of  opposition 
tP-orruption.  monopoly,  and  abuse,  which,  by 
tij  denial  of  all  reform,  are  in  danger  of  being 
fOented  into  a  decided  spirit  of  hostility  to 
tl  government  and  the  institutions  of  the 
c!;ntry.  Insteatl  of  brooding,  in  sullen  and 
hpless  silence,  over  the  vices  and  errors 
vich  are  ripening  into  intolerable  evil,  and 
sling;  with  a  stern  and  vindictive  joy,  wrong 
a'^umulated  to  wrong,  and  corruption  heaped 
11  to  corniption,  the  Spirit  of  reform  will  be 
citinually  interfering,  with  active  and  suc- 
csful  zeal,  to  correct,  restrain,  and  deter. 
I  tead  of  being  the  avenger  of  our  murdered 
1  .^rties.  it  will  be  their  living  protector ;  and 
t'  cen.sor,  not  the  executioner,  of  the  consti- 
t  ion.  It  will  not  descend,  only  at  long  in- 
tvals.  like  the  Avatar  of  the  Indian  mytho- 
J  v.  to  expiate,  with  terrible  vengeance,  a 
giesof  consummated  crimes:  but,  like  the 
Jividence  of  a  better  faith,  will  keep  watch 
jj-petually  over  the  actions  of  corrigible  men. 
BJl  bring  them  back  from  their  aberrations, 
1!  merciful  chastisement,  timely  admonition, 
dl  the  blessed  experience  of  purer  principles 
ckction. 

S'^uch.  according  to  our  conviction  of  the 
t,  is  the  trae  state  of  the  case  as  to  the 
reasing  weiirht  and  consequence  of  the 
jjple;  and  such  the  nature  of  the  policy 
Mich  we  think  this  chanire  in  the  structure 
our  society  calls  upon  us  to  adopt.  The 
iple  are  i^rown  strong,  in  intellect,  reso- 
ion,  and  mutual  reliance,  —  quick  in  the 
ttection  of  the  abuses  bv  which  they  are 
4ongeil, — and   confident    in  the   powers  by 

iiich  they  may  be  compelled  ultimately  to 
ik  their"  redress.  Against  ?/»s  strength,  it 
something  more  wild  than  madness,  and 
ike  contemptible  than  folly,  to  think  of  ar- 
ming an  additional  phalanx  of  abuses,  and 
<fiwing  out  a  wider  ranire  of  corruptions  — 
l[  ^/«a<  contest,  the  issue  cannot  be  doubtful, 
lir  the  conflict  long;  and.  d<^plorable  as  the 
vtery  will  be,  which  is  2~ained  over  onier, 
rl  well  as  over  guilt,  the  blame  will  rest  hea- 
^stupon  those  whose  oflVnces  first  provoked, 
hat  may  very  probably  turn  out  a  sanguinary 
■;d  an  unjustifiable  vengeance. 
[The  conclusions,  then,  which  we  would 
jiw  from  the  facts  that  h;ive  been  relied  on 
j  the  enemies  of  reform,  are  indeed  of  a 
"^ry opposite  description  from  theirs;  and  the 


I  course  which  is  pointed  out  by  these  new  cir- 
cumstances in  our  situation,  appears  to  us  no 

I  less  obvious,  than  it  is  safe  and  promising. — 

I  If  the  people  have  risen  into  greater  conse- 
(|uence,  let  them  have  greater  power.  If  a 
greater  proportion  of  our  population  be  now- 
capable  and  desirous  of  exercising  the  fniK.-- 
lions  of  free  citizen.s,  let  a  greater  number 
be  admitted  to  the  exercise  of  these  lu.ic- 
tions.  If  the  quantity  of  mind  and  of  will, 
that  must  now  be  represented  in  our  legisla- 
ture, be  prodigiously  increased  since  thf  frame 
of  that  legislature  was  adjusted,  let  its  basis 
be  widened,  so  as  to  rest  on  all  that  intellect 
and  will.  If  there  be  a  new  power  and  fuergy 
generated  in  the  nation,  for  the  due  applica- 
tion of  which,  there  is  no  contrivance  in  the 
original  plan  of  the  constitution,  li-t  it  flow 
into  those  chamieis  through  which  all  similar 
powers  were  ordained  to  act  by  the  principles 
of  that  plan.  The  power  itself  you  can  nei- 
ther repress  nor  annihilate:  and,  if  it  be  not 
assimilated  to  the  system  of  the  constitution, 

!  you  seem  to  be  aware  that  it  will  ultimately 
overwhelm  and  destroy  it.  To  .set  up  against 
it  the  power  of  influence  and  corruption,  is  to 
set  up  that  by  which  its  strength  is  recruited, 
and  its  safe  application  rendered  infinitely 
more  difficult :  it  is  to  defend  your  establish- 
ments, by  loading  them  with  a  weight  which 
of  itself  makes  ihem  totter  under  under  its 
pressure,  and.  at  the  same  time,  afl'ords  a  safe 
and  inviting  approach  to  the  assailant. 

In  our  own  case,  too,  nothing  fortunately  is 
easier,  than  to  reduce  this  growing  power  of 
the  people  within  the  legitimate  bounds  and 
cantonments  of  the  constitution  ;  and  nothing 
more  obvious,  than  that,  when  so  legalised 
and  provided  for,  it  can  tend  only  to  the  exal- 
tation and  improvement  of  our  condition,  and 
must  add  strength  and  stability  to  the  Throne, 
as  well  as  to  the  other  branches  of  the  legis- 
lature. It  seems  a  strange  doctrine,  to  be 
held  by  anv  one  in  this  land,  and,  above  all, 
bv  the  chief  votaries  and  advocates  of  royal 
power,  that  its  legiil  security  consists  in  its 
means  of  corruption,  or  can  be  endangered  by 
the  utmost  freedom  and  intelligence  in  the 
body  of  the  people,  jind  the  utniost  purity  and 
popularity  of  our  elections.  Under  an  arbi- 
trary government,  where  the  powers  of  the 
monarch  are  confesst^dly  unjust  and  oppres- 
sive, nnd  are  claimed,  anil  openly  asserted, 
not  as  the  instruments  of  public  benefit,  btit 
as  the  means  of  individual  gratification,  such 
a  jealousy  of  popular  independence  is  suffi- 
ciently intelliiiible  :  but,  in  a.government  like 
ours.  \\  here  all  the  powers  of  the  Crown  are 
universally  acknowK dgi d  to  e.xist  for  the  good 
of  the  people,  it  is  evidently  (piite  exiiavagnnt 
to  fenr,  that  any  iiierease  of  union  and  intelli- 
2-enee  —  any  growing  love  of  freedom  and 
justice  in  the  people  —  should  endanger,  or 
should  fail  to  confirm,  all  those  powers  and 
prerogatives. 

We  have  not  left  ourselves  room  to  enter 
more  at  large  into  this  interesting  question; 
but  we  feel  perfectly  assured,  and  ready  to 
maintain,  that,  as  the  institution  of  a  linnt(  d, 
hereditary  monarchy,  must  always  appear  the 


604 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


wisest  and  most  reasonable  of  all  human  in- 
stitutions, and  that  to  which  increasing  reflec- 
tion and  experience  will  infallibly  attach  men 
more  and  more  as  the  world  advances  ;  so,  the 
prerogatives  of  sn(;h  a  monarch  will  always 
oe  safer  and  more  inviolate,  the  more  the 
sentiment  of  liberty,  and  the  love  of  their 
political  rights,  is-  diflused  and  encouraged 
amonsr  his  people.  .  A  legitimate  sovereign, 


in  short,  who  reigns  by  the  fair  exercise  c * 
his  prerogative,  can  have  no  enemies  amor* 
the  lovers  of  regulated  freedom  ;  and  the  ho 
tility  of  such  men — by  iar  the  most  ternb 
of  all  internal  hostility — can  only  be  directe 
i  towards  him,  when  his  throne  is  envelopei 
j  by  treacherous  advisers,  with   the   hosts  c 
corruption ;  and  disguised,  for  their  ends,  i 
I  the  borrowed  colours  of  tyranny. 


(iauuavn,  1810.) 

Short  Remarks  on  the  State  of  Parties  at  the  Close  of  the  Year  1809.    8vo.   pp.  30. 
London  :   1809.* 


The  parties  of  which  we  now  wish  to  speak, 
are  not  the  parties  in  the  Cabinet, — nor  even 
the  parties  in  Parliament,  but  the  Parties  in 
the  Nation; — that  nation,  whose  opinions  and 
whose  spirit  ought  to  admonish  and  control 
both  Cabinet  and  Parliament,  but  which  now 
seems  to  us  to  be  itself  breaking  rapidly  into 
two  furious  and  irreconcileable  parties;  by 
whose  collision,  if  it  be  not  prevented,  our 
constitution  and  independence  must  be  ulti- 
mately destroyed.  We  have  said  before,  that 
the  root  of  all  our  misfortunes  was  in  the  state 
of  the  People,  and  not  in  the  constitution  of 
the  legislature;  and  the  more  we  see  and 
reflect,  the  more  we  are  satisfied  of  this  truth. 
It  is  in  vain  to  cleanse  the  conduits  and  reser- 
voirs, if  the  fountain  itself  be  tainted  and 
impure.  If  the  body  of  the  people  be  infatu- 
ated, or  corrupt  or  depraved,  it  is  vain  to  talk 
of  improving  their  representation. 

The  dangers,  and  the  corruptions,  and  the 
prodigies  of  the  times,  have  very  nearly  put 
an  end  to  all  neutrality  and  moderation  in 
politics  ;  and  the  great  body  of  the  nation  ap- 
pears to  us  to  be  tlivided  into  two  violent  and 
most  pernicious  factions: — the  courtiers,  who 
are  almost  for  arbitrary  power, — and  the  de- 
mocrats, who  are  almost  for  revolution  and 
republicanism.  Between  the.se  stand  a  small, 
but  most  respectable  band — the  friends  of 
liberty  and  of  order — the  Old  Constitutional 
Whigs  of  England — with  the  best  talents  and 
the  best  intentions,  but  vvhhout  present  power 
or  popularity, — calumniated  and  suspected  by 

*  'I'liJ!*,  1  tear,  is  too  much  in  tlio  siylp  of  a  sage 
and  solemn  RplmUc  to  the  madness  of  conlendinij 
factions.  Yet  it  is  not  all  rhetorical  or  assuming  : 
And  the  ohservaiions  on  the  vast  importance  und 
hi^h  and  difficnlt  duties  of  a  middle  party,  in  all 
great  national  contentions,  .seem  to  me  as  imiver- 
sally  true,  and  a.«  applicable  to  the  present  position 
of  our  afi"air.s,  as  most  of  ilie  other  ihin<»8  I  have 
ventured,  for  this  reason,  now  to  produce.  It  may 
be  right  to  mention,  that  it  wa.s  written  at  a  time 
vhen  the  recent  fnilure  of  that  wreiched  expedition 
to  Walchrren,  and  ceriaiti  antipopulnr  declaiaiions 
in  Parliament,  had  exci'ed  a  deeper  feeling  of  dis- 
content in  the  country,  and  a  greater  apprehension 
for  its  consequences,  than  had  been  witnessed  since 
the  first  great  panic  and  excitement  of  the  French 
revolution.  The  spirit  of  such  a  lime  may,  per- 
haps, be  detected  in  some  of  the  following  pages. 


both  parties,  and  looking  on  both  with  too  vis 

ble  a  resentment,  aversion,  and  alarm.    Th 

two   great   divisions,  in  the  mean   time,  ai 

daily  provoking  each  other  to  greater  excesse.- 

and  recruiting  their  hostile  ranks,  as  they  ai! 

vance,  from  the  diminishing  mass  of  the  calr 

I  and  the  neutral.     Every  hour  the  rising  tidt 

j  are  eatitig   away  the  narrow  isthmus  upo 

I  which  the  adherents  of  the  Constitution  mi\ 

I  appear  to  be  stationed  ;  and  every  hour  it  bt 

j  comes  more   necessary  for   them   to  oppos 

I  some  barrier  to  their  encroachments. 

I      If  the  two  extreme  parties  are  once  pei 

!  mitted  to  shock  together  ni  open  conflict,  ther 

i  is  air  end  to  the  freedom,  and  almost  to  th 

'  existence  of  the  nation, — whatever  be  the  n 

\  suit, — although  that  is  not  doubtful:  And  th 

1  only  human  means  of  preventing  a  consuni 

matioti   to  which  things  seem  so  obvious) 

tending,  is  for  the  remaining  friends  of  th 

constitution   to  unbend  from  their  cold  aiH 

repulsive  neutrality,  and  to  join  themselves  I 

the  more  respectable  members  of  the  pari 

to  which  they  have  the  greatest  affinity ;  aii' 

thus,  by  the  weight  of  their  character,  aii^ 

the  force  of  their  taleirts,  to  temper  its  violenc 

;  and  nioderate..its  excesses,  till  it  can  be  euidc 

in   siifefy  to  the  defence,  and  not  to  the  dt 

struct  ion,  of   our   liberties.     In   the  prescn 

crisis,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that 

is  to  the  popular  side  that  the  friends  of  th 

constitution  must  turn  themselves;  and  tha 

if  the  Whi^  leaders  do  not  first  conciliate,  an 

then  restrain  the  people, — if  they  do  not  sav 

them  from  the  leaders  they  are  already  choo^ 

ing  in  their  own  body,  and  become  themselvc 

!  their  leaders,  by  becoming  their  payons,  an^ 

:  their  cordial,  though  authoritative,  advi8er^ 

they  will   in  iio   long  time  sweep  awav  th 

I  Con'stitutinn  itself,  the  Monarchy  of  Engiaiu 

'  and   the  Whig  aristrocracy,  by  which  th;- 

Monarchy  is  controlled  and  confirmed,  an' 

exalted  above  all  other  forms  of  polity. 

!      This  is  the  sum  of  our  doctrine  ;  though  w 

j  are  aware  that,  to  most  rciidcrs,  it  will  n 

;  quire  more  develojiment   than  we  can  no' 

afl"ord,  and  be  exposed  to  more  objections  tk;i 

1  we  have  left  ourselves  room  to  answer.    1 

j  many,  we  are  sensible,  our  fears  will  aj^pe.' 

1  altoeether  chimerical  and  fantastic.  We  hav 


STATE  OF  rAPxTIES.  1S09. 


605 


hvays  had  these  two  parties,  it  will  be  said — 
iways  some  lor  carrying  things  with  a  high 
!  air>iinst  the  jieople — and  some. for  sub- 
•ing  every  thing  lo  their  nod  ;  but  the  con- 
has  hitherto  aflbrded  nothing  more  than 
iiolesome  and  invigorating  exercise;  and 
constitution,  so  far  from  being  endangered 
■v  a.  has  hitherto  been  found  to  flourish,  in 
iroportion  as  it  became  more  animated.  Why, 
hen, should  we  anticipate  such  tragical  etlecls 
rom  its  continuance  ? 

•Now.  to  this,  and  to  all  such  questions,  we 
Inust  answer,  that  we  can  conceive  them  to 
roceed  only  from  that  fatal  ignorance  or  in- 
ttention  to'  the  Signs  of  the  Times,  which 
las  been  the  cause  of  so  many  of  our  errors 
nd  misfortunes.  It  is  quite  true,  that  there 
lave  always  been  in  this  country  persons  who 
eaned  towards  arbitrary  power,  and  persons 
,vho  leaned  towards  too  popular  a  government. 
,u  all  mixed  governments,  there  must  be  such 
inen.  and  such  parties:  some  will  admire  the 
'nonarchical.  and  some  the  democratical  part 
'if  the  constitution;  and.  speaking  very  gener- 
(.Uy,  the  rich,  and  the  timid,  and  the  indolent, 
Is  well  as  the  base  and  the  servile,  will  have 
[natural  tendency  to  the  one  side;  and  the 
MOT.  the  enthusiastic,  and  enterprising,  as 
[veli  as  the  envious  and  the  discontented,  will 
[)e  inclined  to  range  themselves  on  the  other. 
These  things  have  been  always  :  and  always 
inust  be.  They  have  been  hitherto;  too.  with- 
lut  mischief  or  hazard  ;  and  might  be  fairly 
on.'idered  as  symptoms  at  least,  if  not  as 
auses,  of  the  soundness  and  vigour  of  our 
H)htical  organisation.  But  this  has  been  the 
■ase,  only  because  the  bulk  of  the  nation  has 
■litherto,  or  till  very  lately,  belonged  to  no 
rarty  at  all.  Factions  existed  only  among  a 
Ismail  number  of  irritable  and  ambitious  indi- 
viduals:  and,  for  want  of  partizans,  necessa- 
rily vented  themselves  in  a  few  speeches  and 
pamphlets — in  an  election  riot,  or  a  treasury 
{jrosecution.  The  partizans  of  !Mr.  Wilkes, 
tind  the  partizans  of  Lord  Bute,  formed  but  a 
r'ery  inconsiderable  part  of  the  population.  If 
'hey  had  divided  the  whole  nation  among 
Ihem.  the  little  breaches  of  the  peace  and  of  i 
]he  law  at  Westminster,  would  have  been 
panged  into  civil  war  and  mutual  proscrip- 
tions; and  the  constitution  of  the  country 
;Tiight  have  perished  in  the  conflict.  In  those 
'.imes.  therefore,  the  advocates  of  arbitrary 
JTOwer  and  of  popular  licence  were  restrained. 
|iot  merely  by  the  constitutional  principles  of 
raanv  men  of  weiirht  and  authority,  but  bv 


|he  absolute  neutrality  and  indifTerence  of  t?ie 
irreat  body  of  the  people.  They  fought  like  ; 
champions  in  a  rinir  of  impartial  spectators; 
and  the  multitude  who  looked  on,  and  thought 
);t  sport,  had  little  other  interest  than  to  see 
[that  each  had  fair  play. 

!  Now,  however,  the  case  is  lamentably  dif- 
ferent ;  and  it  will  not  be  difficult,  we  think. 
So  point  out  the  causes  which  have  spread 
Kbroad  this  spirit  of  contention,  and  chanL'oil 
po  great  a  proportion  of  those  calm  spectators 
I'lito  fierce  and  impetuous  combatants.  We 
jUave  formerly  endeavoL-.red,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  to  e.xplain  the  natUi-e  of  that  great" 


and  gradual  change  in  the  condition  of  Euro- 
pean society,  by  which  the  lower  and  miti- 
dling  orders  have  been  insensibly  raised  into 
greater  importance  than  they  enjoyed  when 
their  jilace  in  the  political  scale  wasoriirinallv 
settled;  and  attempted  to  show  in  what  way 
the  revolution  in  France,  and  the  revolutionary 
movements  of  other  countries,  might  be  re- 
ferreil  partlv  to  the  piogress.  and  partly  lo  the 
neglect  of  that  <^reat  movenient.  We  cannot 
stop  now  to  resume  any  part  of  thai  general 
discussion:  but  shall  merely  ob.serve,  that  the 
events  of  ihe  last  twenty  years  are  of  them- 
.'^elves  sufiicieiu  to  account  for  the  .slate  to 
which  this  country  has  been  reduced,  and  for 
the  increased  number  and  increased  acrimony 
of  the  parties  that  divide  it. 

The  success  of  a  plebeian  insurrection — the 
splendid  situations  to  which  low-bred  men 
have  been  exalted,  in  consi'quence  of  that 
succes.s — the  comparative  weakness  and  in- 
efficiency of  lh(!  ."sovereigns  and  nobles  who 
oi)posed  it,  and  the  contempt  and  ridicule 
which  has  been  thrown  by  the  victors  upon 
their  order,  have  all  tended  to  e.\cite  and  ag- 
gravate the  b(ul  principles  that  lead  men  to 
despise  existing  authorities,  and  to  give  into 
wild  and  extravagant  schemes  of  innovation. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  long-continued  ill  suc- 
cess of  our  anti-jacohin  councils — the  sicken- 
ing uniformity  of  our  boastinizs  and  failures — 
the  gross  and  palpable  mismanagement  of  our 
government — the  irrowing  ami  intolerable 
burthen  of  our  taxes — and.  above  all,  the  im- 
minent and  tremendous  peril  into  which  the 
whole  nation  has  been  broucrht.  have  made  a 
powerful  appeal  to  the  good  principles  that 
lead  men  into  similar  feelings:  and  roused 
those  who  were  lately  unwilling  to  ilisturb 
themselves  with  political  considerations,  to  cry 
out  in  vast  numbers  for  reformation  and  re- 
dress. The  number  of  those  who  have  been 
startled  out  of  their  neutrality  by  such  feel- 
ings, very  greatly  e.xceeds,  we  believe,  that 
of  those  who  have  been  tempted  from  it  by 
the  stirrinjrs  of  an  irregular  ambition :  But 
both  are  alike  disposed  to  look  with  jealousy 
upon  the  advocates  of  power  and  prerogative — 
to  suspect  falsehood  and  corruption  in  every 
thins:  that  is  not  clearly  explained — to  resent 
every  appearance  of  haughtiness  or  reserve — 
to  listen  with  easer  credulity  to  every  tale  of 
detraction  asainst  public  character.s — and  to 
believe  with  implicit  rashness  whatever  is 
said  of  the  advanlaires  of  popular  control. 

Such  are  the  natural  and  onsinal  cau.ses  of 
the  increase  of  that  popular  discontent  which 
has  of  late  as.sumed  so  foiTnidable  an  aspect, 
and  is,  in  fact,  far  more  widely  spread  and 
more  deeply  rooted  in  the  iiaiion.  than  the 
sanguine  and  contemptuous  will  believe.  The 
enumeration,  however,  would  be  quite  in- 
complete, if  wc  were  not  to  add.  that  it  has 
been  prodigiously  helped  by  the  contempl. 
and  aversion,  and  defiance,  v.hich  has  been 
so  loudly  and  unwisely  eYnres.*«'d  by  ihe  op- 
posite party.  Instead  of  endeavourinc  to  avoid 
the  occasions  of  dissatisfaction,  and  to  'jfothe 
and  co:iciiiate  those  whom  it  could  eevo:  be 
creditable  to  have  lor  enemies,  it  has  ben 
Sa2 


606 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


but  too  often  the  policy  of  the  advocates  for 
strong  government  to  exasperate  them  by 
menaces  and  abuse ; — to  defend,  with  inso- 
lence, every  thing  that  was  attacked,  how- 
ever obviously  indefensible  j — and  to  insult 
and  defy  their  opponents  by  a  needless  osten- 
tation of  their  own  present  power,  and  their 
resolution  to  use  it  in  support  of  their  most 
offensive  and  unjustiiiablc  measures.  This 
unfortunate  tone,  which  was  first  adopted  in 
the  time  of  Mr.  Pitt,  has  been  pretty  well 
maiutiiined  by  most  of  his  successors;  and 
has  done  more,  we  are  persuaded,  to  revolt 
and  alienate  the  hearts  of  independent  and 
brave  men,  tlian  all  the  errors  and  incon- 
sistencies of  which  they  have  been  guilty. 

In  running  thus  rapidly  over  the  causes 
which  have  raised  the  pretensions  and  aggra- 
vated the  discontents  of  the  People,  we  have, 
in  fact,  stated  also,  the  sources  of  the  increased 
acrimony  and  pretensions  of  the  advocates  for 
power.  The  same  spectacle  of  popular  excess 
and  popular  triumph  which  excited  the  dan- 
gerous passions  of  the  turbulent  and  daring. 
in  the  way  of  Sympathy,  struck  a  correspond- 
ing alarm  into  the  breasts  of  the  timid  and 
prosperous, — and  excited  a  furious  Antipathy 
in  those  of  the  proud  and  domineering.  As 
fear  and  hatred  lead  equally  to.  severity,  and 
are  neither  of  them  very  far-sighted  in  their 
councils,  they  naturally  attempted  to  bear 
down  this  rising  spirit  by  menaces  and  abuse. 
All  hot-headed  and  shallow-headed  persons 
of  rank,  with  their  parasites  and  dependants 
— and  indeed  almost  all  rich  persons,  of  quiet 
tempers  and  weak  intellects,  started  up  into 
furious  anti-jacobins ;  and  took  at  once  a  most 
violent  part  in  those  political  contentions,  as 
to  which  they  had,  in  former  times,  been  con- 
fessedly ignorant  and  indi.fferent.  When  this 
tone  was  once  given,  from  passion  and  mis- 
taken principle  among  the  actual  possessors 
of  power,  it  was  readily  taken  up  by  mere 
servile  venality.  The  vast  multiplication  of 
offices  and  occupations  in  the  gift  of  the  gov- 
ernment, and  the  enormous  patronage  and 
expectancy,  of  which  it  has  recently  become 
the  centre,  has  drawn  a  still  jrreater  number, 
and  of  baser  natures,  out  of  the  political  neu- 
trality in  which  they  would  otherwise  have 
remained,  and  led  them  to  counterfeit,  for 
hire,  that  unfortunate  violence  which  neces- 
sarily produces  a  corresponding  violence  in 
its  objects. 

Thus  has  the  nation  been  set  on  fire  at  the 
four  comers  !  and  thus  has  an  incredible  and 
most  alarming  share  of  its  population  been 
separated  into  two  hostile  and  irritated  parties, 
neither  of  which  can  now  subdue  the  other 
without  a  civil  war  :  and  the  triumph  of  either 
of  which  would  be  Equally  fatal  to  the  consti- 
tution. 

The  force  and  extent  of  these  parties  is  but 
imperfectly  known,  we  believe,  even  to  those 
who  have  been  respectively  most  active  in  ar- 
raying them;  and  the  extent  of  the  adverse 
party  is  rarely  ever  suspected  by  those  who 
are  zealously  opposed  to  it.  There  must  be 
least  error,  however,  in  the  estimate  of  the 
partizaus  of  arbitrary  government.     They  are 


in  power,  and  show  themselves; — but  for  fl, 
very  reason,  their  real  force  is  probably  a  gre 
deal  less  than  it  appears  to  be.     Many  weij 
their  livery,  out  of  necessity  or  convenjencl 
whose  hearts  are  with  their  adversaries; 
many   clamour   loudly  in    their  cause, 
would  clamour  more  loudly  against  them,  itj 
moment  they  thought  that  cause  was  gor^ll 
back  in  the  world.    The  democratic  parly,  a 
the  other  hand,  is  scattered,  and  obscure? 
visible.     It  can  hardly  be  for  the  immediak 
uiterest  of  any  one  to  ackno\^  ledge  itj  aii 
scarcely  any  one  is,  as  yet,  proud  of  its  1 
or  denomination.     It  lurks,  however,  ia  p| 
vate  dwellings. — it  gathers  strength  at  hoiQf 
firesides, — it  is  confirmed  m  conferences 
friends, — it  breaks  out  in  pamphlets  and  ioiji 
nals  of  every  description, — and  shows  itshei( 
now  and  then  in  the  more  tumultuous 
blies  of  populous  cities.     In  the  metropojj 
especially,  where  the  concentration  of  Muijj 
bers  gives  them  confidence  and  importanC|i 
it  e.vhibits  itsel/  very  nearly,  though  not  alt  j 
gether,  in  its  actual  force.     How  that  fon  1 
now  stands  in  comparison  \^  ith  what  is  o|] 
posed  to  it,  it  would  not  perhaps  be  very  ear)* 
to  calculate.     Taking  the  whole  nation  ov 
head,  we  should  conjecture,  that,  as  thii; 
now  are,  they  would  be  pretty  equally  b; 
anced  :  but.  if  any  great  calamity  should  gi 
a  shock  to  the  stability  of  government,  or  c; 
imperiously  for  more  vigorous  councils,  we  a 
convinced  that  the  partizaus  of  popular  gi; 
ernment  would  be  found  to  outnumber  iht 
opponents  in  the  proportion  of  three  to  tw 
When  the  one  party,  indeed,  had  failed  so  * 
tally,  it  must  seem  to  be  a  natural  resource 
make  a  trial  of  the  other  ;  and,  if  civil  war 
foreign  conquest  should  really  fall  on  us. 
would  be  a  movement  almost  of  instincti 
wisdom,  to  displace  and  to  punish  those  unci 
whose  direction  they  had  been  brought  c 
Upon  any  such  serious  alarm,  too,  all  the  \ 
nal  and  unprincipled  adherents  of  the  pren 
ative  would  inevitably  desert  their  colon 
and  eo  over  to  the  enemy. — while  the  Thro 
would  be  left  to  be  defended  ord}-  by  its  regul 
forces  and  its  immediate  dependants,— rei 
forced  by  a  few  bands  of  devoted  Tories,  mi 
gled  with  some  generous,  but  downcast  spiri 
under  the  banner  of  the  Whig  aristocracy. 
But,  without  pretending  to  settle  the  r 
merical  or  relative  force  of  the  two  opposi 
parties,  we  wish  only  to  press  it  upon  n 
readers,  that  they  are'  both  so  strong  and 
numerous,  as  to  render  it  quite  impossible  tl 
the  one  should  now  crush  or  overcome  t 
other,  without  a  ruinous  contention ;  and  tl 
they  are  so  exasperated,  and  so  sanguine  n 
presumptuous,  that  they  will  push  forward 
such  a  contention  in  no  longtime,  unless  ih 
be  separated  or  appeased  by  some  power: 
interference.     That  the  number  of  the  den 
crats  is  vast,  and  is  daily  increasing  with 
visible  and  dangerous  rapidity,  any  man  ni 
satisfy  hin^self.  by  the  common  and  obvic 
mean's  of  information.     It  is  a  fact  which 
may  read  legibly  in  the  prodigious  sale,  a 
still  more  prodigious  circulation,' of  Cobbet, 
Register,  and  other  weekly  papers  of  the  eai 


STATE  OF  PARTIES.   1809. 


mr 


rtieral  description :  He  may  learn  it  in  every 
feet  of  all  the  manufacturing  and  populous 
n  t vns  in  the  hi-art  of  the  country:  and  may.  and 
;  list  hear  it  most  audibly,  in  the  public  and 
i  jivate  talk  of  the  citizens  of  the  metropolis. 
.  jl  these  aflbid  direct  and  palpable  proofs  of 
tj  actual  increase  of  this  fomiidable  party. 
it  no  mail;  who  understands  any  thing  of 
fman  nature,  or  knows  any  thing  of  our  re- 
fiit  history,  can  need  direct  evidence  to  con- 
xfice  him,  that  it  must  have  experienced  a 
wdigious  increase.  In  a  country  where  more 
Jin  a  million  of  men  take  .some  interest  in 
ilitics,  and  are  daily  accustomed  (right  or 
Tong)  to  refer  the  blessings  or  the  evils  of 
fi^ircondition  to  the  conduct  of  their  rulers, 
jit  possible  to  conceive,  that  a  third  part  at 
Iiislof  every  man's  income  should  be  taken 
Un  him  in  the  shape  of  taxes, — and  that,  after 
fenty  years  of  boastful  hostility,  we  should 
1)  left  without  a  single  ally,  and  in  imminent 
Izard  of  being  invaded  by  a  revolutionary 
I?,  without  producing  a  very  general  feeling 
(|  disafTection  and  discontent,  and  spreading 
i-ough  the  body  of  the  nation,  not  only  a 
^at  disposition  to  despise  and  distrust  their 
jlvernors,  but  to  judge  unfavourably,  of  the 
fm  of  government  itself  which  could  admit 
('  such  gross  ignorance  or  imposition  ? 
The  great  increase  of  the  opposite  party, 
;ain,  is  but  too  visible,  we  are  sorry  to  say, 
iithe  votes  of  Parliament,  in  the  existence  of 
I?  present  administration,  and  in  the  sale 
iid  the  tenor  of  the  treasury  journals.  But, 
i'lependent  of  such  proof,  this  too  might  have 
lien  safely  inferred  from  the  known  circum- 
(Inces  of  the  times.  In  a  nation  abounding 
'ith  wealth  and  loyalty,  enamoured  of  its  old 
i;;titutions,  and  -originally  indebted  for  its 
Ij'edom,  in  a  great  degree,  to  the  spirit  of  its 
llided  Aristocracy,  it  was  impossible  that  the 
(icesses  of  a  plebeian  insurrection  should  not 
live  excited  a  great  aversion  to  every  thing 
l}it  had  a  similar  tendency :  and  in  any  na- 
lln,  alas !  that  had  recently  multiplied  its 
lies,  and  increased  the  patronage  of  its  gov- 
(|iment  to  three  times  their  original  extent, 
ij-'ould  not  but  happen,  that  multitudes  would 
1|  found  to  barter  their  independence  for  their 
ijerest ;  and  to  exchange  the  language  of 
l|'e  men  for  that  which  was  most  agreeable  to 
IR  party  upon  whose  favour  they  depended. 
Hf  the  numbers  of  the  opposed  factions, 
Iwever,  be  formidable  to  the  peace  of  the 
<jntry,  the  acrimony  of  their  mutual  hostili- 
t  is  still  more  alaiTninc:.  If  the  whole  na- 
t  n  were  divided  into  the  followers  of  Mr. 
<jbbett  and  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  and  the  fol- 
Ijv-ers  of  Mr.  John  Gifford  and  Mr.  John 
Ijwles,  does  not  every  man  see  that  a  civil 
"i|.r  and  a  revolution  would  be  inevitable? 
Il>vv,  we  say.  that  the  factions  into  which  the 
(lintryis  divided,  are  not  very  different  from 
'k  followers  of  Mr.  Cobbett  and  Mr.  Gifford ; 
4  at  all  events,  that  if  they  are  allowed  to 
.'h' and  provoke  each  other  into  new  extrava- 
vpce  and  increased  hostility,  as  they  have 
loing  lately,  we  do  not  se'^  how  th>t 
tremendous  of  all  calamities  is  to  be 
d.     If  those  who  have  influence  with 


the  people  go  on  a  little  longer  to  excite  in 
them  a  contempt  and  distrust  of  all  public 
characters,  and  of  all  institutions  of  anlliority, 
while  many  among  our  public  men  go  on  to 
justify,  by  their  conduct,  that  coulemiit  and 
distrust ; — if  ihe  people  are  taught  by  all  who 
now  take  the  trouble  to  win  their  confidence, 
that  Parliament  is  a  mere  assemblai;e  ol  un- 
principled place-hunl»'rs.  and  lluit  ni.s- and  oiila 
are  eipially  deterinined  to  dilend  corruption 
and  jieculation  ;  and  if  Parliament  continues 
to  busy  ilsi'lf  with  personalities, — to  tlecline 
the  investigation  of  corruptions, — and  to  ap- 
prove, by  its  votes,  what  no  sane  man  in  the 
kingdom  e;in  consider  a^  admitting  of  apolo- 
gy ; — if  those  to  whom  their  natural  leaders 
have  given  up  the  guidance  of  the.  p(;ople, 
shall  continue  to  tell  them  that  ihey  may 
easily  be  relieved  of  half  their  taxes,  and 
placed  in  a  situation  of  triuniphanl  security, 
while  the  government  coiitiniu's  to  multiply 
its  impositions,  and  to  waste  their  blood  and 
treasure  in  expeditions  which  make  us  hate- 
ful ami  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  many  of  our 
neighbours,  while  they  bring  the  dangeriiearer 
to  our  own  dbor : — if,  finally,  the  people  are  a 
little  more  persuaded  that,  without  a  radical 
change  in  the  constitution  of  the  Legislature, 
they  must  continue  in  the  condition  of  slaves 
to  a  junto  of  boroughmongers.  ^hile  Parlia- 
ment rejects  with  disdain  every  proposal  to 
correct  the  most  palpable  defects  of  that  con- 
stitution ; Then  we  say  that  the  whole- 
some days  of  England  are  numbered, — that 
she  is  gliding  to  the  verge  of  the  most  dread- 
ful of  all  calamities, — and  that  all  the  freedom 
and  happiness  which  we  undoubtetlly  still  en- 
joy, and  all  the  morality  and  intelligence,  and 
the  long  habits  of  sober  thinking  and  kindly 
affection  which  adorn  and  exalt  our  people, 
will  not  long  protect  us  from  the  horrors  of  a 
civil  war. 

In  such  an  unhallowed  conflict  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  say  that  the  triumph  of  either 
party  would  be  the  ruin  of  English  liberty, 
and  of  her  peace,  happiness,  and  prosperity. 
Those  who  have  merely  lived  in  our  times, 
must  have  seen,  and  they  who  have  read  oi 
other  times,  or  reflected  on  what  Man  is  at 
all  times,  must  know,  independent  of  that  les- 
son, how  much  Chance,  and  how  much  Time, 
must  concur  with  genius  and  patriotism,  to 
form  a  good  or  a  stable  governmeirt.  We  have 
the  frame  and  the  materials  of  such  a  govern- 
ment in  the  constitution  of  England  ;  but  if  we 
rend  asunder  that  frame,  and  scatter  these 
materials — if  we  -'put  out  the  light"  of  our 
living  ]>olity, 

"  We  know  not  where  is  ihat  Proninlhean  fire, 
'J'liat  may  its  flainu  reiiiriiiiic." 

The  stability  of  the  Engli-sh  constitution  de- 
pends upon  its  monarchy  and  aristocracy;  and 
their  stability,  again,  depends  very  much  on 
the  circumstance  of  their  having  grown  natu- 
rally out  of  the  frame  and  inward  structure  of 
our  society — upon  their  iiaving  sJruc^k  their 
rnots  deep  thror.gh  every  stratum  of  the  po- 
litical .soil,  and  having  been  mouidi'd.  and  im- 
pressed, during  a  Icng  course  of  ages,  by  thj 


608 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


usages,  institutions,  habits,  and  affections  of 
(he  community.  A  popular  revolution  would 
overthrow  the  monarchy  and  the  aristocracy; 
and  even  il'  it  were  not  true  that  revolution 
propagates  revolution,  as  waves  yives  rise  to 
wave.^,  till  the  agitation  is  stopped  by  the  iron 
boundary  of  despotism,  it  would  still  require 
aires  of  anxious  discomfort,  before  we  could 
build  up  again  that  magnificent  fabric,  which 
now  requires  purification  rather  than  repair; 
or  secure  that  permanency  to  our  new  estab- 
lishments, without  which  (hey  could  have  no 
other  good  quality. 

Such  we  humbly  conceive  to  be  the  course, 
and  the  causes,  of  the  evils  which  we  believe 
to  be  impending.  It  is  time  now  to  inquire 
whether  there  be  no  remedy.  If  the  whole 
nation  were  actually  divided  into  revolution- 
ists and  high-monarchy  men,  we  do  not  see 
how  they  could  be  prevented  from  fighting, 
and  giving  us  the  miserable  choice  of  a  des- 
jwtism  or  a  tumultuary  democracy.  Fortu- 
nately, however,  this  is  not  the  case.  There 
is  a  third  party  in  the  nation — small,  indeed, 
in  point  of  numbers,  compared  with  either  of 
the  others — and,  for  this  very  reason,  low.  we 
fear,  in  present  popularity — but  essentially 
powerful  from  talents  and  reputation,  and  cal- 
culated to  become  both  popular  and  authori- 
tative, by  the  fairness  and  the  firmness  of  its 
principles.  This  is  composed  of  the  Whig 
Royalists  of  England, — men  who,  without  for- 
getting that  all  government  is  from  the  peo- 
ple, and  for  the  people,  are  satisfied  that  the 
rights  aird  liberties  of  the  people  are  best 
maintained  by  a  regulated  hereditary  mon- 
archy, and  a  large,  open  aristocracy  ;  ami  who 
are  as  much  averse,  therefore,  from  every  at- 
tempt to  undermine  the  throne,  or  to  discredit 
the  nobles,  as  they  are  indignant  at  every  pro- 
ject to  insult  or  enslave  the  people.  In  the 
better  days  of  the  constitution,  this  party 
formed  almost  the  whole  ordinary  opposition, 
and  bore  no  inconsiderable  proportion  to  that 
of  the  courtiers.  It  might  be  said  too.  to  have 
with  it,  not  only  the  greater  part  of  those  who 
were  jealous  of  the  prerogative,  but  all  that 
great  mass  of  the  population  which  was  ap- 
parently neutral  and  indifl^erent  to  the  i.«sue 
of  the  contest.  The  new-sprung  factions, 
however,  have  swallowed  up  almost  all  this 
disposable  body;  and  have  drawn  largely 
from  the  ranks  of  the  old  constitutionalists 
themselves.  In  consequence  of  this  change 
of  circumstances,  they  can  no  longer  act  with 
effect,  as  a  separate  party;  and  are  far  too 
weak  to  make  head,  at  the  same  time,  ag-ainst 
the  overbearing  influence  of  the  Crown,  and 
the  rising  pretensions  of  the  people.  It  is  nec- 
essary, therefore,  that  they  should  now  leave 
this  attitude  of  stern  and  defying  mediation  ; 
and,  if  they  would  escape  being  crushed 
alone  witli  the  constitution  on  the  collision 
of  the  two  hostile  bodies,  they  must  identify 
themselves  cordially  with  the  better  part  of 
one  of  them,  and  thus  >oothe,  ennoble,  and 
control  it,  by  the  infusion  of  their  own  spiiit, 
and  the  authority  of  their  own  wisdom  and 
experience.  Like  faithful  generals,  whose 
troops   have   inutiaied.  they   must  join   the 


march,  and  mix  with  the  ranks  of  the  o;nd. 
ers,  that  they  may  be  enabled  to  reclaii  m.^ 
repress  them,  and  save  both  them  and    v. 
selves  from  a  sure  and  shameful  deslru  i] 
They  have  no  longer  strength  to  overa  or 
repel  either  party  by  a  direct  and  forcit  at- 
tack ;   and  must  work,  therefore,  by  {tie 
and  conciliatory  means,  upon  that  \vh 
most  dangerous,  most  flexible,  and  most 
bleofbeing  guided  to  noble  exertions.  Lil 
Sabine  women  of  old,  they  must  throw  1 1, 
selves  between  the  kindred  combatants 
sta\'  the  fatal  feuil,  by  praises  and  embi  i  - 
and  dissuasives  of  kindness  and  flattery. 

Even  those  who  do  not  much  love  or  ;■ 
for  the  people,  are  now  called  upon  to  j  , 
thern,  by  granting,  at  least,  all  that  can  re  i 
ably  be  granted  ;  and  not  only  to  redresi 
Grievances,  but  to  comply  with  their  De  - 
in  so  far  as  they  can  be  complied  with, 
less  hazard  than  must  evidently  arise  i, 
disregarding  them. 

We  do  not  say,  therefore,  that  a  tho!  i 
reconciliation    between   the   ^Vhig    ro\  • 
and  the  great  body  of  the  people  is  des!  ^ 
merel)- — hut  that  it  is  indispejisable:  sii 
is  a  dream — a  gross  solecism  and  ahsui  . 
to  suppose,  that  such  a  party  should  <  - 
unless  supported  by  the  affections  and  a  !• 
bation  of  the  people.     The  advocates  de- 
rogative have  the  support  of  prerosativeMd 
they  who  rule  by  corruption  and  the  i!  c! 
agency  of  wealth,  have  wealth  and  the  n  ; 
of  corruption  in  their  hands: — But  theft: 
of  national  freedom  must  be  recognise 
the  nation.     If  the  W^higs  are  not  sup| ' 
by  the   people,   they  can  have  no  suj' 
and,  therefore,  if  the  peoiile  are  seduced  i  ly 
from  them,  they  must  juf4  go  after  ihcn.iiii 
bring  thern  back  :  And  are  no  more  to  bii.\- 
cused  for  leaving  them  to  be  corrupte(by 
Demagogues,  than  they  would  be  for  lefjjg 
them  to  be  oppressed  by  tyrants.     If  a  I'ty 
is  to  exist  at  all.  therefoie.  friendly  at  on  |to 
the  liberties  of  the  people  and  the  inte  ty 
of  the  monarchy,  and  holding  that  WW. 
best  secured  by  a  monarchical  esiablishi 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  it  sliouli!   - 
sess  the  confidence  ami   attachment  ot'if 
people;  and  if  it  appear  at  any  time  1o  Ve 
lost  it,  the  first  of  all  its  duties,  and  the  v>  '■• 
sary  prelude  to  the  ilischarge  of  all  the  -' 
is  to  regain  it,  by  every  effort  consistent 
probity  and  honour. 

Now,  it  may  be  true,  that  the  present  aiii* 
ation  of  the  body  of  the  people  from  th<  'ki 
constitutional  champions  of  their  frc»vn, 
originated  in  the  exces.ses  and  delusion  o,ie 
people  themselves  ;  but  it  is  not  less  true., at 
the  Whig  royalists  have  increased  that  a'ii« 
ation  by  the  haughtiness  of  their  deporIi;iit 
— by  the  marked  displeasure  with  which  n* 
have  disavowed  most  of  the  popular  procld* 
ings— and  the  tone  of  needless  and  impnijiit 
distrust  and  reprobation  with  which  they  ive 
treated  pretensions  that  were  onlij  ■partiW' 
:idmissible.  They  have  given  too  nnidi  ;^y 
to  the  offence  which  they  naturally  rPC(  H 
from  the  rudeness  and  irreverence  of  the  t  in"^ 
in   which   theif   grievances  were   freexn  ly 


STATE  OF  PARTIES,  1809. 


609 


iled ;  and  have  felt  too  proud  an  indignation 
nen  they  saw  vuli^ar  and  turbulent  men  pie- 
tme  to  lay  their  unpuraed  hand^  upon  the 
j>red  ark  of  the  constitution.  They  have 
iidained  too  much  to  be  associated  with 
<irse  coadjutors,  even  in  the  good  work  of 
ristance  and  reformation ;  and  have  haltnl 
t  virulently  the  demagogues  who  have  iu- 
t.Tied  the  people,  and  despi.sed  too  heartily 
J I  people  who  have  yielded  to  so  gross  a  de- 
I'ion.  All  this  feeling,  however,  though  it 
fjv  be  natural,  is  undoubtedly  both  misplaced 
al  imprudent.  The  people  are,  upon  the 
Vole,  both  more  moral  and  more  intelligent 
tin  they  ever  were  in  any  former  period ;  and 
I.  refore,  if  they  are  discontented,  we  may  be 
s  e  they  have  cause  for  discontent;  if  they 
hre  been  deluded,  we  may  be  satislied  that 

I  re  is  a  mixture  of  reason  in  the  sophistry 
b  which  they  have  been  perverted.  All 
tl  ir  deriiaiids  may  not  be  reasonable ;  and 
V  h  many,  which  may  be  just  in  principle,  it 
njv,  as  yet,  be  impracticable  to  comply.  But 
a  are  not  in  either  of  these  predicaments; 
tlugh  we  can  only  now  afford  to  make  par- 
tiiilar  mention  of  one ;  and  one,  we  are  con- 
cned  to  say.  on  which,  though  of  the  grcat- 
e  possible  importance,  the  people  have  of 
li-  found  but  few  abettors  among  the  old 
finds  of  the  constitution,  we  mean  that  of  a 
K'orm  m  the  representation.  Upon  this 
p  it.  we  have  spoken  largely  on  former  oc- 
ciions;  and  have  only  to  add  that,  though  we 
Ci  neither  approve  of  such  a  reform  as  some 
vy  popular  persons  have  sugge.sted,  nor 
big  ourselves  to  believe  that  any  reform 
wild  accomplish  all  the  objects  that  have 
b  n  held  out  by  its  most  zealous  advocates, 
«  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  a  large 
a.  liberal  reform  should  be  granted.  The 
r(5ons  of  .policy  which  have  led  us  to  this 
oviction,  we  nave  stated  on  former  occa- 
siis.  But  the  chief  and  the  leading  reason 
fc supporting  the  proposal  at  present  is,  that 
tl;  people  are  zealous  for  its  adoption ;  and 
aj  entitled  to  this  gratification  at  the  hands 
oltheir  representatives.  We  laugh. at  the 
ici  of  there  being  any  danger  in  disfranchis- 

II  the  whole  mass  of  rotten  and  decayed 
bpughs,  or  communicating  the  elective  fran- 
ciie  to  a  great  number  of  respectable  citi- 
Z's:  And  as  to  the  supposed  danger  of  the 
rr-e  example  of  yielding  to  the  desires  of 
th  people,  we  can  only  say,  that  we  are  far 
iTi-e  strongly  impressed  with  the  danger  of 
tl-arting  them.  The  people  have  far  more 
wilth  and  far  more  intelligence  now,  than 
tlv  had  in  former  times;  and  therefore  they 
01  ht  to  hiive,  and  they  must  have,  more  po- 
ll [al  power.  The  danger  is  not  in  yielding 
tcpis  swell,  but  in  endeavouring  to  resist  it. 
If  roperly  watched  and  managed,  it  will  only 
b'lr  the  vessel  of  the  state  more  proudly  and 
slidily  along; — if  neglected,  or  rashly  op- 
p<!Bd,  it  will  da.sh  her  on  the  rocks  and  shoals 
o|  sanguinary  revolution. 


We,  in  short,  are  for  the  monarchy  and  the 
aristocracy  of  England,  as  the  only  sure  sufv 
ports  of  a  permanent  and  regulated  freeiloiu  : 
But  we  do  not  see  how  either  is  now  to  be 
j)re.served,  except  by  surroumiing  them  with 
the  aifectioii  of  the  people.  The  admirers  of 
arbitrary  jiower,  blind  to  the  great  Ics.soti 
which  all  Europe  is  now  holdin"  out  to  them, 
have  attempted  to  dispense  with  this  protec- 
tion :  and  the  denuigogues  have  taken  advan- 
tage of  their  folly  to  excite  the  people  to  with- 
draw it  altogether.  The  true  friends  of  the 
constitution  must  now  bring  it  back ;  and  must 
reconcile  the  people  to  the  old  monarchy  and 
the  old  J\uliament  of  their  land,  by  restiaining 
the  prerogative  within  its  legitimate  bounds, 
and  briniring  back  Parliament  to  its  natural 
habits  of  syniiiathy  and  concord  with  its  con- 
stituents. The  people,  therefore,  though  it 
may  be  deluded,  must  be  reclaimed  by  gen- 
tleness, and  treated  with  respect  and  indul- 
gence. All  indications,  and  all  feelings  of 
jealousy  or  contempt,  must  be  abjured.  What- 
ever is  to  be  granted,  shoulil  be  granted  with 
cordial  alacrity:  and  all  denials  should  be 
softened  with  words  ami  with  acts  of  kind- 
ness. The  wounds  that  are  curable,  should 
be  cured  ;  those  that  have  festered  more  deeply 
should  be  cleansed  and  anointed ;  and,  into 
such  as  it  may  be  impossible  to  close,  the 
patient  should  be  allowed  to  pour  any  inno- 
cent balsam,  in  the  virtues  of  which  he  be- 
lieves. The  irritable  state  of  the  body  politic 
will  admit  of  no  other  treatment. — Inci.'^ions 
and  cauteries  would  infallibly  bring  on  con- 
vulsions and  insanity. 

We  had  much  more  to  say ;  but  we  must 
close  here :  Nor  indeed  could  any  warning 
avail  those  who  are  not  aware  already.  He 
must  have  gazed  with  idle  eyes  on  the  recent 
course  of  events,  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
who  does  not  see  that  no  government  can  now 
subsist  long  in  England,  that  is  not  bottomed 
in  the  affection  of  the  great  body  of  the  peo- 
ple :  and  who  does  not  see,  still  more  clearly, 
that  the  party  of  the  people  is  every  day  gain- 
ing strength,  from  the  want  of  judgment  and 
of  feeling  in  those  who  have  defied  and  in- 
sulted it.  and  from  the  coldness  and  alienation 
of  those  who  used  to  be  their  patrons  and  de- 
fenders. If  something  is  not  done  to  concili- 
ate, these  heartburnings  mu.«t  break  out  into 
deadly  strife;  and  impartial  history  will  as- 
sign to  each  of  the  parties  their  share  of  the 
great  guilt  that  will  be  incurred.  The  first 
and  the  greatest  outrages  will  probably  pro- 
ceed from  the  people  themselves ;  but  a 
deeper  cur.se  will  fall  on  the  corrupt  and  su- 
percilious government  that  provoked  them  : 
Nor  will  they  be  held  blameles.s,  who,  when 
they  might  have  repressed  or  moderated  the 
popular  impulse,  by  attempting  to  direct  it, 
chose  rather  to  take  counsel  of  their  pride,  and 
to  stand  by.  and  see  the  constitution  torn  to 
pieces,  because  they  could  not  approve  en- 
tirely of  either  of  the  combatants  ! 


610 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


(ODctober,  1827.) 

The  History  of  Ireland.    By  John  O'Driscol.    In  two  vols.  8vo.    pp.815.    London :  1,7.« 

even  a  partial  memorial  of  the  trnlh.  lat 
truth  is,  no  doubt,  for  the  most  part,  at  ce 
revolting  and  pitiable; — not  easily  at  fii  to 
be  credited,  and  to  the  last  diliicnlt  I  be 
told  with  calmness.  Yet  it  is  thus  only  lat 
it  can  be  told  with  advantage — and  so"  Id, 
it  is  pregnant  with  admonitions  and  su.  =». 
tions,  as  precious  in  their  tenor,  as  irre:,ti. 
ble  in  their  evidence,  when  once  fair)  re- 
ceived. 

Unquestionably,  in  the  main,  Englancas 
been  the  oppressor,  and  Ireland  thrvitn; 
— not  always  a  guiltless  victim. — and  it  ay 
be,  often  an  offender  :  But  even  w  her  he 
guilt  may  have  been  nearly  balanced  he 
weight  of  suffering  ha?  alwaj's  fallen  o.  he 
weakest.  This  comparative  weaknes:  in- 
deed, was  the  first  cause  of  Ireland's  mry 
— the  second,  her  long  separation  She'aJ 
been  too  long  a  weak  neighbour,  to  be  e  ily 
admitted  to  the  rights  of  an  equal  ally,  -e- 
tensious  which  the  growing  strength  ani  n- 
telligence  of  the  one  country  began  to  -el 
intolerable,  were  sanctioned  in  the  eyesche 
other  by  long  usage  and  prescription;- od 
injustice,  which  never  could  have  been  rst 
inflicted  when  it  was  first  complained  of 'a« 
yet  long  persisted  in,  because  it  had  bpen  ng 
submitted  to  with  but  little  complaint.  \'o 
misgovernment  is  ever  so  bad  as  provi  al 
misgovernment — and  no  provincial  mi:  'V- 
ernment,  it  would  seem,  as  that  which  i;.\- 
ercised  by  a  free  people, — whether  ar.ac 
from  a  jealous  reluctance  to  extend  that  \  m 
distinction  to  a  race  of  inferiors,  or  from^at 
inherent  love  of  absolute  power,  which  ;  es 
all  rulers  a  tendency  to  be  despotic;  and  siJS, 
when  restrained  at  home,  for  venl  and  ic  n- 
nification  abroad. 

The  actual  outline  of  the  story  is  as  ar 
as  it  is  painful.  Its  most  remarkable  id 
most  disgusting  feature  is,  that  while  Rel  m 
has  been  made  the  pretext  of  its  most  saiii- 
nary  and  atrocious  contentions,  it  has  1 'n, 
from  first  to  last,  little  else  than  a  cove,br 
the  basest  cupidity,  and  the  meanest  and  '»9t 
unprincipled  ambition.  The  hisli  ry  wfch 
concerns  the  present  times,  need  not  be  ti.ed 
farther  back  than  to  the  days  of  Heniy  11. 
and  Queen  INIary.  Up  to  that  period,  the  ]  IV 
and  tyrannical  Parliaments  of  tin.'  Pale  J, 
indeed,  pretty  uniformly  insulted  and  '» 
pised  the  great  native  chiefs  among  whorte 
bulk  of  the  island  was  divided — but  the;  ad 
also  feared  them,  and  mostly  let  them  aie- 
At  that  era,  however,  the  growing  stroth 
and  population  of  England  inspired  it  w  ■  a 
bolder  ambition  ;  and  the  rage  of  prosel)  TO 
which  followed  the  Reformation,  gave  it  th 
occasion  and  excuse.  The  passions,  m  ct 
led  naturally  enough  to  hostilities  in  sucl  ir- 
numstancf's,  were  industriously  fostere'py 
the   cold-blooded   selfishness  of    those  ho 


A  GOOD  History  of  Ireland  is  still  a  deside-  i 
rat'im  in  our  literature  ; — and  would  not  only 
be    interesting,    we    think,    but    invaluable.  , 
There  are  accessible  materials  in  abundance 
for  such  a  history  ;  and  the  task  of  arranging  '. 
them  really  seems  no  less  inviting  than  im- 
portant.   It  abounds  with  striking  events,  and 
with  strange  revolutions  and  turns  of  fortune 
— brought  on.  sometimes  by  the  agency  of  j 
enterprising  men, — but  more  frequently  by  , 
the  silent  progress  of  time,  unwatched  and  ; 
unsuspected,  alike  by  those  who  were  to  suf- 
fer, and  those  who  were  to  gain  by  the  result,  j 
In  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  many  others,  it  is 
as  full  of  instruction  as  of  interest, — and  to  the  j 
people  of  this  country  especially,  and  of  this  i 
age,  it  holds  out  lessons  far  more  precious,  far 
more  forcible,  and  far  more  hnmediately  ap- 
plicable, than  all  that  is  elsewhere  recorded 
in  the  annals  of  mankind.    It  is  the  very  great- 
ness of  this  interest,  however,  and  the  dread, 
an  \  the  encouragement  of  these  applications, 
that  have  hitherto  defaced  and  even  falsified 
the  record — that  have  made  impartiality  al- 
most hopeless,  and  led  alternately  to  the  sup- 
pression and   the  e.xaggeration  of  sufferings 
and  atrocities  too  monstrous,  it  might  appear, 
in  themselves,   to  be  either  exaggerated  or 
disguised.     Party  rancour  an<l  religious  ani- 
mosity  have   hitherto   contrived    to   convert 
what  should   have  been  their   antidote  into 
their  aliment, — and,  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  giving  only  one  side  of  the  picture,  have 
pretty  generally  succeeded  in  making  the  his- 
tory of  past  enormities  not  a  warning  against, 
but  an  incitement  to,  their  repetition.    In  tell- 
ing the  story  of  those  lamentable  dissensions, 
each  party  has  enhanced  the  gnilt  of  the  ad- 
versary, and  withheld  all  notice  of  their  own  ; 
— and  seems  to  have  had  it  far  more  at  heart 
to  irritate  and  defy  each  other,  than  to  leave 


*  It  may  be  thought  iliat  this  should  rather  have 
been  brought  in  under  tlie  tide  of  Historv  :  But  the 
truth  is,  that  I  have  now  omitted  all  that  is  properly 
historical,  and  retained  only  wliat  relates  to  the  ne- 
cessity of  maintaining  the  legislative  and  incorpo- 
ratina;  union  of  the  two  cmintnes  ;  a  topic  that  is 
purely  political:  and  falls,  I  think,  correctly  enonsrh 
under  the  title  of  General  Politics,  since  it  is  at  this 
day  of  still  more  absorbing  interest  than  when  these 
observations  were  first  published  in  1827.  If  at  that 
time  I  thou!j:ht  a  Separation,  or  a  dissolution  of  the 
union,  (for  they  are  the  same  thiiiij,)  a  measure  not 
to  be  contemplated  but  with  horror,  it  may  l:e  sup- 
posed that  I  should  not  look  more  charitably  on  the 
proposition,  now  that  Catholic  emancipation  and 
rarliamentary  reform  have  taken  away  some,  at 
least,  of  the  motives  or  apologies  of  those  by  whom 
it  was  then  maintained.  The  example  of  Scotland. 
I  Btill  think,  is  well  put  for  the  aro;urnent:  And 
among  the  many  who  must  now  consider  this  ques- 
tion, it  may  be  gratifying  tn  some  to  see  upon  what 
"rounds,  and  how  decidedly,  an  opinion  was  then 
formed  upon  it.  by  one  certainly  not  too  much  dis- 
posed to  think  favourably  of  the  conduct  or  the  pre- 
tensions of  Eiiglaiid. 


O'DRISCOL'S  IRELAND. 


61t 


tjj-e  to  profit  by  the  resiili.  Insurrections 
\f-e  now  reijiiliirly  followed  by  Forfeitures; 
ai  there  were  by  thi?  time  men  ami  fiiter- 
p{;e  ei^oagh  in  Enyland  to  meditate  the  oc- 
cjancy  of  the  vast  domains  from  whie.h  the 
rdel  chieftains  were  thus  first  to  be  driven. 
F,m  this  period,  accordingly,  to  that  of  the 
R'toration.  the  bloodiest  and  most  atrocious 
ir^ier  unhappy  annals,  the  history  of  Ireland 
^^^•  be  summarily  described  as  that  of  a  se- 
ri'  of  sanguinary  wars,  fomented  for  purpo- 
ei  of  Contiscation.  After  the  Resforation. 
ai  down  till  the  Revolution,  this  was  snc- 
cided  by  a  contest  equally  unprincipled  and 
n^-cenarv,  between  the  settlers  under  Crom- 
w^l  and  the  old  or  middle  occujxints  whom 
tliy  had  displaced.  By  the  final  success  of 
Kig  William,  a  strong  military  government 
wr.  once  more  imposed  on  this  unhappy  land  ; 
nier  which  its  spirit  seemed  at  last  to  he 
b(<en,  and  even  its  turbulent  activity  re- 
posed. As  it  slowly  revived,  the  Protestant 
arpathies  of  the  English  government  seem 
tdiave  been  reinforced,  or  replaced,  by  a 
irj'e  e.vtended  and  still  more  unworthy  Na- 
tilai  Jealousy — first  on  the  subject  of  trade, 
ai|  then  on  that  of  political  rights:  —  and 
sij'e  a  more  enliffhtened  view  of  her  own 
infrests,  aided  by  the  arms  of  the  volunteers 
oi'SO,  have  put  down  tho.«e  causes  of  op- 
pijfsion, — the  system  of  misgovernment  has 
win  maintained,  for  little  other  end,  that  we 
cjf  discern,  but  to  keep  a  small  junto  of  arro- 
gjit  individuals  in  power,  and  to  preserve  the 
sttremacy  of  a  faction,  long  after  the  actual 
cwation  of  the  causes  that  lifted  them  into 
aipority. 

[his  is  ''the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  " 
ofjie  jwlitical  or  external  history  of  the  sister 
isjnd.  But  it  has  been  complicated  of  late. 
ai|all  its  symptoms  aggravated  by  the  sin- 
pilrity  of  its  economical  relations.  The  mar- 
vtous  multiplication  of  its  people,  and  the 
goving  difficulty  of  supph-ing  them  with 
m  or  employment,  presenting,  at  the  pre- 
scj  moment;  a  new  and  most  urgent  cause 
ofjiissatisfaction  and  alarm.  For  this  last 
elk  of  evils,  a  mere  change  in  the  policy  of 
ihlGovernment  would  indeed  furnish  no  ef- 
tejuul  remedy:  and  to  find  one  in  any  degree 
aviable,  might  well  task  th%  ingenuity  of  the 
mil  enlightened  and  beneficent.  But  for  the 
gr|.ter  part  of  her  past  sufferings,  as  well  as 
h«l  actual  degradation,  disunion,  and  most 
dajierous  discontent,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
th  the  successive  Governments  of  England 
hap  been  chiefly  responsible.  Without  pre- 
teing  to  enumerate,  or  even  to  class,  the 
i^Tal  charges  which  m'ght  be  brought 
aonst  them,  or  to  determine  what  weight 
phjild  be  allowed  to  the  temptations  or  pro- 
voktinns  by  which  they  might  be  palliated. 
^vl(th■)lk  it  easier  and  far  more  important 
to[»mark,  that  the  only  secure  preventive 
w^ld  have  been  an  early,  an  equal,  and  com- 
plfe  incorporating  Union  of  the  two  couri- 
trii': — and  that  the  only  efTeclive  cure  for 
thiniisory  occasioned  by  its  havinir  been  so  ' 
loi  delayed,  is  to  labour,  heartily  and  in  ear- 1 
lie,  still  to  render  it  equal  and  complete.    It  I 


is  in  vain  to  hope  that  a  provincial  govem- 
ment  should  not  be  oppressive — that  a  dele- 
g-.ited  power  sliould  not  be  abused — that  of 
two  .-^eiKirate  counlrie.-*,  allied  oidy,  but  not  in- 
corporated, tin-  weaker  should  not  be  de- 
graded, and  the  stronger  unjust.  The  only 
remedy  is  to  identify  and  amalgamate  them 
throughout — to  mi.\  up  the  oppre.s-ywrsand  the 
oppressed — to  take  away  all  privilei:es  and 
distinctions,  by  fully  communicating  them. — 
an<l  to  render  abuses  impossibh-.  by  conlouiid- 
inir  their  victims  with  tneir  authors. 

If  any  one  iloubts  of  the  wretchedness  of 
an  unecpial  and  imincorpoi-aliiig  alliance,  of 
the  degradation  of  beinir  subject  to  a  provin- 
cial parliament  and  a  distant  King,  and  of  the 
efficacy  of  a  substantial  union  in  curing  all 
these  evils,  he  is  invited  to  look  to  the  obvious 
example  of  Scotland.  While  the  crowns  only 
were  united,  and  the  governments  continued 
separate,  the  weaker  country  was  the  scene 
of  the  mo.«t  titrocious  erneities.  the  most  vio- 
lent injustice,  the  most  degi-ulina:  oppressions. 
The  prevailing  religion  of  the  people  was  pro- 
scribed and  persecuted  with  a  ferocity  greater 
than  has  ever  been  systematically  exercised, 
even  in  Ireland;  her  industry  was  crippkd 
and  depressed  by  unjust  and  intolerable  re- 
strictions;  herparliaments  corrupted  and  over- 
awed into  the  degraded  instruments  of  a  dis- 
tant court,  and  her  nobility  and  gentry,  cut  ofT 
from  all  hope  of  distinction  by  vindicating 
the  rights  or  promoting  the  interests  of  their 
country  at  home,  were  led  to  look  up  to  the 
favour  of  her  oppressors  as  the  only  remain- 
ing avenue  to  power,  and  degenerated,  for  the 
most  part,  into  a  band  of  mercenary  adven- 
turers ; — the  more  considerable  aspiring  to  the 
wretched  honour  of  executing  the  tyrannical 
orders  which  were  dictated  from  the  South, 
anti  the  rest  acquiring  gradually  those  habits 
of  subserviency  and  selfish  submission,  the 
traces  of  which  are  by  some  supposed  to  be 
yet  discernible  in  their  descendants.  The 
Revolution,  xvhich  rested  almost  entirely  on 
the  prevailing  antipathy  to  Popery,  required, 
of  course,  the  co-opemtion  of  all  classes  of 
Protestants;  and,  by  its  success,  the  Scottish 
Presbyterians  were  relieved,  for  a  time,  from 
their  Episcopalian  persecutions.  But  it  was 
not  till  after  the  Union  that  the  nation  wap 
truly  emancipated  :  or  lifted  up  from  the  ab- 
ject condition  of  a  dependant,  at  once  sus- 
pected and  despised.  The  effects  of  that 
happy  consolidation  were  not  indeed  immedi- 
ately apparent ;  For  the  vices  which  had  been 
generated  by  a  century  of  provincial  mis- 
government,  the  meannesses  tnat  had  become 
habitual,  the  animosities  that  had  so  lon^'  been 
fostered,  could  not  be  cured  at  once,  by  the 
mere  removal  of  their  cau.se.  The  generation 
they  had  degraded,  must  first  be  allowed  to 
die  out — and  more,  perhaps,  than  one  genera- 
tion: But  the  poison  tree  was  cut  down— the 
fountain  of  bitter  waters  was  sealed  np.  and 
symptoms  of  returning  vigour  and  liappiness 
were  perceived.  Vestiges  may  still  be  traced, 
perhaps,  of  our  long  degradation  ;  but  for,  at 
least,  forty  years  back,  the  provinces  of  Sox)t- 
land  have  been,  on  the  whole,  but  the  North- 


612 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


em  provinces  of  Great  Britain.  There  are 
no  local  oppressions,  no  national  animosities. 
Life,  and  liberty,  andpropertj-.  are  as  secnre  in 
Caithness  as  they  are  in  Middlesex — industry 
as  much  encouraged,  and  wealth  still  more 
rapidly  progressive  :  while  not  only  different 
religious  opinions,  but  different  religious  estab- 
lishments subsist  in  the  two  ends  of  the  same 
island  in  unbroken  harmony,  and  only  excite 
each  other,  by  a  friendly  emulation,  to  greater 
purity  of  life  and  greater  zeal  for  Christianity. 

If  this  happy  Union,  however,  had  been 
delayed  for  another  century — if  Scotland  had 
been  doomed  to  submit  for  a  hundred  years 
more  to  the  provincial  tyranny  of  the  Lauder- 
dales,  Rotheses,  and  Middletoiis.  and  to  meet 
the  cruel  persecutions  which  cratilieil  the  fe- 
rocity of  her  Dalzeils  and  Drummonds,  and 
tarnished  the  glories  of  such  men  as  Mon- 
trose and  Dundee,  with  her  armed  conventi- 
cles and  covenanted  saints  militant — to  see 
her  patriots  exiled,  or  bleeding  on  the  scaffold 
— her  only  trusted  teachers  silenced  in  her 
churches  and  schools,  and  her  Courts  of  Jus- 
tice degraded  or  overawed  into  the  instru- 
ments of  a  cowardly  oppression,  can  any  man 
doubt,  not  only  that  she  would  have  presented, 
at  this  day,  a  scene  of  even  greater  misery 
and  discord  than  Ireland  did  in  1800;  bnf 
that  the  corruptions  and  animosities  by  which 
she  had  been  desolated  would  have  been 
found  to  have  struck  so  deep  root  as  still  to 
encumber  the  land,  long  after  their  seed  had 
ceaseil  to  be  scatteretl  abroad  on  its  surface, 
and  only  to  hold  out  the  hope  of  their  eradi- 
cation, after  many  years  of  patient  and  painful 
exertion  ? 

Such,  however,  is  truly  the  condition  of  Ire- 
land ;  ^m\  such  are  the  grounds,  and  such  the 
aspect  of  our  hopes  for  her  regeneration.  So 
far  from  tracing  any  substantive  part  of  her 
miseries  to  the  Union  of  1800.  we  think  they 
are  to  be  ascribed  mainly  to  its  long  delay, 
and  its  ultimate  incompleteness.  It  is  not  by 
a  dissolution  of  the  Union  with  England  then, 
that  any  good  can  be  do!ie,  but  by  its  im- 
provement and  con,solidation.  Some  injury 
it  may  have  produced  to  the  shopkeepers  of 
Dublin,  and  sonu-  inconsiderable  increase  in 
the  number  of  the  absentees.  But  it  has  shut 
up  the  main  fountain  of  corruption  and  dis- 
honour; and  palsied  the  arm  and  broken  the 
heart  of  local  insolence  and  oppression.  It 
has  substituted,  at  least  potentially  and  in 
prospect,  the  wisdom  and  honour  of  the  British 
Government  and  the  British  people,  to  the 
passions  and  sordid  interests  of  a  junto  of 
Irish  borouiihmoiigers. — and  not  only  enabled, 
but  compelled,  all  parties  to  api)eal  directly 
to  the  2freat  tribunal  of  the  British  public. 
While  the  countries  remained  apart,  the  actual 
depositaries  of  power  were  almost  unavoida- 
bly relied  on  by  the  general  government  for 
information,  and  employed  as  the  delegates 
of  its  authority — and,  as  unavoidably,  abused 
the  trust,  and  misled  and  imposed"  on  their 
employers.  Having  come  into  power  at  the 
time  when  the  Catholic  party,  by  its  support 
of  the  House  of  Stuart,  had  excited  again.st  it 
ail  the  fears  and  antipathiet*  of  the  friends  of 


liberty,  they  felt  that  they  could  only  mai 
tain  themselves  in  possession  of  it,  by  kee 
ing  up  that  distrust  and  animosity,  after  ; 
causes  had  expired.  They  contrived,  ther 
fore,  by  false  representations  and  uiijn^t  law 
to  foster  those  prejudices,  which  woiikl  otb 
wise  have  graduall}-  disappeared— and,  u 
luckily,  succeeded  but  too  well.  As  th( 
own  comparative  numbers  and  natural  .co 
sequence  diminished,  they  clung  still  clos 
to  their  aitificial  holds  on  authority  :  and,  c 
asperated  by  feeling  their  dignity  menact 
and  their  monopolies  endangered  bylhegio' 
ing  wealth,  population,  and  intelligence  of  ti 
country  at  large,  they  redoubled  their  effdr 
by  clamour  and  activity,  intimidation  and  c! 
ceit,  to  preserve  the  unnatuial  advaiita;: 
they  had  accidentally  gained,  and  lo  ke. 
down  that  sprini>tide  of  general  rea.<on  ai 
substantial  power  wliich  they  felt  rising  a; 
swelling  all  around  them.  y 

Their  pretence  was,  that  they  were  i 
champions  of  the  Protestant  Ascendancy— a: 
that  whenever  that  was  endangereil,  the 
was  an  end  of  the  English  connection.  VVli, 
the  alliance  of  the  two  countries  was  inde' 
no  more  than  a  connect  ion,- ihe\e  might 
some  truth  in  the  assertion — or  at  least  it« 
easy  for  an  Irish  Parliament  to  make  it  app< 
to  be  true.  But  the  moment  they  came 
be  incorporated,  its  falsehood  and  absurdi 
should  at  once  have  become  appaieiit.  I' 
luckily,  however,  the  incorporation  was  not 
complete,  or  the  union  so  entire,  as  it  shot 
have  been.  There  still  was  need,  or  w 
thouaht  to  be  need,  of  a  provincial  mana; 
ment.  a  domestic  government  of  Ireland: 
and  the  old  wretched  parliamentary  mac 
nery.  though  broken  np  and  disabled  for 
original  work,  naturally  supplied  the  maleri: 
for  its  construction.  The  men  still  surviv 
who  had  long  been  the  exclusive  channels  ; 
communication  with  the  supreme  authorii; 
and  though  other  and  wider  channels  W( 
now  opened,  the  habit  of  employing  the  t' 
mer,  aided  by  the  eagen;ess  with  which  tli 
sought  for  continued  employment,  left  v 
them  an  undue  share  of  its  support.  Still  ni( 
unluckily,  the  ancient  practice  of  misgove 
ment  had  left  its  u.sual  traces  on  the  characl 
not  only  of  its  authors,  but  its  victims.  Hat 
ual  oppression  had  produced  habitual  disafi' 
tion  :  ami  a  long  course  of  wrong  and  c< 
tnmely.  had  ended  in  a  desperate  indigiiatii 
and  an  eager  thirst  for  revenge. 

The  natural  and  neces.«ary  consequen< 
of  the  Union  did  not,  therefore,  inimediali 
follow  its  enactment — ami  are  likely  indt 
to  be  longer  obstructed,  and  run  greater  h: 
ard  of  lieing  fatally  intercepted,  ihan  in  i 
case  of  Scotland.  Not  only  is  the  mul' 
exasperation  greater,  and  the  wounds  mi' 
deeply  rankled,  but  the  Union  itself  ism'; 
incomplete,  and  leaves  greater  room  for  co 
plaints  of  inequality  and  unfairness.  1 
numerical  strength,  too,  of  the  Irish  peopli 
far  greater,  and  their  causes  of  disconti 
more  uniform,  than  they  ever  were  in  Sf 
land  ;  and,  above  all,  the  temper  of  then 
is  inlinitelv  more  easer.  sanguine,  and  xd 


O'DRISCOLS  IRELAND. 


^513 


le;  of  consequences,  than  that  of  ttie  sober 
ar'  calculating  tribes  of  the  north.  The 
gr.test  and  most  urgent  hazard,  therefore,  is 
th  which  arises  from  their  frn patience ; — and 
th  unhappily  is  such,  that  unless  some  early 
m  sure  of  conciliation  is  adopted,  it  would 
noMiger  be  matter  of  surprise  to  anyone,  if, 
up  the  lirst  occasion  of  a  war  with  any  of 
th  great  powers  of  Europe,  or  America^  the 
grt  body  of  the  nation  should  rise  in  final 
an  implacable  hostility,  and  endeavour  to 
thu-  otf  all  connection  with,  or  dependence 
onlreat  Britain,  and  to  erect  itself  into  an 
in( pendent  state  ! 

3  us  it  certainly  appears  that  this  would 
be  most  desperate,  wild,  and  impracticable 
enrprise'.  But  it  is  not  upon  this  account 
thi  less  likely  to  be  attempted  by  such  a 
nam  as  the  Irish; — and  it  cannot  be  dis- 
senled  that  the  mere  attempt  would  almost 
unoidably  plunge  bo'th  countries  in  the  most 
fri.tful  and  interminable  ruin.  Though  the 
sejration  even  of  distant  and  mature  de- 
peencies  is  almost  always  attendeil  with 
terble  convulsions,  separation,  in  such  cir- 
cu>tances.  is  unquestionably  an  ultimate 
goi  ; — and  if  Ireland  were  a  mere  depend- 
eii'.  and  were  distant  enough  and  strong 
enigh  to  subsist  and  flourish  as  an  independ- 
eir.'ommunity,  we  might  console  ourselves, 
ev<  for  the  infinite  misery  of  the  struggle 
attding  on  the  separation,  by  the  prospect 
of  e  great  increase  of  happiness  that  might 
be  le  final  result.  But  it  is  impossible,  we 
thi:,  for  any  one  but  an  exasperated  and 
uti  inking  Irishman,  nut  to  see  and  feel  that 
thi  leither  is,  nor  ever  can  be,  the  condition 
of  Hand.  Peopled  by  the  same  race,  speak- 
inghe  same  language,  associated  in  the  same 
pu  jits,  bound  together  and  amalgamated  by 
coinual  intenn^rriages.  joint  adventures  in 
tra  .  and  every  sort  of  social  relation,  and, 
ab('e  all.  lying  within  sight  and  reach  of 
eac' other's  shore.s,  the}-  are  in  truth  as  inti- 
raaly  and  inseparably  connected  as  most 
of  \p  internal  provinces  of  each  are  with  one 
ancier;  and  we  might  as  well  expect  to 
seewo  independent  kingdoms  established  in 
friejly  neighbourhood;  in  Yorkshire  and  Lan- 
ca&re,  as  to  witness  a  similar  spectacle  on 
thewo  sides  of  the  Irish  Channel.  Two  such 
cou'ries.  if  of  equal  strength,  and  e.\a.sperated 
byevious  contentions,  never  could  maintain 
theelatioiis  of  peace  and  amity  witli  each 
oth.  as  separate  and  independent  slates; — 
butii/,<;?  either  mingle  into  one — or  desolate 
eac  other  in  fierce  and  exterminating  hos- 
tilit  till  one  sinks  in  lotal  exhaustion  at  the 
fee.if  the  bleedinc:  and  exhausted  victor.  In 
thectual  circumstances  of  the  two  countries, 
hoviver.  the  attempt  would  be  attended  with 
stil  nore  deplorable  consequences.  Ireland, 
wit  whom  alone  it  can  originate,  is  decidedly 
theveake.st,  in  wealth,  population,  and  all 
efff  ive  resources — and  probably  never  will  j 
ven.re  on  the  experiment  t;"?7/iOi/i/orcig«  as- 
sist cc.  But  it  must  be  at  once  apparent  how 
the  itroduction  of  this  unhallowed  element  ' 
dar  ns  all  the  horrors  of  the  prospect.  We  j 
''■''••:■  from  making  light  of  the  advantages  I 


it  might  give  in  the  outset.  By  the  help  of  a 
French  army  and  an  American 'fleet,  we  think 
it  by  no  means  improbable  that  the  separa- 
tion might  be  accomplished.  The  English 
armies  might  be  defeated  or  driven  from  its 
shores — English  capitalists  might  be  butcher- 
ed— the  English  religion  extirpated — and  an 
Irish  Catholic  republic  installed  with  due  cere- 
mony in  Dublin^  an<l  adopted  with  acclama- 
tion in  most  oi  the  provinces  of  the  land. 
Under  the  protection  of  their  foreign  deliver- 
ers this  state  of  triumph  might  even  be  for 
some  time  maintained.  But  how  long  would 
this  last  ?  or  howean  it  be  imagined  that  it 
would  end  ?  Would  the  foreign  allies  remain 
for  ever,  on  their  own  charges,  and  without  in- 
terfering with  the  independence  or  the  policy 
of  the  new  state  which  they  luul  thus  been 
the  means  of  creating  ?  If  they  did,  it  would, 
after  all,  be  but  a  vassal  republic — a  depend- 
ency on  a  more  distant  and  still  more  impe- 
rious master — an  outlying  province  of  France 
— a  military  station  from  which  to  watch  and 
to  harass  England,  am!  on  which  the  first 
burst  of  her  hostilities  must  always  Le  broken 
— and  exposed,  of  couise,  in  the  mean  time, 
to  all  th'^'  license,  the  insolence,  the  rigour, 
of  a  mil.tary  occupancy  by  a  foreign  ana 
alien  soldiei^y. 

But  this,  it  is  plain,  could  never  be  more 
than  a  temporary  measure.  The  defenders 
and  keepers  of  the  Hibernian  republic  would, 
in  no  long  time,  make  peace  with  England, 
and  quarrel,  both  with  their  new  subjects,  and 
with  each  other — and  then  would  come  the 
renovated,  the  embittered,  the  unequal  strug- 
gle with  that  exasperated  power.  Weakened 
as  England  might  be  by  the  separation,  it 
would  be  absurd  to  suppose  that  she  would 
not  still  be  a  tremendous  overmatch  for  Ire- 
land, single-handed ; — or  that  this  new  state, 
wasted  and  exhausted  by  the  war  of  her  inde- 
peiidence.  could  supply  the  means  of  making 
and  equipping  a  fleet,  or  appointing  an  army, 
such  as  would  be  require*!  to  make  head 
against  this  formidable  anta^ronist.  Though 
the  numerical  majority  of  her  people,  too, 
might  be  zealous  for  maintaining  her  inde- 
pendence, it  is  obvious  that  England  would 
still  have  in  her  bosom  a  body  of  most  for- 
midable allies.  The  most  intelligent,  the  most 
wealthy,  the  most  jjolitic  and  .sagacious  of  her 
inhabitants,  are  at  this  moment  in  the  English 
interest; — and.  however  sweeping  and  bloody 
the  proscription  by  which  they  might  have 
been  overthrown,  multitudes  woukl  still  re- 
main, with  means  and  influence  suflicient  to 
render  their  co-operatian  most  periloi^s,  in  a 
contest  for  its  restoration.  Even  if  left  to  her 
own  resources,  we  have  little  doubt  that  the 
country  would  soon  be  a  prey  to  civil  wars, 
plots,  and  insurrections,  whicli  the  want  of 
skill  and  experience  in  the  new  rulers,  as  well 
as  the  state  of  their  finances,  would  aggravate 
into  universal  disorder.  It  is  no  ».'iisy  thing 
to  settle  a  new  government  amicably,  even 
where  there  is  no'foreign  interference:— and, 
in  Ireland,  from  the  teniper  of  the  people, 
and  the  circumstances  which  would  leave  less 
than  an  ordinary  proportion  of  men  of  rank, 
3B 


614 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


education,  and  personal  authority  in  the  bands 
of  the  successful  party,  the  difficulty  would 
probably  be  insurmountable.  It  is  impossible, 
however,  not  to  suppose  that  England  would 
eagerly  avail  herself  of  those  dissensions,  both 
by  intrigue,  corruption,  and  force  :  and  equally 
unpossible  to  doubt  that  she  would  succeed, 
if  not  in  regaining  her  supremacy,  at  least  in 
embroiling  the  unhappy  country  which  was 
the  subject  of  it.  in  the  most  miserable  and 
interminable  disorders. 

The  sum  of  the  matter  then  is,  that  there 
could  be  MO  peace,  and.  consequently,  no  pros- 
perity or  happiness  for  Ireland,  as  a  separate 
and  independent  neighbour  to  England.  Two 
such  countries,  after  all  that  has  passed  be- 
tween them,  could  no  more  live  in  quiet  and 
comfort  beside  each  other,  than  a  wife  who 
had  deserted  her  husband's  house  could  live 
again  iii  his  society  and  that  of  his  family,  as 
a  friend  or  visitor — having  her  expenses  sup- 
plied, and  her  solitude  enlivened,  by  the  fre- 
quent visits  of  professing  admirers  :  Nor  can 
any  lesson  of  prudence  be  addressed  to  the 
fiery  and  impatient  spirits  who  may  now 
meditate  in  Ireland  the  casting  off  of  their 
ties  with  the  sister  island,  more  precisely  ap- 
plicable to  their  prospects  and  condition,  than 
the  warnings  which  a  friendly  adviser  would 
address  to  an  exasperated  matron,  whose  do- 
mestic grievances  had  led  her  to  contemplate 
such  a  fatal  step.  And  can  any  one  doubt 
that  the  counsel  which  any  faithful  and  even 
partial  friend  would  give  her,  must  be,  to  bear 
much  from  her  husband,  rather  than  venture 
on  so  de.sperate  a  remedy ;  to  turn  her  thoughts 
ratber  to  conciliation  than  recrimination  or  re- 
venge ;  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible  all  causes 
of  reasonable  or  unreasonable  offence — and, 
above  all,  firmly  and  temperately  to  assert 
the  interests  secured  by  the  provisions  of  her 
marriage  articles,  and  to  stimulate  and  insist 
on  the  resolute  interference  of  the  trustees 
appointed  to  enforce  them. 

Such  are  the  warnings  which  we  would  ad- 
dress to  the  offended  and  exasperated  party, 
in  whose  vindictive  and  rash  proceedings  the 
catastrophe  we  have  been  contemplating  must 
originate.  But  though  we  certainly  think  they 
must  appear  convincing  to  any  calm  specta- 
tor, it  is  not  the  less  probable  that  they  would 
be  of  little  avail  with  the  inflamed  and  ex- 
cited parly,  unless  they  were  'seconded  by 
conciliatory  and  gentle  measures  on  ihe  part 
of  the  supposed  offender.  Nor  are  there 
wanting  motives  sufficiently  urgent  and  im- 
perious to  make  such  measures,  in  all  sound 
reason,  indispensable.  In  the  event  of  a  war 
for  independence,  Ireland  would  probably  be 
the  scene  of  the  greatest  carniige,  havoc,  and 
devastation — and,  in  the  end,  we  think  her 
lot  would  be  by  far  the  most  dpplorable.  But 
to  Englaml  also,  it  is  obvious  that  such  a  con- 
test would  be  the  source  of  unspeakable  ca- 
lamity:  and  the  signal,  indeed,  of  her  perma- 
nent weakness,  insecurity,  and  degradation. 
That  shf?  is  bound,  therefore,  for  her  own  sake 
to  avert  it.  by  every  possible  precaution  and 
every  possible  sacrifice,  no  one  will  be  hardy 
enough  to  deny — far  less  that  she  is  bound, 


in  the  first  instance,  to  diminish  the  trein- 
dous  hazard,  by  simply  ••doing  Justice  \i 
showing  Mercy"  to  those  whom  it  is,  inU 
other  respects,  her  interest,  as  well  as  er 
duty,  to  cherish  and  protect. 

One  thing  we  take  to  be  evident,  and  1$ 
the  substance  of  all  that  can  be  said  oi  le 
subject,  that  things  are  fast  verging  to  a  c  a 
and  cannot,  in  all  probability,  remain  loi;ig 
they  are.  The  Union,  in  short,  must  e  er 
be  made  equal  and  complete  on  the  pai  )f 
England — or  it  will  be  broken  in  pieces  id 
thrown  in  her  face  by  Ireland.  That  coi;:y 
must  either  be  delivered  from  the  dorain:  m 
of  an  Orange  faction,  or  we  must  ex-pe(  in 
spite  of  all  our  warnings  and  remonslrai  » 
to  see  her  seek  her  own  deliverance  b^e 
fatal  and  bloody  career  to  which  we  ,-e 
already  alluded — and  from  which  we  hi  i' 
to  be  the  height  of  guilt  and  of  folly  to 
tate  about  witldiolding  her,  by  the  saci  x 
of  that  miserable  faction. 

Little,  however,  as  we  rely,  without  -h 
co-operation,  on  the  effect  of  our  warn  >, 
we  cannot  end  without  again  lifting  our  fe;le 
voice  to  repeat  them — without  conjuriiu  le 
lovers  of  Ireland  to  consider  how  hopiss 
and  how  wretched  any  scheme  of  a  pe  'i- 
nent  separation  from  England  must  nect!a- 
rily  be,  and  how  certainly  their  condition  i  st 
be  ameliorated  by  the  course  of  events -le 
gradual  extinction  of  the  generation  in  w  m 
the  last  life-use  of  antiquated  oppressio  is 
now  centered,  and  the  spread  of  those  -.'.d 
and  liberal  sentiments,  to  which  nothing  in 
so  much  contribute  as  a  spirit  of  moden  m 
and  patience  in  those  who  have  so  long  f- 
fered  from  the  want  of  them.  By  the  Vi  n, 
such  as  it  is.  we  think  the  axe  has  been  .id 
to  the  root  of  the  old  system  of  oppre^itn 
and  misgovernment  in  Ireland — and  th( ;h 
its  branches  may  still  look  green,  and  11 
afford  shelter  to  the  unclean  birds  who  Vfl 
bred  and  have  so  long  m  stled  in  their  co  1, 
the  sap  ascends  in  them  no  longer,  ami  le 
whole  v/dl  soon  cease  to  cumber  the  gro  ' 
or  obslnict  the  sisht  of  the  sky.  In  ; 
circumstances,  the  only  wise  and  safe  o  ■ 
is  to  watch,  and  gently  to  assist  the  proi-s 
of  their  natural  decay.  If,  in  some  fit  ot  i- 
patience,  the  brands  are  thrown  into  the  ri  '- 
dering  mass,  and  an  attempt  made  to  sui 
the  land  at  once  to  the  fatal  Purgation  ot 
the  risk  is.  not  only  that  the  authors  will  r- 
ish  in  the  conflagration,  but  that  another -id 
a  ranker  crop  of  abominations  will  sprin;?  tn 
its  ashes,  to  poison  the  dwellings  of  man;  i 
ture  generations. 

We  may  seem  to  have  forgotten  Mr.  0"  ^ 
col  in  these   general  observations:   aiul 
they  are  not  so  foreign  to  his  merits?,  as 
may  at  first  sight  appear.     His  book  cert, 
does  not  supplv  the  dcsiderattim  of  whiil 
spoke  at  the  outset,  and  will  not  pass  U>  - 
terity  as  a  complete  or  satisl'actory  Histor '• 
Treliiml.     But  it  is  written  sit  lea'st  in  a  ;i|a 
spirit :  and  we  do  not  know  that  we  c  I'' 
better  describe  its  general  scope  and  tend*' ^ 
than  by  saying,  that  they  coincide  almo.- 
tirelv  with  the  sentiments  we  have  just 


O'DRISCOLS  IRELAND. 


615 


eiressinj?.  The  author,  we  have  recently 
uierstoocl,  is  a  Catholic:  But  we  had  really 
rdl  through  his  work  without  di5coveriii<i-  it, 
-jnd  can  testify  that  he  not  only  gives  that 
dSy  their  full  share  of  blame  izi  all  the  traiis- 
alous  which  deserve  it,  but  speaks  of  the 
btettiug  sins  of  their  system,  with  a  freedom 
ail  seventy  which  no  Protestant,  not  abso- 
lij-lv  Oran^^e.  could  easily  improve  on.  We 
niided  no  extrinsical  lights,  indeed,  to  discover 
tlif  he  was  an  Irishman, — for.  independent 
olhe  pretty  distinct  intimation  conveyed  in 
hiiuame.  we  speedily  discovered  a  spirit  of 
ntonality  about  him.  that  could  leave  no 
debt  on  the  subject.  It  is  the  only  kind  of 
pjjialilV;  however,  which  we  can  detect  in 
ttii  performance ;  and  it  really  detnicts  less 
fr|\  his  credit  than   might  be  imagined. — 

f)flv  because  it  is  so  little  disi;ui.-*ed  as  to 
e.  to  no  misconceptions,  and  chiefly  because 
it  I  mostly  confined  to  those  parts  of  the  story 
injhich  it  can  do  little  harm.  It  breaks  out 
mit  conspicuously  in  the  earlier  and  most 
pri)lematical  portion  of  the  narrative ;  as  to 
\T|ch  truth  is  now  most  difficult  to  be  come 
atlnd  of  least  value  when  ascertained.  He 
is  ear,  for  e.vample,  that  the  Irish  were,  for 
nif.y  centuries  before  the  conquest  of  Henry 
II 1  very  polished,  learned,  and  magnificent 
pole — that  they  had  colleges  at  I.ismore 
an  Armagh,  where  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  tudious  youth  imbibed  all  the  learning  of 
th  times — that  they  worked  beautifully  in 
a;o  and  silver,  and  manufactured  exquisite 
faics  both  in  flax  and  wool — and,  finally, 
th  the  country  was  not  only  more  prosperous 
an  civilised,  but  greatly  more  populous,  in 
ihe  early  ages,  than  iu  any  succeeding  time, 
'e  have  no  wish  to  enter  into  an  idle  anti- 
quian  controversy — but  we  must  say  that  no 
60  r  Saxon  can  adopt  these  legends  without 
vei  large  allowances.  It  is  indubitable  that 
th|rish,  or  some  of  them,  did  very  anciently 
fa|icate  linen,  and  probably  also  some  orna- 
milts  of  gold  ;  and  it  would  appear.  tVom  cef- 
tai^ecclesiactical  writers  of  no  great  credit, 
lh;|  they  had  among  them  large  seminaries 
for|iriests, — a  body  possessing,  in  those  ages, 
nolery  extraordinary  l<^arning,  even  in  more 
fa'iured  localities.  But  it  is  at  least  equally 
ceiin.  that  they  were  entirely  a  Pastoral 
pede,  unacquainted  with  agriculture,  hold- 
imheir  herds  as  the  common  property  of  the 
cb,  dwelling  in  nide  huts  or  wigwams,  for 
.thmost  part  deplorably  ignorant,  and,  in  spite 
of  eir  priest.s,  generally  practising  polyeramy 
an  other  savage  vices.  But  what  chiefly 
de  .)nstrate.s  the  bias  under  which  our  author 
coiiders  those  early  times,  is  his  firm  belief 
in  lie  great  populousne.ss  of  ancient  Ireland, 
aniJhe  undoubtinir  confidence  with  which  he 
rejts  all  the  English  accounts  of  their  bar- 
ba[m,  even  in  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and 
El^beth.  But  a  pastoral  country  never  can  be 
pojlous — and  one  overrun  with  unreclaim- 
ed jj^rs  and  unbroken  forests,  still  less  than 
an;pth;r.  More  than  two  thinlsof  the  present 
po;ilation  of  Ireland  undoubtedly  owe  their 
ex(|ence  to  the  potato;  and  men  alive  can 
8ti,;p(iint  out  large  districts,  now  producing 


the  food  of  more  than  a  million  of  new  iiduib- 
itants,  which  they  remember  in  their  primitive 
state  of  sterile  and  lonely  mora.-^es.  Without 
j)otatoes.  without  corn,  turnips,  or  cultivated 
gra.'sses — wilh  few  sluep,  and  with  nothing, 
in  short,  but  roving  herds  of  black  cattle,  if^ 
Ireland  had  a  full  million  of  inhabitants  in  the 
tenth  or  twelfth  century,  she  had  agrealdeal  • 
and  in  s]iile  of  her  theological  colleges,  and 
her  tradilionaiy  churches,  we  ilonbt  whether 
she  had  as  many.*  lUit  whatever  may  have 
been  the  nunibi'ror  condition  of  herpeoj)k'  in 
lho.se  remote  ages,  of  which  we  have  no  sta- 
tistical memorial  and  no  authentic  account,  it 
is  a  little  bold  in  j\lr.  O'Driscol  to  persuade 
us,  that  ill  the  time  of  Elizabeth  they  were 
by  no  means  an  uncultivated  or  barbarous 
people.  To  the  tesiimonv  aflbrded  by  all  the 
official  documents,  and  the  full  and  gra])hic 
accounts  of  Spenser,  Davis,  and  the  writers 
refern>d  to  by  Camden,  long  resident  in  the 
country,  and  eye-witnesses  of  all  they  de- 
scribe, we  really  do  not  know  what  Mr. 
O'Driscol  has  to  oppose,  but  his  own  patriotic 
prejudices,  and  his  deep-rooted  conviction, 
that  no  English  testimony  is  to  be  trusted  on 
such  a  subject.  We  must  be  forgiven  for  not 
sharing  in  his  generous  incredulity. 

As  to  the  more  modern  parts  of  the  history, 
thouiih  he  never  fails  to  manifest  an  amiable 
anxiety  to  apologise  for  Irish  excesses,  and  to 
do  justice  to  Irish  bravery  and  kindne.^s,  we 
really  are  not  aware  that  this  propensity  has 
led  him  into  any  misrepresentation  of  facts; 
and  are  happy  to  find  that  it  never  points,  in 
the  remotest  degree,  to  any  thing  so  absurd 
as  either  a  separation  from  England,  or  a  vin- 
dictive wish  for  her  distress  or  humiliation, 
lie  is  too  wise,  indeed,  not  to  be  aware  oi  that 
important  truth,  which  so  few  of  his  zealous 
countrymen  seem,  however,  able  to  compre- 
hend— that  there  are  no  longer  any  of  those 
injured  Irish  in  existence,  upon  whom  the 
Enulish  executed  such  flagrant  oppressions 
two  hundred  years  ago  !  and  that  nine  tenths 
of  the  intelligent  Irish,  who  now  burn  with 
desire  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  their  prede- 
cessors, are  truly  as  much  akin  to  those  who 
did.  as  to  those  who  sufl'ered,  the  injury.  We 
doubt  whether  even  the  O'Driscols  have  not, 
by  this  time,  nearly  as  much  English  as  Irish 
biood  in  their  veins;  and  are  quite  sure,  that 
if  the  lands  pillaged  from  their  original  Celtic 
owners,  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  Crom- 
well, were  to  be?  given  back  to  tlie  true  lieirs, 
scarcely  one  of  those  who  now  reprobate  the 
spoliation  in  good  Engli.sh,  would  profit  by  the 
restit\ition.  The  living  Irishmen  of  the  pres- 
ent day  may  have  wrongs  to  complain  of,  and 
injuries  to  redress,  on  the  part  of  the  Enirli.'^h 
Goveinment :  But  it  is  absurd  to  imagine  that 
they  are  entitled  to  resent  the  w  rongs  and  in- 


*  iCwe  remcmher  rightly,  the  forces  nclually  en- 

2;ii:<d  in  till'  coiKjuest  or  dtl'eiice  ol  Jrelond  in  the 
liiiu!  of  Ilinry  llie  ."^ccond  wtrt-  inoM  insit'iiifKaiil 
in  poiiii  of  ininibors.  I.efSiImn  a  liiiiulred  iiun-ai- 
arnis  eapily  took  pospossinn  of  n  wiiolc  disinci  ;  iind 
even  after  the  invadfd  had  iim<!  lo  prr|iiir(!  for  re- 
sistance, Hii  army  of  three  or.  huir  hiindnd  was 
found  quiiu  sufliciunt  lo  bear  down  all  oppowiiun. 


<516 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


juries  of  those  who  suffered  in  the  same  place 
centuries  ago.  They  are  n»ost  of  them  half 
English;  by  blood  and  lineage — and  much 
more  than  half  English,  in  .speech;  iraining, 
character,  and  habits.  If  they  are  to  punish 
the  descenilants  of  the  individual  English  who 
usurped  Irish  possessions,  and  displaced  true 
Irish  possessors,  in  former  days,  they  must 
punish  themselves; — for  undoubtedly  they 
are  far  more  nearly  connected   with  those 


spoilers  than  any  of  the  hated  English.  \  -. 

[  ancestors  never  adventured  lo  the  neigh  ;.,. 
ing  island.  Mr.  O'DriscoKs  paniahty  liiJie 
ancient  Irish,  therefore,  is  truly  a  mere  eu- 
iiaritj'  of  taste  or  feeling — or  at  best  b  *n 
historical  predilection ;  and  in  reality  h  no 
influence,  as  it  ought  to  have  none,  o  his 
views  as  to  what  constitutes  the  actual  i  ,\. 
ances,  or  is  likely  to  work  the  deliveran.  , 

I  the  existing  generation. 


(Pccnnbev,  18215.) 


Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.    By  Thomas  Mi  ,r 
Fourth  Edition.    2  vols.  8vo.     London :  Longman  and  Co.    1826.* 


We  have  frequently  had  occasion  to  speak 
of  the  dangers  to  which  the  conflict  of  two 
extreme  parties  must  always  expose  the  peace 
and  the  liberties  of  such  a  country  as  England, 
and  of  the  hostility  with  which  both  are  apt 
to  regard  those  who  still  continue  to  stand 
neutral  between  them.  The  charges  against 
this  middle  party — which  we  take  to  be  now 
represented  by  the  old  constitutional  Whigs 
of  1688 — used  formerly  to  be  much  the  same, 
though  somewhat  mitigated  in  tone,  with 
those  which  each  was  in  the  habit  of  address- 
ing to  their  adversaries  in  the  opposite  ex- 
treme. When  the  high  Tories  wanted  to 
abuse  the  Whigs,  they  said  they  were  nearly 
as  bad  as  the  Radicals:  and  when  these  wished 
in  their  turn  to  lessen  the  credit  of  the  same 
unfortunate  party,  the  established  form  of  re- 
proach was,  that  they  were  little  better  than 
the  Tories !  Of  late  years,  however,  a  change 
seems  to  have  come  over  the  spirit,  or  the 
practical  tactics  at  least,  of  these  gallant  bel- 
ligerents. They  have  now  discovered  that 
there  are  vices  and  incapacities  peculiar  to 
the  WhigS;  and  inseparable  indeed  from  their 
middle  position  :  and  that  before  settling  their 
fundamental  differences  with  each  other,  it  is 
most  wise  and  fitting  that  they  should  unite 
to  bear  down  this  common  enemy,  by  making 
good  against  them  these  heavy  imputations. 
It  has  now  become  necessary,  therefore,  for 
those  against  whom  they  are  directed,  to  in- 
quire a  little  into  the  nature  and  proofs  of 
these  alleged  enormities;' the  horror  of  w^ich 
has  thus  .suspended  the  conflict  of  old  heredi- 
tary enemies,  and  led  them  to  proclaim  a 
truce,  till  the  field,  by  their  joint  efforts,  can 
be  cleared  for  fair  hostilities,  by  the  destruc- 
tion of  these  hated  intruders. 

Now,  the'  topics  of  reproach  which  these 
two  opposite  partiys  have  recently  joined  in 
directing  against  those  who  would  mediate 


*  What  is  liere  given  forms  hm  a  SMiall  part  of 
the  article  oriffiiially  published  under  ihi.s  lirl-,  in 
)82fi.  Rut  ii  exhibiia  neniiy  the  nlinic  of  ihe  Gen- 
eral Politics  contained  in  that  article  :  and  havinff 
been,  as  I  believe,  among  the  last  political  disciis- 
pions,  I  contribuifrd  to  the  Review,  I  have  been 
templed  to  close,  with  it,  this  most  anxious  and 
perilous  division  of  the  present  publication. 


between  them,  seem  to  be  chiefly  tw  _ 
First,  that  their  doctrines  are  timid,^  vatvit. 
ing,  compromising,  and  inconsistent;  4d, 
secondly,  that  the  party  which  holds  tht  is 
small,  weak;  despised,  and  unpopular.  T|8e 
are  the  favourite  texts,  we  think,  of  lite 
whose  vocation  it  has  lately  become  to  prch 
against  us,  from  the  pulpits  at  once  of  ser'Hy 
and  of  democratical  reform.  But  it  is  n<.-i- 
sary  to  open  them  up  a  little  farther,  b  re 
we  enter  on  our  defence. 

The  first  charge  then  is.  That  the  Wgi 
are  essentially  an  inetiicient,  trimming,  !lf. 
way  sort  of  party — too  captions,  penut'i.s, 
and  disrespectful  to  authority,  to  be  ui'ul 
servants  in  a  Monarchy,  and  too  arislocra  ;iJ, 
cautious,  and  tenacious  of  old  iiistitutioi  ;io 
deserve  the  confidence,  or  excite  the  s).'a- 
thies,  of  a  generous  and  enlightened  Pe  |'e. 
Their  advocates, .  accordingly — and  we  iir- 
selves  in  an  an  especial  maimer — are  acot-d 
of  dealing  in  contradictory  and  equivoc;.'ig 
doctrines;  of  practising  a  continual  see'.w 
of  admissions  and  retractations;  of  saying  iw 
a  word  for  the  people — now  one  for  the  s- 
tocracy — now  one  for  the  Crown ;  of  paral'  up 
all  our  liberal  propositions  by  some  timid  w 
paltry  reservation,  and  never  being  boln.nl 
into  a  truly  popular  sentiment  withou  in- 
stantly chilling  and  neutralising  it  by  ;  le 
cold  warning  against  excess,  some  cau  us 
saving  of  the  privileges  of  rank  and  estal.h- 
ment.  And  so  far  has  this  system  of  iiic  '«• 
tion  been  lately  carried,  that"  a  liberal  Joii'il, 
of  great  and  increasing  celebrity,  has  act  .l) 
done  us  the  honour,  quarter  after  qnartt  of 
quoting  long  passages  from  our  humble  p: '», 
in  evidence  of  this  sad  infirmity  in  our  i  ty 
and  principles.'  i 

Now.  while  we  reject  of  course  the  epi  'lii 
which  are  here  applied  to  us,  we  adn:  ,at 
once,  the  facts  on  which  our  adversaries  o- 
fess  to  justify  them.  We  acknowledg.*;.!! 
we  are  fairly  chargeable  with  a  fear  of  co- 
site  excesses — a  desire  to  compromise  id 
reconcile  the  claimsof  all  the  great  partiiin 
the  State— an  anxiety  to  temper  and  qu  Iv 
whatever  may  be  said  in  favour  of  one,  th 
a  steady  reservation  of  whatever  may  be  jily 
due  to  the  rest.     To  this  sort  of  irimmin  » 


MOOKE'S  LIFE  OF  SMKKIOAN. 


6J7 


/W  inconsistency,  to  this  timidity,  we  dis- 
tiijlv  plead  guilty.  We  plead  guilty  to  a 
"to  the  British  Coiistituliou — and  to  all 
every  one  of  its  braiK-hos.  We  are  for 
,  Lords,  and  Commons;  and  though  not 
Lips  exactly  in  that  order,  we  are  prond 
ave  it  s;ud  "tliat  we  have  a  wonl  for  each 
s  tuni ;  and  that,  in  asserting  the  rights 
would  not  willingly  forget  tho; 


ofhe  others.  Our  jealousy,  we  confess,  is 
test  of  those  who  have  the  readiest  means 
of  ersuasion  :  and  theretbre,  we  are  generally 
fa  more  afraid  of  the  encroachments  of 
artrary  power,  under  cover  of  its  patron- 
as  and  the  general  love  of  peace,  security, 
ai:  distinction,  which  attract  so  strongly  to 
th,  region  of  the  Court,  than  of  the  usurpa- 
ti(i5  of  popular  violence.  But  we  are  for  au- 
thitV;  as  well  as  for  freedom.  We  are  for 
thhatural  and  wholesome  influence  of  wealth 
aii  rank,  ami  the  veneration  which  belongs 
to(ld  institutions,  without  which  no  govern- 
Tvi\X  has  ever  had  either  stability  or  respect ; 
as|"ell  as  for  that  vigilance  of  pojndar  control, 
ail  that  supremacy  of  public  opinion,  without 
wich  none  could  be  Ions  protected  from 
atse.  We  know  that,  when  pushed,  to  their 
ufoiate  e.xtremes,  those  principles  may  be 
sdt  to  be  in  contradiction.  But  the  e.scaj)e 
fna  inconsistency  is  securetl  by  the  very  ob- 
vi^is  precaution  of  stopping  short  of  such  ex- 
tntips.  It  was  to  prevent  this,  in  fact,  that 
tlj  English  constitution,  and  indeed  all  good 
piernment  everywhere,  was  established. 
B'ry  thinri;  that  we  know  that  is  valuable  in 
tl  ordinances  of  men,  or  admirable  in  the 
akngementsof  Providence,  seems  to  depend 
oift  compromise,  a  balance ;  or,  if  the  e.xpres- 
s|i  is  thought  better,  on  a  conflict  and  strug- 
gj  of  opjX)site  and  irreconcileable  principles. 
Vjlue — society — life  itself,  and,  in  so  far  as 
wjcan  see,  the  grand  movements  and  whole 
ojer  of  the  universe,  are  maintained  only  by 
8  h  a  balance  or  contention. 
These,  we  are  afraid,  will  appear  but  idle 

$>ins,  and  shallow  pretexts  for  foolish  self- 
mendation.  No  one,  it  will  be  said,  is 
ffjany  thing  but  the  British  con.stitution';  and 
nUdy  denies  that  it  depends  on  a  balance 
orapposite  principles.  The  only  question  is, 
wther  that  balance  is  now  rightly  adjusted , 
all  whether  the  Whigs-  are  in  the  proper 
cjitral  position  for  correcting  its  obliquities. 
^i\v,  if  the  attacks  to  which  we  are  alluding 
hrl  been  reducible  to  such  a  principle  as  this, 
-f  we  had  been  merely  accused,  by  our 
tthren  of  the  Westminster,  for  not  going  far 
epugh  on  the  popular  side,  and  by  our  brelh- 
rji  of  the  Quarterly,  for  going  too  far, — we 
sbnld  have  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  be- 
jjiil  what  is  inseparable  from  all  party  con- 
thtions;  and  must  have  done  our  best  to  an- 
aer  those  opposite  charges,  on  their  separate 
8.1  specific  merits, — taking  advantage,  of 
clirse,  as  against  each,  of  the  authority  of  the 
(ii"r,  a.s  a  proof,  «  fortiori,  of  the  saffty  of 
<[r  own  intermediate  position.  But  the  ne- 
ciliarity  of  our  present  case,  and  the  hard.«nip 
'iiich  alone  induces  us  to  complain  of  it  is, 
tilt  this  is  not  the  course  that  has  been  lately 
i  78 


followed  with  regard  to  us, — that  our  adver- 
saries have  etlected,  or  rather  pretended,  an 
unnatural  union  ai;ainst  us.— and,  doerting 
not  only  the  old,  rules  of  jailitical  hostility, 
but,  as  it  iiunibly  appears  to  us,  their  own 
fundanuMiial  piiiicipies.  liave  combineil  to  at- 
tack us,  on  the  mw  and  distinct  ground  of 
our  moderation, — not  because  we  are  opposed 
to  their  extreme  doctrines  respectively,  but 
because  we  are  not  cr/rrnif/i/oppost'd  to  thcni  ! 
— and,  affecting  a  generous  indulgence  ami 
respect  for  those  who  arc  diametrically  against 
them,  seem  actually  to  have  agrei  tl  to  join 
forces  with  them,  to  run  down  tho.^e  wlio  stand 
peacefully  betwei-n,  and  would  gladly  eflcct 
their  reconcilement.  We  niidcrslaiu!  very 
well  the  feelings  which  lead  to  such  a  course 
of  procei'ding;  but  we  are  not  the  hss  con- 
vinced of  their  injustice, — anil,  in  spite  of  all 
that  may  be  said  of  neutmls  in  civil  war,  or 
interlopers  in  matrimonial  qnarreL<,  we  still 
believe  that  the  Peacemakers  are  Blessed, — 
and  that  they  who  seek  conscientiously  to 
modeiale  the  idetensioiis  of  contending  fac- 
tions, are  more  likely  to  be  right  than  either 
of  their  opponents. 

The  natural,  and,  in  our  humble  judgment, 
the  very  important  function  of  a  middle  party 
is.  not  only  to  be  a  check,  but  a  bulwark  to 
both  those  that  are  more  decidedly  opposed: 
and  though  liable  not  to  be  very  Avell  looked 
on  by  either,  it  should  only  be  very  obnoxious, 
we  should  think,  to  the  stronger,  or  those  who 
are  disposed  to  act  on  the  oflensive.  To  them 
it  naturally  enough  presents  the  appearance 
of  an  advanced  post,  that  must  be  carried  be- 
fore the  main  battle  can  be  joined. — and  for 
the  assault  of  which  they  have  neither  the 
same  weapons,  the  same  advantages  of  posi- 
tion, nor  the  same  motives  of  action.  To  the 
weaker  party,  however,  or  those  w  ho  stand 
on  their  defence,  it  must,  or  at  least  should, 
always  be  felt  to  be  a  protection, — though  re- 
ceived probably  with  grudgiiiijf  am!  ill  grace, 
as  a  sort  of  half-faced  fellowship,  yielded 
with  no  cordiality,  and  ready  enouL:n  to  be 
withdrawn  if  separate  terms  can  be  made 
with  the  adversary.  With  this  scheme  of 
tactics  we  have  long  been  familiar;  and  for 
those  feelings  we  were  prepared.  But  it  is 
rather  too  much,  we  think,  when  those  who 
are  irrcconcileably  hostile,  ami  whose  only 
(juarrel  with  us  is,  that  we  go  half  the  length 
of  their  hated  opponents. — have  the  face  to 
pretend  that  we  are  more  justly  hateful  to 
them,  than  those  who  go  the  whole  length, — 
that  they  have  really  no  particular  (|uarrel 
with  those  who  are  beyond  us,  an<l  that  we, 
in  fact,  and  our  unhappy  mid-way  position, 
are  the  only  obstacles  to  a  cordial  union  of 
those  whom  it  is,  in  truth,  our  main  object  to 
reconcile  and  unite  ! 

Nothing,  we  take  it.  can  be  so  plain  as  that 
this  is  a  hollow,  and.  in  trnlh.  very  flimsy 
pretext :  and  that  the  real  reason  of  the  ani- 
mosity with  which  we  are  honoured  by  the 
more  eager  individuals  in  both  ihf  extreme 
parties  is,  that  we  alTord  a  covering  and  a 
shelter  to  each — impede  the  assault  they  are 
hnpatient  mutuajly  to  make  on  each  other, 
3b2 


61S 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


and  take  away  from  them  the  means  of  that 
direct  onset,  by  which  the  sanguine  in  both 
hosts  imagine  they  might  at  once  achieve  a 
decisive  victor}-.  If  there  were  indeed  no 
belligerents,  it  is  plain  enough  that  there  could 
be  no  neutrals  and  no  mediators.  If  there 
was  no  natural  war  between  Democracy  and 
Monarchy,  no  true  ground  of  discord  between 
Tories  and  Radical  Reformers — we  admit 
there  would  be  no  vocation  for  Whigs  :  for  the 
true  definition  of  that  party,  as  matters  now 
stand  in  England,  is,  that  it  is  a  middle  party, 
between  the  iwo  extromesof  high  monarchical 
principles  on  the  one  hand,  and  extremely 
popular  principles  on  the  other.  It  holds  no 
peculiar  opinions,  that  we  are  aware  of,  on  any 
other  points  of  policy. — and  no  man  of  com- 
mon sense  can  doubt,  and  no  man  of  common 
candour  deiiy.  that  it  differs  from  each  of  the 
other  parties  on  the  very  grounds  on  which 
they  differ  from  each  other. — the  only  distinc- 
tion being  that  it  does  not  differ  so  widely. 

Can  any  thing  be  so  preposterous  as  a  pre- 
tended truce  between  two  belligerents,  in 
order  that  they  may  fall  jointly  upon  those 
who  are  substantially  neutral  ? — a  dallying 
and  coquetting  with  mortal  enemies,  for  the 
purpose  of  gaining  a  supposed  advantage  over 
those  who  are  to  a  great  extent  friends?  Yet 
this  is  the  course  that  has  recently  been  fol- 
lowed, and  seems  still  to  be  pursued.  It  is 
now  some  time  since  the  thorough  Reformers 
began  to  make  awkward  love  to  the  Royalists, 
by  pretending  to  bewail  ihe  obscuration  which 
the  Throne  had  suffered  from  the  usurpations 
of  Parliamentary  influence, — the  curtailment 
of  the  Prerogative  by  a  junto  of  ignoble  bo- 
roughmongers,  —  and  the  thraldom  in  which 
the  Sovereign  was  held  by  those  who  were 
truly  his  creatures.  Since  that  time,  the  more 
prevailing  tone  has  been,  to  sneer  at  the  Whig 
aristocracy,  and  to  declaim,  with  all  the  bit- 
terness of  real  fear  and  affected  contempt,  on 
the  practical  insignificance  of  men  of  fortune 
and  talents,  who  are  neither  Lojal  nor  Popu- 
lar— and,  at  the  same  time,  to  lose  no  oppor- 
tunity of  complimenting  the  Tory  possessors 
of  power,  for  every  act  of  liberality,  which 
had  been  really  forced  upon  them  by  those 
very  Whigs  whom  they  refuse  to  acknowledge 
as  even  co-operating  in  the  cause  !  The  high 
Tory  or  Court  party  have,  in  substance,  played 
the  same  game.  They  have  not  indeed  af- 
fected, so  barefacedly,  an  entire  sympathy,  or 
very  tender  regard  for  their  radical  allies  :  but 
they  have  acted  on  the  same  principle.  They 
have  echoed  and  adopted  the  absurd  fiction 
of  the  uiipop'ilarity  of  the  Whigs. — and,  speak- 
ing with  affected  indulgence  of  the  excesses 
into  which  a  generous  love  of  liberty  may  oc- 
casionally hurry  the  ignorant  and  Mtithinking, 
have  reserved  all  their  severity,  unfairness, 
and  intolerance,  for  the  more  moderate  oppo- 
nents with  whose  reasonings  they  find  it  more 
difficult  to  cope,  and  whose  motives  and  true 
position  in  the  country,  they  are  therefore  so 
eaaer  to  misrepresent. 

Now.  though  al!  this  may  he  natural  enough 
in  exasperated  disputants,  who  are  apt  to 
wreak  their  vengeance  on  whatever  is  most 


within  their  reach,  it  is  not  the  less  unf  a- 
unworthy  in  itself,  nor  the  less  short  hr 
and  ungrateful  in  the  parties  who  au  ui 
of  it.     For  we  do  not  hesitate  to  sav,  ur 
is  substantially  to  this  calumniated  ai  n 
tually  reviled  Whig  party,  or  to  those  vo;. 
on  its  principles,  that  the  country  is  ti  v  i 
debled  for  its  peace  and  its  constitution  ^a' 
one  al  least,  if  not  both  of  the  extren  j , 
ties,  for  their  very  existence!     If  then\,. , 
no  such  middle  body,  who  saw  faui  jnj 
merits  in  both,  and  could  i;ot  cunsent   ^ 
unqualified  triumph  or  unquahlied  exii  iiigQ 
of   either — if   the  whole   populatioa  <,  ||ie 
country  was  composed  of   intolerant  Mm 
and  fiery  reformers, — of  such  spirits,  in jja* 
to  bring  the  matter  to  a  plain  practical  e|^ 
ing,  as  the  two  hostUe  parties  have  aiali* 
chosen,  and  now  support  as  their  leadt'and 
spokesmen,  does  any  man  imagine  t  ,  ju 
peace  or  its  constitution  could  be  maii;  ned 
for  a  single  year"?     On  such  a  supposij  jt 
is  plain  that  they  must  enter  immediati/on 
an   active,  uncompromising,    relentlesijoo- 
tention  :    and.   after  a  short  defying  j.ler 
must,  by  force  or  fear,  eflect  the  enfinub. 
version  of  one  or  the  other  ;  and  in  eilheaw, 
a  complete  revolution  and  dissolution  ;the 
present  constitution  and  principle  of  glim- 
ment.     Compromise,  upon  that  suppoion. 
we  conceive,  must  be  utterly  out  of  tne.)e*- 
tion ;  as  well  as  the  limitation  of  the  c'teu 
to   words,   either  of   reasoning  or  of  i'lse. 
They  would  be  at  each  other's  Throats,  'fm 
ihe  end  of  the  year !  or,  if  there  was  aii}  im- 
promise,  what  could  it  be.  but  a  compi;iiBe 
on  the  middle  ground  of  Whiggism  ?-;Tir- 
tual  conversion  of  a  majority  of  thost  ery 
combatants,  who  are  now  supposed  so  t;iate 
and  disdain  them,  to  the  creed  of  thatjod-, 
erate  and  libeial  party  ? 

What  is  it,  then,  that  prevents  such  Mor- 
tal conflict  from  taking  place  at  thep'<nl 
moment  between  those  who  represent  'an- 
sent  themselves  respectively,  as  engriing 
all  the  principle  and  all  the  force  c  tJw 
country  ?  what,  but  the  fact,  that  a  ver\  rge 
portion  of  the  population  do  not  in  reali;be- 
long  to  either;  but  adhere,  and  are  kno'i  to 
adhere,  to  those  moderate  opinions,  A'the 
profession  of  which  the  Whigs  and  the  ad- 
vocates are  not  only  covered  with  theoLiuy 
of  those  whom  they  save  from  the  per'  of 
such  frightful  extremities,  but  are  prep'^r- 
ously  supposed  to  have  incurred  the  ilikfl 
of  those  with  whom  in  fact  they  are  iden  ed, 
and  to  whom  they  belong  ? 

And  this  leads  us  to  say  a  few  words*  the 
second  grand  position  of  the  Holy  /'  es. 
against  whom  we  are  r.ow  called  to  d  'nd 
ourselves,  that  the  Whigs  are  not  only  i,un- 
sistent  and  vacillating  in  their  doctrines  ut, 
in  consequence  of  that  vice  or  error,  a^  m 
fact,  weak,  unpopular,  and  despised  iilw 
country.  The  very  circumstance  of  their  ng 
felt  to'  be  so  formidable  as  to  require  tiii 
strange  alliance  to  make  head  against  t  m, 
and  to  force  their  opponents  to  intermaU 
other  contests,  and  expend  on  them  clu 
sively  the  whole  treasures  of  their  sopl  ry 


MOORE'S  LIFE  OF  SHERIDAN. 


619 


dl  abuse,  miyht  go  far,  we  think,  to  refute 
tfs  desperate  allegation.  But  a  very  short 
i(.umption  of  the  principles  we  have  just 
leu  unlolding  will  show  that  it  cannot  pos- 
fiy  be  true. 

We  reokon  as  Whigs,  in  this  question,  all 
tl)se  who  are  not  disposed  to  go  the  length 
(j  either  of  the  extreme  parties  who  would 
ihv  divide  the  country  between  them. — all, 
ilother  words,  who  wish  the  Government  to 
If  substantially  more  popular  than  it  is,  or  is 
tfiding  to  be — but,  at  the  same  time,  to  re- 
I)n  more  aristocratical  influence,  and  more 
(jference  to  authority,  than  the  Radical  lie- 
Jmers  will  tolerate : — and,  we  do  not  hesi- 
te  to  ,<5;iy;  that  so  far  from  being  weak  or 
ibonsiderable  in  the  country,  we  are  perfectly 
(jiivinced  that,  among  the  educated  classes, 
nich  now  embrace  a  very  large  proportion 
i  the  whole,  it  greatly  outnumbers  both  the 
(fiers  put  together.  It  should  always  be 
iSoUected,  that  a  middle  party  like  this  is 
i.-ariably  much  stronger,  as  well  as  more 
(terraiue-.d  and  formidable,  than  it  appears. 
areme  doctrines  always  make  the  most 
lise.  They  lead  most  to  vehemence,  pas- 
i»n,  and  display, — they  are  inculcated  with 
pst  clamour  and  exaggeration,  and  excite 
e  greatest  alarm.  In  this  way  we  hear  of 
em  most  frequently  and  loudly.  But  they 
;e  pot,  upon  that  account,  the  most  widely 
read  or  generally  adopted  ; — and,  in  an  en- 
:htened  country,  where  there  are  two  oppo- 
.e  kinds  of  extravagance  thus  trumpeted 
iiroad  together,  they  serve  in  a  good  degree 
:  correctives  to  each  other ;  and  the  great 
idy  of  the  people  will  almost  inevitably  set- 
t  into  a  middle  or  moderate  ophiion.  The 
.ampions,  to  be  sure,  and- ambitious  leaders 
each,  side,  will  probably  only  be  exasperat- 
\.  into  greater  bitterness  and  greater  confi- 
bnce,  by  the  excitement  of  their  contention. 
[•But  the  greater  part  of  the  lookers-on  can 
jarcely  fail  to  perceive  that  mutual  wounds 
ive  been  inflicted,  and  mutual  inlirmities 
vealed,  —  and  the  continuance  and  very 
•rcene.ss  of  the  combat  is  apt  to  breed  a 
ineral  opinion,  that  neither  party  is  right,  to 
e  height  of  their  respective  pretensions; 
id  that  truth  and  justice  can  only  be  satis- 
I  by  large  and  muitial  concessions. 
Of  the  two  parlies — the  Thorough  Reformers 
e  most  indebted  for  an  appearance  of  greater 
rength  than  they  actually  possess,  to  their 
vri  boldness  and  activity,  and  the  mere  curi- 
•ityit  excites  amons:  the  idle,  co-operating 
ith  the  soundinii  alarms  of  their  opponents, 
-while  the  high  Tories  owe  the  same  advan- 
gp!  in  a  greater  degree  to  the  qijiel  rffect  of 
leir  influence  and  wealth,  and  to  that  pru- 
nce  'vhich  leads  so  many,  who  in  their 
arts  are  against  them,  to  keep  their  opinions 
themselves,  till  some  ojiportunify  can  be 
|und  of  declaring  them  with  effect.  Both. 
|3wever.  are  conscious  that  they  owe  much 
!>  .such  an  dlusion, — and  neither,  accordingly. 
as  courage  to  venture  on  those  measures  to 
jhich  they  would  infallibly  resort,  if  they 
|Usted  to  their  apparent,  a.nan  actual  oravail- 
}ble  strength.    The  Tories,  who  have  the  ad- 


ministi-ation  in  some  measure  in  their  hands, 
would  be  glad  enough  to  put  down  all  j-.opu- 
lar  interference,  whether  by  assemblies,  by 
speech,  or  by  writing;  and,  m  fact,  only  allow 
the  law  to  be  as  indulgent  as  it  is,  and  its  ail- 
ministration  to  be  .-^o  nmch  more  indulgent, 
from  a  conviction  that  they  would  not  be  sup- 
ported in  more  severe  measures,  either  by 
public  opinion  without,  or  even  bv  their  own 
majorities  within  the  walls  of  the  Legislature. 
They  know  very  well  that  a  great  part  of  their 
adherents  are  attachtd  to  lh(  in  by  no  other 
lie  than  that  of  their  own  immediate  interest, 
— and  that,  even  among  them  as  they  now 
stand,  tliey  could  command  at  least  as  large 
a  following  tor  Whig  measures  as  for  Tory 
measures,  if  only  proposed  by  an  administra- 
tion of  as  much  ajijjarent  stabdity.  It  is  not 
necessary,  indeed,  to  go  faither  than  to  the 
common  conversation  of  the  more  open  or 
careless  of  those  who  vote  and  act  among  llio 
Tories,  to  be  satislied,  that  a  very  large  pro- 
portion, indeed,  of  tho.^ic  who  pass  uiuler  that 
title,  are  what  we  should  call  really  Whi^s  in 
heart  and  conviction,  ami  are  ready  to  declare 
themselves  such,  on  the  tirst  convenient  op- 
portunity. With  regard  to  the  Radical  Re- 
formers, again,  very  little  more,  we  think,  can 
be  necessary  to  show  their  real  weakness  in 
the  country,  than  to  observe  how  very  few 
votes  they  ever  obtain  at  an  election,  even  iu 
the  most  open  boroughs,  and  the  most  popu- 
lous and  indepent4'iit  counties.  We  count  for 
nothing  in  this  question  the  mere  physical 
force  which  may  seem  to  be  arrayed  on  their 
side  in  the  manufacturing  districts,  on  occa- 
sions of  distress  and  suffering  ;  though,  if  they 
felt  that  they  had  even  this  pcrviancntly  at 
their  command,  it  is  impossible  that  tney 
should  not  have  more  nominations  of  parlia- 
mentary attorneys,  and  morje  steady  and  im- 
posing exhibitions  of  their  strength  and  union. 
At  the  present  moment,  then,  we  are  per- 
suaded that  the  proper  Whig  jarty  is  in  reality 
by  much  the  largest  ar.d  tlie  steadiest  in  the 
country  ;  and  we  are  also  convinced,  that  it  is 
in  a  course  of  rapid  increase.  The  eflecl  of 
all  long-continued  <lisGUSsion  is  to  disclose 
flaws  in  all  sweeping  arguments,  and  to  mul- 
tiply exceptions  to  all  general  propositions — 
to  discountenance  extravagance,  in  short,  to 
abate  confidence  and  inlolerance,  and  thus  to 
lay  the  foundations  for  liberal  compromise  and 
mutual  concession.  Even  those  who  continue 
to  think  that  all  the  reason  is  exclusively  on 
their  side':  can  scaicely  hope  to  ctrnvert  their 
opponents,  except  by  degrees.  Some  few  tush 
and  fiery  spirits  may  conlrive  to  pass  from  one 
extremi'  to  the  other,  without  going  thron;;h 
the  middle.  But  the  common  course  undoubt- 
edly is  different :  and  therefore  we  are  entillid 
to  reckon,  that  everyone  who  is  detached  from 
the  Tory  or  the  Radical  faction,  w  ill  make  a 
stage  at  least,  or  half-way  house,  of  AVhiggism  ; 
and  may  probably  be  induced,  by  the  comfort 
and  respectability  of  the  establishment,  to  re- 
main :  As  the  lemjierate  reirions  of  the  earth 
are  found  to  detain  the  irrealer  part  of  lho.K« 
who  have  been  induced  to  fly  from  the  heats 
of  the  Equator,  or  the  rigours  of  the  Pole. 


620 


GENERAL  POLITICS. 


Thouifh  it  is  natural  enough,  therefore,  for 
those  who  hold  extreme  opinions,  to  depreciate 
the  u-ei<rht  and  power  of  those  who  lake  their 
station  between  them,  it  seems  sufficiently 
certain,  not  only  that  their  position  must  at  ail 
times  be  the  safest  and  best,  but  that  it  is  des- 
tined ultimately  to  draw  to  itself  all  that  is 
truly  of  any  considerable  weight  upon  either 
hand  :  and  that  it  is  the  feeling  of  the  con- 
stant and  growing  force  of  this  central  attrac- 
tion, that  inflames  the  animosity  of  those 
whose  importance  would  be  lost  by  the  con- 
vergence. For  our  own  part,  at  least,  we  are 
satisfied,  and  we  believe  the  party  to  which 
we  belong  is  satisfied,  both  with  the  degree 
of  influence  and  respect  wliich  we  possess  in 
the  countrj',  and  with  the  prospects  which, 
we  think,  upon  reasonable  grounds,  we  may 
entertain  of  its  increase.  In  assuminir  to  our- 
selves the  character  of  a  middle  party,  we 
conceive  that  we  are  mereJv  stating  a  fact, 
which  cannot  well  be  disputed  on  the  present 
occasion,  as  it  is  assumed  by  both  those  who 
are  now  opposed  to  us.  as  the  main  ground  of 
their  common  attack  ;  and  almost  all  that  we 
have  said  follows  as  a  necessary  consequence 
of  this  assumption.  From  the  very  nature  of 
the  thing,  we  cannot  so  to  either  of  the  ex- 
treme parties-  and  neither  of  them  can  make 
any  movement  to  increase  their  popularity  and 
substantial  power,  without  coming  nearer  to 
us.  It  is  but  fair,  however,  before  concluding, 
to  state,  that  though  we  do  occupy  a  position 
between  the  intolerant  Tories  and  the  thorough 
Reformers,  we  conceive  that  we  are  consider- 
ably nearer  to  the  latter  than  to  the  former.  In 
our  principles,  indeed,  and  the  ends  at  which 
we  aim,  we  do  not  materially  differ  from  what 
is  professed  by  the  more  sober  among  them  ; 
though  we  require  more  caution,  more  securi- 
ties, more  exceptions,  more  temper,  and  more 
time. 

That  is  the  difference  of  our  theories.  In 
practice,  we  have  no  doubt,  we  shall  all  have 
time  enough : — For  it  is  the  lot  of  England, 
we  have  little  doubt,  to  be  ruled  in  the  main 
by  what  will  be  called  a  Tory  party,  for  as 
long  a  period  as  we  can  now  look  forward  to 
with  any  great  distinctness — by  a  Tory  party, 
however,  restrained  more  and  more  in  its  pro- 
pensities, by  the  growinc:  influence  of  Whig 
principles,  and  the  enliirhtened  vicilance  of 
that  party,  both  in  Parliament  and  out  of  it; 
and  now  and  then  admonishtxl.  by  a  temporary 
e.vpulsion.  of  the  necessity  of  a  still  greater 
conformity  with  the  procrress  of  liberal  opin- 
ions, than  could  be  spontaneously  obtained. 
The  inherent  spirit,  however,  of  monarchy, 
and  the  natural  effect  of  lonir  possession  of 
power,  will  secure,  we  apprehend,  for  a  con- 


siderable time,  the  general  sway  of  men  o- 
fessing  Tory  principles :  and  their  speedy  $, 
toration,  when  driven  for  a  season  from  t  jr 
places  by  disaster  or  general  discontent;  d 
the  Whigs,  during  the  same  period,  must  i. 
tent  themselves  with  preventing  a  great  .i) 
of  evil,  and  seeing  the  good  which  they  ,( 
suggested  tardily  and  imjierfectly  efl^ectfd  y 
those  who  will  take  the  credit  of  ongiriu  g 
what  the'y  had  long  opposed,  and  oijly  at  ,t 
adopted  with  reluctance  and  on  compulsi. 
It  is  not  a  very  brilliant  prospect,  perluips.  r 
a  very  enviable  lot.  But  we  believe  it  tee 
what  awaits  us;  and  we  embrace  it.  not^  i 
cheerfully\  but  with  thankfulness  and  prid  . 
thankfulness,  that  we  are  enabled  to  do  e  i 
so  much  for  the  good  and  the  liberties  of  r 
countrv — and  pride,  that  in  thus  .seeking  r 
service,  we  cannot  well  be  suspected  of  sel  i 
or  mercenary  views. 

The  thorough  Reformers  never  can  bei 
power  in  this  country,  but  by  means  of  an  . 
tual  revolution.  The  Whigs  may,  and  oc- 
sionally  will,  without  any  disturbance  to  ; 
peace.  But  these  occasions  might  be  mu; 
plied,  and  the  good  that  must  attend  th 
accelerated  and  increased,  if  the  Reformi 
aware  of  the  hopelessness  of  their  separ 
cause,  would  throw  their  weight  into  these 
of  the  Whigs,  and  so  far  modify  their  preti 
sions  as  to  make  it  safe  or  practicable  to  si 
port  them.  The  Whigs,  we  have  alrea 
said,  cannot  come  to  them ;  both  becai 
thev  hold  some  of  their  principles,  and  ih 
modes  of  asserting  them,  to  be  not  merely; 
reasonable,  but  actually  dangerous;  anil  1 
cause,  by  their  adoption,  they  would  at  on 
hazard  much  mischief,  and  unfit  themseh 
for  the  good  service  they  now  perform.  I 
the  Reformers  may  very  well  come  to  I 
Whiirs:  both  because  they  can  practically 
nothing  (peaceably)  for  themselves,  and  1 
cause  the  measures  which  they  might  oc( 
sionally  enable  the  Whigs  to  carry,  thou 
not  in  their  eyes  unexceptionable  or  sufficie 
must  yet  appear  to  ihem  better  than  those 
the  Tories — which  is  the  only  attainable  ; 
terna'^'ve.  This  accordingly,  we  are  persua 
ed,  will  ultimately  be  the  result:  and  is  ; 
ready,  we  have  no  doubt,  in  a  course  • 
accomplishment;  —  and,  taken  along  wi 
the  gradual  abandonment  of  all  that  is  offp 
sive  in  Tory  pretensions,  and  the  silent  ado 
tion  of  most  of  the  Whic  principles.  ev( 
by  those  who  contiime  to  di,'?claim  the  nam 
will  efl^ect  almost  all  that  sober  lovers  of  iht 
country  can  expect,  for  the  security  of  h 
liberties,  and  the  final  extinction  of  all  e 
treme  parties,  in  the  liberal  moderation  i 
Whisfgism. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


{iVl<i\j,    1S20.) 

Appeal  from  the  Judgments  of  Great  Britain  respecting  the  United  States  of  America.  Part 
First.  Containing  an  Historical  Outline  of  their  Merits  and  Wrongs  as  Colmyies,  and  Stnc- 
\ures  on  the  Calumnies  of  British  IVrilers.  By  Robkrt  Walsh.  Esi|.  8vo.  pp.  505.  I'hila- 
lelphia  and  London :   1819.* 


3ne  great  staple  of  this  book  is  a  vehe- 
>nt,  and,  we  really  think,  a  sinsrularly  un- 
ij.t  attack,  on  the  principles  of  this  .lournal. 
It  we  take  part,  on  the  whole,  with  the  au-. 
tl)r: — and  heartily  wish. him  snccess  in  the 
ji?at  object  of  vindicating  his  coinitry  from 
ilmerited  aspersions,  and  tiying  to  make  us, 
ij England,  ashamed  of  the  A'ices  and  defects 
liich  he  has  taken  the  trouble  to  point  out  in 
(jr  national  character  and  institutions.  In  this 
jjrt  of  the  design  we  cordially  concur — and 
sill  at  all  times  be  srlad  to  co-operate.  But 
ti^re  is  another  part  of  it,  and  we  are  sorry  to 
}|v  a  principal  and  avowed  part,  of  which  we 
((iiniot  speak  in  terms  of  too~  strong  reoret  and 
iorobation — and  that  is,  a  design  to  excite 
ijd  propagate  among  his  countrymen,  a  gene- 
)[  animosity  to  the  British  name,  by  way  of 
liiinieracting.  or  rather  revengins.  the  ani- 
ipsity  which  he  very  erroneously  supposes 
1}  be  generally  entertained  by  the  English 
ijainst  them. 

iThat  this  i.s.  in  itself,  and  under  any  circum- 
ilmces,  an  unworthy,  an  unwise,  and  even  a 
luminal  object,  we  think  we  could  demon- 
ifate  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Walsh  him- 

ff,  and  all  his  reasonable  adherents  :  but  it 
better,  perhaps,  to  endeavour,  in  the  first 
fice,  to  correct  the  misapi)rehensions,  and 
i|?pel  the  delusions  in  which  this  disposition 
j.9  its  foundation,  and,  at  all  evtMits.  to  set 
[em  the  example  of  perfect  irood  humour  and 
lirness,  in  a  discussion  v.hpre  the  parlies 
t'rhaps  will  never  be  entirely  agreed:  and 
jhere  those  who  are  now  1o  be  heard  have  the 
foneest  conviction  of  having  been  injuriously 
isrepresf^iited.     If  wp  felt  any  soreness,  in- 


!*  There  is  no  one  feeling — havin?  public  con- 
jrna  for  its  object — with  whicli  I  have  been  so 
jig  and  so  deeply  impressed,  as  thai  of  the  vasr 
portance  of  our  maintaining  friendly,  and  even 
'rdinl  relations,  with  the  free,  powerful,  nionl.  and 
dii3trinus  States  of  America; — a  conf!i;if>n  iip-n 
nich  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  not  only  our  own 
I'ertom  and  prnsppritv,  biit  ihai  of  the  bencr  part 
I  the  world,  will  nliimately  lip  lonnd  "o  lie  more 
d  more  dependent.  I  give  the  first  pbice.  thiT'- 
re.  in  ihia  concluding  division  of  the  work,  to  an 
Tne«t  and  somewhat  importunate  cxhortanon  1 1 
is  effect— which  T  tidifve  producd  some  impres- 
>n  at  the  time,  and  I  trust  mav  still  help  forw;ird 
e  good  end  to  which  it  was  directed. 


I  deed,  on  the  score  of  this  author's  imputa- 
■  tions,  or  had  any  desire  to  lessen  the  jttst  elfi^ct 
of  his  representations,  it  would  have  been 
enough  for  us,  we  belitn-e,  to  have  let  them 
alone.  For,  without  some  such  help  as  ours, 
the  work  really  does  not  seem  calculated  to 
I  make  any  great  impression  in  this  quarter  of 
the  world.  It  is  not  otily,  as  the  author  has 
I  himself  ingenuously  observed  of  it,  a  very 
"clumsy  book,"  heavily  written  and  abomina- 
j  bly  printed, — but  the  only  material  part  of  it 
i  — the  only  part  about  which  anybody  can  now 
I  be  supposed  to  care  much,  either  here  or  in 
I  America  —  is  overlaid  and  buried  under  a 
huge  mass  of  historical  compilation,  which 
would  have  little  chance  of  attractiuir  readers 
at  the  present  moment,  even  if  much  better 
digested  than  it  is  in  the  volume  before  us. 

The  substantial  question  is,  what  has  been 
the  true  character  and  condition  of  the  United 
States  since  they  became  an  independent  na- 
tion,— and  what  is  likely  to  be  their  condition 
in  future  I  And  to  elucidate  this  question, 
the  learned  author  has  thonffht  fit  to  premise 
about  two  hundred  very  close-printed  pages, 
upon  their  merits  as  colonies,  and  the  harsh 
treatment  they  then  received  from  the  mother 
country  !  Of  this  large  historical  sketch,  we 
cannot  say.  either  that  it  is  very  correctly 
drawn,  or  very  faithfully  coloured.  It  pre- 
sents us  with  no  connected  narrative,  or  inter- 
esting deduction  of  events — but  i.s,  in  truth,  a 
mere  heap  of  indicested  quotations  from  com- 
mon books,  of  good  and  bad  authority — inai- 
tificially  cemented  totrether  by  a  loose  and 
angry  commentary.  We  are  liot  aware,  in- 
deed, that  there  are  in  this  part  of  the  worlf 
either  any  new  statements,  or  any  new  view  s 
or  opinions :  the  facts  being  mostly  taken 
fiom  Chalmeis"  Annals,  and  Burke's  European 
Settlements;  and  the  authorities  for  the  jrood 
conduct  and  ill  treafmcint  of  the  colonics, 
being  chielly  the  Parliamentary  Debates  and 
Brougham's  Colonial  Policy. 

But.  ,Mi  cood  t'-utli.  these  historica.  recollec- 
tions will  go  but  a  littlt'  wnv  in  tietermiiiing 
that  great  practical  and  most  importiinl  (pies- 
tioii.  which  it  is  Mr.  W.'s  infentioti.  as  well 
as  ours,  todiscns.s — What  tire,  and  \vh;it  ought 
to  be,  the  disjHtsitior.s  of  F-'iiirland  and  Ari^TJ- 
ca  towards  each  other  ?  And  the  general  facts 
6?1 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


as  to  the  first  settlements  and  colonial  history 
of  'he  latter,  in  so  far  as  they  bear  upon  this 
question,  really  do  not  admit  of  much  dispute. 
The  most  important  of  those  settlements  were 
unquestionably  founded  by  the  friends  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty — who.  though  somewhat 
precise  and  puritanical,  and  we  must  add,  not 
a  little  intolerant,  were,  in  the  main,  a  sturdy 
and  sagacious  race  of  people,  not  readily  to 
be  cajoled  out  of  the  blessings  they  had  sought 
through  so  many  sacrifices;  and  ready  at  all 
times  manfully  and  resolutely  to  assert  them 
aganist  all  invaders.  As  to  the  mother  coun- 
try, again,  without  claiming  for  her  any  ro- 
mantic tenderness  or  generosity  towards  those 
hardy  oifsets.  we  think  we  may  say,  that  she 
oppressed  and  domineered  over  them  much 
less  than  any  other  modern  nation  has  done 
over  any  such  settlements — that  she  allowed 
them,  for  the  most  part,  liberal  charters  and 
constitutions,  and  was  kind  enough  to  leave 
them  very  much  to  themselves ; — and  although 
she  did  manifest,  now  and  then,  a  disposition 
to  encroach  on  their  privileges,  their  rights 
were,  on  the  whole,  very  tolerably  respected 
— so  that  they  grew  up  undoubtedly  to  a  state 
of  much  prosperity  and  a  familiarity  with 
freedom  in  all  its  divisions,  which  was  not 
only  without  parallel  in  any  similar  establish- 
ment, but  probably  would  not  have  been  at- 
tained had  they  been  earlier  left  to  their  own 
guidance  and  protection.  This  is  all  that  we 
ask  for  England,  on  a  review  of  her  colonial 
policy,  and  her  conduct  before  the  war;  and 
this,  we  think,  no  candid  and  well-informed 
person  can  reasonably  refuse  her. 

As  to  the  War  itself,  the  motives  in  which 
it  originated,  and  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
carried  on,  it  cannot  now  be  necessary  to  say 
any  thing — or,  at  least,  when  we  say  that  hav- 
ing once  been  begun,  we  think  that  it  termi- 
nated as  the  friends  of  Justice  and  Liberty 
must  have  wished  it  to  terminate,  we  con- 
ceive that  jSIr.  Walsh  can  require  no  other 
e.\planation.  That  ihisresult,  however,  should 
have  left  a  soreness  upon  both  sides,  and 
especially  on  that  which  had  not  been  soothed 
by  success,  is  what  all  men  must  have  ex- 
pected. But.  upon  the  whole,  we  firmly  be- 
live  that  this  was  far  slighter  and  less  durable 
than  has  generally  been  imagined ;  and  was 
likely  very  speedily  to  have  been  entirely  ef- 
faced, by  those  ancient  recollections  of  kind- 
ness and  kindred  which  could  not  fail  to  recur, 
and  by  that  still  more  powerful  feeling,  to 
•\vhich  every  day  was  likely  to  add  strength, 
of  their  common  interests,  as  free  and  as  com- 
mercial countries,  and  of  the  substantial  con- 
formity of  their  national  character,  and  of 
their  sentiments  upon  most  topics  of  public 
and  of  private  right.  The  healing  operation 
however,  of  these  causes  was  unfortunately 
thwarted  and  retarded  by  the  heals  that  rose 
out  of  the  French  revolution,  and  the  new  in- 
terests and  new  relations  which  it  appeared 
for  a  time  to  create  : — And  the  hostilities  in 
which  we  were  at  last  involved  with  America 
herself — though  the  opinions  of  her  people,  as 
well  as  our  own,  were  deeply  divided  upon 
both  questions— served  still  further  to  embit- 


ter the  general  feeling,  and  to  keep  alivf  le 
memory  of  animosities  that  ought  not  to  ]  ,e 
been  so  Ic^g  remembered.  At  last  came  pi  ^ 
— and  the  spirit,  we  verily  believe,  but  ui  ,. 
tunately  not  the  prosperity  of  peace  ;  and  ,e 
distresses  and  commercial"  embarrassmeii  )t" 
both  countries  threw  both  into  bad  hum  r: 
and  unfortunately  hurried  both  into  a  syfii 
of  jealous  and  illiberal  policy,  by  which  u 
bad  humour  was  aggravated,' and  receive,  ji 
unfortunate  direction. 

In  this  exasperated  state  of  the  nati  i] 
temper,  and  we  do  think,  too  much  nnde  tg 
influence,  Mr.  Walsh  has  now  thought  1 1- 
self  called  upon  to  vindicate  his  country  In 
the  aspersions  of  English  writers;  and  i  ■: 
arraigning  them,  generallj-,  of  the  most  .. 
credible  ignorance,  and  atrocious  nialigi,, 
he  proceeds  to  state,  that  the  Edixbi  ugh  d 
QuARTERi-Y  Reviews,  in  particular,  have  t  n 
inces.>iantly  labouring  to  traduce  the  chara  jr 
of  America,  and  have  lately  broken  out  o 
such  ■•'  e.xcesses  of  obloquy,""  as  can  no  loi  t 
be  endured;  and,  in  particular,  that  the  p  j- 
pect  of  a  large  emigration  to  the  United  St  > 
has  thrown  us  all  into  such  "  paro.xysm  : 
spite  and  jealousy,"  that  we  have  engage  n 
a  scheme  of  systematic  defamation  that  & 
truth  and  consistency  alike  at  defiance,  o 
counteract  this  nefarious  scheme,  ]\lr.  W.  s 
taken  the  field — not  so  much  to  refute  a.o 
retort — not  for  the  purpose  of  pointing  out  r 
errors,  or  exposing  our  mifairness.  but,  rat 
if  we  understand  him  aright,  of  retaliatin: ;, 
us  the  unjust  abuse  we  have  been  so  long  \f  - 
ing  on  others.  In  his  preface,  accordingly  e 
fairly  avows  it  to  be  his  nitention  to  act  one 
offensive — to  carry  the  war  hito  the  eiien  8 
quarters,  and  to  make  reprisals  upon  the  !;• 
our  and  character  of  England,  in  revenge  r 
the  insults  which,  he  will  have  it,  her  wri's 
have  heaped  on  his  country.  He  there  e 
proposes  to  point  out, — not  the  natural  c- 
plexion,  or  genuine  features,  but  '-the  sds 
and  blotches  of  the  British  nation,"  to  e 
scorn  and  detestation  of  his  countrymen;  J 
having  assumed,  that  it  is  the  •'■  intentioi  f 
Great  Britain  to  educate  her  youth  in  sc  • 
ments  of  the  most  rancorous  hostility  to  An  • 
ica,'"  he  assures  us,  that  this  desiim  trill,  i 
must  be  met  with  corresponding  scntinKuts.  i 
his  side  of  the  water! 

Now,  though  we  cannot  applaud  the  g  • 
erosity,  or  even  the  common  humanity  I 
these  sentiments — though  we  think  that  s 
American  government  and  people,  if  at  1 
deserving  of  the  eulogy  which  j\Ir.  W.  ^ 
here  bestowed  upon  them,  might,  like  Cn  • 
well,  have  felt  themselves  too  strong  to  c  ■ 
about  pa{)er  shot— and  though  we  cannot  I 
feel  that  a  more  temperate  and  candid  1  J 
would  have  carried  more  weight,  a?  «rell  < 
more  magnanimity  with  it.  we  must  yet  be 
by  admitting;  that  America  has  cause  of  c(  - 
plaint ; — and  that  nothing  can  be  more  dv:  ■ 
cable  and  disgusting,  than  the  scurrility  v  i 
which  she  has  been  assailed  by  a  portion 
the  press  of  this  country — and  that,  disgni  • 
ful  as  these  publications  are,  ihey  speak  .J 
sensCj  if  not  of  a  considerable,  at  least  o  i 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


6U 


cojipicuous  and  active  party  in  the  nation.* 
Al(lhis,  ami  more  than  this,  we  have  no  wish, 
aiij  no  intention  to  deny.  Bui  we  do  wit^li 
mlt  anxiou.Niy  to  impress  upon  Mr.  VV.  and 
hi  lad  he  rents,"  to  beware  how  tliev  believe 
ih  this  party  speaks  the  tense  of  the  British 
j^ijon — or  that  their  sentiments  on  this,  or  on 
mjy  other  occasions,  are  in  any  degree  in 
aclrdance  with  those  of.the  great  body  of 
ouj people.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  firndy 
peuaded  that  a  very  large  majority  of  the 
nat)n.  numerically  considered,  and  a  still 
Iju.t  majority  of  the  intelligent  and  enlight- 
eiil  persons  whose  influence  ami  authority 
ca'iot  fail  in  the  long  run  to  govern  her  coun- 
cil would  disclaim  all  sympathy  with  any 
pal  of  these  opinions ;  and  actually  look  on 
thlmiserable  libels  in  question,  not  only  with 
thbeorn  and  disgust  to  which  INIr.  W.  would 
cojign  them,  but  with  a  sense  of  shame  from 
wbh  his  situation  fortunately  exempts  him, 
an  a  sorrow  and  regret,  of  which  unfortu- 
iiajly  he  seems  too  little  susceptible. 

j  IS  a  fact  wliich  can  require  no  proof,  even 
in|.merica,  that  there  is  a  party  in  this  coun- 
trjiot  friendly  to  political  liberty,  and  deci- 
ddy  hostile  to  all  extension  of  popular  rights, 
— jhich,  if  it  does  not  grudge  to  its  own  peo- 
pljthe  powers  and  privileges  which  are  be- 
ttied  on  them  by  the  Constitution,  is  at  least 
fofonfining  their  exercise  within  the  narrow- 
e.s,imits — which  never  thinks  the  peace  and 
w« -being  of  society  in  danger  from  any  thing 
bij  popular  encroachments,  and  holds  the 
onj  safe  or  desirable  government  to  be  that 
ofipretty  pure  and  unincumbered  INlonaichy, 
6u[)orted  by  a  vast  revenue  and  a  powerful 
ariv,  and  obeyed  by  a  people  just  enlightened 
enligh  to  be  orderly  and  industrious,  but  no 
wi  curious  as  to  questions  of  right  —  and 
nepr  presuming  to  judge  of  the  conduct  of 
ihjr  superiors. 

(o\r,  it  is  quite  true  that  this  Party  dislikes 
Aii?rica,  and  is  apt  enough  to  decry  and  in- 
pu!  her.  Its  adherents  never  have  forgiven 
thisuccess  of  her  war  of  independence — the 
lo;  of  a  nominal  sovereignty,  or  perhaps  of  a 
re.]  power  of  vexing  and  oppressing  —  her 
suposed  rivalry  in  trade — and.  above  all,  the 
hapiness  and  tranquillity  which  she  now 
erijys  under  a  republican  form  of  govern- 
m  t.  Such  a  spectacle  of  democratical  pros- 
pety  is  unspeakably  mortifying  to  their  high 
miarchical  principles,  and  is  easily  imagined 
top  dangerous  to  their  security.  Their  first 
wii,  and,  for  a  time,  their  darling  hope,  was, 
th  the  infant  States  would  quarrel  among 
ihi'iselves,  and  be  thankful  to  be  again  re- 


.I'liinijs  are  much  mended  in  this  respect  since 
I'M;  persons  of  rank  and  influence  in  this  couniry 
ni>|spc-akin^  of  America,  in  private  as  well  as  in 
P"  c,  with  infinitely  greater  respect  and  fricndli- 
fielthan  was  then  common  ;  and  evincing.  I  ihink, 
8  lire  general  desire  to  be  courteous  to  individuals 
"I  at  naiion,  than  to  foreigners  of  any  other  de- 
wipon.  There  are  still,  however,  publicaiions 
anil:;  us,  and  some  proceeding  from  rjuarlc-s 
^''[e  I  should  not  have  looked  lor  them,  that  con- 
""I  to  keep  up  the  tone  alludt-d  to  in  the  text,  and 
C0|equenily  to  do  mischief,  which  it  ia  still  a  duty 
thiijfore  to  endeavour  to  counteract. 


ceived  under  our  protection,  as  a  refuge  from 
military  de8poti.«ni.  Sinct-  tlial  hoiM"  was  lost, 
it  uonKI  liavc  satisliid  tliem  lo  lind  lliat  iheir 
ifjHiMican  iii.'.tilulidns  had  nnide  llitin  jiooi. 
and  turbulent,  and  dej)iavrti — inca|able  of 
civil  wi.^^iloin,  rcgaidli-.x-s  ol  national  honour, 
ami  as  inti-aclal)le  to  their  own  elecli  d  lult  la 
as  they  had  been  to  their  hereditary  sove- 
reign. To  those  who  witu  ca])iible  of  euch 
wishes  and  such  exjiectations,  it  is  easy  lo 
conceive,  tliat  the  hai)piiiess  and  good  ordei 
of  the  United  States — the  wisdom  and  au- 
thority of  their  goveinnieiil  —  and  tlie  un- 
paralleled rapidity  of  their  jirogrc-s  in  wealth, 
population,  ami  refinement,  nui.st  luive  been 
but  an  ungrateful. spt'clacle  :  and  mo.xt  especi- 
ally, that  the  splendid  ami  steady  success  of 
by  far  the  most  truly  democratical  govern- 
ment that  ev(>r  was  establisiied  in  the  world, 
must  have  struck  the  most  lively  alarm  into 
the  hearts  of  all  those  who  were  an.xious  to 
have  it  believed  that  the  People  could  never 
interfere  in  politics  but  to  their  ruin,  and  that 
the  smallest  addition  to  the  democratical  m- 
llueiice,  recognised  in  the  theory  at  least  of 
the  British  Constitution,  must  lead  to  (he  im- 
mediate destruction  of  peace  and  properly, 
morality  ami  religion. 

That  there  are  journals  in  this  couniry,  and 
jounials  too  of  great  and  deserved  rejmtalion 
in  other  respects,  who  have  spoken  the  Ian 
guage  of  the  party  we  have  now  describeil, 
and  that  in  a  tone  of  singular  inlentpt'rance 
and  offence,  we  most  readily  aiimit.  Hut  need 
we  tell  I\Ir.  W.,  or  any  oiilinaiily  well-in- 
fonned  individual  of  his  countrymen,  that 
neither  ihi.s  jiarty  nor  their  journalists  can  he 
allowed  to  stand  for  the  People  of  Kngland  ? 
— that  it  is  notorious  that  there  is  among  that 
people  another  and  a  far  more  numerous 
partVi  whose  sentiments  are  at  all  jioinls  op- 
posed to  those  of  the  former,  and  who  are, 
by  necessary  consequence,  friends  to  America, 
and  to  all  that  Americans  most  value  in  their 
character  and  institutions — who,  as  English- 
men, are  more  proud  to  have  great  and  glo- 
rious nations  descended  from  them,  than  to 
have  discontented  colonies  useles.-^ly  subjected 
to  their  caprice — who,  as  Freemen  rejoice  to 
see  freedom  advancing,  with  giant  footsteps, 
over  the  fairest  regions  of  the  earth,  and  na- 
tions flourishing  exactly  in  pronortion  as  they 
are  free — and  to  know  that  when  the  drivel- 
ling advocates  of  hierarchy  and  legitimacy 
vent  their  paltry  sophislrii-s  with  somi'  shadow 
of  plausibility  on  ihe  history  of  the  Old  World, 
they  can  now  turn  with  decisive  triumph  to 
the  unequivocal  example  of  the  New — and 
demonstrate  the  unspeakable  advantages  of 
free  govi'iiiment,  by  the  unprecedented  pros- 
perity of  America?  Such  persons,  too,  can 
be  as  little  suspected  of  entertaining  any 
jealousy  of  the  commercial  prosj)erily  of  the 
Americans  as  of  their  political  freedom  ;  since 
it  requires  but  a  very  moderate  share  ol  un- 
derstanding lo  see,  "thai  the  advantages  of 
trade  must  always  be  mutual  and  reciprocal 
— that  one  great  trading  country  is  of  necessity 
the  best  customer  lo  anolher — ai:d  that  :he 
trade  of  America,  consistiiiy  chiefly  in  the  ex- 


624 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


portation  of  raw  produce  and  the  importation 
of  manufactured  commodities,  is,  of  all  others, 
the  most  beneficial  to  a  country  like  England. 

That  such  sentiments  were  natnrall)-  to  be 
expected  in  a  country  circumstanced  like 
England,  no'  thinking  man  will  deny.  But 
Mr.  \Valsh  has  been  himself  among  us  ;  and 
was,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  no  idle  or  in- 
curious observer  of  our  men  and  cities;  and 
we  appeal  with  confidence  to  him,  whether 
these  were  not  the  prevailing  sentiments 
among  the  intelligent  and  well  educated  of 
every  degree  ?  If  he  thinks  as  we  do,  as  to 
their  soundness  and  importance,  he  cannot 
well  doubt  that  they  must  sooner  or  later  in- 
fluence the  conduct  even  of  our  Court  and 
Cabinet.  But.  in  the  mean  time,  the  fact  is 
certain,  that  the  opposite  sentiments  are  con- 
fined to  a  very  small  portion  of  the  people  of 
Great  Britain — and  that  the  course  of  events, 
as  well  as  the  force  of  reason,  is  every  day 
bringing  them  more  and  more  into  discredit. 
Where  then,  we  would  ask.  is  the  justice  or 
the  policy  of  seeking  to  render  a  quarrel  Na- 
tional, when  the  cause  of  quarrel  is  only 
with  an  inconsiderable  and  declining  party  of 
the  nation  ? — and  why  labour  to  excite  ani- 
mosity against  a  whole  people,  the  majority  of 
whom  are,  and  mrist  be,  your  sincere  friends, 
merely  because  some  prejudice^  or  inter- 
ested persons  among  them  have  disgusted  the 
great  body  of  their  own  countrymen,  by  the 
senselessness  and  scurrility  of  their  attacks 
upon  yours? 

The  Americans  are  extremely  mistaken, 
too,  if  they  .suppose  that  they  are  the  only 
persons  who  are  abused  by  the  only  party  that 
does  abuse  them.  They  have  merely  their 
share  of  that  abuse  along  with  all  the  friends 
and  the  advocates  of  Liberty  in  every  part  of 
the  world.  The  Constitutionalists  of  France, 
including  the  King  and  many  of  his  ministers, 
meet  with  no  better  treatment : — and  those 
who  hold  liberal  opinions  in  this  country,  are 
assailed  with  still  greater  acrimony  and  fierce- 
ness. Let  Mr.  Walsh  only  look  to  the  lan- 
guage held  by  our  mini.?terial  journals  for  the 
last  twelvemonth,  on  the  subjects  of  Reform 
and  Alarm — and  observe  in  what  way  not 
only  the  whole  class  of  our  own  reformers 
and  conciliators,  but  the  names  and  persons 
of  such  men  as  Lords  Lansdowne,  Grey,  Fitz- 
william,  and  Erskine,  Sir  .Tames  Mackintosh, 
and  Messrs.  Brougham,  Lanibton,  Tierney, 
and  others,  are  dealt  with  by  these  national 
oracles, — and  he  will  be  satisfied  that  his 
countrymen  neither  stand  aione  in  the  mis- 
fortune of  which  he  complains  so  bitterly. 
nor  are  subjected  to  it  in  very  bad  company. 
We,  too,  he  may  probably  be  aware,  have  had 
our  portion  of  the  abuse  which  he  seems  to 
think  reserved  for  America — and,  what  is  a 
little  renuukable,  for  being  too  much  her 
advocate.  For  what  we  have  said  of  her  pre- 
sent powei'  ard  future  greatness — hei  wisdom 
in  peace  aiid  her  valour  in  war — ;ind  of  all  the 
invaluable  advantages  of  her  representative 
system — her  freedom  from  taxe.s.  sinecun^s, 
and  standing  armies — we  have  been  subjected 
to  far  mor"  viiuie:.;  attacks  than  any  of  which 


he  now  complains  for  his  country — axti 
from  the  same  party  scribblers,  with  j^jj 
we  are  here,  somewhat  absurdly.  confaBpl 
and  supposed  to  be  leagued,  h  is  realfejl 
think,  some  little  presumption  of  ourfaiial 
that  the  accu.satioiis  against  us  should'beii 
contradictory — and  that  for  one  and  tliea*! 
set  of  writuigs,  we  should  be  denoun([i«ip| 
the  ultra-royalists  of  England  as  little,  jbei 
than  American  republicans,  and  by  tte^$ 
patriots  of  America  as  the  jealous  ddaDj 
of  her  Freedom. 

This,  however,  is  of  very  little  consequei 
What  we  wish  to  impress  on  Mr.  W.  is,  ;t 
they  who  daily  traduce  the  largest  andabt 
part  of  the  English  nation,  cannot  possiblj  > 
supposed  to  speak  the  sense  of  that  natio  . 
and  that  their  offences  ought  not,  in  reasoi  i 
be  imputed  to  her.  If  there  be  any  relia  : 
on  the  principles  of  human  nature,  the  frit-  i 
of  liberty  in  England  must  rejoice  in  the  p  • 
perity  of  America.  Every  stlfish,  com  , 
with  every  generous  motive,  to  add  strem 
lo  this  .sympathy  ;  and  if  any  thing  is  cer  i 
in  our  late  internal  history,  it  is  that  • 
friends  of  liberty  are  rapidly  nicreasiugam  : 
us;  —  partly  from  increased  intelligerici  ■ 
partly  from  increased  sufiering  and  iir,  • 
tience— partly  from  mature  conviction,  ;i 
instinctive  prudence  and  fear. 

There  is  another  consideration,  also  aris; 
from  the  aspect  of  the  times  before  us.  \\i  i 
should  go  far,  we  think,  at  the  present  i- 
ment,  to  strengthen  those  bonds  of  ailiii . 
It  is  impossible  to  look  to  the  state  of  the  i 
World  without  seeing,  or  rather  feeling, :  i 
there  is  a  greater  and  more  momentous  i- 
test   impending,    than   ever    before  agital 
human  society.     In  Germany — in  Spain- 1 
France — in   Italy,   the  principles  of  Rcfi  i 
and  Liberty  are  visibly  arrayiiig  thempel ' 
for  a  final  struggle  with  the  princijiles  of   • 
tablished  Abuse, — Legitiuiacy,  or  Tyraiin 
or  whatever  else  it  is  called,  by  its  tViend  " 
enemies.     Even  in  England,  the  more  nn  • 
fied  elements  of  the  same  principles  are  .- 
ring  and  heaving,  around,  above  and  beui  i 
us,   with  unprecedented  force,  activity,  :  ''■ 
terror;  and  everything  betokens  an  appro;, 
ing   crisis  in   the   great    European  coir.m 
wealth,  by  the   result  of  which  the  fiil 
character  of  its  governments,  and  the  sti 
ture  and  condition  of  its  society,  will  in 
probability  be  determined.     The  ultimate 
suit,  or  the  course  of  events  that  are  to  li 
to  it;  we  have  not  the  presumption  to  pred 
The  struggle  may  be  long  or  transitory—.- 
guinary  or  bloodless ;  and  it  may  end  n  ■ 
great  and  signal  amelioration  of  all  e.xisl 
institutions,  or  in  the  establishment  of  one  ^ 
federation  of  military  despots,  domineering.  ■ 
usual  in  the  midst  of  sensuality,  barbar;:' 
and  gloom.     The  issues  of  all  'these  thi  • 
arc  in  the  h:;ind  of  Providence  and  the  we  • 
of  time  I  ami  no  ]inmaii  eye  can  yet  for< 
the  fashion  of  their  accomijlishnient.     1 
great  changes  are  pvidently  prep  ring:  •' 
in  fifty  years— most  probably  n;  a  far  sho 
time — some  material  alterations  must  !)■ 
taken  place  in  most  of  the  established  gov. 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


625 


Bii}ts  of  Europe,  and  the  rights  of  the  Euro- 
pe!} nations  been  established  on  a  surer  and 
aim  durable  basis.  Half  a  century  cannot 
pa  away  in  giowing  discontents  on  the  part 
of 'le  people,  and  growing  fears  and  precau- 
tic?  on  thai  of  tlieir  rulers.  Their  preten- 
8ic=;  miist  at  last  be  put  clearly  in  issue;  and 
abe  the  settlerneut  of  force,  or  fear,  or  reason, 
poking  back  to  what  has  already  happened 
in^e  world,  both  recently  and  in  ancient 
tir'-s.  we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  the  cause  of 
Li^rty  will  be  ultinnately  triumphant.  But 
thiugh  what  trials  and  suderings — \vhat  mar- 
tv'onis  and  persecutions  it  is  doomed  to 
\vk  out  its  triumph — we  profess  ourselves 
unf)le  to  conjecture.  The  disunion  of  the 
Icj^r  and  the  higher  classes,  which  was 
gn'ually  disappearing  with  the  increasing 
inllligeiice  of  the  former,  but  has  lately  been 
re) wed  by  circumstances  which  we  cannot 
noUtop  to  examine,  leailg,  we  must  confess, 
to'oomv  auijuries  as  to  the  character  of  this 
CO  est ;  and  hlls  us  with  apprehensions,  that 
it  ay  neither  be  peaceful  nor  brief.  But  in 
th:  as  in  every  other  respect,  we  conceive 
ihi  much  will  depend  on  the  part  that  is 
tain  by  America:  and  on  the  di.?positions 
w|'h  she  may  have  cultivated  towards  the 
diirent  parties  concerned.  Her  great  and 
gri|-ing  wealth  and  population — her  univer- 
miommercial  relations — her  own  impregna- 
blisecurity — and  her  remoteness  fiom  the 
so'e  of  dissension — must  give  her  prodigious 
poer  and  influence  in  such  a  crisis,  either  as 
a  )j?diator  or  umpire,  or,  if  she  take  a  part,  as 
anf.uxiliary  and  ally.  That  she  must  wish 
W()  to  the  cause  of  Fieedom,  it  would  be  in- 
defnt,  and  indeed  impious,  to  doubt — and 
thij  she  should  take  an  active  part  against  it. 
is  jthing  not  even  to  be  imagined  : — But  she 
ni;j  stand  aloof,  a  cold  and  disdainful  spec- 
talj-:  and.  counterfeiting  a  prudent  indiffer- 
en|  to  scenes  that  neither  can  nor  ought  to 
belidifferent  to  her,  may  see,  unmoved,  the 

Eri|)ngation  of  a  lamentable  contest,  which 
einterference  might  either  have  prevented, 
orlought  to  a  speedy  and  happy  termination. 
Ai  this  course  she  will  most  probably  follow, 
if  e  allows  herself  to  conceive  antipathies  to 
napns  for  the  faults  of  a  few  calumnious  in- 
di'lluals:  And  esi)ecially  if.  upon  grounds  so 
tri^l,  she  should  nourish  such  an  animosity 
tOKiids  England,  as  to  feel  a  repugnance  to 
in:e  common  cause  with  her,  even  in  behalf 
of  heir  common  inheritance  of  freedom. 

psuredly,  there  is  yet  no  other  country  in 
Eibpe  where  the  principles  of  liberty,  and 
thirights  and  duties  of  nations,  are  so  well 
un^rslood  as  with  us — or  in  which  so  great  a 
nuiber  of  men.  qualified  to  write,  speak,  and 
acLvith  authority,  are  at  all  times  ready  to 
tall  a  reasonable,  liberal,  and  practical  view 
of  ^o.se  principles  and  duties.  The  Govern- 
in<:t,  indeed,  has  not  always  been  either  wise 
or  -onerous,  to  its  own  or  to  other  countries : — 
bnlt  has  partaken,  or  at  least  has  been  con- 
trcpd  by  the  general  spirit  of  freedom;  and 
\v(iave  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  the  Free 
Couitulion  of  England  ha,>  been  a  blessing 
»i'!protecliori  to  the  remotest  nations  of  Eu- 
79 


rope  for  the  last  two  hundred  years.  Had 
England  not  been  free,  the  worst  despotism 
in  Europe  wonid  have  been  far  worse  than  it 
is,  at  this  moment.  If  our  world  had  been 
parcelled  out  among  arbitrary  monarchs.  they 
would  have  run  a  race  of  oppression,  and  en- 
couraged each  other  in  all  sorts  of  abuses. 
But  the  existence  of  one  powerful  and  flour- 
ishing State,  where  juster  maxims  were  ad- 
mitted, has  shamed  them  out  of  their  worst 
enormities,  given  countenance  and  encourage- 
ment to  the  claims  of  their  oppressed  subjects, 
and  gradually  taught  their  rulers  to  under- 
stand, that  a  certain  measure  of  libeity  was 
not  only  compatible  with  national  greatness 
and  splendour,  but  essential  to  its  support. 
In  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  England  was 
the  champion  and  asylum  of  Kejigioiis  Free- 
dom— III  those  of  King  William,  of  National 
Independence.  If  a  less  generous  spirit  has 
prevailed  in  her  Cabinet  since  the  settled  pre- 
dominance of  Tory  principles  in  her  councils. 
still,  the  eflects  of  her  Parliamentary  Oppo- 
sition— the  artillery  of  her  Free  Press — tne 
voice,  in  short,  of  her  People,  which  IMr.  W. 
has  so  strangely  mistaken,  have  not  been 
without  their  eflects; — and,  though  some  fla- 
grant acts  of  injustice  have  stained  her  recent 
annals,  we  still  venture  to  hope  that  the  dread 
of  the  British  Public  is  felt  as  far  as  Peters- 
burgh  and  Vienna;  and  ^^•ould  fain  indulge 
ourselves  with  the  belief,  that  it  may  yet  scare 
some  Imperial  spoiler  from  a  part  of  his  prey, 
and  lighten,  if  not  break,  the  chains  of  many 
distant  captives. 

It  is  in  aid  of  this  generous,  though  perhaps 
decaying  influence — it  is  as  an  associate  or 
successor  in  the  noble  office  of  patronising  and 
protecting  General  Liberty,  that  we  now  call 
upon  America  to  throw  from  her  the  memory 
of  ail  petty  difl^erences  and  nice  ofl"ences.  and 
to  unite  herself  cordially  with  the  liberal  and 
i  enlightened  part  of  the  English  nation,  at  a 
}  season  when  their  joint  efforts  may  be  all  little 
enough  to  crown  the  good  cause  with  success, 
and  when  their  disunion  will  give  dreadful 
I  advantages  to  the  enemies  of  improvement 
i  and  reform.  The  example  of  America  has 
I  already  done  much  for  that  cause  ;  and  the 
I  very  existence  of  such  a  country,  under  such 
a  government,  is  a  tower  of  strength,  and  a 
!  standard  of  encouragement,  for  all  who  may 
'  hereafter  have  to  struggle  for  the  restoration 
or  the  extension  of  their  rights.  It  shows 
i  within  what  wide  limits  popular  institutions 
I  are  safe  and  practicable ;  and  what  a  large 
infusion  of  democracy  is  consistent  with  the 
I  authority  of  government,  and  the  good  order 
j  of  society.  But  her  hijliicnce,  as  w  ell  as  her 
example,  will  be  wanted  in  the  crisis  which 
seems  to  be  approaching : — and  that  influence 
must  be  paralysed  and  inoperative,  if  she 
shall  think  it  a  duty  to  divide  herself  from 
England  :  to  look  wiih  jealousy  upon  her  pro- 
ceedings, and  to  judire  unfavourably  of  all  the 
parties  she  coiitains.  We  do  not  ask  her  to 
think  well  of  (hat  party,  whether  in  power  or 
out  of  it,  which  has  always  insulted  and  re- 
viled her.  because  she  is  free  and  independ- 
ent, and  democratic  and  prosi>erou8  : — But  wh 
3C 


626 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


do  confidently  lay  claim  to  her  favourable 
opinion  for  that  great  majority  of  the  nation 
which  has  always  been  opposed  to  this  parly 
--which  has  partaken  with  her  in  the  honour 
of  its  reproaches,  and  is  bound,  by  every  con- 
sideration of  interest  and  duty,  consistency 
and  common  sense,  to  maintain  her  rights  and 
her  reputation,  and  to  promote  and  proclaim 
her  prosperity. 

To  which  of  these  parties  we  belong,  and  to 
•which  onr  pen  has  been  devoted,  we  suppose 
it  is  unnecessary  for  us  to  announce,  even  in 
America;  and  therefore,  without  recapitulat- 
ing any  part  of  what  has  just  been  said,  we 
think  we  may  assume,  in  the  outset,  that  the 
charge  exhibited  against  us  by  Mr.  W.  is,  at 
least,  and  on  its  face,  a  very  unlucky  and  im- 
probable one — that  we  are  actuated  by  jeal- 
ousy and  spite  towards  America,  and  have 
joined  in  a  scheme  of  systematic  defamation, 
in  order  to  diffuse  among  our  countrymen  a 
general  sentiment  of  hostihty  and  dislike  to 
her  !  Grievous  as  this  charge  is.  we  should 
scarcely  have  thought  it  necessary  to  reply  to 
it,  had  not  the  question  appeared  to  us  to  re- 
late to  something  of  far  higher  importance 
than  the  character  of  our  Journal,  or  the  jus- 
tice or  injustice  of  an  imputation  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  a  few  anon}-mous  writers.  In  that 
case,  we  should  have  left  the  matter,  as  all 
the  world  knows  we  have  uniformly  left  it  in 
other  cases,  to  be  determined  by  our  readers 
upon  the  evidence  before  them.  But  Mr.  W. 
has  been  pleased  to  do  us  the  honour  of  identify- 
ing us  with  the  great  Whig  jiarty  of  this  coun- 
try, or,  rather,  of  considering  ns  as  the  expo- 
nents of  those  v.'ho  support  the  principles  of 
liberty,  as  it  is  understood  in  England  : — and 
to  think  his  case  sufficiently  made  out  against 
the  Nation  at  large,  if  he  can  prove  that  both 
the  Edinburgh  and  the  Quarterly  Review 
had  given  proof  of  deliberate  malice  and 
shameful  unfairness  on  the  subject  of  Ameri- 
ca. Now  this,  it  must  be  admitted,  gives  the 
question  a  magiiitude  that  would  not  other- 
wise belong  to  it;  and  makes  what  mi^dit  in 
itself  be  a  mere  persona!  or  literary  alterca- 
tion, a  matter  of  national  moment  and  con- 
cernment. If  a  sweeping  conviction  of  mean 
jealousy  and  rancorous  hostility  is  to  be  en- 
tered up  against  the  whole  British  nation,  and 
a  correspondinGf  spirit  to  be  conjured  up  in  the 
breast  of  America,  because  it  is  alleged  that 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  as  well  as  the  Quar- 
terly, has  given  proof  of  such  dispositions, — 
then  it  becomes  a  question  of  no  mean  or  or- 
dinary importance,  to  determine  whether  this 
charge  has  been  justly  brought  against  that 
unfortunate  journal,  and  whether  its  accuser 
has  made  out  enough  to  entitle  him  to  a  ver- 
dict leading  to  such  consequences. 

It  will  be  understood,  that  we  deny  alto- 
gether the  justice  of  the  charge  : — But  we 
wish  distinctly  to  savin  the  beginning,  that  if 
it  should  appear  to  anyone  that,  in  the  course 
of  a  great  deal  of  hasty  writing,  hy  a  variety 
of  hands,  in  the  course  of  twenty  long  years, 
Pome  rash  or  petulant  expressions  had  been 
admitted,  at  which  the  national  pride  of  our 
Transiatlantic  brethren  might  be  justly  offend- 


ed, we  shall  most  certainly  feel  no  an.tiety 
justify  these  expressions, — nor  any  fear  th: 
with  the  liberal  and  reasonable  part  of  i! 
nation  to  which  they  relate,  our  avowal  of  r 
gret  for  having  employed  them  will  not  1 
received  as  a  sufficient  atonement.  Even 
private  life,  and  without  the  provocation  ■ 
public  controversy,  there  are  not  many  m', 
who,  in  half  the  time  we  have  mentioned. . 
not  say  some  things  to  the  slight  or  disparac 
ment  of  their  best  friends;  which,  if  all  "s 
in  a  note-book,  conned  and  got  by  role," 
might  be  hard  to  answer : — and  yet,  amoi 
people  of  ordinary  sense  or  temper,  such  thin 
never  break  any  squares — and  the  disposilio 
are  judged  of  by  the  general  tenor  of  ow' 
life  and  conduct,  and  not  by  a  set  of  pecTirj 
phrases,  curiously  culled  and  selected  out  i' 
his  whole  conversation.  But  we  really  dor' 
think  that  we  shall  very  much  need  the  ber. 
fit  of  this  plain  consideration,  and  shall  pi 
ceed  straightway  to  our  answer. 

The  sum  of  it  is  this — That,  in  point  of  fai 
we  have  spoken  far  more  good  of  Ameri* 
than  ill — that  in  nine  instances  out  of  t^ 
where  we  have  mentioned  her,  it  has  bet! 
for  praise — and  that  in  almost  all  that  is  esse! 
tial  or  of  serious  importance,  we  havespokq 
nothing  but  good; — while  our  censures  ha . 
been  wholly  confined  to  matters  of  inferi 
note,  and  generally  accompanied  with  :. 
apology  for  their  existence,  and  a  predicti« 
of  their  speedy  disappearance. 

Whatever  we  have  written  serionsly  a 
with  earnestness  of  America,  has  been  w 
a  view  to  conciliate  toward?  her  the  resp> 
and  esteem  of  our  own  country;  and  we  ha 
scarcely  named  her,  in  any  deliberate  ma 
ner,  except  for  the  purpose  of  impressing UJM 
our  readers  the  signal  prosperity  she  has  a 
joyed — the  magical  rapidity  of  her  advana 
in  wealth  and  population — and  the  extiaonj 
nary  power  and  greatness  to  which  she  isf" 
dently  de.«tined.  On  these  subjects  we  ha 
held  hut  one  language,  and  one  tenor  of  st 
timent ;  and  have  never  missed  an  oppori 
nity  of  enforcing  onr  views  on  our  readers 
and  that  not  feebly,  coldly,  or  reluctantly,  t. 
with  all  the  earnestness  and  energ)'  of  whij 
we  were  capable  :  and  we  do  accordingly  tan 
upon  us  to  say.  that  in  no  European  pnbli(' 
tion  have  those  views  been  urged  with  I 
same  force  or  frequency,  or  resumed  at  evt 
season,  and  under  every  change  of  circu 
stances,  with  such  steadiness  and  uniformi 
We  have  been  equally  consistent  andequa 
explicit,  in  pointing  out  the  advantages  whij 
that  country  has  derived  from  the  extent  | 
her  elective  system — the  lightness  of  her  pc] 
lie  burdens— the  freedom  of  her  press— a.' 
the  independent  spirit  of  her  people.^  T 
praise  of  the  Government  is  implied  in  t 
praise  of  these  institutions;  but  we  haven 
omitted  upon  every  occasion  to  testify,  in  « 
press  terms,  to  its  general  wisdom,  equity,  a 
prudence.  Of  the  character  of  the  peep 
too,  in  all  its  more  serious  aspects,  we  ha 
spoken  with  the  same  undeviating  few/ 
and  have  always  represented  them  as  bra' 
enterprising.  acutC;  industrious,  and  patriot 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


«asr 


Weieed  not  load  our  pages  with  quotations  I 
to  pve  the  accuracy  of  this  representation 

o;  whale  work   is  full  of  them;  ami  Mr. 

VV.  nnself  has  quoted  enough,  both  in  the 
uutit  of  his  book  and  in  the  body  of  it,  to 
eati  y  even  such  as  may  take  their  informa- 
tioiiiom  him.  that  such  have  always  been 
;)Ur,,iinions.  Mr.  VV.  indeed  seems  to  ima- 
rriii(thut  other  passages,  which  he  has  cited, 
imft  a  contradiction  or  retractation  of  these ; 
md'tial  we  are  thus  involved,  not  only  in  the 
iruiiof  malice,  but  the  awkwardness  of  in- 
^onitency.  Now  this,  as  we  take  it^  is  one 
jf  t  ■  radical  and  almost  unaccountable  errors 
wit  .vhii'h  the  work  before  us  is  chargeable. 
The  is  no  such  retractation,  and  no  contradic- 
non  We  can  of  course  do  no  more,  on  a  point 
like  lis.than  make  a  distinct  asseveration;  but, 
tfteliaving  perused  Mr.  W.'s  book,  and  with 
1  pity  correct  knowledge  of  the  Review,  we 
:lo  H' distinctly,  that  there  is  not  to  be  found 
ill  thera  siiigle  passage  inconsistent,  or  at 
ill ;  variance  with  the  sentiments  to  which 
^ve  ive  just  alluded.  We  have  never  spoken 
but  1  one  way  of  the  prosperity  and  future 
ure;  less  of  America,  and  of  the  importance 
af  titivating  amicable  relations  with  her — 
iiev,  but  in  one  way  of  the  freedom,  cheap- 
nes  and  general  wisdom  of  her  government 
— n'erbut  in  one  way  of  the  bravery,  intelli- 
len';  activity,  and  patriotism  of  her  people, 
rhfpoints  on  which  Mr.  W.  accuses,  us  of 
male  and  unfairness,  all  relate,  as  we  shall 
see  nmediately,  to  other  and  far  less  con- 
bidtible  matters. 

i^uming,  then,  as  we  must  now  do,  that 
upo  the  subjects  that  have  been  specified, 
our-stimony  has  been  eminently  and  e.xclu- 
sivt-  favourable  to  America,  and  that  we  have 
nev  ceased  earnestly  to  recommend  the  most 
cored  and  friendly  relations  with  her,  how, 
it  ny  be  asked,  is  it  possible  that  we  should 
hav  deserved  to  be  classed  among  the  chief 
aiulnost  malignant  of  her  calumniators,  or 
ace  ed  of  a  design  to  excite  hostility  to  her 
in  \ii  body  of  our  nation "?  and  even  repre- 
send  as  making  reciprocal  hostility  a  point 
of  (ity  in  her.  by  the  excesses  of  our  oblo- 
(juy  For  ourselves,  we  profess  to  be  as  little 
ablt'.o  answer  this  question,  as  the  most  ig- 
nort  of  our  readers; — but  we  shall  lay  be- 
forchem  some  account  of  the  proofs  on  which 
MrW.  relies  for  our  condemnation;  and 
(■he  fully  submit  to  any  sentence  which  these 
ma  seem  to  justify.  There  are  a  variety  of 
ecu  s  in  our  indictment ;  but,  in  so  far  as  we 
hav  been  able  to  collect,  the  heads  of  our 
off(  ling  are  as  follows.  1st,  That  we  havt; 
not  h1;  vvhh  uncharitable  and  undue  severity, 
thedmitted  want  of  indigenous  literature  in 
Arrrica,  and  the  scarcity  of  men  of  genius; 
2d,;s  an  illustration  of  that  charge.  That  we 
ha^  laughed  too  ill-naturedly  at  the  afTecta- 
tioi  of  Joel  Barlow's  Columbiad,  made  an  un- 
faii'Stimate  of  the  merits  of  Marshall's  His- 
tor  and  Adams'  Letters,  and  spoken  illiber- 
alhf  the  insignificance  of  certain  American 
Ph'sophical  Transactions;  3dly,  That  we 
hai  represented  the  manners  of  the  fashion- 
abl  society  of  America  as  less  polished  and 


agreeable  than  those  of  Europe — the  lower 
orders  as  impertinently  in(iuisitive,  and  the 
whole  as  loo  vain  of  their  country ;  4lli,  and 
finally,  That  we  have  reproached  them  too 
bitterly  with  their  negro  slavery. 

These,  we  think,  are  the  whole,  and  certainly 
they  ai(!  the  chief,  of  ihechaigt's  ag;iiiist  us; 
and,  before  sayingany  thing  as  to  the  particu- 
lars, we  should  just  like  to  ask.  whether,  if 
they  were  all  admitted  to  be  true,  they  would 
atTord  any  sufficient  grounds,  especially  when 
set  by  the  side  of  the  favourable  representa- 
tions we  have  made  with  so  much  more  earn- 
estness on  points  of  much  more  importance, 
for  imputing  to  their  authors,  ami  to  the  whole 
body  of  their  coinitrymeii,  a  systenuitic  de- 
sign to  make  America  odious  and  despicable 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world  ?  This  charge,  we 
will  confess,  appears  to  us  most  extravagant 
— and,  when  the  facts  already  stated  are  taken 
into  view,  altogether  ridiculous.  Though  we 
are  the  friends  and  well-wishersof\he  Ameri- 
cans— though  we  think  favourably,  and  even 
highly,  of  many  things  in  their  Jiistitutione, 
government,  and  character, — we  are  not  their 
stipendiary  Laureates  or  blind  adulators  ;  and 
must  insist  on  our  right  to  take  notice  of  what 
we  conceive  to  be  their  errors  and  delects, 
with  the  same  freedom  which  we  use  to  our 
own  and  to  all  other  nations.  It  has  already 
been  shown,  that  we  have  by  no  means  con- 
fined ourselves  to  this  privilege  of  censure  ; 
and  the  complaint  seems  to  be,  that  we  should 
ever  have  presumed  to  use  it  at  all.  We  really 
do  not  understand  this.  We  have  spoken  much 
more  favourably  of  their  government  and  in- 
stitutions than  Ave  have  done  of  our  own.  We 
have  criticised  their  authors  with  at  least  as 
much  indulgence,  and  spoken  of  their  national 
character  in  terms  of  equal  respect :  But  be- 
cause we  have  pointed  out  certain  undeniable 
defects,  and  laughed  at  some  indefensible  ab- 
surdities, we  are  accused  of  the  most  partial 
and  unfair  nationality,  and  represented  as  en- 
gaged in  a  conspiracy  to  bring  the  whole  nation 
into  disrepute  !  Even  if  we  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  ditfer  in  opinion  with  Mr.  W.,  or  the 
majority  of  his  countrymen,  on  most  of  the 
points  to  which  our  censure  has  been  directed, 
instead  of  having  his  substantial  admission  of 
their  justice  in  rnost  instances,  this,  it  humbly 
appears  to  us,  would  neitherbea  good  ground 
for  questioning  our  good  faith,  nor  a  reason- 
able occasion  for  denouncing  a  general  hos- 
tility agaiiisl  the  country  to  which  we  belong. 
Men  may  difli"er  conscientiously  in  their  taste 
in  literature  and  manners,  and  in  their  opinions 
as  to  the  injustice  or  sinfulness  of  domestic 
slavery ;  and  may  express  their  opinions  in 
public — or  so  at  least  we  have  fancied — with- 
out being  actuated  by  spite  or  malignity.  But 
a  very  slight  examination  of  each  of  the  arti- 
cles of  charge  will  show  still  more  clearly 
upon  what  slight  grounds  they  have  been 
hazarded,  and  how  much  more  of  spleen  than 
of  reason  there  is  in  the  accusation. 

1.  Uponjhe /ir.s^  head,  Mr.  W.  neither  does, 
nor  can  deny,  that  our  statements  are  ])erfectly 
correct.  The  Americans  have  scauely  any 
literature  of  their  own  growth— and  scarcely 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


any  authors  of  celebrity.*  The  fact  is  too 
remarkable  not  lo  have  been  noticed  by  all 
who  have  occasion  to  speak  of  them  ; — and 
we  have  only  to  add.  that,  so  far  from  bringing 
it  forward  in  an  insuUingor  invidious  manner, 
we  have  never.  \ve  believe,  alluded  to  it  with- 
out adding  such  explanations  as  in  candour 
we  thought  due.  and  as  were  calculated  to 
lake  from  it  all  shadow  of  offence.  So  early 
as  in  our  third  Number  (printed  in  1802).  we 
observed  that  "Literatuie  was  one  of  those 
finer  Manufactures  which  a  new  country  will 
always  find  it  better  to  import  than  to  raise  :" 
— and.  after  showing  that  the  want  of  leisure 
and  hereditary  wealth  naturally  lead  to  this 
arrangement,  we  added,  that  "  the  Americans 
had  .shown  abundance  of  talent,  wherever  in- 
ducements had  been  held  out  for  its  e.vertion ; 
that  their  party-pamphlets  were  written  with 
great  keenness  and  spirit :  and  that  their  ora- 
tors frequently  displayed  a  vehemence,  cor- 
rectness, and  animation,  that  would  command 
the  admiration  of  any  European  audience." 
Mr.  W.  has  himself  quoted  the  warm  testi- 
mony we  bore,  in  our  twelfth  Volume,  to  the 
merits  of  the  papers  published  under  the  title 
of  The  Federalist : — And  in  our  sixteenth,  we 
observe,  that  when  America  once  turned  her 
attention  to  letters,  "we  had  no  doubt  that 
her  authors  would  improve  and  multiply,  to  a 
degree  that  would  make  all  our  exertions 
necessary  to  keep  the  start  we  have  of  them." 
In  a  subsequent  Number,  we  add  the  miport- 
ant  remark,  that  '-among  them,  the  men  who 
vrite  bear  no  proportion  to  those  who  read :'' 
and  that,  though  they  have  as  yet  but  few 
native  authors,  "the  individuals  are  innumer- 
able who  make  use  of  literature  to  improve 
their  understandings,  and  aild  to  their  happi- 
ness.*' The  very  same  ideas  are  expressed 
in  a  late  article,  which  seems  to  have  given 
Mr.  W.  very  great  ofi'ence — though  we  can 
discover  nothing  in  the  passage  in  question, 
except  the  liveliness  of  the  style,  that  can 
afford  room  for  misconstruction.  '•  Native  lite- 
rature," says  the  Reviewer,  ''the  Americans 
have  none:  It  is  all  imported.  Atid  why 
should  they  write  books,  when  a  six  weeks' 
passage  brings  them,  in  their  own  tongue,  our 
sense,  science,  a.fid  genius,  in  bales  and  hogs- 
heads ?" — Now,  wliat  is  the  true  meaning  of 
this,  but  the  follovvins-^ — "The  Americans  do 
not  write  books  ■.  but  it  must  not  be  inferred, 
from  this,  that  they  are  ignorant  or  indifferent 
about  literature. — The  true  reason  is.  that  they 
get  books  enough  from  us  in  their  own  lan- 
guage ;  and  are.  in  this  respect,  just  in  the 
conciition  of  any  of  our  great  trading  or  manu- 
facturing districts  at  horne.  within  the  locality 
of  which  there  isr.o  encouragement  for  authors 
to  settle,  though  there  is  at  least  as  much 
reading  and  thinking  as  in  other  places." 
This  has  all  along  been  our  meaning — and 
we  think  it  has  been  clearly  enough  express- 
ed.    The  Americans,  in  fact,  are  at  least  as 

*  This  might  require  more  qualiffnrition  now, 
than  in  1820,  when  ii  was  writipn — or  rather,  than 
in  1810,  before  which  almost  all  the  roview.q  con- 
taining the  assertion  had  appeared. 


great  readers  as  the  English,  and  take  off  im 
mense  editions  of  all  our  popular  works  ;- 
and  while  we  have  repeatedly  stated  thi 
causes  that  have  probably  withheld  then 
from  becoming  authors  in  great  mimbei 
themselves,  we  confidently  deny  that  we  hav 
ever  represented  them  as  illiterate,  or  ne'^ 
ligent  of  learning. 

2.  As  to  our  particular  criticisms  on  Ameri 
can  works,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that  ou 
justification  will  be  altogether  as  easy  as  ii 
the  case  of  our  general  remarks  on  their  rarit\ 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  more  strikingly  iilustrai 
the  unfortunate  prejudice  or  irritation  unde 
which  Mr.  W.  has  compo.sed  this  part  of  h; 
work,  than  the  morose  and  angry  remarks  h 
has  made  on  our  very  innocent  and  good 
natured  critique  of  Barlow's  Columbiad.  It  i 
very  true  that  we  have  laughed  at  its  stran;: 
neologisms,  and  pointed  out  some  of  its  otht 
manifold  faults.  But  is  it  possible  for  any  on 
seriously  to  believe,  that  this  gentle  casti£ratio 
was  dictated  by  national  animosity  ? — or  doi 
Mt.  W.  really  believe  that,  if  the  same  wor 
had  been  published  in  England,  it  would  hav 

I  met  with  a  milder  treatment  ?  If  the  book  wa; 

I  so  bad.  however,  he  insinuates,  why  take 

I  notice  of  it,  if  not  to  indulge  your  malignit' 
To  this  we  answer,  first,  That  a  han 

•  quarto  of  verse,  from  a  country  Avhich 
duces  so  few,  necessarily  attracted  our  a1 

i  tion  more  strongly  than   if  it   had  appeal 

'  among   ourselves  ;   secondly.    That   its  fa 
were  of  so  peculiar  and  amusing  a  kind,  as 

i  call  for  animadversion  rather  than  negl 
and,  thirdly,  what  no  reader  of  Mr.  W. 
remarks  would  indeed  anticipate,  That, 
spite  of  these  faults,  the  book  actually  lu 
merits  that  entitled  it  to  notice:  and  that 
very  considerable  part  of  our  article  is  a 
cordingly  employed  in  bringing  those 
into  view.  In  common  candour,  we  mustsa 
Mr.  W.  should  have  acknowledged  this,  whi 
complaining  of  the  illiberal  severity  wi 
which  Mr.  Barlow's  work  had  been  treate 
For,  the  truth  is.  that  we  have  given  it  fnl 
as  much  praise  as  he,  or  any  other  intelligt 
American,  can  say  it  deserves  ;  and  have  m[ 
at  some  pains  in  vindicating  the  author's  sej 
timents  from  misconstruction,  as  well  as  It! 
cuing  his  beauties  from  neglect.  Yet  Mr.lj 
is  pleased  to  inform  his  reader,  that  the  wc 
"seems  to  have  been  committed  to  theK 
mus  of  the  fraternity  for  especial  div 
and  is  very  surly  and  austere  at  '-thee-vqaia 
jokes''  of  which  he  says  it  consists.  We  Cj 
tainly  do  not  mean  to  di.'spute  with  him  abff 
the  ipiality  of  our  jokes: — though  we  ta! 
leave  to  appeal  to  a  gayer  critic — or  to  hi! 
self  in  better  humour — from  his  present  st^ 
fence  of  reprobation.  But  he  should  have  } 
collected,  that,  besides  stating,  in  distil! 
terms,  that  "his  versification  was  generaf 
both  soft  and  sonorous,  and  that  there  w 
many  pas.«ages  of  rich  and  vigorous  desci 
tion,  and  some  that  might  lay  claim  ever 
the  praise  of  magnificence,"  the  critics  H 
summed  up  their  observations  by  sayi . 
"  that  the  author's  talents  were  evidently  ■ 
spectable :  and  that,   severely  as   they  1 1 


dial' 


Hit 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


629 


;en  obliged  to  speak  of  his  taste  and  his  dic- 
m,  in  a  great  part  of  the  volume,  they  con- 
lered  him  as  a  giant  in  comparison  with 
■any  of  the  paltr}and  puling  rhymsters  who 
jpgraced  our  English  literature  by  tht'ir  oe- 
'.sional  success  j  and  that,  if  he  would  pay 
'me  attention  to  purity  of  style  and  sinipli- 
,ty  of  composition,  they  had  no  doubt  that  he 
iigbt  produce  something  which  English  poets 
;3uld  envy,  and  English  critics  applaud.'' 
Are  there  any  ti'aces  here,  we  would  ask, 
national  spite  and  hostility'? — or  is  it  not 
je,  that  our  account  of  the  poem  is,  on  the 
hole,  not  only  fair  but  favourable,  and  the 
ne  of  our  remarks  as  good-humoured  and 
liendly  as  if  the  author  had  been  a  whiggish 
jotchman  ?  As  to  '•  JMarshall's  Life  of  Wash- 
Jgton,"  we  do  not  think  that  ]\Ir.  ^V.  differs 
!ry  much  from  the  Reviewers.  He  says, 
he  does  not  mean  to  alfirm  that  the  story  of 
eir  Revolution  has  been  told  absolutely  well 
>/  this  author-"  and  we,  after  complaining  of 
13  being  cold,  heavy,  and  tedious,  have  dis- 
i'lctly  testified,  that  "it  displayecl  industry, 
lod  sense,  and,  in  so  far  as  we  could  judge, 
|udable  impartiality ;  and  that  the  style, 
.ough  neither  elegant  nor  impressive,  was 
iJt,  upon  the  whole,  clear  and  manly."  Mr. 
[''.,  however,  thinks  that  nothing  but  national 
i)ite  and  illiberality  can  account  for  our  say- 
jg,  '•'  that  Mr.  M.  must  not  promise  himself 
reputation  commensurate  with  the  dimen- 
ions  of  his  work;"  and  "that  what  passes 
|ith  him  for  dignity,  will,  by  his  readers,  be 
:'-onounced  duhiess  and  frigidity;"  And  then 


endeavours  to   show,  that 


passage   in 


hich  we  say  that  "Mr.  Marshall's  narrative 
j  deficient  in  almost  every  thing  that  con- 
litutes  historical  excellence,"  is  glaringly  in- 
Wsistent  with  flie  favourable  sentence  we 
jive  transcribed  in  the  beginning:  not  see- 
|ig,  or  not  choosing  to  see,  that  ni  the  one 
llace  we  are  speaking  of  the  literary  merits 
l"  the  work  as  an  historical  composition,  and 
ji  the  other  of  its  value  in  respect  of  the 
news  and  information  it  supplies.  But  the 
iaestion  is  not,  whether  our  criticism  is  just 
[id  able,  or  otherwise ;  but  whether  it  indi- 
;itesany  little  spirit  of  detraction  and  national 
iincour — and  this  it  would  seem  not  very  dif- 
bult  to  answer.  If  we  had  taken  the  occasion 
if  this  publication  to  gather  together  all  the 
[)olish,  and  awkward,  and  disreputable  things 
iiat  occurred  in  the  conduct  of  the  revolu- 
[onary  councils  and  campaigns,  and  to  make 
le  history  of  this  memorable  struggle,  a 
fehicle  for  insinuations  against  the  couiage 
jr  integrity  of  many  who  took  part  in  it,  we 
[light,  with  reason,  have  been  subjected  to 
jie  censure  we  now  confidently  repel.  But 
jiere  is  not  a  word  in  the  article  that  looks 
jiat  way;  and  the  only  ground  for  the  impn- 
iition  is,  that  we  have' called  Mr.  Marshall's 
ook  dull  and  honest,  accurate  and  heavy, 
.aluableand  tedious,  while  neither  Mr.  AValsh, 
|0r  any  body  else,  ever  thought  or  said  any 
|iing  else  of  it.  It  is  his  style  only  that  we 
jbject  to.  Of  his  general  sentiments — of  the 
|Onduct  and  character  of  his  hero — and  of 
p  prospects  of  his  country,  we  speak  as  the 


u 


warmest  friends  of  America,  and  the  warmest 
admirers  of  American  virtue,  woukl  wish  us 
to  speak.  We  shall  add  but  one  short  passage 
as  a  specimen  of  the  real  tone  of  this  insolent 
and  illiberal  production. 

"  History  has  no  oiher  e.xamplc  of  so  happy  an 
issue  to  a  revolution,  consummated  by  a  lontr  civil 
war.  Indfcd  ii  seems  to  be  very  near  a  maxim  in 
political  philosophy,  that  a  free  government  cannot 
1)0  obtained  where  a  long  employment  of  military 
force  lias  been  necessary  to  establish  it.  In  the 
case  of  America,  however,  the  military  power  was, 
by  a  rare  felicity,  disarmed  by  that  very  influence 
which  makes  a  revolutionary  army  so  tii)rmidable 
to  liberty :  For  the  images  of  Grandeur  and  Power 
— those  meteor  lights  diat  are  exhaled  in  the  stormy 
atmosphere  of  a  revolution,  to  allure  the  ambi- 
tious and  dazzle  the  weak — made  no  impression 
on  the  firm  and  virtuous  soul  ol'  the  American 
commander." 

As  to  Adams'  Letters  on  Silesia,  the  case  is 
nearly  the  same.  We  certainly  do  not  run 
into  extravagant  compliments  to  the  author, 
because  he  happens  to  be  the  son  of  the 
American  President :  But  he  is  treated  with 
sufficient  courtesy  and  respect:  and  Mr.  W. 
cannot  well  deny  that  the  book  is  very  fairly 
rated,  according  to  its  intrinsic  merits.  There 
is  no  ridicule,  nor  any  attempt  at  sneering, 
throughout  the  article.  The  work  is  described 
as  "  easy  and  pleasant,  and  entertaining," — as 
containing  some  excellent  remarks  on  Educa- 
tion,— and  indicating,  throughout,  "  that  set- 
tled attachment  to  freedom  which  is  worked 
into  the  constitution  of  every  man  of  virtue 
who  has  the  fortune  to  belong  to  a  free  and 
prosperous  community."  As  to  the  style,  we 
remaik.  certainly  in  a  very  good-natured  and 
inoffensive  manner,  that  "  though  it  is  re- 
markably free  from  those  affectations  and 
corruptions  of  phrase  that  overrun  the  com- 
positions of  his  country,  a  few  national,  per- 
haps we  might  still  venture  to  call  them  pro- 
vincial, peculiarities,  might  be  detected;" 
and  then  we  add,  in  a  style  which  we  do  not 
think  can  appear  impolite,  even  to  a  minister 
pleni])otentiary;  "that  if  men  of  birth  and 
education  in  that  other  England  which  they 
are  building  up  in  the  West,  will  not  dili- 
gently study  the  great  authors  who  fixed  and 
purified  the  language  of  our  common  fore- 
fathers, we  must  soon  lose  the  only  badge 
that  is  still  worn  of  our  consanguinity."  Un- 
less the  Americans  are  really  to  set  up  a 
new  standard  of  speech,  we  conceive  that 
these  remarks  are  perfectly  just  and  unan- 
swerable; and  we  are  sure,  at  all  events,  that 
nothing  can  be  farther  from  a  spirit  of  insult 
or  malevolence. 

Our  critique  on  the  volume  of  American 
Transactions  is  peihaps  tnore  liable  to  objec- 
tion;  and,  on  looking  back  to  it,  we  at  once 
admit  that  it  contains  some  petulant  and  rash 
expiessions  which  had  better  have  been  omit- 
ted— and  that  its  general  tone  is  less  liberal 
and  courteous  than  might  have  been  desired. 
It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  this,  which  is 
by  far  the  most  offensive  of  our  discussions 
on  American  literature,  is  one  of  the  earliest, 
and  that  the  sarcasms  with  which  it  is  sea- 
soned have  never  been  repealed — a  fact 
3c  2 


m 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


■which,  with  many  others,  may  serve  to  ex- 1  ers  and  remote  Irish.  But  slight  as  ihU 
pose  the  singular  inaccuracy  with  which  Mr.  charges  are,  we  may  admit,  that  Mr.  W.  woil 
W.  has  been  led,  throughout  his  work,  to  as-  have  had  some  reason  to  complain  if  they  H 
aert  that  we  began  our  labours  with  civility  included  all  that  we  had  ever  said  of  thegr  t 
and  kindness  towards  his  country,  and  have  bulk  of  his  nation.  But  the  truth  is,  that  • 
only  lately  changed  our  tone,  and  joined  its  ;  have  all  along  been  much  more  careful  to  ■ 
inveterate  enemies  in  all  the  extravagance  of  ',  tice  their  virtues  than  their  faults,  and  have  1 1 
abuse.  The  substance  of  our  criticism,  it  does  no  fair  opportunity  of  speaking  well  of  tht . 
not  seem  to  be  disputed,  was  just — the  volume  ,  In  our  twenty-third  Number,  we  have  si 
containing  very  little  that  was  at  all  interest-  ,  '-The  great  body  of  the  American  people; 
ing,  and  a  good  part  of  it  being  composed  in  1  better  educated,  and  more  comfortably  situat  , 
a  style  very  ill  suited  for  such  a  publication.  |  than  the  bulk  of  any  European  commuiii  ; 
Such  are  the  perversions  of  our  critical  and  possesses  all  the  accomplishments  t  ; 
office,  which  Mr.  VV.  can  only  explain  on  the  i  are  anywhere  to  be  found  in  persons  of  i> 
suppo.'iition  of  national  jealousy  and  malice,  same  occupation  and  condition."  And  m-t 
As  proofs  of  an  opposite  disposition,  we  beg  recently,  "  The  Americans  are  about  as  f . 
leave  just  to  refer  to  our  lavish  and  reiterated  ;  ished  as  ninety-nine  out  of  one  hundred  of  i  • 
praise  of  the  writings  of  Franklin — to  our  '  own  countrymen,  in  the  upper  ranks;  a  I 
high  and  distinguished  testimony  to  the  merits  mite  as  moral,  and  well  educated,  in  the  lent . 
of  The  Federalist — to  the  terms  of  commend-  Their  virtues  too  are  such  as  we  ought  to  ;  ■ 
ation  in  which  we  have  spoken  of  the  Journal  mire;  for  they  are  those  on  which  we  va  ; 
of  Messrs.  Lewis  and  Clarke ;  and  in  an  espe-  j  ourselves  most  highly."'  We  have  never  si 
cial  manner,  to  the  great  kindness  with  which  any  thing  inconsistent  with  this  : — and  if  t  > 
we  have  treated  a  certain  American  pam])hlet  be  to  libel  a  whole  nation,  and  to  villify  :  I 
published  at  Philadelphia  and  London  in  1810,  I 
and  of  which  we  shall  have  a  word  to  say 
hereafter, — thouijh  each  and  all  of  those  per- 
formances touched  much  more  nearly  on  sub- 1 
jects  of  national  contention,  and  were  far 
more  apt  to  provoke  feelings  of  rivah)-,  than 


degrade  them  in  comparison  of  ourselves, 
have  certainly  been  guilty  of  that  enormit; 

As  for  the  manners  of  the  upper  classes.  » 
have  really  said  very  little  about  them. ;  1 
can  scarcely  recollect  having  given  any  pi  - 
live  opinion  on  the  subject.     We  have  lat  ,• 


any  thing  in"  the  Philosophical  Transactions,  1  quoted,  with  warm  approbation.  Captain  Ha 
or  "the  tuneful  pages  of  the  Columbiad.  |  strong  and  very  respectable  testimony  to  tl  r 

3.  We  come  now  to  the  ticklish  Chapter  of  ,  agreeableness — and  certainly  have  never  c  - 
Manners;  on  which,  though  we  have  said  less  j  tradicted  it  on  our  own  authority.  We  h; ; 
than  on  any  other,  we  suspect  we  have  given  made  however  certain  hypothetical  and  c 
more  offence — and,  if  possible,  with  le 


^ss  rea- 
son. We  may  despatch  the  lower  orders  first, 
before  we  come  to  the  people  of  fashion.  The 
charge  here  i.s,  that  we  have  unjustly  libelled 
those  persons,  by  sa3'ing.  in  one  place,  that 
they  were  too  much  addicted  to  spirituous  li- 
quors ;  in  another,  that  they  were  rudely  in- 
quisitive ;  and  in  a  third,  that  they  were 
absurdly  vain  of  their  free  constitution,  and 
ofTeiisive  in  boasting  of  it.  Now,  we  may  have 
been  mistaken  in  making  these  imputations  ; 
but  we  find  them  stateil  in  the  narrative  of 
every  traveller  who  has  visited  their  country  : 
and  most  of  them  noticed  by  the  better  wri- 
ters among  themselves,  from  Franklin  to 
Cooper  inclusive.  We  have  noticed  them, 
too,  without  bitterness  or  in.sult,  and  generally 
in  the  worde  of  the  authors  upon  whose  au- 
thority they  are  stated.  Neither  are  the  im- 
putations themselves  very  grievous,  or  such 
as  can  be  thought  to  bespeak  any  great  ma- 
lignity in  their  authors.  Their  inquisitiveness, 
and  the  boast  of  their  freedom,  are  but  ex- 
cesses of  laudable  qualities;  and  intemper- 
ance, though  it  is  apt  to  lead  further,  is,  in 
itself;  a  sin  rather  against  prudence  than  mo- 
rality. Mr.  W.  is  infinitely  ofTended.  too,  be- 
cause we  have  sjiid  that  'the  people  of  the 
Western  Slates  are  very  hospitable  to  strangers 
— 6ecot/.sc  they  are  seldom  troubled  with  them. 
and  because  they  have  always  plenty  of  mai/e 
and  hams;"  as  if  this  were  not  the  rationale 
of  all  hospitality  among  the  lower  orders, 
throughout  the  world,  — and  familiarly  aj>plied, 
among  ourselves,  to  the  case  of  our  Highland- 


jectural  observations,  which,  we  gcither  fi  i 
Mr.  W.,  have  given  some  offence — we  ir  t 
say,  we  think,  very  unreasonably.  We  h  3 
sai(l,  for  example,  as  alread};quoted,  that  "  e 
Americans  are  about  as  polished  as  nint  - 
nine  in  one  hundred  of  our  own  countryn:i 
in  the  upper  ranks.''  Is  it  the  reservation  t 
this  inconsiderable  fraction  in  our  own  fav  r 
that  is  resented  ?  Why,  our  very  seniority,  e 
think,  might  have  entitled  us  to  this  prt  - 
dence:  and  we  must  say  that  our  monary 
— our  nobility — our  greater  proportion  of  - 
reditary  wealth,  and  our  closer  connection  v  h 
the  old  civilised  world,  might  have  justifif 'a 
hijiher  percentage.  But  we  will  not  disp  fi 
with  Mr.  W.  even  upon  this  point.  Let  In 
set  down  the  fraction,  if  he  pleases,  to  e. 
score  merely  of  our  national  partiality  : — J 
he  must  estimate  that  element  very  far  ind'ii 
below  its  ordinary  standard,  if  he  does  not  il 
it  sufficient  for  it,  without  the  suppositioi  t 
intended  insult  or  malignity.  Was  there  i  t 
any  great  nation  that  did  not  prefer  its  (  n 
manners  to  those  of  any  of  its  neighbours  - 
or  can  Mr.  W.  produce  another  instanct  n 
which  it  was  ever  before  allowed,  that  a  r,d 
came  so  near  as  to  be  within  one  hundi  h 
of  its  own  excellence  !  j"^ 

But  there  is  still  something  worse  than  IV 
Understanding  that  the  most  considerable  ;>,! 
.sons  ill  the  chief  cities  of  America,  were  1 1 
opulent  merchants,  we  conJLctured  that  t* 
society  was  probably  much  of  the  same  ' 
ciiplion  with  that  of  Liverpool.  Manchef^l 
and  Glasgow  : — And  does  Mr.  W.  really  tl  K 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


631 


i.ere  is  any  disparagement  in  this? — Does  he 
bt  know  that  these  places  have  been  graced, 
iir  generations,  by  some  of  the  most  deserving 
(id  enlightened  citizens,  and  some  of  the  most 
larned  and  accomplished  men  that  have  ever 
ijonied  our  nation?  Does  he  not  know  that 
i.dam  Smith,  and  Reid.  and  IMiller,  spent  their 
lappiest  da3S  in  Gla.sgo\v;  that  Ro.^coe  and 
turrie  illasirated  the  society  of  Liverpool  — 
jnd  Priestlc}-  and  Ferriar  and  Darwin  that  of 
ilanchester?  The  wealth  and  skill  and  enter- 
I'rise  of  all  the  places  is  equally  indisputable 
-and  we  confess  we  are  yet  to  learn  in  which 
if  the  elements  of  respectability  they  can  be 
-nagined  to  be  inferior  to  New  York,  or  Bal- 
imore,  or  Philadelphia. 

But  there  is  yet  another  passage  in  the  Re- 
view which  Mr.  W.  has  quoted  as  insulting 
iid  vituperative — for  such  a  construction  of 
ivhich  we  confess  ourselves  still  less  able  to 
divine  a  reason.  It  is  part  of  an  honest  and 
eery  earnest  attempt  to  overcome  the  high 
'nonarchical  prejudices  of  a  part  of  our  own 
'ountry  against  the  Americans,  and  notices 
his  objection  to  their  manners  only  collaterally 
iind  hypothetically.  Mr.  W.  neeils  not  be  told 
ihat  all  courtiers  and  zealots  of  monarchy  im- 
oule  rudeness  and  vulgarity  to  republicans. 
irhe  French  used  to  (iescribe  an  inelegant 
Ijerson  as  having  "  Les  manieres  d'un  Suisse, 
lEn  Hollande  civilise  ;" — and  the  Court  faction 
imong  ourselves  did  not  omit  this  reproach 
when  we  went  to  war  with  the  Americans. 
To  expose  the  absurdity  of  such  an  attack, 
we  expressed  ourselves  in  1814  as  follows. 

1  "  The  complaint  respecting  Amerina  is,  that  there 
iare  no  people  of  fashion, — that  their  cohimn  siili 
yanls  its  Corinthian  capital,  or,  in  other  words,  that 
those  who  are  rich  and  idle,  have  not  yet  existed  so 
long,  or  in  such  numbers,  as  to  have  brought  lo  tull 
:periection  that  system  of  ingenious  trifling  and  ele- 
■gant  dissipation,  by  means  of  which  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  wealih  and  leisure  may  be  most  agree- 
.ably  disposed  of.  .Admitting  the  fact  to  be  so,  and 
in  a  country  where  there  is  no  court,  no  nobility. 
and  no  monument  or  tradition  of  chivalrous  usages, 
— and  where,  moreover,  the  greatest  number  of 
:  those  who  are  rich  and  powerful  have  raised  tliem- 
iselves  to  that  eminence  by  mercantile  industry,  we 
j  really  do  tiot  see  how  it  could  well  be  otherwise  ; 
I  we  would  still  submit,  that  this  is  no  lawful  cause 
'either  fir  national  contempt,  or  for  national  hostility. 
I  It  is  a  peculiarity  in  the  structure  of  society  ntiiong 
that  people,  which,  we  take  it,  can  only  aive  oflence 
1  to  iheir  visiting  acquaintance  ;  and,  while  it  does  us 
',  no  sort  of  harm  while  it  subsists,  promises,  we  think. 
very  soon  to  disappear  altogether,  and  no  longer  to 

■  afflict  even  our  imagination.  The  number  ot  indi- 
i  yiduals  born  to  the  enjoyment  of  hereditary  wealih 

is.  or  at  least  was  daily  increasing  in  that  coumry  ; 
and  it  is  impossible  that  iheir  multiplication  (with 
ail  the  models  of  European  refinement  before  them. 

■  and  all  111*  advantages  resulting  from  a  free  govern- 
ment and  a  sre.ieral  system  of  good  education)  should 

I  fiiil.  wii!iin;i  very  short  period,  lo  give  birth  \onbetier 
j  tmte  of  (071  w  run  I  ion  and  society,   and   to  manni-nt 
!  more  dignifii'd  and   refined.     Unless    we   tire   very 
'■  much  niisinformt'd,  indeed,  the  aympfomn  of  such  n 
I  ehnnsre  mav  already  he  traced  in  their  cities.    'I'heir 
;  yinuhs  of  fortune  already  travel  over  all  the  coun- 
,  tries  of  Eumije  for  their  improvement ;  and  speci- 
mens  are   o.-casionallv   met  with,    even    in    these 
'  islands,  wbicli,  with  all  our  prejudices,  we  mu.st  ad- 
mit, would  do  no  discredit  to  the  best  blood  of  the 
land  from  which  they  originally  sprung." 


Now,  is  there  really  any  matter  of  oflence 
in  this? — In  the  lirst  place,  is  it  not  substan- 
tially true? — ill  the  next  place,  is  it  not  miiilly 
and  resp(>ctfully  stated  ?  Is  it  not  true,  that 
the  greater  part  of  those  who  compose  the 
higher  society  of  the  American  cities,  have 
raiseil  themselves  to  opulence  by  commercial 
pursuits? — and  is  it  to  be  imagined  that,  in 
America  alone,  this  is  not  to  produce  its  usual 
effects  upon  the  style  ami  tone  of  society  ? 
As  families  become  old,  and  hereditary  wealth 
comes  to  be  the  portion  of  many,  it  ctinnot  but 
happen  that  a  change  of  manners  will  take 
place  ; — and  is  it  an  insult  lo  sujipose  that  this 
change  will  be  an  improvement  ?  Surely  they 
cannot  be  perfect,  both  as  they  are,  and  as 
they  are  to  be ;  and,  while  it  .seems  impossi- 
ble to  doubt  that  a  considerable  change  is  in- 
evitable, the  offence  seems  to  be,  that  it  is 
expected  to  be  for  the  better  !  It  is  impossible, 
we  think,  that  Mr.  W.  can  seriously  imagine 
that  the  manners  of  any  country  upon  earth 
can  be  so  dignified  and  refined — or  their  tone 
of  conver.sation  and  society  so  good,  when  the 
most  figuring  persons  come  into  company  from 
the  desk  and  the  counting-house,  as  \>  hen 
they  pa.ss  only  fiom  one  assembly  lo  another, 
and  have  had  no  other  study  or  employment 
from  their  youth  up,  than  to  render  society 
agreeable,  and  to  cultivate  those  talents  and 
manners  which  give  its  charm  to  polite  con- 
I  veisation.  If  there  are  any  persons  in  America 
who  seriously  dispute  the  accuracy  of  these 
opinions,  we  are  pretty  confident  that  they 
will  turn  out  to  be  those  whom  the  rest  of  the 
country  would  refer  to  in  illustration  of  their 
truth.  The  truly  polite,  we  are  persuaded, 
will  admit  the  case  to  be  pretty  much  as  we 
have  stated  it.  The  upstarts  alone  will  con- 
tend for  their  present  periection.  If  we  have 
really  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  give  any  of- 
fence by  our  observations,  we  suspect  that 
offence  will  be  greater  at  Cincinnati  than  at 
New  York, — and  not  quite  so  slight  at  New 
York  as  at  Philadelphia  or  Boston. 

But  we  have  no  desire  to  pursue  this  topic 
any  further — nor  any  interest  indeed  to  con- 
vince those  who  may  not  be  already  satisfied. 
If  Mr.  W.  really  thiriks  us  wrong  in  the  opin- 
ions we  have  now  expressed,  we  are  willing 
for  the  present  to  be  thought  so :  But  surely 
we  have  saiil  enough  to  show  that  we  had 
plausible  grounds  for  those  opinions;  and 
surely,  if  we  did  entertain  them,  it  was  im- 
possible to  express  them  in  a  manner  less  of- 
fensive. We  did  not  even  recur  lo  the  topic 
spontaneously — but  occasionally  took  it  u\)  in 
a  controversy  on  behalf  of  America,  with  a 
party  of  our  own  countrymen.  What  we  said 
was  not  addresscxl  to  America — but  said  of 
her  J  and,  most  indisputably,  with  friendly 
intentions  to  the  people  of  both  countries. 

But  we  have  dwelt  too  long  on  this  subject. 
The  manners  of  fashionable  life,  and  the  ri- 
valry of  bon  ton  between  one  country  and 
another,  is,  after  all,  but  a  poor  affair  to  oc- 
cupy the  attention  of  philosophers,  or  affect 
the  peace  of  nations. — Of  what  real  conse- 
quence is  it  to  the  happiness  or  glory  of  a 
country,  how  a  few  thousand   idle  pio^le — 


fr2 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


probably  neither  the  most  virtuous  nor  the  I 
niost  useful  of  ihejr  fellow-citizens — pass 
their  time,  or  divert  the  ennui  of  their  inac- 
tivity?— And  men  must  really  have  a  great 
propensity  to  hate  each  other,  when  it  is 
thought  a  reasonable  ground  of  quarrel,  that 
the  rich  dhauvres  of  one  country  are  accused 
of  not  knowing  how  to  get  through  their  day 
so  cleverly  as  those  of  another.  Manners 
alter  from  age  to  age,  and  from  country  to 
country:  and  much  is  at  all  times  arbitrary 
and  conventional  in  that  which  is  esteemed 
the  best.  What  pleases  and  amuses  each 
people  the  most,  is  the  best  for  that  people : 
And.  where  states  are  tolerably  ecjual  in  power 
and  wealth,  a  great  and  irreconcileable  diver- 
sity is  often  maintained  with  suitable  arro- 
gance and  inflexibility,  and  no  common  stan- 
dard recognised  or  dreamed  of.  The  bon  ton 
of  Pekin  has  no  sort  of  affinity,  we  suppose, 
with  the  bo7i  ton  of  Paris — and  that  of  Con- 
stantinople but  little  resemblance  to  either. 
The  difierence,  to  be  sure,  is  not  so  complete 
within  the  limits  of  Europe;  but  it  is  sulR- 
ciently  great,  to  show  the  folly  of  being  dog- 
matical or  intolerant  upon  a  subject  so  inca- 
pable of  being  reduced  to  principle.  The 
French  accuse  us  of  coldness  and  formality, 
and  we  accuse  them  of  monkey  tricks  and 
impertinence.  The  good  company  of  Rome 
would  be  much  at  a  loss  for  amusement  at 
Amsterdam;  and  that  of  Brussels  at  Madrid. 
The  manners  of  America,  then,  are  probably 
the  best  for  America:  But,  for  that  very  rea- 
son, they  are  not  the  best  for  us:  And  when 
we  hinted  that  they  probably  might  be  im- 
proved, we  spoke  with  reference  to  the  Euro- 
pean standard,  and  to  the  feelings  and  judg- 
ment of  strangers,  to  whom  that  standard 
alone  was  familiar.  When  their  circum- 
stances, and  the  structure  of  their  society, 
come  to  be  more  like  those  of  Europe,  their 
manners  will  be  more  like — and  they  will 
suit  better  with  those  altered  circumstances. 
When  the  fabric  has  reached  its  utmost  ele- 
vation, the  Corinthian  capital  may  be  added : 
For  the  present,  the  Doric  is  perhaps  more 
suitable ;  and,  if  the  style  be  kept  pure,  we 
are  certain  it  will  be  e(jnally  graceful. 

4.  It  only  remains  to  notice  what  is  said 
with  regard  to  Negro  Slavery: — and  on  this 
we  shall  be  very  short.  We  have  ho  doubt 
spoken  very  warmly  on  the  subject  in  one  of 
our  late  Numbers: — but  Mr.  W.  must  have 
read  what  we  there  said,  with  a  jaundiced 
eye  indeed,  if  he  did  not  see  that  our  warmth 
proceeded,  not  from  any  animosity  against  the 
people  among  whom  this  miserable  institution 
existed,  but  against  the  institution  itself — and 
was  mainly  excited  by  the  contrast  that  it 
presented  to  the  freedom  and  prosperity  upon 
which  it  was  so  strangely  engrafted ; — thus 
appearing 


"  Like  a  stain  upon  n  Vest;! 

The  worse  tor  what  it  soils." 


robe, 


Accordingly,  we  do  not  call  upon  other 
nations  to  hate  and  despise  America  for  this 
practice ;  but  n])on  the  Americans  themselves 
to  wipe  away  this  foul  blot  from  their  charac- 


ter.  We  have  a  hundred  times  used  the  sami 
language  to  our  own    countrymen — and  rt 
pealedly  on  the  subject  of  the  Slave  Trade  ;- 
and  Mr.  W.  cannot  be  ignorant,  that  man 
pious  and  excellent  citizens  of  his  own  coui 
try   have    expressed    themselves   in   siniib 
terms  with   regard   to  this  very  institntioi 
As  to  his  recriminations  on  England,  we  sha: 
explain  to   Mr.  W.    immediately,  that  the 
have  no   bearing  whatever  on  the   questio 
now  at  issue  between  us ;  and,  though  nobod 
can   regret  more  than   we  do  the   domesli 
slavery  of  our  West  Indian  islands,  it  is  quit 
absurd  to  represent  the  difficulties  of  the  abc 
lition  as  at  all  parallel  in  the  case  of  America 
It  is  still  confidently  asserted  that,  wither, 
slaves,  those  islands  could  not  be  maintained 
and,    independent    of    private    interests,   th 
trade  of  England  cannot  afford   to  jjart  witj 
them.     But  will   any  body  pretend    to  say 
that  the  great  and  comparative  tempeiafe  re 
gions  over  which  the  American  Slavery  c.\ 
tends,  would  be  desened,  if  all  their  inhabil 
ants  were  free — or  even  that  they  would  b 
permanently  less  populous  or  less  productive' 
We  are  perfectly  av\are.  that  a  sudden  or  im 
mediate  emancipation  of  all  those   who  am 
now  in  slavery,  might  be  attended  with  fright 
ful  disorder.s,  as  well  as  intolerable  losses' 
and,  accordingly,  we  have  nowh(>re  recom 
mended  any  such  measure:  Bat  v.-e  must  re 
peat,  that  it  is  a  crime  and  a  shame,  that  th'' 
freest  nation  on  the  earth  should  keep  a  mil' 
lion  and  a  half  of  fellow-creatures  in  actu;:: 
chains,  within  the  very  territory  and   sane 
tuary  of  their  freedom  ;  and  should  see  then 
multiplying,  from  day  to  day,  without  think 
ing  of  any  provision  for  their  iiUimale  libera 
tion.     When  we  say  this,   we  are  far  fron 
doubting  that  there  are  many  amiable  am 
excellent  individuals  among  the  slave  jropii' 
etors.     There  were  many   such   among  thi 
importers  of  slaves  in  our  Wc.-t  Indies:   Yet 
it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  that  accursed  traffii 
was  a  crime — and  it  was  so  called,  in  thi 
most  emphatic  language,  anil   with  gcneia 
assent,  year  after  year,  in  Parliament,  uithou 
any  one  ever  imagining  that  this  imported  ; 
personal  attack  on  those  individuals,  far  les 
a  malignant  calumny  upon  the  nation  whicl 
loleiated  and  legalized  their  proceedings. 

Before  leaving  this  topic,  we  have  to  ihai.l 
Mr.  W.  for  a  great  deal  of  curious,  and.  to  us 
original  information,  as  to  the  history  of  tht 
American  Slave  trade,  and  the  measures  pur 
sued  by  the  diffeient  States  with  regard  to  tht 
institution  of  slavery:  From  which  we  learn 
among  other  things,  that,  so  early  as  176".  iht 
legislature  of  Massachussels  brought  in  a  bil 
for  ])rohibit.ng  the  importation  of  negroes  iiil( 
that  province,  which  was  rejected  by  iht 
Britisli  governor,  in  consequence  of  express 
instructions; — and  another  in  1774  shnicdthc 
same  fate.  We  learn  also,  that,  in  1770,  iwt 
years  before  the  decision  of  Somerset  "sea. -e  ii 
England,  the  courts  of  the  same  distinguished 
province  decided,  upon  solemn  argument,  thai 
no  person  could  be  held  in  slavery  within  theii 
jurisdiction  ;  and  awarded  not  only  their  free- 
dom, but  wages  for  their  past  services,  to  a 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


633 


viiety  of  nesfvo  suitors.  Those,  indeed;  are 
fii'  !<ubj'.'ctP  of  pride  and  exultation  ;  and  we 
hil  them,  without  grudging,  as  bright  trophies 
iihe  annals  of  the  States  to  which  they  re- 
]ii;.  But  do  not  their  glories  cast  a  deeper 
Side  on  those  who  have  refused  to  follow  the 
eimple — and  may  trc  not  now  be  allowed  to 
s^ak  of  the  guilt  and  unlawfulness  of  slavery, 
a  their  own  countrymen  are  praised  and 
listed  of  for  having  spoken,  so  many  years 
a.? 

A'e  learn  also  from  Mr.  W.,  that  Virginia 
aolished  the  foreign  slave  trade  so  early  as 
irS — Pennsylvania  in  17S0 — INTassachusetts 
ii|1787 — and  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island 
1)1788.  It  was  finally  interdicted  by  the 
(neral  Congress  in  1794  ;  and  made  punish- 
ae  as  a  crime,  seven  years  before  that 
rasure  was  adopted  in  England.  We  have 
{>,at  pleasure  in  stating  these  facts.  But 
I y  all  appear  to  us  not  only  incongruous 
v;h  the  permanent  existence  of  slavery,  but 
ajindicating  those  very  feelings  with  regard 
t  it  which  we  have  been  so  severly  blamed 
fi  expressing, 

^Ve  here  close  our  answer  to  Mr.  W.'s 
clirges.  Our  readers,  we  fear,  have  been  for 
gine  time  tired  of  it :  And,  indeed,  we  have 
ft  all  along,  that  there  was  something  ab- 
E;d  in  answering  gravely  to  such  an  accusa- 

51.  If  any  regular  reader  of  our  Review" 
ild  be  of  opinion  that  we  were  hostile  to 
./jierica,  and  desirous  of  fomenting  hostility 
I:ween  her  and  this  country,  we  could 
flrcely  hope  that  he  would  change  that  opin- 
io for  any  thing  we  have  now  been  saying. 
It  Mr.  W.'s  book  may  fall  into  the  hands  of 
i.ny,  in  his  own  country  at  least,  to  whom 
C  writings  are  but  little  known  ;  and  the 
iiputations  it  contains  may  become  known  to 
limy  who  never  inquire  into  their  grounds: 
(|  such  persons,  the  statements  we  have  now 
i'.de  may  produce  some  impression — and  the 
firit  in  which  they  are  made  perhaps  still 
liire.  Our  labour  will  not  have  been  in  vain, 
ijthere  are  any  that  rise  up  from  the  perusal 
() these  pages  with  a  better  opinion  of  their 
'linsatlantic  brethren,  and  an  increased  de- 
J!e  to  live  with  them  in  friendship  and  peace. 
IThere  still  remains  behind,  a  fair  moiety 
(iMr.  W.'s  book  ;  containing  his  recrimina- 
fjns  on  Eneland — his  expositions  of  "her 
((•es  and  blotches" — and  his  retort  courteous 
i'  all  the  abuse  which  her  writers  have  been 
jjuring  on  this  country  for  the  last  hundred 
"lars.  The  task,  we  should  think,  must  have 
lien  i-ath^r  an  afflicting  one  to  a  man  of  much 
ibral  sensibility: — But  it  is  gone  through  very 
jljolutely,  and  "with  a  marvellous  industry. 
V  learned  author  has  not  only  ransacked 
fgotten  histories  and  files  of  old  newspapers 
^search  of  disreputable  transactions  and  de- 
ijidiriff  crimes — but  has  groped  for  the  mate- 
;'lsof  our  dishonour,  among-  tlie  filth  of  Dr. 
'i;iquhoun's  Collection.';,  and  the  Reports  of 
'jr  Prison  and  Police  Committees — culled  vi- 
iperative  exaggerations  from  the  records  of 
jsrry  debates — and  produced,  as  incontro- 
irtible  evidence  of  the  excess  of  our  guilt 
^  misery,  the  fervid  declamations  of  moral- 
80 


ists  exhorting  to  a'mendhienf,  or  of  sat'-ists 
endeavouring  to  deter  fixmi  vice.  Provincial 
misgovernment  from  Irel«iid  to  Hindostan — 
cruel  amusements — increasing  pauperism — 
disgusting  brutality — shameful  ignorance — 
perversion  of  law — grinding  taxation — brutal 
debauchery,  and  many  otlier  traits  ecjually 
attractive,  are  all  heaped  together,  ns  the  char- 
acteristics of  English  society  ;  anil  unsparinglv 
illustrated  by  '■  loose  extracts  from  English 
Journals," — quotations  from  Esprieila's  Let- 
ters— and  selections  from  the  Parliamentary 
Debates.  Accustomed,  as  we  have  long  been, 
to  mark  the  vices  and  miseries  of  our  country- 
men, we  really  cainiot  say  that  we  recognise 
any  likeness  in  this  distorted  representation; 
which  exhibits  our  fair  England  as  one  great 
Lazar-house  of  moral  ami  intellectual  disease 
— one  hideous  and  bloated  mass  of  sin  and 
suffering — one  festering  heap  of  corruption, 
infecting  the  wholesome  air  which  breathes 
upon  it,  and  diffusing  all  around  the  contagion 
and  the  terror  of  its  example. 

We  have  no  desire  whatever  to  argue 
against  the  truth  or  the  justice  of  this  picture 
of  our  country  ;  which  we  can  assure  Mr.  W. 
we  contemplate  with  perfect  calmness  and 
e(}uanimity :  but  we  are  tempted  to  set  against 
it  the  judgment  of  another  foreigner,  with 
whom  he  cannot  complain  of  being  confront- 
ed, and  whose  authority  at  this  moment  stands 
higher,  perhaps  with  the  whole  civilised 
world,  than  that  of  any  other  individual.  We 
allude  to  Madame  de  Stael — and  to  the  splen- 
did testimony  she  has  borne  to  the  character 
and  happiness  of  the  English  nation,  in  her 
last  admirable  book  on  the  Revolution  of  her 
own  country.  But  we  have  spoken  of  this 
work  so  lately,  that  we  shall  not  now  recal 
the  attention  of  our  readers  to  it,  further  than 
by  this  general  reference.  We  rather  wish^ 
at  present,  to  lay  before  them  an  American 
authority. 

In  a  work  of  great  merit,  entitled  "  A  Letter 
on  the  Genius  and  Dispositions  of  the  French 
Government,"  published  at  Philadelphia  in 
1810,  and  which  attracted  much  notice,  both 
there  and  in  this  country,  the  author,  in  a 
strain  of  great  eloquence  and  powerful  rea- 
soning, exhorts  his  country  tO'  make  common 
cause  with  England  in  the  great  struggle  in 
which  she  was  then  encaged  "with  the  giant 
power  of  Bonaparte,  and  points  out  the  many 
circumstances  in  the  character  and  condition 
of  the  two  countries  that  invited  them  to  a 
cortlial  alliance.  He  was  well  aware,  too,  of 
the  distinction  we  have  endeavoured  to  point 
out  between  the  Court,  or  th«  Tory  rulers  of 
the  State,  and  the  body  of  our  P(^ople :  and, 
after  observing  that  the  American  Govern- 
ment, by  following  his  councils,  might  retrieve 
the  character  of  their  country,  he  adds,  "They 
will,  I  am  quite  sure,  be  set'onded  by  an  en- 
tire correspondence  of  feelinii,  not  only  on 
our  part,  but  on  that  of  the  Pkoi'i/f.  of  Eng- 
land— whatever  may  be  the  narrow  Jjolicy,  or 
illiberal  prejudices  of  tlu>  British  Mixistry  ;" 
and,  in  the  body  of  his  work,  he  gives  an 
ample  and  glowing  description  of  the  char- 
acter and  condition  of  that  England  of  which 


634 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


we  have  just  seen  so  lamentable  a  representa- 
tion. The  whole  passage  is  too  long  for  in- 
sertion; but  the  following  extracts  will  attord 
a  sufficient  specimen  of  its  tone  and  tenor. 

"  A  peculiar  masculine  character,  and  the  uimosi 
energy  of  feeling  are  communicaied  to  all  orders  ol 
inen7--by  the  abundance  which  prevails  so  univei-- 
sally'— the  consciousness  of  equal  ngliis,— the  iul- 
ness  of  power  and  frame  to  which  the  naiKni  has 
attained,— and  the  beauty  and  ri>husiness  ol  the 
species  under  a  climate  highly  tavourable  to  the 
animal  economy.  The  diirmiy  of  the  rich  is  with- 
out insolence,— the  subordination  of  the  poor  with- 
out servility.  Their  freedom  is  well  guarded  both 
from  the  dangers  of  popular  licenn.msness,  and 
from  the  encroachments  of  auihoniy.— I'heir  na- 
tional pride  leads  to  nniioiml  sympathy,  and  is  built 
upon  the  most  legitimate  of  all  foundations— a  sense 
of  pre-eminent  merit  and  a  body  of  illustrious  an- 
nals, r  , 

"  Whatever  may  he  the  representations  ot  those 
who,  with  Irtle  knowledge  of  facts,  and  still  less 
soundness  or  impartiality  of  judgment,  affect  to  de- 
plore the  condition  of  Enaland,— it  is  nevertheless 
true,  that  there  does  not  exist,  and  never  has  ex- 
isted elsewhere,— so  beautiful  and  perfect  a  model 
of  public  and  private  pros|)enty, — so  magnilicent, 
and  at  the  same  time,  so  solid  a  fabric  of  social  hap- 
piness and  national  grandeur.  7  pay  this  just  Iri- 
hule  of  admiration  with  the  more  pleasure,  as  it  is 
to  me  in  the  light  of  an  Atonement  for  the  errars 
and  prejudices,  under  which  I  laboured,  on  this  sub- 
ject, before  I  enjoyed  the  advanlaixe  of  a  personal 
experience.  A  residence  of  nearly  two  years  in 
that  country, — duriii<£  which  period,  I  visited  and 
studied  almost  every  part  of  it.— with  no  other  view 
or  pursuit  than  that  of  obtaining  correct  informa- 
tion, and,  I  may  add.  with  previous  studies  well 
fitted  to  promote  my  object,— convinced  me  that  I 
had  been  egregionsly  decf-ived.  I  saw  no  instances 


of  Tndividuai  oppression,  and  scarcely  any  individual 
misery  but  that  which  belongs,  under  any  circum- 
stances of  our  being,  to  the  infirmity  of  all  human 
institutions."—  .  „     ,      .  .  r        ,, 

"  The  agriculture  of  England  is  confessedly  su- 
perior to  tliat  of  any  other  part  of  the  world,  and 
the  condition  of  those  who  are  engaged  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  soil,  incoiitestibly  preferable  to  that 
of  the  same  class  in  any  other  section  of  Europe. 
An  inexhaustible  source  of  admiration  and  delight 
is  found  in  the  unrivalled  beauty,  as  well  as  rich- 
ness and  frnitfulness  of  their  husbandry  ;  the  effects 
of  which  are  heightened  by  the  magnificent  parks 
and  noble  mansions  of  the  opulent  proprietors  :  l>y 
picturesque  gardens  upon  the  largest  scale,  and 
disposed  with  the  most  exquisite  taste:  and  by 
Gothic  remains  no  less  admirable  in  their  structure 
than  venerable  for  their  antiquity.  The  neat  cot- 
tage, the  substantial  farm-house,  the  splendid  villa, 
are  consianily  rising  to  the  sight,  surrounded  by  the 
most  choice  and  poetical  attribnios  of  the  landscape. 
The  vision  is  not  more  delighifully  recreated  by 
(he  rural  scenery,  ilian  the  moral  sense  is  grniiticd. 
and  the  understanding  eleva'ed  by  the  instiiuiions 
of  this  great  country.  The  first  and  continued  ex- 
clamation of  an  American  who  coutemplaies  them 
with  unbiassed  judgment,  is — 

Salve!  magna  Parens  frugum,  Saturnia  telliis  ! 
Magna  viruni. 

"  It  appears  something  not  less  than  Impious  to 
desire  the  rain  of  this  people,  when  you  view  the 
height  to  wliich  they  have  carried  the  comlorts,  the 
knowledge,  and  the  virtue  of  our  species  :  the  ex- 
tent and  number  of  their  foundations  of  charity  ; 
their  skill  in  the  mechanic  arts,  by  the  improvement 
of  which  alone  thev  have  conferred  inestimable 
benefits  on  mankind  ;  the  masculine  morality,  the 
lofty  sense  of  independence,  the  sober  and  rational 
piety  which  are  found  iu  all  classes  :  their  impar- 
tial, decorous,  and  able  administration  of  a  code  of 


laws,  than  which  none  more  just  and  perfect  h 
ever  been  in  operation  ;  their  seminaries  ot  educ. 
lion  yielding  more  solid  and  profitable  instrucli. 
than'any  other  whatever  ;  their  eminence  in  liter 
ture  and  science — the  urbanity  and  learning  of  tht 
privileged  orders— their  dehberative  asseniblit 
illustrated  by  so  many  profound  statesmen,  a 
brilliant  orators.  It  is  worse  than  Ingratitude 
us  not  to  sympathise  wnh  them  in  their  prese 
struggle,  when  we  recollect  that  it  is  troin  ihem  ^ 
derive  the  principal  merit  of  our  own  character 
the  best  of  our  own  institutions— the  .purees  of  o 
highest  enjoyments — and  the  hah!  of  i'reedom  itst 
which,  iCthey  should  be  destr.>v.'d.  will  nut  h 
shed  its  radiance  over  this  country." 

What  will  ]Mr.  Walsh  say  to  this  picture 
the  country  he  has  so  laboured  to  degrade? 
and  what  will  our  readers  say,  when  iheyi 
told  that  Mr.  W.4lsh  himself  is  the  author 
this  picture  ! 

So.  however,  the  fact  unquestionably  stan. 
—The  book   from  which  we  have  made  t 
preceding  extracts,  was  written  and  publisht 
in  1810,  by  the  very  same  individual  who  1 
now  recriminated  upon  Englaiul  m  the  v 
ume  which  lies  before  us.— and  in  which 
is  pleased  to  speak  with  extreme  severity 
the  inconsistencies  he  has  detected  in  our] 
view  !— That  some  discordant  or  irreconi 
able  opinions  should  be  found  in  the  mi 
laneous  wntins  of  twenty  years,  and  thirl 
forty  individuals  under  no  effective  con 
may  easily  be  imagined,  and  pardoned, 
should    think,   without   any  great  stretch 
liberality.    But  such  a  transmutation  of 
ments  oil  the  same  identical  subject- sm 
reversal  of  the  poles  of  the  same  iden 
head,  we  confess  has  never  before  come  u 
our  observation  :  and  is  parallel  to  nothing 
we  can   recollect,  but  the  memorable  ti 
formation  of  Bottom,  in  the  MidsummerNii 
Dream.  Nine  years,  to  be  sure,  had  inter 
between  the  tirst  and  the  second  puWicat 
But  all  the  guilt  and  all  the  misery  whic 
so  dili^entlv" developed  in  the  last,  had  hj 
contracted  before  the  first  was  thought  of; 
all  the  injuries,  and  provocatioi:s  too,  by  w 
the  exposition  of  them  has  lately  becor 
duty.     Mr.  W.  knew  perfectly,  in  1810, 
England  had  behaved  to  her  American  colt 
before  the  war  of  independence,  and  in 
spirit  she  had  begun  and  carried  on  that_ 
—our  Poor-rates  and  taxes,  our  bull-bait 
and  swindlin^s.  were  then  nearly  as  visib! 
now.  INIr.  Colquhoun,  had, before  that  time, 
forth  his  Political  Estimate  of  our  prostit 
and  pickpockets  :  and  the  worthy  Laureal 
authentic  Letters  on  the  bad  stale  of  our 
liaments  and  manufactures.     Nay,  the  E 
BUKCH  Revtkw  had  committed  the  wO] 
those   offences  which   now   make  hat 
England  the  duty  of  all  true  Americans, 
had  expressed  liitle  of  that  z^-al  for  herfri: 
ship  which  appears  in  its  subsequent  Numl 
The  Reviews  of  the  Ameiicaii  Transacl 
and  Mr.  Barlow's  Epic,  of  Adams'  Lelten 
Marshall's  History,  had  all  appeared  bJi 
this  time— and  biU  very  few  of  the  arti<*l(j 
which  the  future  greatness  of  that  count; 
predicted,  and  her  singuhir  prosperity  extt^ 
How  then  is  it  to  be  accounted  for,  thatj 
W.  should  have  taken  such  a  favourable 


is  *»«1 


WALSH'S  APPEAL. 


635 


if  our  state  and  merits  in  1810,  and  so  very 
lifferent  a  one  in  1819?  There  is  but  one 
explanation  that  occurs  to  us.  —  Mr.  W.,  as 
ppears  from  the  passages  just  (juoted.  had 
een  originally  very  much  of  the  opinion  to 
'fhich  he  has  "now  returnetl — For  he  tells  us, 
"hat  he  considers  the  tribute  of  admiration 
[i-hich  he  there  otlers  to  our  excellence,  as  an 
itonement  ^or  the  errors  and  prejudices  under 
itrhich  he  laboured  till  he  came  among  us, — 
iid  hints  pretty  plainly,  that  he  had  formerly 
leen  uiisrateful  enough  to  disown  all  obliga- 
ion  to  our  race,  and  impious  enough  even  to 
Vish  for  our  ruin.  Now.  from  the  tenor  of  the 
rork  before  us,  compared  with  these  passages, 
t  is  pretty  plain,  we  think,  that  Mr.  W.  has 
last  relapsed  into  those  damnable  heresies. 
I'vhich  we  fear  are  epidemic  in  his  part  of  the 
ountry — and  froni^which  nothing  is  so  likely 
0  deliver  him,  a*a  repetition  of  the  same 
emed  V  bv  which  they  were  formerly  removed. 
jBt  him  come  again  then  to  England,  and  try 
he  effect  of  a  second  course  of  "personal 
Irxperience  and  observation" — let  him  make 
-.nother  piliirimage  to  INIecca,  and  observe 
ivhether  his  faith  is  not  restored  and  confirmed 
I— let  him,  like  the  Indians  of  his  own  world, 
[fisit  the  Tombs  of  his  Fathers  in  the  old  land, 
tind  .see  whether  he  can  there  abjure  the  friend- 
[ihip  of  their  other  children  ?  If  he  will  ven- 
jure  himself  among  us  for  another  two  years' 
lesidence,  we  can  promise  him  that  he  will 
'ind  in  substance  the  same  Eiigland  that  he 
[eft: — Oar  laws  and  our  landscapes — our  iii- 
lustry  and  urbanity  : — our  charities,  our  learn- 
ing, and  our  personal  beauty,  he  will  find 
Altered  and  unimpaired  ; — and  we  think  we 
'*an  even  engage,  that  he  shall  find  also  a  still 
^rreater  ••'correspondence  of  feeling  in  the  body 
')f  our  People,"  and  not  a  less  disposition  to 
lA-elcome  an  accomplished  stranger  who  comes 
io  get  rid  of  enorsand  prejudices,  and  to  learn 
i— or,  if  he  pleases,  to  teach,  the  great  lessons 
bf  a  generous  and  indulgent  philanthropy. 
!  We  have  done,  however,  whh  this  topic. — 
•We  have  a  considerable  contempt  for  the  ar- 
)pimentum  ad  hommem  in  any  case — and  have 
fio  desire  to  urge  it  further  at  present.  The 
[:ruth  is,  that  neither  of  Mr.  W.'s  portraitures 
Df  us  appears  to  be  very  accurate.  We  are 
"painted  en  beau  in  the  one,  and  en  laid  in  the 
other.  The  particular  traits  in  each  may  be 
l:^iven  with  tolerable  truth — -but  the  whole 
'f.rulh  most  certainly  is  to  be  found  in  neither; 
and  it  will  not  even  do  to  take  them  together 
—any  more  than  it  would  do  to  make  a  correct 
'likeness,  by  patching  or  compounding  together 
|a  flattering  portrait  and  a  monstrous  carica- 
ture.   We  have  but  a  word  or  two,  indeed, 

10  add  on  the  <reneral  subject,  before  we  take 
j:i  final  farewell  of  this  discussion. 
:  We  admit,  that  many  of  the  charges  which 
;Mr.  W.  has  here  made  against  our  country, 
jare  justly  made  —  and  that  for  many  of  the 
ithingsvvith  which  he  has  reproached  us,  there 
is  just  cause  of  reproach.  It  would  be  strange, 
lindeed,  if  we  were  to  do  otherwise  —  consi- 
dering'that  it  is  from  our  pages  that  he  has  on 
many  occasions  borrowed  the  charge  and  the 
reproach.     If  he  had  stated  them,  therefore, 


with  any  degree  of  fairness  or  temper,  and 
had  not"  announced  that  they  were  brought 
forward  as  incentives  to  hostility  and  national 
alienation,  we   shoulil  have  been   so  far  iVom 
complaining  of  him,  that  we  should  have  hwn 
heartily  lliankful  for  the  services  of  such  an 
auxiliary   in   our   holy  war  against   vice  and 
corruption  ;  and  rejoiced  to  obtain  the  testi- 
mony of  an  impartial  observer,  in  corrobora- 
tion of  our  own  earnest  admonitions.     Even 
as  it  is,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  this  ex- 
position of  our  infirmities  will   rather  do  good 
than  harm,  so  far  as  it  produces  any  effect  at 
all,  in  this  country.    Among  our  national  vices, 
we  have  long  reckoned  an  insolent  and  over- 
weening opinion  of  our  own  universal  .superi- 
ority;  and  though  it  really  does  not  belong  to 
America   to  reproach  us  with  this  fault,  and 
though  the  ludicrous  exaggeration  of  Mr.  W.'s 
charge  is  sure  very  greatly  to  weaken  his  au- 
thority, still  such  an   alarming  catalogue  of 
our  faults  and  follies  may  have  some  effect, 
as  a  wholesome  mortification  of  our  vanity. — 
It  is  with  a  view  to  its  probable  effect  in  his 
own  country,  and  to  his  avowal  of  the  effect 
he  wishes  it  to  produce  tliere,  that  we  consider 
it  as  deserving  of  all  reprobation  : — and  there- 
fore beg  leave  to  make  one  or  two  very  short 
remarks  on  its  manifest  injustice,  and  indeed 
absurdity,  in  so  far  as  relates  to  ourselves,  and 
that  great  majority  of  the  country  whom  we 
believe  to  concur  in  our  sentiments.    The  ob- 
•  ject  of  this  violent  invective  on  England  is, 
according  to  the  author's  own  adrni-ssion,  to 
excite  a  spirit  of   animosity  in  America,  to 
meet  and  revenge  that  which  other  invectives 
on  our  part  are  said  to  indicate  here  ;  and  also 
to  show  the  flagrant  injustice  and  malignity 
of  the  said  invectives  : — And  this  is  the  shape 
of  the  argument  —  What  right  have  you  to 
abuse  us  for  keeping  and  whipping  slaves, 
when  you  yourselves  whip  your  soldiers,  and 
were  so  slow  to  give  up  your  slave  trade,  and 
use  your  subjects  so  ill  in  India  and  Ireland  1 
— orwhat  right  have  you  to  call  our  Marshall 
a  dull  historian,  when  "you  have  a  Belsham  and 
a  GifTord  who  are  still  duller?     Now,  though 
this  araument  would  never  show  that  w  hipping 
slaves  was  a  right  thing,  or  that  Mr.  Marshall 
was  not  a  dull  writer,  it  might  be  a  very  smart 
and  embarrassina'  retort   to  those  among  us 
who  had   defended   our   slave   trade   or  our 
milifarv  floggings,  or  our  treatment  of  Ireland 
and  India— or  who  had  held  out  Messrs.  Bel- 
sham  and  Gifford  as  pattern   historians,  and 
ornaments  of  our  national  literature.  But  what 
meaning  or  effect  can  it  have  when  addressed 
to  tho.se  who  have  always  testified  against  the 
wickedness   and    the    folly  of  the   practices 
complained  of?    and   who  have   treated  the 
Ultra-Whia  and  the  Ultra-Tory  historian  with 
equal  scorn  and  reproach  ?     We  have  a  right 
to  censure  cruelty  and  dulness  abroad,  because 
we  have  censured  them  with  more  and  more 
frecjuent  severity  at  home  ; — and  their  home 
existence,  thouuh  it  may  prove  indeed  that 
our  censures  have  not  yet  been   effectual  m 
producing  amendment,  can  afford  no  sort  of 
reason  for  not  extemling    them  where   they 
might   be   more  attended  to. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


We  have  generally  blamed  what  we  thought 
worthy  of  blame  in  America,  without  any  ex- 
press reference  to  parallel  cases  in  England, 
or  any  invidious  comparisons.  Their  books 
we  have  criticised  just  as  should  have  done 
those  of  any  other  country  ;  and  in  t'peaking 
more  generally  of  their  literature  and  man- 
ners, we  have  rather  brought  them  into  com- 
petition with  those  of  Europe  in  general,  than 
those  of  our  own  country  in  particular.  Wiien 
we  have  made  any  comparative  estimate  of  our 
own  advantages  and  theirs,  we  can  say  with 
confidence,  that  it  has  been  far  oftener  in  their 
favour  than  against  them ; — and,  after  repeat- 
edly noticing  their  preferable  condition  as  to 
taxes,  elections,  sufficiency  of  employment, 
public  economy,  freetlom  of  publication,  and 
many  other  points  of  paramount  importance, 
it  surely  was  but  fair  that  we  should  notice, 
in  their  turn,  those  merits  or  advantages  which 
might  reasonably  be  claimed  for  ourselves, 
and  bring  into  view  our  superiority  in  eminent 
authors,  and  the  extinction  and  annihilation 
of  slavery  in  every  part  of  our  realm. 

We  would  also  remark,  that  while  we  have 
thus  piaised  America  far  more  than  we  have 
blamed  her — and  reproached  ourselves  far 
more  bitterly  than  we  have  ever  reproached 
her,  Mr.  W.,  while  he  affects  to  be  merely 
following  our  example,  has  heaped  abuse  on 
us  without  one  grain  of  commendation — and 
praised  his  own  country  extravagantly,  with- 
out admitting  one  fault  or  imperfection.  Now, 
this  is  not  a  fair  way  of  retorting  the  proceed- 
ings, even  of  the  Quarterly ;  for  they  have 
occasionally  given  some  praise  to  America, 
and  have  constantly  spoken  ill  enough  of  the 
paupers,  and  radicals,  and  reformers  of  Eng- 
land. But  as  to  us,  and  the  great  body  of  the 
nation  which  thinks  with  us,  it  is  a  proceeding 
without  the  colour  of  justice  or  the  shadow 
of  apology — and  is  not  a  less  flagrant  indica- 
tion of  impatience  or  bad  humour,  than  the 
marvellous  assumption  which  runs  through 
the  whole  argimient,  that  it  is  an  unpardon- 
able insult  and  an  injury  to  find  any  fault  with 
any  thins  in  America, — must  necessarily  pro- 
ceed from  national  spite  and  animosity,  and 
affords,  whether  tiue  or  false,  sufficient  reason 
for  endeavouring  to  e.xcite  a  corresponding 
animosity  against  our  nation.  Such,  however, 
is  the  scope  and  plan  of  Mr.  W.'s  whole  work. 
Whenever  he  thinks  that  his  country  has  been 
erroneously  accused,  he  points  out  the  error 
with  sufficient  keenness  and  asperity; — but 
when  he  is  aware  that  the  imputation  is  just 
and  unanswerable,  instead  of  joining  his  re- 
buke or  regret  to  those  of  her  foreign  censors, 
he  turns  fiercely  and  vindictively  on  the 
parallel  infirmities  of  this  country  —  as  if 
those  also  had  not  been  marked  with  repro- 
bation, and  without  admitting  that  the  cen- 
sure was  merited,  or  hoping  that  it  might 
work  amendment,  complains  in  the  bitterest 
terms  of  malignity,  and  arouses  his  country 
to  revenge ! 

Which,  then,  we  would  ask,  is  the  most 
fair  and  reasonable,  or  which  the  most  truly 
patriotic  ? — We,  who,  admitting  our  own  mani- 
fold faults  and  corruptions,  testifying  loudly 


against  them,  and  feeling  grateful  to  any  fo- 
reign auxiliary  who  wilfhelp  us  to  i\(.isQn^  to 
rail,  or  to  shame  our  countrymen  out  of  them, 
are  willing  occasionally  to  lend  a  similar  as- 
sistance to  others.  and"speak  freely  and  fairlv 
of  what  appear  to  us  to  be  the  faults  and  ei'- 
rors,  as  well  as  the  virtues  and  merits,  of  all 
who  may  be  in  any  way  afi'ected  by  our  ob- 
servations;— or  Mr.  Walsh,  who  wiTl  admit  m, 
faults  in  his  own  country,  and  no  good  quali- 
ties in  ours — sets  down  the  mere  extension 
of  our  domestic  censures  to  their  co  r  res-pond  in  i; 
objects  abroad,  to  the  score  of  national  lancouj 
and  partiality ;  and  can  find  no  better  use  foi 
those  mutual  admonitions,  which  should  lead 
to  mutual  amendment  or  generous  emulation, 
than  to  improve  them  into  occasions  of  mutual 
animosity  and  deliberate  hatred  ? 

This  extreme  impatien<^,  even  of  meriteii 
blame  from  the  mouth  of  a  stranger — this  stil 
more  extraordinary  abstinence  from  any  hin; 
or  acknowledgment  of  error  on  the  part  ot 
her  intelligent  defender,  is  a  trait  too  remark 
able  not  to  call  for  some  observation  : — aiu 
we  think  we  can  see  in  it  one  of  the  w  orst  am 
most  unfortunate  consequences  of  a  republicai 
government.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  Sove 
reigns  in  general,  that  they  are  fed  with  flat 
lery  till  they  loathe  the  wholesome  truth,  aia 
come  to  resent,  as  the  bitterest  of  all  offences 
any  insinuation  of  their  errors,  or  intimatioi. 
of  their  dangers.  But  of  all  sovereigns,  ih 
Sovereign  People  is  most  obnoxious  to  this  cor' 
ruption,  and  most  fatally  injured  by  its  preva' 
lence.  In  America,  every  thing  depends  o; 
their  suffrages,  and  their  favour  and  support; 
and  accordingly  it  would  appear,  that  theyar 
pampered  with  constant  adulation,  from  th 
rival  suitors  to  their  favour — so  that  no  on 
will  venture  to  tell  them  of  their  faults:  am 
moralists,  even  of  the  austere  character  o 
Mr.  W.;  dare  not  venture  to  whisper  a  syllabi 
to  their  prejudice.  It  is  thus,  and  thus  onh 
that  we  can  account  for  the  strange  sensitivt 
j  ness  which  seems  to  prevail  among  them  o 
j  the  lightest  sound  of  disapprobation,  and  k 
I  the  acrimony  with  which,  what  would  pas 
I  anywhere  else  for  very  mild  admonitions,  ar 
I  repelled  and  resented.  It  is  obvious,  how 
I  ever,  that  nothing  can  be  so  injurious  to  th 
I  character  either  of  an  individual  or  a  natioi 
as  this  constant  and  jialtry  cockering  of  praist 
and  that  the  want  of  any  native  censor,  makt 
it  more  a  duty  for  the  moialists  of  other  coui 
tries  to  take  them  under  their  charge,  and  1< 
them  know  now  and  then  what  other  peopl 
think  and  say  of  them. 

We  are  an.xious  to  part  with  Mr.  W.  in  goc 
humour; — but  we  mu.st  say  that  we  rathi 
wish  he  would  not  go  on  with  the  work  he  h; 
begun — at  least  if  it  is  to  be  pursued  in  tl, 
s])irit  which  breathes  in  the  part  now  befoi 
us.  Nor  is  it  so  much  to  his  polemic  and  vii 
dictive  tone  that  we  object,  as  this  tendenr 
to  adulation,  this  passionate,  vapouring,  rhi 
torical  style  of  amplifying  and  exaggeratii 
the  felicities  of  his  country.  In  point  of  talei 
and  knowledge  and  industry,  we  have  i 
doubt  that  he  is  eminently  qualified  for  th 
task — (though  we  must  tell  him  that  he  dot 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


637 


if 


(not  write  so  well  now  as  when  he  left  Ktig- 
liand)— but  no  man  will  ever  write  a  book  of 
kuthority  oa  the  institutions  and  resources  of 
lliis  country,  who  does  not  add  some  of  the 
Ivirtues  of  a  Censor  to  those  of  a  Patriot — or 
Irather,  who  does  not  feel,  that  the  noblest,  as 
Iwell  as  the  most  difHcult  part  of  patriotism  is 
Sthat  which  prefers  his  country's  Gooit  to  its 
Favour,  and  is  more  directed  to  reform  its 
vices,  than  to  cherish  the  pride  of  its  virtues. 
With  foreign  natioiLS,  too,  this  toue  of  fondness 
iud  self-admiration  is  always  su.spected  ;  and 
most  commonly  ridiculous — while  calm  and 
steady  claims  of  merit,  interspersed  with  ac- 
kuowiedgments  of  faults,  are  sure  io  obtain 
credit,  and  to  raise  the  estimation  both  of  the 
writer  and  of  his  country.  The  ridicule,  too, 
which  naturally  attaches  to  this  vehement  self- 
laudation,  must  iir,sensibly  contract  a  darker 
shade  of  contempt,  when  it  comes  to  be  sus- 
pected that  it  does  not  proceed  from  mere 
honest  vanity,  but  from  a  poor  fear  of  giving 
offence  to  power — sheer  want  of  courage,  in 
short  (in  the  wiser  part  at  least  of  the  popu- 
Jation),  to  let  their  foolish  AHM02  know  what 
tin  their  hearts  they  think  of  him. 

And  now  we  must  at  length  close  this  very 
long  article — the  very  length  and  earnestness 
of  which,  we  hope,  will  go  some  way  to  satisfy 
ur  i\inerican  brethren  of  the  importance  we 


attach  to  their  good  opinion,  and  the  anxiety 
we  feel  to  prevent  any  national  repulsion  from 
being  aggravated  by  a  mi.sipprehensiou  of  our 
sentiments,  or  rather  of  those  of  I  hat  great 
body  of  tile  English  nation  of  which  we  are 
here  the  organ.  In  what  we  liave  now  writtt^n, 
there  may  be  much  that  reiimres  explanation 
— and  much,  we  tear,  that  is  liable  to  miscon- 
struction.—  The  spirit  in  which  it  is  written, 
however,  c;innot,  we  think,  be  misunderstood. 
We  cainiot  descend  to  little  cavils  and  alter- 
cations: and  have  no  leisure  to  maintain  a 
controversy  about  woriis  and  phrases.  We 
have  an  unfeiijned  respect  and  affection  for 
the  free  people  ef  America;  and  we  mean 
honestly  to  j)ledge  our.selves  for  that  of  the 
better  part  of  our  own  country.  We  are  very 
proud  of  the  e.vtensiv(^  cuculation  of  our  Jour- 
nal in  that  great  country,  and  the  importance 
that  is  tliere  attached  to  it.  But  we  should 
be  undeserving  of  this  favour,  if  we  could 
submit  to  seek  it  by  any  mean  practices, 
either  of  flattery  or  of  dissimulation  ;  and  feel 
persuaded  that  we  shall  not  only  best  deserve, 
but  most  surely  obtain,  the  confidence  and  re- 
spect of  Mr.  W.  and  his  countrymen,  by 
speaking  freely  what  we  sincerely  think  of 
them, — and  treating  them  exactly  as  we  treat 
that  nation  to  which  we  are  here  accused  of 
being  too  favourable. 


(5\^ot)  ember,  1822. 


.Braccbridgc  HaU ;  or,  the  Humonsts.     By  Gkoffrey  Crayon,  Gent.  Author  of  "The  Sketch 
j  Book,"  &c.     2  vols.  8vo.  pp.  800.     Murray.     London:   1822,* 


'  We  have  received  so  much  pleasure  from 
I  this  book,  that  we  think  ourselves  bound  in 
gratitude,  as  well  as  justice,  to  make  a  public 
acknowledgment  of  it, — and  seek  to  repay,  by 
a  little  kind  notice,  the  great  obligations  we 
shall  ever  feel  to  the  author.  These  amiable 
I  sentiments,  however,  we  fear,  will  scarcely 
:  furnish  us  with  materials  for  an  interesting 


with  the  same  happy  selection  and  limited 
variety,  but  the  same  proportion  of  things  that 
seem  scarcely  to  depend  on  the  individual — 
the  same  liuk,  as  well  as  the  same  labour,  and 
an  equal  share  of  felicities  to  enhance  the 
fair  returns  of  judicious  industry.  There  are 
few  things,  we  imagine,  so  rare  as  this  sus- 
tained level  of  excellence  in  the  works  of  a 


article; — and  we  suspect  we  have  not  much  [popular  writer — or,  at  least,  if  it  does  exist 
else  to  say,  that  has  not  already  occuned  to  |  now  and  then  in  rerum  natiira,  there  is  scarce- 
most  of  our  readers — or.  indeed,  been  said  by  ly  any  thing  that  is  so  .seldom  allowed.  When 
ourselves  with  reference  lo  his  former  j)ul)li-  an  author  has  once  gained  a  large  .share  of 
cation.  For  nothing  in  the  world  can  he  so  ,  public  attention, — when  his  name  is  once  up 
complete  as  the  identity  of  the  autlior  in  these  among  a  herd  of  idle  readers,  they  can  never 
two  production.s — identity  not  of  style  merely  be  brought  to  believe  that  one  who  has  risen 
and  character,  but  of  merit  also,  both  in  kind  so  far  can  ever  remain  stationary.  In  their 
and  degree,  and  in  the  sort  and  extent  of  popu-  i  e.stimation,  he  must  either  rise  farther,  or  be- 
larity  which  that  merit  has  created — notmeie-jgin  immediately  to  descend;  so  that,  when 
ly  tne  same  good  sense  and  the  same  good  he  ventures  before  these  prepossessed  judges 
humour  directed  to  the  same  good  ends,  and  with  a  new  work,  it  is  always  discovered, 
,,,    ,      — . —  .,, r^^  , ,  ,1     1  either  that  he  has  infinitely  surpassed  him- 

urJl       "  "  ^!l"  ^^  "'"'    "\    x^,  '  iT.'i!-"    '•'"'    «elf.  or,  in  the  far  creater  number  of  cases, 
precediii"  paper,  that  1  am  templed  to  arid  ihis  lo  II ;!   .     ■     .'        .  i  r  u-  rr         i    ,i    .    i      • 

chiefly  for  the  .«nke  of  the  powerful  backing  winch  !  »h^t  there  is  a  sad  falling  off,  an<l   Ilia     he  is 


P" 
my  Enalish  exhoiiaiion  to  nnii'v  nmoriu;  l)rcihre'i, 
is  there  .'shown  lo  h;ive  received  from  liic  mosi  aiiiia- 
hie  and  elegant  of  American  writers.  I  had  .said 
nearly  ihe  same  tilings  in  a  previous  review  of 
"The  Sketch  Buok,'*  and  should  have  repriiiied 
that  article  also,  had  it  ni)t  been  made  up  chiefly  of 
extracts,  with  which  I  do 
fill  up  this  publication. 


hastening  to  the  end  of  his  career.     In  ihi 
way  it    may   in  general   be    presumed,   that 


an  author  who  is  admitted  by  tlu'  ))iiblic  not 

to  have  fallen  ofi'  in  a  second  work,  has  in  re- 

n  made  up  cntelly  o.  ,  ality  improved  upon   his  first :  and   has  Iruly 

ihmk  it  quiie  fnir  ,o  'proved  his  title  to  a  h  she;-  place    l,y  mere- 

i  ly  maiiilainintr  that  which  he  had  lormerJy 

'3D 


€38 


anSCELLANEOUS. 


earned.     We  would   not  have  Mr.  Crayon, 
however,  plume  himself  too  much  upon  this 
sa«re  observation  :  for  though  we,  and  other 
great  lights  of  public  judgment,  have  decided 
that  his  former  level  has  been  maintained  in 
this  work  with  the  most  marvellous  precision, 
we  must  whisper  in  his  ear  that  the  million 
are  not  exuctl)-  of  that  opinion  ;  and  that  the 
common  buzz  among  the  idle  and  imjxitient 
critics  of  the  drawing-room  is,  that,  in  com- 
parison with  the   Sketch   Book,  it  is  rather 
monotonous  and    languid;    and  there  is  too 
little  variety  of  characters  for  two  thick  vol-  ! 
umes ;  and  that  the  said  few  characters  come 
on  so  often,  and  stay  so  long,  that  the  gentlest 
reader  detects  himself  in  rejoicing  at  being 
done  with  them.     The  premises  of  this  en- 
thymem  we  do  not  much  dispute;  but  the 
conclusion,   for  all   that,  is  wrong :    For,   in  ! 
spite  of  these  defects,   Biucebridge   Hall  is  ] 
quite  as  good  as  the  Sketch  Book  :  and  Mr.  C.  i 
may  lake  comfort. — if  he  is  humble  enough  | 
to  be  comforted  with  such  an  assurance — and  ! 
trust  to  us  that  it  will  be  quite  as  popular,  and 
that  he  still  holds  his  own  with  the  etHcient 
body  of  his  English  readers. 

The  great  charm  and  peculiarity  of  this 
work  consists  now,  as  on  former  occasions,  in 
the  singular  sweetness  of  the  composition,  and 
the  mildness  of  the  sentiments, — sicklied  over 
perhaps  a  little,  now  and  then,  with  that  cloy- 
ing heaviness  into  which  unvaried  sweetness 
is  loo  apt  to  subside.  The  rythm  and  melody 
of  the  sentences  is  certainly  excessive  :  As  it 
not  only  gives  an  air  of  mannerism,  from  its 
uniformity,  but  raises  too  strong  an  impres- 
sion of  the  labour  that  must  have  been  be- 
stowed, and  the  importance  which  must  have 
been  attached  to  that  which  is.  after  all.  but 
a  secondary  attribute  to  good  writing.  It  is 
very  ill-natured  in  us,  however,  to  object  to 
what  has  given  us  so  much  pleasure  :  for  we 
happen  to  be  very  intense  and  sensitive  ad- 
mirers of  those  soft  harmonies,  of  studied 
speech  in  which  this  author  is  so  apt  to  in- 
dulge; and  have  caught  ourselves,  ofteuer 
than  we  shall  confess,  neglecting  his  excellent 
matter,  to  lap  ourselves  in  the  liquid  music  of 
his  periods — and  letting  ourselves  float  pas- 
sively down  the  mellow  falls  and  windings  of 
his  soft-flowing  sentences,  with  a  delight  not 
inferior  to  that  which  we  derive  from  fine 
versification. 

We  should  reproach  ourselves  still  more, 
however,  and  with  better  reason,  if  we  were 
to  persist  in  the  objection  which  we  were  also 
at  first  inclined  to  take,  to  the  extraordinary 
kindliness  and  disarming  gentleness  of  all  this 
author's  views  and  sug2:estions ;  and  we  only 
refer  to  it  now,  for  the  purpose  of  answering, 
and  discrediting  it,  with  any  of  our  readers  to 
whom  also  it  may  happen  to  have  occurred. 

It  first  struck  us  as  an  objection  to  the  au- 
thor's courage  and  sincerity.  It  was  quite 
unnatural,  we  s;iid  to  ourselves,  for  any  body 
to  be  always  on  such  very  amiable  terms  with 
his  fellow-creatures;  and  this  air  of  eternal 
philanthropy  conld  be  nothing  hut  a  pretence 
put  on  to  bring  himself  into  favour;  and  then 
we  proceeded  to  assimilate  him  to  those  silken 


parasites  who  are  in  raptures  with  every  bodj 
they  meet,  and  ingratiate  themselves  in  gene- 
ral society  by  an  unmanly  suppression  of  al 
honest  indignation,  and  a  timid  avoidance  oi 
all  subjects  of  disagreement.  Upon  due  com 
sideration,  however,  we  are  now  satisfied  thai 
this  was  an  unjust  and  unworthy  inleiprelai 
tion.  An  author  who  comes  deliberately  be| 
fore  the  public  with  certain  select  monologue! 
of  doctrine  and  discussion,  is  not  at  all  iu  th^ 
condition  of  a  man  in  common  society  j 
whom  various  overtures  of  baseness  and  foUj, 
are  daily  obtruded,  and  to  whose  sense  anJi 
honour  appeals  are  perpetually  made,  whicij 
must  be  manfully  answered,  as  honour  an<| 
con.science  suggest.  The  author,  on  th' 
other  hand,  has  no  questions  to  answer,  ain 
no  society  to  select :  his  professed  object  is  I 
instruct  and  improve  the  world — and  his  reb 
one,  if  he  is  tolerably  honest,  is  nothing  wors 
than  to  promote  his  own  fame  and  fortune  b 
succeeding  in  that  which  he  professes.  Now 
there  are  but  two  ways  that  we  have  eve 
heard  of  by  which  men  may  be  improved- 
either  by  cultivating  and  encouraging  the 
amiable  propensities,  or  by  shaming  an 
frightening  them  out  of  those  that  are  vioioui- 
and  there  can  be  but  little  doubt,  we  shoul 
imagine,  which  of  the  two  offices  is  the  higl 
est  and  most  eligible — since  the  one  is  left  i 
a  great  measure  to  Hell  and  the  hangman,-, 
and  for  the  other,  we  are  taught  chieliy  I 
look  to  Heaven,  and  all  that  is  angelic  upc 
earth.  The  most  perfect  moral  disciplir 
would  be  that,  no  doubt,  in  which  both  wei 
combined  ;  but  one  is  generally  as  much  ; 
human  energy  is  equal  to  ;  and,  in  fact,  the 
have  commonly  been  divided  in  practice,  witl 
out  surmise  of  blame.  And  tnily,  if  men  ha\, 
been  hailed  as  great  public  benefactors,  mep. 
ly  for  having  beat  tyrants  into  moderation,  '' 
coxcombs  into  good  manners,  we  must  be  pe 
mitted  to  think,  that  one  whose  vocation 
different  may  be  allowed  to  have  deservt 
well  of  his  "kind,  although  he  should  ha' 
confined  his  efforts  to  teaching  them  niutu 
charity  and  forbearance,  and  only  sought 
repress  their  evil  passions,  by  strengthenii 
the  springs  and  enlarging  the  sphere  of  tho| 
that  are  generous  and  khidly. 

The  objection  in  this  general  form,  iher 
fore,  we  soon  found  could  not  be  maintainei. 
— But,  as  we  still  felt  a  little  secret  spite  li' 
gering  within  us  at  our  author's  univere' 
affability,  we  set  about  questioning  ourselv 
more  strictly  as  to  its  true  nature  and  tende 
cy;  and  think  we  at  last  succeeded  in  tracii 
it  to  an  eager  desire  to  see  so  powerful  a  p 
and  such  great  popularity  employed  iu  d 
molishing  those  errors  and  abuses  to  whi' 
we  had  been  accustomed  to  refer  most  oft, 
unhappiness  of  our  country.  Though  we  lo 
his  gentleness  and  urbanity  on  the  whole,  v 
should  have  been  very  well  pleased  to  s' 
him  a  little  rude  and  surly,  now  and  then, 
our  particular  opponents;  and  could  not  l 
think  it  showed  a  want  of  sjurit  and  discrin 
nation  that  he  did  not  mark  his  sense  of  th 
demerits,  by  making  them  an  I'xccption  to  1' 
general  system  of  toleration  and  indulgent 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


639 


bing  Whigs  ourselves,  for  example,  we  could 
|.t  but  take  it  a  little  amiss,  that  one  born 
[d  bred  a  republit-an.  and  writing  largely  on 
Ih  present  CDudition  of  England,  should  make 
j  little  (list  inction  between  that  party  and  its 
iponents — and  should  even  choose  to  attach 
imself  to  a  Tory  family,  as  the  proper  type 
^id  emblem  of  the  old  English  character.  Nor 
■uld  we  well  acquit  him  of  being  "  pigeon- 
iwred — and  lacking  gall,''  when  we  found 
at  nothing  could  provoke  him  to  give  a  pal- 
ible  hit  to  the  Ministry,  or  even  to  employ 
IS  pure  and  powerful  eloquence  in  reproving 
le  shameful  scurrilities  of  the  ministerial 
*-ess.  We  were  also  a  little  sore,  too,  we  be- 
';ve.  on  discovering  that  he  took  no  notice  of 
*!Otlaud!  and  said  absolutely  nothing  about 
IT  Highlanders,  our  schools,  and  our  poetry. 
I  Now,  though  we  have  magnanimously  cho- 
\n.  to  illustrate  this  grudge  at  his  neutrality 
I  our  own  persons,  it  is  obvious  that  a  dis- 
tisfaction  of  the  same  kind  must  have  been 
'It  by  all  the  other  great  and  contending  par- 
es uito  which  this  and  all  free  countries  are 
jcessarily  divided.  Mr.  Crayon  has  rejected 
lie  alliance  of  any  one  of  these  ;  and  reso- 
'tely  refused  to  take  part  with  them  in  the 
rusgles  to  which  they  attach  so  much  im- 
jrtance ;  and  consequently  has,  to  a  certain 
ctent,  offended  and  disappointed  them  all. 
ut  we  must  carry  our  magnanimity  a  step 
rther,  and  confess,  for  ourselves,  and  for 
hers,  that,  upon  reflection,  the  offence  and 
sappointmeut  seem  to  us  altogether  unrea- 
mable  and  unjust.  The  ground  of  complaint 
!,  that  we  see  talents  and  influence — iimo- 
•?ntly,  we  must  admit,  and  even  beneficially 
Tiployed — but  not  engaged  on  our  side,  or  in 
13  particular  contest  which  we  may  feel  it 
ar  duty  to  wage  against  the  errors  or  delu- 
ons  of  our  contemporaries.  Now,  in  the  first 
ilace,  is  not  this  something  like  the  noble  in- 
dignation of  a  recruiting  serjeaut,  who  thinks 
:  a  scandal  that  any  stout  fellow  should  de- 
irade  himself  by  a  pacific  employment,  and 
:ikes  offence  accordingly  at  every  pair  of 
Toad  shoulders  and  good  legs  which  he  finds 
ti  the  possession  of  a  priest  or  a  tradesman  ? 
^ut  the  manifest  absurdity  of  the  grudge  con- 
sts  in  this.  First,  That  it  is  equally  reason- 
hie  in  all  the  different  parties  who  sincerely 
lelieve  their  own  cause  to  be  that  which  ought 
0  prevail ;  while  it  is  manifest,  that,  as  the 
lesired  champion  could  only  side  with  one, 
ill  the  rest  would  be  only  worse  off  by  the 
:?rmination  of  his  neutrality ;  and  secondly, 
;'hat  the  weight  and  authority,  for  the  sake  of 
vhich  his  assistance  is  so  coveted,  and  which 
ach  party  is  now  so  anxious  to  have  thrown 
iito  its  scale,  having  been  entirely  created  by 
iirtues  and  qualities  which  belong  only  to  a 
Itale  of  neutrality,  are,  in  reality,  incapable 
:f  being  transferred  to  contending  parties,  and 
l"Ould  utterly  perish  and  be  annihilated  in  the 
ittempt.  A  good  part  of  Mr.  C.'s  reputation, 
ind  certainly  a  very  large  share  of  his  in- 
iluence  and  popularity  wilh  all  parties,  has 
I'sen  acquired  by  the  indulgence  with  which 
•e  has  treated  all.  and  his  abstinence  from  all 
orts  of  virulence  and  hostility ;  and  it  is  no 


doubt  chiefly  on  account  of  this  influence  and 
favour  that  we  and  others  are  rashly  desirous 
to  see  him  take  part  against  our  adveis;ines — 
forgetting  that  those  very  qualities  which  ren- 
der his  assistance  valuable,  would  infallibly 
desert  him  the  moment  that  he  complied  with 
our  desire,  and  vanish  in  the  very  act  of  his 
compliance. 

The  question  then  comes  to  be.  not  properly 
whether  there  should  be  any  neutrals  in  great 
national  contentions — but  whether  any  man 
should  be  allowed  to  aspire  to  distinction  by 
acts  not  subservient  to   party  purposes? — a 
question  which,  even  in  tliis  age  of  party  and 
polemics,   we   suppose    there    are  not   many 
who  w^ould  have  the  hardihood  st-iiously  to 
propound.     Yet  this,  we  must  be  pemaitted  to 
repeat,  is  truly  the  question : — For  if  a  man 
may  lawfully  devote  his  talents  to  music,  or 
architecture,  or  drawing,  or  metaphysics,  or 
poetry,  and  lawfully  challenge  the  general  ad- 
miration of  his  age  for  his  proficiency  in  those 
pursuits,  though  totally  disjoined  from  all  po- 
litical application,  we  really  do  not  see  why 
I  he  may  not  write  prose  essays  on   national 
!  character  and  the  ingredients  of  private  hap- 
'  pinesS;  with  the  same  large  and  pacific  pur- 
:  poses  of  pleasure  and  improvement.     To  Mr. 
,  C.  especially,  who  is  not  a  citizen  of  this  coun- 
try, it  can  scarcely  be  proposed  as  a  duty  to 
take  a  .share  in  our  internal  contentions;  and 
though  the  picture  which  he  professes  to  give 
of  our  country  may  be  more   imperfect,  and 
[  the  estimate  he  makes  of  our  character  less 
complete,  from  the  omission  of  this  less  tract- 
able element,  the  value  of  the  parts  that  he 
has  been  able  to  finish  will  not  be  lessened, 
and  the  beneficial  effect  of  the  representation 
i  will,  in  all  probability,  be  increased.    For  our 
own  parts,  we  have  ventured,  on  former  occa- 
sions, to  express  our  doubts  whether  the  po- 
lemical parts,  even  of  a  statesman's  duty,  do 
not  hold  too  high  a  place  in  public  esteem — 
and  are  sure,  at  all  events,  that  they  ought  not 
to  engross  the  attention  of  those  lo  whom  such 
a  station  has  not  been  intrusted.     It  should 
;  never  be  forgotten,  that  good  political  institu- 
I  lions,  the  sole  end  and  object  of  all  our  party 
contentions,  are  only  valuable  as  means  of 
'  promoting  the  general  happiness  and  virtue 
of  individuals; — and  that,  important  as  they 
are,  there  are  other  means,  .still   more  direct 
and  indispensable  for  the  attainment  of  that 
great  end.     The  cultivation  of  the  kind  affec- 
tions, we  humbly  conceive,  to  bo  of  still  more 
importance   to   private   happiness,   than    the 
good  balance  of  the  constitution  under  which 
we  live  ;  and,  if  it  be  true,  as  we  most  firmly 
believe,  that  it  is  the  natural  effect  of  political 
I  freedom  to  fit  and  dispose  the  mind  for  all 
1  gentle  as  well  as  generous  emofioius,  we  hold 
it  to  be  equally  true,  that  habits  of  benevo- 
lence, and  sentiments  of  philanthropy,  are  the 
I  surest  foundations  on  which  a  love  of  liberty 
can  rest.     A  man  must  love  his  fellows  before 
he  loves  their  liberty  ;  and  if  he  has  not  learned 
to  interest  himself" in  their  enjoyments,  it  is 
impossible  that  he  can  have  any  trenuinc  con- 
cert! for  that  liberty,  which,  alter  all.  is  osly 
valuable  as  a  means  of  enjoyment.     We  con- 


€40 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


siJer.  therefore,  the  writers  who  seek  to  soften 
and  improvt;  our  social  affections,  not  only  as 
aiming  directly  at  ihe  same  great  end  which 
politickn.'s  more  circuitously  pursue,  but  as 
preparing  tho.se  elements  out  of  which  alone 
a  geiK'ruus  and  eiilighleued  love  of  political 
freedom  can  ever  be  formed — and  without  j 
which  it  could  neither  be  safely  trusted  in  the  j 
hands  of  individuals,  nor  prove  fruitful  of  in- 
dividual enjoyment.  We  conclude,  therefore, 
that  jNlr.  Crayon  is  in  reality  a  better  friend  to 
Whig  principles  than  if  he  had  openly  attacked 
♦he  Tories— and  end  this  long,  and  perhaps 
needless  apology  for  his  neutrality,  by  discov- 
ering, that  such  neutrality  is  in  effect  the  best 
nursery  for  the  only  partisans  that  ever  should 
be  encouraged — the  partisans  of  whatever  can 
be  shown  to  be  clearly  and  unquestionably 
right.  And  now  we  must  say  a  word  or  two 
more  of  the  book  before  us. 

There  are  not  many  of  our  readers  to  whom 
it  can  be  necessary  to  mention,  that  it  is  in 
substance,  and  almost  in  form,  a  continuation 
of  the  Sketch  Book  ;  and  consists  of  a  series 
of  little  descriptions,  and  essays  on  matters 
principally  touching  the  national  character 
and  old  h:ibits  of  England.  The  author  is 
supposed  to  be  resident  at  Bracebridge  Hall, 
the  Christmas  festivities  of  vvliJch  he  had 
commemorated  in  his  former  publication, 
and  among  the  inmates  of  which,  most  of  the 
familiar  incidents  occur  which  he  turns  to 
account  in  his  lucubrations.  These  incidents 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  make  a  story  in  any 
sense,  and  certaiiily  not  one  which  would 
admit  of  being  abstracted  ;  and  as  we  are 
under  a  vow  to  make  but  short  extracts  from 
popular  books,  we  must  see  that  we  choose 
well  the  few  passages  upon  which  we  may 
venture.  There  is  a  short  Introduction,  and 
a  Farewell,  by  the  author:  in  both  which  he 
alludes  to  the  fact  of  his  being  a  citizen  of 
America  in  a  way  that  appears  to  us  to  de- 
serve a  citation.  The  first  we  give  chiefly 
for  the  beauty  of  the  writing. 

"  England  is  as  classic  ground  to  an  American,  as 
Italy  is  to  an  Englishman  ;  and  old  London  leenis 
with  as  much  historical  association  as  mighty  Rome. 

"  But  what  more  especially  aitracis  his  notice, 
are  those  peculiariiies  which  disiinguish  an  old 
counirv,  and  an  old  state  of  society,  irom  a  new 
one.  i  have  never  yei  grown  familiar  enough  with 
the  crumbling  monuments  of  past  ages,  to  blunt 
the  intense  interest  with  which  I  at  first  beheld 
them.  Accustomed  always  to  scenes  where  history 
was,  in  a  manner,  in  anticipation;  where  every 
thing  in  art  was  new  and  progressive,  and  pointed 
to  the  future  rnther  than  to  the  past ;  where,  in 
short,  the  works  of  man  gave  no  ideas  hut  those  of 
young  existence,  and  prospective  improvement ; 
there  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
sight  of  enormous  piles  of  architecture,  grey  with 
antiquity,  and  smking  to  decay.  I  cannot  describe 
the  mute  but  deep-felt  enthusiasm  with  which  I 
have  coniemplnted  a  vast  monastic  ruin,  like  Tin- 
tern  Abbey,  burif-d  in  the  bosom  of  a  qtiiei  valley. 
and  shut  up  from  the  world,  as  though  it  had  existed 
merely  for  itself;  or  a  warrior  pile,  like  Conway 
Casile,  sianding  in  .stern  loneliness,  on  its  rocky 
height,  a  mere  iiollow,  yet  threatening  phantom  of 
depnrtfd  power.  They  .«pread  a  grand  and  melan- 
chfilv.and.  to  me.  an  iinui>ual  rharm  over  the  land- 
Bcai"'.  1  for  the  fir.«i  liine  beheld  signs  of  national 
old  age,  and  empire's  decay  ;  and  proofs  of  the  tran- 


sient and  perishing  glories  of  art,  amidst  the 
springing  and  reviving  fertility  ot  nature. 

"But,  ill  fact,  to  me  every  thing  was  full 
matter:  The  footsteps  of  history  were  every  whe 
to  be  traced  ;  and  poetry  had  breathed  over  a 
sanctified  the  land.  I  experienced  the  delightl 
freshness  of  feeling  of  a  child,  to  whom  every  ihi 
is  new.  I  pictured  to  myself  a  set  of  inhabitai 
and  a  mode  of  life  for  every  habitation  that  I  6a\ 
from  the  aristocraiieal  mansion,  amidst  the  lord 
repose  of  stalely  groves  and  solitary  parks,  to  i 
straw-thatched  cottage,  with  its  seamy  garden  ai 
its  cherished  woodbine.  I  ihougiii  1  never  cou 
be  sated  with  the  sweetness  and  freshness  ol 
country  so  completely  carpeted  with  verdur 
where  every  air  breathed  of  ihe  balmy  pasture  ai 
the  honeysuckled  hedge.  1  was  coniinually  comii 
upon  some  little  document  ol  poetry,  in  the  bic 
somed  hawthorn,  the  daisy,  the  cowslip,  the  prii 
rose,  or  some  other  simple  object  that  has  receiv. 
a  supernatural  value  from  the  Muse.  Thi-  fii 
lime  that  I  heard  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  I  v, 
intoxicated  more  by  the  delicious  crowd  of  remet 
bered  associations,  than  by  the  melody  of  its  note: 
and  I  shall  never  forget  the  thrill  ot  ecstasy  ui 
which  1  tirst  saw  the  lark  rise,  almost  Irom  benea 
my  feel,  and  wing  its  musical  Highi  up  into  i 
morning  sky."^Vol.  i.  pp.  6 — 9. 

We  know  nothing  more  beautiful  than  tl' 
melody  of  this  concluding  sentence ;  and  I 
the  reader  be  not  struck  with  its  music,  v 
think  he  has  no  riirht  to  admire  the  Vision  i, 
Mirza.  or  any  of  the  other  delicious  cadenc; 
of  Addison.  i 

The  Farewell  we  quote  for  the  matter  jail 
it  is  matter  to  which  we  shall  miss  no  fit  o 
casion  to  recur, — being  persuaded  not  on 
that  it  is  one  of  higher  moment  than  almc; 
any  other  to  which  we  can  now  apply  oi 
selves,  but  one  upon  which  the  honest  per? 
verance,  even  of  such  a  work  as  ours  may 
time  produce  practical  and  beneficial  efl'eci: 
We  allude  to  the  animosity  which  intempera' 
writers  on  both  sides  are  labouring  to  creal. 
or  exasperate,  between  this  country  ai 
America,  and  which  we,  and  the  writer  t, 
fore  us.  are  most  anxious  to  allay.  There 
no  word  in  the  following  quotation  in  whi' 
we  do  not  most  cordially  concur.  We  recei 
with  pecidiar  satisfaction  the  assurances  < 
the  accomplished  author,  as  to  the  kind 
disposition  of  the  better  part  of  his  countr, 
men  _;  and  are  disposed  to  place  entire  coi.- 
dence  in  it.  not  only  from  our  reliance  on  1 
judgment  and  meaiis  of  iidbrmation,  but  fro 
the  accuracy  of  his  representation  of  the  ?(■ 
of  persons  to  whom  the  fashion  of  abusing  t , 
Americans  has  now  gone  down,  on  this  sii 
of  the  Atlantic.  Nothing,  we  think,  can 
more  handsome,  persuasive,  or  grateful,  th 
the  whole  following  passage. 

"  And  here  let  me  acknowledge  my  warm,  r 
thankful  feelings,  at  the  eflbct  produced  by  one 
my  trivial  lucubrations.  I  allude  to  ihe  essay  , 
the  Sketch-Book,  on  the  subject  of  ihe  liters 
feuds  between  EnL'land  and  Annrii-a.  I  cam; 
e.\prr.ss  ihe  heartfelt  delight  I  have  r.vprriencfd  , 
the  unexpected  syinpaihy  and  approbiiiion  v 
which  those  remarks  iiave  been  nceived  on  b< 
sides  of  Ihe  Allaiitic.  I  sneak  this  not  from  a 
paltry  feelings  of  graiified  vaniiy  ;  for  I  niiribi 
the  effect  to  no  merii  of  mv  pen.  Ihe  paper 
question  was  brief  and  casual,  and  ihe  ideas  it  re 
veved  were  .simple  and  obviotts.  '  Ti  was  the  cam 
11  was  the  cause  '  alone.     There  was  a  predispu 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


641 


on  on  ill.'  part  of  my  readers  to  be  favourabi)'  af- 
j^cted.  -Uy  countrymen  responded  in  heart  to  the 
lial  feeliiigs  I  had  avowed  in  tlieir  name  towards 
le  parent  country  ;  and  there  was  a  generous 
lympathy  in  every  English  bosom  towards  a  soh'- 
:iry  individual,  lifting  up  bis  voice  in  a  strange  land, 
j)  vindicaic  ihe  injured  character  of  his  nation. — 
'.'here  are  some  causes  so  sacred  as  to  carry  with 
1  liem  an  irresistible  appeal  to  every  virtuous  bosom  ; 
ind  he  nee. is  but  little  power  of  eloquence,  who 
lefends  the  honour  of  his  wife,  his  mother,  or  his 
ountry. 

"  I  hail,  therefore,  the  success  of  that  brief  paper, 
s  showing  how  much  good  may  be  done  by  a  kind 
^ord,  however  feeble,  when  spoken  in  season — as 
liowiiig  how  much  dormant  good  feeling  actually 
xists  in  each  country,  towards  the  other,  which 
nly  w;ints  the  slightest  spark  to  kindle  it_into  a 
en'ial  flame— as  showing,  in  fact,  what  I  htive  all 
long  believed  and  asserted,  that  the  two  nations 
/ould  grow  together  in  esteem  and  amiiy,  ifmed- 
lingand  malignant  spirits  would  but  throw  by  their 
lischievoiis  pens,  and  leave  kindred  hearts  to  the 
indly  itnpulses  of  nature. 

"  I  once  more  assert,  and  I  assert  it  with  in- 
reased  conviction  of  its  truth,  that  there  exists, 
mong  the  great  majority  of  my  countrymen,  a 
ivourable  feeling  towards  England.  I  repeat  this 
ssertion,  because  I  think  it  a  truth  that  cannot  too 
ften  be  reiterated,  and  because  it  has  met  with 
ome  contradiction.  Among  all  the  liberal  and  en- 
ghtened  mindsof  my  countryinen,  among  all  those 
i^hich  eveniually  give  a  tone  to  national  opinion, 
here  exists  a  cordial  desire  to  be  on  terms  of  cour- 
esy  and  friendship.  But,  at  the  same  time,  there 
nfbriunaiely  exists  in  those  very  minds  a  distrust 
f  reciprocal  goodwill  on  the  part  of  England. 
They  have  been  rendered  morbidly  sensitive  by  the 
tiacks  made  upon  their  country  by  the  English 
ress  ;  and  their  occasional  irritability  on  this  sub- 
i3Ct  has  been  misinterpreted  into  a  settled  and  un- 
iaiural  hostility. 

'■  For  my  part,  I  consider  this  jealous  sensibility 
s  lieloiigiiig  to  generous  natures.  I  should  look 
ipon  my  countrymen  as  fallen  indeed  from  that 
ndepeiicience  of  spirit  which  is  their  birth-gift  ;  as 
alien  indeed  from  that  pride  of  character,  which 
hey  in!ic'ru  from  the  proud  nation  from  vvhich  they 
prung  ./oiild  they  tamely  sit  down  umler  the  in- 
iictioii  111  contumely  and  insult.  Indeed,  the  very 
mp-i'ieii;-e  which  they  show  as  to  the  misrepre- 
enii'.ii.insiif  the  press,  proves  their  respect  for  Eng- 
:ish  opinion,  and  their  desire  for  English  amity  ;  for 
here  is  never  jealousy  where  there  is  not  strong 
'egard. 

1  "  To  the  magnanimous  spirits  of  both  countries 
■SHKi  we  trust  to  carry  such  a  natural  alliance  of 
liffecliiin  into  full  effect.  To  pens  more  powerful 
han  mine  I  leave  the  noble  task  of  promoting  the 
••ausR  of  national  amity.  To  the  intelligent  and 
•filighiened  of  my  own  country,  I  address  my 
laning  voice,  entreating  them  to  show  themselves 
superior  lO  the  peny  attacks  of  the  ignorant  and  the 
vorihless,  and  still  to  look  with  a  dispassionate  and 
.)hil()sophic  eye  to  the  moral  character  of  England, 
us  the  intellectual  source  of  our  own  rising  great- 
less;  while  I  appeal  to  every  generous-minded 
Englishman  from  the  slanders  which  disgrace  the 
)ress.  insult  the  understanding,  and  belie  the  mag- 
ia!!imi:y  of  his  country  :  and  I  invite  him  to  look 
0  America,  as  to  a  kindred  nation,  worthy  of  its 
)rigin  :  giving,  in  the  healthy  vigour  of  its  growth, 
he  best  of  comments  on  its  parent  stock  ;  and  re- 
leiMing.  in  the  dawning  brightness  of  its  fame,  the 
iioral  effulsence  of  British  glory. 

"1  am  svre,  too,  that  siich  "appeal  will  not  be 
■nade  in  vain.  Indeed  I  have  noticed,  for  some 
iitre  p-ist-,  an  essential  change  in  English  sentiment 
>viih  regard  to  America.  In  Parliament,  that  foun- 
'^^in-hfad  of  public  opinion,  there  seems  to  be  an 
'iiion,  on  both  sides  of  the  House,  in  holding 
i'tjange  uf  courtesy  and  friendship.    The  same 


spirit  is  daily  becoming  more  and  more  prevalent  in 
good  society.  There  is  a  growing  curiosity  con- 
cerning my  country  ;  a  craving  desire  lor  correct 
inlormaiion,  that  cannot  fail  to  lead  to  a  favourable 
understanding.  The  scofier,  I  trust,  has  had  his 
day;  the  tmie  of  the  slanderer  is  gone  by.  The 
ribald  jokes,  the  stale  commonplaces,  which  have 
so  long  passed  current  when  America  was  the 
theme,  are  now  biinished  to  the  ignorant  and  the 
vulgar,  or  only  perpetuated  by  the  hireling  scrib- 
blers and  traditional  jesters  of  the  press.  The  in- 
telligent and  high-minded  now  pride  themselvoe 
upon  making  America  a  study. 

Vol.  ii.  pp.  396—403. 

From  the  botly  of  the  \\*ork,  we  must  in- 
dulge ourselves  with  very  few  citations.  But 
we  cannot  resist  the  following  exquisite  de- 
scription of  a  rainy  Sunday  at  an  inn  in  a 
country  town.  It  is  part  of  the  admirable 
legend  of  ''the  Stout  (icntleman,"  of  which 
we  will  not  trust  ourselves  with  saying  one 
word  more.  The  following,  howcve'r,  is  per- 
fect, independent  of  its  connections. 

"  It  was  a  rainy  Sunday,  in  the  gloomy  month 
of  November.  I  had  been  detained,  in  the  course 
of  a  journey,  by  a  slight  indisposition,  from  which 
I  was  recovering;  but  I  wiis  still  feverish,  and 
was  obliged  to  keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn 
of  the  smtill  town  of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a 
country  inn  !  whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experi- 
ence one  can  alone  judge  of  my  situation.  The 
rain  pattered  against  the.  casements ;  the  bells 
tolled  for  church  with  a  melancholy  sound.  I 
went  to  the  windows  in  quest  of  something  to 
amuse  the  eye  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been 
placed  compleiely  out  of  the  reach  of  all  amuse- 
ment. The  windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out 
among  tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while 
those  of  my  sitting-room  commanded  a  full  view 
of  the  stable-yard.  I  know  of  nothing  more  calcu- 
lated to  make  a  man  sick  of  this  world  than  a  stable- 
yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The  place  was  littered  with 
wet  straw  that  had  been  kicked  about  by  travellers 
and  stable-boys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant 
pool  of  water,  surrounding  an  island  of  muck. 
There  were  several  half-drowned  fowls  crowded 
together  under  a  cart,  aiiiong  which  was  a  misera- 
ble, crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of  all  life  and 
spirit ;  his  drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into  a 
single  feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled  from 
his  back.  Near  the  cart  was  a  half-dozing  cow, 
chewing  the  cud,  and  standing  patiently  to  be  rained 
on,  with  wreaths  of  vapour  rising  from  her  reeking 
hide.  A  wall-eyed  horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness 
of  the  stable,  was  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of 
a  window,  with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the 
eaves.  An  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a  dog-house 
hard  by,  uttered  something  every  now  and  then, 
between  a  bark  and  a  yelp.  A  drab  of  a  kitchen 
wench  tramped  backwards  and  forwards  through 
the  yard  in  pattens,  looking  as  sulky  as  the  weather 
itself  Every  thing,  in  short,  was  comfortless  and 
forlorn — excepting  a  crew  of  hard-drinking  ducks, 
assembled  like  boon  companions  round  a  puddle, 
and  making  a  riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

"  I  sauntered  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing  at 
the  people,  picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petti- 
coats hoisted  mid-leg  hi^'h,  and  dripping  umbrellas. 
The  bells  ceased  to  toll,  and  the  streets  became 
silent.  I  then  atnused  myself  with  watching  the 
daughters  of  a  tradesman  opposite  ;  who,  being  con- 
fined to  the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday 
finery,  played  off  their  charms  at  the  from  win- 
dows, to  fascinate  the  chance  tenants  of  the  inn. 
They  at  length  were  summoned  away  by  a  .vigilant 
vinegar-faced  mother,  and  I  had  nothing  further 
from  without  to  amuse  me. 

"  The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy.  The 

slovenlv,   ragged,  spongy  clouds,  drifted  heavily 

3d2 


642 


along.  There  was  no  variety  even  in  the  rain  ;  it 
■was  one  dull,  continued,  monotonous  patter — pat- 
ter— patter,  excepting  that  now  and  then  I  was 
enlivened  by  the  idea  of  a  brisk  shower,  (Vom  the 
rattling  of  the  drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella.  It 
was  quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a  hack- 
neyed phrase  of  the  day)  when,  in  the  course  of  the 
morning,  a  horn  blew,  and  a  stage  coach  whirled 
through  the  street,  with  outside  passengers  stuck 
all  over  it,  cowering  \inder  cotton  umbrellas,  and 
seethed  together,  and  reeking  with  the  steams  of 
wet  bo.\-c(i;its  and  upper  Benjamins.  The  sound 
brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew  of 
vagabO'id  boys,  and  vatjabond  dogs,  and  the  car- 
roty-headed hostler,  and  that  nondescript  animal 
ycleped  Booi.-^,  and  all  the  other  vagabond  race  that 
infest  tlie  purlieus  of  an  inn  ;  but  the  bustle  was 
transient.  The  coach  again  whirled  on  its  way  ; 
and  boy  and  dog,  and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk 
back  again  to  their  holes.  The  street  again  became 
silent,  and  the  rain  continued  to  rain  on. 

"  The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The  travel- 
lers read  the  papers  two  or  three  limes  over.  Some 
drew  round  the  tire,  and  told  long  stories  about 
their  horses,  about  their  adventures,  their  overrnrns, 
and  breakings-dovv-n.  Tliev  discussed  the  credi;.*  of 
different  merchanti^  and  different  inns  ;  and  the  two 
wags  told  several  choice  anecdotes  rif  pretty  cham- 
bermaids and  kind  landladie.«.  Ail  this  p;isfed  as 
they  were  quietly  taking  what  they  called  their 
night-caps,  that  is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of  brandy 
and  water  and  sugar,  or  some  other  nii.xturc  of  the 
kind;  after  which,  they  one  afier  another  rang  for 
"Boots"  and  the  chambermaid,  and  walked  off  to 
bed,  in  old  shoes,  cut  dDwn  into  marvellously  un- 
comfortable slippers. 

"  There  was  only  one  man  left ;  a  short-legged, 
longr-bodied.  plethoric  fellow,  with  a  very  large 
sandy  head.  He  sat  by  himself  with  a  glass  of  port 
wine  negus,  and  a  spoon  ;  sipping  and  stirring,  and 
meditating  and  sipping,  until  nothing  was  left  but 
the  spoon.  He  gradually  fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in 
his  chair,  with  the  empty  glass  standing  before  him  : 
and  the  candle  seemed  to  fall  asleep  too  !  lor  the 
wick  grew  long,  and  black,  and  cabbaged  at  the 
end,  and  dimmed  the  liiile  light  that  remained  in 
the  cliainber.  The  gloom  that  now  prevailed  was 
contagious.  Around  hung  :he  shapeless,  and  almost 
spectral  hox-coa's  of  departed  travellers,  long  since 
buried  in  deep  sleep.  I  only  heard  the  ticking  of 
the  clock,  with  the  deep-drawn  breathings  of  the 
sleeping  toper,  and  the  drippings  of  the  rain,  drop 
— drop — drop,  from  the  eaves  of  the  house." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  lie— 130. 

The  whole  description  of  the  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  is  equally  good  in  its  way;  but  we  can 
only  make  room  for  the  portraits  of  her  canine 
attendants. 

"  She  has  brought  two  dogs  with  her  also,  out 
of  a  number  of  pets  which  she  maintains  at  home. 
One  is  a  fat  spaniel,  called  Zephyr — though  heaven 
defend  me  from  such  a  zephyr  I  He  is  fed  out  of 
all  shape  and  comfort ;  his  eyes  are  nearly  strained 
out  of  his  head  ;  he  wheezes  with  corpulency,  and 
cannot  walk  without  great  difficulty.  The  other 
is  a  little,  old,  srrey-muzzled  curmudiieon,  with  an 
vmhappy  eye,  that  kindles  like  a  coal  if  you  only 
look  at  him  ;  his  nose  turns  up  ;  his  mouth  is  drawn 
into  wrinkles,  so  ns  to  show  his  teeth  ;  in  short,  he 
has  altogether  the  look  of  a  dog  far  gone  in  misan- 
thropy, and  totally  sick  of  the  world.  When  he 
walks,  he  has  his  tail  curled  up  so  tight  that  it  seems 
to  liii  his  hind  leei  from  the  ground  ;  and  he  seldom 
makes  use  of  more  than  three  legs  at  a  time,  keep- 
ing the  other  drawn  up  as  a  reserve.  This  last 
wretch  is  called  Beauty. 

"  'I'Kese  dogs  are  full  of  elegant  ailments  un- 
known to  vulgar  dogs;  and  arc  potted  and  nursed 
by  Lady  Lillycrafl  with  the  lenderest  kindness. 
Th'-y  iiavo  cushions  for  their  express  use,  on  which 
they  lie  befoic  the  fire,  and  yet  are,  apt  to  shiver 


MISCELLANEOUS,  t 

and  moan  if  there  is  the  least  draught  of  air.  "Whet 


any  one  enters  the  room,  they  make  a  most  !yran< 
nical  barking  that  is  absolutely  deafening.     Tfaeyi 


are  insolent  to  all  the  other  dogs  of  the  establish- 
ment. There  is  a  noble  stag-hound,  a  great  favourite 
of  the  squire's,  who  is  a  privileged  visitor  to  the 
parlour  ;  but  the  moment  he  makes  his  appearand 
these  intruders  fly  at  him  with  furious  rage  ;  and  _ 
have  admired  the  sovereign  indiflerence  and  coiw 


J,i*' 


tempt  with  which  he  seems  to  look  down  upon  hi     iPji 
puny  assailants.     When  her  ladyship  drives  otit/     f 
these  dogs  are  generally  carried  with  her  to  tj" 
the  air  ;  when  they  look  out  of  each  window  of  | 
carriage,  and  bark  at  all  vulgar  pedestrian  do 
Vol.  i.  pp.  75—77. 

We  shall  venture  on  but  one  extract 
— and  it  shall  be  a  specimen  of  the  auth 
more  pensive  vein.     It  is  from  the  cha 
of  '■'  Family  Reliqnes:''  and  aflbrds.  espefci 
in  the  latter  part,  another  striking  instance 
the  pathetic  melody  of  his  style.     The  intro- 
dnctory  part  is  also  a  good  specimen  of  his 
sedulous,   and    not    altogether   unsuccessful 
imitation  of  the  inimitable  diction  and  collo- 
quial  graces  of  Addison. 

"The  place,  however,  which  abounds  most  will 
mementos  of  past  times,  is  the  picture  gallery  ;  anc 
there  is  something  strangely  pleasing,  though  mel- 
ancholy, in  considering  the  long  rows  of  portraitf 
which  compose  the  greater  part  of  the  collection. 
They  furnish  a  kind  of  narrative  of  the  lives  of  th< 
family  worthies,  which  lam  enabled  to  read  witl 
the  a.^sistance  of  the  venerable  housekeeper,  wh( 
is  I  he  family  chronicler,  prompted  occasionally  bj- 
Master  Simon.  There  is  the  progress  of  a  fine 
lady,  for  instance,  through  a  variety  oi  portraits 
One  represents  her  as  a  httle  girl,  with  along  wais 
and  hoop,  holding  a  kitten  in  her  arms,  and  oglini 
the  spectator  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  as  il 
she  could  not  turn  her  head.  In  another  we  fine 
her  in  the  freshness  of  youthful  beauty,  when  shi 
was  a  celebrated  belle,  and  so  hard-hearted  as  ti 
cause  several  imfortunate  gentlemen  to  run  despe 
rate  and  write  bad  poetry.  In  another  she  is  de 
picied  as  a  stately  dame,  in  the  maturity  of  he 
charms,  next  to  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  a  gal 
lant  colonel  in  full-bottomed  wig  and  gold-laced  nai 
who  was  killed  abroad  :  and,  finally,  her  monumen 
is  in  the  church,  the  spire  of  which  may  be  seei 
from  the  window,  where  her  efligy  is  carved  ii 
marble,  and  represents  her  as  a  velierable  dame  o 
seventy-six. — There  is  one  group  that  particalarl; 
interested  me.  It  consisted  of  four  sisters  of  nearl; 
the  same  age,  who  flourished  about  a  century  since 
and,  if  I  may  judge  from  their  portraits,  were  ex 
tremely  beautiful.  I  can  imagine  what  a  scene  o 
gaiety  and  romance  this  old  mansion  must  hav 
been,  when  they  were  in  the  hey-day  of  thei 
charms;  when  they  passed  like  beauiitul  vision 
through  its  halls,  or  stepped  daintily  to  music  in  ih 
revels  and  dances  of  the  cedar  gallery  ;  or  printed 
with  delicate  feet,  the  velvet  verdure  of  thes 
lawns."  \  c. 

"  When  I  look  at  these  faint  records  of  gallanir 
and  tenderness;  when  I  contemplate  the  fadin 
portraits  of  these  beautiful  girls,  and  think  tii; 
they  have  long  since  bloomed,  reigned,  grown  ok 
died,  and  passed  aw-ay,  and  with  them  nil  the 
graces,  their  triumphs,  their  rivalries,  their  ndni , 
rers  ;  the  whole  empire  of  love  and  pleasure  in  wliic 
they  ruled— 'all  dead,  all  buried,  all  foraotien,'- 
I  fiiid  a  cloud  of  melancholy  stealing  over  the  pres 
ent  gaieties  around  me.  I  was  gazing,  in  a  mtisin 
mood,  this  very  morning,  at  the  portrait  of  the  lad 
whose  husband  was  killed  abroad,  when  the  fa 
.Julia  entered  the  gallery,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  th 
capt.ain.  The  siiii  shoiic  through  the  row  of  wir 
dows  on  hor  as  she  passed  along,  and  she  sceme 
to  beam  out  each  time  into  brightness,  and  relapt 


CLArj{SON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


643 


MiU  into  shade,  until  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the 

tiery  fiiiaUy  closed  afier  her.     I  leh  a  sadness  of 
irt  at  the  idea,  iliat  this  was  an  emblem  of  her 
i  ;  a  few  more  years  of  sunshine  and  shade,  and 
this   life,  and    loveliness,  and  enjoyment,   will 
ceased,  and  nothing  be  left  to  commemorate 
c  lutiful  bew^  but    one   more  perishable  por- 
:  !o  awaken,  perhaps,  the  trite  speculations  of 
Suture  loiterer,  like  myself,  when  I  also  and 
-iribbliiigs  shall  have  lived  through  our  brief 
jience  and  been  forgotten." — Vol,  i.  pp.  64,  65. 

We  can  scarcely  afford  room  even  to  al- 
Je  to  the  rest  of  this  elogciiit  miscellany. 
!Ready-raouey  Jack"'  is  admirable  throu^h- 
j,t — and  the  old  General  very  good.  The 
Ws  are,  as  usual,  the  most  insipid.  The 
ypsies  are  sketched  with  s'reat  elegance  as 
fell  as  spirit — and  Master  Simon  is  quite  de- 
mtful,  in  all  the  varieties  of  his  ever  versa- 
e  character.  Perhaps  the  most  pleasing 
ling  about  all  these  personages,  is  the  perfect 
jnocence  and  singleness  of  purpose  which 
sems  to  belong  to  them — and  which,  even 
[hen  it  raises  a  gentle  smile  at  their  expense, 
•eathes  over  the  whole  scene  they  inhabit 
ji  ail"  of  attraction  and  respect — like  that 
[hjch  reigns  iii  the  De  Coverley  pictures  of 


I  Addison.  Of  the  exotic  Tales  which  serve  to 
I  till  up  the  volumes,  that  of  ••  Dolph  Heyliger"' 
I  is  incomparably  the  best — and  is  more  char- 
acteristic, perhaps,  both  of  the  author's  tuiii 
I  of  imagination  and  cast  of  humour,  than  any 
{thing  else  in  the  work.  ••  The  Sludenl  of 
I  Salamanca"  is  too  long;  and  deals  rather 
I  largely  in  the  commonjilaces  of  romtmtic  ad- 
j  venture:  —  while  ••  Ainiette  de  la  Barbe,-' 
though  pretty  and  pathetic  in  some  passages, 
I  is,  on  the  whole,  rather /wrfe  and  finical — and 
i  too  much  in  the  style  of  the  sentimental  after- 
j  pieces  which  we  nave  lately  bonowetl  from 
the  Parisian  theatres. 

On  the  whole,  we  are  very  sorry  to  receive 
I  Mr.  Crayon's  farewell — and  we  nnurn  it  with 
I  the  utmost  cordiality.  We  thank  him  most 
sincerely,  for  the  pleasure  he  has  given  ns — 
!  for  the  kindness  he  has  sfiown  to  our  country- 
I  — and  for  the  lessons  iie  has  taught,  both 
I  here  and  in  his  native  land,  of  good  taste, 
good  nature,  and  national  liberality.  We  hope 
I  he  will  come  back  among  us  soon — and  re- 
I  member  us  while  he  is  away  ;  and  can  assure 
i  him,  that  he  is  in  no  danger  of  being  speedily 
forgotten. 


(april,    1807.) 

I  Portraiture  of  Quakerism,  as  taken  from  a  View  of  the  Moral  Education,  Discipline.  Peculiar 
I  Customs,  Religtous  Principles,  Political  and  Civil  Economy,  and  Character  of  the  Society  of 
I  Friends.  By  Thomas  Clarkson,  M.  A,  Author  of  .several  Essays  on  the  Subject  of  tlie 
j  Slave  Trade!     Svo,     3  vols.     London  :   1806. 

!  .     . 

I  This,  we  think,  is  a  book  peculiarly  fitted  i  might  evidently  have  been  told,  either  under 
pr  reviewing:  For  it  contains  many  things  the  head  of  their  Doctrinal  tenets,  or  of  their 
l/hich  most  people  will  have  some  curiosity  ,  peculiar  Practices;  but  Mr.  Clarkson,  w  ith  a 
p  hear  about :  and  is  at  the  same  time  so  in-  certain  elaborate  infelicity  of  method,  chooses 
'jlerably  dull  and  tedious,  that  no  voluntary  to  discuss  the  merits  of  this  society  under  the 
Jeader  could  possibly  get  through  with  it.  :  several  titles,  of  their  moral  education — their 
(  The  author,  whose  meritorious  exertions  for  |  discipline — their  peculiar  customs — their  re- 
;lie  abolition  of  the  slave  trade  brought  him  ligion — their  great  tenets — and  their  charac- 
fito  public  notice  a  great  many  years  ago,  ter;  and  not  finding  even  this  ample  distribu- 
jvas  recommended  by  this  circumstance  to  tion  sufficient  to  include  all  he  had  to  say  on 
!he  favour  and  the  confidence  of  the  Quakers,  \  the  subject,  he  fills  a  supplemental  half-vo- 
vho  had  long  been  unanimous  in  that  good  lume,  with  repetitions  and  trifles,  under  the 
.ause;  and  was  led  to  such  an  extensive  and  humiliating  name  of  miscellaneous  particulars, 
•ordial  intercourse  with  them  in  all  parts  of  Quakerism  had  certainly  undergone  a  con- 
ihe  kingdom,  that  he  came  at  last  to  have  a  '  siderable  change  in  the  quality  and  spirit  of 
'nore  thorough  knowledge  of  their  tenets  and  j  its  votaries,  from  the  time  when  George  Fox 

went  about  pronouncing  woes  against  cities, 
attacking  priests  in  their  pulpits,  and  exhort- 


iving  manners:  than  any  other  person  out  of 
he  society  could  easily  obtain.  The  effect 
if  this  knovvledge  has  evidently  been  to  ex- 
;ite  in  him  such  an  affection  and  esteem 
for  those  worthy  sectaries,  as  we  think  can 
.^(arcely  fail  to  issue  in  his  public  conversion; 
■uid;  in  the  mean  time,  has  produced  a  more 
'ninute  exposition,  and  a  more  elaborate  de- 
fence of  their  doctrines  and  practices,  than 
tias  recently  been  drawn  from  any  of  their 
own  body, 

■  The  book,  which  is  full  of  repetitions  and 
plagiarisms,  is  distributed  into  a  number  of 
needless  sections,  arranged  in  a  most  unna- 
tural and  inconvenient  order.  All  that  any 
body  can  want  to  know  about  the  Quakers, 


ng  justices  of  the  peace  to  do  justice,  to  the 
time  when  such  men  as  Penn  and  Barclay 
came  into  the  society  '•  by  convincement," 
and  published  such'  vindications  of  its  doc- 
trine, as  few  of  its  opponents  have  found  it 
convenient  to  answer.  The  change  since 
their  time  appears  to  have  been  much  less 
considerable.  The  greater  part  of  these  vo- 
lumes may  be  considered,  indeed,  as  a  wilful 
deterioration  of  Barclay's  Apology  :  and  it  is 
only  where  he  treats  of  the  private  manners 
and  actual  opinions  of  the  modem  QuakerB, 
that  Mr.  Clarkson  communicates  any  thing 
which  a  curious  reader  might  not  have  learnt 


644 


anSCELLANEOUS. 


from  that  celebrated  production.  The  lauda- 1 
tory  and  argumentative  tone  which  he  main-  I 
tains  throughout;  gives  an  air  of  partiality  to  i 
his  statements  \vhich  naturally  diminishes' 
our  reliance  on  their  accuracy:  and  as  the! 
argument  is  often  extremely  bad,  and  the  j 
praise  apparently  unmerited,  we  are  rather  | 
inclined  to  think  that  his  work  will  make  a 
less  powerful  impression  in  favour  of  the 
"friends,"  than  might  have  been  effected  by 
a  more  moderate  advocate.  With  many  praise- 
worthy maxims  and  principles  for  their  moral 
conduct;  the  Quakers,  we  think,  have  but  little 
to  say  for  most  of  their  peculiar  practices ;  and 
make  a  much  better  figure  when  defending 
their  theological  mysteries,  than  when  viudi- 
cating  the  usages  by  which  they  are  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  ordinary  in- 
tercourse of  life.  It  will  be  more  convenient, 
however,  to  state  our  observations  on  their 
reasonings,  as  we  attend  Mr.  Clarkson  through 
his  account  of  their  principles  and  practice. 

He  enters  upon  his  task  with  such  a  wretch- 
ed display  of  false  eloquence,  that  we  were 
very  near  throwins  away  the  book.  Our 
readers  will  scarcely  accuse  us  of  impatience, 
when  we  inform  them  that  the  dissertation 
on  the  moral  education  of  the  Quakers  begins 
with  the  following  sentence  : —    ' 

"  When  the  hlnoming  spring  sheds  abroad  its 
benisn  influence,  man  feels  it  equally  with  the  rest 
oi  creaied  nature.  The  blood  circulates  more  freely, 
and  a  new  current  of  life  seems  !o  be  diffused  in  his 
veins.  The  aged  man  is  enlivened,  and  the  sick 
man  feels  hiniiself  refreshed.  Good  spirits  and 
cheerful  countenances  succeed.  But  as  the  year 
cliansres  in  its  seasons,  and  rolls  round  to  its  end. 
the  tide  secrns  to  slacken,  and  the  current  of  feeling 
to  return  to  its  former  level." — Vol.  i.  p.  13. 

This  may  serve,  once  for  all,  as  a  specimen 
of  Mr.  Clarkson's  taste  and  powers  in  fine 
writing,  and  as  an  apology  for  our  abstaining, 
in  our  charity,  for  making  any  further  ob- 
servations on  his  style.  Under  the  head  of 
moral  education,  we  are  informed  that  the 
Quakers  discourage,  and  strictly  prohibit  in 
their  youth,  all  games  of  chance,  music,  dan- 
cins.  novel  reading,  field  sports  of  every  de- 
scription, and.  in  ireneral.  the  use  of  idle 
v.-ords  and  unprofitable  conversation.  The 
motives  of  these  several  prohibitions  are  di.s- 
ciissed  in  separate  chapters  of  extreme  dnl- 
ness  and  prolixity.  It  is  necessary,  however, 
in  order  to  come  to  a  right  understanding 
with  those  austere  persons  and  their  apologist, 
to  enter  a  little  into  the  discussion. 

The  basis  of  the  Quaker  morality  seems 
evidently  to  be.  that  gaiety  and  merriment 
ought,  upon  all  occasions,  to  be  discouraged  : 
that  evi-rything  which  tends  merely  to  ex- 
hilaration or  enjoyment,  has  in  it  a  taint  of 
criminality ;  and  that  one  of  the  chief  duties 
of  man  is  to  be  always  serious  and  solemn, 
aitd  constantly  occupied,  either  with  his 
worldly  prosperity,  or  his  eternal  welfare.  If 
it  were  not  for  the  attention  which  is  thus 
permitted  to  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  the 
Quakers  would  scarcely  be  distinguishable 
from  the  other  gloomy  sectaries,  who  main- 
tain, that  man  was  put  into  this  world  for  no 


other  purpose,  but  to  mortify  himself  into  ; 
proper  condition  for  the  next; — that  all  ou 
ieelings  of  ridicule  and  sociality,  and  all  thi 
spring  and  gaiety  of  the  animal  spirits  ol 
youth,  were  given  us  only  for  our  temptation 
and  that,  considering  the  shortness  of  this  life 
and  the  risk  he  runs  of  damnation  after  it 
man  ought  evidently  to  pass  his  days  in  de 
jection  and  terror,  and  to  shut  his  heart  t< 
every  pleasurable  emotion  which  this  transi 
tory  scene  might  hold  out  to  the  unthinking 
The  fundamental  folly  of  these  ascetic  max 
ims  has  prevented  the  Quakers  from  adopt 
ing  them  in  their  full  extent;  but  all  thi 
peculiarities  of  their  manners  may  evidenth 
be  referred  to  this  source;  and  the  qualifica' 
tions  and  e.xceptions  under  which  they  main 
tain  the  duty  of  abstaining  from  enjoyment 
serve  only,  in  most  instances,  to  bring  iipoi 
their  reasonings  the  additional  charge  of  in 
consistency. 

Their  objection  to  cards,  dice,  wagers,  horse 
races.  &c.  is  said  to  be,  first,  that  they  mai 
lead  to  a  spirit  of  gaming,  which  leads,  again 
to  obvious  unhappiness  and  immorality  :  bu 
chiefly,  that  they  are  sources  of  amusemen 
unworthy  of  a  sober  Christian,  and  tend,  b; 
producing  an  unreasonable  excitement,  to  dis 
turb  that  tranquillity  and  equanimity  whicl 
they  look  upon  as  essential  to  moral  virtue 

"  They  believe,"  says  Mr.  Clarkson,  "  that  sill 
ness  and  quieiness  both  of  spirit  and  of  Lody,  ar 
necessary,  as  far  as  they  can  he  obtained.  Ilence 
Quaker  children  are  rebuked  for  all  e.Npressions  o 
anger,  as  tending  to  raise  those  feelings  whic 
ought  to  be  suppressed  :  a  rai.sing  even  of  the  voit 
beyond  due  bounds,  is  discouraged  as  leading  i 
the  disturbance  of  their  minds.  They  are  laugl: 
to  rise  in  the  morning  in  quietness  ;  to  go  aboi 
their  ordinary  occupation  with  quietness;  and  ; 
retire  in  quietness  to  their  beds." 

Now  this,  we  think,  is  a  very  miserabl 
picture.  The  great  curse  of  lifC;  we  believt 
in  all  conditions  above  the  lowest,  is  its  e.> 
cessive  stillness  and  quietness,  and  the  wai 
of  interest  and  excitement  which  it  affords 
and  though  we  certainly  do  not  approve  o 
cards  and  wagers  as  the  b(  st  exhilarators  o 
the  spirits,  we  cannot  possibly  concur  in  th 
principle  upon  which  they  are  rejected  wit 
such  abhorrence  by  this  rigid  society.  A  ri 
mark  which  INIr.  Clarkson  himself  makes  a 
lerwards,  might  have  led  him  to  doubt  of  th 
soundness  oftheir  petrifying  principles. 

"  It  has  often  been  observed,"  he  says,  "  that 
Quaker  Boy  has  an  unnaiural  appearance.  Th 
idea  has  arisen  from  his  dress  and  liis  sedatenes; 
which,  taken  tnirether.  have  produced  an  appeat 
nnce  of  age  above  the  youth  in  his  countenance, 
have  often  been  surprised  to  hear  young  Quakei 
talk  of  the  folly  and  vanity  of  pursuits  in  which  pei 
sons,  older  than  themselves,  were  then  embarkin 
in  pursuit  of  pleasure,"  <Itc. 

We  feel  no  admiration,  we  will  confess,  k 
prodigies  of  this  description ;  and  think  thn 
the  world  is  but  little  indebted  to  those  mora 
ists.  who,  in  their  efforts  to  ameliorate  ou 
condition,  begin  with  constraining  the  volatil 
spirit  of  childhood  into  sedateness,  and  e.xtiii 
guishing  the  happy  carelessness  and  anima 
tion  of  youth;  by  lessons  of  eternal  quietness 


CLARKSON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


645 


The  next  chapter  is  against  music ;  and  is, 
s  might  be  expected,  one  of  the  most  absurd 
nd  extravagant  of  the  whole.  This  is  Mr. 
'larkson's  statement  of  the  Quaker  reasoning 
[gainst  this  delightful  art. 

;,     [  "  Providence  gave  oriiiinally  to  man  a  beautiful 

>■     (nd  a  perfect  world.    He  filled  it  vviili  things  neces- 

ny,  and  things  delightful:  and  yet  man  has  ofien 

'      imed  these  from   their  true  and  original  design. 

i  •  ''he  very  wood  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  he  has 

;      (Utdown,  and  the  very  stone  and  metal  in  its  bowels 

;       e  has  hew.n  and  cast,  and  converted  into  a  graven 

;      inage,  and  worshipped  in  the  place  of  his  benefi- 

1      (ent  Creator.     The  food  which  he  has  given  him 

[)r  his  nourishment,  he   has  frequently  converted 

■y  his  intemperance  into  the  means  of  injuring  his 

ealth.     The  wine,  that  was  designed  to  make  his 

eart  glad,  on  reasonable  and  necessary  occasions, 

6  has  used  often  to  the  stupefaction  of  his  senses, 

nd  tlie  degradation  of  his  moral  character.     The 

ery  raiment,  which  has  been  afforded  him  for  his 

ody,  he  has  abused  also,  so  that  it  has  frequently 

lecome  a  source  for  the  excitement  of  his  pride. 

i;     1  "  Just  so  it  has  been,  and  so  it  is,  with  Music,  at 

5   ,|[je  present  day." 

I  We  do  not  think  we  ever  before  met  with 
*     |.n  argument  so  unskilfully,  or  rather  so  pre- 
'^     losterously  put :  Since,  if  it  follows,  from  these 
\<remises^  that  music  ought  to  be  entirely  re- 
acted and  avoided,  it  must  follow  also,  that 
ve  should  go  naked,  and  neither  eat  nor  drink ! 
,,     i.nd  as  to  the  arguments  that  follow  against 
;,     [he  cultivation  of  music,  because  there  are 
J     lome  obscene  and  some  bacchanalian  songs, 
vhich  it  would  be  improper  for  young  persons 
'     ,b  learn,  they  are  obviously  capable  of  being 
'      ised.  with  exactly  the  same  force,  against 
jheir  learning  to  read,  because  there  are  im- 
ttoral  and  heretical  books,  which  may  possi- 
)ly  fall  into  their  hands.    The  most  authentic 
ltd  sincere  reason,  however,  we  believe,  is 
ine  which  rests  immediately  upon  the  gene- 
,al  ascetic  principle  to  which  we  have  already 
'oade   reference,  viz.  that   "miisic  tends  to 
\ilf-graiification.  which  is  not  allowable  in  the 
christian  system."     Now.  as  this  same  self- 
,.     lenying  principle  is  really  at  the  bottom  of 
iQOst  of  the  Quaker  prohibitions,  it  may  be 
jvorth  while  to  consider,  in  a  few  words,  how 
I,     i'ar  it  can  be  reconciled  to  reason  or  morality. 
I     1  All  men,  we  humbly  conceive,  are  under 
,,     ihenecessity  of  pursuing  their  own  Viappiness; 
jind  cannot  even  be  conceived  as  ever  pursu- 
.ng  any  thing  else.     The  only  difference  be- 
ween  the  sensualist  and  the  ascetic  is,  that 

-  !he  former  pursues  an  immediate,  and  the 
')ther  a  remote  happiness ;  or,  that  the  one 
)'irsues  an  intellectual,  and  the  other  a  bodily 
gratification.  The  penitent  who  passes  his 
lays  in  mortification,  does  so  unquestionably 
■Vom  the  love  of  enjoyment ;  either  because 

-  lie  thinks  this  the  surest  way  to  attain  eternal 
'iappin6ss  in  a  future  world,  or  because  he 
inds  the  admiration  of  mankind  a  sufficient 
compensation,  even  in  this  life,  for  the  hard- 
ships by  which  he  extorts  it.  It  appears, 
therefore,  that  self-gratification,  so  far  from 
oeing  an  unlawful  object  of  pursuit,  is  neces- 

■      sarily  the  only  object  which  a  rational   being 

:      Jan  be  conceived  to  pursue ;  and  consequently, 

»     ithat  to  argue  against  any  practice,  merely  that 

it  is  attended  with  enjoyment,  is  to  give  it  a 


recommendation  which  must  operate  in  its  fa- 
vour, in  the  first  instance  at  least,  eVen  with 
the  most  rigid  moralist.  The  only  sound  or 
consistent  form  of  tlie  argument,  in  short,  is 
that  which  was  manfully  adopted  by  the  mor- 
tified hermits  of  the  early  ages;  but  is  ex- 
pressly disclaimed  for  the  Quakers  by  their 
present  apologist,  viz.  that  our  well-being  in 
this  world  is  a  matter  of  so  very  little  con- 
cern, that  it  is  altogether  unworthy  of  a  rea- 
so'iable  being  to  bestow  any  care  upon  it ;  and 
that  our  chance  of  wfll-being  in  another  world 
depends  so  much  upon  our  anxious  eudeavoura 
after  piety  upon  earth,  that  it  is  our  duty  to 
employ  every  moment  of  om-  fleeling  and 
uncertain  lives  in  meditation  and  prayer:  and 
consequently  altogether  sinful  and  iiuprudent 
to  indulge  any  piopensities  which  may  inter- 
rupt those  holy  exercises,  or  beget  in  us  any 
interest  in  sublunary  things. 

There  is  evidently  a  tacit  aspiration  after 
this  sublime  absurdity  in  almost  all  the  Qua- 
ker prohibitions ;  and  we  strongly  suspect, 
that  honest  George  Fox,  when  he  iidiabited  a 
hollow  tree  in  the  vale  of  Beevor,  taught  noth- 
ing less  to  his  disciples.  The  condemnation 
of  music  and  dancing,  and  all  idle  speaking, 
was  therefore  quite  consistent  in  him;  but 
since  the  permission  of  gainful  arts,  and  of 
most  of  the  luxuries  which  wealth  can  pro- 
cure, to  his  disciples,  it  is  no  longer  so  easy  to 
reconcile  these  condemnations,  either  to  rea- 
son, or  to  the  rest  of  their  practice.  A  Quaker 
may  suspend  all  apparent  care  of  his  salva- 
tion, and  occupy  himself  entn-ely  with  his 
worldly  business,  for  six  days  in  the  week, 
like  any  other  Christian.  It  is  even  thought 
laudable  in  him  to  set  an  example  of  diligence 
and  industry  to  those  around  him ;  and  the 
fruits  of  this  industry  he  is  by  no  means  re- 
quired to  bestow  in  relieving  the  poor,  or  for 
the  promotion  of  piety.  He  is  allowed  to  em- 
ploy it  for  self-gratification,  in  almost  every 
way — but  the  most  social  and  agreeable  !  He 
may  keep  an  excellent  table  and  garden,  and 
be  driven  about  in  an  easy  chariot  by  a  pious 
coachman  and  two,  oreven  four,  plnmphorses; 
but  his  plate  must  be  without  carving,  and  his 
carriage  and  hoises  (perhaps  his  flowers  also) 
of  a  dusky  colour.  His  guests  may  talk  of 
oxen  and  broadcloth  as  long  as  they  think  fit; 
but  wit  and  gaiety  are  entirely  pro.scribed, 
and  topics  of  literature  but  rarely  allowed. 
His  boys  and  srirls  are  bred  up  to  a  premature 
knowledge  of  bargaining  and  housekeeping; 
but  when  their  bounding  spirits  are  strug^ding 
in  every  limb,  they  must  not  violate  Iheir  se- 
datenesxhy  ^  single  skip  ; — their  .s/j7/;ie.';.'imnst 
not  be  disturbed  by  raising  their  voices  be- 
yond their  common  pitch  : — and  they  would 
be  disowned,  if  they  were  to  tune  their  inno- 
cent voices  in  a  hymn  to  their  great  Benefac- 
tor!  We  cannot  help  saying,  that  all  this  is^ 
absurd  and  indefensible.  Either  let  the  Qua- 
kers renounce  all  the  enjoyments  of  this  life, 
or  take  all  that  are  innocent.  The  pursuit  of 
wealth  surely  holds  out  a  greater  temptation 
to  immorality,  than  the  study  of  music.  Let 
them,  then,  either  disown  tho.se  who  accunrm- 
late  more  than  is  neces.sary  for  their  tubsist- 


646 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ence,  or  permit  those  who  have  leisure,  to 
employ  it  in  something  better  than  money- 
getting.  To  allow  a  man  to  have  a  house  and 
retinue,  from  the  expen.ses  of  which  Hfty  poor 
families  might  be  supported,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  interdict  a  fold  in  his  coat,  or  a  ruffle 
to  his  shirt,  on  account  of  their  costliness  and 
vanity,  is  as  ridiculous,  and  as  superstitious, 
as  it  is  for  the  Church  of  Rome  to  permit  one 
of  her  cardinals  to  sit  down,  on  a  meagre  day, 
to  fifty  costly  and  delicious  dishes  of  fish  and 
pastry,  while  it  excommunicates  a  peasant  for 
breaking  through  the  holy  abstinence  with  a 
morsel  of  rusty  bacon.  With  those  general 
impressions,  we  shall  easily  dispose  of  their 
other  peculiarities. 

The  amusements  of  the  theatre  are  strictly 
forbidden  to  Quakers  of  every  description; 
and  this,  partly  because  many  plays  are  im- 
moral, but  cliietly  because,  on  the  stage, 
"  men  personate  characters  that  are  not  their 
own ;  and  thus  become  altogether  sophi.-^ti- 
cated  in  their  looks,  words,  and  actions,  which 
is  contrary  to  the  simplicity  and  truth  requir- 
ed by  Christianity!"'  We  scarcely  think  the 
Quakers  will  be  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Clarkson 
for  imputing  this  kind  of  reasoning  to  them  : 
And,  for  our  own  parts,  we  would  much  rather 
hear  at  once  that  the  play-house  was  the  Devil's 
drawing-room,  and  that  the  actors  painted 
their  faces,  and  therefore  deserved  the  fate  of 
Jezebel.  As  to  the  sin  of  personating  charac- 
ters not  their  own,  and  sophisticating  their 
looks  and  words,  it  is  necessarily  committed 
by  every  man  who  reads  aloud  a  Dialogue 
from  the  New  Testament,  or  who  adopts, 
from  the  highest  authority,  a  dramatic  form 
in  his  preaching.  As  to  the  other  objection, 
that  theatrical  amusements  produce  too  high 
a  degree  of  excitement  for  the  necessary  se- 
dateness  of  a  good  Christian,  we  ansvvei-,  in 
the  first  place,  that  we  do  not  see  why  a  good 
Christian  should  be  more  sedate  than  his  inno- 
cence and  natural  gaiety  may  dispose  him  to 
be ;  and.  in  the  second  place,  that  the  objection 
proves  Mr.  Clarkson  to  be  laudably  ignorant  of 
the  state  of  the  modern  drama. — which,  we 
are  credibly  informed,  is  by  no  moans  so  ex- 
tremely interesting,  as  to  make  men  neglect 
their  businesi^  and  their  duties  to  run  after  it. 

Next  comes  dancing. — The  Quakers  pro- 
hibit this  strictly;  1st,  because  it  implies  the 
accompaniment  of  music,  which  has  been 
already  interdicted;  2dly.  because  '-it  is  use- 
less, and  below  the  dignity  of  the  Christian 
character  :"  3dly.  because  it  implies  assem- 
blies of  idle  persons,  which  lead  to  thought- 
lessness as  to  the  impoitant  duties  of  life; 
4thly,  because  it  gives  rise  to  silly  vanity,  and 
envying,  and  malevolence.  The  lovers  of 
dancing,  we  think,  will  bo  able  to  answer 
these  objections  without  our  fartlier  assist- 
ance; such  of  them  as  have  not  been  already 
obviated,  are  applicable,  and  are  in  fact  ap- 
plied by  the  Quakers,  to  every  species  of  ac- 
complishment. They  are  applicable  also, 
though  the  Quakers  do  not  so  apply  them,  to 
all  money-gettmg  occupations  in  which  there 
is  room  for  rivalry  and  competition. 

The  reading  of  novels  is  next  prohibited, 


I  not  so  much,  Mr.  Clarkson  assures  us,  on  aj| 
count  of  their  fictitious  nature,  though  thati 
!  ground  enough  for  the  abhorrence  of 
!  Quakers,  but  on  account  of  their  general  i 
morality,  and  their  tendency  to  produce 
undue  e.iccitement  of  mind,  and  to  alien 
the  attention  from  objects  of  serious  impo|j 
ance.  These  are  good  reasons  against  tif 
reading  of  immoral  novels,  and  against : 
ing  them  our  sole  or  our  principal  stud 
Other  moralists  are  contented  with  selec 
and  limiting  the  novels  they  allow  to  be 
The  Quakers  alone  make  it  an  abominatio 
read  any;  which  is  like  prohibiting  all 
wine  or  animal  food,  instead  of  restricting  < 
censures  to  the  excess  or  abuse  of  them. 

Last  of  all.  the  sports  of  the  field  are 
hibited,  partly  on  account  of  the  animal  ti| 
fering  they  produce,  and  jxirtly  from  the  ." 
its  of  idleness  and  ferocity  which  they 
.«uppo.sed  to  generate.  'This  is  Mr.  Clarka 
account  of  the  matter  ;  but  we  shall  probab 
form  a  more  correct  idea  of  the  true  Qt 
principle, .  from  being  told  that  George 
"  considered  that  man  in  the  fall,  or  the  i 
tate  man,  had  a  vision  so  indistinct  and  viti 
ted,  that  he  could  not  si:e  the  animals  of  '< 
creation  as  he  ouviht;  but  that  the  man 
was  restored,  or  tlie  spiritual  Christian, 
new  and  clear  discernment  concerning  tt 
which  would  oblige  him  to  consider  and 
them  in  a  proper  manner."     The  Qual 
however,  allow  the   netting  of  animals 
food ;   and   cannot  well   object   therefore 
shooting  them,  provided  it  be  done  about! 
the  same   economical   purpose,  and  not 
self-gratification, — at  least  in  the  act  of  killii 

Mr.  Clarkson  proceeds  next  to  discuss  tl 
discipline,  as  he  calls  it,  or  interior  goveij 
ment  of  the  Quaker  society ;  but  we  think 
more  natural  to  proceed  to  the  considerati 
of  what  he  ainiounces  as  their  peculiar  <n| 
toms,  which,  for  any  thing  we  see,  might  | 
have  been  classed  among  the  prohibit* 
A\hich  constitute  their  moral  education. 

The  first,  is  the  peculiarity  of  their  dre 
The  original   rule,  he  says,  %^  as  only  that 
should  be  plain  and  cheap.     He  vindic 
George  Fox.  we  think  very  successfully,  i 
the  charge  of  having  gone  about  in  a  leat 
doublet :  and  maintains,  that  the  present  dr 
of  the  Quakers  is  neither  more  nor  less  th| 
the  common  dress  of  grave  and  sober  per 
of  the  middling  ra:  k  at  the  first  institutidnj 
the  society;  and  that  they  have  retained  f 
not   out   of  any  superstitious   opinion  of 
sanctity,  but  because,  they  thought  it  woil 
indicate  a  frivolous  vanity  to  change  it,  unit] 
for  some  reason  of  convenience.     We  shovi 
have  thought  it  convenience  enough  to  avi ! 
singularity  and   misconstruction  of  motiv'. 
Except  that  the  men  now  wear  loops  to  thf 
hats,  and  that  the  women   have  in  a  gn.; 
measure  given  up  their  black  hoods  and  gre 
aprons,  their  costume  is  believ(^d  to  be  aim  ; 
exactly  the  same  as  it  was  two  hundred  ye; " 
ago.     They  have  a  similar  rule  as  to  th  • 
furniture ;  which,  though  sometimes  cleg:  t 
and  costly,  is  uniformly  plain,  and  free  fni 
glare  or  ostentation.     In  conformity  with  t ;' 


CLARKSON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


647 


!l  Ajfinciple.they  do  not  decomte  their  houses  with 

"jiisppctures  or  prints,  and  in  general  discourag-e 

practice  of  taking   jwrtraits ;    for  which 

iece  of  abstinence  Mr.  Clarkson  gives  the  fol- 

isving simple  reason.  •'•'  The  lirst  Quakers  con- 

deriag  themselves  as  poor  helpless  creatures, 

:k1  as  little  better  than  dust  and  ashes,  had 

\x\  a  mean  idea  of  their  own  images  !"' 

One  of  ttie  most  prominent  peculiarities  in 

!   Quaker  customs,  relates  to  their  language. 

I'v  insist,  in  the  lirst   place,  upon  saying 

I  instead  of  you  ;  and  this  was  an  innova- 

[  uiTon  v.hich  their  founder  seems  to  have 

aiued  himself  at  least  as  much  as  upon  any 

ther  part  of  his  system.   •'■  The  use  of  thou,"'" 

ays  honest  Geoige  po.x,  with  visible  com- 

i    ^lacency,  ••  was  a  sore  cut  to  proud  flesh!" 

IK    fiid  many  beatiiigs,  and  revilings,  and  hours 

■     'f  durance  in  the  stocks,  did  he  triumphantly 

ndure  for  his  intrepid  adherence  to  this  gram- 

iiatical  propriety.    E.xcept  that  it  is  (or  rather 

vas)  grammatically  correct,  we  really  can  see 

I,    ;io  merit  in  this  form  of  spi-ech.     The  chief 

v    .jiuaker  reason  for  it,  however,  is.  that  the  use 

ff  "you  '■  to  a  single  person  is  a  heinous  piece 
f  &.tterV;  and  an  instance  of  the  grossest 
•    [ind  meanest  adulation.     It  is  obvious,  how- 
i    ^ver,  that  what  is  applied  to  all  men  without 
;■   axception,  cannot  well  be  adulation.  If  princes 
:    md  patrons  alone  were  called  -you,"  while 
■'thou"  was  stiJl  used  to  inferiors  or  equals, 
;    pve  could  understand  why  the  levelling  prin- 
;;    dple  of  the  Quakers  should  set  itself  against 
,    (.he  distinction;  but  if  -you"'  be  invariably 
:    }ind  indiscriminately  used  to  the  very  lowest 
pf  mankind, — to    negroes,   felons,  and    toad- 
saters, — it  is  perfectly  obvious,  that  no  per- 
;    .son's  vanity  can  possibly  be  pufied  up  by  re- 
ceiving it ;  and  that  the  most  contemptuous 
imisanthropist   may   employ   it   without   any 
;3crnple.     Comparing   the   said   pronouns  to- 
:gelher,  indeed,  in  this  respect,  it  is  notorious, 
that  ••  thou  "  is.  with  us,  by  far  the  most  flat- 
itering  compellatioii  of  the  two.    It  is  the  form 
in  which  men  address  the  Deity  ;  and  in  which 
(all  tragical  love  letters,  and  verses  of  solemn 
jadulation,   are   conceived.      "You"  belongs 
juaquestionably  to  familiar  and  equal  conver- 
jsation.     In    truth,   it  is  altogether  absurd  to 
iconsider  '-you"  as  exclusively  a  plural  pro- 
inoun  in  the  modern  English  language.    It  may 
fbe  a  matter  of  history  that  it  was  originally 
[used  3S  a  piurnl  only  ;  and  it  may  be  a  matter 
lof  theory  that  it  was  first  applied  to  individu- 
lals  on  a  princi]5!e  of  flattery ;  but  the  fad  is, 
I  that  it  is  now  our  second   person   singular. 
[When  applied  to  an  individual,  it  never  ex- 
fcites  any  idea  either  of  pluraflity  or  of  adula- 
ition;  but  excites  precisely  and  exactly  the 
I  idea  that  v,as  excited  by  the  use  of  ■'•  thou  " 
I  in  an  earlier  stage  of  the  language.    There  is 
'no  more  impropriety  in  the  use  of  it,  there- 
fore, tbtin   in  the  use  of  any  modern   term 
which  hns  superseded  an  obsolete  one ;  nor 
I  any  more  virtue  in  reviving  the  use  of  '•  thou." 
than  there  would  be  in  reviving  any  other  an- 
tiquated word.    It  would  be  just  as  reasonable 
to  talk  always  of  our  doublets  and  hose,  and 
eschew  all  mention  of  coals  or  stockings,  as  a 
fearful  abomination. 


The  same  observations  apply  to  the  other 
Quaker  principle  of  refusing  to  call  any  mail 
Mr.  or  Sir,  or  to  subscribe  themselves  in  their 
letters,  as  any  man's  humble  servant.  Their 
reasons  for  this  refusal,  are,  lirst,  that  the 
common  phrases  import  a  fal.sehood ;  and, 
secondly,  that  they  pulF  up  vain  man  with 
conceit.  Now,  as  to  the  i'alsehood,  we  have 
to  observe,  that  the  words  objected  to,  really 
do  not  mean  any  thing  about  bondage  or  do- 
minion when  used  on  those  occasions;  and 
neither  are  so  understood,  nor  are  in  danger 
of  being  so  understood,  by  any  one  who  hears 
them.  Words  are  significant  sounds;  and, 
beyond  question,  it  is  solely  in  consequence 
of  the  meaning  they  convey,  that  men  can  be 
rt?sponsible  for  using  them.  Now  the  only 
meaning  which  can  be  inquired  after  in  this 
respect,  is  the  meaning  of  the  person  who 
speaks,  and  of  the  person  who  hears;  but 
neither  the  speaker  nor  the  hearer,  with  us, 
understand  the  appellation  of  Mr.,  prefixed  to 
a  man's  name,  to  import  any  mastership  or 
dominion  in  him  relatively  to  the  other.  It  is 
merely  a  cu.-^tomary  addition,  which  means 
nothing  but  that  you  w'ish  to  speak  of  the  in- 
dividual with  civility.  That  the  word  em- 
ployed to  signify  this,  is  the  same  word,  or 
very  near  the  same  word,  with  one  which,  on 
other  occasions,  signifies  a  master  over  ser- 
vants, does  not  at  all  affect  its  meaning  upon 
this  occasion.  It  does  not,  in  fact,  signify  any 
such  thing  when  prefixed  to  a  man"s  proper 
name ;  and  though  it  might  have  been  used 
at  first  out  of  servility,  with  a  view  to  that  re- 
lation, it  is  long  since  that  connection  has  been 
lost ;  and  it  now  signifies  nothing  but  what  is 
perfectly  true  and  correct. 

Etymology  can  point  out  a  multitude  of 
words  which,  with  the  same  sound  and  ortho- 
graphy, have  thus  come  to  acquire  a  variety 
of  significations,  and  which  even  the  Quakers 
think  it  sufficiently  lawful  to  use  in  them  all. 
A  stage,  for  example,  signifies  a  certain  dis- 
tance on  the  road — or  a  raised  platform — or  a 
carriage  that  travels  periodically — or  a  certain 
point  in  the  progress  of  any  affair.  It  could 
easily  be  shown,  too,  that  all  these  different 
meanings  spring  from  each  other,  and  were 
gradually  attributed  to  what  was  originally 
one  and  the  same  word.  The  word.s,  how- 
ever, are  now  substantially  multiplied,  to  cor- 
respond waththe  meanings;  and  thouL'h  they 
have  the  same  sound  and  orlhosraphy,  are 
never  confounded  by  any  one  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  language.  But  there  is,  in 
fact,  the  same  difl'erence  between  the  word 
master,  implying  power  and  authority  over 
servants,  and  the  Avord  Master  or  Mister  pre- 
fixed to  a  proper  name,  and  implying  merely 
a  certain  dfgree  of  respect  and  civility.  That 
there  is  no  deception  eith'-r  intended  or  eflrct- 
ed.  must  be  admitted  by  the  Quaker.-;  ihrm- 
selves  :  and  it  is  not  ensy  fo  conceivi-  hnw  the 
sruilt  of  falsehood  cniibe  iiicnired  wilhciit 
some  such  intention.  T^pon  the  very  fnuin 
principle,  thev  would  thfinselvcs  be  guilty 
of  falsehood,  if  they  called  a  friend  by  his 
name  of  Walker,  when  he  was  mounted  in 
his  one-horse    chaise,  or   by  his  name   of 


648 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Smith,  if  he  did  not  happen  to  be  a  worker  in 
metal. 

The  most  amusing  part  of  the  matter,  how- 
ever, is,  that  in  their  abhorrence  of  this  ety- 
mological falsehood;  they  have  themselves 
adopted  a  practice,  which  is  hable,  on  the 
same  principles,  to  more  serious  objections. 
Though  they  will  not  call  any  body  Sir,  or 
Master,  they  call  everybody  "Friend;"  al- 
though it  is  evident  that,  to  a  stranger,  this 
must  be  mere  civility,  like  the  words  they  re- 
ject, and  to  an  enemy  must  approach  nearly 
to  insincerity.  They  have  rejected  an  estab- 
lished phraseology,  therefore,  to  adopt  one 
much  more  proper  to  fill  them  with  scruples. 
We  have  dwelt  too  long,  however,  on  this 
paltry  casuistry ;  and  must  leave  our  readers 
to  apply  these  observations  to  our  common 
epistolary  salutations,  which  are  exactly  in 
the  same  predicament. 

For  similar,  or  rather  for  more  preposterous 
reasons,  the  Quakers  have  changed  the  names 
of  the  months  and  of  the  days  of  the  week. 
Some  of  them  are  named,  it  seems,  after  the 
Heathen  gods  ;  and  therefore  the  use  of  them 
'■  seemed  to  be  expressive  of  a  kind  of  idola- 
trous homage."  If  such  a  new  calendar  had 
been  devised  by  the  original  Christians,  when 
March  and  June  were  not  only  named  after 
Mars  and  Juno,  but  distinguished  by  particu- 
lar festivals  in  their  honour,  we  could  have 
comprehended  the  motive  of  the  innovation; 
but,  now-a-days.  when  Mars  and  Juno  are  no 
more  thought  of  than  Hector  or  Hecuba,  and 
when  men  would  as  soon  think  of  worshipping 
an  ape  or  a  crocodile  as  either  of  them,  it 
does  appear  to  us  the  very  acme  of  absurdity 
to  suppose  that  there  can  be  any  idolatry  in 
naming  their  names.  In  point  of  fact,  what- 
ever the  matter  may  be  etymologically  or 
historically,  we  conceive  that  Wednesday  and 
Thursday  are  words  in  modern  English  that 
have  no  sort  of  reference  to  the  gods  Woden 
and  Thor  :  Since  they  certairdy  raise  no  ideas 
connected  with  those  personages,  and  are 
never  used  with  the  intention  of  raising  any 
such  ideas.  As  they  are  used  at  present, 
therefore,  they  do  not  signify  days  dedicated 
to  these  divinities:  but  merely  the  days  that 
come  between  Tuesday  and  Friday  in  our 
calendar.  Those  who  think  otherwise  must 
maintain  also,  that  the  English  word  expedient 
actually  signifies  untying  of  feet,  and  the  word 
consideration  a  taking  of  stars  together. 

Another  of  their  ])eculiar  customs  is,  that 
they  will  not  pull  off  their  hats,  or  make  a 
bow  to  any  body.  This  is  one  of  their  most 
ancient  and  respected  canons.  "  George  Fox." 
Mr.  Clarkson  assures  us,  "  was  greatly  grieved 
about  these  idle  ceremonies.  He  lamented 
that  men  should  degrade  themselves  by  the 
use  of  them,  and  that  they  should  encourage 
habits  that  were  abhorrent  of  the  truth." 
Honest  George  I  He  was  accordingly  repeat- 
edly beaten  and  abused  for  his  refractoriness 
in  this  particular;  and  a  long  story  is  told  in 
this  vohime.  of  a  controversy  he  had  with 
Judge  Glynn,  whom  he  posed  with  a  citation 
from  Daniel,  purporting,  that  the  three  children 
were  cast  into  the  fiery  furnace  "  with  their 


hats  on."     Is  it  possible  however  to  believe 
that  any  rational  being  can  imagine  that  thei(i 
is  any  sin  in  lifting  off  one's  hat.  or  bendin* 
the  body  ?     It  is  an  easy  and  suihcientlycorji 
venient  way  of  showing  our  respect  or  atterj 
tion.     A  gooil-natured  man  could  do  a  gresJi 
deal  more  to  gratify  a  mere  stranger :  and 
there  be  one  individual  who  would  take  thjl 
omission  amiss,  that  alone  would  be  a  sufEi| 
cient  reason  for  persisting  in  the  practice. 
Mr.  Clarkson  next   discusses   the   priv 
manners  of  this  rigid  sect,  and  admits  t 
they  are  rather  dull,  cold,  and  taciturn.    Theij 
principles  prohibit  them  from  the  use  of  idli 
words;  under  which  they  include  every  sor 
of  conversation  introduced  merely  for  gaiet  j 
or  amusement.      Their  neglect  of  class- 
literature  cuts  off  another  gieat  topic.     Poli" 
tics   are    proscribed,    as    leading    lo    undu' 
warmth;  and  all  sorts  of  scandal  and  aossip 
and  allusion  to  public  spectacles  or  amuse 
ments.  for  a  more  fundamental  reason.    Thus 
they  have  little  to  talk  about  but  their  health 
their  business,  or  their  religion  ;  and  all  thes' 
things  they  think  it  a  duty  to  discuss  in  ;• 
concise   and    sober   manner.     They  say  ni| 
graces;  but  when  their  meal  is  on  ihe  table 
they  sit  silent,  and  in  a  thoughtful  posture  fo, 
a  short  time,   waiting  for  an  illapse  of  thi 
spirit.     If  they  are  not  moved  to  make  an; 
ejaculation,  they  begin  to  eat  without  mori; 
ado.      They   drink   no   healths,    nor    toasiii) 
though  not  so  mucJi  from  the  inconvenieuc 
of  the  thing,  as  because  they  conceive  thisl 
have  been  a  bacchanalian  practice  liorrcwe 
from  the  Heathens  of  antiquity.     They 
very  sober;  and  instead  of  sitting  over  the 
wine  after  dinner,  frequently  projiose  to  ihei] 
guests  a  walk  before  tea;  the  females  do  uoJ 
leave  the  party  during  this  inteival.     Th$i| 
marriages  are  attended  with  no  oilier  cer 
mony,  than  that  of  taking  each  other  by  tlu 
hand  in  a  public  meeting,  and  declaring  theilj 
willingness  to  be  united.     Notice,  however 
must  be  given  of  this  intention  at  a  previon^! 
meeting,  when  the  consent  of  their  parents  iij 
required,  and  a  deputation  aiijwiited  to  in-lj 
quire  whether  they  are  free  from  all  previous 
engagements.     Quakers  marryin;:  out  of  I*" 
society  are  disowned,  though  they  may 
again  received  into  membership,  on  expres 
ing  their  repentance  for  their  man  ia^e;  a  de 
claration  which  cannot  be  very  llatierirtg  tc| 
the  infidel   spouse.     Th(>re  nro  many  more 
women  than  men  disowned  for  thi.- transgres 
sion.     The  funerals  of  the  Qua?s"rs  are  af| 
free  from  solemnity  as  their  marriie^es.    Thej 
wear  no  mourning,  and  do  not  even  coveij 
their  coffins  with  black ;— they  u.<e  no  prayer 
on  such  occasions; — the   body   i-   geiierall 
carried  to  the  meeting-house,  before  it  is  coiriij 
mitted  to  the  earth,  and  a  short  p:inse  is  madft|| 
during  which   any   one   who   fe.  Is   himself 
moved  to  speak,  may  address  the  coiigre 
tion; — it  is  set  down'for  a  little  ti-ne,  also, 
the  edge  of  the  grave,  for  the  same  opportUi| 
nity ;— it  is  then  interred,  and  the  friends  ; 
relations  walk  away.   They  use  no  vaults,  ar 
erect  no  monuments, — though    they  some 
times  collect  and  preserve  some  account  of| 


CLAEKSON  ON  QUAKERISM. 


649 


thi  ives  and  sayings  of  their  more  eminent 
an  pious  brethren. 

1  the  subject  of  trade  there  is  a  good  deal 
ofisujstry  among  the  Quakers.  They  strictly 
prvibit  the  slave-trade,  and  had  the  merit  of 
painga  severe  censure  upon  it  so  long  ago 
as  727.  They  also  prohibit  privateering, 
snggling)  and  all  traffic  in  weapons  of  war. 
Mt  other  tratles  they  allow  ;.  but  under  cer- 
ta  limitations.  A  Quaker  may  be  a  book- 
se!r,  but  he  must  not  sell  any  immoral 
bci.  He  may  be  a  dealer  in  spirits ;  but  he 
mt  not  sell  to  those  whom  he  knows  to  be 
dnkards.  He  may  even  be  a  silversmith ; 
bi  he  must  not  deal  in  splendid  ornaments 
fo.he  person.  In  no  case  may  he  recom- 
mid  his  goods  as  fashionable.  It  is  much  and 
lenedly  disputed  in  this  volume,  whether 
hmay  make  or  sell  ribands  and  other  fine- 

■  ri  of  this  sort;  or  whether,  as  a  tailor  or 
h:er,  he  may  furnish  any  other  articles  than 
8ia  as  the  society  patronises.  Mention  is 
al'  made  of  a  Quaker  tailor  well  known  to 
Kg  James  II.,  who  was  so  scrupulous  in 
tl  respect,  that  -he  would  not  allow  his 
scirauts  to  put  any  corruptive  finery  upon 
tf  clothes  which  he  had  been  employed  to 
fijiish;"  and  of  one  John  Woolman,  who 
'•'Und  himself  sensibly  weakened  as  a  Chris- 
tii,  whenever  he  traded  in  things  that  served 
c^flyto  please  the  vain  mind,  or  people." 
Axrt  from  these  fopperies,  however,  the 
Giker  regulations  for  trade  are  excellent. 
T3y  discourage  all  hazardous  speculations, 
ail  all  fictitious  paper  credit.  If  a  member 
bomes  bankrupt,  a  committee  is  appointed 
Inspect  his  affairs.  If  his  insolvency  is  re- 
T  ted  to  have  been  produced  by  misconduct, 
r  is  disowned,  and  cannot  be  received  back 
t  he  has  paid  his  whole  debts,  even  although 
Jniayhave  been  discharged  on  a  composition. 
The  has  failed  through  misfortune,  he  conti- 
i;2s  in  the  society,  but  no  contributions  are 
reived  from  him  till  his  debts  are  fully 
lid. 

ilVhen  Quakers  disagree,  they  seldom  scold  ; 
iJ  never  fight  or  go  to  law.  George  Fox 
tommended  them  to  settle  all  their  difTer- 
(368  by  arbitration ;  and  they  have  adhered 
Ithis  practice  ever  since.  Where  the  arbi- 
I'tors  are  puzzled  about  the  law.  they  may 
iree  on  a  case,  and  consult  counsel.  When 
j'iuaker  disagrees  with  a  person  out  of  the 
eiety.  he  generally  proposes  arbitration  in 
■3  first  instance  ;  if  this  be  refused,  he  has  no 
ruple  of  going  to  law. 

We  should  now  proceed  to  give  some  ac- 
uut  of  what  Mr.  Clarkson  has  called  the 
jr  Great  Tenets  of  the  Quakers;  but  the 
igth  to  which  we  have  already  extendeil 
:ese  remarks  must  confine  our  observations 
'  very  narrow  limits.  The  first  is.  That  the 
Vil  magistrate  has  no  right  to  interfere  in  re- 
gions matters,  so  as  either  to  enforce  attend- 
ice  on  one  mode  of  worship,  or  to  interdict 
ly  other  which  is  harmless.  In  this,  cer- 
inly,  their  doctrine  is  liable  to  very  little 
ejection.  Their  second  great  tenet  is.  That 
is  unlawful  to  swear  upon  any  occasion 
hatsoever.    We  have  not  leisure  now  to 

y  82 


discuss  this  point  with  Mr.  Clarkson ;  indeed, 
from  the  obstruction  which  this  scruple  has  so 
often  oci'a.'^ioiied  to  law  proceedings,  it  has 
been  discusseil  much  oftener  than  any  of  the 
rest.  Those  who  want  to  see  a  neat  and  forci- 
ble abstract  of  the  Quaker  reasoning  on  the 
subject,  had  belter  look  into  Barclay  at  once, 
instead  of  wading  through  the  amplification 
of  Mr.  Clarkson. 

Their  third  great  tenet  is,  That  it  is  unlaw- 
ful to  (Migage  in  the  profession  of  arms.  This 
is  founded  entirely  upon  a  literal  interpretation 
of  certain  texts  of  scripture,  requiring  men  to 
love  and  bless  their  enemies,  and  to  turn  one 
cheek  to  him  who  had  smitten  the  other,  &c. 
It  is  commonly  supposed,  we  believe,  that 
these  expressions  were  only  meant  to  shadow 
out,  by  a  kuid  of  figure,  "that  amicable  and 
gentle  disposition  by  which  men  should  be 
actuated  in  their  ordinary  intercourse  with 
each  other,  and  by  no  means  as  a  literal  and 
peremptory  directory  for  their  conduct  through 
life.  In  any  other  sense,  indeed,  they  would 
evidently  amount  to  an  encouragement  to  all 
sorts  of  violence  and  injustice  ;  and  would  en- 
tirely disable  and  annihilate  all  civil  govern- 
ment, or  authority  among  men.  If  evil  is  not 
to  be  resisted,  and  if  the  man  who  takes  a 
cloak  is  to  be  pressed  to  a  coat  also,  it  is  plain 
that  the  punishment  of  thieves  and  robbers 
must  be  just  as  unlawful  as  the  resisting  of 
invaders.  It  is  remarkable,  indeed,  that  the 
Quakers  do  not  carry  their  literal  submission 
to  the  scripture  quite  this  length.  They  would 
struggle  manfully  for  their  cloaks;  and,  in- 
stead of  giving  the  robber  their  coats  also, 
would  be  very  glad  to  have  him  imprisoned 
and  flogged.  If  they  can  get  rid  of  the  letter 
of  the  law,  however,  in  any  case,  it  does  ap- 
pear to  us,  that  there  are  occasionally  stronger 
reasons  for  dispensing  with  the  supposed  pro- 
hibition of  war  than  with  any  of  the  others. 
If  they  would  be  justified  in  killing  a  wild 
beast  that  had  rushed  into  their  habitation, 
they  must  be  justified  in  killing  an  invader 
who  threatens  to  subject  them  and  the  whole 
community  to  his  bratal  lust,  rapacity,  and 
cruelty.  We  must  call  it  a  degrading  super- 
stition that  would  withhold  the  hands  of  a 
man  in  such  an  emergency.  The  la.st  great 
tenet  is.  That  it  is  unlawful  to  give  pecuniary 
hire  to  a  gospel  ministry.  This,  again,  is  en- 
tirely a  war  of  texts;  aided  by  a  confused 
reference  to  the  history  of  tithes,  from  which 
the  following  most  logical  deductions  are  made. 

"  Fir.'t,  that  they  nre  not  in  equity  dues  of  the 
Church,  — secondly,  that  the  payment  of  ihem  bcirg 
compulsory,  it  would,  if  acceded  to.  he  an  acknow- 
ledgment that  the  civil  niagisiraie  had  a  right  to  use 
force  in  matters  of  religion — and,  thirdly,  that,bein«j 
claimed  upon  an  act  which  holds  them  forth  as  of 
divine  ripht.  any  payment  ot  them  would  he  an  ae- 
knowledcment  of  the  Jewish  reli<rion,  and  that 
Christ  had  not  yet  actually  come!" — III.  HI. 

After  perusing  all  that  we  have  now  ab- 
stracted, Mr.  Clarkson's  readers  might  per- 
haps have  been  presumed  capable  of  forming 
some  conclusion  for  themselves  as  to  the 
Quaker  chaiacter;  but  the  aulhor  chooses  to 
make  the  inference  for  them,  in  a  dissertation 
3£ 


650 


MrSCELLAIs'EOUS. 


I 


of  one  hundred  and  fifty  paees ;  to  which  we 
must  satisfy  ourselves,  for  the  prtsent.  with 
making  this  jjeneral  reference.  Wc  must  use 
the  same  liberty  with  the  "miscellaneous 
particulars.-'  which  fill  nearly  as  many  pages 
with  an  attempt  to  prove  that  the  Quakers  are 
a  very  happy  people,  that  th(;y  have  done 
good  by  the  example  of  their  virtues,  and  that 
those  who  have  thoughts  of  leaving  the  so- 
ciety, had  better  think  twice  before  they  take 
a  step  of  so  much  consequence. 

We  come  now  to  say  a  few  words  on  the 
subject  of  their  interior  government ;  wliich 
appears  to  us  to  be  formed  very  much  upon 
the  model  of  the  Presbyterian  churches  so 
long  established  in  this  part  of  the  kingdom. 
The  basis  of  the  whole  system  is,  that  every 
member  of  the  society  is  not  only  entitled,  but 
bound  in  duty,  to  watch  over  thf  moral  and 
religious  deportment  of  any  other  whom  he 
has  an  opportunity  of  observing,  and  to  inter- 
fere for  his  admonition  and  correction  when 
he  sees  cause.  Till  the  )-ear  1698,  this  duty 
was  not  peculiarly  imposed  upon  any  indivi- 
dual; but.  since  that  time,  four  or  five  persons 
are  named  in  each  congregation,  under  the 
title  of  overseers,  who  are  expected  to  watch 
over  the  conduct  of  the  flock  with  peculiar 
an.viety.  The  half  of  these  are  women,  who 
take  charge  of  their  own  sex  only.  Four  or 
five  congregations  are  associated  together,  and 
hold  a  general  monthly  meeting  of  deputies, 
of  both  se.xes,  from  each  confzregation.  Two 
or  moie  of  each  sex  are  deputed  from  these 
monthly  meetings  to  the  general  quarterly 
meeting;  which  reunites  all  the  congregations 
of  a  county,  or  larger  district,  according  to  the 
extent  of  the  Quaker  population  ;  and  those, 
again,  send  four  of  each  sex  to  the  great  yearly 
meeting  or  convocation  ;  which  is  regularly 
assembled  in  London,  and  continues  its  sitting 
for  ten  or  twelve  days. 

The  method  of  proceeding,  where  the  con- 
duct of  a  member  has  been  disorderly,  is,  first, 
by  private  admonition,  eith'^r  by  individuals, 
or  by  the  overseers;  where  this  is  not  effectual, 
the  case  is  reported  to  the  monthly  meeting; 
who  appoint  a  committee  to  deal  with  h:m, 
and,  upon  their  report,  either  receive  him  back 
into  communion,  or  expel  him  fiom  the  so- 
ciety by  a  written  document,  entitled,  A  Tes- 
timony of  Disownment.  From  this  sentence, 
however,  he  may  appeal  to  the  quarterly 
meeting,  and  from  that  to  the  yearly.  These 
courts  of  review  investigate  the  case  by  means 
of  comr»iltees;  of  which  none  of  those  who 
pronounced  the  sentence  complained  of  can 
be  members. 

In  the  monthly  meetings,  all  presentations 
of  marriages  are  received,  and  births  and  l"u- 
nerals  registered  : — contributions  and  arrange- 
ments are  made  for  the  relief  of  the  poor; — 
persons  are  disov/ned,  or  received  back  ; — and 
cases  of  scruples  are  stated  and  discussed. 
They  likewise  prepare  answers  to  a  series  of 
.etanding  ([ueries  as  to  the  state  and  condition 
of  their  several  congregations,  which  they 
transmit  to  the  quarterly  meeting.  The  quar- 
terly meeting  hears  appeals, — receives  the 
reports  in  answer  to  these  queries, — and  pre- 


pares, in  its  turn,  a  more  general  and  com;}. 

hensive  report  for  the  great  annual  mee 

in  London.     This  assembly,  again,  hears     ^'"'j"' . 

peals  from  the  quarterly  meetings,  and     i^T^t 

ceives  their  reports;  and,  finally,  draws  v      '""" 

public  or  pastoral  letter  to  the  whole 

in  which  it  communicates  the  most  interes 

particulars,  as  to  its  general  state  and  co,^ 

tion,  that  have  been  collected  from  the  rep     inff 


tions  and  exhortations  for  their  n:nial  anij 


conduct,  as  the  complexion  i  I   ihe  tirne-^ 
the  nature  of  these  reports  h;;ve  suggesta     fc"" 
and  recommends  to  their  consideratioB       "''"''"" 
project  or  proposition  that  may  have  been 
before  it,  for  the  promotion  of  religion, 
the  good  of  mankind.     The  slave-trade 
of  late  years,  generally  formed  one  o£(     (J"* 
to})ics  of  this  general  epi.stle,  v\  hich  is  prill     SS«1!*';' 
and  circulated  throughout  the  society, 
tbeir  meetings,  the  male  and  I'emale  depaHiilii*. 
assemble,  and  transact  their  business,  in  i 
arate  apartments;  meeting  together  onlj 
worship,  or  for  making  up  theirgener; " 
The  wants  of  the  poor  are  jjrovided  for) 
monthly  meetings,  \^:ho  appoint  certain 
seers  to  visit  and  relieve  them  :  The 
part  of  these  overseers  are  wom<»n  ;  andxj 
ever  they  find  wanting  in  the  course  of, 
visits,  money,  clothes,  or  medicines, 
der,  and  their  accounts  are   settled  bjfJ 
treasurer  of  the  monthly  meeting 
hapjjens  that  there  are  more  poor  in  aDjfj 
district  than  can  easily  be  i-elieved  by  theil 
opulent  brethren  within  it,  the  defieienc 
supplied  by  the  quarterly  meeting  towl" 
is  subjected.   The  children  of  the  poor  ar 
taught  to  read  and  write  at  the  public  expe;?, 
and  afterwards  bound  apprentice  to  trade:'- 
the  females  are  generally  destined  forservi?, 
and  placed  in  Quaker  families. 

"  Such."  says  Mr.  Clarkson,  vviih  a  veryna'al 
exultation  on  the  pood  niannaemeiit  of  iii;:  fnv  r- 
iies,  "sucli  is  tiio  orcanisatioii  of  llip.  disciplii  )r 
government  of  tlio  Quakers.  Nor  may  ii  inii:  i- 
erly  be  called  a  Govrrnnient,  when  we  cons  r. 
that,  beside?  ail  matters  relaiinu  to  the  chun  ' 
takes  cognisance  of  the  actions  of  Qunktr  i 
Quakers  and  of  these  to  their  iellow-ciiizens  ;  'd 
of  these,  a^ain,  to  the  state  ;  in  fact,  of  all  ac 'i* 
of  Quakers,  if  ininioral  in  the  eye  of  the  societ  i« 
soon  as  they  are  known.  It  gives  out  its  pro  i 
tions.  It  mark.s  its  crimes.  It  imposes  office ;'ii 
its  subjects.  It  calls  iheni  to  disciplinary  di  f. 
This  government,  however,  noiwiths::iiidin£'is 
power,  has,  as  1  observed  before,  no  prcsidet  >r 
head,  either  perniiinent  or  temporary.  Tiiere  ;  m 
first  mail  tlirou!:h  the  whole  society.  N'<iihet  is 
it  anv  badge  of  office — or  mace,  or  consiaiile's  t  f. 
or  sword.  It  may  be  observed,  also,  that  it  hnio 
office  of  emolument  by  which  its  hands  cat  >a 
strengiheneii — neither  minister,  elder,  clerk,  or- 
seer,  or  deputy,  being  paid  :  and  yet  its  adniini:  >• 
tion  is  tirmly  conducted,  and  its  iiiws  arc  bi'^r 
obeyed  than  laws  by  persons  under  any  other  ?• 
nomination  or  government."     I.  246,  247. 

We  have  nothing  now  to  discu.9S  with  tl  « 
good  people,  but  their  religion  :  and  with  :' 
we  will  not  meddle.  It  is  quite  clear  ti - 
that  their  founder  George  Fox  was  exceedii  v 
insane  ;  and  though  we  by  no  means  sus  '< 
many  of  his  present  followers  of  the  s;n; 
malady,  we  cannot  help  sayii.g  that  mos  )t 


CLARKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


651 


t^iir  peculiar  doctrines  are  too  high-flown  for 
of  humble  apprehension.  They  hold  that  God 
h:  at  all  times  communicated  a  certain  por- 
tii  of  the  Spirit,  or  word,  or  light,  to  mankind  ; 
b  has  given  very  ditlerent  portions  of  it  to 
d'erent  individuals  :  that,  in  consequence  of 
tb  inward  illumination,  not  only  the  ancient 
priarchs  and  prophets,  but  many  of  the  old 
bilhen  philosophers,  were  very  good  Chris- 
t  IS :  that  no  kind  of  worship  or  preaching 
ci  be  acceptable  or  profitable,  unless  it  flow 
f  m  the  immediate  inspiration  and  movement 
othis  inward  spirit;  and  that  all  ordination, 
©appointment  of  priests,  is  therefore  impious 
al  unavailing.  They  are  much  attached  to 
ti!  Holy  Ghost ;  but  are  supposed  to  reject 
t(  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  ;  as  they  certainly 
iject  the  sacraments  of  Baptism  and  the 
Ird's  Supper,  with  all  other  rites,  ordinances, 
^d  ceremonies,  known  or  practised  in  any 
tier  Christian  church.  These  tenets  they 
jftify  by  various  citations  from  the  New 
'!:stament,  and  the  older  fathers  ;  as  any  one 
iiy  see  iii  the  works  of  Barclay  and  Penn, 
jth  rather  more  satisfaction  than  in  this  of 
jr.  Clarkson.  We  enter  not  at  present  into 
•ese  disputations. 

lUpon  the  whole,  we  are  inclined  to  believe 
!e  Quakers  to  be  a  tolerablj'  honest,  pains- 
iking;  and  inoffensive  set  of  Christians.  Very 
l.ipid,  dull,  and  obstinate,  we  presume,  in 
i-uversiition ;  and  tolerably  lumpish  and  fa- 
jriiing  in  domestic  society :  active  and  me- 
i;odical  in  then-  business,  and  narrow-minded 
hd  ill-informed  as  to  most  other  particulars : 
nieficent  from  habit  and  the  discipline  of  the 


society;  but  cold  in  their  afTections.  and  in- 
wardly chilled  into  a  sort  of  Chinese  apathy, 
by  the  restraints  to  which  they  are  continually 
subjected  ;  childish  and  absurd  in  their  reli- 
gious scruples  and  peculiar  usages,  and  sin- 
gularly unlearned  as  a  sect  of  theologians  3 
but  exemplary,  above  all  other  sects,  for  the 
decency  of  their  lives,  for  their  charitable  in- 
dulgence to  all  other  })ersuasions,  lor  their  care 
of  their  poor,  and  for  the  liberal  participation 
they  have  atiordetl  to  their  women  in  all  the 
duties  and  honours  of  the  society. 
I  We  would  not  willingly  insinuate  any  thing 
against  the  general  sincerity  of  those  who  re- 
main in  communion  with  this  body;  but  Mr. 
Clarkson  has  himself  noticed,  that  when  they 
become  opulent,  they  are  very  apt  to  fall  off 
from  it :  and  intleed  we  do  not  recollect  ever 
to  have  seen  either  a  Quaker  gentleman  of 
fortune,  or  a  Quaker  day-labourer.  The  truth 
is,  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  them 
are  engaged  in  trade  :  and  as  they  all  deal  and 
correspond  with  each  other,  it  is  easy  to  see 
what  advantages  they  must  have  as  traders, 
from  belonging  to  so  great  a  corporation.  A 
few  follow  the  medical  profession  ;  and  a  still 
.smaller  number,  that  of  conveyancing;  but 
they  rely,  in  both,  almost  e.xclusively  on  the 
support  of  their  brethren  of  the  society.  It  is 
rather  remarkable,  that  Mr.  Clarkson  has  not 
given  us  any  sort  of  estimate  or  calculation  of 
their  present  numbers  in  England ;  though, 
from  the  nature  of  theii-  government,  it  must 
be  known  to  most  of  their  leading  members. 
It  is  the  general  opinion,  it  seems,  that  they 
are  graduall)'  diminishing. 


(iulij,  1813.) 


■lemoirs  of  the  Private  and  Public  Life  of  William  Penn.     By  Thomas  Clarkson,  M.  A. 
I  8vo,   2  vols.  pp.  1020.     London:   1813. 


I  It  is  impossible  to   look  into  any  of  Mr.  1 
[Jlarkson's  books,  without  feeling  that  he  is  an  I 
Ixeellent  man — and  a  very  bad  writer.  Many  j 
'f  the  defects  of  his  composition,  indeed,  seem 
|d  be  directly  referrible  to  the  amiableness  of  ; 
[lis  disposition.     An  earnestness  for  truth  and  ^ 
(irtue,  that  does  not  allow  him  to  waste  any  j 
;hought  upon  the  ornaments  by  which  they 
'nay  be  recommended — and  a  simplicity  of  - 
■;haracter  which  is  not  aware  that  what  is 
lubstantialiy  re.spectable  may  be  made  dull 
)r  ridiculous  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  , 
i)resented — are  virtues  v.hich  we  suspect  not 
!0  have  been  very  favourable  to  his  reputation 
iS  an  author.     Feeling  in  himself  not  only  an  : 
entire  toleration  of  honest  tediousness,  but  a 
iecided  preference  for  it  upon  all  occasions  j 
Dver  mere  elegunce  or  ingenuity,  he  seems  to  1 
have  transferred  a  little  too  hastily  to  books  I 
those  principles  of  judgment  which  are  admi- 
rable when  applied  to  men  ;  and  to  have  for- 
gotten,  that  though  dulness  may  be  a  very 
venial  fault  in  a  good  man,  it  is  such  a  fault  i 
in  a  book  as  to  render  its  goodness  of  no  avail ' 


what.soever.  Unfortunately  for  Mr.  Clarkson, 
moral  qualities  alone  will  not  make  a  good 
writer  ;  nor  are  ihey  even  of  the  first  import- 
ance on  such  an  (jccasion  :  And  accordingly, 
with  all  his  philanthropy,  piety,  and  inflexible 
honesty,  he  has  not  escaped  the  sin  of  tedious- 
ness.— and  that  to  a  degree  that  must  render 
him  almost  illegible  to  any  but  Quakers,  Re- 
viewers, and  others,  who  make  public  profes- 
sion of  patience  insurmountable.  He  has  no 
taste,  and  no  spark  of  vivacity — not  the  vestige 
of  an  ear  for  harmony — and  a  prolixity  of 
which  modern  times  have  scarcely  preserved 
any  other  example.  He  seems  to  have  a  sufH- 
ciently  sound  and  clear  judgment,  but  no  great 
acnteness  of  understanding;  and,  though  visi- 
bly tasking  himself  to  judge  charitably  and 
speak  candidly  of  all  men,  is  evidently  beset 
with  such  antipathy  to  all  who  persecute 
Quakers,  or  maltreat  negroes,  as  to  make  him 
very  unwilling  to  report  any  thing  in  their  la- 
vour.  On  the  other-  hand,  he  has  great  in- 
dustry— scrupulous*eracity — and  that  serious 
and  sober  enthusiasm  for  his  subject,  which 


652 


illSCELLANEOUS. 


13  >ure  in  the  long  run  to  disarm  ridicule,  and 
win  upon  uiattention — and  is  frequently  able 
to  render  vulgarity  impressive,  and  simplicity 
sublime.  Moreover,  and  above  all,  he  is  per- 
fectly free  from  affectation ;  so  that,  though 
we  may  be  wearied,  we  are  never  disturbed 
or  offended — and  read  on,  in  tranquillity,  till 
we  find  it  impossible  to  read  any  more. 

It  will  be  guessed,  however,  that  it  is  not  on 
account  of  its  literary  merits  that  we  are  in- 
duced to  take  notice  of  the  work  before  us. 
WiLLi.iM  Pexn,  to  whose  honour  it  is  wholly 
devoted,  was.  beyond  all  doubt,  a  personase 
of  no  ordinary  stantlard — and  ought,  before  this 
time,  to  have  met  with  a  biographer  capable 
of  doing  him  justice.  He  is  most  known,  and 
most  deserving  of  being  known,  as  the  settler 
of  Pennsylvania  •  but  his  private  character 
also  is  interesting,  and  full  of  those  peculiari- 
ties which  distinguished  the  temper  and  man- 
ners of  a  great  part  of  the  English  nation  at 
the  period  in  which  he  lived.  His  theoloijical 
and  polemical  exploits  are  no  less  character- 
istic of  the  man  and  of  the  times  : — thouijh 
all  that  is  really  edifying  in  this  part  of  his 
history  might  have  been  given  in  about  one- 
twentieth  part  of  the  space  which  is  allotted 
to  it  in  the  volumes  of  Mr.  Clark  son. 

William  Penn  was  born  in  1644,  the  only 
son  of  Admiral  Sir  W.  Penn,  the  representa- 
tive of  an  ancient  and  honourable  family  in 
Buckingham  and  Gloucestershire.  He  was 
regularly  educated;  and  entered  a  Gentle- 
man Commoner  at  Christ's  Church,  Oxford, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  very  early  for 
his  proficiency  both  in  classical  learning  and 
athletic  exercises.  When  he  was  only  about 
sixteen,  however,  he  was  roused  to  a  sense  of 
the  corruptions  of  the  establi-shed  faith,  by  the 
preaching  of  one  Thomas  Loe.  a  Quaker — and 
immediately  discontinued  his  attendance  at 
chapel ;  and,  with  some  other  youths  of  his 
own  way  of  thinking,  began  to  hold  prayer 
meetings  in  their  private  apartments.  This, 
of  course,  gave  great  scandal  and  offence  to 
his  academical  superiors;  and  a  large  fine, 
with  suitable  admonitions,  were  imposed  on 
the  young  nonconformist.  Just  at  this  critical 
period,  an  order  was  unluckily  received  from 
Court  to  resume  the  use  of  the  surplice,  which 
it  seems  had  been  discontinued  almost  ever 
since  the  period  of  the  Reformation  ;  and  the 
sight  of  this  unfortunate  vestment,  ••opera- 
ted," as  Mr.  Clarkson  expresses  it,  •'  so  dis- 
agreeably on  William  Penn,  that  he  could  not 
bear  it !  and.  joining  himself  with  some  other 
young  gentlemen,  he  fell  upon  those  students 
who  appeared  in  surplices,  and  tore  them 
every  where  over  their  heads. ■•  This,  we 
conceive,  was  not  quite  correct,  even  as  a 
Quaker  proceeding;  and  was  but  an  unpro- 
mising beginning  for  the  future  champion  of 
religious  liberty.  Its  natural  consequence, 
however,  was,  that  he  and  his  associates  were, 
without  further  ceremony,  expelled  from  the 
University ;  and  when  he  went  home  to  his 
father,  and  attempted  to  justify  by  argument 
the  measures  he  had  adopted,  it  was  no  less  na- 
tural that  the  good  AdmiAl  should  give  him  a 
good  box  on  the  ear,  and  turn  him  to  the  door. 


t       This  course  of  discipline,   howevei 
i  proving  immediately  eflectual.  he  was  se 
j  upon  his  travels,  along  with  some  other  yon 
'  gentlemen,  and  resided  for  {\\o  years  in  Franc 
[  and   the   Low   Countries ;    but   without  a: 
change  either  in  those  serious  views  of  rej: 
I  gion,  or  those  austere  notions  of  morality, 
which  his  youth  had  been  so  prematurely  d 
tinguished.     On  his  return,  his  father 
i  endeavoured  to  subdue  him  to  a  more  woi 
I  frame  of  mind  ;  first,  by  setting  him  to  stui 
I  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn  :  and  afterwards,  by  sen 
'  ing  him  to  the  Duke  of  Ormond's  court 
Dublin,  and  giving  him  the  charge  of  hislau^! 
'  possessions  in  that  kingdom.     These  ex 
1  ents  might  perhaps  have  been  attended  wi 
I  success,  had  he  not  accidentally  again  ii" 
I  in  (at  Cork)  with  his  old  friend  Thomas  Lei 
I  the  Quaker, — who  set  before  him  such  a  vie 
I  of  the  dangers  of  his  situation,  that  he  seerj 
from  that  day  forward  to  have  renounced 
secular  occupations,  and   betaken  himself 
]  devotion,  as  the  main  business  of  his  life.  \ 
i      The  reign  of  Charles  II.,  however,  w 
auspicious  to  dissenters ;   and   in  those  e^i 
days  of  persecution,  he  was  speedily  put 
prison  for  attending   Quaker  meetings;  b 
was  soon  liberated,  and  ag-ain  came  back 
his  father's  house,  where  a  long  disputai 
took  place  upon  the  subject  of  his  new  c 
It  broke  up  with  this  moderate  and  verylo; 
proposition  on  the  part  of  the  Vice-Admii 
that  the  young  Quaker  should  consent  to 
with  his  hat  off,  in  presence  of  the  King — 1 
Duke  of  York — and  the  Admiral  himself! 
return  for  v.hich   .slight   compliance,  it  \r.l 
stipulated  that  he  should  be  no  longer  moli 
ed  for  any  of  his  opinions  or  practices.    TJ 
heroic  convert,  however,  would   listen  to 
terms  of  composition  :  and.  after  taking 
days  to  consider  of  it.  reported,  that  his  CO: 
science  could  not  comport  with  any  s[ 
of  Hat  worship — and  was  again  turned  out 
doors  for  his  pains. 

He  now  took  openly  to  preaching  in 
Quaker  meetings;  and  shortly  after  began 
course  of  theological  and  controversial  pu 
lications,  in  which  he  persisted  to  his  dyi; 
days :  and  which  has  had  the  effect  of  ov( 
whelming   his   memory  with   two  vast  foil 
volumes  of  Puritanical  pamphlets.     His  m< 
considerable  work  seems  to  have  been  iW 
entitled.  '-No  Cross,  no  Crown  ;"'  in  which 
not   only  explains   and    vindicates,   at 
lencrth,  the  grounds  of  the  peculiar  doctrin«l 
and  observances  of  the  Society  to  which  " 
belonged, — but  endeavours  to  show,  by 
large  and  entertaining  induction  of  instancf] 
from  profane  history,  that  the  same  genei 
principles  had  been  adoptetl  and  acted  u; 
by  the  wise  and  good  in  every  generation ;  ac 
were  suggested  indeed  to  the  reflecting  ml" 
by  the  inward   voice  of  conscience,  and  tl 
analogy  of  the  whole  visible  scheme  of  G 
providence  in  the  government  of  the  worl 
The  intermixture  of  worldly  learning,  and  t" 
larger  and  bolder  scope  of  this  performan( 
render  it  far  more  legible  than  the  pious  _ 
hortations  and  pertinacious  polemics  whi 
fill  the  greater  part  of  his  subsequent  publi( 


CLARKSONS  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


653 


t  IS.   Ill  his  love  of  controversy  and  of  print-  , 
it .  indeed,  this  wortliy  sectary  seems  to  have  ; 
h'n  the  very  Priestley  of  the  17th  century.  I 
Pi  not  only  responded  in  due  foim  to  every 
\irk  in  which  the  principles  of  his  sect  were  ! 
dectlyor  indirectly  attacked, — but  whenever 
b'  heard  a  sermon  that  he  did  not  like. — 
(^learned  that  any  of  the  Friends  had  been 
f  in  the  stocks  : — whenever  he  was   pre- 
Mted  from  preaching. — or  learned  any  edi- 
f  ng  particulars  of  the  tiealh  of  a  Quaker,  or 
ca  persecutor  of  Quakers,  he  was  instantly 
athe  pres^.  with  a  letter,  or  a  narrative,  or 
a  admonition — and  never  desisted  from  the 
Qitest  till  he  had  reduced  the  adversary  to 
since. 

The  members  of  the  established  Church, 
ileed,  were  larely  so  unwary  as  to  make  any 
roinder;  and  most  of  his  disputes,  accord- 
i;ly,  were  with  rival  sectaries  ;  in  whom  the 
f  r'it  of  proselytism  and  jealous  zeal  is  always 
fonger  than  in  the  members  of  a  larger  and 
lire  powerful  body.  They  were  not  always 
(itented  indeed  with  the  regular  and  general 
tr  of  the  press,  but  frequently  challenged 
tzh  other  to  personal  combat,  in  the  form  of 
femnand  public  disputations.  William  Penn 
l[d  the  honour  of  being  repeatedly  appointed 
13  champion  of  the  Quakers  in  these  iheo- 
Ijical  duels  :  and  never  failed,  according  to 
I;>  partial  biosrapher,  completely  to  demolish 
]i  opponent : — thoush  it  appears  that  he  did 
<t  always  meet  ^^■ith  perfectly  fair  play,  and 
ill  the  chivalrous  law  of  arms  was  by  no 
leans  correctly  observed  in  these  ghostly  en- 
eiinters.  His  first  set  fo,  was  with  one  Vincent. 
i8  oracle  of  a  neighboui^ing  congregation  of 
esbyterians  :  and  affords  rather  a  ludicrous 
ample  of  the  futility  and  indecorum  which 
e  apt  to  characterise  all  such  exhibitions. — 
;."ter  the  debate  had  gone  on  for  some  time, 
jncent  made  a  long  discourse,  in  which  he 
fenly  accused  the  Quakers  of  blasphemy  ; 
;.d  as  soon  as  he  had  done,  he  made  off,  and 
•sired  all  his  friends  to  follow  him.  Penn 
isisted  upon  being  heard  in  reply :  but  the 
i-esbyterian  troops  pulled  him  down  by  the 
,:irts;  and  proceeding  to  blow  out  the  can- 
•es,  (for  the  battle  had  already  lasted  till 
idnight,)  left  the  indignant  orator  in  utter 
irkness  !  He  was  not  to  be  balBed  or  ap- 
.illed,  however,  by  a  privation  of  this  de- 
cription  ;  and  accordingly  went  on  to  argue 
id  retort  in  the  dark,  with  such  force  and 
Feet,  that  it  was  thought  advisable  to  send 
It  for  his  fugitive  opponent,  who,  after  some 
me,  reappeared  with  a  candle  in  his  hand. 
lid  begged  that  the  debate  might  be  adjourn- 
1  to  another  day.  But  he  could  never  be 
revailed  on,  Mr.  Clarkson  assures  us,  to  re- 
taw  the  combat :  and  Penn,  after  going  and 
defying  him  in  his  own  meeting-house,  had 
^course,  as  usual,  to  the  press:  and  put  forth 
The  Sandy  Foundation  Shaken."  for  which 
e  had  the  pleasure  of  being  committed  to 
le  Tower,  on  the  instigation  of  the  Bishop 
f  London  :  and  solaced  himself,  durinu'  his 
onfinement,  by  writing  six  other  pamphlets. 
Soon  after  his  deliverance,  he  was  again 
■iken  np,  and  brought  [n  trial  before  the  Lord 


Mayor  and  Recorder  for  preaching  in  a  Qua- 
ker meeting.  He  afterwards  published  an  ac- 
count of  this  proceeding; — and  it  is  in  our 
opinion  one  of  the  mo.st  curious  and  instruc- 
tive pieces  that  ever  came  from  his  pen.  The 
times  to  which  it  relates,  are  suliiciently 
known  to  have  been  times  of  gross  oppression 
and  judicial  abuse; — but  the  brutality  of  the 
Couii  upon  this  occasion  seems  to  us  to  ex- 
ceed any  thing  that  is  recorded  elsewhere  ;— 
and  the  noble  tirrnness  of  the  jury  .still  de- 
serves to  be  remembered,  for  example  to  hap- 
pier days.  The  prisoner  came  into  court,  ac- 
cording to  Quaker  costume,  with  his  hat  on 
his  head  ; — but  the  doorkeeper,  with  a  due 
zeal  for  the  dignity  of  the  place,  pulled  it  off 
as  he  entered. — Upon  this,  however,  the  Lord 
Mayor  became  quite  furious,  and  ordered  the 
unfortunate  beaver  to  be  instantly  replaced — 
which  was  no  sooner  done  than  he  fined  the 
poor  culprit  for  appearing  covered  in  his  pre- 
sence I —  William  Penn  now  insisted  upon 
knowing  what  law  he  was  accused  of  having 
broken, — to  which  simple  question  the  Re- 
corder was  reduced  to  answer,  '•  that  he  \\a3 
an  impertinent  fellow. — and  that  many  had 
studied  thirty  or  forty  years  to  understand  the 
law,  which  he  was  for  having  expounded  in  a 
moment  !""  The  learned  controversialist  how- 
ever was  not  to  be  silenced  so  easily  ; — he 
quoted  Lord  Coke  and  Blasiia  ClinrUi  on  his 
antagonist  in  a  moment:  and  chastised  his  in- 
solence by  one  of  the  best  and  most  charac- 
teristic repartees  that  we  recollect  ever  to  have 
met  with.  "  I  tell  you  to  be  silent.'^  cried  the 
Recorder,  in  a  great  passion  ;  '^  if  we  should 
suffer  you  to  ask  questions  till  to-morrow 
morning,  you  will  be  never  the  wiser!" — 
"That."  replied  the  Quaker,  with  his  immov- 
able tranquillity,  "that  is,  according  as  the 
answers  are." — "Take  him  away,  take  him 
away?"  exclaimed  the  Mayor  and  the  Re- 
corder in  a  breath — '■  turn  him  into  the  Bale 
Dock  :"' — and  into  the  Bale  Dock,  a  filthy  and 
pestilent  dungeon  in  the  neighbourhood,  he 
was  accordinsfiy  turned — discoursing  calmly 
all  the  way  on  Magna  Charter  and  the  rights 
of  Englishmen; — while  the  courtly  Recorder 
delivered  a  very  animated  charge  to  the  Jury, 
in  the  absence  of  the  prisoner. 

The  Jury,  however,  after  a  short  consulta- 
tion, brouc'ht  in  a  verdict,  finding  him  merely 
'•'•ruilty  of  speaking  in  Grace-Church  Street." 
For  this  cautious  and  most  correct  deliverance, 
they  were  loaded  with  reproaches  by  the 
Coiirt,  and  sent  out  to  amend  their  verdict. — 
but  in  half  an  hour  they  returned  with  the 
same  ingenious  finding,  written  out  at  larire, 
and  subscribed  with  all  their  names.  The 
Court  now  became  more  furious  than  ever,  and 
shut  them  up  without  meat,  drink,  or  fire,  till 
next  morning;  when  they  twice  over  came 
back  with  the  same  verdict ; — upon  which  they 
were  reviled,  and  threatened  so  outra^ieousjy 
bv  the  Recorder,  that  William  Peini  protest- 
ed against  this  plain  intimidation  of  the  per- 
sons, to  whose  free  suffrages  the  law  had  en- 
trnsted  his  caiisp.  The  answer  of  ih'^  Recorder 
was.  '-Stop  liis  mouth,  jailor— brins:  fetters 
and  stake  him  to  the  ground."  William  Penn 
3  E  2 


654 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


replied  with  the  temper  of  a  Quaker,  and  the 
spirit  of  a  martjT,  '•  Do  your  pleasure — I  mat- 
ter not  your  fetters  !•'  And  the  Recorder  took 
occasion  to  observe,  '-'that,  till  now,  he  had 
never  understood  the  policy  of  the  Spaniards 
in  suffering  (he  Inquisition  amon;?  them.  But 
now  he  saw  that  it  would  never  be  well-  with 
us.  till  we  had  something  like  the  Spanish  In- 
quisition in  England  !"'  After  this  sage  re- 
mark, the  Jury  were  asrain  sent  back, — and 
kept  other  twenty-four  hours,  without  food  or 
refreshment.  On  the  third  day,  the  natural 
and  glorious  effect  of  this  brutality  on  the 
spirits  of  Englishmen  was  at  length  produced. 
Instead  of  the  special  and  unmeauiug  form  of 
their  first  verdict,  they  now.  all  in  one  voice, 
declared  the  prisoner  Not  Guiltv.  The  Re- 
corder again  broke  out  into  abuse  and  menace : 
and,  after  "  praying  God  to  keep  his  life  out 
of  such  hands,"  proceeded,  we  really  do  not 
see  on  what  pretext,  to  fine  every  man  of  them 
in  forty  marks,  and  to  order  them  to  prison  till 
payment.  William  Penn  then  demanded  his 
liberty;  but  was  ordered  into  custody  till  he 
paid  the  fine  imposed  on  him  for  wearing  his 
hat :  and  was  forthwith  dragged  away  to  his 
old  lodging  in  the  Bale  Dock,  while  in  the 
very  act  of  quoting  the  twenty-ninth  chapter 
the  Great  Charter,  ^' Nullns  fiber  homo,''  kc. 
As  he  positively  refused  to  acknowledge  the 
legality  of  this  infliction  by  paying  the  fine, 
he  might  have  lain  long  enough  in  this  dun- 
geon ;  but  his  father,  who  was  now  reconciled 
to  him,  sent  the  money  privately  ;  and  he  was 
at  last  set  at  liberty. 

The  spirit,  however,  which  had  dictated 
these  proceedings  was  not  likely  to  cease  from 
troubling;  and,  within  less  than  a  year,  the 
poor  Quaker  was  again  brought  before  the 
Magistrate  on  an  accusation  of  illegal  preach- 
ing; and  was  ag-ain  about  to  be  dismis.sed  for 
want  of  evidence,  when  the  worthy  Justice 
ingeniously  bethought  himself  of  tendering  to 
the  prisoner  the  oath  of  allegiance,  which,  as 
well  as  every  other  oath,  he  well  knew  that 
his  principles  would  oblige  him  to  refuse.  In- 
stead of  the  oath,  W.  Penn,  accordingly  offer- 
ed to  give  his  reasons  for  not  swearing;  but 
the  Magistrate  refused  to  hear  him :  and  an 
altercation  ensued,  in  the  course  of  w'hichthe 
Justice  having  insinuated,  that,  in  spite  of  his 
sanctified  exterior,  the  younir  preacher  was  as 
bad  as  other  folks  in  his  practice,  the  Quaker 
forgot,  for  one  moment,  the  systematic  meek- 
ness and  composure  of  his  sect,  and  burst  out 
into  this  triumphant  appeal — 

"  I  make  this  bold  challenge  to  all  men,  women, 
and  children  upon  earth,  justly  to  accuse  me  with 
having  seen  ine  drunk,  iieard  me  swear,  utter  a 
curse,  or  speak  one  obscene  word,  nnich  less  that  I 
ever  made  it  my  practice.  I  speak  this  to  God's 
glory,  who  has  ever  preserved  me  from  the  power 
of  these  polhitions.  and  who  from  a  child  becrot  an 
hatred  in  me  towards  them.  Thy  word?  shall  be 
ihy  burthen,  and  I  trample  thy  slander  as  dirt  un- 
der my  feet!"— pp.  99,  100. 

The  greater  part  of  the  audience  confirmed 
this  statement:  and  the  judicial  calumniator 
had  nothing  for  it,  but  to  sentence  this  unrea- 
sonable Puritan  to  six  months'  imprisoiunent 


in  Newgate;  where  he  amused  himself, 


^L 


usual,  by  writing  and  publishing  four  pac     k^' 
phlets  in  support  of  his  opinions. 

It  is  by  no  means  our  intention,  howeve     ;>^ 
to  digest  a  chronicle  either  of  his  persecutioi 
or  his  publications.     In  the  earlier  pait  of 
career,  he  seems  to  have  been  in  prison  eve 
six  months;  and,  for  a  very  considerable  p 
riod  of  it;  certainly  favoured  the  world 
at  least  six  new  pamphlets  every  year.   la^b^' 
these,  as  well  as  in  his  public  appearance 
there  is  a  singular  mixture  of  earnestness ai 
sobriety — a  devotedness  to  the  cause  in  w 
he  was  eng-aged.  that  is  almost  sublime; 
a  temperance  and  patience  towards  his  ojmMk?^ 
nents,  that  is  truly  admirable :  while  in  t      ifi'^ 
whole  of  his  private  life,  there  is  redui 
testimony,  even  from  the  mouths  of  his 
mies.  that  his  conduct  was  pure  and  phila 
thropic  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  dii 
guished  at  the  some  time  for  singular  pi     (S^-.^ 
dence  and  judgment  in  all  ordinary  affai      f^ 
His  virtues  and  his  sufferings  appear  at  1; 
have  overcome  his  father's  objections  to 
peculiar  tenets ,  and  a  thorough  and  co 
reconciliation  took  place  previous  to  their 
separation.    On  his  death-bed,  indeed,  the 
miral   is  .said  to  have   approved  warm! 
every  part  of  his  son's  conduct  ;  and  to 
predicted,  that  -'if  he  and  his  friends  ke 
their  plain  way  of  preaching  and  of  li 
they  would   speedily   make  an   end   of  tl 
priests,  to  the  end  of  the  world."' — By 
fathers  death  he  succeeded  to  a  handsome 
tate.  then  yielding  upwards  of  1500Z.  a  y( 
but  made  no  change  either  in  his  professi 
or  way  of  life.     He  was  at  the  press  and 
Newgate,  after  this  event,  exactly  as  befi 
and  defied  and  reviled  the  luxury  of  the  a| 
just  as  vehemently,  Avhen  he  was  in  a  coi 
tion  to  partake  of  it.  as  in  the  days  of  hi 
verty.     Within  a  short  time  after  his  su 
sion,  he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Holland 
Germany  in  company  with  George  Fox ;  wl: 
it    is   said   that  they  converted  many  of  i 
ranks,  including  young  ladies  of  quality  a| 
old   professors  of  divinity.     They   were  I 
used,  however,  by  a  surly  Graf  or  two, 
sent  them  out  of  their  dominions  under  a  g| 
poral's  guard  ;  an  attention  which  they  rej 
by  long  letters  of  expostulation  and  advii| 
which  the  worthy  Grafs  were  probably  neil 
very  able  nor  very  willing  to  read. 

Ill  the  midst  of  these  labours  and  trials,j 
found  time  to  marry  a  lady  of  great  beaij 
and  accomplishments;  and  settled  himself! 
a  comfortable  and  orderly  house  in  the 
try — but.  at  the  same  time,  remitted  not 
of  his  zeal  and  activity  in  support  of  the  ( 
in  which  he  had  embarked.     When  the  pe 
statutes  against  Popish  recusants  were  abj 
to  be  passed,  in  1678,  by  the  tenor  of  whil 
certain  grievous  punishments  weie  inflici 
upon  all  who  did  not  frequent  the  establisll 
church,  or  purge  themselves  j>pon  orJh,  fit 
Popery,  William  Penn  was  allowed  to  be  he 
before  a  Committee  of  the  House  of  Commo| 
in    support   of  the   Quakers'  application 
some  exemption  from  the  unintended  sevei| 
of  these  edicts; — and  what  has  been  preser 


hi 


CLARKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


655 


of '?  speech,  upon  that  occasion,  certainly  is 
IK  the  least  respectable  of  his  performances. 
It 'quired  no  ordinary  ma<!:nanimity  for  any 
0!,  in  the  very  height  of  the  frenzy  of  the 
P>ish  plot,  boldly  to  tell  the  House  of  Com- 
jr  IS.  '-that  it  was  unlawful  to  intiict  punish- 
rt  it  upon  Catholics  themselves,  on  account 
oil  conscientious  dissent."  This,  however, 
\i  !iam  Penn  did,  with  the  firmness  of  a  true 
piosopher;  but.  at  the  same  time,  with  so 
n,-h  of  the  meekness  and  humility  of  a 
Qdcer,  that  he  was  heard  without  ofTence  or 
iiMTuption  : — and  having  thus  put  in  his  pro- 
t(  aixainst  the  general  principle  of  intoler- 
a  f.  he  proceeded  to  plead  his  own  cause, 
a  that  of  his  brethren,  with  admirable  force 
a .  temper  as  follows  : — 

I  was  bred  a  Protestant,  and  that  strictly  too. 
I  SI  nothing  by  lime  or  study.  For  years,  read- 
ir  travel,  and  observation,  made  the  rcliijiiin  of 
n  education  the  religion  of  my  judgment.  ]\Iy 
a  ratio:)  hath  brought  none  to  that  belief ;  a;id 
lljgh  the  posture  lam  in  may  seem  odd  or  siranire 
irou.  yet  I  am  conscientious;  and.  till  you  know 
n  better,  I  hope  your  charity  will  call  it  rather  my 
u  appiness  than  my  crime.  I  do  tell  you  as:ain. 
a  here  solemnly  declare,  in  the  presence  of  die 
/niahty  God,  and  before  you  all.  that  the  profes- 
Eil  now  make,  and  the  Society  I  now  adhere  to. 
he  been  so  far  from  altering  that  Protestant  judsr- 
rnt  I  had,  that  I  am  not  conscious  to  myself  of 
hing  receded  from  an  iota  of  any  one  principle 
nntained  by  those  first  Protestants  and  Refbriners 
Ojermany.  and  our  own  martyrs  at  home,  against 
t  see  of  Rome  :  And  therefore  it  is,  we  think  it 
hd,  that  though  we  deny  in  common  with  you 
1 5c  doctrines  of  Rome  so  zealously  protested 
ainst,  (from  whence  the  name  of  Protestan's.) 
y  that  we  should  be  so  unhappy  as  to  suffer,  and 
tit  with  extreme  severity,  by  laws  made  only 
minst  the  maintainers  of  those  doctrines  which  we 
c  so  deny.  We  choose  no  suffering  ;  for  God 
l)\vs  what  we  have  already  suffered,  and  how 
I  ny  sufficient  and  trading  families  are  reduced  to 
fat  poverty  by  it.  We  think  ourselves  an  useful 
jiple.  We  are  sure  we  are  a  peaceable  people  ; 
V,  if  we  must  still  suffer,  let  us  not  suffer  as 
Ipish  Recusants,  but  as  Protestant  Dissenters." 
pp.  220,  221. 

About  the  same  period  we  find  him  closely 
1  :^ued  with  no  less  a  person  than  Algernon 
Mne)-,  and  busily  employed  in  canvassing 
1  him  in  the  burgh  of  Guildford.  But  the 
1  ist  important  of  his  occupations  at  this  time 
■':e  those  which  connected  him  with  that 
^ion  which  was  destined  to  be  the  scene 

Ihis greatest  and  most  memorable  exertions. 
I  accidental  circumstance  had  a  few  years 
!fore  engaged  him  in  some  inquiries  with 
:ard  to  the  state  of  that  district  in  North 
nerica.  since  called  New  Jersey,  and  Penn- 
'    'Ilia.     A  great  part  of  this  territory  had 
aranted  by  the  Crown  to  the  family  of 
I  Berkeley,  who  had  recently  sold  a  large 
,  j-rt  of  it  to  a  Quaker  of  the  name  of  Billynge  : 
.   d  this  person  having  fallen  into  pecuniary 
f  bbarrassments.  prevailed  upon  William  Penn 
1  I  accept  of-  a  conveyance  of  this  property, 
i  kd  to  undertake  the  management  of  it,  as 
;  pBtee  for  his  creditors.     The  conscientious 
!  bstee  applied  himself  to  the  discharge  of  this 
,  ityn'ithhjs  habitual  scrupulousness  and  ac- 
'.  ^ityj — and  having  speedily  made  himself 
I  fquainted  with  the  condition  and  capabilities 


of  the  great  province  in  question.  wa:s  imme- 
diately struck  with  lhi'opj)ortiniity  itatl'orded, 
both  for  a  beneliccnf  arrangement  of  the  inte- 
rests of  its  inhabitants,  and  for  providing  a 
pleasant  and  desirabli>  retreat  for  such  of  his 
own  communion  as  might  be  willing  to  leave 
their  native  land  in  pursuit  of  religious  liberty. 
The  original  charter  had  vested  the  proprietor^ 
under  certain  limitations,  with  the  power  oi 
legislation  :  and  one  of  the  first  works  of  Wil- 
liam Penn  was  to  draw  up  a  sort  of  constitu- 
tion for  the  land  vested  in  Billynge — the  car- 
dinal foundation  of  which  was,  that  no  man 
should  be  troubled,  molested,  or  snbiccted  to 
any  disability,  on  account  of  his  religion.  He 
then  superintended  the  embaikalion  of  two  or 
three  ship-loads  of  Quakers,  who  set  otf  for 
this  land  of  promise; — and  continued,  from 
time  to  time,  both  to  hear  so  much  of  their 
prosperity,  and  to  feel  how  much  a  larger  pro- 
prietor might  have  it  in  his  power  to  jnomote 
and  extend  it,  that  he  at  length  conceived  the 
idea  of  acquiring  to  himselt  a  much  larger 
district,  and  founding  a  settlcmcnl  upon  a  .still 
more  liberal  and  compreheiisive  plan.  The 
means  of  doing  this  were  providentially  placed 
in  his  hands,  by  the  circumstance  of  his  father 
having  a  claim  upon  the  dissolute  and  needy 
government  of  the  day.  for  no  less  than 
16,000L, — in  lieu  of  which  W.  Penn  proposed 
that  the  district,  since  called  Pennsylvania, 
should  be  made  over  to  him,  with  such  atnple 
powers  of  administration,  as  made  him  little 
less  than  absolute  sovereign  of  the  country. 
The  right  of  legislation  Avas  left  entirely  to 
him,  and  such  councils  as  he  might  appoint ; 
with  no  other  limitation,  than  that  ins  laws 
should  be  liable  to  be  rescinded  by  the  Privy 
Council  of  England,  within  six  months  after 
they  were  reported  to  it.  This  memorable 
charter  was  signed  on  the  4th  of  March,  1681. 
He  originally  intended,  that  the  countiy  should 
have  been  called  New  Wales;  but  the  Under- 
Secretary  of  State,  being  a  Welshman,  thought, 
it  seems,  that  this  was  using  too  much  liberty 
with  the  ancient  principality,  and  objected  to 
it !  He  then  suggested  Sylvania ;  but  the 
king  himself  insisted  upon  adding  Penn  to  it, 
— and  after  some  struggles  of  tnodesty,  it  was 
found  necessary  to  submit  to  his  gracious 
desires. 

He  now  proceeded  to  encourage  settlers  of 
all  sorts, — but  especially  such  sectaries  as 
were  impatient  of  the  restraints  and  persecu- 
tions to  which  they  were  subjected  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  published  certain  conditions  and 
regulations,  "  the  first  fundamental  of  which," 
as  he  expresses  it,  was.  ''That  every  person 
should  enjoy  the  free  profession  of  his  faith, 
and  exercise  of  worship  towards  God,  in  such 
a  way  as  he  shall  in  his  conscience  believe  is 
most  acceptable ;  and  should  be  protected  in 
this  liberty  by  the  authority  of  the  civil  magis- 
trate." With  regard  to  the  native  inhabitants, 
he  positively  enacted,  that  "  whoever  should 
hurt,  wrong,  or  offend  any  Indian,  should  in- 
cur the  same  i;(  nalty  as  if  he  had  oflended  in 
like  manner  against  his  fellow  planter :"  and 
that  the  planters  should  not  be  their  own  ^ 
1  judges  in  case  of  any 'difference  with  the  la 


656 


^^SCELLANEOUS. 


dians-  but  that  all  such  differences  should  be 
settled  by  twelve  referees,  six  Indians  and  six 
planters ,  under  the  direction,  if  need  were, 
of  the  Governor  of  the  province,  and  the  Chief, 
or  King  of  the  Indians  concerned.  Under 
these  wise  and  merciful  regulations,  three 
ships  full  of  passengers  sailed  for  the  new 
province  in  the  end  of  16S1.  In  one  of  these 
was  Colonel  Markham,  a  relation  of  Penn's, 
and  intended  to  act  as  his  secretary  when  he 
should  himself  arrive.  He  was  the  chief  of 
several  commissioners,  who  were  appointed  to 
confer  with  the  Indians  with  regard  to  the  ces- 
sion or  purchase  of  their  lands,  and  the  terms 
of  a  perpetual  peace. — and  was  the  bearer  of 
the  following  letter  to  them  from  the  Governor, 
a  part  of  which  we  think  worthy  of  being 
transcribed,  for  the  singular  plainness,  and 
engaging  honesty,  of  its  manner. 

"  Now,  I  would  have  you  well  observe,  that  I 
am  very  sensible  of  the  unkindness  and  injustice 
which  have  been  too  much  exercised  toward  you 
by  the  people  of  these  parts  of  the  world,  who  have 
sought  themselves  to  make  great  advantatres  by  you, 
rather  than  to  be  e.xamples  of  goodness  and  patience 
unto  you.  'this  I  hfcar  hath  been  a  matter  of  trouble 
to  you,  and  caused  great  grudging  and  animosities, 
sometimes  to  the  shedding  of  blood.  But  I  am  not 
such  a  man;  as  is  well  known  in  my  own  country. 
I  have  great  love  and  regard  toward  you,  and  desire 
to  win  and  gain  your  love  and  friendship  by  a  kind, 
just,  and  peaceable  life  ;  and  the  people  I  send  are 
of  the  same  mind,  and  shall  in  all  things  behave 
themselves  accordingly  ;  and  if  in  any  thing  any 
shall  offend  you  or  your  people,  you  shall  have 
a  full  and  speedy  satisfaction  for  the  same,  by  an 
equal  number  of  just  men  on  both  sides,  that  by  no 
means  you  may  have  just  occasion  of  being  offended 
against  them. 

"  I  shall  shortly  come  to  see  you  myself,  at 
which  time  we  may  more  largely  and  freely  confer 
and  discourse  of  these  matters.  In  the  mean  time 
I  have  sent  my  Commissioners  to  treat  with  you, 
about  land,  and  a  firm  league  of  peace.  Let  me 
desire  you  to  be  kind  to  them  and  to  the  people, 
and  receive  the  presents  and  tokens,  which  I  have 
sent  you,  as  a  testimony  of  my  good  will  to  you, 
and  of  my  resolution  to  live  justly,  peaceably,  and 
friendly  with  you.     I  am,  your  loving  Friend,- 

"  William  Pen'n." 

In  the  course  of  the  succeeding  year,  he 
prepared  to  follow  these  colonists:  and  ac- 
cordingly embarked,  with  about  an  hundred 
other  Quakers,  in  the  month  of  September, 
1682.  Before  separating  himself,  however, 
from  his  family  on  this  long  pilgrimage,  he 
addressed  a  long  letter  of  love  and  admoni- 
tion to  his  wife  and  chddren.  from  which  we 
are  tempted  to  make  a  pretty  large  extract 
for  the  entertainment  and  edification  of  our 
readers.  There  is  .^^jmething.  we  think,  very 
touching  and  venerable  in  the  afi'ectionateness 
of  its  whole  strain,  and  the  patriarchal  sim- 

f)licity  in  which  it  is  conceived  ;  while  the 
anguage  appears  to  us  to  be  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  specimens  of  that  soft  and  mellow 
Engli.sh,  which,  with  all  its  redundancy  and 
cumbrous  volume,  has.  to  onr  ears,  a  far  richer 
and  more  pathetic  sweetness  than  the  epigrams 
and  apothegms  of  modern  times.  The  letter 
begins  in  this  manner — 

"  My  dear  Wife  a'ld  Children. 
"  My  love,  which  nrnlipr  pe:!.  nor  land,  nor  death 
itself,  can  extinguish  or  feasen  toward  you,  most 


endearedly  visits  you  with  eternal  embraces, ; 
will  abide  with  you  for  ever :  and  may  the  God 
my  life  watch  over  you,  and  bless  you,  and  do  i 
good  in  this  world  and  for  ever  ! — Some  things' M 
upon  my  spirit  to  leave  with  you  in  your  respeci' 
capacities,  as  I  am  to  one  a  husband,  and  to 
rest  a  father,  if  I  should  never  see  you  more  in  i 
world. 

"  My  dear  wife  !  remember  thou  wast  the  1« 
of  my  youth,  and   much  the  joy  of  my  life; 
most  beloved,  as  well  as  most   worthy  of  all 
earthly  comforts:  and  the  reason  of  that  love  x1Ka\iiM 
more  thy  inward  than  thy  outward  excellencf'     i," 
which   yet   were   many.      God    knows,  and  tB 
knowest  it,  I  can  say  it  was  a  match  of  Providenc 
making  ;  and  God's  image  in  us  both  was  the  t 
thing,  and  the  most  amiable  and  engaging  or 
ment  in  our  eyes.     Now  I  am  to  leave  thee, 
that  without  knowing  whether  I  shall  ever  see  tlBjif fen 
more  in  this  world,  lake  my  counsel  into  ihy  bOM      Lajt 
and  let  it  dwell  with  thee  in  my  stead  while  tl      T^U 


Then,  after  some  counsel  about  godlini'     t^ 
and  economy,  he  proceeds — 

"And  now,  my  dearest,  let  me  recommendl 
thy  care  my  dear  children  ;  abundantly  beloved 
me,  as  the  Lord's  blessings,  and  the  sweet  pie 
of  our  mutual  and  endeared  affection.     Abovej 
things  endeavour  to  breed  them  up  in  the  lovej 
virtue,  and  that  holy  plain  way  of  it  which  we  I 
lived   in,  that  the  world  in  no  part  of  it  get 
my  family.     I  had  raiher  they  were  homely  til 
finely  bred  as  to  outward  behaviour ;  yei  I  lil 
sweetness   mixed  with   gravity,  and    cheerfulnl 
tempered  with  sobriety.    Religion  in  the  heart  1 
into  this  true  civility,  teaching  men  and  wonier 
be  mild  and  courteous  in   their  behaviour  ; 
complishment  worthy  indeed  of  praise. 

"  Next  breed  them  up  in  a  love  one  of  anotl 
tell  them  it  is  the  charge  I  left  behind  me ; 
that  it  is  the  way  to  have  the  love  and  blessing  | 
God  upon  them.     Sometimes  separate  them, 
not  long  ;  and  allow  them  to  send  and  give  eij 
other  small  things,  to   endear  one  another  w 
Once  more  I  say,  tell  thein  it  w;is  my  counsel  I 
should  be  tender  and  affectionate  one  to  anoib 
For  their  learning  be  liberal.     Spare  no  cost; 
by  such  parsimony  all  is  lost  that  is  saved  :  bull 
it  be  useful  knowledge,  such  as  is  consistent  v| 
truth  and  godliness,  not  cherishing  a  vain  com 
tion  or  idle  mind  ;  but  ingenuity  mixed  with  indj 
try  is  good  for  the  body  and  the  mind  loo.     Rati 
keep  an  ingenious  person  in   the  house  to  teil 
them,  than  send  them   to  schools;  too  many  if 
impressions  being  commonly  received   there, 
sure  to  observe  their  genius,  and  do  not  cross! 
to  learning;  let   them   not  dwell  loo  long  on  «| 
thing;  but   let   their  change  be  agreeable,  and  I 
their  diversions  have  some   little  bodily  labour 
them.    When  grown  big,  have  most  care  for  theiii 
for  then  there  are  more  snares,  both  wiihin  f| 
without.     When  marriageable,  see  that  they  hi] 
worthy  persons  in  their  eye,  of  good  life,  and  l 
fame   for    piety  and  understanding.     I  desire  j 
wealth,  but  sufficiency;  and  be  sure  their  Iove| 
dear,  fervent,  and  mutual,  that  it  may  be  happy  j 
them.     I  choose  not  iliey  should  be  married^ 
earthly,  covetous  kindred  :  and  of  ciiies  and  tov 
of  concourse,   beware:  the  world  is  apt  to  slj 
close  to  those  who  have  lived  and  got  wealth  ihe'l 
a  country  life  and  estate!  like  best  for  my  childn| 
I  prefer  a  decent  mansion  of  a  hundred  pounds  ] 
annum,  before  ten  thousand  pounds  in  London,! 
such  like  place,  in  a  way  of  trade." 

He  next  addresses  himself  to  his  chiJdre| 

"  Be  obedient  to  your  dear  mo'her,  a  won^Hjm 
whose  virtue  and  good  name  is  an  honour  to  y<^^ 
lor  she  hath  been  exceeded  by  none  in  her  lime^ 
her  integrity,  humanity,  virtue,  and  good  und 


CLARKSON'S  LIFE  OF  PENN. 


657 


sttiinn' ;  qualities  not  usual  among  women  of  Iirr 
W(!dly'<-'<"'J"'°"  and  quality.  'I'lierelore  honour 
an  obey  her,  my  dear  children,  as  your  mother, 
Bniyour  t'aiher's  love  and  delight;  nay,  love  her 
to(  tor  she  loved  your  father  with  a  deep  and 
upilht  '"v*^'  choosing  him  before  all  her  many 
au'rs:  and  though  she  be  of  a  delirate  constitu- 
tio'and  noble  spirit,  yet  she  descended  to  the  ut- 
in«  tenderness  and  care  for  you.  performing  the 
pa'uliest  acts  of  service  to  you  in  your  infancy. 
8s  mother  and  a  nurse  too.  I  charge  you,  before 
thuord.  honour  and  obey,  love  and  cherish  your 
de  mother." 

fter  a  great  number  of  other  aiTectionate 
coiiselsj  he  turns  particularly  to  his  elder 

[.\nd  as  for  yon,  who  are  likely  to  be  concerned 
injie  government  of  Pennsylvania.  I  do  charge 
vobetore  the  Lord  God  and  his  holy  angels,  that 
vo  be  lowly,  diligent,  and  tender;  fearing  God, 
lo^ig  the  people,  and  hating  covelousness.  Let 
jui|:e  liave  its  impartial  course,  and  the  law  free 
paige.  Though  to  your  loss,  protect  no  man 
agist  it ;  for  you  are  not  above  the  law,  but  the 
laubove  you.  Live  therefore  the  lives  yourselves 
vo  would  have  the  people  live,  and  then  shall  you 
08;  right  and  boldness  to  punish  the  transgressor, 
Ki3  upon  the  square,  for  God  sees  you  :  therefire 
diiiour  duty,  and  be  sure  you  see  with  your  own 
ey.  and  hear  with  your  own  ears.  Entertain  no 
luliers  ;  cherish  no  informers  for  gain  or  revenge  ; 
uslio  tricks  ;  fly  to  no  devices  to  support  or  cover 
in  itice ;  but  let  your  hearts  be  upright  betore  the 
.  L»i.  trusting  in  him  above  the  contrivances  of  men, 
irinoiie  shall  be  able  to  hurt  or  supplant  you." 

1^6  should  like  to  see  any  private  letter  of 

:  uijiuctionsfroma  sovereign  to  his  heir-appa- 

:  rei.  that  will  bear  a  comparison  with  the 

'  in  notions  of  this  honest  Sectary.     He  con- 

clles  as  follows  : —  « 

I,       Finally,  my  children,  love  one  another  with  a 

-.  Ir;  endeared  love,  and  your  dear  relations  on  both 

;  sip,  and  take  care  lo  preserve  tender  affection  in 
ytf  children  to  each  other,  often  marrying  within 
thiselves.  so  as  it  be  without  the  bounds  forbidden 
iir  od's  law,  that  so  they  may  not,  like  the  forget - 
till  unnamral  world,  grow  out  of  kindred,  and  as 
C(!  as  strangers ;  but,  as  becomes  a  truly  natural 

;  aiiChris'ian  stock,  you  and  yours  after  you,  may 
lii  in  the  pure  and  fervent  love  of  God  towards 
oijanother.  as  becoming  brethren  in  the  spiritual 

.,   ai,  natural  relation. 

I  So  farewell  to  my  thrice  dearly  beloved  wife 

,    aijchildren  ! 

r  jYours,  as  God  pleaseih,  in  that  which  no 
!  waters  can  quench,  no  time  forget,  nor  distance 

]•       wear  away,  but  remains  for  ever, 

>.  "  William  Pew.' 

.1    "'orminghursl,  fourth  of 
gixthniontftA6S2.'' 

I  mmediately  after  writing  this  letter,  he 
,  ■ei)arked,  and  arrived  safely  in  the  Dela- 
l  ve  with  all  his  companions.  The  country 
:  lagned  to  him  by  the  royal  charter  was  yet 
fi  of  its  original  inhabitants:  and  the  prin- 
'  cjles  of  William  Penn  did  not  allow  him 
-;   t(|look  upon  that   gift  as  a  warrant  to  dis- 

■  Pi.sess  the  first  proprietors  of  the  land.  He 
hi  accordingly  appointed  his  commissioners, 
tl  preceding  year,  to  treat  with  them  for 

■  tl|  fair  purchase  of  a  part  of  their  lands,  and 
f'i their  joint  possession  nf  the  remainder; 
-'■   the  terms  of  the  settlement  being  now 

V  agreed  upon,  he  proceeded ,  very  soon 
his   arrival,    to   conclude   the  transac- 
83 


tion,  and  solemnly  to  pledge  his  faith,  and 
to  ratify  and  confirm  the  treaty,  in  sight  both 
of  the  Indians  and  Planters.  For  this  pur- 
pose a  grand  convocation  of  the  tribes  had 
been  ajipointed  near  the  spot  where  Philadid- 
phia  now  stands;  and  it  was  agreed  (hat  he 
ind  the  presiding  Sachems  should  meet  and 
wchangt;  faith,  under  the  spreading  branches 
of  a  prodigious  elm-tree  that  grew  on  the  bank 
of  the  river.  On  the  day  appointed,  accord- 
ingly, an  innumerable  multitude  of  the  In- 
dians assembled  in  that  neighbourhood  :  and 
were  seen,  with  their  dark  visages  and  brand- 
ished arms,  moving,  in  vast  swarms,  in  the 
depth  of  the  woods  which  then  overshadowed 
the  whole  of  that  now  cultivated  region.  OA 
the  other  hand,  William  Penn,  with  a  mode- 
rate attendance  of  Friends,  advanced  to  meet 
them.  He  came  of  course  unarmed — in  his 
usual  plain  dress — without  banners,  or  mace, 
or  guards,  or  carriages ;  and  only  distinguished 
from  his  companions  by  wearing  a  blue  sash 
of  silk  network  (which  it  seems  is  still  pre- 
served by  Mr.  Kett  of  Seething-hall,  near 
Norwich),  and  by  having  in  his  hand  a  roll 
of  paichment,  on  which  was  engrossed  the 
confirmation  of  the  treaty  of  purchase  and 
amity.  As  soon  as  he  (Irew  near  the  spot 
where  the  Sachems  were  assembled,  the 
whole  multitude  of  Indians  threw  down  their 
weapons,  and  seated  themselves  on  the  ground 
in  groups,  each  under  his  own  chieftain  ;  and 
the  presiding  chief  intimated  to  William  Penn, 
that  the  nations  were  ready  to  hear  him.  Mr. 
Clarkson  regrets,  and  we  cordially  join  in  the 
sentiment,  that  there  is  no  written,  contempo- 
rary account  of  the  particulars  attending  this 
interesting  and  truly  liovel  transaction.  He 
assures  us,  however,  that  they  are  still  in  a 
great  measure  preserved  in  oral  tradition,  and 
that  both  what  we  have  just  stated,  and  what 
follows,  may  be  relied  on  as  perfectly  accu- 
rate.    The  sequel  we  give  in  his  own  words. 

"  Plaving  been  thus  called  upon,  he  began.  The 
Great  Spirit,  he  said,  who  made  him  and  them,  who 
ruled  the  Heaven  and  the  Earth,  and  who  knew 
the  innermost  thoughts  of  man,  knew  that  he  and 
his  friends  had  a  hearty  desire  to  live  in  peace  and 
friendship  with  them,  and  to  serve  them  to  the 
utmost  ot  their  power.  It  was  not  their  custom  to 
use  hostile  weapons  against  their  fellow-creatures, 
for  which  reason  they  had  come  unarmed.  Their 
oi)ject  was  not  to  do  injury,  and  thus  provoke  the 
Great  Spirit,  but  to  do  good.  They  were  then  met 
on  the  broad  pathway  oi  good  faith  and  good  will, 
so  tiiat  no  advantage  was  to  be  taken  on  either 
side,  but  all  was  to  be  openness,  brotherhood,  and 
love.  After  these  and  other  words,  he  unrolled 
the  parchment,  and  by  means  of  the  same  inter- 
preter conveyed  to  ihem,  article  by  article,  the  con- 
ditions of  the  Purchase,  and  the  ^^'  ords  of  the  Com- 
pncf  then  made  for  their  eternal  Union.  Among 
other  things,  they  were  not  to  be  molested  in  their 
lawful  pursuits,  even  in  the  territory  they  had  alien- 
ated, for  it  was  to  be  common  to  them  and  the 
Eiiiilish.  They  were  to  have  the  same  hberty  to 
do  all  things  therein  relating  to  the  improvement 
of  iheir  grounds,  and  providmg  sustenance  for  their 
families,  which  the  English  had.  If  any  disputes 
should  arise  between  the  two,  they  should  be  set- 
tled by  twelve  persons,  half  of  whom  should  be 
English,  and  hall  Indians.  He  then  paid  them  for 
the  land  ;  and  made  them  many  presents  besides, 
from  the  merchandize  which  had  been  siiread  belbre 


658 


ailSCELLANEOUS. 


them.  Having  done  ihis,  he  laid  the  roll  of  parch- 
ment on  the  ground,  observing  again,  thai  the 
ground  should  be  common  to  both  people.  He 
then  added,  that  he  would  not  do  as  the  Maryiand- 
ers  did.  that  is,  call  them  Children  or  Brothers 
only  ;  for  often  parents  were  apt  to  chastise  their 
children'  too  severely,  and  Brothers  sometimes 
would  differ :  neither  would  he  compare  the  Friend- 
ship between  him  and  them  to  a  Chain,  for  the 
rain  might  sometimes  rust  it,  or  a  tree  might  fall 
and  break  it  ;  but  he  should  consider  them  as  the 
same  flesh  an(^  blood  with  the  Christians,  and  the 
same  as  if  one  man's  body  were  to  be  divided  into 
two  parts.  He  then  took  up  the  parchment,  and 
presented  it  to  the  Sachem,  who  wore  the  horn  in 
his  chaplet,  and  desired  him  and  the  other  Sachems 
to  preserve  it  carefully  for  three  generatiotis;  that 
tieir  children  might  know  what  had  pa.«sed  between 
tTlem,  just  as  if  he  had  remained  himself  with  them 
to  repeat  it."— pp.  341—343. 

The  IrKjianp.  in  return,  made  long  and 
stately  harangues — of  which,  however,  no 
more  seems  to  have  been  remembered,  but 
that  "  they  pledirod  themselves  to  live  in  love 
with  William  Penn  and  his  children,  as  long 
as  the  sun  and  moon  should  endure."  And 
thus  ended  this  famous  treaty: — of  which 
Voltaire  has  remarked,  with  so  much  truth 
and  severity,  •''  that  it  was  the  only  one  ever 
concluded  between  savages  and  Christians 
that  wa^  not  ratified  by  an  oath — and  the  only 
one  that  never  was  broken  V 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  spirit  in  which  the 
negotiation  was  entered  into,  and  the  corres- 
ponding settlement  conducted,  that  for  the 
space  of  more  thaji  seventy  years — and  so 
long  indeed  as  the  Quakers  retained  the  chief 
power  in  the  government,  the  peace  and  amity 
which  had  been  thus  solemnly  promised  and 
concluded,  never  was  violated  } — and  a  large 
and  most  striking,  though  solitary  example 
afforded,  of  the  facility  with  which  they  who 
are  really  sincere  and  friendly  in  their  own 
views,  may  live  in  harmony  even  with  those 
who  are  supposed  to  be  peculiarly  fierce  and 
faithless.  We  cannot  brins:  ourselves  to  wish 
that  there  were  nothing  but  Quakers  in  the 
world — because  we  fear  it  would  be  insup- 
portably  dull : — but  when  we  consider  what 
tremendous  evils  daily  arise  from  the  petu- 
lance and  profligacy,  and  ambition  and  irri- 
lability,  of  Sovereigns  and  INIinislers,  we  can- 
not help  thinking  that  it  would  be  the  mo.st 
efficacious  of  all  reforms  to  choose  all  those 
ruling  personages  out  of  that  plain,  pacific, 
and  sober-minded  sect. 

William  Penn  now  held  an  assembly,  in 
which  fifty-nine  important  laAvs  were  passed 
in  the  course  of  three  days.  The  most  re- 
markable were  those  which  limited  the  num- 
ber of  capital  crimes  to  two — murder  and 
high  treason — and  which  provided  for  the 
reformation,  as  well  as  the  punishment  of 
ofFenders,  by  making  the  prisons  places  of 
compulsive  industrj',  sobriety,  and  instruc- 
tion. It  was  likewise  enacted,  that  all  chil- 
dren, of  whatever  rank,  should  be  instructed 
in  some  art  or  trade.  The  fees  .of  law  pro- 
ceedings were  fi.\ed,  and  inscribed  on  public 
tables ; — and  the  amount  of  fines  to  be  levied 
for  offences  also  limited  by  legislative  au- 
thority.    Many  admirable  regulations  were 


added,  for  the  encouragement  of  indus; 
and  mutual  usefulness  and  esteem.  ThL 
is  something  very  agreeable  in  the  con 
ment.  and  sober  and  well-earned  self-t 
placency,  which  breathe  in  the  following] 
ter  of  this  great  colonist — v.rittc  n  during i 
first  rest  from  those  great  labours. 

"  I  am  now  casting  the  country  into  tov 

for  large  lots  of  land.  1  have  held  an  Assemill 
in  which  many  good  laws  are  passed.  We  ctl 
not  stay  safely  till  the  spring  for  a  Government  I 
have  annexed  the  Territories  lately  obtained  to  i 
Province,  and  passed  a  general  naturalization  r 
strangers;  which  hath  much  pleased  the  peopli- 
As  to  outward  things,  we  are  satisfied ;  the  1] 
good,  the  air  clear  and  sweet,  the  springs  plenti . 
and  provision  good  and  easy  to  come  :n  ;  an  in  • 
merable  quantity  of  wild  fowl  and  tish  :  in  f  , 
here  is  what  an  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  W(  j 
be  well  contented  with;  and  service  enouah  r 
God,  for  the  fields  are  here  white  for  harvest 
how  sweet  is  the  quiet  of  these  pans,  freed  fi  i 
the  an.vious  and  troublesome  solicitations,  hurrv* 
and  perplexities  of  woful  Europe  !" — pp.  350,,** 

We  cannot  persuade  ourselves, 
to  pursue  any  farther  the  details  of  thisi 
ing  biography.    W.  Penn  returned  to  Engli 
after  a  residence  of  about  two  years 
colony — got  into  great  favour  with  Ja 
— and  was  bitterly  calumniated  as  a  Je 
both  by  churchmen  and  sectaries — wentl 
doing  good  and  preaching  Quakerism — ^f 
sorely  persecuted  and  insulted,  and  deprij 
of  his  Government,  but  finally  acquitted, 
honourably  restored,  under  King  WiDia 
lost  his  wife  and  son — travelled  and  manP 
again — returned  to  Pennsylvania  in  1699  r 
two  years  longer — came  finally  home  to  E  - 
land^continued    to   preach   and   pitblish  = 
copiously  as  ever — was  reduced  to  a  state : 
kindly  dotage  by  three  strokes  of  apople.x  - 
and  died  at  last  at  the  age  of  seventy-two h 
the  year  1718. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  kindafl  - 
tions.  singailar  activity  and  perseverance,  ;  : 
areat  practical  wisdom.  Yet  we  can  v  '. 
believe  with  Burnet,  that  he  was  ''a  li 
puffed  up  with  vanity  ;"'  and  that  "  he  ha  i 
tedious,  luscious  way  of  talking,  that  was  t 
to  tire  the  patience  of  his  hearers."  He  >,? 
very  neat  in  his  per.son  :  and  hatl  a  great  1- 
ror  at  tobacco,  which  occasionally  endange  I 
his  popularity  in  his  American  domains.  • 
was  mighty  methodical,  too.  in  ordering  ~ 
household  ;  and  had  stuck  up  in  his  hai,.i 
written  directory,  or  General  Oiiier,  for  • 
regulation  of  his  family,  to  which  he  e.xacl 
the  strictest  conformity.  According  to  i  :< 
rigorous  system  of  discipline,  he  required- 

"  That  in  that  quarter  of  the  year  which  includ 
part  of  the  winter  and  part  of  llie  spring,  the  m  ■• 
bers  of  it  were  to  rise  at  seven  in  the  morning  n 
the  next  at  si.\.  in  the  next  at  five,  and  in  the  't 
at  six  again  Nine  o'clock  was  the  hour  for  br*,- 
fast,  twelve  for  dinner,  seven  for  supper,  and'n 
to  retire  to  hed.  The  whole  lamilv  were  to  ass  • 
ble  every  morning  for  worship.  They  were  n  e 
called  together  at  eleven  again,  that  each  m  ii 
read  in  turn  some  portion  of  the  holy  Scripture  r 
of  the  Mariyrology,  or  of  Friends' hooks ;  d 
finally  they  were  to  meet  again  for  wor.^lup  at  x 
in  the  evening.  On  the  days  of  public  nu  eiinp  o 
one  was  to  be  absent,  except  on  the  plea  of  ht  h 


AD.MIRAL  LORD  COLLINGWOOD. 


65^ 


(jri  unavoidable  engagement.  The  servants  were 
Iflt'  called  up  alter  supper  to  render  to  their  inas- 
teind  mistress  an  account  of  what  they  had  done 
in  e  day,  and  lo  receive  instructions  for  the  next  ; 
unwere  particularly  exhorted  to  avoid  lewd  dis- 
co 5es  and  troublesome  noises." 

f^e  shall  not  stop  to  examine  \vhat  dregs 

of  ;nbition,  or  what  hankerings  after  worldly 

■lity,  may  have'  mixed  themist-lves  with 


the  pious  and  philanthropic  princi[iles  that 
were  undoubtedly  his  chief  guitles  in  forming 
that  great  settlement  which  still  bears  his 
name,  and  prulits  by  his  example.  Human 
virtue  (.Iocs  not  challenge,  nor  atlmil  of  such 
a  scrutiny  !  And  it  should  be  suflicient  for 
the  glory  of  William  Pciui.  that  he  stands 
upon  record  as  the  most  humane,  the  most 
moderate,  and  the  most  pacilic  of  all  rulers. 


(fUaLi,    1S2S.) 

Aielection  from  the  Public  and  Private  Correspondence  of  Vice-Admtral  Lord  Collingicood: 
\'.terspersed  with  Memoirs  of  his  Life.  By  G.  L.  Newnham  Collinuwood,  Esq.  F.  R.  S. 
vols.  Svo.     Ridguay.     London :   1828. 


io  not  know  when  we  have  met^lvith 
PC  leiightfnl  a  hook  as  this, — or  one  with 
w.ch  we  are  so  well  pleased  with  ourselves 
fo being  delighted.  Its  attraction  consists 
alost  entirely  in  its  moral  beauty;  and  it 
hi'  the  rare  merit  of  filling  us  with  the  deep- 
eiadrairation  for  heroism,  without  suborning 
0^  judgments  into  any  approbation  of  the 
Vj's  and  weaknesses  with  Vv-hichpoor  mortal 
hoisra  is  so  often  accompanied.  In  this  re- 
8i':t;  it  is  not  oidy  more  safe,  but  more  agree- 
aj;  reading  than  the  Memoirs  of  Nelson ; 
w'^re  the  lights  and  shadows  are  often  too 
pifuUy  contrasted,  and  the  bane  and  the 
aulote  exhibited  in  proportions  that  cannot 
bj  be  hazardous  for  the  ardent  and  aspiring 
6]!its  on  which  they  are  both  most  calculated 
t(|iperate. 

t  is  a  mere  illusion  of  national  vanity 
Mjich  prompts  us  to  claim  Lord  CoUingwood 
a',  character  pectdiarly  English  ?  Certainly 
vi  must  admit,  that  we  have  few  English- 
nki  left  who  resemble  him ;  and  even  that 
oj  prevailing  notions  and  habits  make  it 
li>ly  that  we  shall  have  still  fewer  hereafter. 
'\;  we  do  not  know  where  such  a  character 
c  Id  have  been  formed  but  in  England ; — 
a  feel  quite  satisfied,  that  it  is  there  only 
t't  it  can  be  properly  valued  or  understood. 
Is  combination  of  the  loftiest  daring  with 
t|  most  watchful  humanity,  and  of  the  no- 
Ijst  ambition  wllli  the  greatest  disdain  of 
jisonal  advantage's,  and  the  most  generous 
Si'npathy  with  rival  merit,  though  rare  enough 
t!lraw  forth  at  all  times  the  loud  applause 
cmankind,  have  not  been  Avithout  example, 
iiany  race  that  boasts  of  illustrious  ances- 
t|3.  But,  for  the  union  of  those  high  quali- 
ty with  unpretending  and  almost  homely 
fitplicity,  sweet  temper,  undeviating  recti- 
tjie,  and  all  the  purity  and  sanctity  of  do- 
TfStic  affection  and  humble  content — we  can 
Ik,  we  think,  only  to  England, — or  to  the 
bilious  legends  of  uncorrupted  and  uiiin- 
fucted  Rome.  All  these  graces,  however, 
ii  more  than  these,  were  united  in  Lord 
lllingwood:  For  he  had  a  cultivated  and 
\en  elegant  mind,  a  taste  for  all  simple  en- 
lyments,  and  a  rectitude  of  understanding — 
'iich  seemed  in  him  to  be  but  the  emanation 


of  a  still  higher  rectitude.  Inferior,  perhaps, 
to  Nelson,  in  original  genius  and  energy,  and 
in  that  noble  self-confidei;ce  in  great  emer- 
gencies which  those  qutdilies  usually  in.spire, 
he  was  fully  his  ec]ual  in  seamanship  and  the 
art  of  command  ;  as  well  as  in  that  devoted- 
ness  to  his  country  and  his  profession,  and 
that  utter  fearlessness  and  gallantry  of  soul 
which  exults  and  rejoices  in  scenes  of  tre- 
mendous peril,  which  have  almost  ceased  to 
be  remarkable  in  the  character  of  a  British 
sailor.  On  the  other  hand,  we  think  it  will 
scarcely  be  disputed,  that  he  was  superior  to 
that  great  commander  in  general  information 
and  accomplishment,  and  in  those  thoughtful 
habits,  and  that  steadiness  and  propriety  of 
personal  deportment,  which  are  their  natural 
fruit.  His  greatest  admirers,  however,  can 
ask  no  higher  praise  for  him  than  that  he  stood 
on  the  same  lofty  level  with  Nelson,  as  to  that 
generous  and  cordial  appreciation  of  merit  in 
his  brother  otFicers,  by  which,  even  more,  per- 
haps, than  by  any  of  his  other  qualities,  that 
great  man  was  distinguished.  It  does  one's 
heart  good,  indeed,  to  turn  from  the  petty 
cabals,  the'paltry  jealousies,  the  splendid  de- 
tractions, the  irritable  vanities,  which  infest 
almost  every  other  walk  of  public  life,  and 
meet  one,  indeed,  at  every  turn  in  all  scenes 
of  competition,  and  among  men  otherwise 
eminent  and  honourable. — to  the  brother-like 
frankness  and  open-hearted  simplicity,  even 
of  the  official  communicationsbetween  Nelson 
and  CoUingwood  ;.  and  to  the  father-like  in- 
terest with  which  they  both  concurred  in  fos- 
tering the  glory,  and  cheering  on  the  fortunes 
of  their  younger  associates.  In  their  noble 
thirst  for  distinction,  there  seems  to  be  abso- 
lutely no  alloy  of  selfishness;  and  scarcely 
even  a  feeling  of  rivalry.  If  the  opportunity 
of  (loins  a  splendid  thing  has  not  come  to 
them,  it  has  come  to  some  one  who  deserved 
it  as  well,  and  perhaps  needed  it  more.  It 
will  come  to  them  another  day— and  then  the 
heroes  of  this  will  repay  their  hearty  congra- 
tulations. There  is  something  inexpressibly 
beautiful  and  attractive  in  this  spirit  of  mag- 
nanimous fairness;  and  if  we  could  only  be- 
lieve it  to  be  general  in  the  navy,  we  should 
gladly  recant  all  our  heretical  doubts  as  to  the 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


superior  virtues  of  men  at  sea.  join  chorus  to 
all  the  slang  songs  of  Dibdin  on  the  subject. 
and  applaud  to  the  echo  all  the  tirades  about 
British  tars  and  wooden  walls,  which  have  so 
often  nauseated  us  at  the  playhouses. 

We  feel  excessively  obliged  to  the  editor 
of  this  book ;  both  for  making  Lord  Colling- 
wood  known  to  uS;  and  for  the  very  pleasing, 
modest,  and  effectual  way  he  has  taken  to  do 
it  ill.  It  is  made  up  almost  entirely  of  his 
Lordship's  correspondence  :  and  the  few  con- 
necting statements  and  explanatory  observa- 
tions are  given  with  the  greatest  clearness  and 
brevity-  and  very  much  in  the  mild,  concili- 
atory, and  amiable  tone  of  the  remarkable 
person  to  whom  they  relate.  When  we  say 
that  this  publication  has  maile  Lord  Colling- 
wood  known  to  us,  we  do  not  mean  that  we. 
or  the  body  of  the  nation,  were  previously 
ignorant  that  he  had  long  served  with  distinc- 
tion in  the  navy,  and  that  it  fell  to  his  lot,  as 
second  in  command  at  Trafalgar,  to  indite  that 
eloquent  and  touching  despatch  which  an- 
nounced the  final  ruin  of  thf^  hostile  fleets, 
and  the  death  of  the  Great  Admiral  by  whose 
might  they  had  been  scattere'l.  But  till  this 
collection  "appeared,  the  character  of  the  man 
was  known,  we  believe,  only  to  those  who 
had  lived  with  him ,:  and  the  public  was  gene- 
rally ignorant  both  of  the  detail  of  his  ser- 
vices, and  the  high  principle  and  exemplary 
diligence  which  presided  over  their  perfonn- 
ance.  Neither  was  it  known,  we  are  per- 
suaded, that  those  virtues  and  services  actually 
cost  him  his  life !  and  that  the  difficulty  of 
finding,  in  our  large  list  of  admirals,  any  one 
fit  to  succeed  him  in  the,  important  station 
which  he  filled  in  his  declining  years,  induced 
the  government,  —  most  ungenerously,  we 
must  say,  and  unjustly, — to  lefuse  his  earnest 
desire  to  be  relieved'  oi  it ;  and  to  insist  on 
his  remaining  to  the  last  gasp,  at  a  post  which 
he  would  not  desert  so  long  as  his  country 
required  him  to  maintain  it.  but  at  which,  it 
was  apparent  to  himself,  and  all  the  world, 
that  he  must  speedily  die.  The  details  now 
before  us  will  teach  the  profession,  we  hope, 
by  what  virtues  and  what  toils  so  great  and 
so  pure  a  fame  can  alone  be  won  :  and  by 
rendering  in  this  way  such  characters  less 
rare,  will  also  render  the  distinction  to  which 
they  lead  less  fatal  to  its  owners  :  While  they 
cannot  fail,  we  think,  to  awaken  the  govern- 
ment to  a  sense  of  its  own  ingratitude  to  those 
who  jiave  done  it  the  noblest  service,  and  of 
the  necessity  of  at  last  adopting  some  of  the 
suggestions  which  those  great  benefactors 
have  so  long  pressed  on  its  attention. 

We  have  not  much  concern  with  the  gene- 
alogy or  (-"arly  history  of  Lord  Collingwood. 
He  was  born  "in  1750.  of  an  honourable  and 
ancient  family  of  Northumberland,  but  of 
slender  patrimony ;  and  went  to  sea,  under 
the  care  of  his  relative,  Captain,  afterwards 
Admiral  Brathwaite,  when  only  eleven  years 
old.  He  used,  himself,  to  tell,  as  an  instance 
of  his  youth  and  simplicity  at  this  time, 
"  that  as'  he  was  sitting  crying  for  his  sepa- 
ration from  home,  the  first  lieutenant  ob- 
served him  3  and  pitying  the  tender  years  of 


the  poor  child,  spoke  to  him  in  terms  of  i 
encouragement  and  kuidness ;  which,  as  '. 
Collingwood  said,  so  won  upon  his  heart,  tlj 
taking  this  officer  to  his  box.  he  offered  ' 
in  gratituile  a  large  piece  of  plumcake  vrhl 
his  mother  had  given  him!'"     Almost  fr| 
this  early  period  he  was  the  intimate  frid 
and  frequent  associate  of  the  brave  Ne 
and  had  his  full  share  of  the  obscure  pej 
and  unknown  labours  which  usually  form^ 
noviciate  of  naval  eminence.     He  was 
commander  in   1779  ;  and  being  sent  t 
West  Indies  after  the  peace  of  1783^  was( 
restored  to  hia  family  in  1786.    He  mar 
in    1791  :   and    was  again    sumrrioned 
active  service  on  the  breaking  out  of  the 
with   France  in   1793:  from  which  peric 
the  end  of  his  life,  in  1810,  he  wascontini 
in  employment,  and  never  permitted  to. 
that  happy  home,  so  dear  to  his  heart, 
constantly  in  his  thoughts,  except  for  one  i 
interval  of  a  year,  during  the  peace  of  AmS 
During  almost  the  whole  of  this  peric  * 
was  actually  afloat :  and  was  frequently_J 
a  year  to<>eiher.  and  once  for  the  incre 
period  of  twenty-two  months,  without  dii 
ping  an  anchor.     He  was  in  almost  all  '^ 
gieat  actions,  and  had  more  that  his  shan  : 
the  anxious  blockades,  v.-hich  occurred  in 
memorable  time;  and  signalised  himsel : 
all,  by  that  mi.xture  of  considerate  vigik.^ 
and  brilliant  courage,  which  may  be  saiif 
have  constituted  his  professional   char 
His  first  great  battle  was  that  which  eud€ 
Lord  Howe's  celebrated  victory  of  the  1{| 
June,  1794  ;  and  we  cannot  resist  the  ten 
tion  of  heading  our  extracts  with  a 
the  account  he  has  given  of  it,  in  a  ] 
his  father-in-law,  Mr.  Blackett — not  so  ir| 
for  the  purpose'of  recalling  the  proud  fee 
which  must  ever  cling  to  the  memory  ofl 
first  triumph  over  triumphant  France, 
the  sake  of  that  touching  mixture  it  pres 
of  domestic  affection  and  family  recollect 
with  high  professional  enthusiasm,  andj 
kindling  spirit  of  war.     In  this  situatic 
says : — 

"  We  cruised  for  a  few  days,  like  disnppo 
people  looking  for  whni  we  could  not  find,  unt'he 
morning  of  little  Sarah's  birih-day,  between  {hi 
and  nine  o'clock,  when  the  French  fieet,  of  twLT- 
five  sail  of  the  line  was  discovered  to  wind'H. 
We  chased  them,  and  they  bore  down  within  ||t 
five  miles  of  us.  The  ni^ht  was  spent  in  wal 
and  preparation  for  the  succeeding  day  ;  and 
a  blessing  did  I  send  forth  lo  my  Sarah,  lest  I  s 
never  bless  her  more  !  At  dawn,  we  made  oi 
proach  on  the  enemy,  then  drew  up,  dresse' 
ranks,  and  it  was  about  eight  when  the  Ad 
made  the  signal  for  each  ship  to  engage  her 
neiit,  and  bring  her  to  close  action, — and  then  |fn 
we  went  under  a  crowd  of  sail,  and  in  a  m 
thai  would  have  animated  the  coldest  heartlwi 
struck  terror  into  the  most  intrepid  enemy, 
ship  we  were  to  eneage  was  two  a-head  (  le 
French  Admiral,  so  thai  we  had  to  go  throujps 
lire  and  that  of  the  two  ships  ne.xt  him.  and  reo 
all  their  broadsides  two  or  three  times  befo 
fired  a  sun.  It  was  then  near  ten  o'clock. 
s^'^ved  to  the  Admiral,  that  about  that  timfur 
wives  were  going  to  church,  but  that  I  thnugl 
the  peal  we  shoufd  ring  about  the  Frenchman' 
would  outdo  their  parish  bells !     Lord  Howe 


ADMIRAL  LORD  COLLINGWOOD. 


(3C1 


V  Jiifire  some  time  before  we  did  ;  aiul  he  is  not  in 
s  Inhabit  ol  firing  soon.  We  got  very  near  indeed, 
■-  'a'"  then  began  such  a  fire  as  would  have  done  yuu 
nd  to  have  heard  I  During  the  whole  action  the 
nil  exact  order  vsas  preserved,  and  no  accident 
lipened  but  what  was  inevitable,  and  the  conse- 
(|  lice  of  the  enemy's  shot.  In  ten  niiinites  the 
Vuiral  was  wounded;  I  caught  him  in  my  arms 
bire  he  fell:  the  first  lieutenant  was  slightly 
vmded  by  the  same  shot,  and  I  thought  I  was  in 
air  way  of  being  left  on  deck  by  myself;  but  ihe 
li tenant  got  his  head  dressed,  and  came  up  again. 
giU  afier,  they  called  from  the  forecastle  that  the 
t  nchnian  was  sinking;  at  which  the  men  started 
uand  gave  three  cheers.  I  saw  the  French  ship 
.  dnasted  and  on  her  broadside,  but  in  an  instant 
j;  was  clouded  with  smoke,  and  I  do  not  know 
Vether  she  sunk  or  not.  All  the  ships  in  our 
n^hbourhood  were  dismasted,  and  are  taken,  ex- 
c  I  the  French  Admiral,  who  was  driven  out  of  the 
li  by  Lord  Howe,  and  saved  hiinself  by  flight." 

II  1796  he  writes  to  the  same  gentleman, 
i  m  before  Toulon — 

It  is  but  dull  work,  lying  off  the  enemy's  port : 
iy  cannot  move  a  ship  without  our  seeing  them, 
veil  must  be  very  mortifying  to  them;  but  we 
he  the  mortification  also  to  see  their  merchant- 
vsels  going  along  shore,  and  camiot  molest  them. 
Is  not  a  service  on  which  we  shall  get  fat ;  and 
en  do  I  wish  we  had  some  of  those  bad  potatoes 
Mch  Old  Scott  and  William  used  to  throw  over 
t  wall  of  the  garden,  for  we  feel  the  wantof  vege- 
t  Ics  more  than  anything  ! 

•  The  accounts  I  receive  of  my  dear  girls  give 
I  infinite  pleasure.  How  happy  I  shall  be  to  see 
t  m  again  !  but  God  knows  when  the  blessed  day 
\1  come  in  which  we  shall  be  again  restored  to  the 
£  1  forts  ol  domestic  life  ;  for  here,  so  lar  from  any 
[spect  of  peace,  the  plot  seems  to  thicken,  as  if 
■  It  most  serious  part  of  the  war  were  but  beginning." 
llieli:  \ 

hf.  In  1797  he  had  a  great  share  in  the  splendid 
■  'ory  off  Cape  St.  Vincent,  and  writes,  as 
I.  a  simple  and  animated  account  of  it  to 
lilackett.  We  omit  the  warlike  details, 
•ver,  and  give  only  these  characteristic 
•noes: — 

1  wrote  to  Sarah  the  day  after  the  action  with 
■^j  miards.  but  I  am  afraid  I  gave  her  but  an 
feet  account  of  it.     It  is  a  very  difficult  thing 
I  .  .Lose  engaged  in  such  a  scene  to  give  the  de- 
ll of  the  whole,  because  all  the  powers  ihey  have 
^  occupied  in  their  own  part  of  it.     .As  to  myself, 
"[id  my  duty  lo  the  utmost  of  my  ability,  as  I  have 
That  IS  acknowledged  now  ;  and  that 
only  real  difference  between  this  and  the 
action.     One  of  the  great  pleasures  I  have 
from  this  glorious  event  is,  that  I  e.xpect  it 
ible  me  to  provide  handsomely  for  those  who 
me  well.     Give  my  love   to  my  wife,   and 
to  my  children.     What  a  day  n  will  be  to 
len  I  meet    them    again!     The    Spaniards 
fa  carry  their  patron  saint  to  sea  with  them, 
have  given  Si.  Isidro  a  berth  in  my  cabin:  It 
the  least  I  could  do  for  him,  afier  he  had  con- 
ili*"ined  his  charge  to  me.     It  is  a  good  picture,  as 
'"'  M  will  see  when  he  goes  to  Morpeth."  .  .  . 

By  some  extraordinary  neglect,  Captain 
ilingwood  had  not  received  one  of  the 
generally  distributed  to  the  officers 
istinguished  themselves  in  Lord  Howe's 
;  and  it  is  to  this  he  alludes  in  one  of 
Lssages  we  have  now  cited.  His  efforts, 
'ili.j{;weTer,  on  this  last  occasion,  having  been 
iliaiif|i.theme  of  universal  admiration  throughout 
Jtli'jMeet.  and  acknowledged  indeed  by  a  va- 
flljjfc  of  grateful  and  congratalary  letters  from 


the  admirals,  and  from  Captain  Nelson,  to 
whose  aid  he  came  most  gallantly  in  a  mo- 
ment of  great  peril,  it  wa.s  at  last  thought  nec- 
essary lo  rejiair  this  awkward  omission. 

"  When  Lord  St.  Vincent  informed  Captain  Col- 
lingwood  thnt  he  was  tii  receive  one  of  the  medals 
which  were  distributed  on  this  occasion,  he  told  the 
Admiral,  with  great  feeling  and  firmness,  that  lie 
could  not  consent  to  receive  a  medal,  wliile  that  lor 
the  1st  of  June  was  withheld.  '  I  feel,'  said  he, 
'  that  I  was  then  impri'perly  passed  over  ;  and  to  re- 
ceive such  a  distinction  now,  would  be  to  acknow- 
ledge the  propriety  of  that  injustice.' — '  That  is  pre- 
cisely the  answer  which  I  expected  from  you,  Cnp- 
tam  Collingwood,'  was  Lord  St.  Vincem'8  reply. 

"  The  two  medals  were  afterwards — nnd  as  Cap- 
tain Collingwood  seems  to  have  thought,  by  desire 
of  the  King — transmitted  to  him  at  the  same  time 
by  Lord  Spencer,  the  then  First 'Lord  of  the  Admi- 
ralty, with  a  civil  apology  for  the  former  omission. 
'  I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely,'  said  his  Lord- 
ship, '  on  having  had  the  good  fortune  to  bear  so 
conspicuous  a  part  on  two  such  glorious  occasions  ; 
and  have  troubled  you  with  this  letter,  only  to  say, 
that  the  former  medal  would  have  been  transmitted 
to  you  some  months  ago,  il  a  proper  conveyance 
had  been  louiid  for  it.'  " 

We  add  the  following  little  trait  of  the  un- 
daunted Nelson,  from  a  letter  of  the  same 
year :— - 

"  My  friend  Nel.son,  whose  spirit  is  equal  to  all 
undertakings,  and  whose  resources  are  fitted  to  all 
occasions,  was  sent  with  three  sail  of  the  line  and 
some  other  ships  to  Tenerifl'e,  to  surprise  and  cap- 
ture it.  After  a  series  of  adventures,  tragic  and 
comic,  that  belong  to  romance,  they  were  obliged 
to  abandon  the  enterprise.  Nelson  was  shot  in  the 
right  arm  when  landing,  and  was  obliged  to  be  car- 
ried on  board.  He  himself  hailed  the  ship,  and  de- 
sired the  surgeon  would  get  his  instruments  ready 
to  dis-arni  bim  ;  and  in  halt  an  hour  alter  it  was  ofl', 
he  gave  all  the  orders  necessary  for  carrying  on  their 
operations,  as  if  nothincT  had  happened  to  him.  In 
three  weeks  alter,  when  he  joined  us,  he  went  on 
board  the  Admiral,  and  I  think  exerted  himself  to 
a  degree  of  great  imprudence." 

The  following  letter  to  Captain  Ball,  on  oc- 
casion of  the  glorious  victory  of  the  Nile,  may 
serve  to  illustrate  what  we  have  stated,  as  to 
the  generous  and  cordial  sympathy  with  rival 
glory  and  fortune,  which  breathes  throughout 
the  whole  correspondence  : — 

"  I  cannot  express  to  you  how  sreat  my  joy  was 
when  the  news  arrived  ot  the  complete  and  unparal- 
leled victory  which  you  obtained  over  the  French ; 
or  what  were  my  emotions  of  thankfulness,  that  the 
hie  of  my  worthy  and  much-respected  friend  was 
preserved  through  such  a  day  of  danger,  to  his 
family  and  his  country.  I  congratulate  you.  my 
dear  friend,  on  your  success.  Oh,  my  dear  Ball, 
how  I  have  lamented  that  I  was  not  one  of  you! 
Many  a  victory  has  been  w«n,  and  I  hope  many 
are  yet  to  come,  but  there  never  has  been,  nor  will 
be  perhaps  again,  one  in  which  the  Iruils  have  been 
so  completely  gathered,  the  blow  so  nobly  followed 
up.  and  the  consequences  s(j  fairly  brought  to  ac- 
count. I  have  heard  with  great  pleasure,  that  your 
squadron  has  presented  Sir  H.  Nelson  with  a  sword  ; 
it  is  the  honours  to  which  he  led  you  reflected  back 
upon  liimself, — the  finest  testimony  of  h\>*  merits  for 
having  led  you  to  a  field  in  which  you  all  so  nobly 
dii^played  your  own.  T  he  expectation  of  the  people 
of  England  was  raised  to  the  highest  pitch;  the 
event  has  exceeded  all  expectation." 

After  this  he  is  sent,  for  repairs,  for  a  few 
weeks  to  Portsmouth,  and  writes  to  his  father- 
in-law  as  follows: — 

3F 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


pected !  It  is  delightful  to  have  to  record  si     jj*:*'; 
a  letter  as  the  following,  on  occasion  of 
an  affliction,  from  such  a  man  as  Nelson:- 

"  My  dear  Friend, — I  truly  feel  for  you,  an( 
much  for  poor  Mrs.  Collii!o;wood.  How  sorp 
am  !  For  Heaven's  sake.  Jo  not  think  I  had 
gift  of  foresight ;  but  sonietliiiig  told  me.  so  it  yc 


"  We  never  know,  till  it  is  too  late,  whether  we 
are  going  too  fast  or  too  slow  ;  but  I  am  now  re- 
penting that  I  did  not  persuade  my  dear  Sarah  to 
come  to  me  as  soon  as  1  knew  I  was  not  to  go  Irom 
this  port ;  but  the  length  of  the  journey,  the  inclem- 
ency of  the  weather,  and  the  little  prospect  of  my 
staying  here  half  this  time,  made  me  think  it  an  un- 
necessary fatigue  for  her.  I  am  now  quite  sick  at 
heart  with  disappointment  and  ve.xation  ;  and  i hough 
I  hope  every  day  for  relief,  yet  I  find  it  impossible 
to  sav  when  I  shall  be  clear. 

"Last  night  I  went  to  Lady  Parker's  twelfth- 
night,  where  all  the  gentlemen's  children  of  the 
town  were  at  dance  and  revelry  :  But  I  thought  of 
my  own  I  and  was  so  completely  out  of  spirits  that 
I  left  them  in  the  middle  of  it.  My  wife  shall  know 
all  my  movements,  even  the  very  hour  in  which  I 
shall  be  able  to  come  to  you.  I  hope  they  will  not 
hurry  me  to  sea  asain,  for  my  spirit  requires  some 
respite  from  the  anxieties  which  a  ship  occasions. 

"Bless  my  precious  girls  for  me,  and  their  be- 
loved mother." 

The  following  are  in  the  same  tone  of  ten- 
derness and  considerate  affection  ;  and  coming 
from  the  hand  of  the  fiery  warrior,  and  de- 
voted servant  of  his  country,  are  to  us  ex- 
tremely touching: — 

"  Would  to  God  that  this  war  were  happily  con- 
cluded I  It  is  anguish  enough  to  me  to  be  thus  for 
ever  separated  from  my  family :  but  that  my  Sarah 
should,  in  my  absence,  be  suffering  from  illness, 
is  complete  misery.  Pray,  my  dear  sir,  have  the 
goodness  to  write  a  line  or  two  very  often,  to  tell 
me  how  she  does.  I  am  quite  pleased  at  the  ac- 
count you  give  me  of  my  girls.  If  it  were  peace,  I  do 
not  think  there  would  be  a  happier  set  of  creatures 
in  Northumberland  than  we  should  be  !  .  .  .  . 

"  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  me.  banished  as  I  am 
from  all  that  is  dear  to  me,  to  learn  that  my  beloved 
Sarah  and  her  girls  are  well.  Would  to  Heaven  it 
were  peace !  that  I  nii^ht  come,  and  for  (he  rest  of 
my  life  be  blessed  in  their  affection.  Indeed,  this 
unremitting  hard  service  is  a  great  sacrifice;  giving 
up  all  that  is  pleasurable  to  the  soul,  or  soothing  to 
the  mind,  and  engaging  in  a  constant  contest  with 
the  elements,  or  with  tempers  and  dispositions  as 
boisterous  and  untractable.  Great  allowance  siionld 
be  made  for  us  when  we  come  on  shore:  for  being 
long  in  the  habits  of  absolute  command,  we  grow 
impatient  of  contradiction,  and  are  unfitted,  I  fear, 
for  the  gentle  intercourse  of  quiet  life.  I  am  really 
in  great  hopes  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  the  ex- 
periment will  be  made  upon  me — for  I  think  we 
shall  soon  have  peace ;  and  1  assure  you  that  I  will 
endeavourto  conduclmyself  with  as  much  modera- 
tion as  possible!  I  have  come  to  another resolniion, 
which  is,  when  this  war  is  happily  terminated,  to 
think  no  more  of  ships,  but  pass  the  rest  of  my  days 
in  the  bosom  of  my  family,  where  I  think  my  pros- 
pects of  happiness  are  equal  to  any  man's."   .... 

"  You  have  been  made  happy  this  winter  in  the 
visit  of  your  daughter.  How  glad  should  I  have 
been  could  I  have  joined  vou  I  but  it  will  not  be 
long;  two  years  more  will.  I  think,  exhaust  me 
completely,  and  then  I  shall  be  fit  only  lobe  nur«ed 
God  knows  how  liiile  claim  I  have  on  anybody  to 
take  that  trouble.  .My  daughters  can  never  be  to 
me  what  yours  have  been,  whose  aflTections  have 
been  nurtured  by  daily  acts  of  kindness.  They  may 
be  told  that  it  is  a  duty  to  regard  me,  but  it  is  net 
reasonable  to  expect  that  they  should  have  the  same 
feeling  for  a  person  of  whom  they  have  only  heard  : 
But  if  ihey  are  good  and  virtuous,  as  I  hope  r.nd  be- 
lieve they  will  be,  I  may  share  at  least  in  their  kind- 
ness witii  the  rest  of  the  world." 

He  decides  at  last  on  sending  for  his  wife  and 
child,  in  the  hope  of  being  allowed  to  remain  i  ^.^^^■^„  ,^g,  extensive^,  ,5ariicu!arly  in  histo 
for  some  months  at  Portsmouth  :  hut  is  sud-  I  \,  was  his  constant  praotice  to  pxcrcisf  hi 
denly  ordered  olT  ou  the  very  day  they  are  ex- 


|)iS^; 


be.  Can't  you  contrive  and  stay  to-night?  n 
be  a  comfort  if  only  to  see  your  family  on©  hi 
Therefore,  had  you  not  better  stay  on  short 
wait  for  her  ?  Ever,  my  dear  Collingwood,  b^ 
me,  your  affectionate  and  faithful  triend 

"  Nelson  and  BRONlt 
"  If  they  would  only  have  manned  me  and 
me  otf.  it  would  have  been  real  pleasure  tome.  ^ 
cross  are  the  fates  I'' 

He  does  stay  accordingly,  and  sees  tb 
beloved  pledges  for  a  few  short  hours 
will  not  withhold  from  our  readers  his  acoof 
of  it  :— 

"  Sarah  will  have  told  you  how  and  when 
met ;  it  was  a  joy  to  me  that  I  caiimit  describe^ 
repaid  me.  short  as  our  interview  was,  for  a«n 
of  woe  wliich  I  was  suffering  on  her  account.  I 
been  reckoning  on  the  possibility  of  her  arrivil. 
Tuesday,  when  about  two  o'clock  I  receivij 
express  to  go  to  sea  immediaiely  with  all  the'l 
that  were  ready,  and  had  we  not  then  been  ei 
at  a  court  martial,  1  might  have  got  out  ihi 
but  this  business  delaying  me  till  near  nighl 
termined  to  wait  on  shore  until  eight  o'clock, 
chance  of  their  arrival.  I  went  to  dine  wil' 
Nelson  ;  and  while  we  were  at  dinner  their 
was  announced  to  me.  I  flew  to  the  inn  w!  _ 
had  desired  my  wife  to  come,  and  found  hiff 
liitle  Sarah  as  well  after  their  journey  as  if  " 
lasted  only  for  the  day.  No  greater  happii 
human  nature  capable  of  than  was  mine  that 
ing ;  but  at  dawn  we  parted — and  I  went  to 

And  afterwards — 

"  You  will  have  heard  from  Sarah  what  aj 
ing  we  had,  how  short  our  interview,  and  howi 
denly  we  parted.     It  is  grief  to  me  to  think  i 
now  ;  it  almost  broke  my  heart  then.     Afters 
journey,  to  see  me  but  for  a  few^  hours,  wiihi 
time  for  her  to  relate  the  incidents  of  her  , 
and  no  time  forme  to  tell  her  half  that  my) 
at  such  a  proof  of  her  affection  :  But  I  am  th 
that  I  did  see  her,  and  my  sweet  child.     It ' 
blessing  to  me,  and  composed  mv  mind,  whic6| 
before  very  much  agitated.     I  have  little  ch 
seeing  her  again,  unless  a  storm  should  drive u^l 
port,  for  the  French  fleet  is  in  a  state  of  jtrtj^ 
tion,  which  makes  it  necessary  for  us  to  watchi 
narrowly. 

"  I  can  still  talk  to  you  of  nothing  but  the  dfl 
I  experienced  in  the  little  I  have  had  ot  the  comjl 
of  my  beloved  wife  and  of  my  liitle  Sarah, 
comfort  is  promised  to  me  in  the  affections  of"^ 
child,  if  it  should  please  God  that  we  everag  " 
turn  to  the  quiet  domestic  cares  of  peace  I 
be  much  obliged  to  you  if  ynu  would  send  I 
guinea  for  me,  lor  ihese  hard  times  nuisi  pine 
poor  old  man.  and  he  will  miss  my  wife,  wh«jfl 
very  kind  to  him  !" 

Upon  the  peace  of  Amiens  he  at  lasti] 
home,  about  the  middle  of  1802.    The  fa 
ing  brief  sketch  of  his  enjoyment  then 
from  the  hand  of  his  affectionate  editor  :-| 

"  During  thi-<  short  period  of  happiness  and  : 

he  was  occupied  in  superintending  the  edncaiin  i 

I  his  daughters,  and  in  rontinuing  ihnse  habii  'f 

study  which  had  long  been  familiar  lo  him.    is 

tory ;  d 

practice  to  pxcrcisf  hinise  a 

composition,  by  making  abstracts  from  the  bi  .3 


ADMIRAL  LORD  COLLLXGWOOD. 


663 


^\.h  he  read  ;  and  some  of  his  abridgments,  witli 
th|>bservauons  by  which  he  illustrated  ihom,  are 
WJ^en  with  singular  conciseness  and  power.  '  I 
ki,v  not,'  said  one  of  the  most  eminent  English 
dijimatists,  with  whom  he  had  aftersvards  very 
frcient  communicarions,  "I  know  not  w;here  Lord 
C'inswood  g'lt  his  style,  but  he  writes  better 
th  any  of  us.'  His  amusements  were  fotmd  in 
th  n'ercourse  with  his  family,  in  drawing;,  plant- 
in.  and  the  culiiva'ion  of  his  ijarden,  whict»  was  on 
til  lank  of  the  beautiful  river  Wansbeck.  This  was 
hi  avouriie  einployment ;  aiid  on  one  oieasion,  a 
brher  .Admiral,  who  had  sought  iiini  through  the 
gaen  in  vain,  at  last  discovered  him  wiih  his  gar- 
deT,  old  Scott,  to  Avhom  he  was  much  attached, 
iiiie  bottom  of  a  deep  trench,  which  they  were 
be  busily  occupied  in  digging." 

1  spring  1S03.  however,  he  was  again  call- 
eiupoii   duty   by   his   ancient   commander, 

,  Antral  CornwaUis,  who  hailed  him  as  he  ap- 
piiched,  by  saying,  "Here  comes  Colling- 
yf,^{\ — the  "last  "to  leave,  and  the  first  to  le- 
jo  me  !'"  His  occupation  there  was  to  watch 
ai;  blockade  the  French  fleet  at  Brest,  a  duty 
Wch  he  performed  with  the  most  unwearied 

~ti  scrupulous  an.\iety. 

'During  this  time  he  frequently  passed  the  whole 
dit  on  the  qnarier-deck,— a  practice  which,  in 
cilinistaiices  of  difficnltv,  he  continued  till  the 
|a*t  years  of  his  life.  When,  on  these  occasions, 
ii.ias  told  his  friend  Lieutenant  Clavell,  who  had 
gfed  his  entire  confidence,  that  they  must  not 
re(e  the  deck  for  the  night,  and  that  officer  has 
eteavoured  to  persuade  him  that  there  was  no  oc- 
CJon  for  it,  as  a  good  look-out  was  kept,  and  re- 
pfiented  that  he  was  almost  exhausted  with  fa- 
file;  the  Admiral  would  reply,  'I  fear  you  are. 
\i  have  need  of  rest ;  so  go  to  bed,  Clavell,  and 
ijill  watch  by  myself.'  Very  frequently  have 
tl','  slept  tai^rether  on  a  gun;  from  which  Admiral 
Clingwood  would  rise  from  time  to  time,  to  sweep 
tl  horizon  with  his  night-glass,  lest  the  enemy 
suld  escape  in  the  dark." 

n  1805  he  was  moved  to  the  station  off 
Ciliz,  and  condemned  to  the  same  weary 
fck  of  watching-  and  observation.  He  here 
V.tes  to  his  father-in-law  as  follows  : — 

f  How  hippv  should  I  be.  could  I  but  hear  from 
hio  and  know  how  mv  dear  sfirls  are  going  on  ! 
' '  ••'>  is  my  only  pet  now.  and  he  is  indeed  a  good 
;  he  sleeps  by  the  s^ide  of  my  foj.  whenever 
Min'.  until  near  ihe  time  of  tacking,  and  then 
.  -.es  off.  to  be  out  of  the  hearing  of  the  guns, 
fiiie  is  not  reconciled  to  them  yet.  I_am  fully  de- 
finined,  if  I  ^an  get  home  and  matiagn  it  properly, 

•  teo  on  shore  next  spring  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  for 
Jn  very  weary.  There  is  no  end  to  my  business  ; 
]|[n  at  work  from  morning  till  even  ;  but  T  dare 
tf  fjord  Nelson  will  be  out  next  monih.     He  told 

;    li  he  should  ;  and  'lit-n  what  will  become  of  me  I 
4r'0t  know.    T  should  wish  to  20  home :  but  I  must 
■    Snr  stay  *as  the  exigencies  of  the  times  require." 

jAt  last,  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  the 

■  t?mv  gave  some  signs  of  an    intention  to 

<-»  out — and  the  day  of  Trafalgar  was  at 

III  anticipation  of  it,  Lord  Nelson  ad- 

-l  the  followina:  characteristic  note  to  his 

'^nt.  which  breathes  in  every  line  the  noble 

•  liikaess  and  magnanimous  confiderice  of  his 

!"They  surely  cannot   escape   us.     T   wish   we 

'    laid  get  a  fine  div.    I  send  you  my  plan  of  attack, 

far  as  a  man  dare  venture  to  guess  at  the  very 

Icertain  position  the  enemy  may  be  fou'id  in  :  but, 
'    y  dear  friend,  h  is  to  place  you  perfectly  at  ease 

i. 


respecting  my  intentions,  and  to  give  full  scope  to 
your  judgment  for  carrying  them  into  etfect.  ire 
can,  my  dear  Coll.,  have  no  little  jealousies:  we 
have  only  one  great  object  in  view — that  of  anni- 
hilating our  enemies,  and  getting  a  glorious  peace 
tor  our  country.  No  man  has  more  confidence  in 
another  than  I  have  in  you;  and  no  man  will  ren- 
der your  services  more  justice  than  your  very  old 
frieiid.  Nelson  a.nd  Bro.nte." 

The  day  at  last  came  ;  and  though  it  is 
highly  characteristic  of  its  author,  we  will  not 
indulge  ouiselves  by  transcribing  any  part  of 
the  memorable  despatch,  in  which  Lord  Col- 
lingwood,  after  the  fall  of  his  heroic  command- 
er, announced  its  result  to  his  country.  We 
cannot,  however,  withhold  from  our  readers 
the  following  particulars  as  to  his  personal 
conduct  and  deportment,  for  which  they 
would  look  in  vain  in  that  singularly  modest 
and  generous  detail.  The  tirst  part,  the  editor 
informs  us,  is  from  the  statement  of  his  confi- 
dential servant. 

"  'I  entered  the  Admiral's  cabin,'  he  observed, 
'about  dayliglit,  and  found  him  already  up  and 
dressing.  He  asked  if  I  had  seen  the  f'rench  fleet; 
and  on  my  replying  that  I  had  not,  he  told  me  to 
look  out  at  them,  adding,  that,  in  a  very  short  time, 
we  shoulil  see  a  great  deal  more  of  them.  1  then 
observed  a  crowd  of  ships  to  leeward  ;  but  I.  could 
not  help  looking,  with  still  greater  interest,  at  the 
Admiral,  who,  during  all  this  time,  was  shaving 
himself  with  a  composure  th((i  quite  astonished 
me  I'  Admiral  CoUingwood  dressed  himself  that 
morning  with  peculiar  care;  and  soon  after,  meet- 
ing Lieutenant  Clavell,  advised  him  to  pull  off  his 
boots,  '  You  had  better,'  he  said,  '  put  on  silk 
stockings,  as  I  have  done :  for  if  one  should  get  a 
shot  in  the  leg,  they  would  be  so  much  more 
manageable  for  the  surgeon.'  He  then  proceeded 
to  visit  the  decks,  encouraged  the  men  to  the  dis- 
charge of  their  duty,  and  addressing  the  officers, 
said  to  them,  '  Now,  gentlemen,  let  us  do  some- 
thing to-day  which  the  world  may  talk  of  hereafter.' 

""He  had  changed  his  flag  about  ten  days  before 
the  action,  from  the  Dreadnought;  the  crew  of 
which  had  been  so  constantly  practised  in  the  exer- 
cise of  the  great  guns,  under  his  daily  superinten- 
dence, thatfew  ships'  companies  could  equal  them 
in  rapidity  and  precision  of  firing.  He  had  begun 
by  telling  them,  that  if  they  could  fire  three  well- 
directed  broadsides  in  five  minutes,  no  vessel  could 
resist  them  ;  and,  from  constant  practice,  they  were 
enabled  to  do  so  in  three  minutes  and  a  half  But 
though  he  left  a  crew  which  had  thus  been  disci- 
plinell  under  his  own  eye,  there  was  an  advantage 
in  the  change  ;  for  the  Royal  Sovereign,  into  which 
•lie  went,  had  lately  returned  from  England,  and  as 
her  copper  was  quite  clean,  she  much  outsailed  the 
other  ships  of  the  lee  division.  While  they  were 
running  down,  the  well-known  telegraphic  signal 
was  made  of  '  England  expects  every  man  to  do  his 
duty.'  When  the  Admiral  observed  it  first,  he  said 
that  he  wished  Nelson  would  make  no  more  signals, 
for  they  all  understood  what  they  were  to  do:  but 
'when  the  purport  of  it  was  comtnunicated  to  him  he 
expressed  great  delight  and  admiration,  and  made 
it  known  to  the  officers  and  ship's  company.  Lord 
Nelson  had  been  requested  by  Captain  Blackwood 
(who  svas  anxious  for  the  preservation  of  so  invalu- 
able a  life)  to  allow  some  other  vessel  '0  Jake  the 
lead,  and  at  last  gave  permission  that  the  Tt'tneraire 
should  go  a-head  of  him  ;  but  resolving  to  defeat 
the  order  which  he  had  given,  he  crowded  more 
sail  on  the  Victory,  and  maintained  his  place.  The 
Roval  Sovereign  was  far  in  advance  when  Lieute- 
nant Clavell  observed  that  the  Victory  was  setting 
her  studding  sails,  and  with  that  spirit  of  honour- 
able emulation  which  prevailed  between  the  squad- 
rons, and  particularly  between  these  two  ships,  ho 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


poinied  it  out  to  Admiral  Collingwood,  and  re- 
quested his  permission  to  do  the  same.  '  The  ships 
of  our  division,'  replied  the  Admiral,  '  are  not  yet 
sufficiently  up  for  us  to  do  so  nOw  ;  but  you  may  be 
getting  ready.'  The  studding  sail  and  royal  halliards 
were  accordingly  manned,  and  in  about 'ten  minutes 
the  Admiral,  ob.serving  Lieuienant  ClavuH's  eyes 
fixed  upon  him  with  a  look  of  e.xpeciaiion,  gave  him 
a  nod ;  on  which  that  officer  went  to  Captain 
Rotherham  and  told  hiiri  that  the  -Admiral  desired 
him  to  make  all  sail.  The  order  was  then  eiven  lo 
ng  out  and  hoist  away,  and  in  one  instant  the  ship 
was  under  a  crowd  ot  sail,  and  went  rapidly  a-head. 
The  Admiral  then  directed  the  officers  to  see  that 
all  the  men  lay  down  on  the  decks,  and  wore  kept 
quiet.  At  this  time  the  P'ougueux,  the  ship  asiern 
of  the  Santa  Anna,  had  closed  up  with  the  intention 
of  preventing  the  Royal  Sovereign  from  going 
through  the  line;  and  when  Admiral  Collingwood 
observed  it,  he  desired  Captain  Rotherham  to  steer 
immediately  for  the  Frenchman  and  carry  awav  his 
bowsprit.  To  avoid  this  the  Fongueux  hacked  her 
main  top  sail,  and  sufiered  the  Royal  Sovereign  to 
pass,  at  the  same  time  beginning  her  fire  ;  when 
the  Adiniral  ordered  a  gim  to  be  occasionally  fired 
at  her.  to«cover  his  ship  with  smoke. 

"  The  nearest  of  the  English  ships  was  now  dis- 
tant about  a  mile  from  the  Royal  Sovereign  :  and 
it  was  at  this  time,  while  she  was  pre.esiiig  alone 
into  the  midst  of  the  combined  fleets,  that  T^ord 
Nelson  said  to  Captain  Blackwood,  '  See  how  that 
noble  fellow,  Collingwood,  takes  his  ship  into 
actioii.  How  I  envy  him  !'  On  the  other  hand. 
Admiral  Collingwood,  well  knowing  his  comman- 
der and  friend,  observed,  '  What  would  Nelson 
give  to  be  here !'  and  it  was  then,  too,  that  Admiral 
Villeneuve,  struck  with  the  daring  manner  in  which 
the  leading  ships  of  the  English  squadrons  came 
down,  despaired  of  the  issue  of  the  contest.  In 
passing  the  Santa  Anna,  the  Roval  Sovereign  gave 
her  a  broadside  and  a  half  into  her  stern,  tearing  it 
down,  and  killing  and  wounding  400  of  her  men  ; 
then,  with  her  helm  hard  a-siarbotird,  she  ranged 
up  alongside  so  closely  that  the  lower  vards  of  Hie 
two  vessels  were  locked  together.  The  Spanish 
admiral,  having  seen  that  it  was  the  intention  of  ihi 


Royal  Sovereign  to  engage  to  leeward,  had  col- 
lected all  his  strength  on  The  starboard  ;  and  such 
M^as  the  weight  of  the  Santa  Anna's  metal,  that  her 
first  broadside  made  the  Sovereign  heel  two  streaks 
out  of  the  water.  Her  studding-sails  and  halliards' 
were  now  shot  away  ;  and  as  a  top-gallant  studding- 
sail  syas  hancing  over  the  gangway  hammocks, 
Admiral  Collingwood  called  out  to  Lieulonani 
Clavell  to  come  and  help  him  to  take  it  in,  observ- 
itig  that  they  should  want  it  again  some  other  day. 
These  two  officers  accordingly  rolled  it  carefully 
up  and  placed  it  in  the  boat."* 

We  shall  add  only  what  he  .says  in  his  let- 
ter to  Mr.  Blackett  of  Lord  Nelson : — 

"When  my  dear  friend  received  his  wound,  he 
immediately  sent  an  officer  to  me  to  tell  me  o(  it. — 
and  give  his  love  to  me !  Though  the  officer  was 
directed  to  say  the  wound  wns  not  dangerous,  I  read 
in  his  countenance  what  I  had  to  fear";  and  before 
the  action  was  over.  Captain  Hardy  came  to  inform 
me  of  his  death.  Icannoi  tell  you  howdeeiilv  I  was 
affected  ;  mv  friendship  for  him  was  unlike  any- 
thing that  I  have  left  in  the  navy  ;  a  broiherhood  of 

*"  Of  his  economy,  at  all  times,  of  the  ship's 
etores,  an  instance  was  often  mentioned  in  the  navy 
as  having  occurred  at  the  battle  of  St.  Vincent. 
The  Excellent  shortly  before  the  action  had  bent  a 
new  fore-topsnil :  and  when  she  was  closely  en- 
gaged with  the  St.  Isidro.  Captain  Collingwood 
called  out  to  his  boatswain,  a  very  gallant" man. 
■who  was  shortly  afterwards  killed,  'Bless  me! 
Mr.  Peffers,  how  came  we  to  forget  to  bend  our 
old  lop-sail  ?  They  will  quite  ruin  that  new  one 
will  never  be  worth  a  farthing  again.'  " 


more  than  thirty  years.  In  this  affair  he  did  not!  ■ 
without  ray  counsel:  we  made  our  line  ofb'' 
together,  and  concerted  the  mode  of  attnck  w' 
was  put  in  e.\ecution  in  the  most  admirable  ?• ' 
I  shall  grow  very  tired  of  the  sea  soon  :  my  W  \ 
has  suffered  so  much  from  the  anxious  state  I  h ' 
been  in,  and  the  fatigue  I  have  undergone,  th- 
shall  be  unfit  for  service.  The  severe 'gales  wl 
immediately  followed  the  day  of  victory  ruined  ■ 
prospect  of  prizes." 

He  was  now  elevated  to  the  peerage,  ati 
pension  of  2000/.  was  settled  on  him  by  pa'i 
ment  for  his  own  life,  with  1000?.  in  case  of . 
death  to  Lady  Collingwood,  and  500/  to  e;i 
of  his  daughters.  His  Royal  Highnc.^s  ihe  Di*  • 
of  Clarence  also  honoured  him  with  a  veryk 
letter,  and  presented  him  with  a  swonl."  T 
way  in  which  he  received  all  those  houoi 
IS  as  admirable  as  the  services  by  which  t! 
were  earned.  On  the  first  titliiigs  of  his  pt 
age  he  writes  thus  to  Lady  Collingwood  :- 

"  It  would  be  hard  if  1  could  not  fijid  one  hou  , 
write  a  letter  to  my  dearest  Sarah,  lo  conuraiu 
heron  the  high  rank  to  which  she  has  been'^adva 
ed  by  my  success.     Blessed  may  you  be.  my  di 
est  love,  and  may  you  long  live  the  happy  wifi 
)'our  happy  husband  !  I  do  not  know  how'you  I 
your  honours  ;  but  I  have  so  much  business  on 
hands,  from  dawn  till  midnight,  ihat  I  hii 
time  to  think  of  nii^ie,  except  it  be  in  graiilu 
my  King,  who  has  so  graciously  conferred 
upon  me.     But  there  are   many  tliin.crs  of  whicj 
might  justly  be  a  little  proud— for  extreme  pridi 
folly— that  I  muSt  share  my  graiificaiion  with  v| 
The  first  is  the  letter  from  Colonel  Tavlor,  hia] 
jesty's  private  secretary  to  the  Admiruliy,  io| 
communicated  to  me.     I  enclose  you  a  copy  < 
It  is  considered   the  highest  compliment  the 
can  pay;  and,  as  the  King's  personal  complin 
I  value  it  above  everything.     But  I  will  tHI' 
what  1  feel  nearest  to  my  heart,  after  the  ha 
which  his   Majesty  has  done  me.  and  that  it 
praise  of  every  officer  of  the  fleet.     There  isathi 
which  has  made  a  considerable  impression  upon  i 
A  week  before  the  war,  at  Morpeth,  I  dreamed  l 
tinctly  many  of  the  circumstances  of  our  laie  bal 
off  the  enemy's  port,  and  I  believe  I  told  you  oa 
at  ihe  time:  but  I  never  dreamed  iliat  I  was  to  I 
peer  of  the  realm  !     How  are  my  darlings  ?   I  ht; 
they  will  lake  pains  to  make  themselves  wise 
good,  iind  fit  for  the  station  to  which  they  are  raisetf 

And  again,  a  little  after  :— 

"  I  labour  from  dawn  till  midnight,  till  I  can  haj 
ly  see  ;  and  as  my  hearing  fails  me  loo,  yon  ' 
have  but  a  mass  of  infirmities  in  your  poor  Lo.j 
whenever  he  returns  to  you.    I  suppose  I  mu«  i 
be  seen  to  work  in  my  garden  now  !  but  tell 
Scott  that  he  need  not  be  unhappy  on  that  ncr.oul 
Though  we  shall  never  again  be  "able  lo  plant 
Nelson  potatoes,  we  will  have  them  of  some  oill 
sort-,  and  right  noble  cabbages  to  boot,  in  great  p^f 
fpction.     You  see  I  am   styled  of  Methpoolc 
Caldburne.    Was  that  by  your  direction  ?   T  sho^ 
prefer  it  to  any  other  lifle'if  it  was  ;  and  I  r'eji 
my  love,  that  we  are  an  instance  thai  there  areojlj 
and  better  sources  of  nobility  than  wealth. 

At  this  time  he  had  not  heard  that  it  t 
intended  to  accompany  his  dignity  with  a 
pension;   and  though  the  editor  "as.sureB 
that  his  whole  income,  even  including  hisfij 
pay,  was  at  this  time  .scarcely  1100/.  a  vet! 
he  never  seems  to  have  wasted  a  thought 
such  a  consideration.     Not  that  ho  was  not 
all  times  a  prudent  and  considerate  perso> 
i'l  I  but,  wilh  the  hiirh  spirit  of  a  gentleman,  a: 
an  independent  Englislmian,  who  had  mai 


ADMIRAL  LORD  COLLING  WOOD. 


665 


is  own  way  in  the  world,  he  disilaineil  all 
)iilid  coiisideiations.  Nothing- can  be  nobler, 
more  natural,  than  the  way  in  wliich  he  ex- 
ffsses  this  sentiment,  in  another  letter  to  his 
lie,  written  a  few  weeks  after  the  prece- 

"xAIanyof  the  Captains  here  have  expressed  a 
sire  tliat  I  would  give  ihem  a  general  notice  when- 
,er  I  £ro  to  court;  and  if  they  are  within  five  hun- 
ii'J  miles,  they  will  come  up  to  attend  me  !    Now 
1  tliis  is  very  pleasing  ;  but,  alas  !  my  love,  until 
re  have  peace,  I  shall  never  be  happy:  and  yet, 
»  ow  we  are  lo  make  it  out  in  peace,  1  know  not, — 
I  rith  high  rank  and  no  fortune.     At  all  events,  we 
'  Ian  do  as  we  did  before.    It  is  true  I  have  the  chief 
ammand,  but  there  are  neither  French  nor  Span- 
irds  on  the  sea,  and  our  cruisers  find  notliing  but 
:eutrals,  who  carry  on  all  the  trade  of  the  enemy. 
I  ,)ur  prizes  you  see  are  lost.     Villeneuve's  ship  had 
(great  deal  of  money  in  her,  but  it  all  went  to  tiie 
ottom.     I  am  afraid  the  fees  for  this  patent  will  he 
irge,  and  pinch  me:  Biu  never  mind;  let  others 
olicit  pensions,  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  will  never 
sk  for  money  as  a  favour.     How  do  my  darlings 
0  on?     I  wish  you  would  make  them  write  to  me 
y  turns,  and  give  me   the  whole  history  of  their 
roceedings.     Oh  !    how   1   shall  rejoice,  Avhen    I 
onie  home,  to  find   them  as  much   improved  in 
inowledge  as  I  have  advanced  them  in  station  in 
ihe  world  :  But  take  care  they  do  not  give  them- 
selves foolish  airs.     Their  excellence  should  be  in 
■  i:nowledge,  in  virtue,  and  benevolence  to  all ;  but 
ipost  to  those  who  are  humble,  and  require  their  aid. 
(Phis  is  true  nobility,  and  is  now  become  an  incum- 
bent duty  on  them.     I  am  out  of  all  patience  with 
Jounce.     The  consequential  airs  he  gives  himself 
tince  he  became  a  Right  Honourable  dog,  are  insuf- 
ferable.    He  considers  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  play 
Vith  Commoners'  dogs,  and,  truly,  thinks  that  he 
^loesthem  grace  when  he  condescends  to  lift  up  his 
leg  against  them.    This,  I  think,  is  carrying  the  in- 
iiolence  of  rank  to  the  extreme  ;  but  he  is  a  dog  that 
Ices  it, — 25th  December.     This  is  Christmas-day  ; 
n  merry  and  cheerful  one,  I  hope,  to  all  my  darlings. 
May  God  bless  us,  and  grant  that  we  may  pass  the 
inext  together.    Everybody  is  very  good  to  me;  but 
ihis  Majesty's  letters  are  my  pride  :  it  is  there  I  feel 
Ithe  object  of  my  life  attained." 

i    And  ag-ain,  in  the  same  noble  spirit  is  the 
following  to  his  father-in-law  ; — 

"  I  have  only  been  on  shore  once  since  I  left 
England,  and  do  not  know  when  I  shall  go  again. 
I  am  unceasingly  writing,  and  the  day  is  not  long 
'enough  for  me  to  get  through  my  business.  I  hope 
my  children  are  every  day  acquiring  some  know- 
ledge, and  wish  them  to  write  a  French  letter  every 
day  to  me  or  their  mother.  I  shall  read  them  all 
when  I  come  home.  If  there  vj'ere  an  opportiniity, 
1  should  like  them  to  be  taught  Spanish,  which  is 
the  most  elegant  language  in  Europe,  and  very  easy. 
I  hardly  know  how  we  shall  be  able  to  support  the 
dignity  to  which  his  Majesty  has  been  pleased  to 
rai.se  me.  Let  others  plead  for  pensions  ;  I  can  be 
rich  without  money,  by  etideavouring  to  be  supe- 
rior to  everything  poor.  I  wotild  have  my  services 
to  my  country  unstained  by  any  interested  motive  ; 
and  old  Scott  and  I  can  go  on  in  our  cabbage-garden 
without  much  greater  expense  than  formerly.  But 
I  have  had  a  great  destruction  of  my  furniture  and 
stock  ;  I  have  hardly  a  chair  that  has  not  a  shot  in 
it,  and  many  have  lost  both  legs  and  arms — without 
hope  of  pension  !  My  wine  broke  in  moving,  and 
my  pigs  slain  in  battle  ;  and  these  are  heavy  losses 

where  they  cannot  be  replaced 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  great  demands  on  me  for 

ritents  and  fees  :  But  we  must  pay  for  being  great. 
get  no  prize-money.    Since  I  left  England,  I  have 
received  only  183Z.,  which  has  not  quite  paid  for  my 
wine ;  but  I  do  not  care  about  being  rich,  if  we  can 
84 


but  keep  a  good  tire  in  winter.  How  I  Ions;  to  have 
a  peep  iiHo  my  own  iioiise,  and  a  walk  in  my  own 
garden  !   It  is  rlie  (ilen.-ing  o!>jtci  ol  all  my  liojjcs," 

In  the  midst  of  all  those  great  concerns,  it 
is  delightfnl  to  liiid  the  noble  Admiral  writmg 
thus,  from  the  JMediterraneaii,  of  his  daugh- 
ter's sick  governess,  and  inditing  this  post- 
script to  the  little  girls  them.selves: — 

"  How  sorry  am   I  for  poor  .Miss !  I  ani 

sure  you  will  spare  no  pains  for  her  ;  and  do  no*t 
lose  sight  other  when  she  goes  lo  Edinl>urgii.  Tell 
her  that  she  must  not  want  any  advice  or  any  com- 
fort ;  but  I  need  not  say  this  to  you,  my  beloved, 
who  are  kindness  itself  I  am  much  obliged  to  the 
Corporation  of  Newcastle  for  every  mark  which 
they  give  of  their  esteem  and  approbation  of  my 
service.  But  where  shall  we  find  a  place  in  our 
small  house  tor  all  those  vases  and  epergnes?  A 
kind  letter  from  them  would  have  gratified  me  as 
much,  and  have  been  less  trouble  to  them." 
"  My  darlings,  Sarah  and  Mary, 

"  I  was  delighted  with  your  last  letters,  my  blcss- 
inss,  and  desire  you  to  write  to  me  very  often,  and 
tell  me  all  the  news  of  the  city  of  Newcastle  and 
town  of  Morpeth.  I  hope  we  shall  iiave  many  happy 
days,  and  many  a  good  laugh  together  yet.  Be 
kind  to  old  Scott ;  and  when  vou  see  him  weeding 
my  oaks,  give  the  old  man  a  shilling  ! 

"  May  God  Almighty  bless  you." 

The  patent  of  his  peerage  was  limited  to 
the  heirs  male  of  his  body;  and,  having  only 
daughters,  he  very  early  e.xpressed  a  wish 
that  it  might  be  e.vtended  to  them  and  their 
male  heirs.  But  this  was  not  attended  to. 
When  he  heard  of  his  pension,  he  wrote,  in 
the  same  lofty  spirit,  to  Lord  Barham,  that  if 
the  title  could  be  continued  to  the  heirs  of  his 
daughters,  he  did  not  care  for  the  pension  at 
all !  and  in  urging  his  request  for  the  change, 
he  reminded  his  Lordship,  with  an  amusing 
naivete,  that  government  ought  really  to  show 
some  little  favour  to  his  daughters,  considering 
that,  if  they  had  not  kept  him  constantly  at 
sea  since  1793,  he  would  probably  have  had 
half  a  dozen  sons  by  this  time,  to  succeed  him 
in  his  honours ! 

It  is  delightful  to  read  and  extract  passages 
like  these;  but  we  feel  that  we  must  stop; 
and  that  we  have  already  exhibited  enough 
of  this  book,  both  to  justify  the  praises  we 
have  bestowed  on  it,  and  to  give  our  readers 
a  full  impression  of  the  exalted  and  most 
amiable  character  to  which  it  relates.  We 
shall  add  no  more,  therefore,  that  is  merely 
personal  to  Lord  Collingwood,  except  what 
belongs  to  the  decay  of  his  health,  his  applica- 
tions for  recall,  and  the  death  that  he  magnani- 
mously staid  to  meet,  when  that  recall  was  so 
strangely  withheld.  His  con.stitution  had  been 
considerably  impaired  even  before  the  action 
of  Trafalgar;  but  in  1808  his  health  seemed 
entirely  to  give  way  ;  and  he  wrote,  in  Angust 
of  that  year,  earnestly  entreating  to  be  allowed 
to  come  home.  The  answer  to  his  application 
was,  that  it  was  so  difficult  to  supply  his  place, 
that  his  recall  must,  at  all  events,  be  suspend- 
ed. In  a  letter  to  Lady  Collingwood,  he  refers 
to  this  correspondence,  and  after  mentioning 
his  official  application  to  the  Admiralty,  he 
says : — 

"  What  their  answer  will  be,  I  do  not  know  yet ; 

but  I  had  before  mentioned  my  declining  health  to 

3f2 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I 


aii 


hopes  I  will  stay,  for  he  knows  not  ho»v  to  supply  j  hour  of  Port  Mahon,  on  the  25th  of  February,  h 
niy  place.     The  impression  which  his  leitcr  made  i  was  in  a  state  of  great  suffering  and  debility;  an 
upon  me  was  one  of  grief  and  sorrow  :  first,  that  |  having  been  strongly  recommended  by  iiis  medics, 
with  such  a  list  as  we  have — including  more  than  a  I  attendants  to  try  the  effect  of  gentle  exercise  or    '^'^kj 
hundred  admirals — there  sliDuld  be  thought  to  be  [  horseback,  he  went  immediately  on  shore,  accom^.    ^C,^^ 
any  difficulty  in  finding  a  siiccespornf  superior  ability  \  panicd  by  his  friend  Captain  Hallowell,  who  left  hi,- 
to  me  ;  and  next,  that  iliere  should  be  any  obsiacle  i  ship  to  attend  him  in  his  illness  :  but  it  was  then  to, 
in  the  way  ot  the  only  comfort  and  happiness  that  I  i  late.     He  became  incapable  of  bearing  the  slightes' 
have  to  look  forward  to  in  this  world."  j  fatigue  ;  and  as  it  was  represented  id  him  that  hiii 

return  to  England  was  indispensably  necessary  Ib'i 
*   In  answer  to  Lord  Mulffrave's  statement,  -  the  preservation  of  his  life,  he.  on  the  ^d  of  Marcht 
he  afterwards  writes,  that  his  infirmities  had    siirrendered  his  command  to  Rear  Admiral  Martin 
sensibly  increased  :  but  "  I  have  no 
the  world  that  I  ptit  in  competition 

})i:bUcduly ;  and  so  long  as  your  lordship  thinks  I  westw"ard,  and  at  sunset  the  ship  succeeded  in  clear 
it  proper  to  continue  ine  in  this  command,  my    ing  the  harbour,  and  made  sail  for  Eniiland.  Whet! 
utmost  efforts  shall  be  made  to  strengthen  the    Lord  CoUingwood  was  informed  that  he  was  agniri 
impression  which  you  now  have  ;  but  I  still    f"  f  a- ''<^  "'''^^  for  a  time  his  exhau.sied  strengthj 
hope,  .hat „h«,.v..,.  i.  ..ay  be  .l„„e  with  c„„.  •  -'t™? .'S.'fcr.t'r.....'  " O,,' ^Z^^ 
venience,  your  lordship  will  bear  in  mind  my    of  the  7th  there  was  a  considerable  swell,  and  bu* 
request."     Soon  after  he  writes  thus  to  his    friend  Captain  Thomas,  on  entering  his 
family: — •'!  am   an    unhappy  creature — old.  served,  that  he  feared  the  motion  ot  the 
and  worn  out.     I  wish  to  come  to  Enijfland  :  ,  'urbed  him.  '  No,  Thomas,"  he  replied  ;  '  I  am  now], 
but  some  objection  is  ever  made  to  it.-''  And,  ;  '"  ^  '^"""^  '"  ^^hich  nothing  in  tJns  world  can  disturlj 


iities  had    surrenaerea  nis  commana  to  near  Admiral  iviariuii 

obiect  in    '^  '^'^  '^^°  following  days  were  spci;i  ju  unsuccessfJ', 

•■' ,  I  attempts  to  warp  the  V'ille  de  Tans  out  of  Port  MaiJ 

■yvitn  rny  |  1-,^,^ .  ^^^  q„  ,|^g  f^^^i  the  wind  came  round  to  thil 


'  I  me  more.     I  am  dying;  and  I  am  sure  it 


must 


and  that  he  had  the  happiness  to  say,  that  nothina  I    §^ 


sician  tells  me  that  it  is  the  effect  of  constant    comfortably  I  am  coming  to  my  end.'    He  told  om 
confinement — which  is  not  very  comfortable,    of  his  attendants  thai  he  had  endejivourcd  to  review^ 
as  there  seems.little  chance  of  its  being  other-  ,  as  far  as  was  pos.sible.  all  the  actions  of  his  past  life, 
wise.     Old  age  and  its  infirmities  arQ  coming 
on  me  very  fast ;  and  I  am  weak  and  tottering 
on  my  legs.     It  is  high  time  I  should  return 
to  England  ;  and  I  hope  I  shall  be  allowed  to 
do  it  before  long.  It  will  otherwise  be  too  late." 
And  it  was  too  late  !   He  was  not  relieved — 
and  scorning  to  leave  the  post  assigned  to  him, 


gave  him  a  moment's  uneasiness.  He  spoke  ai 
times  of  his  absent  family,  and  of  the  doubtful  coa 
tesi  in  which  he  was  about  to  leave  his  country  in 
volved,  but  ever  with  calmness  and  perfect  resigna< 
lion  to  the  will  of  God  ;  and  in  this  blessed  state  of 
mind,  after  taking  an  affectionate  farewell  of  his  at  : 
tendants,  he  expired  without  a  struggle  at  six  o'clock 
,„i,i„  1  >  i,„  1  IT  .  ^  •".„•  ■.  t,  lit  •.  in  '^e  evening  of  that  day,  having  attained  the  ag( 
while  he  had  life  to  ma  titanx  it  he  died  at  it,  <  ^j  fii,y.„i„e  fears  and  six  mon.hsT  ^ 

m  March,  1810,  upwards  of  eighteen  months  ••  After  his  decease,  it  was  found  that,  wiih  iht 
after  he  had  thus  stated  to  the  government  his  exception  of  the  stomach,  til  the  other  organs  ot 
reasons  for  desiring  a  recall.  The  following  i  life  were  peculiarly  vigorous  and  unimpaired;  ancj 
is  the  editor's  touching  and  afl'ectionate  ac- i '"'"om. 'his  inspection,  and  the  age  which  the  survivioi 


0» 


'0 

gmtire 


count  of  the  closing  scene — full  of  pity  and  of 
grandeur — and  harmonising  beautifully  with 
the  noble  career  which  was  destined  there  to 
be  arreste<l : — 


bers  of  his  family  have  attained,  there  is  ever 
reason  to  conclude  that  if  he  had  been  earlier  I 
lieved  from  his  command,  he  would  siill  have  beerj 
in  the  enjoyment  of  the  honours  and  rewards  whicH 
would  doubtless  have  awaited  him  on  his  return  tcl 
England." 


"Lord  CoUingwood   had  been  repeatedly  urged 
by  his  friends  to  surrender  hi.'^  command,  and  to 

seek  in  England  that  repose  which  had  liecome  so  The  remainder  of  this  article,  containir_ 
necessary  in  his  declinintr  healih  ;  but  his  feelinjia  '•  discu.^sions  on  the  practices  of  Mod-lmhc  in  the 
on  the  subject  of  discipline  were  peculiarly  strong.  I  Navv,  and  of  Impressment  (to  both  whici 
and  he  had  ever  exacted  the  most  implicit  obedience  Lo,,^i  Collinirwood,  as  ^felI  as  Nelson 
from  others.     He  thought  it  therefore  his  dutv  not  :  i\   •  •.,    i  i 

to  quit  the  post  which  had  been  assigned  to  him,    opposed),  js  now  omitted  ;  as  scarcely  p 
until  he  should  be  duly  relieved,— .ind  replied,  '  that  ;  ing  sufficient  ongmality  to  justify  Us  repubb-^ 
his  life  was  his  country's,  in  whatever  way  it  might    cation,  even  in  this  Miscellany, 


m 


(December,    ISSS.) 


Narrative  of  a  Journey  through  the  Upper  Provinces  of  India  from  Calcutta  to  Bombtni.  1824. 
1825  (u'ith  Notes  upon  Ceijlon) :  an  Account  of  a  Journey  to  Madras  and  tlie  Southenh 
Provinces,  1826;  and  iMtcrs  written  in  India.  By  the  late  Right  Reverend  Reginale 
Heber,  Loril  Bishop  of  Calcutta.     Second  Edition.     2  vols.  Svo.     London:  1828. 


Tins  is  another  book  for  Englishmen  to  be 
proud  of — almost  as  di'lightful  as  the  Memoirs 
of  Lord  Collingwooil,  and  indebted  for  its  at- 
tractions mainly  to  the  .same  cause — the  sin- 
gularly amiable  and  exalted  character  of  the 


person  to  whom  it  relates — and  that  combina- 
tion of  gentleness  with  heroic  ambition,  and 
simplicity  with  high  station,  which  we  would 
still  fondly  regard  as  charncterislic  of  our  own 
nation.     "To  us  in  Scotland  the  combination 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA. 


667 


eems,  in  this  instance,  evei\  more  admirable 
han  in  that  of  the  great  Admiral.  We  have 
10  Bishops  on  our  establishment;  and  have 
h-en  accustomed  to  think  tliat  we  are  better 
\  ilhout  them.  But  it"  we  coukl  persuade  our- 
elves  that  Bishops  in  general  were  at  all  like 
jishop  Heber,  we  should  tremble  for  our  Pres- 
jyterian  orthodoxy;  and  feel  not  oidy  venera- 
ion.  but  something  very  like  envy  for  a  coni- 
uunion  which  could  number  many  such  men 
imong  its  ministers. 

The  notion  entertained  of  a  Bishop,  in  our 
nitiepiscopal  latitudes,  is  likely  enough,  we 
i.Jmit.  not  to  be  altogether  just: — and  we  are 
ifar  from  upholding  it  as  correct,  when  we  say, 
Ithat  a  Bishop,  among  us,  is  generally  supposed 
to  be  a  stately  and  pompous  person,  clothed 
ill  purple  and  tine  linen,  and  faring  sumptu- 
ously every  day — somewhat  obsequious  to 
ipersons  in  power,  and  somewhat  haughty  and 
limperative  to  those  who  are  beneath  him — 
'with  more  authority  in  his  tone  and  manner, 
than  solidity  in  his  learning :  and  yet  with 
much  more  learning  than  charity  or  humility 
— very  fond  of  being  calletl  my  Lord,  and 
,  driving  about  in  a  coach  with  mitres  on  the 
panels,  but  little  addicted  to  visiting  the  sick 
[and  fatherless,  or  earning  for  himself  the 
bJessing  of  those  who  are  ready  to  perish — 


Faniilinr  wiih  a  round 


or  Ladyships — a  stranger  to  iliepoor" — 

tpcorous  in  manners,  but  no  foe  to  luxurious 
j  indulgences — rigid  in  maintaining  discipline 
among  his  immediate  dependents,  and  in  ex- 
:  acting  the  homage  due  to  his  dignity  from  the 
undignified  mob  of  his  brethren  ;  but  peifectly 
willing  to  leave  to  them  the  undivided  privi- 
leges of  teaching  and  of  comtorting  their  peo- 
ple, and  of  soothing  the  sms  and  sorrows  of 
their  erring   flocks  —  scornful,  if  not  openly 
hostile,  upon  all  occasions,  to  the  claims  of 
the  People,  from  whom  he  is  generally  sprung 
,  — and  presuming  every  thing  in  favour  of  the 
I  royal  will  and  prerogative,  by  which  he  has 
I  been  exalted — setting,  indeed,  in  all  cases,  a 
•  much  higher  value  on  the  privdeges  of  the 
few,  than  the  rights  that  are  common  to  all. 
and   exerting   himself   strenuously   that   the 
former  may  ever   prevail — caring  more,  ac- 
i   eordingiy,  for  the  interests  of  his  order  than 
the  general  good  of  the  church,  and  far  more 
for  the  Church  than  for  the  Religion  it  was 
established  to  teach — hating   dissenters  still 
more  bitterly  than   infidels  —  but  combating 
both  rather  with  obloquy  and   invocation  of 
civil  ppudlties.   than  with  the  artillery  of  a 
powerful  reason,  or  the  reconciling  influences 
of  an  humble  and   holy  life — uttering   now 
and   then    haughty   professions   of  humility, 
and  regularly  bewailing,  at  fit  seasons,  the 
severity  of  those   Episcopal   labours,  which 
sadden,  and  even  threaten  to  abridge  a  life, 
which  to  all  other  eyes  appears  to  flow  on  in 
almost   unbroken   leisure  and  continued  in- 
dulgence ! 

This,  or  something  like  this,  we  take  to  be 
the  notion  that  most  of  us  Presbyterians  have 
been  used  to  entertain  of  a  modern  Bishop : 
and  it  is  mainly  because  they  believed  that 


the  rank  and  opulence  which  the  station  im- 
plied, were  likely  to  realise  this  character  in 
those  who  should  be  placed  in  it,  that  our 
ancestors  contended  so  strenuousjy  for  the 
abro<>-itii)n  of  the  order,  and  thought  their 
Reformation  incomplete  till  it  was  finally  put 
down  —  till  all  the  ministers  of  the  Gospel 
were  truly  pastors  of  souls,  and  stood  in  no 
other  relation  to  each  other  than  as  fellow- 
labourers  in  the  same  vineyard. 

If  this  notion  be  utterly  erroneous,  the 
picture  which  Blshoj)  Heber  has  here  drawn 
of  himself,  must  tend  powerfully  to  correct 
it.  If.  on  the  other  haml,  it  be  in  any  respect 
just,  he  mu.st  be  allowed,  at  all  events,  to 
have  been  a  splendid  exception.  We  are 
willing  to  take  it  either  way.  Though  we 
must  say  that  we  incline  rather  to  the  latter 
alternative — since  it  is  difiicult  tp  suppose, 
with  all  due  allowance  for  prejudices,  that 
our  abstract  idea  of  a  Bishop  should  be  in 
such  flagrant  contradiction  to  the  truth,  that 
one  who  was  merely  a  fair  specimen  of  the 
order,  should  be  most  accurately  character- 
ised by  precisely  reversing  every  thing  that 
enterecl  into  that  idea.  Yet  this  is  manifestly 
the  case  with  Bishop  Heber — of  whom  we  do 
not  know  at  this  moment  how  we  could  give 
a  better  description,  than  by  merely  reading 
hackicards  all  we  have  now  ventured  to  set 
down  as  characteristic  of  his  right  reverend 
brethren.  Learned,  polished,  and  dignified, 
he  was  undoubtedly;  yet  far  more  conspicu- 
ously kind,  humble,  tolerant,  and  laborious — 
zealous  for  his  church  too,  and  not  forgetful  of 
his  station  ;  but  remembering  it  more  for  the 
duties  than  for  the  honours  that  were  attached 
to  it,  and  infinitely  more  zealous  for  the  re- 
ligious improvement,  and  for  the  happiness, 
and  spiritual  and  worldly  good  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  of  every  tongue,  faith,  and  com- 
plexion ;  induli>ent  to  all  errors  and  infirmi- 
ties— liberal,  in  the  best  and  truest  sense  of 
the  word — humble  and  conscientiously  diffi- 
dent of  his  own  excellent  judgment  and  never- 
failing  charity — lookhig  on  all  men  as  the 
children  of  one  God,  on  all  Chrislians  as  the 
redeemed  of  one  Saviour,  and  on  all  Chri.stian 
teachers  as  fellow-labourers,  bound  to  help 
and  encourage  each  other  in  their  arduous 
and  anxious  task.  His  portion  of  the  work, 
accordingly,  he  wrousht  faithfully,  zealously, 
and  well;  and,  devoting  himself  to  his  duty 
with  a  truly  apcstolical  fervour,  made  no 
scruple  to  forego,  for  its  sake,  not  merely  his 
personal  ease  and  comfort,  but  those  domestic 
affections  which  were  ever  so  much  more 
valuable  in  his  eyes,  ai:d  in  the  enil,  we  fear, 
consummating  the  s;icr:(ice  with  his  life  !  If 
such  a  character  be  common  among  the  dig- 
nitaries of  the  English  Church,  we  sincerely 
conarafulate  them  on  the  fact,  and  bow  our 
head?  iri  homage  and  veneration  before  them. 
If  it  be  rare,  as  we  fear  it  must  be  in  any 
church,  we  trust  we  do  no  unworthy  service 
in  pointing  it  out  for  honour  and  imitation  to 
all;  and  in  prayii.i>-  'hat  the  example,  in  all 
its  parts,  may  piomote  the  growth  of  similar 
virtues  amon'gall  denominations  of  Christians, 
in  every  region  of  the  world. 


668 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


But  though  the  great  chann  of  the  book  be 
derived  from  the  character  of  its  lamented 
author,  we  are  not  sure  that  this  is  by  any 
means  wh^t  will  give  it  its  great  or  most  per- 
manent value.  Independently  of  its  moral 
attraction,  we  are  inclined  to  think  it.  on  the 
whole,  the  most  instructive  and  important 
publication  that  has  ever  been  given  to  the 
world,  on  the  actual  state  and  condition  of  our 
Indian  Empire  :  Not  only  exhibiting  a  more 
clear,  graphic,  and  intelligible  account  of  the 
country,  and  the  various  races  by  which  it  is 
peopled,  by  presenting  us  with  more  candid, 
judicious,  and  reasonable  views  of  all  the 
great  questions  relating  to  its  destiny,  and  our 
interests  and  duties  with  regard  to  it,  than  are 
any  where  else  to  be  met  with.  It  is  the  result, 
no  doubt,  of  a  hasty  and  somewhat  superficial 
survey.  But  it  embraces  a  very  wide  and 
various  range,  and  thus  affords  the  means  of 
correcting  errors,  which  are  almost  insepara- 
ble from  a  narrower  observation;  and  has, 
above  all.  the  inestimable  advantage  of  being 
given  while  the  freshness  of  the  lirst  impres- 
sion was  undiminished,  and  the  fairness  of 
the  first  judgment  unperverted  by  the  gradual 
accumulation  of  interests,  prejudices,  and  de- 
ference to  partial  authorities ;  and  given  by 
a  man  not  only  free  from  all  previous  bias, 
but  of  such  singular  candour,  calmness,  and 
deliberation  of  judgment,  that  we  would,  in 
almost  any  case,  take  his  testimony,  even 
on  a  superficial  view,  against  that  of  a  much 
cleverer  person,  who,  with  ampler  opportuni- 
ties, had  surveyed  or  reported  with  the  feel- 
ings, consciously  or  unconsciously  cherished, 
of  an  advocate,  a  theorist,  a  bigot,  or  a  partisan. 

Unhappily,  almost  all  who  have  hitherto 
had  the  means  of  knowing  much  about  India, 
have  been,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  subject 
to  these  inliuences;  and  the  consequence  has 
been,  that  though  that  great  country  is  truly 
a  portion  of  our  own — and  though  we  may 
find,  in  every  large  town,  whole  clubs  of  in- 
telligent men,  returned  after  twenty  or  thirty 
years'  residence  in  it  in  high  situations,  it  is 
nearly  impossible  to  get  anj"  distinct  notion 
of  its  general  condition,  or  to  obtain  such  in- 
formation as  to  its  institutions  and  capacities 
as  may  be  furnished  by  an  ordinary  book  of 
travels,  as  to  countries  infinitely  less  important 
or  easy  of  access.  Various  causes,  besides 
the  repulsions  of  a  hostile  and  jealous  reli- 
gion, have  conspired  to  produce  this  effect. 
In  the  first  place,  the  greater  part  of  our  reve- 
nans  have  been  too  long  in  the  other  world, 
to  be  able  to  describe  it  in  such  a  way  as  to 
be  either  interesting  or  intelligible  to  the  in- 
habitants of  this.  They  have  been  too  long 
familiar  with  its  aspect  to  know  how  they 
would  strike  a  stranger ;  and  have  confounded, 
in  their  passive  and  incurious  impressions,  the 
most  trivial  and  insignificant  usages,  with 
practices  and  principles  that  are  in  the  highest 
degree  curious,  and  of  the  deepest  moral  con- 
cernment. In  the  ne.vt  place,  by  far  the  greater 
part  of  these  experienced  and  authoritative 
residents  have  seen  but  a  very  small  portion 
of  the  mighty  regions  with  which  they  are 
too  hastily  presumed  to  be  generally  acquaint- 


ed ;  and   have  for  the  most  part  seen  evei 
those,  only  in  the  course  of  some  limited  pro' 
fessional  or  official  occupation,  and  only  wit],      ''■'"  y 
Ihe  eyes  of  their  peculiar  craft  or  professioni  S|'y  i 
They  have  been  traders,  or  soldiers,  or  tax       {^  „ 
gatherers — with  here  and  there  a  diplomatic 
agent,  an  engineer,  or  a  naturalist — all,  to( 
busy,  and  too  much  engrossed  with  the  specia 
object  of  their  several  missions,  to  have  time 
to  look  to  the  general  condition  of  the  country— 
and  almost  all  moving  through  it.  with  a  reti- 
nue and  accompaniment  of  authority,  whicl 
excluded  all  actual  contact  with  the  People 
and  even,  in  a  great  degree,  the  possibility  of 
seeing  them  in  their  natural  state.     We  havE 
Instorical  memoirs  accordingly,  and  accounts 
of  njilitary  expeditions,  of  great  value  and 
accurac}";  and  are  beginning  to  have  report? 
of  the  culture  of  indigo,  of  the  general  profits 
of  trade,  and  of  the  heights  and  structure  of 
mountains,  that  may  be  depended  on.     But. 
with  the  exce{)tion  of  Mr.  Elphinstone's  Cau- 
bul  and  Sir  John  Malcolm's  Central  India— 
both  relating  to  very  limited  and  peculiar  dis- 
tiicts — we  have  no  good  account  of  the  countrv 
or  the  people.     But  by  far  the  worst  obstruc- 
tion to  the  attainment  of  correct  information 
is  to  be  found  in  the  hostility  which  has  pre- 
vailed for  the  last  fifteen  or  twenty  years,  be- 
tween the  adversaries  and  the  advocates  of 
the  East  India  Company  and   its  monopoly: 
and  which  has  divided  almost  all  who  are  now 
able  and  willing  to  enlighten  us  on  its  con- 
cerns, into  the  champions  of  opposite  factions; 
characterised,  we  fear  we  must  adtl,  with  a 
full  share  of  the  partiality,  exaggeration,  and 
inaccuracy,    which    has   at   all   times    been 
chargeable  upon  such  champions.    In  so  large 
and  complicated  a  subject,  there  is  room  of 
course,  for  plausible  representations  on  both 
sides;  but  what  we  chiefly   complain  of  is, 
j  that  both  parties  have  been    so   anxious  to 
[  make  a  case  for  themselves,  that  neither  of 
i  them  have  thought  of  stating  the  u-hole  facts. 
so  as  to  enable  the  public  to  judge  between 
thpm.    They  have  invariably  brought  forward 
only  v.hat  they  thought  peculiarly  favourable 
for  themselves,  or  peculiarly  unfavourable  for 
the  adversary,  and  have  fought  to  the  utter- 
ance upon  those  high  grounds  of  quarrel ;  but 
have  left  out  all  that  is  not  prominent  and  re- 
■  markable — that  is,  all  that  is  truly  character- 
j  istic  of  the  general  state  of  the  country,  and 
the  ordinary  conduct  of  its  government;  by 
reference  to  which  alone,  however,  the  real 
magnitude  of  the  alleged  benefits  or  abuses 
can  ever  be  truly  estimated. 
I      It  is  chiefly  for  these  reasons  that  we  have 
'  hitherto  been  shy,  perhaps  to  a  blamable  ex- 
ce.'ss,  in  engaging  with  the  great  questions  of 
Indian  policy,  which  have  of  late  years  en- 
grossed so  much  attention.     Feeling  the  ex-' 
treme  ililficulty  of  getting  safe  materials  for 
I  our  judgment,  we  have  been  conscientiously 
J  unwilling  to  take  a  decided  or  leading  j'wirt  in 
I  discussions  which  did   not  seem  to  us  to  be 
I  conducted,  on  either  part,  in  a  spirit  of  per- 
j  feet  fairness,  on  a  sufficient  view  of  well-es- 
tablished facts,  or  on  a  large  and  comprehen- 
i  five  perception  of   the  principles  to  which 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA. 


669 


they  referred.  With  a  strong  general  leaning 
lagainst  all  monopoly  and  arbitrary  restrictions. 
we  could  not  but  teel  that  the  case  of  India 
was  peculiar  in  many  respects  :  and  that  more 
than  usual  deliberation  was  due.  not  only  to 
lits  vast  practic^il  importance,  but  to  the  weight 
of  experience  and  authority  that  seemed  ar- 
iraved  against  our  predilections;  and  we  long- 
ied',  above  all  things,  for  a  calm  and  dispas- 
isionate  statement  of  facts,  from  a  recent  and 
iintelligent  observer,  unconnected,  if  possible, 
either  by  interest  or  any  other  tie,  with  either 
iof  the  parties,  and  untainted  even  by  any 
preparatory  study  of  their  controversies  ;  but 
applying  his  mind  with  perfect  freedom  and 
fairness  to  what  fell  under  his  own  immediate 
observation,  and  recording  his  impressions 
with  that  tranqud  sincerity  which  can  scarcely 
ever  be  relied  on  but  where  the  record  is 
imeant  to  be  absolutely  private,  and  is  conse- 
[quently  made  up  without  any  feeling  ff  re- 
sponsibility, ambition,  or  deference. 
,  Such  a  statement,  and  much  more  than 
isuch  a  statement,  we  have  in  the  work  before 
'us;  and  both  now.  and  on  all  future  occasions, 

■  we  feel  that  it  has  relieved  us  from  the  chief 
(difficulty  we  have  hitherto   experienced   in 

forming  our  opinions,  and  supplied  the  most 
valuable  elements  for  the  discussions  to  which 
:  we  have  alluded.  The  author,  it  must  be  ad- 
Imitted,  was  more  in  connection  with  the  Gov- 
iernment  than  with  any  party  or  individual 
opposed  to  it.  and  was  more  exposed,  there- 
fore, to  a  bias  in  that  direction.  But  he  was, 
at  the  same  time,  so  entirely  independent  of 
its  favours,  and  so  much  more  removed  from 
its  influence  than  any  one  with  nearly  the 
same  means  of  observation,  and  was  withal 

■  of  a  nature  so  perfectly  candid,  upright,  and 
'conscientious,  that  he  may  be  regarded,  we 
1  think,  as  altogether  impartial ;  and  we  verily 
!  believe  has  set  down  nothing  in  this  private 
;  journal,  intended  only  for  his  own  e3'e  or  that 
i  of  his  wife,  not  only  that  he  did  not  honestly 

think,  but  that  he  would  not  have  openly 
stated  10  the  Governor  in  Council,  or  to  the 
Court  of  Directors  themselves. 

The  Bishop  sailed  for  India  with  his  family, 

in  1823 ;  and  in  June   1824,  set  out  on   the 

;  visitation  of  his  Imperial  Diocese,  having  been 

'  obliged,  much  against  his  will,   to  leave  his 

:  wife  and  children,  on  account  of  their  health, 

behind   him.     He   ascended   the   Gavi2-es  to 

Dacca  and  Benares,  and  proceeded  by  Oudf 

and  Lucknow  to  Delhi  and  Agra,  and  to  Al- 

morah  at  the  base  of  the  Himalaya  mountains. 

and  so  onward  through  the  newly-acquired 

provinces  of  Malwah.  to  Guzerat  and  Bombay, 

■  where  he  had  the  happiness  of  rejoining  Mrs. 
Heber.     They  afterwards   sailed  toorether  to 

'  Ceylon  ;  and  after  some  stay  in  that  island,  re- 
;  turned,  in  October  1825,  to  "Calcutta.  In  Jan- 
\  uary  1S26.  the  indefatigable  prelate  sailed 
a»ain  for  Madras,  and  proceeded  in  March  to 
the  visitation  of  nn^  .southern  provinces ;  but 
had  only  reached  Tanjore.  when  his  arduous 
and  exemplary  career  was  cut  short,  and  all 
his  labours  of  love  and  duty  brought  to  an  end. 
by  a  sudden  and  most  unexpected  death — 
having  been  seized  with  a  fit  in  stepping  into 


the  bath,  after  having  spent  the  morning  in 
the  offices  of  religion,  on  the  3d  of  April  of 
that  year. 

The  work  before  us  consists  of  a  very  co- 
pious journal,  written  for  and  transmitted  to 
his  wife,  during  his  long  peregrinations;  and 
of  several  most  valuable  and  intiMi-sIuig  h't- 
tt^rs,  addressed  to  her.  and  to  his  friends  in 
England,  in  the  course  of  the  same  journey; 
all  written  in  a  very  pleasing,  and  even  ele- 
gant, though  familiar  style,  and  indicating  in 
every  line  not  only  the  clear  judgment  and 
various  accomplishments  of  tlie  writer,  but 
the  singular  kindn(>ss  of  heart  and  sweetness 
of  temper,  by  which  he  seems  to  have  been 
still  more  distingui.<hed.  He  surveys  every 
thing  with  the  vigilance  and  delight  of  a  cul- 
tivated and  most  active  intellect — with  the 
eye  of  an  artist,  an  antiquary,  and  a  naturalist 
— the  feelings  and  judgment  of  an  English 
gentleman  and  scholar — the  sympathies  of  a 
most  humane  and  generous  mar, — and  the 
piety,  charity,  and  humility  of  a  Christian, 
The  work  is  somewhat  ditlhse,  and  exhibit.s 
some  repetitions,  and  perhaps  some  inconsis- 
tencies. It  is  not  such  a  work,  in  short,  as 
the  author  would  himself  have  offcretl  to  the 
public.  But  we  do  not  know  whether  it  is 
not  more  interesting  than  any  that  he  could 
have  prepared  for  publication.  It  carries  us 
more  completely  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
scenes  he  describes  than  any  such  work  could 
have  done,  and  it  admits  us  more  into  his  in- 
timacy. We  pity  those,  we  confess,  who  find 
it  tedious  to  accompany  such  a  man  on  such 
a  journey. 

It  is  difRcult  to  select  extracts  from  a  work 
like  this ;  or,  rather,  it  is  not  worth  while  to 
stand  on  selection.  \'^  cannot  pretend  to 
give  any  abstract  of  the  whole,  or  to  transfer 
to  our  pages  any  reasonable  proportion  of  the 
beauty  or  instruction  it  contains.  We  carr 
only  justify  our  account  of  it  by  a  few  speci- 
mens, taken  very  much  at  random.  The  fol- 
lowing may  serve  to  show  the  unaffected  and 
considerate  kiiuhiess  with  which  he  treated 
his  attendi-nts,  and  all  the  inferior  persons 
who  came  in  contact  with  him ;  and  the  efTects 
of  that  kindness  on  its  objects. 

"  Two  of  my  sepoys  had  been  ill  for  several  days, 
in  much  the  same  way  with  Tiiyself.  I  had  treated 
them  in  a  similar  manner,  and  they  were  now  doing 
well :  But  licinw  Brahmins  ot  hisih  caste,  I  had 
much  difficuliy  in  conqtiering  their  scruples  and 
doubts  about  the  physic  which  I  s,avp  them.  They 
hoih  said  that  ihey  would  raiher  die  than  taste  wine. 
'I'hev  scrupled  at  my  using  a  spoon  to  measure  their 
castfir-oil,  and  insisted  that  the  water  in  which  their 
medicines  were  mi.xed,  should  be  poured  by  them- 
selves onlv.  They  were  very  grateful  however, 
particularly  for  ihe'care  I  took  of  them  when  I  was 
myself  ill,  and  said  repeatedly  that  the  eight  of  me 
in  good  health  would  be  better  to  them  than  all 
medicines.  They  seemed  now  free  from  di.«ease, 
but  recovered  their  strength  more  slow  ly  than  I  did  ; 
and  I  was  glad  to  find  that  the  .Souhahdar  said  ho 
was  authorized,  under  such  circumetances.  to  engage 
a  hackery  at  the  Company's  expense,  to  carry  them 
till  they  were  fit  to  march.  He  mentioned  this  m 
consequence  of  my  ofTcring  them  a  lift  on  a  camel. 
which  thev  were  afraid  of  trying." 

"  I  li:i<i  a  singular  insianrp  this  evening  of  the 
fact  how  mere  children  all  soldiers,  and  i  dunk  pur- 


670 


mSCELLANEOUS. 


ticularly  sepoys,  are,  when  put  a  little  out  of  their 
usual  way.  On  goin«r  to  the  place  where  my  es- 
cort was  hatted,  I  found  that  there  was  not  room  for 
them  all  under  its  shelter,  and  that  four  were  pre- 
parino;  to  sleep  on  the  open  (\Ad.  Witliin  a  hun- 
dred yards  stood  ano'her  similar  hut  unoccupied,  a 
little  out  of  repair,  but  tolerably  tenantable.  '  Why 
do  you  not  go  thither  ?'  was  my  question.  '  We 
like  to  sleep  altogciher.'  w«s  their  answer.  '  But 
why  not  bring  the  branches  here,  and  make  your 
own  hut  larger?  see,  I  will  show  you  the  way.' 
They  started  up  immediately  in  great  apparent  de- 
light;  every  man  brouaht  a  bough,  and  the  work 
was  done  in  five  minutes — being  only  interrupted 
every  now  and  then  by  exclamations  of  '  Good, 
good,  poor  man's  provider  I'  " 

'■  A  little  before  five  in  the  morning,  the  servant.") 
came  to  me  for  directions,  and  to  say  that  the  good 
careful  old  Soubahdar  was  very  ill,  and  unaV>lc  to 
leave  his  tent.  I  immediately  put  on  my  clothes 
and  went  down  to  the  camp,  in  my  way  to  which 
they  told  me,  that  he  had  been  taken  unwell  at 
night,  and  that  Dr.  Smith  had  given  him  medicine. 
Heopeneda  vein,  and  with  much  humane  patience, 
coniinued  to  try  diflTereni  remedies  while  any  chance 
remained  ;  but  no  blood  flowed,  and  no  sign  of  life 
could  be  detected  from  the  time  of  his  coming  tip. 
except  a  feeble  flutter  at  the  heart,*^  which  soon 
ceased.  He  was  at  an  advanced  use,  at  least  for 
an  Indian,  though  apparently  hale  and  robust.  I 
felt  it  a  comfort  that  I  had  not  urged  him  to  any  ex- 
ertion, and  that  in  fact  I  had  endeavoured  to  persuade 
him  to  lie  still  till  he  was  quite  well.  But  I  was 
necessarily  much  shocked  by  the  sudden  end  of  one 
M'ho  had  travelled  with  me  so  far,  and  whose  con- 
duct had,  in  every  instance,  given  me  satisfaction. 
Nor,  while  writing  this,  can  I  recollect  without  a 
real  pang,  his  calm  countenance  and  Errev  hairs,  as 
he  sate  in  his  tent  door,  telling  his  beads  in  an  after- 
noon, or  walked  with  me,  as  he  seldom  failed  to 
do,  through  the  villages  on  an  evening,  with  his 
own  silver-hilted  sabre  under  his  arm.  his  loose  cot- 
ton mantle  folded  round  him.  and  his  golden  neck- 
lace and  Rajpoot  string  just  visible  aliove  it. 

"  The  death  of  the  ^or  Soubahdar  led  to  the 
question,  whether  there  would  be  srill  time  to  send 
on  the  baggage.  All  the  Mussulmans  pressed  onr 
immediate  departure  ;  while  the  Hindoos  begged 
that  they  might  be  allowed  to  stay,  at  least,  till 
sunset.  I  determined  on  remaining,  as,  in  my  opin- 
ion, more  decent  and  respectful  to  the  memory  of  a 
good  and  aged  officer." 

"  In  the  way,  at  Fulfehgunse,  I  passed  the  tents 
pitched  for  the  large  party  which  were  to  return  to- 
wards Cawnpoor  next  day,  and  I  was  much  pleased 
and  gratified  by  the  Soubahdar  and  the  greater 
number  of  the  sepoys  of  my  old  escort  running  into 
the  middle  of  the  road  to  bid  me  another  farewell. 
and  again  express  their  regret  that  they  were  not 
going  on  wi:h  me  '  to  the  world's  end.'  They  who 
talk  of  the  ingratitude  of  the  Indian  character, 
should,  I  think,  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  cases 
of  this  sort.  These  men  neither  got  nor  expected 
any  thins  by  this  little  expression  of  sood-will.  If 
I  had  ofiered  them  money,  they  would  have  been 
bound,  by  the  rules  of  the  service,  and  their  own 
dignity,  not  to  take  it.  Sufficient  civility  and  re- 
spect would  have  been  paid  if  any  of  them  who 
happened  to  be  near  the  road  had  touched  their 
caps,  and  I  really  can  suppose  them  actuated  by  no 
motive  but  good-will.  It  had  not  been  excited,  so 
far  as  I  know,  by  any  particular  desert  on  my  part : 
but  I  had  always  spoken  to  them  civilly,  had  paid 
some  aileniion  to  their  comforts  in  securing  them 
ten's,  firewood,  and  camels  for  their  knapsacks,  and 
had  ordered  them  a  dinner,  after  their  own  fashion. 
on  their  arrival  at  Lucknow,  at  the  expense  of.  I 
believe,  not  more  than  four  rupees  !  Surely  if 
good- will  is  to  be  bouffhi  by  these  sort  of  attentions, 
it  is  a  pity  that  any  bodv  should  neglect  them." 

"  In  crossing  a  nuddce,  which  from  a  ford  had 
become  a  ferry,  we  saw  some  characteristic  groups 


I 


and  occurrences ;  the  price  of  passage  in  the 

was  only  a  few  cowries;  but  a  number  of  country' 
folk  were  assembled,  who  could  not,  or  would  not, 
pay,  and  were  now  sitting  patiently  by  the  brink, 
waiting  till  ihe  torrent  should  subside,  or,  what  waa 
far  less  likely  to  happen,  till  the  boatmen  should 
take   compassion  on    them.     ;\Iany  of  ihese  poor 
people  came  up  to  beg  me  to  make  the  boatmen  ' 
take   them    over,   one    woman  pleading   that   her' 
'  malik  onr  biicher,'  (literally  master,  or  lord,  and  : 
young  one)  had  run  away  from  her.  and  she  wanted 
to  overtake  them;  another  that  she  and  her  two; 
grandchildren  were  following  her  son.  who  was  a  •- . 
Havildar  in  the  regiment  which  we  had  passed  jant  r 
before ;  and  some  others,  that  they  had  been  inter-  ij 
cepted  the  previous  day  by  this  torrent,  and  had! 
neither  m<mey  nor  food  till  they  had  reached  their  | 
Four  anas  purchased  a  passage   for  the ' 


home::'.       1.^/111     tiiiaa    puii;iiuftru    a    |jiis>uwr     lur    loe  I       ^'    iW 

whole  crowd,  of  perhaps  thirty  people,  and  they  j  •''J'-, 
were  really  very  thankful.  I  bestowed  two  nmah 
more  on  the  poor  deserted  woman,  and  a  whimsical  \: 
scene  ensued.  She  at  first  took  ihe  money  wiih  i 
eagerness,  then,  as  if  she  recollected  herself,  she  k 
blushed  very  deeply,  and  seemed  much  confused,  * 
then  bi^wed  herself  to  my  feet,  and  kissed  my  hands,  li 
and  at  last  said,  in  a  very  modest  tone,  'it  was  not  f 
fit  for  so  great  a  man  as  I  was,  to  give  her  two  anas,  I 
and  she  hoped  that  I  and  the  '  chota  Sahib,'  (little  I 
lord)  would  i^ive  her  a  rupee  each  I'  She  was  (in  • 
extremely  pretty  little  woman,  but  we  were  inexor- 1 
able ;  partly,  I  believe,  in  my  own  case  at  least,  I 
because  we  had  only  just  rupees  cnougli  to  take  vs  I 
to  Cawnpoor,  and  to  pay  for  our  men's  provisions;  j 
however,  I  gave  her  two  more  anas,  my  sole  re-  I 
maining  stock  of  small  change."  I 


These  few  traits  will  do,  we  believe;  but 
we  miiPt  acid  a  few  more,  to  let  the  reader 
fully  into  the  noble  humanity  and  genaiae 
softness  of  this  man's  heart. 

"In  the  course  of  this  evening  a  fellow,  who 
said  he  was  a  .eao-wala  brought  me  two  poor  little  j 
leverets,  which  he  said  he  had  just  found  in  a  field. 
They  were  quite  unfit  to  eat.  and  bringing  ihem 
was  an  act  of  cruelty  of  which  there  are  few  in- 
stances amonrr  the  Hindoos,  who  are  generally 
humane  to  wild  animals.  In  this  case,  on  my  scold- 
ing the  man  for  bringing  such  poor  little  things  from 
their  mo'her,  all  the  crowd  of  camel-drivers  and 
camp-followers,  of  whom  no  inconsiderable  number 
were  around  us,  expressed  great  satisfaction  and  an 
entire  concurrence  in  my  censure.  It  ended  in  the 
man  promising  to  take  them  back  to  the  very  spot 
(w-hicli  he  described)  where  he  had  picked  them  tip, 
and  in  my  promising  him  an  ana  if  he  did  so.  To 
see  him  keep  his  word  two  stout  waggoner's  hoys 
immediately  volunteered  their  services,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  kept  him  to  his  contract. 

"  The  same  adviser  wanted  me  to  take  off  a  joint 
of  Cabul's  (ail,  under  the  hair,  so  as  not  to  injure 
his  appearance.  '  It  was  known,'  he  said,  '  that  by 
how  much  the  tail  was  made  shorter,  so  much  the 
taller  the  horse  grew.'  I  said  '  I  could  not  believe 
that  God  gave  any  animal  a  limb  too  much,  or  one 
which  tended  to  its  disadvantage,  and  that  as  He 
had  made  my  horse,  so  he  should  remain.'  This 
speech,  such  as  ii  was,  seemed  to  chime  in  woiider- 
fully  with  the  feelings  of  most  of  my  hearers  ;  and 
j  one  old  man  said,  that  'durins  all  the  iweniy-lwo 
V<'af9  'hat  the  English  held  the  country,  he  had  not 
heard  so  grave  and  godly  a  saying  from  any  of  them 
before.'  I  thought  of  Sancho  Panza  and  his  wise 
j  apophthegms! 

j  "  Our  elephants  were  receiving  their  drink  at  a 
!  well,  and  I  gave  the  largest  some  bread,  which, 
i  before  my  illness,  I  had  ofien  been  in  the  habit  of 
I  doing.  'He  is  glad  to  see  you  again,'  observed  the 
I  goomashta,  and  1  certainly  was  much  struck  by  the 
I  calm,  clear,  attentive,  intelligent  eye  which  he  fixed 
I  on  me,  both  while  he  was  eatiiie,  and  afterwards 
I  while  I  was  patting  his  trunk  and  talking  about  him. 


^i^t 
lit 


lie  9 

Ml 


.BISHOP  HEBERS  INDIA. 


671 


[e  was,  he  said,  a  fine-tempered  beast,  but  the  two 
thers  were  '  great  rascals.'  One  ot  them  had  once 
[imost  killed  his  keeper.  I  have  !,'ot  these  poor 
leasts'  allowance  increased,  in  consideration  of  iheir 
iina  march ;  and  that  they  may  not  be  wronged, 
iave  ordered  the  mohout  to  give  them  all  their  gram 
;i  presence  ot  a  sentry.  The  gram  is  made  up  in 
lakes,  about  as  large  as  the  top  of  a  hat-box,  and 
laked  on  an  earthen  pot.  Each  contains  a  seer, 
nd  si.xteen  of  them  are  considered  as  sutiicieni  ti>r 
ine  day's  food  for  an  elephant  on  a  march.  The 
uwarree  elephant  had  only  twelve,  but  1  ordered 
im  the  full  allowance,  as  well  as  an  increase  to  the 
ihers.    If  ihey  knew  this,  they  would  indeed  be 

dad  to  see  me." 

"  The  morning  was  positively  cold,  and  the  whole 
icene,  with  the  e.\6rcise  of  the  march,  the  pictur- 
sque  groups  of  men  and  animals  round  mc, — the 
■racing  air,  the  singing  of  birds,  the  light  mist  hang- 
ing on  the  uees,  and  ihe  glistening  dew,  had  some- 
hing  at  once  so  Oriental  and  so  English,  I  have 
eldom  found  any  thing  better  adapted  to  raise  a 
flan's  animal  spirits,  and  put  him  in  good  temper 
!viih  himself  and  all  the  world.  How  1  wish  those 
;  iove  were  with  me  !  How  much  my  wife  would 
Mijoy  this  sort  of  life, — its  e.xercise,  its  cleanliness, 
md  purity  ;  its  constant  occupation,  and  at  the  same 
ime  lis  comparative  freedom  from  form,  care,  and 
'exaiion  !  At  the  same  tnne  a  man  who  is  curious 
n  his  eating  had  better  not  come  here.  Lamb  and 
iid  (and  we  get  no  other  liesh)  most  people  would 
ioon  tire  of.  The  only  fowls  which  are  attainable 
ire  as  tough  and  lean  as  can  be  desired ;  and  the 
Tiilk  and  butter  are  generally  seasoned  with  the 
lever-failing  condiments  of  Hindostan — smoke  and 
soot.  These,  however,  are  matters  to  which  it  is 
not  difficult  to  become  reconciled  ;  and  all  the  more 
'ierious  points  of  \yarmth,  shade,  cleanliness,  air, 
ind  water,  are  at  this  season  nowhere  enjoyed  better 
hail  in  the  spacious  and  well-contrived  tents,  the 
nnple  means  of  transport,  the  fine  climate,  and 
eriile  regions  of  Northern  Hindostan.  .\noiher 
.inie,  by  God's  blessing,  I  will  not  be  alone  in  this 
Eden  ;  yet  I  confess  that  there  are  few  people  whom 
I  greatly  wish  to  have  as  associates  in  such  a  jour- 
ney. It  is  only  a  wife,  or  a  triend  so  intimate  as  to 
be  quite  another  self,  whom  one  is  really  anxious  to 
;be  with  one  while  travelling  through  anew  country." 

!  Instead  of  wishing;  as  we  should  have  ex- 
pected a  Bishop  to  do,  to  move  in  the  digni- 
fied and  conspicuous   circle  at   the  seat  of 


castes,  and  to  inculcate  a  signal  toleration 
We  can  now  aHbnl,  however,  to  give  little 
more  than  the  introtiuctory  narrative. 

"  About  eleven  o'clock  I  liad  the  expi'cicd  visit 
from  Swaamec  Nnrain,  to  my  interview  wiih  whom 
I  itad  looked  forward  wiih  an  nnxieiv  and  eagerness 
which,  if  lie  had  known  ii,  wnukl  pcrliaus  have 
flattered  him.  He  came  in  a  somewhat  diflerenl 
st>  le  from  what  I  expecied  ;  liuviiig  wiih  liim  nearly 
two  liundred  horsemen,  mostly  well-armed  wiih 
matchlocks  and  swords,  and  several  ol  them  with 
coats  of  mail  and  spear*.  Bes^ides  them  he  had  a 
large  rabble  on  foot,  with  bows  and  arrows;  and 
when  I  considered  that  1  had  myself  more  than  fifty 
horse,  and  fifty  muskets  and  bayonets,  I  could  no; 
help  smiling,  though  my  sensations  were  in  some 
degree  painlul  and  humiliating,  at  the  idea  of  two 
religious  teachers  meeiing  at  the  head  of  little 
armies!  and  filling  the  city,  which  was  the  scene 
of  their  interview,  with  the  rattling  of  quivers,  the 
clash  of  shields,  and  the  tramp  of  ihe  war-horse. 
Had  our  troops  been  opposed  to  each  other,  mine, 
though  less  numerous,  would  have  been  doubtless 
far  more  effective,  from  the  superiority  ot  arms  and 
discipline.  But,  in  moiiil  grandeur,  what  a  dificr- 
ence  was  there  between  liis  troop  and  mine  !  ."Mine 
neither  knew  me  nor  can'd  for  me.  They  escorted 
me  faithfully,  and  would  have  defended  me  bravely, 
because  they  were  ordered  by  their  superiors  lo  do 
so ;  and  as  they  would  have  done  tor  any  other 
stranger  of  sufficient  worldly  rank  to  make  such 
attendance  usual.  The  guards  of  Swaamee  Nnrain 
were  his  own  disciples  and  enthusiastic  admirers  ; 
men  who  had  voluntarily  repaired  to  hear  his  les- 
sons, who  now  took  a  pride  in  doing  him  honour, 
and  who  would  cheerfully  fight  to  the  last  drop  of 
blood  rather  than  suffer  a  fringe  of  his  garment  to 
be  handled  roughly.  In  the  parish  oi  Hodnet  there 
were  once  perhaps  a  few  honest  counIrymen/^vho 
felt  something  like  this  tor  me  ;  but  how  long  a  time 
must  elapse  before  any  Christian  teacher  in  India 
can  hope  to  be  thus  loved  and  honoured ! 

"  After  the  usual  mutual  compliments,  I  said  that 
I  had  heard  much  good  of  him,  and  the  good  doc- 
trine which  he  preached  among  tiie  poor  people,  of 
Guzerat,  and  that  I  greatly  desired  his  acquaint- 
ance; that  I  regretted  that  I  knew  Hindostanee  so 
imperfectly,  but  that  I  should  be  very  glad,  so  tar 
as  my  knowledge  of  the  language  allowed,  and  by 
he  interpretation  of  friends,  to  learn  what  he  bc- 
ieved  on  religious  matters,  and  to  tell  him  what  I 


Government,  it  is  interesting  to  find  this  e.v-    tiiyself  believed  ;  and  that  if  he  vvould  come  and  see 

for    a    ^^  ^^  Kairah,  where  we  should  have  more  leisure 


eraplary   person   actually   langiiishin 
Imore  retired  and  obscure  situation. 

;  "Do  you  know,  deaiest,  that  I  sometimes  think 
'We  should  be  more  useful,  and  happier,  if  Cawn- 
poor  or  Benares,  not  Calc\itta,  were  our  home? — 
My  visitations  would  be  made  with  far  more  con- 
venience, the  expense  of  house  rent  would  be  less 
to  the  Company,  and  our  own  expenses  of  living 
would  be  reduced  very  considerably.  I'he  air,  even 
of  Cawnpoor,  is,  I  apprehend,  better  than  that  of 
•Bengal,  and  that  of  Benares  decidedly  so.  The 
greater  part  of  my  business  with  government  may 
be  done  as  well  by  letters  as  personal  interviews ; 
,  and.  if  the  Archdeacon  of  Calcutta  were  resident 
there,  it  seems  more  natural  that  the  Bishop  of 
India  should  remain  in  the  centre  of  his  diocese. — 
The  only  objection  is  the  great  number  of  Christians 
(in  Calcutta,  and  the  consequent  probability  that  my 
; preaching  is  more  useful  there  than  it  would  be  any 
where  else.  We  may  talk  these  points  over  when 
we  meet." 


I  would  have  a  tent  pitched  for  him  and  treat  him 
like  a  brother.  I  said  this,  because  I  was  very 
earnestly  desirous  of  getting  him  a  copy  of  the 
.Scriptures,  of  which  I  had  none  with  me,  in  the 
Nagree  character,  and  persuading  him  to  read 
them  ;  and  because  I  had  some  lurther  hopes  of 
inducing  him  to  go  with  me  to  Bombay,  where  I 
hoped  that,  by  conciliatory  treatment,  and  the 
conversations  to  which  I  might  introduce  him  with 
the  CJiurch  Missionary  Society  established  in  that 
neighbourhood,  I  might  do  him  more  good  than  I 
could  otherwise  hope. 

"  I  saw  that  both  he,  and,  still  more,  his  disciples, 
were  highly  pleased  by  the  invitation  which  I  gave 
him  ;  but  he  said,  in  reply,  that  his  life  was  one  of 
very  little  leisure  ;  that  he  had  five  thousand  disciples 
now  attending  on  his  preaching  in  the  neighbouring 
villages,  and  nearly  fitly  thousand  in  different  parts 
of  Guzerat  ;  that  a  great  number  of  these  were  to 
assemble  togeiher  in  the  course  ot  next  week,  on 
occasion  of  liis  brother's  son  coming  of  age  to  re- 
ceive the  Brahminical  siring;  but  that  if  I  staid 
One  of  the  most  characteristic  passages  in  [  long  enough  in  the  neighbourhood  to  allow  him  to 

11..,  .     ri  ■    ■   .       ■  -.1    I  _„.  .u:.  .... .  _  jje  would  gladly  come 

meantime,'  I  said,  'have 

y  objection  to   communicate   some  part  of 

eoctrine   now?"     Ir  was   eviJcnilv   what   he 

le.s  very  vi.siidy  exuhcJ 

in  the  opportunity  of  his  perhaps  converting  me." 


e  most  cnaractenstic  passages  m  long  enougn  in  the  ncignnc 
the  account  of  his  interview  with  get  this  engagement  over, 
d  verv  liberal  Brahmin  in  Guzerat,  i  "S'""  '»  see  me.    '   n  the  n 


:  the  book, 

;  a  learned  an 

whora  he  understood  to  trach  a  far  purer  mo  .„„^  ^„,,,^,„^  ^^^^. , 
rality  than  is  usually  enjoined  by  his  brethren,  p^p^p  ,o  (Jq  .  j,nd  his 
and  also  to  discountenance  the  distinction  of" 


672 


IVnSCELLANEOUS. 


The  conference  is  too  long  to  extract,  but 
it  is  very  curious -■  though  the  result  fell  some- 
thing short  of  what  the  worthy  Bishop,  in  the 
zeal  of  his  bene\olence,  had  anticipated. — 
We  should  now  leave  the  subject  of  the  au- 
thor's personal  character ;  but  it  shines  out  so 
strongly  in  the  account  of  the  sudden  death 
of  one  of  his  English  friends  and  fellow-tra- 
vellers, that  we  cannot  refrain  from  gratifying 
our  readers  and  ourselves  Avith  one  other  ex- 
tract. I\Ir.  Stowe,  the  individual  alluded  to, 
died  after  a  short  illness  at  Dacca.  The  day 
after  his  burial,  the  Bishop  writes  to  his  wife 
as  follows: — 

"  Sincerely  as  I  have  mourned,  and  do  mourn 
him  continually,  the  moment  perhaps  at  which  I 
(ell  his  loss  most  keenly  was  on  my  return  to  this 
house.  I  had  ah\  ays  after  airings,  or  other  short 
absences,  been  accusionied  to  run  up  immediately 
to  his  room  to  ask  about  his  medicines  and  his 
nourishment,  to  find  if  he  had  wanted  any  thing 
during  my  absence,  and  to  tell  him  what  I  had  seen 
and  heard.  And  now,  ns  I  went  up  stairs,  I  felt 
most  painfully  that  the  object  of  my  solicitude  was 
gone,  and  that  there  was  nobody  now  to  derive 
comfort  or  help  from  my  romin;^,  or  whose  eyes 
would  faintly  sparkle  as  1"  opened  "the  door. 

"It  will  be  long  before  I  forget  the  guilelessness 
of  his  nature,  the  interest  which  he  felt  and  ex- 
pressed in  all  the  beautiful  and  sequestered  scenery 
which  we  passed  through  ;  his  anxiety  to  be  useful 
to  me  in  any  way  which  I  could  point  out  to  him, 
(he  was  indeed  very  useful,)  and  above  all,  the  un- 
affected pleasure  which  he  took  in  discussing  reli- 
gious subjects  ;  his  diliffence  in  siudying  the  Bible, 
and  the  fearless  humanity  with  which  he  examined 
the  case,  and  administered  to  the  wants,  of  nine 
poor  Hindoos,  the  crew  of  a  sali-barge,  whom,  as 
I  mentioned  in  my  Journal,  we  found  lying  sick 
together  of  a  jungle  fever,  unable  to  leave  the  place 
where  they  lay,  and  unaided  by  the  neighbouring 
villagers.  I  then  lililc  thought  how  soon  he  in  his 
turn  would  require  the  aid  he  gave  so  cheerfully." 

On  the  day  after,  he  writes  in  these  terms 
to  Miss  Stowe,  the  sister  of  his  departed 
friend : — 

"  With  a  heavy  heart,  my  dear  Miss  Stowe,  I 
send  you  the  enclosed  keys.  How  to  offer  you 
consolation  in  your  present  grief,  I  know  not  ;  for 
by  my  own  deep  sense  of  the  loss  of  an  excellent 
friend,  I  know  how  much  heavier  must  be  your 
burden.  Separation  of  one  kind  or  another  is.  in- 
deed, one  oi'  the  most  frequent  trials  to  which 
affectionate  hearts  are  exposed.  And  if  you  can 
only  regard  your  i)rother  as  removed  for  his  own 
advantage  to  a  distant  country,  you  will  find,  per- 
haps, some  of  that  misery  alleviated  under  which 
vou  are  now  suffering.  Had  you  remained  in  Eng- 
land when  he  came  out  hither,  you  would*  have 
been,  for  a  time,  divided  no  less  effectually  than 
you  are  now.  The  difference  of  hearing  from  him 
is  almost  all ;  and  though  you  now  have  not  that 
comfort,  ypt  even  without  hearing  from  him  you 
may  be  well  persuaded  (which  there  you  could  not 
sh^'ays  have  been)  that  he  is  well  and  happy ;  and, 
above  all,  you  may  br  persuaded,  as  yourdear  bro- 
ther was  most  fully  in  his  time  of  severest  suffering, 
that  God  never  smites  liis  children  in  vain,  or  out 
of  cruelty.' 

"  So  long  as  you  choose  to  remain  with  us,  we 
will  be,  to  our  power,  a  sister  and  a  brother  to  you. 
And  if  may  be  worth  your  consideraiion  whether, 
in  your  presenl  s'aic  of  health  and  spirits,  a  jour- 
ney, in  my  wife's  society,  will  not  br  hotter  for  you 
than  a  dreary  voyage  liome.  Biii  this  is  a  point 
on  which  you  mu«t  Heciifo  for  yourself;  I  would 
scarcely  vcniure  to  advis^',  far  less  dictate,  where  I 


am  only  anxious  to  serve.  In  my  dear  Emily  you 
will  already  have  had  a  most  affectionate  and  sen- 
sible counsellor." 


0< 


fP 


^0 


j|jli«tfl 


if  ike' 


111(11^' 


We  dare  not  venture  on  any  part,  either  of 
the  descriptions  of  scenery  and  antiquities,  or 
of  the  persons  and  presentations  at  she  several) 
native  courts.  But  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
recommending  them  as  by  far  the  best  and 
most  interesting,  in  both  sorts,  that  we  have 
ever  met  with.  The  account  of  his  journey- 
ings  and  adventures  in  the  mountain  region  at  i  mffv-- 
the  foot  of  the  Himalaya  is  peculiarly  striking,  ij  Jp*!" 
from  the  affecting  resemblance  the  author  is  *  ''*^''''''* 
continually  tracing  to  the  scenery  of  his  be- 
loved England,  his  more  belovecl  Wales,  or  ' 
his  most  beloved  Hodnet !  Of  the  natives, 
in  all  their  order.s.  he  is  a  most  indulgent  ana  '> 
liberal  judge,  as  well  as  a  very  exact  observer,  i 
He  estimates  their  civilisjition  higher,  we  < 
think,  than  any  other  traveller  who  has  given  I 
an  account  of  them,  and  is  very  much  stmqk  ; 
with  the  magnificence  of  their  architecture — 
though  very  sceptical  as  to  the  high  antiquity 
to  which  some  of  its  finest  specimens  pretend. 
We  cannot  afibrd  to  give  any  of  the  splendid 
and  luminous  descriptions  in  which  the  work 
abounds.     In  a  private  letter  he  says, — 


"  I  had  heard  much  of  the  airy  and  gaudy  style 
of  Oriental  architecture  ;  a  notion,  I  apprehend, 
taken  from  that  of  China  only,  since  solidny,solein* 
niiy,  and  a  richness  of  ornament,  so  well  managed 
as  not  to  interlere  with  solemnity,  are  ihc  charac- 
teristics of  all  the  ancient  buildings  which  I  have 
met  with  in  this  country.  1  recollect  no  correspondi 
ing  pans  of  Windsor  at  all  equal  to  the  entrance 
of  the  castle  of  Delhi  and  its  marble  hall  of  au- 
dience ;  and  even  Delhi  falls  very  short  of  Agra  In 
situation,  in  mnjesiy  of  outline,  in  size,  and  the 
costliness  and  beauty  of  its  apartments." 

The  followmig  is  a  summary  of  his  opinion 
of  the  people,  which  follows  in  the  same  letter: 

"  Of  the  people,  so  far  as  iheir  natural  character 
is  concerned,  I  have  been  led  lo  torm.  on  the  whole, 
a  very  favourable  opinion.  They  have,  unhappily, 
many  of  the  vices  arising  from  slavery,  fiom  an  un*' 
settled  state  of  society,  and  immoral  and  crroneou» 
systems  of  religion.  But  they  are  men  of  hi^h  and 
gallant  courage,  courteous,  intelligent,  and  mort 
eager  after  knowledge  and  improvement,  with  a  re- 
markable aptitude  (or  the  abstract  sciences,  geome- 
try, astronomy,  &c.,  and  for  the  imitative  arts, 
painting  and  sculpture.  They  are  sober,  indus- 
trious, dutiful  to  their  parents,  and  affectionaie  to 
their  children,  of  tempers  almost  uniformly  gentle 
and  patient,  and  more  easily  affected  by  kindness 
and  attention  to  (heir  wants  and  feelings  th;m  almost 
any  men  whom  I  have  met  wiih.  Their  faults 
seem  to  arise  from  the  hateful  supersiiiionsio  which 
they  are  subject,  and  the  unfavourable  state  of 
society  in  which  they  are  placed. 

"  More  has  been  done,  and.moie  successfully,  to 
obviate  these  evils  in  the  Presidency  of  Bombay, 
than  in  any  part  of  India  which  I  have  vet  visited, 
through  the  wise  and  liberal  policy  of  Mr.  Elphin- 
stone  ;  to  whom  this  side  of  the  Peninsula  is  also 
indebted  for  some  very  important  and  efficient  im- 
provements in  the  administration  of  justice,  and 
who.  both  in  amiable  lempHr  and  munncrs.  exten- 
sive and  various  infnrmaiion,  acute  good  sense, 
enemy,  and  application  to  business,  is  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  men,  as  he  is  quite  the  most 
popular  governor,  that  I  have  fallen  \n  with." 

The  following  is  also  very  important ;  and 
gives  more   new  and    valuable   information 


llicieteii 

.. ,  9 
iwijii 

d 


litiill' 


BISHOP  HEBER'S  INDIA. 


673 


t  n  many  prptending  volumes,  by  men  who 
h>e  been  half  their  lives  in  the  countries  to 
vich  they  relate  : — 

}'  Of  the  people  of  this  country,  and  the  manner 
ijivhich  they  are  governed,  I  have,  us  yet,  liardly 
Bin  enoiigli  to  form  an  opinion.  I  have  seen 
e^iugh,  however,  to  find  that  the  customs,  the 
l;)ils,  and  prejudices  of  the  former  are  much  mis- 
ulerstood  in  England.  We  have  all  heard,  for 
iiiance,  of  the  humanity  of  the  Hindoos  towards 
tite  creatures,  their  horror  of  animal  food,  &,c. ; 
si  you  may  be,  perhaps,  as  much  surprised  as  I 
\s,  10  find  that  those  who  can  aflbrd  it  are  hardly 
I's  carnivorous  than  ourselves ;  that  even  the 
j-est  Braiimins  are  allowed  to  eat  mutton  and 
vjjson  ;  that  fish  is  permitted  to  many  castes,  and 
j:-k  to  many  others  ;  and  that,  thoui,'h  they  con- 
fer it  a  grievous  crime  to  kill  a  cow  or  bulloci< 
t  the  purpose  of  eating,  yet  they  treat  their  draft 
(>n,  no  less  than  their  horses,  with  a  degree  of 
Ibarous  severity  which  would  turn  an  English 
l>kney  coachman  sick.  Nor  have  their  religious 
j'judices,  and  the  unchangeablencss  of  their  habits, 
hn  less  exaggerated.  Some  of  the  best  informed 
(iheir  nation,  with  whom  I  have  conversed,  assure 
V  that  half  their  most  remarkable  customs  of  civil 
id  domestic  life  are  borrowed  from  their  Mahom- 
[idan  conquerors  ;  and  at  present  there  is  an  ob- 
'•us  and  increasing  disposition  to  imitate  the  Eng- 
t[:i  in  every  thing,  which  has  already  led  to  very 
inarkabie  changes,  and  will,  probal)Iy,  to  still 
j)re  important.  The  wealthy  natives  now  all 
.Ject  to  have  their  houses  decorated  with  Corin- 
jan  pillars,  and  filled  with  English  furniture.  They 
;:ve  the  best  horses  and  the  most  dashing  carriages 
Calcutta.  Many  of  them  speak  English  fluently, 
d  are  tolerably  read  in  English  literature  ;  and 
'i  children  of  one  of  our  friends  I  saw  one  day 
essed  in  jackets  and  trousers,  with  round  hats, 
;oes  and  stockings.  In  the  Bengalee  newspapers, 
I  which  there  are  two  or  three,  politics  are  can- 
jssed,  with  a  bias,  as  I  am  told,  inclining  to  Whig- 
ivn  ;  and  one  of  their  leading  men  gave  a  great 
mer  not  long  since  in  honour  of  the  Spanish  Revo- 
lion.  Among  the  lower  orders  the  satne  feeling 
jOws  itself  more  beneficially,  in  a  growing  neg- 
;:t  of  casle — in  not  merely  a  willingness,  but  an 
.\ieiy,  to  send  their  children  to  our  schools,  and 
desire  to  learn  and  speak  English,  which,  if 
.operly  encouraged,  might,  I  verily  believe,  in 
jy  years'  time,  make  our  language  what  the 
nrdoo,  or  court  and  camp  language  of  the  country 
jie  Hiiidosianee),  is  at  present.  And  though  in- 
|ance8  of  aciual  conversion  to  Christianity  are,  as 
I'.i,  very  uncommon,  yet  the  number  of  children, 
j)th  male  and  female,  who  are  now  receiving  a  sort 
;  Christian  education,  reading  the  New  Testa- 
'.ent,  repeating  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  Comniand- 
leiils,  and  ,all  with  the  consent,  or  at  least  without 
ie  censure,  of  their  parents  or  spiritual  guides, 
ave  increased,  during  the  last  two  years,  to  an 
Inount  which  astonishes  the  old  European  rcsi- 
;;nis,  who  were  used  to  tremble  at  the  name  of  a 
ilissionary,  and  shrink  from  the  common  duties  of 
ihristianiiy,  lest  they  should  give  offence  to  their 
!?athen  neisfhbours.  So  far  from  that  being  a  con- 
!qiience  of  the  zeal  which  has  been  lately  shown, 
lany  of  the  Brahmins  themselves  express  admira- 
on  of  the  morality  of  the  Gospel,  and  profess  to 
itertain  a  better  opinion  of  the  English  since  they 
.ave  found  that  they  too  have  a  religion  and  a  Shas- 
JT.  All  that  seems  necessary  for  the  best  effocis 
')  follnsv  is,  to  let  things  take  their  course  ;  to  make 
;ie  Missionaries  discreet  ;  to  keep  the  government 
5  it  now  is,  strictly  naiter  ;  and  to  place  our  confi- 
ence  in  a  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and  in 
taking  ourselves  really  useful  to  the  temporal  as 
'ell  as  spiritual  interests  of  the  people  among  whom 
'6  live. 

"In  all  these  points  there  is,  indeed,  great  room 

)r  iiTiprovement :  But  I  do  not  by  any  means  as- 

85 


sent  to  tiie  pictures  of  depravity  and  general  worth- 
lessness  which  some  have  drawn  ot  the  Hindoos. 
They  are  decidedly,  by  nature,  a  mild,  plea-sine, 
and  intelhgeitt  race;  sober,  parsimonious,  and, 
where  an  object  is  iield  out  to  them,  most  yidus- 
irious  and  persevering.  But  tiie  magistruies  and 
lawyers  nil  agree  that  in  no  country  are  lying  and 
perjury  so  common,  and  so  little  regarded  ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  apparent  mildness  of  tiicir  man- 
ners, the  criminal  calendar  is  generally  as  full  as  m 
Ireland,  with  gang-robberies,  settinj^  fire  to  build- 
ings, slacks,  &,c.;  and  the  number  ot  children  who 
are  decoyed  aside  and  murdered,  for  the  sake  of 
their  ornaments,  Lord  .\mherst  assures  ine,  is 
dreadful." 

We  may  ackl  the  following  direct  testimony 
on  a  point  of  some  little  curiosity,  which  has 
been  alternately  denied  and  exaggerated  : — 

"  At  Broach  is  one  of  those  remarkable  institu- 
tions which  have  made  a  good  deal  of  noise  in  Eu- 
rope, as  instances  of  Hindoo  benevolence  to  inferior 
animals.  I  mean  hospitals  for  sick  and  infirm 
beasts,  birds,  and  insects.  I  was  not  able  to  visit 
it;  but  Mr.  Corsellis  described  it  as  a  very  dirty 
and  neglected  place,  which,  though  it  has  consider- 
able endowments  in  land,  only  serves  to  enrich 
the  Brahmins  who  manage  it.  They  have  really 
animals  of  several  different  kinds  there,  not  only 
those  which  are  accounted  sacred  by  the  Hindoos, 
as  monkeys,  peacocks,  <.tc.,  but  horses,  dogs,  and 
cats;  and  they  have  also,  in  little  boxes,  an  assort- 
ment of  lice  and  fleas  I  It  is  not  true,  however, 
that  they  feed  those  pensioners  on  the  flesh  of  beg- 
gars hired  for  the  purpose.  The  Brahmins  say  that 
these  insects,  as  well  as  the  other  inmates  of  their 
infirmary,  are  fed  with  vegetables  only,  such  as 
rice.  &c.  How  the  insects  thrive,  I  did  not  hear; 
but  the  old  horses  and  dogs,  nay  the  peacocks  and 
apes,  are  allowed  to  starve  ;  and  the  only  creatures 
said  to  be  in  any  tolerable  plight  are  some  milch 
cows,  which  may  be  kept  from  other  motives  than 
charity." 

He  adds  afterwards, — 

"  I  have  not  been  led  to  believe  that  our  Govern- 
ment is  generally  popular,  or  advancing  towards 
popularity.  It  is,  perhaps,  impossible  that  we  should 
be  so  in  any  great  degree  ;  yet  I  really  think  there 
are  some  causes  of  discontent  which  it  is  in  our 
own  power,  and  which  it  is  our  duty  to  remove  or 
diminish.  One  of  these  is  the  distance  and  haugh- 
tiness with  which  a  very  large  proportion  of  the 
civil  and  military  servants  of  the  Company  treat 
the  upper  and  middling  class  of  natives.  Against 
their  mixing  much  with  us  in  society,  there  are  cer- 
tainly many  hindrances  ;  though  even  their  objec- 
tion to  eating  with  us  might,  so  far  as  the  Mussul- 
mans are  concerned,  I  think,  he  conquered  by  any 
popular  man  in  the  upper  provinces,  who  made  the 
attempt  in  a  right  way.  But  there  are  some  of  our 
amusements,  such  as  private  theatrical  entertain- 
ments and  the  sports  of  the  field,  in  which  thev 
would  be  delighted  to  share,  and  invitations  to  w  hich 
would  be  regarded  by  them  as  extremely  flattering, 
if  they  were  not,  perhaps  with  some  reason,  voted 
bores,  and  treated  accordingly.  The  French,  under 
Perron  and  Des  Boigncs,  who  in  more  serious  mat- 
ters left  a  very  bad  name  behind  them,  had,  in  this 
particular,  a  great  advantage  over  us  ;  and  the  easy 
and  friendly  intercourse  in  which  they  lived  with 
natives  of  rank,  is  still  often  regretted  in  Agra  and 
the  Dooab.  This  is  not  all,  however.  Tlie  iboli.^h 
pride  of  the  English  absolutely  leads  them  to  set  at 
nought  the  injunctions  of  their  own  Government. 
The  Tussildars,  for  instance,  or  principal  active 
officers  of  revenue,  ought,  by  an  order  of  council, 
to  have  chairs  always  oti'ered  them  in  the  presence 
of  their  European  superiors;  and  the  same,  by  the 
standing  orders  of  the  army,  should  be  done  to  the 
Soubahdars.  Yet  there  are  hardly  six  collectors  in 
3G 


674 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


India  who  observe  the  former  etiquette :  and  the  '  tion  of  Justice  :  especially  in  the  local  or  di 
latter,  which  was  fitteen  years  ago  never  omiitcd    trict  courts,  called  AdauluU  which  the  cost] 
jn  the  army   .s  now  completely  in  d:su9e.     At  the    j^^^,  ^nd  intricacy  of  the  proceedings,  and  tbi  i-n  ^^ 
same  time,  the  regulations  of  which   1  speak   are  ,,        •   ^      .     •'■         r  .u    n       •       r  ■      ,. 

known  to  ;very  Tuss.ldar  and  Soubahdar  in  India,  needless  mtroductjon  of  the  Persian  languagi,  «««^5' 
and  they  feel  themselves  aggrieved  every  time  ,  have  made  sources  ot  great  practical  oppret  ^iisi^ 
these  civilities  are  neglected."  |  sion,  and  objects  of  general  e.xecration  throng^    ^jltfi-', 

I  out  the  country.     At  the  Bombay  Presidenc    ^^' 
Of  the  state  of  the  Schools,  and  of  Education  ;  Mr.  Elphinstone  has  discarded  the  Persia,    -jjlfis'* 
in  general,  he  speaks  rather  favourably;  and  j  and  appointed  every  thing  to  be  done  in tkHneli'*^. 
is  very  desirous  that,  without  any  direct  at-        "  ' 

tempt' at  conversion,  the  youth  should  be  ge- 
nerally exposed  to  the  humanising  influence 
of  the  New  Testament  morality,  by  the  gene- 
ral introduction  of  that  holy  book,  as  a  lesson 
book  in  the  schools:  a  matter  to  which  he 
states  positively  that  the  natives,  and  even 
their  Brahminical  pastors,  have  no  sort  of  ob- 
jection. Talking  of  a  female  school,  lately 
established  at  Calcutta,  under  the  charge  of  a 
very  pious  and  difecreet  lady,  he  observes,  that 

''RhadacantDeb,  one  of  the  wealthiest  natives    the  most  engaging  example  of  devotion 
in  Calcutta,  and  reg-arded  as  the  most  austere    God  and  good-will  to  man;  and,  touchin 
and  orthodox  of  the  worshippers  of  the  Ganges,    object  with  the  light  of  a  clear  judgment  va^^t 
bade,  some  time  since,  her  pupils  go  on  and    a  pure  heart,  exhibits  the  rare  spectacle  of"     toan 

work  written  by  a  priest  upon  religious  creeo  ^jjil 
and  establishments,  without  a  shade  of  ii  ujljue 
tolerance;  and  bringing  under  review  tb  t^^f. 
characters  of  a  vast  multitude  of  eminent " 
dividuals,  without  one  trait  either  of  sa: 
or  adulation. 


ordinary  language  of  the  place.  '  ^\(& 

And  here  we  are  afraid  we  must  take  lea?,  ^alp' 

of  this  most  instructive  and  delightful  publ  ((irtW: 

cation ;  which  we  confidently  recommend  I  i,j«i!i« 

our  readers,  not  only  as  more  likely  to  anuy  iifulei 

them  than  any  book  of  travels  with  whichw  f^ 

are  acquainted,  but  as  calculated  to  enligbtsi  0^ 

their  understandings,  and  to  touch  their  aeni  Sbe*^ 

with  a  purer  flame  than  they  generally  cal|  Uii 

from  most  professed  works  of  philosophy  c  '^(ii 

devotion.     It  sets  before  us,  in  every  pag  ^j^k 


prosper;  and  added,  that  'if  they  practised 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  as  well  as  they  re- 

f)eated  it.  he  would  choose  all  the  handmaids 
or  his  daughters,  and  his  wives,  from  the 
English  school.' " 
He  is  far  less  satisfied  with  the  administra- 


(ODctobcr,  1S24.) 

1.  Sketches  oj  India.    Written  by  an  Officer,  for  Fire-Side  Travellers  at  Home 

Edition,  with  Alterations.     8vo.  pp.  358.     London:   1824. 

2.  Scenes  and  Impressions  in  Egypt  and  Italy.     By  the  Author  of  Sketches  of  India; 

Recollections  of  the  Peninsula.     Svo.  pp.  452.     London:  1824. 


These  are  very  amiable  books  : — and,  be- 
sides the  good  sentiments  they  contain,  they 
are  very  pleasing  specimens  of  a  sort  of  travel- 
writing,  to  which  we  have  often  regretted 
that  so  few  of  those  who  roam  loose  about  the 
world  will  now  condescend — vre  mean  a  brief 
and  simple  notice  of  what  a  person  of  ordinary 
information  and  common  sensibility  may  see 
and  feel  in  passing  through  a  new  country, 
which  he  visits  without  any  learned  prepara- 
tion, and  traverses  without  any  particular  ob- 
ject. There  are  individuals,  no  doubt,  who 
travel  to  better  purpose,  and  collect  more 
weighty  information — exploring,  and  record- 
ing as  they  go,  according  to  their  several 
habits  and  measures  of  learning,  the  mineral- 
ogy, antiquities,  or  statistics  of  the  different 
regions  they  survey.  But  the  greater  part, 
even  of  intelligent  wanderers,  are  neither  so 
ambitious  in  their  designs,  nor  so  industrious 
in  their  e.vecution ; — and,  as  most  of  those 
who  travel  for  pleasure,  and  find  pleasure  in 
travelling,  are  found  to  decline  those  tasks, 
which  might  enrol  them  among  the  contribu- 
tors to  science,  while  they  turned  all  their 
movements  into  occasions  of  laborious  study, 
it  seems  reasonable  to  think  that  a  lively  and 
succinct  account  of  what  actually  delighted 


fpil 


i. 
them,  will  be  more  generally  agreeable 
a  digest  of  the  information  they  might  ba|H|ip"j 
acquired.   We  would  by  no  means  undervah[( 
the  researches  of  more  learned  and  laborim 
persons,  especially  in  countries  rarely  visited 
But,  for  common   readers,  their  discus  ' 
require  too  much  previous   knowledge, 
too  painful  an  effort  of  attention.     Theyai 
not  books  of  travels,  in  short,  but  works  cj 

cience  and  philosophy ;  and  as  the  princijn 
delight  of  travelling  consists  in  the  impresBiOE 
which  we  receive,  almost  passively,  from  til 
presentment  of  new  objects,  and  the  reft 
tions  to  which  they  spontaneously  give  f'^^^^ 
so  the  most  delightful  books  of  travels  shoulj     l  ^r 
be  those  that  give  us  back  those  impressioDj     ^  . 

their  first  freshness  and  simplicity,  and  ej 
cite  us  to  follow  out  the  train  of  feelings  an 
retlection  into  which  they  lead  us,  by  the  d 
rect  and  unpretending  manner  in  which  the      .  , 
are  suggested.     By  aiming  too  ambitiouslyJi     ^!* 

nsti-uction  and  research,  this  charm  is  IobiHl.* 
and  we  often  close  these  copious  dissertalioi 
and  details,  needlessly  digested  in  the  for  ^^ 
of  a  journal,  without  having  the  least  idc      ^^ 
how  ve.  or  any  other  ordinary  person,  wouj      Jl« 
have  felt  as  companions  of  the  journey— thi 
roughly  convinced,  certainly;  that  we  8lionl| 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


675 


nofaave  occupied  ourselves  as  the  writers 
be  e  us  seem  to  have  been  occu|)io(! :  and 
pn  y  well  satisfied,  after  all.  that  they  them- 
sebs  were  not  so  occupied  during  the  most 
ag  cable  hours  of  their  wanderings,  and  hud 
on  ted  in  their  books  what  they  ^^■ouid  most 
fre  lently  recall  in  their  moments  of  enjoy- 
rtiit  and  leisure. 

,  ,or  are  thesis  records  of  superficial  obser- 
vpm  to  bo  disdained  as  productive  of  enter- 
tafnent  only,  or  altogether  barren  of  instruc- 
tio  Very  often  the  surface  presents  all  that 
is  ally  worth  considering — or  all  that  we  are 
cabbie  of  understanding ; — and  our  observer, 
wiare  taking  it  for  granted,  is,  though  no 
gr  t  philosopher,  an  intelligent  and  educated 
m: — looking  curiously  at  all  that  presents 
itff;  and  making  such  passing  inquiries  as 
in'  satisfy  a  reasonable  curio.sity,  without 
grtly  disturbing  his  indolence  or  delaying 
hi  progress.  Many  themes  of  reflection  and 
toes  of  interest  will  be  thus  suggested,  which 
me  elaborate  and  exhausting  discussions 
w.ld  have  strangled  in  the  birth — while,  in 
th  variety  and  brevity  of  the  notices  which 
set  a  scheme  of  writing  implies,  the  mind 
of  he  reader  is  not  only  move  agreeably  ex- 
ci.l;  but  is  furnished,  in  the  long  run,  with 
me  materials  for  thinking,  and  solicited  to 
me  lively  reflections,  than  by  any  quantity 
ofj.vact  knowledge  on  plants,  stones,  ruins, 
miufactures.  or  history. 

uch,  at  all  events,  is  the  merit  and  the 
clrm  of  the  volumes  before  us.  They  place 
UiUt  once  by  the  side  of  the  author — and 
bug  before  our  eyes  and  minds  the  scenes 
hi.'ias  passed  through,  and  the  feelings  they 
61  jested.  In  this  last  particular,  indeed,  we 
at  entirely  at  his  mercy;  and  we  are  afraid 
h  sometimes  makes  rather  an  unmerciful 
u  of  his  power.  It  is  one  of  the  hazards 
or.hisway  of  writing,  that  it  binds  us  up  in 
tl  strictest  intimacy  and  closest  companion- 
8b  with  the  author.  Its  attraction  is  in  its 
d;;ct  personal  sympathy — and  its  danger  in 
tl*  temptation  it  holds  out  to  abuse  it.  Ii 
elbles  us  to  share  the  grand  spectacles  with 
vich  the  traveller  is  delighted — but  compels 
ii;in  a  manner  to  share  also  in  the  sentiments 
v'h  which  he  is  pleased  to  connect  them. 
t'  the  privilege  of  seeing  with  his  eyes,  we 
n'st  generally  renounce  that  of  using  our 
ojn  judgment  —  and  submit  to  adopt  im- 
fijitly  the  tone  of  feeling  which  he  has  found 
r  St  congenial  with  the  scene. 

Dn  the  present  occasion,  we  must  say,  the 
r.der,  on  the  whole,  has  been  fortunate, 
■^'e  author,  though  an  officer  in  the  King's 
£  vice,  and  not  without  professional  predi- 
Itions,  is,  generally  speaking,  a  speculative, 
mtimental,  saintly  sort  of  person — with  a 
1;te  for  the  picturesque,  a  singularly  poeti- 
(;.  cast  qf  diction,  and  a  mind  deeply  imbued 
'th  principles  of  philanthropy  and  habits  of 
i'ection  : — And  if  there  is  something  of  fa- 
iise  now  and  then  in  his  sentiments,  and 
mething  of  affectation  in  his  style,  it  is  no 
;)re  than  we  can  easily  forgive,  in  con- 
deration  of  his  brevity,  his  amiableness,  and 

riety. 


•  The  "  Sketches  of  India,"  a  loose-printed 
octavo  of  350  pages,  is  the  least  interesting 
perhaps  of  the  t\\o  volumes  now  before  us — 
though  sufficiently  marked  with  all  that  is 
characteristic  of  the  author.  It  may  be  as 
well  to  let  him  begin  at  the  beginning. 

"  On  ihe  nliornoon  of  July  ilie  lOih,  1818,  our 
vcs.^el  clr^ippid  anchor  in  Madras  Road.s,  aficr  a  fine 
run  of  tliree  nioiiths  and  leii  days  from  tlie  Moiher- 
baiik. — How  changed  ihe  scene  !  how  great  the 
contrast ! — Rydc,  and  its  little  snug  dwellincs,  with 
slated  or  i hatched  roofs,  its  neat  gardens,  its  green 
and  slopiiiii  shores.  —  Madras  and  iis  naked  fort, 
noble-looking  buildings,  tall  colutnns,  lofty  veran- 
dahs, and  terraced  roofs.  The  city,  large  and 
crowded,  on  a  flat  site  ;  a  low  sandy  beach,  and  a 
foaming  surf.  The  roadstead,  there,  alive  with 
beautiful  yachts,  light  wherries,  and  light-built 
fishinsr  barks.  Here,  black,  shapeless  Massoolah 
boats,  with  their  naked  crews,  singing  the  same 
wild  (yet  not  unpleasing)  air,  to  which,  for  ages, 
the  dangerous  surf  they  fearlessly  ply  over  has  been 
rudely  responsive. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  sweet  and  strange  sen- 
sations which,  as  I  went  peacefully  forward,  the  new 
objects  in  nature  excited  in  my  bosom.  The  rich 
broad-leaved  plantain;  the  gracefully  drooping 
bamboo;  the  cocoa  nut,  with  that  mat-iike-looking 
binding  for  every  branch;  the  branches  themselves 
waving  with  a  feathery  motion  in  the  wind  ;  the 
bare  lofty  trunk  and  fan-leaf  of  the  tall  palm  ;  the 
slender  and  elegant  stem  of  the  areca ;  the  large 
aloes;  the  prickly  pear;  the  stalely  banian  with 
drop-branches,  here  fibrous  and  pliant,  there  strong 
and  columnar,  supporting  its  giant  arms,  and  torni- 
ing  around  the  parent  stem  a  grove  of  beauty  ;  and 
among  these  wonders,  birds,  all  strange  in  plumage 
and  in  note,  save  the  parroquet  (at  home,  the  lady's 
pet-bird  in  a  gilded  cage),  here  spreading  his  bright 
green  wings  in  happy  fearless  flight,  and  giving  his 
natural  and  tintaught  scream. 

"  It  was  late  and  dark  when  we  reached  Poona- 
mallee  ;  and  durin?  the  latter  part  of  our  march  we 
had  heavy  rain.  We  found  no  fellow-countryman 
to  welcome  us:  Rut  the  mess-room  was  open  and 
lighted,  a  table  laid,  and  a  crowd  of  smart,  roguish- 
looking  natives,  seemed  waiting  our  arrival  to  seek 
service  — Drenched  to  the  skin,  without  changes  of 
linen,  or  any  bedding,  we  sat  down  to  the  repast 
provided  ;  and  it  would  have  been  diflrcult  to  have 
found  in  India,  perhaps,  at  the  mimient,  a  more 
cheerful  pariv  than  ours. — Four  or  five  clean-look- 
ing natives,  in  white  dresses,  with  red  or  white 
tnrhan.^,  ear-ring?  of  gold,  or  with  emerald  drops, 
and  large  silver  signet  rinss  on  their  fingers,  crowded 
roiuid  each  chair,"ai!d  watched  our  every  glance,  to 
anticipate  our  wishes.  Curries,  vegetables,  and 
fruits,  all  new  to  us,  were  lasted  and  pronounced 
upon  ;  and  after  a  meal,  of  which  every  one  seemed 
to  partake  with  grateful  good  humour,  we  lay  down 
for  the  night.  One  attendant  brought  a  small  carpet, 
arioiher  a  mat,  others  again  a  sheet  or  covmterpane, 
till  all  were  provided  with  something;  and  thus 
closed  our  first  evening  in  India.  —  The  morning 
scene  was  very  ludicrous.  Here,  a  barber  tmcalled 
for,  was  shaving  a  man  as  hesiill  lay  dozing  I  there, 
another  was  cracking  the  joints  of  a  man  half 
dressed  ;  here  were  two  servants,  one  pouring  water 
on,  the  other  washing,  a  Saheb's  hands.  In  spite 
of  my  efforts  to  prevent  them,  two  well-dressed 
men  were  washing  my  feel  ;  and  near  me  was  a 
lad  dexterously  putting  on  the  clothes  of  a  sleepy 
brother  officer,  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant  imder 
his  care  I — There  was  much  in  all  this  to  amuse 
the  mind,  and  a  great  deal,  T  confess,  to  pain  the 
heart  of  a  free-born  Englishman." 

Skttches  of  India,  pp.  3—10. 

With  all  this  profusion  of  attendance,  the 
march  of  a  British  officer  in  India  seems  a 
matter  rather  of  luxury  than  fatigue. 


676 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  Marching  in  this  country  is  certainly  pleasant ; 
although  perhaps  you  rise  too  early  for  comfort. 
An  hour  before  daybreak  you  mount  your  horse ; 
and,  travelling  at  an  easy  pace,  reach  your  ground 
before  the  sun  has  any  power ;  and  find  a  -small 
tent  pitched  with  Ureakfast  ready  on  the  table. — 
Your  large  tent  follows  with  couch  and  baggage, 
carried  by  bullocks  and  coolies  ;  and  before  nme 
o'clock,  you  may  be  washed,  dressed,  and  em- 
ployed with  your  books,  pen,  or  pencil.  Mats, 
made  of  the  fragrant  roots  of  the  Cuscus  grass,  are 
hung  before  the  doors  of  your  lent  to  witidward  ; 
and  being  constant  wetted,  admit,  during  the  hottest 
winds,  a  cool  refreshing  air. 

"  While  our  forelathcrs  were  clad  in  wolf-skin, 
dwelt  in  caverns,  and  lived  upon  the  produce  of 
the  chase,  the  Hindoo  lived  as  now.  As  now,  his 
pnnces  were  clothed  in  soft  raiment,  wore  jewelled 
turbans,  and  dwelt  in  palaces.  As  now,  hia  haughty 
half-naked  priests  received  his  offerings  in  temples 
of  hewn  and  sculptured  granite,  and  summoned  him 
to  rites  as  absurd,  but  yet  more  splendid  and  de- 
bauching, than  the  present.  His  cottage,  garments, 
household  utensils,  and  implements  of  hiJsl)andry 
or  labour,  the  same  as  now.  Then,  too.  he  wa- 
tered the  ground  with  his  foot,  by  means  of  a  plank 
balanced  transversely  on  a  loi'ty  pole,  or  drew  from 
the  deep  bowerie  by  the  labour  of  his  o.xen,  in  large 
bags  of  leather,  supplies  of  wa'er  to  flow  through 
the  little  channels  by  which  their  fields  and  gardens 
are  intersected.  His  children  were  then  taught  to 
shape  letters  in  the  sand,  and  to  write  and  keep 
accounts  on  the  dried  leaves  of  the  palm,  by  the 
village  schoolmaster.  His  wife  ground  corn  at  the 
same  mill,  or  pounded  it  in  a  rude  mortar  with  her 
neighbour.  He  could  make  purchases  in  a  regular 
bazaar,  change  .money  at  a  shroff's,  or  borrow  it 
at  usury,  tor  the  expenses  of  a  wedding  or  festival. 
In  short,  all  the  traveller  sees  around  him  of  social 
or  civilized  life,  of  useful  invention  or  luxurious 
refinenipot,  is  of  yet  higher  antiquity  than  the  days 
of  Ale.xander  the  Great.  So  that,  in  fact,  the  eye 
of  the  British  oflicer  looks  upon  the  same  forms  aiid 
dresses,  the  same  buildings,  maimers,  and  customs, 
on  which  the  Macedonian  tro')i)s  gazed  with  the 
same  astonishment  two  thousand  years  ago." 

Sketches  of  India,  pp.  23— 26. 

If  the  traveller  proceeds  in  a  palanquin,  his 
comforts  are  not  les.s  amply  provided  for. 

"  You  generally  set  off  after  dark  ;  and,  habited 
in  loose  di-awcrs  and  a  dressing  gown,  recline  at 
full  length  and  slumber  away  the  night.  If  yon 
are  wakeful,  you  tnay  liraw  back  the  sliding  panel 
of  a  lamp  fixed  behind,  and  read.  Your  clothes 
are  packed  in  large  neat  baskets,  covered  with 
green  oil-cloth,  and  carried  by  palanquin  boys;  two 
pws  will  contain  two  dozen  complete  changes. 
Your  palanquin  is  fitied  up  with  pockets  and 
drawers.  You  can  carry  in  it,  without  trouble,  a 
writing  desk  and  two  or  three  books,  with  a  few 
canteen  conveniences  for  your  meals, — and  thus 
you  may  be  comfortably  provided  for  many  hundred 
niiles'  travelling.  Yon  stop  for  half  an  hour,  morn- 
ing and  evening,  under  the  shade  of  a  tree,  to  wash 
and  take  r>freshment ;  throughout  the  day  read, 
think,  or  ga/,e  round  you.  The  relays  of  bearers 
lie  ready  every  ten  or  twelve  miles ;  and  the  aver- 
age of  your  run  is  about  four  iniles  an  hour." 

Ibid.  pp.  218,  219. 

We  cannot  make  room  for  his  descriptions, 
thouirh  e.xcellent,  of  the  villages,  the  tanks, 
the  forest — and  the  dresses  and  deportment 
of  the  different  classes  of  the  people  ;  but  we 
must  give  this  little  sketch  of  the  Elephant 
and  Camel. 

"  While  breakfast  was  getting  ready,  I  amused 
myself  wi:h  looking  at  a  baggage-elephant  and  a 
few  camels,  which  some  servants,  returning  with  a 


general's  tents  from  the  Deccan,  were  in  the  * 
of  loading.  The  intelligent  obedience  of  the  el(' 
phant  is  well  known ;  but  to  look  upon  this  hug 
and  powerful  monster  kneeling  down  at  the  mei 
bidding  of  the  human  voice  ;  and,  when  he  hi 
risen  again,  to  see  him  protrude  his  trunk  for  ih 
foot  of  his  mahout  or  attendant,  to  help  him  int 
his  seat ;  or,  bending  the  joiiu  of  his  hind  le. 
make  a  step  for  him  to  climb  up  behind ;  and  tlid 
if  any  loose  cloths  or  cords  fall  off,  with  a  dog-ljk 
docility  pick  them  up  with  his  proboscis  and  p' 
them  up  again,  will  delight  and  surprise  long  aht 
it  ceases  to  be  novel.  When  loaded,  this  ireatur 
broke  off  a  large  branch  froin  the  lofty  tree  ne? 
which  he  stood,  and  quietly  fanned  and  fly-tlappe 
himself,  with  all  the  nonchalance  of  an  indolfn 
woman  of  fashion,  till  the  camels  were  read\ 
These  animals  also  kneel  to  be  laden.  When  i 
motion,  ihey  h:ive  a  very  awkward  gait,  and  seet 
to  travel  at  a  much  slower  pace  than  they  real! 
do.  Their  tall  out-stretched  necks,  long  sinew 
limbs,  and  broad  spongy  feet, — their  he'ad  furn' 
tnre,  neck-bells,  and  the  rings  in  thfir  nosiriN 
with  their  lolty  loads,  and  a  driver  generally  onth 
top  ot  the  leading  one,  have  a  strange  appe.irance. 
Ibid.  pp.  -Jh— 43. 

We  must  add  the  following  verj-  clear  def 
cription  of  a  Pagoda' 

"  A  high,  solid  wall,  encloses  a  large  area  in  th 
form  of  an  oblong  square ;  at  one  end  is  the  gatt 
way,  above  which  is  raised  a  large  pyramidal  tower 
its  breadth  at  the  base  and  height  proportioned  i 
the  magnitude  of  the  pagoda.  This  tower  is  at 
cended  by  steps  in  the  inside,  and  divided  ini 
stories;  the  central  spaces  on  each  are  open,  aii 
smaller  as  the  tower  rises.  The  light  is  seen  d 
rectly  through  them,  producing,  at  times,  a  ver 
beautiful  effect,  as  when  a  fine  sky,  or  trees,  fort 
the  ba(;k  ground.  The  front,  sides,  and  top  of  th' 
gateway  and  tower,  are  crowded  with  sculpture 
elaborate,  but  tasteless.  A  few  yards  from  th 
gate,  on  the  outside,  you  often  see  a  lofty  octagoni 
stone  pillar,  or  a  square  open  building, 'siipporte 
by  tall  columns  of  stone,  with  the  figure  of  a  bu 
couchant,  sculptured  as  large,  or  much  larger  tha 
life,  beneath  it. 

"  Entering  the  gateway,  you  pass  into  a  spaciou 
paved  court,  in  the  centre  of  which  stands  the  innt 
temple,  raised  about  three  feet  from  the  grounti      -■' 
open,  and  supported  by  numerous  stone  pillars.  Aj  ■*'*''"''' 
enclosed  sanctuary  at  the  far  end  of  this  ceninlJl!*"*' 
building,  contains  the  idol.    Round  the  whole  coat'    "■*•'-'' 
runs  a  large  deep  verandah,  also  supported  by  co 
limns  of  stone,  the  front  rows  of  which  are  ofte 
shaped  by  tlie  sculptor  into  various  sacred  anima 
rampant,  rode  by  their  respective  deities.     Allth 
other  pans  of  the  pagoda,  walls,  basements,  ental 
laiures,  are  covered  with  imagery  and  ornament  c 
all  sizes,  in  alto  or  demi-relievo." 

The  following  description   and  reflection' 
among  the  ruins  of  Bijanagur,  the  last  capiti' 
of  the  last  Hindu  empire,  and  finally  ovei}^ 
thrown  in  1564,  are  characteristic  of  the  aij 
thor's  most  ambitious,  perhaps  most  questio 
able,  manner. 

"  You  cross  the  garden,  where  imprisoned  beautt 
once  strayed.  You  look  at  the  elephant-siablei 
the  remaining  gateway,  with  a  mind  busied  in  cmi 
juring  up  some  associations  of  luxury  and  magnifijl 
cence. — ."Sorrowfully  I  passed  on.  Every  stone  b«  i 
neath  my  feet  bore  the  mark  of  chisel,  or  of  hum*- 
skill  and  lalioiir.  You  tread  continually  on  step!- 
pavement,  pillar,  capital,  or  cornice  of  rude  relietj  i 
displaced,  or  fallen,  and  mingled  in  confusion.  Her«i 
large  masses  of  such  materials  have  already  forme,  < 
bush-covered  rocks, — there,  pagodas  are  stilhsland; 
ing  entire.  You  may  for  miles  tract  the  city  walb: 
and  can  often  discover,  by  the  fallen  pillars  of  thi 


iiii:i) 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


o77 


lo'  piazza,  where  it  has  been  adorned  by  sirccis 
of  iiconimon  widili.  One.  indeed,  yet  rem;tins 
m-ly  perfect;  at  one  end  of  it  a  few  poor  ryots, 
■jf  coiiirive  lo  cultivate  S'Utic  patolies  of  rice,  col- 
to'or  sugar-cane,  in  dcia  lied  spots  near  the  river, 
Ijf  fitnncd  niud-d\vo!lin2s  under  the  piazza. 

While,  with  a  mind  thus  occupied,  you  pass  on 
fhusih  !his  wilderness  ihe  desolating  judgments 
oniiier  renowned  cities,  so  solemnly  foretold,  so 
dt.dhilly  fulfilled,  rise  naturally  to  your  recollec- 
ti(.  I  climbed  the  very  loftiest  rock  at  day-break, 
01  he  morrow  of  my  first  visit  to  the  niiiis,  by  rude 
ai  broken  steps,  windins  between  and  over  im- 
mise  and  detached  masses  of  sione ;  and  seated 
ir^elf  near  a  small  pagoda,  at  the  very  summit. 
Fill  hence  I  commanded  the  whole  extent  of  what 
w  once  a  city,  described  by  Ca?sar  Kredirick  as 
t\niy-four  miles  in  circumference.  Not  aliove 
eiii  or  nine  pagodas  are  standing;  but  there  are 
cluliries  innumerable.  Fallen  columns,  arches, 
p  zas,  and  fragments  of  all  shapes  on  every  side 
jcmiles. — Can  there  have  been  streets  and  mads 
ir  hese  choked-up  valleys?  Has  the  war-horse 
piced,  the  paltrey  ambled  there?  Have  jewelled 
tuans  once  glittered  where  those  dew-drops  now 
Sirkle  on  the  thick-growing  bamboos  ?  H  ive  the 
dcate  small  feet  of  female  dancers  practised  their 
gceful  steps  where  that  rugged  and  thorn-covered 
r  1  bars  up  the  path  ?  Have  their  sott  voices,  and 
tl  Indian  guitar,  and  the  gold  bells  on  their  an- 
j(3,  ever  made  music  in  so  lotie  and  silent  a  spot  ? 
Tey  have;  but  other  sights,  and  other  sounds, 
he  also  been  seen  and  heard  among  these  ruins. 
-There,  near  that  beautiful  banyan-tree,  whole 
failies.  at  the  will  of  a  merciless  prince,  have  been 
t  Dwn  to  trampling  elephants,  kept  for  a  work  so 
sage  that  they  learn  it  with  reluctance,  and  must 
Itaught  by  man.  Where  those  cocoas  wave,  once 
S3d  a  vast  seraglio,  filled  at  the  expense  of  tears 
si  criines  ;  there,  wiihiti  that  retreat  of  voluptu- 
Ciness,  Have  poison,  or  the  creese,  obeyed,  often 
» icipated,  the  sovereign's  wish.  By  those  green 
hks,  near  svhich  the  sacred  waters  of  the  Toom- 
Ura  flow,  many  aaed  parents  have  been  carried 
f  ih  and'e-icposed  to  perish  by  those  whose  infancy 
ty  fostered." — Sketches  of  India. 

The  following  reflections  are  equally  just 
j!d  important : — 

I'  Nothing,  perhaps,  so  much  dainps  the  ardour 
iia  traveller  in  India,  as  to  find  that  he  may  wan- 
t'l.-  league  after  league,  visit  city  after  city,  village 
tier  village,  and  still  only  see  the  outside  of  Indian 
ii;iety.  The  house  he  cannot  enter,  the  group  he 
i|inot  join,  the  domestic  circle  he  cannot  gaze  upon, 
■;j  free  unrestrained  converse  of  the  natives  he  can 
■ver  listen  to.  He  may  talk  with  his  inoon.shee  or 
'.)  pundit;  ride  a  few  miles  with  a  Mahometan 
.dar;  receive  and  return  visits  of  ceremony  among 
tiy  nawabs  and  rajahs;  or  be  presented  at  a 
live  court:  But  behind  the  scenes  in  India  he 
nnot  advance  one  step.  All  the  natives  are,  in 
mparaiive  rank,  a  few  far  above,  the  many  far 
low  him  :  and  the  bars  to  intercourse  with  Ma- 
■inetans  as  well  as  Hindoos,  arising  from  our  faith, 
8  80  many,  that  to  live  upon  terms  of  intimacy  or 
quaintance  with  them  is  impossible.  Nay.  in  tins 
nicular,  when  our  establishments  were  young 
d  small,  our  officers  few,  necessarily  active,  nec- 
sarily  linguists,  and  unavoidably,  as  well  as  frorn 
ilicy,  conforming  more  to  native  manners,  it  is 
'obable  that  more  was  known  about  the  natives 
jm  practical  experience  than  is  at  present,  or  may 
•■  again."— /fciff,  pp.  213,  214. 

The  author  first  went  up  the  country  as  far 
5  Agra,  visiting,  and  musing  over,  all  the  re- 
taikable  places  in  his  way— and  then  return- 

1  through  the  heart  of  India — the  country  of 
!r*-indiah  and  the  Deccan,  to  the  Mysore, 
ilioiigh  travelhng  only  as  a  British  regimental 


officer,  and  without  jniblio  character  o'i  any 
kind,  it  is  admirable  to  see  with  what  uniform 
respect  and  attention  he  was  treated,  even  by 
the  lawless  soldiery  amoiii;  whom  he  had  fix-- 
queiitly  to  pass.  The  indolent  and  mcicentiry 
Brahmins  seem  the  oidy  cla.ss  of  per.^diis  trom 
whom  he  e.vperienced  any  sort  of  incivility. 
In  an  early  part  of  his  route  he  had  the  good 
luck  lo  fall  in  with  Scindiah  himself;  and  the 
pictm-e  he  has  given  of  that  turbulent  leader 
and  his  suite  is  worth  preserving.  ■ 

"First  came  loose  light-armed  iiorse,  cither  in 
the  road,  or  scrambling  and  leaping  on  the  rude 
banks  and  ravines  near  ;  then  some  better  clad,  with 
the  quilled  poshaiik  ;  and  otie  in  a  complete  suit  of 
chain-armour;  then  a  few  elephants,  among  them 
the  hunting  elephant  of  .Scindiah,  from  which  he 
had  dismouiiicd.  On  one  small  elephant,  guiding 
it  himself,  rode  a  fine  boy,  a  foundling  protege  ol 
Scindiah,  called  the  Jungle  Rajah;  then  came, 
slowly  praticing,  a  host  of  fierce,  hatiglity  chieftains, 
on  fine  horses,  showily  caparisoned.  'I'liey  darted 
forward,  and  all  took  their  proud  stand  behind  and 
round  us,  planting  their  long  lances  on  the  earth, 
and  reining  up  their  eager  steeds  to  see,  I  suppose, 
our  salaam.  Next,  in  a  common  native  palkee,  its 
canopy  crimson,  and  not  adorned,  came  Scindiah 
himself.  He  was  plainly  dressed,  with  a  reddish 
turban,  and  a  shawl  over  his  vest,  and  lay  reclined, 
smoking  a  small  gilt  or  golden  calcan. 

"  I  loiiked  down  on  the  chiefs  under  us,  and  saw 
that  they  eyed  ns  most  haughtily,  which  very  much 
increased  the  effect  they  would  otherwise  have  pro- 
duced. They  were  armed  with  lance,  scimitar  and 
shield,  creese  and  pistol ;  wore  some  shawls,  some 
tissues,  some  plain  muslin  or  cotton  ;  were  all  much 
wrapped  in  clothinsr;  and  wore,  alinost  all.  a  large 
fold  of  muslin,  tied  over  the  turban  top,  which  they 
fasten  under  the  chin  ;  and  which,  strange  as  it  may 
sound  to  those  who  have  never  seen  it,  looks  war- 
like, and  is  a  very  important  defence  to  the  sides 
of  the  neck. 

"  How  is  ir  that  we  can  have  a  heart-stirring  sort 
of  pleasure  in  gazing  on  brave  and  armed  men, 
though  we  know  them  to  be  fierce,  lawless,  and 
cruef? — though  we  know  stern  ambition  to  be  the 
chief  feature  of  many  warriors,  who,  from  the  cra- 
dle to  the  grave,  seek  only  fame  ;  and  to  which,  in 
such  as  I  write  of.  is  added  avarice  the  most  piti- 
less ?  I  cannot  tell.  But  I  recollect  often  betore,  in 
mv  life,  beinff  thus  moved.  Once,  especially,  I 
stood  over  a  gateway  in  France,  as  a  prisoner,  and 
saw  file  in,  several  squadrons  of  gens-d'armerie 
d'elite,  returning  from  the  fatal  field  of  Leipsic. 
They  were  fine,  noble-looking  men,  with  warlike 
helmets  of  steel  and  brass,  and  drooping  plumes  ot 
black  horse-hair;  belts  handsome  and  broad  ;  heavy 
swords;  were  many  of  them  decorated  with  the 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour.  Their  trumpets 
flourished;  and  1  felt  my  heart  throb  with  an  ad- 
miring delight,  which  found  relief  only  in  an  invol- 
untary tear.  What  an  inconsistent  riddle  is  the 
human  heart  V'—lbid.  pp.  260—264. 

In  the  interior  of  the  country  there  are  large 
tracts  of  waste  lands,  and  a  very  scanty  and 
unsettled  population. 

"  On  the  route  I  took,  there  was  only  one  inhab- 
ited village  in  fifty-five  miles;  the  spots  named  lor 
halting-pTaces  were  in  small  valleys,  green  with 
youn<T  corn,  and  under  cultivation,  but  neglected 
sadly"  A  few  straw  huts,  blackened  and  beat  down 
by  rain,  with  rude  and  broken  implements  ol  hus- 
bandry lyin''  about,  and  a  few  ol  those  round  harden- 
ed thrashing-floors,  tell  the  traveller  that  some  wan- 
dering  families,  of  a  rude  unsettled  people  visit 
these  vales  at  sowing  time  and  harvest ;  and  labour 
indolently  at  the  neces.sary,  but  despised,  task  ot 
the  peaceful  ryot," — Ihid.  p.  300. 


^7^ 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"  I  enjoyed  my  march  through  these  wilds  great- 
ly. Now  you  wound  through  narrow  and  deeply 
wooded  glens  ;  now  ascended  ghauts,  or  went  down 
the  mouths  of  passes  ;  now  skirted  the  foot  of  a 
mountain';  now  crossed  a  small  plain  covered  with 
the  tall  jungled-grass,  from  which,  roused  by  your 
horse  tramp,  the  neelgau  looked  upon  you  ;  then 
flying  with  active  bound,  or  pausing  doubiful  trot, 
joined  the  more  distant  herd.  You  continually 
cross  clear  sparkling  rivulets,  with  rocky  or  pebbly 
beds  ;  and  you  hear  the  voice  of  waters  among  all 
the  woody  hills  around  you.  There  was  a  sort  of 
thrill,  too,  at  knowing  these  jungles  were  filled 
with  all  the  ferocious  beasts  known  in  India  (except 
elephants,  which  are  not  found  here),  and  at  night, 
in  hearing  their  wild  roars  and  cries.  I  saw,  one 
morning,  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  about  five  hundred 
yards  from  me,  in  an  open  glade  near  the  suinmit, 
a  lioness  pass  along,  and  my  guide  said  there  were 
many  in  these  jungles." — Sketches  of  India. 

We  should  like  to  have  added  his  brilliant 
account  of  several  native  festivals,  both  Hindu 
and  Mahometan,  and  his  admirable  descrip- 
tions of  the  superb  monuments  at  Agra,  and 
the  fallen  grandeur  of  Goa  :  But  the  extracts 
we  have  now  given  must  suffice  as  specimens 
of  the  "'  Sketches  of  India" — and  the  length  of 
them,  indeed,  we  fear,  will  leave  us  less  room 
than  we  could  have  wished  for  the  "  Scenes 
and  Impressions  in  Egypt  and  in  Italy." 

This  vohime,  which  is  rather  larger  than 
the  other,  contain.^!  more  than  the  title  prom- 
i.ses  :  and  embraces,  indeed,  the  whole  history 
of  the  author's  peregrinations,  from  his  em- 
barkation at  Bombay  to  his  landing  at  Dover. 
It  is  better  written,  we  think,  than  the  former. 
The  descriptions  are  belter  finished,  the  re- 
flections bolder,  and  the  topics  more  varied. 
There  is  more  of  poetical  feeling,  too,  about 
it;  and  a  more  constant  vein  of  allusion  to 
subjects  of  interest.  He  left  India  in  Decem- 
ber 1822,  in  an  Arab  vessel  for  the  Red  Sea — 
and  is  very  happy,  we  think,  in  his  first 
sketches  of  the  ship  and  the  voyage. 

"  Our  vessel  was  one.  rude  and  ancient  in  her 
construction  a»  those  which,  in  former  and  succes- 
sive ages,  carried  the  rich  freights  of  India  for  the 
Ptolemies,  the  Roinan  prefects,  and  the  Arabian 
caliphs  iif  Egypt.  She  had,  indeed,  the  wheel  and 
the  compass;  and  our  nakhoda,  with  a  beard  as 
black  and  long,  and  a  solemnity  as  great  as  that  of 
a  magician,  daily  performed  the  miracle  of  taking 
an  observation  !  But  although  these  "  peeping  con- 
trivances "  of  the  Giaours  have  been  admitted,  yet 
they  build  their  craft  with  the  same  clurn.o'v  inse- 
curity, and  rig  them  in  the  same  inconvenient  man- 
ner as  ever.  Our  vessel  had  a  lofty  broad  stern, 
unmanageable  in  wearing;  one  enormous  sail  on  a 
heavy  yard  of  immense  length,  which  was  tardily 
hoisted  by  the  efToris  of  some  fifty  men  on  a  stout 
mast,  placed  a  little  before  midships,  and  raking 
forwards;  her  head  low,  without  any  bowsprit; 
and.  on  the  poop,  a  inizen  uselessly  sinall,  with 
hardly  canvass  enough  for  a  fishing-boat.  Our 
lading  was  cotton,  and  the  bales  were  piled  up  on 
her  decks  to  a  height  at  once  awk'.vard  and  uiisile. 
In  short,  she  looked  like  part  of  a  wharf,  towering 
wi'h  bales,  accidentally  detached  from  its  quay,  and 
floating  on  the  waters." — Scenes  itt  Efsi/pt,  pp.  3,  4. 

He  then  gives  a  picturesque  description  of 
tliR  crew,  and  the  motley  passengers — among 
whom  there  were  some  women,  who  were 
never  seen  or  heard  during  the  whole  course 
of  the  voyage.     So  jealous,  indeed,  and  com- 


plete was  their  seclusion,  that  though  or  of 
them  died  and  was  committed  to  the  seadtig 
the  passage,  the  event  was  not  known  tt  le 
crew  or  passengers  for  several  days  aft  it 
had  occurred.  *'^Not  even  a  husband  ent  •(! 
their  apartment  during  the  voyage — bec:;e 
the  women  were  mixed :  an  eunuch  ip 
cooked  for  them,  alone  had  access." 

"Abundantly,  however,"  he  adds,  "w  [ 
amused  in  looking  upon  the  scent  s  around  c 
and  some  there  were  not  readily  to  he  forgone  — 
when,  at  the  soft  and  still  hour  ol  sunset,  whilt  le 
lull  sail  presses  down  the  vessel's  bows  on  le 
golden  ocean-path,  which  swells  to  meet,  and  m 
sinks  beneath  them, — then,  wiien  these  Aw 
group  for  their  evening  sacrifice,  bow  down  h 
their  faces  to  the  earth,  and  prostrate  their  be ;» 
in  the  act  of  worship — when  the  broad  ami, 
deeply  intoned  from  many  assembled  voices,  f.ti  >g 
upon  the  listener's  ear — the  heart  responds,  id 
throbs  with  its  own  silent  prayer.  There  is  i). 
lemniiy  and  a  decency  in  their  worship,  belong/, 
in  its  very  forms,  to  tfie  age  and  t__he  country  o  ^e 
Patriarchs;  and  it  is  necessary  to  call  to  mini.ll 
that  the  Mohammedans  are  and  have  been — all  jt 
ihiMr  pro;ihet  taui'ht.  and  that  their  Koran  en;  ig 
and  promises,  iiefore  we  can  look,  without  b  .g 
strongly  moved,  on  the  .Mussulman  prostrate  bire 
his  God."— iftii/.  pp.  13,  14. 

They  land  prosperously  at  Mocha,  of  wl  h 
he  gives  rather  a  pleasing  account,  and  a;  n 
embaik  with  the  same  fine  weather  for  Dj  la 
— anchoring  every  night  under  the  n  v 
shore,  and  generally  indulging  the  passer  i- 
with  an  hour's  ramble  among  its  solitu  - 
The  following  poetical  and  graphic  skelc  >\ 
the  camel  is  the  fruit  of  one  of  these  ex  ;  ■ 
sioiis: — 

"The  grazing  camel,  at  that  hour  when  iie 
desert  reddens  wiih  the  setting  sun,  is  a  fw.eofct 
to  the  eye  which  seeks  and  leeds  on  the  [licture  le 
— his  tall,  dark  form — his  indolent  leisurely  wa — 
his  ostrich  neck,  now  lilted  to  its  full  height,  w 
bent  slowly,  and  far  around,  with  a  look  of  i- 
alanned  inquiry.  You  cannot  gaze  upon  him  v  i. 
out,  by  the  readiest  and  most  natural  suggesii  s, 
reverting  in  thought  to  the  world's  infancy — u  le 
times  and  possessions  of  the  shepherd  kings,  i  if 
tents  and  raiment,  their  journeymgs  and  setilis. 
The  scene,  too,  in  the  distance,  and  the  hour,  e  i- 
tide,  and  the  uncommon  majesty  of  that  dark.  |i  f, 
and  irregular  range  of  rocky  mountain,  which  ■  is 
in  the  black  cape  of  Ras  el  Askar,  forrneiT&ij** 
semblage  not  to  be  forgotten." — Ibid.  p.  42.     m 

At  Djidda  they  had  an  audience  of  the  f 
which  is  well  described  in  the  following  s 
passage : — 

"  Rusian  Aga  himself  was  a  fine-looking,  hniig'/l! 
martial  man.  with  musiachios.  but  no  beard  le 
wore  a  robe  of  scarlet  cloth.  Hussein  Aga,  o 
sat  on  his  left,  had  a  good  profile,  a  long  griz  d 
beard,  with  a  l)lack  ribbon  bound  over  one  eyt  o 
conceal  its  loss.  He  wf)re  arobe  ol  pale  blue,  it 
other  person,  Artiby  Jellauny,  was  an  aged  a  a 
very  plain  man.  'I'he  attendants,  for  the  mo.at  [  ' 
wore  large  dark  brown  dresses,  fashioned  intc 
short  Turkish  vest  or  jacket,  and  the  large,  i. 
'I'lirkish  trowsers  ;  their  sashes  were  crimson,  d 
the  heavy  ornamented  buis  of  their  pistols  pre  i- 
ded  from  them  ;  their  crooked  scimitars  hum  n 
silken  cords  before  them;  they  had  white  lurb  », 
large  mustaclros  but  the  cheek  and  chin  cle  v 
shaven.  Their  cnmple.xions  v\ere  in  general  ■  y 
pale,  as  of  men  who  pass  their  lives  in  eonfineni  t. 
They  stood  with  their  arms  folded,  niii  their  <  "8 
fixed  on  us.     I  shall  never  forget  theni.    T.a 


1 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


679 


,'re  a  dozen  or  more.  I  saw  noihing  like  this 
}it,  not  even  in  Egypt ;  for  Djidda  is  an  e.xcellent 
j/ernnieni,  both  on  account  of  iis  port,  and  its 
\inuy  to  Mecca ;  and  Rustan  Aga  had  a  larjje 
iablishmeni,  and  was  something  of  a  niagnilk-o. 
]i  has  the  power  of  hte  and  deaih.  A  word,  a 
/n  from  hin>,  and  these  men,  who  stand  lietore 
fu  in  an  altitude  so  respecttul,  with  an  aspect  so 
;.m,  90  pale,  would  smile — and  slay  you! — Here 
Jir^  saw  the  true  scribe  ;  well  robed,  and  dressed 
j'lurbaii,  irowt^ers,  and  soft  slipper,  like  one  of  rank 
fioiig  the  p'ople:  his  inkstand  with  its  pen-case 
(s  the  look  of  a  weapon,  and  is  worn  like  a  dagger 

the  folds  of  the  sash  ;  it  is  of  silver  or  brass — this 
'is  of  silver.  When  summoned  io  u.^e  it,  he  takes 
fnie  paper  out  of  his  bosom,  cuts  it  into  shape 

ih  scissors,  then  writes  his  letter  by  dicia;ion,  pre- 
nts  it  for  approval;  it  is  tossed  back  to  him  wiih 
liaughty  and  careless  air,  and  the  ring  drawn  off 
id  and  pas>ed  or  thrown  to  him,  to  affi.x  the  seal. 
iedoes  every  thing  on  his  knees,  which  are  tucked 
ii  10  serve  him  as  a  desk." — Scetiex  in  E^ypt. 
fi.  47—49. 

[They  embark  a  third  time,  for  Kosseir,  and 
|ien  proceed  dii  camels  across  the  Desert  to 
ihebes.  Tlie  following  account  of  their  pro- 
•ees  is  excellent — at  once  precise,  pictur- 
sque,  and  poetical : — 

"  The  road  through  the  desert  is  most  wonderful 
I  Us  features  :  a  finer  cannot  be  imagined.  Iris 
!ide,  hard,  firm,  winding,  for  at  least  two-thirds  of 
lie  way,  from  Kosseir  to  Thebes,  between  ranges 
I;" rocky  hills,  rising  often  perpendicularly  on  eiilier 
ide,  as  if  they  had  been  scarped  by  art ;  here,  again, 
[ither  broken,  and  overhanging,  as  if  they  were 
jie  lofty  banks  of  a  mighty  river,  and  you  travers- 
;ig  its  dry  and  naked  bed.  Now  you  are  quite 
'iiidlocked  ;  now  again  you  open  on  small  valleys, 
ind  see,  upon  heights  beyond,  small  square  towers. 
I  was  late  in  the  evening  when  we  came  to  our 
round,  a  sort  of  dry  bay  ;  sand,  burning  sand,  wiih 
bckand  clifF.  rising  in  jagged  points,  all  around — a 
■pot  wheVe  the  waters  of  ocean  might  sleep  in  still- 
liess,  or,  with  the  soft  voice  of  their  gentlest  ripple, 
ill  the  storm-worn  mariner.  The  dew  of  the  night 
lefore  had  been  heavy ;  we  therefore  pitched  our 
tent,  and  decided  on  starting,  in  future,  at  a  very 
|arly  hour  in  ilie  morning,  so  as  to  acromplish  our 
[larch  before  noon.  It  was  dark  when  we  moved 
[)f,  and  even  cold.  Your  camel  is  impatient  to  rise 
feje  you  are  well  seated  on  him  ;  gives  a  shake,  too, 
ttwarni  his  blood,  and  half  dislodges  you  ;  marches 
Tiber  faster  than  by  day,  and  gives  occasionally,  a 
Ihii-d  quick  stamp  wnh  bis  callous  toot.  Our  moon 
[«•«  fat  in  her  wane.  She  rose,  however,  aoout  an 
fhoir  after  we  started,  all  red,  above  the  dark  hills 
on  tur  led  ;  yet  higher  rose,  and  paler  grew,  till  at 
^laslslie  hung  a  silvery  crescent  in  the  deep  blue  sky. 
I  "Who  passes  the  desert  and  says  all  is  barren, 
all  lifeless?  In  the  grey  morning  you  may  see  the 
comiion  pigeon,  and  the  partridge,  and  the  pigeon 
iOf  ih;  rock,  alight  belore  your  very  feet,  ami  come 
iupon  the  beaten  camel-paths  for  tood.  They  are 
I  lame,  for  they  have  not  learned  to  fear,  or  to  distrust 
I  l^e  men  w  ho  pass  these  solitudes.  The  camel-driver 
»'ouid  not  lilt  a  sione  to  them;  and  the  sportsman 
|tould  hardly  find  it  in  his  heart  to  kill  these  gentle 
«enant.=!of  the  desert.  The  deer  might  tempt  him; 
i.«aw  but  one;  far,  very  far,  he  caught  the  distant 
.CBmcl. tramp,  and  paused,  and  raised  and  threw 
'lack  his  head  to  listen,  then  away  to  the  road  in- 
I  »ead  of  from  it ;  but  far  ahead  he  ciossed  it,  and 
tlen  away  up  a  long  slope  he  fleetly  stole,  and  off 
•csoine  solitary  spring  which  wells,  perhaps,  where 
,  n<  traveller,  no  human  being  has  ever  trod." — 
Ihi.  pp.  71—74. 

rhe  emerging  from  this  lonely  route  is  given 
wih  equal  spirit  and  freshness  of  colournig. 

'"It  was  soon  after  daybreak,  on  the  morrow,  just 


as  the  sun  was  beginning  to  give  his  rich  colouring 
of  golden  yellow  to  the  white  pule  sand,  ibat  asl 
was  walking  alone  at  some  distance  for  ahead  of  my 
companions,  my  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  and  lost 
in  thought,  iheir  kind  and  directing  shout  made  me 
stop,  and  raise  my  head,  when  lo !  a  green  vale, 
looking  through  ihe  sod  mist  of  morning,  rather  a 
vision  than  a  reality,  lay  stretched  in  its  narrow 
leiiiith  before  me.  7'A<-  iMitd  of  Epi^fit  !  We 
hurried  panting  on,  and  gnzed  undwere  silent.  In 
an  hour  we  reached  the  village  of  Hejazi,  situated 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  Desert.  Wc  alighted  at  a 
cool,  clean  serai,  having  its  inner  room,  wiih  a  largo 
and  small  bath  for  the  Mussulmans'  ablutions,  its 
kiblah  in  the  wall,  and  a  large  brimming  water- 
trough  in  front  for  the  thirsting  camel.  We  walked 
forth  into  the  fields,  saw  lu.xuriant  crops  of  green 
bearded  wheat,  waving  with  its  lights  and  shadows  ; 
stood  under  the  shade  of  trees,  saw  fluttering  and 
chirping  birds  ;  went  down  to  a  well  and  a  walcr- 
wheel^  and  stood,  like  children,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  the  abundant  and  bright-flashing  water, 
as  it  fell  from  the  circling  pots;  and  marked  all 
around,  scattered  individually  or  in  small  groups, 
many  pei>ple  in  the  fields,  o.xcn  and  asses  grazing, 
and  camels  too  among  them." — Ihid.  pp.  bO,  b\. 

All  this,  however,  is  inferior  to  his  first  elo- 
quent account  of  the  gigantic  ruins  of  Lu.xore, 
and  the  emotions  to  which  they  gave  rise. 
We  know  noihing,  indeed,  belter,  in  its  way, 
than  most  of  the  following  passages  : — 

"  Be.fore  the  grand  entrance  of  this  vast  edifice, 
which  consists  of  manv  separate  structures,  formerly 
united  in  one  harmonious  design,  two  lofty  obelisks 
stand  proudly  pointing  to  the  sky.  fair  as  the  daring 
sculptor  left  them.  The  sacred  figures  and  hiero- 
glyphic characters  which  adorn  them,  are  cut  beauti- 
fully into  the  hard  granite,  and  have  the  sharp  finish 
of  yesterday.  The  very  stone  looks  not  discoloured. 
You  see  them,  as  Cambyses  saw  them,  when  ho 
stayed  his  chariot  wheels  to  gaze  at  them,  and  the 
Persian  war-cry  ceased  before  these  acknowledged 
symbols  of  the  sacred  element  of  fire. — Behind  them 
are  two  colossal  figures,  in  pan  concealed  by  the 
sand  ;  as  is  the  bottom  of  a  clioked-up  gateway,  the 
base  of  a  massive  propylon.  and,  indeed,  their  own. 
— Very  noble  are  all  these  remains;  and  on  the 
propylon  is  a  war-scene,  much  spoken  of;  but  my 
eyes  were  continually  attracted  to  the  aspiring  obe- 
lisks, and  again  and  again  you  turn  to  look  at  them, 
with  increasing  wonder  and  silent  admiration." — 
Ibid.  pp.  86,  87. 

"  With  a  qiiick-beaiing  heart,  and  steps  rapid  as 
my  thoughts,  I  strode  away,  took  the  path  to  the 
village  of  Karnac,  skirted  it,  and  passing  over  loose 
sand,  and,  among  a  few  scattered  date  trees,  I  found 
myself  in  the  grand  alley  of  the  sphin.xes,  and  di- 
rectly opposite  that  noble  gateway,  which  has  been 
called  triumphal ;  certainly  triumph  never  passed 
under  one  more  lofty,  or,  to  my  rye,  of  a  more  im- 
posing magnificence.  On  the  bold  curve  of  its 
benniffnlly  projecting  cornice,  a  globe,  coloured  as 
of  fire,  stretches  forth  long  over-shadowing  wings 
of  the  very  brightest  azure. — This  wondrous  and 
giatv  portal  stands  well ;  alone,  detached  a  little  way 
from  the  mass  of  the  great  ruins,  with  no  columns, 
walls,  or  propylaja  immediately  near.  I  walked 
slowly  up  to  it,  through  the  long  lines  of  sphinxes 
which  lay  couchant  on  either  side  of  the  broad  road 
(once  paved),  as  they  were  marshalled  by  him  who 
planned  these  princely  structures — we  know  not 
when.  They  are  of  stone  less  durable  than  granite  : 
their  "enerai  forms  are  fully  preserved,  but  the  de- 
tail ofexecnlion  is,  in  most  of  them,  worn  away. — 
Tn  those  forms,  in  that  couched  posture,  in  the  de- 
caving,  shapeless  heads,  the  huge  worn  paws,  the 
little  image  between  them,  and  the  gaiTcd  Uiii  grnsp- 
ed  in  its"  crossed  hands,  there  is  something  which 
disturbs  you  with  a  sense  of  awn.  In  the  locality 
you  cannot  err  j  you  are  on  a  highway  to  a  hcathea 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


temple  ;  one  that  ilie  Roman  came,  as  you  come,  to 
visit  and  admire,  and  ihe  Greek  before  him.  And 
you  know  that  priest  and  king,  lord  and  slave,  the 
lesiival  throng  and  the  solitary  worshipper,  trod  for 
centuries  where  you  do:  and  you  know  that  there 
has  been  ilie  crowding  flight  of  the  vanquished  to- 
wards their  sanctuary  and  last  hold,  and  the  quick 
trampling  of  armed  pursuers,  and  the  neiy;hingof  the 
war-horse,  and  the  voice  of  the  trumpet,  and  the 
shout,  as  of  a  king,  among  them,  all  on  this  silent 
spot !  And  you  see  before  you,  and  on  all  sides, 
ruins ! — the  stones  which  formed  wells  and  square 
temple-towers  thrown  down  in  vast  heaps  ;  or  still, 
in  large  masses,  erect  as  the  builder  placed  thern, 
and  where  their  material  has  been  tine,  their  sur- 
faces and  corners  smooth,  sharp,  and  uninjured  by 
time.  They  are  neither  grey  nor  blackened  ;  like 
the  bones  of  man,  they  seem  to  whiten  under  the 
sun  of  the  desert.  Here  is  no  lichen,  no  moss,  no 
rank  grass  or  mantling  ivy,  no  wall-flower  or  wild 
fig-tree  to  robe  them,  and  to  conceal  their  deformi- 
ties, and  bloom  above  them.  No; — all  is  the  na- 
kedness of  desolation — the  colossal  skeleton  of  a 
giant  fabric  standing  in  the  unwatere^  sand,  in  soli- 
tude and  silence." 

This  we  think  is  very  fine  and  beautiful : 
But  what  follows  is  still  better ;  and  gives  a 
clearer,  as  well  as  a  deeper  impression,  of  the 
true  character  and  effect  of  these  stupendous 
remains,  than  all  the  drawings  and  descrip- 
tions of  Denon  and  his  Egyptian  Institute. 

"  There  are  no  ruins  like  these  ruins.  In  the 
first  court  you  pass  into,  you  find  one  large,  lofty, 
solitary  column,  erect  among  heaped  and  scattered 
fragments,  which  had  formed  a  colonade  of  one- 
and-twenty  like  it.  You  pause  awhile,  and  then 
move  slowly  on.  You  enter  a  wide  portal,  and  find 
yourself  surrounded  by  one  hundred  and  fifty  co- 
hmins,*  on  which  I  defy  any  man.  sage  or  savage, 
to  look  unmoved.  Their  vast  proportions  the  bet- 
ter taste  of  after  days  rejected  and  disused  ;  but  the 
still  astonishment,  the  serious  sraze.  the  thickening 
breath  of  the  awed  traveller,  are  tribu'es  of  an  ad- 
miration not  to  be  checked  or  frozen  by  the  chilling 
rules  of  taste. 

"  We  passed  the  entire  day  in  these  ruins  ;  each 
wandering  about  alone,  as  inclination  led  him.  De- 
tailed descriptions  I  cannot  give;  I  have  neither  the 
skill  or  the  patience  to  count  and  to  measure.  I  as- 
cended a  wing  of  the  great  propvlon  on  the  west, 
and  sat  there  long.  I  crept  rovnd  Ihe  rolon.tal  stoliies! 
I  seated  myself  on  a  fallen  obelisk,  and  gazed  up  at 
the  three,  yet  standing  erect  amid  huge  fragments 
of  fallen  granite.  I  sauntered  slowly  round  every 
part,  examining  the  paintings  and  hieroglyphics, 
and  listening  now  and  then,  not  without  a  smile,  to 
our  polite  little  cicerone,  as  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
descending .■jauowf,  he  pointed  to  many  of  the  sym- 
bols, saying,  '  this  means  water,'  and  '  that  means 
land,'  '  this  stability,'  '  that  life.'  and  '  here  is  the 
name  of  Berenice.' — Scenes  in  Eeypl,  pp.  88 — 92. 

"  From  hence  we  bade  our  guide  conduct  us  to 
some  catacombs;  he  did  so,  in  the  naked  hill  just 
above.  Some  are  passages,  some  pits  ;  but,  in  gene- 
ral, passages  in  the  side  of  the  hill.  Here  and  rtiere 
yon  may  find  a  bit  of  the  rock  or  clay,  smoothed 
and  painted,  or  hearing  the  mark  of  a  thin  lallen 
coating  of  composition  ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  ilicy 
are  quite  plain.  Bones,  rags,  and  the  scatiei-fH 
limbs  of  skeleton,",  which  have  bf-en  torn  from  their 
coflins,  stripped  of  their  grave-clothes,  and  robbrd 
of  the  sacred  scrolls  placed  with  them  in  the  tomb, 
lie  in  or  around  these  '  open  sepulchres.'  We  found 
nothing;  but  surely  the  very  ras  blown  to  your  feel 
is  a  relic.  May  it  not  have  been  woven  by  some 
damsel  under  the  shade  of  trees,  with  the  song  that 

*  The  central  row  have  the  enormous  diameter 
of  eleven  French  feet,  the  others  that  of  eight. 


lightens  labour,   twenty  centuries  ago?  or  n 


tmngen 


not  have  been  carried  with  a  sigh  to  the 
of  the  temple  by  one  who  brought  it  to  swath  be 
cold  and  stifiened  limbs  of  a  being  loved  in  lift  nd 
mourned  and  honoured  in  his  death?  Yes,  i  n 
relic  ;  and  one  musing  on  which  a  warm  fancy  i  -ht 
find  wherewithal  to  beguile  a  long  and  so'™ 
walk,"— 76(VZ.  p.  100.  101.  ' 

"  We  then  returned  across  the  plain  to  our  at 
passing  and  pausing  before  ihe  celebrated  sng 
statues  so  often  described.  They  are  seats  on 
thrones,  looking  to  the  east,  and  on  the  Nil'  jn 
this  posture  they  are  upwards  of  fifty  feet  in  he  .t; 
and  their  bodies,  hmbs,  and  heads,  are  large,  sp  J. 
iiig,  and  disproportioned.  These  pre  very  i'\i\ 
monuments.  They  bear  the  form  of  man;nd 
there  is  a  something  in  their  very  posture  v  ch 
touches  the  soul:  There  iliey  sit  erect,  ci: 
They  have  seen  generatioh  upon  generation  b.pt 
away,  and  still  their  siony  gaze  is  fi.xed  on  inaril* 
ing  and  perishing  at  their  feet!  'Tvvas  lateod 
dark  ere  we  reached  our  home.  The  day  follo/n 
we  again  crossed  to  the  western  bank,  and  it 
through  a  narrow  hot  valley  in  the  Dtseri,  u<ba 
tombs  of  the  kings.  Your  Artib  catches  at  the  id 
of  your  ass  in  a  wild  dreary-looking  spot,  abou  ?e 
miles  from  the  river,  and  motions  you  to  light.  Dn 
every  side  of  you  rise  low,  but  steep  hills,  ohe 
most  barren  appearance,  covered  with  loose  id 
crumbling  stones,  and  you  stand  in  a  narrow  bile- 
path,  which  seems  to  be  the  bottom  ot  a  na  al 
ravine;  you  would  fancy  that  you  had  lost  ur 
way  ;  but  your  guide  leads  you  a  few  paces  forvd, 
and  you  discover  in  the  side  of  the  hill  an  ope:ig 
like  the  shaft  of  a  mine.  At  the  entrance,  yoi  fa- 
serve  that  the  rock,  which  is  a  close-grained  ut 
soft  stone,  has  been  cut  smooth  and  painted,  ie 
lights  your  wax  torch,  and  you  pass  into  a  long  r- 
ridor.  On  either  side  are  small  apartments  w  :h 
you  stoop  down  to  enter,  and  the  walls  of  wliicl)u 
find  covered  with  paintings  :  scenes  of  life  faiihly 
represented  ;  oi  every -day  life,  its  pleasures  an  a- 
hours;  the  instruments  of  its  happiiie.-'s.  and  iiii 
crimes!  You  turn  to  each  other  with  a  del!i;, 
not  however  unmixed  with  sadness,  to  mark  W 
much  ihe  days  of  man  then  passed,  as  they  jio 
this  very  hour.  You  see  the  labours  of  agiicirre 
— the  sosver,  the  basket,  the  plough; 
and  the  artist  has  plavfully  depicted 
among  the  furrows.  You  have  the  ms 
the  cooking  for  a  least  ;  you  have  a  flower  gailr, 
and  a  scene  of  irrigation;  you  see  cou'hcs,  si, 
chairs,  and  arm-chairs,  such  as  might,  this  f, 
adorn  a  drawing-room  in  London  or  Paris ; 'U 
have  vases  of  every  form  down  to  the  commnii  f, 
(ay  !  such  as  the  brown  one  of  Toby  Philpot);  'U 
have  harps,  with  figures  bending  over  tiiem.  d 
others  seated  and  listening;  you  have  barks,  'h 
large,  curious,  and  many-coloured  sails  ;  lastly  u 
have  weapons  of  war,  the  sword,  the  dagger  e 
bovv,  the  arrow,  the  quiver,  spears,  helmets,  d 
dresses  of  honour. — The  other  scenes  on  thej^is 
represent  processions  and  mysteries,  and  a|  le 
apartments  are  covered  with  them  or  hieroglyj 's. 
There  is  a  small  chamber  with  the  cow  ot  Isi^-d 
there  is  one  large  room  in  an  u?ifinisheil  sia- 
designs  chalked  ofT,  that  were  to  havi-  been  itt 
pleted  on  that  to-morrow,  whicli  never  came  !'■ 
Ibid.  pp.  104— 1(* 

But  we  must  hurry  on.  We  cannot  airl 
to  make  an  abstract  of  this  book,  and  ini,jl 
can  find  room  but  for  a  few  more  specitnih 
He  meets  with  a  Scotch  Mumeluke  at  C  'ij 
and  is  taken  by  Mr,  Salt  to  ihe  presence  o  1i 
Pacha.  He  visits  the  pyramids  of  coursi^  ^• 
scribes  rapidly  and  well  the  whole  pioce^  f 
the  visit — and  thus  moralises  the  conclusio  - 

"  He  who  has  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  ;t 
ancient,  and  yet  the  most  mighty  monument  c » 


rs  oi  agiitii  rt 
jh;  the  s'.i.: 
a  call  skipfil 
laking  of  bi;^ 


SKETCHES  OF  INDIA— EGYPT  AND  ITALY. 


wer  and  pride  ever  raised  by  man.  and  has  looked  I 
it  and  round  to  the  far  horizon,  where  Lybia  and 
irabia  lie  silent,  and  hath  seen,  ar  his  teet,  <Ae  land 
Ecypl<i\y\i.\i-)g\he\TdaTk  solitudes  with  a  narrow 
le,  beaiitii'iil  and  green,  the  mere  enamelled  sei- 
]<T  of  one  snlitary  shining  river,  must  receive  im- 
^^ions  which  lie  cat!  never  convey,  for  he  cannot 

t>  ihein  to  himself. 

They  are  the  tombs  of  Cheops  and  Cephiencs, 
ys  ine  Vrreoian.  They  are  the  tonib.«  of  t^eth  and 
noch,  says  the  wild  and  imaginaiive  Arabian  ;  an 
nslisi)  traveller,  with  a  mind  warmed,  perhaps, 
id  misled  by  his  heart,  tells  yon  that  the  large  py- 
inid  may  have  contained  the  ashes  of  the  patriarch 
iseph.  It  is  all  this  which  constitutes  the  very 
larm  of  a  visit  to  these  ancient  monuments.  You 
nile,  and  your  stnile  is  followed  and  reproved  i)y 
siijh.  One  thing  you  Ji7iow — that  the  chief,  and  the 
iilosopher,  and  the  poet  of  the  limes  of  old,  men 
,vho  mark  fields  as  they  pass  with  their  own 
ighty  names,'  have  certainly  been  here;  that  Al- 
iander  has  spurred  his  war-horse  to  its  base  ;  and 
ythagoras,  with  naked  foot,  has  probably  stood 
pen  its  summit. — Sci'ncs  in  Egypt,  pp.  158,  l.'iS. 

Cairo  is  described  in  great  detail,  and  fre- 
uently  with  great  feeling  and  eloquence.  He 
iw  a  live  cameleopard  there — vei y  beautiful 

Kl  gentle.     One  of  his  most  characteristic 
(tches,  however,  is  that  of  the  female  slave 
larket. 

"  We  stopped  before  the  gate  of  a  large  building, 
iid,  turning,  entered  a  court  of  no  great  size,  with 
range  of  apartments  all  round  ;  open  doors  show- 
d  that  they  were  dark  and  wretched.  At  them,  or 
efore  them,  stood  or  sat  small  groups  of  female 
laves;  also  from  within  these  chambers,  you  might 
aich  the  moving  eyes  and  white  teeih  of  those  who 
iiunned  the  light.  There  was  a  gallery  above  with 
ther  rooms,  and  slave  girls  leaning  on  the  rail — 
'lughter,  all  laughter  ! — their  long  hair  in  numerous 
ailing  curls,  white  with  tat ;  their  faces,  arms,  and 
losoms  shinins  with  grease.  Exposure  in  the  market 
jj  ihe  moment  of  their  joy.  Their  cots,  their  country, 
he  breast  ihat  gave  them  suck, the  hand  that  led  their 
pilering  steps  not  forarotien,  but  resigned,  given  up, 
IS  things  gone  for  ever,  left  in  another  world.  The 
ioila  and  terrors  of  the  wide  desert,  the  hard  and 
jicanty  fare,  the  swollen  foot,  the  whip,  the  scalding 
'ear,  the  curse;  all.  all  are  behind:  hope  meets 
hem  again  here;  and  paints  some  master  kind; 
•onie  mistress  gentle  ;  some  babe  or  child  to  win 
lie  heart  of; — as  bond-women  they  may  bear  a 
"on.  and  live  and  die  the  contented  inmates  of  some 
jiiiet  harem." — Ihid.  pp.  178,  179. 

He  does  not  think  much  of  Ali's  new  Insti- 
ute — though  he  was  assured  by  one  of  the  tu- 
;ors  that  its  pupils  were  to  be  taught  '•  every- 
ihiiig  !"  We  have  learned,  from  unquestioit- 
iible  authority,  that  from  this  cvcrythins:,  all 
:that  relates  to  Politics,  Religion,  ancl  Philoso- 
iphy,  is  expressly  excluded  ;  and  that  little  is 
propo.sed  to  be  taught  but  the  elements  of  the 
useful  arts.  There  is  a  scanty  library  of  Eu- 
.-ropean  books,  almost  all  French, — the  most 
[conspicuous  backed.  '•  Victoires  des  Fran^ais; 
I — and  besides  these,  "Les  Liaisons  Dange- 
^uses!" — only  one  book  in  Enirlish.  though 
inot  ill-chosen — "  Malcolm's  Persia.''"  He  was 
idetained  at  Alexandria  in  a  time  of  placaie — 
and,  after  all,  was  obliged  to  return,  when 
four  days  at  sea,  to  land  two  sick  men,  and 
penorm  a  new  quaiantine  of  observation. 
,  There  is  an  admirable  description  of  Va- 
lletta, and  the  whole  island — and  then  of  Syra- 
jcuseand  Catania;  but  we  can  give  only  the 
:  night  ascent  to  iEtna— and  that  rather  for  the 
fta 


scene  of   the  Sicilian  cottage,  than   for  the 
sketch  of  the  mighty  mountain  : — 

"  It  was  near  ten  o'clock  when  the  youth  who 
led  the  way  stopped  liefore  n  sinnii  dark  rotinge  in 
a  by-lane  of  Nicolotii.  the  guide's  be  said  it  wnu, 
and  hailed  them.  The  door  was  opened  ;  a  lij^lil 
struck;  and  the  family  was  roused,  mid  colloi-ied 
round  me  ;  a  grey-headed  old  peasant  and  liiH  wife  ; 
two  hardy,  plain,  dark  young  men,  brothers  fone 
of  whom  was  in  his  holiday  gear,  new  breeches, 
and  red  garters,  and  flowered  waistcoat,  and  clean 
shirt,  and  shining  buttons;)  a  girl  of  sixteen,  hand- 
some; a  'mountain-girl  beaten  with  wmds,'  look- 
ing curious,  yet  fearlcs.s  and  '  chaste  ns  the  har- 
dened rock  on  which  she  dwelt  ;'  and  a  boy  of 
twelve,  an  unconscious  figure  in  the  croup,  fast 
slumbering  in  his  clothes  on  the  hard  floor.  Glad 
were  they  of  the  dollar-bringing  stranger,  but  mir- 
prised  at  the  excellenza's  fancy  for  coming  ni  that 
hour;  cheerfully,  however,  the  gay  youth  stripped 
ofl'  his  holiday-garb,  and  put  on  a  dirty  shin  and 
thick  brown  clothes,  and  took  his  cloak  and  went 
to  borrow  a  mule  (for  I  ibund,  by  their  consulta- 
tion, that  there  was  some  trick,  this  not  being  the 
regular  privileged  guide  family.'  During  his  ab- 
sence, the  girl  brought  me  a  draught  of  wine,  and 
all  stood  round  with  welcoming  and  flattering 
laughing.s.  and  speeches  in  Sicililin,  which  I  did 
not  understand,  but  which  gave  me  pleasure,  and 
made  me  look  on  their  dirty  and  crowded  cottage 
as  one  I  had  rather  trust  to,  if  I  knocked  at  it  even 
v\ithout  a  dollar,  than  the  lordliest  mansion  of  the 
richest  noble  in  Sicily. 

"  For  about  four  miles,  your  mule  stumbles  along 
safely  over  a  bed  of  lava,  lying  in  masses  on  the 
road  ;  then  you  enter  the  woody  region  :  the  wood 
is  open,  of  oaks,  not  large,  yet  good-sized  trees, 
growing  amid  fern  ;  and.  lastly,  yon  come  out  on  a 
soft  barren  soil,  and  pursue  the  ascent  till  you  find 
a  glistering  while  crust  of  snow  of  no  depth,  crack- 
ing under  your  mule's  tread  ;  soon  alter,  you  arrive 
at  a  stone  cottage,  called  Casa  Tnglese,  of  which 
my  guide  had  not  got  the  key  ;  here  you  dismount, 
and  we  tied  up  our  mules  close  by,  and  scrambling 
over  huge  blocks  of  lava,  and  up  the  toilsome  ana 
slippery  ascent  of  the  cone,  I  sat  me  down  on 
ground  all  hot,  and  smoking  with  sulphureous 
vapour,  which  has  for  the  first  few  minutes  the 
effect  of  making  your  eves  smart,  and  water,  of 
oppressing  and  taking  away  your  breath.  It  yet 
wanted  half  an  hour  to  the  break  of  day.  and  I 
wrapped  my  cloak  close  round  me  to  guard  me 
from  the  keen  air  which  came  up  over  the  white 
cape  of  snow  that  lay  spread  at  the  foot  of  the 
smoking  cone,  where  I  was  seated. 

"  The  earliest  dawn  gave  to  my  view  the  awful 
crater,  with  its  two  deep  mouths,  from  one  whereof 
there  issued  large  volumes  of  thick  white  smoke, 
pressing  up  in  closely  crowding  clouds;  and  all 
around,  you  saw  the  earth  loose,  and  with  crisped, 
yellow-mouthed  small  cracks,  up  which  came  little, 
light,  thin  w  reaths  of  smoke  that  soon  dissipated  in 
the  upper  air,  &.c. — And  when  you  turn  to  gaze 
downwards,  and  see  the  golden  sun  come  up  in 
light  and  majesty  to  bless  the  waking  millions  of 
your  fellows,  and  the  dun  vapour  of  the  night  roll 
off  below,  and  capes,  and  hills,  and  towns,  and  the 
wide  ocean  are  seen  as  through  a  thin  unearthly 
veil  ;  your  eyes  fill,  and  your  heart  swells  ;  all  the 
blessings  you  enjov.  all  the  innocent  pleasures  you 
find  in  your  wanderings,  that  preservation,  which 
in  storm,  and  in  battle,  and  mid  the  pestilence  was 
mercifully  given  to  your  half-breathed  prayer,  all 
rush  in  a  moment  on  your  soul." 

Ihid.  pp.  253—2.^7. 

The  following  brief  sketch  of  the  rustic 
auberges  of  Sicily  is  worlli  preserving,  as 
well  as  the  sentiment  with  which  it  doses:— 

"  The  chambers  of  these  rude  inns  would  plenee, 
at  first,  any  one.    Three  or  four  beds  (mere  planki 


682 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


upon  iron  trestles),  with  broad,  yellow-striped, 
coarse  mattresses,  turned  up  on  them ;  a  table  and 
chairs  of  wood,  blackened  by  age,  and  of  forms 
belonging  to  the  past  century  ;  a  daub  or  two  of  a 
picture,  and  two  or  three  coloured  prints  of  Ma- 
donnas and  saints  :  a  coarse  table  cloth,  and  coarser 
napkin;  a  thin  hlue-iinied  drinkin;'  glass;  dishes 
and  p'aies  of  a  striped,  dirty-coloured,  pimply  ware  ; 
and  a  brass  lamp  with  three  mouilis,  a  shape  com- 
mon to  Dcllii,  Cairo,  and  Madrid,  and  as  ancient 
as  the  time  of  ihe  Etruscans  themselves. 

'■  To  me  it  had  another  charm  ;  it  brouglit  Spain 
before  mo,  the  peasant  and  his  cot,  and  my  chance 
billets  amwiir  that  loved  and  injured  people.  Ah  ! 
I  will  not  dwell  on  it ;  but  this  only  I  will  venture 
to  say,  they  err  greatly,  grossly,  who  fancy  that  the 
Spaniard,  the  inost  patiently  bravo  and  resolutely 
persevering  man,  as  a  man,  on  the  continent  of 
Europe,  will  wear  long  any  yoke  he  feels  galling 
and  detestable." — Scenes  in  Egypt,  pp.  268,  269. 

The  picture  of  Naples  is  striking;  and  re- 
minds us  in  many  places  of  Mad.  de  StaePs 
splendid  sketches  irom  the  same  subjects  in 
Corrinne.  But  we  must  draw  to  a  close  now 
with  our  extracts;  and  shall  add  but  one  or 
two  more,  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the  gen- 
tle mind  and  English  virtues  of  the  author. 

"  I  ne.xt  went  into  the  library,  a  noble  room,  and 
a  vast  collection.  I  should  much  like  to  have  seen 
those  things  which  are  shown  here,  especially  the 
handwriting  of  'I'asso.  I  was  led  as  far,  and  into 
the  apartment  where  thev  are  shown.  I  found 
priests  reading,  and  men  looking  as  if  they  were 
learned.  I  was  confused  at  the  creaking  of  my 
boots;  I  gave  the  hesitating  look  of  a  wish,  but  I 
ended  by  a  Idush,  buwed.  and  retired.  I  passed 
again  into  the  larger  apartment,  and  I  felt  composed 
as  I  looked  around.  Why  life,  thought  I,  wcuild 
be  too  short  for  any  hutnan  being  to  read  these 
folios  ;  but  yet,  if  safe  from  the  pedant's  frown, 
one  could  have  a  vast  library  to  range  in,  i here  is 
little  doubt  that,  with  a  love  of  truth,  and  a  thirst- 
ing tlir  knowledge,  the  man  of  middle  age,  who 
regretted  his  early  closed  lexicon,  might  open  it 
again  with  delight  and  protit.  While  ihus  musing, 
in  stamped  two  travellers, — my  countrymen,  my 
bold,  brave  countrymen — not  imelleciual,  I  could 
have  sworn,  or  Lavater  is  a  cheat — 

"  Pride  in  tlieir  port,  defiance  in  their  eye  :" — 

They  strode  across  to  confront  the  doctors,  and 
demanded  to  see  those  sighis  to  which  the  book 
directed,  and  the  ^r\i\n\ng_domestique  de  place  led 
them.  I  envied  them,  and  yet  was  angry  with 
them  ;  however,  I  soon  bethought  me,  such  are  the 
men  who  are  often  sterling  characters,  true  hearts. 
They  will  find  no  seduciion  in  a  souihern  sun  !  but 
back  to  the  English  girl  they  love  best,  to  be  liked 
by  her  softer  nature  the  better  for  having  seen  Italy, 
and  taught  by  her  gentleness  to  speak  about  ii 
pleasingly,  and  prize  what  they  have  seen  I — Such 
are  the  men  whom  our  poor  men  like, — who  are 
generous  masters  and  honest  voters,  fiiithful  hus- 
bands and  kind  fathers;  who.  if  ihey  make  us  smiled 
at  abroad  in  peace,  make  ns  feared  in  war,  and  any 
one  of  whom  is  worth  to  his  country  far  more  than 
a  dozen  mere  sentimental  wanderers." 

Ibid.  pp.  296—298. 
"  Always  on  quitting  the  museum  it  is  a  relief  to 
drive  somewhere,  that  you  may  relieve  the  mind 


and  refresh  the  sight  with  a  view  of  earth  and  ocean 
The  view  from  the  Belvidere,  in  the  garden  of  St' 
Martino,  close  to  the  fortress  of  St.  Elmo,  is  said 
to  be  unequalled  in  the  world.  I  was  walking  along 
the  cloister  to  it,  when  I  heard  voices  behind  me 
and  saw  an  English  family — father,  mother,  wlih, 
daughter  and  son,  of  drawing-room  and  university^  W'^^ 
ages.  I  turned  aside  that  I  might  not  intrude  on; 
them,  and  went  to  take  iny  gaze  when  ihey  canje  U0''- 
away  from  the  little  balcony.  I  saw  no  features; 
but  the  dress,  the  gentle  talking,  and  the  quietude 
of  their  whole  manner,  gave  me  great  pleasure.  A 
happy  domestic  English  family!  parei.is  travelling  to 
delight,  improve,  and  protecl  then  children  ;  younger 
ones  at  home  perhaps,  who  will  sn  ni.vt  suiumeron 
the  shady  lawn,  and  lisien  as  lialy  is  talked  over, 
and  look  at  prims,  and  turn  over  a  sister's  sketch- 
book ,  and  beg  a  brother's  journal.  Magically  varied 
is  the  grandeur  of  the  scene — the  pleasant  city  ;  lis 
broad  bay  ;  a  little  sea  that  knows  no  storms;  its 
garden  neighbourhood  ;  its  famed  Vesuvius,  not 
looking  either  vast,  or  dark,  or  dreadful — all  bright 
and  smiling,  garinented  with  vineyards  below,  and 
its  brow  barren,  yet  not  without  a  hue  of  that  ashen 
er  slaty  blueness  which  improves  a  mountain's 
aspect ;  and  far  behind,  stretched  in  their  lull  bold 
forms,  the  shadowy  Appenines.  (iaze  and  goback, 
English!  Naples,  with  all  its  beauties  and  its 
pleasures,  its  treasury  of  ruins,  and  recollectiojis, 
and  fair  works  of  art ;  its  soft  music  and  balmy  lira 
cannot  make  yo7i  happy  ;  may  gratify  the  gaze  of 
taste,  but  never  suit  the  habits  of  your  mind.  There 
are  many  homeless  solitary  Englishmen  whonuHlu 
sojourn  longer  in  such  sceties,  and  be  soothed  by 
them;  but  to  become  dwellers,  settled  residents, 
would  be,  even  for  them,  impossible." 

Ibid.  pp.  301—303. 

We  must  break  off  here — though  there  is 
much  temptation  to  go  on.  But  we  have  now 
shown  enough  of  these  volumes  to  enable  our 
readers  to  judge  safely  of  their  character— 
and  it  would  be  unfair,  perhaps,  to  steal  more 
from  their  pages.  We  think  we  have  extract- 
ed impartially ;  and  are  sensible,  at  all  events, 
that  we  have  given  specimens  of  the  faults 
as  well  as  the  beauties  of  the  author's  style. 
His  taste  in  writing  certainly  is  not  unexcep- 
tionable. He  is  seldom  quite  sim])le  or  natural, 
and  sometimes  very  fade  and  affected.  Hu 
has  little  bits  of  inversions  in  his  sentences, 
and  small  exclamations  and  ends  of  ordinary 
verse  dangling  about  them,  which  we  often 
wish  away — and  he  talks  rather  too  much  ol 
himself,  and  his  ignorance;  ami  humility, 
while  he  is  tur»iing  those  fine  sentences,  and 
laying  traps  for  our  applause.  But,  in  spite 
of  all  these  thing.s,  the  books  are  very  interest- 
ing and  instructive;  and  their  merits  greatly 
outweigh  their  defects.  If  the  author  has,  j,,|^j, 
occasional  failures,  he  has  freijuent  felicities :|jB|uj[|||| 
—and,  independent  of  the  many  beautifulljl^jijj,, 
ami  brilliant  passages  which  he  has  furnished 
for  our  delight;  has  contrived  to  breathe  ovei 
all  his  work  a  spirit  of  kindliness  and  content- 
ment, which,  if  it  does  not  minister  (as  it 
ought)  to  our  imji^vement,  must  at  least 
disarm  our  censure  of  all  bitterness. 


WARBURTON'S  LETTERS. 


I  (JanuavT).  1809.) 

etters  from  a  late  eminent  Prelate  to  one  of  kis  Frieiids.  4to.  pp.380.  Kidderminster:   1808. 


Warburton,  we  think,  was  the  last  of  our  I 

reat  Divines — the  hist,  peiliap.-;,  of  any  pro- 

jssion,  among  us,  who  united  piofound  k^arn-  j 

ig  with  great  powers  of  understanding,  and,  ! 

long  with  vast  and  varied  stores  of  acquired  i 

nowledge,  possessed  energy  of  mind  enough 

)  wield  them  with  ease  and  activity.  The  days 

f  the  Cudworths  and  Barrows — the  Hookers 

nd  Taylors,  are  long  gone  by.     Among  the 

iher  divisions  of  intellectual  "labour  to  which 

le  progress  of  society  has  given  birth,  the 

usiness  of  reasoning,  and  the  busine.ss  of 

ollecting  knowledge,  have  been,  in  a  great 

leasure.  put  into  separate  hands.    Our  scho- 

irs  are  now  little  else  than  pedants,  and  an- 

iquaries,  and  grammarians, — who  have  never 

xercised  any  faculty  but  memory ;  and  our 

easoners  are.  for  the  most  part,  but  slenderly 

jroviJed  with  learning ;  or.  at  any  rate,  make 

i)Ut  a  slender  use  of  it  in  their  reasonings.  Of 

jhe  two,  the  reasoners  are  by  far  the  best  off: 

:  iind,upon  many  subjects,  have  really  profited  ' 

by  the  separation.     Argument  from  authority  | 

s.  in  general,  the  weakest  and  the  most  tedi-  ! 

)USof  all  argiiments;  and  learning,  we  are  in-  ! 

'lined  to  believe,  has  more  frequently  played  | 

fhe  part  of  a  bully  than  of  a  fair  auxiliary ;  \ 

knd  been  oftenerused  to  frighten  people  than  j 

':o  convince  them. — to  dazzle  and  overawe, 

•ather  than  to  guide  and  enlighten.     A  mo-  | 

leni  writer  would  not,  if  he  could,  reason  as  j 

6arrowaud  Cud  worth  often  reason  :  and  every  I 

••eader,  even  of  Warburton,  must  have  felt 

ihat  his  learning  often  encumbers  rather  than 

(is.sists  his  progress,  and,  like  shining  armour. 

iadds  more  to  h^s  terrors  than  to  his  strength. 

IThe  true  thi^ory  of  this  separation  may  be, 

•therefore,  that  scholars  who  are  capable  of 

^reasoning,  have  ceased  to  make  a  parade  of  j 

'their  scholarship  :  while  those  who  have  no- 

'thing  else  must  continue  to  set  it  forward —  i 

ijust  as  gentlemen  now-a-days  keep  their  sold 

Sin  their  pockets,  instead  of  wearhig  it  on  their 

Iclothes — while  the  fashion  of  laced  suits  still 

!prevai!s  amon^r  their  domestics.     There  are 

; individuals,  however,  who  still  think  that  a 

iman  of  rank  looks  most  dignified  in  cut  velvet 

;and  embroidery,  and  ihat  one  who  is  not  a 

gentleman  can  now  counterfeit  that  appear- 

'ance  a  little  too  easily.     We  do  not  presume 

Uo  settle  so  weighty  a  dispute  : — we  only  take 

I  the  liberty  of  observing,  that  Warburton  lived 

'to  see  the  fashioa  ao  out :  and  was  almost  the 

;last  native  gentleman  who  appeared  in  a  full 

trimmed  coat. 

He  was  not  only  the  last  of  our  reasoning 
scholars,  but  the  last  also,  we  think,  of  our 
powerful  polemics.  This  breed  too.  we  take 
it,  is  extinct; — and  we  are  not  sorry  for  it. 
Those  men  cannot  be  much  regretted,  who, 
instead  of  applving  their  great  and  active 
faculties  in  making  their  fellows  better  or 
viser,  or  in  promo  jig  mutual  kindness  and 


cordiality  among  all  the  virtuous  and  enlight- 
ened, wasted  their  tiays  in  wrangling  upon 
iiUe  theories ;  and  in  applying,  to  the  specu- 
lative errors  of  their  equals  in  talents  and  ill 
virtue,  those  terms  of  angry  reprob&tion  which 
should  be  reserved  for  vice  and  malignity. 
In  neither  of  these  characters,  therefore,  can 
we  Seriously  lament  that  Warburton  is  not 
likely  to  have  any  successor. 

The  truth  is,  that  this  e.\traordinary  pei^on 
was  a  Giant  in  Literature — with  many  ot  the 
vices  of  the  Gigantic  character.  Strong  as  he 
was,  his  excessive  pride  and  overweening 
vanity  were  perpetually  engjiging  him  in  en- 
terprises which  he  could  not  accomplish; 
whde  such  was  his  intolerable  arrogance  to- 
wards his  opponents,  and  his  insolence  to- 
wards those  whom  he  reckoned  as  his  infe- 
riors, that  he  made  himself  very  generally 
and  deservedly  odious,  and  ended  by  doing 
considerable  injury  to  all  the  causes  which 
he  undertook  to  support.  The  novelty  and 
the  boldness  of  his  manner — the  resentment 
of  his  antagonists — and  the  consternation  of 
his  friends,  insured  him  a  considerable  share 
of  public  attention  at  the  besinning  :  But  such 
was  the  repulsion  of  his  moral  qualities  as  a 
writer,  and  the  fundamental  unsoundness  of 
most  of  his  speculations,  that  he  no  sooner 
ceased  to  write,  than  he  ceased  to  be  read  or 
inquired  after, — and  lived  to  see  those  erudite 
volumes  fairly  laid  on  the  shelf,  which  he 
fondly  expected  to  carry  down  a  growing 
fame  to  posterity. 

The  history  of  Warburton,  indeed,  is  un- 
commonly curious,  and  his  fate  instructive. 
He  was  bied  an  attorney  at  Newark ;  and 
probably  derived,  from  his  early  practice  in 
that  capacity,  that  love  of  controversy,  and 
that  habit  of  "scurrility,  for  which  he  was  after- 
wards distinguished".  His  ^;rst  literary  asso- 
ciates were  some  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad  ; 
and  his  first  literal  v  adventure  the  publication 
of  some  poerhs,  which  well  entitled  him  to  a 
place  among  those  worthies.  He  helped  "pil- 
fering Tibbalds"  to  some  notes  upon  Shake- 
speare ;  and  spoke  contemptuously  of  Mr. 
Po])e's  talents,  and  severely  of  his  morals,  in 
his  letters  to  Concannen.  He  then  hired  his 
pen  to  prepare  a  volume  on  the  Jurisdiction 
of  the  Court  of  Chancery  :  and  having  now 
entered  the  church,  niinle  a  more  successful 
endeavour  to  maijnify  his  profession,  and  to 
attract  notice  to  himself  by  ihe  publication 
of  his  once  famous  book  on  '-the  Alliance 
between  Church  and  State,'"  in  which  all  the 
presumption  and  ambition  of  his  nature  was 
first  made  manifest. 

Bv  this  time,  however,  he  s.'-ems  to  have 
passed  over  from  the  party  of  the  Dunces  to 
that  of  Pope;  and  proclaimed  his  conversion 
pretty  abruptly,  by  writing  an  elaborate  de- 
fence of  the  Essay  on  Man,  from  some  iniputa- 


684 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


tioHS  which  had  been  thrown  on  its  theology  '  a  victory,  which  is  now  generally  adjudged  to 
and  morality.  Pope  received  the  services  of  j  his  opponents.  The  object  of  "the  Divine 
this  voluntary  champion  with  great  gratitude;  1  Legation,"' for  instance,  is  to  prove  that  the 
and  Warburton  having  now  discovered  that  !  mission  of  Moses  was  certainly  from  God. — 
he  was  not  only  a  great  poet,  but  a  very  honest  j  because  his  system  is  the  only  one  which 
/nan,  continued  to  cultivate  his  friendship  with  !  does  not  teach  the  doctrine  of  a  future  state 
great  assiduity,  and  with  very  notable  success:  of  rewards  and  punishments !  And  the  ob- 
For  Pope  introduced  him  to  Mr.  Murray,  who  ject  of  --the  Alliance"'  is  to  shosv.  that  the 
made  him  preacher  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  and  to    church  (that  is,  as  he  explains  it.  all  the  ad- 


Mr.  Allen  of  Prior  Park,  who  gave  him  his 
niece  in  marriac;e, — obtained  a  bishopiic  for 
him, — and  left  him  his  whole  estate.  In  the 
mean  time,  he  published  his  "  Divine  Lega- 
tion of  Moses," — the  most  learned,  most  arro- 
gant, and  most  absurd  work,  which  had  been 
produced  in  England  for  a  century; — and  his 
editions  of  Pope,  and  of  Shakespeare,  in  which 
he  was  scarcely  less  outrageous  and  fantas- 
tical. He  replied  to  some  of  his  answerers  in 
a  style  full  of  insolence  and  brutal  scurrility : 
and  not  only  poured  out  the  most  tremendous 
abuse  on  the  infidelities  of  Bolingbroke  and 
Hume,  but  found  occasion  also  to  (juarrel 
with  t)rs.  Middleton.  Lowth,  Jortin.  Lelaiid. 
and  indeed  almost  every  name  distinguished 
for  piety  and  learning  in  England.  At  the 
same  time,  he  indited  the  most  highfiown 
adulation  to  Lord  Chesterfield,  and  contrived 
to  keep  himself  in  the  good  graces  of  Lord 
Mansfield  and  Lord  Hardwicke  : — while,  in 
the  midst  of  aftiuence  and  honours,  he  was 
continually  exclaiming  against  the  barbarity 
of  the  age  in  rewarding  genius  so  frugally, 
and  in  not  calling  in  the  aid  of  the  civil  ma- 
gistrate to  put  down  fanaticism  and  infidelity. 
The  public,  however,  at  last,  srrew  weary  of 
these  blustering  novelties.  The  bishop,  as 
old  age  stole  upon  him,  began  to  doze  in  his 
mitre;  and  thou<:h  Dr.  Richard  Hurd,  with 
the  true  spirit  of  an  underling,  persisted  in 
keeping  up  the  petty  Irafllie  of  reciprocal  en- 
comiums, vet  Warburton  was  lost  to  the  pub- 
lic long  before  he  sunk  into  dotage,  and  lay 
dead  as  an  author  for  many  years  of  his  natu- 
ral existence. 

We  have  imputed  this  rapid  decline  of  his 
reputation,  partly  to  the  unsoundness  of  his 
general  speculations,  and  chiefly  to  the  of- 
fensiveness  of  his  manner.  The  fact  is  ad- 
mitted even  by  those  who  pretend  to  regret 


herents  of  the  church  of  England)  is  entitled 
to  a  legal  esiablishmcnt,  and  the  protection  of 
a  test  law, — because  it  constitutes  a  separate 
society  from  that  which  is  concerned  in  the 
civil  government,  and,  being  equally  sovereign 
and  independent,  is  therefore  entitled  to  treat 
with  it  on  a  footing  of  perfect  equality.  The 
sixth  book  of  Virgil,  we  are  assured,  in  the 
same  peremptory  manner,  contains  merely 
the  de.scription  of  the  mysteries  of  Eleusis; 
and  the  badness  of  the  New  Testament  Greek 
a  conclusive  proof  both  of  the  eloquence  and 
the  inspiration  of  its  authors.  These  fancies, 
it  appears  to  us,  require  no  refutation  :  and, 
dazzled  and  astonished  as  we  are  at  the  rich 
and  variegated  tissue  of  learning  and  argu- 
ment with  which  their  author  has  invested 
their  extravagance,  vve  conceive  that  no  man 
of  a  sound  and  plain  understanding  can  ever 
mistake  them  for  truths,  or  waver,  in  the  least 
degree,  from  the  conviction  which  his  own 
reflection  must  afford  of  their  intrinsic  ab- 
surdity. 

The  case  is  very  nearly  the  same  with  his 
subordinate  general  propositions;  which,  in 
so  far  as  they  are  original,  are  all  brought 
forward  with  the  parade  of  great  discoveries, 
and'  yet  appear  to  us  among  the  most  futile 
and  erroneous  of  modern  speculations.  We 
are  tempted  to  mention  two,  which  we  think 
we  have  seen  referred  to  by  later  writers  with 
some  degree  of  approbation,  and  which,  at 
any  rale,  make  a  capital  figure  in  ail  the  fun- 
damental philosophy  of  Warburton.  The  one 
relates  to  the  necessary  imperfection  of  human 
laws,  as  dealing  in  Punishments  only,  and  not 
in  Rewards  also.  The  other  concerns  his 
notion  of  the  ultimate  foundation  of  moral 
ObliL^ition. 

The   very  basis  of  his   argument  for  the 

necessity  of  the  doctrine  of  a  future  state  to 

it;  and,  whatever  Dr.  Hurd  may  have  thought,    the  well-being  of  society,  is,'  that,  by  human 


it  must  have  had  other  causes  than  the  decay 
of  public  virtue  and  taste. 

In  fact,  when  we  look  (]uietly  and  soberly 
over  the  vehement  and  imposing  treatises  of 
Warburton,  it  is  scarcely  possible  not  to  per- 
ceive, that  almost  every  thing  that  is  original 
in  his  doctrine  or  propositions  is  erroneous: 
and  that  his  great  gifts  of  learning  and  argu- 


laws,  the  conduct  of  men  is  only  controlled 
by  the  fear  of  punishment,  and  not  excited  by 
the  hope  of  reward.  Both  these  sanctions, 
however,  he  contends,  are  necessary  to  regu- 
late our  actions,  and  keep  the  world  in  order; 
and.  therefore,  legislators,  not  finding  rewards 
in  this  world,  have  always  been  obliijed  to 
connect  it  with  a  future  world,  in  which  they 


mentation  have  been  bestowed  on  a  vain  at- 1  have  held  out  that  they  wonld  be  bestowed 
tempt  to  give  currency  to  untenable  paradoxes. 
His  powers  and  his  skill  in  controversy  may 
indeed  conceal,  from  a  careless  reader,  the 
radical  fallacy  of  his  reasoning;  and  as,  in 
the  course  of  the  argument,  he  frequently 
has  the  better  of  his  adversaries  upon  inci- 
dental and  collateral  topics,  and  never  fails  to 
make  his  triumph  resound  over  the  whole 
field  of  battle,  it  is  easy  to  understand  how 
he  should,  for  a  while,  have  got  the  credit  of 


on  all  deservers.  It  is  scarcely  possible,  w( 
believe,  to  put  this  most  important  doctrine 
on  amon;  injudicious  foundation  ;  and  if  this 
were  the  only  ground  either  for  believing  or 
inculcating  the  doctrine  of  a  future  state,  we 
should  tremble  at  the  advantages  which  the 
infidel  would  have  in  the  contest.  We  shall 
not  detain  our  readers  longer,  than  just  to 
point  out  three  obvious  fallacies  in  this,  the 
most  vaunted  and  confident,  perhaps,  of  all 


WARBURTOXS  LETTERS. 


689 


he  Warburtonian  dogmata.   In  tlie  first  place, 
t  is  obvious   that    disorders  in   societ)-  can 
carcely  be  saiil  to  be  prevented  by  the  hope 
if  future  lewards  :  the  proper  use  of  tlial  doc- 
irine  being,  not  to  repress  vice,  but  to  console 
|.ffliction."  Vice  and   disorder  can   only  be 
jiuelled  by  the  dread  of  future  i)unishmenl — 
Ivhether  in  this  world  or  the  next ;  while  it  is 
Obvious   that   the  despondency  and  distress 
ivhich  may  be  soothed  by  the  prospect  of 
juture  bliss,  are  not  disorders  within  the  pur- 
^ievr'  of  the  legislator.     In  the  second  place, 
;t  is  obviously  not  true  that  human  laws  are 
necessarily  deAcient  in  the  article  of  provitUng 
(•ewards.      In   many   instances,   their  enact- 
ments have  this  direct  object ;  and  it  is  ob- 
/ious,  that  if  it  was  thought  essential  to  the 
iivell-being  of  society,  they  might  reward  quite 
US  often  as  they  punish.     But,  in  the  third 
place,  the  whole  argument  proceeds  upon  a 
jTTOSS  and  unaccountable  misapprehension  of 
;the  nature  and  object  of  legislation  ; — a  very 
brief  explanation  of  which  will  show,  both 
ithat  the  temporal  rewards  of  virtue  are  just 
as  sure  as  the  temporal  punishments  of  vice, 
land  at  the  same  time  explain  why  the  law 
Ihas  so  seldom  interfered  to  enforce  the  for- 
mer.    The   law  arose  from   human  feelings 
,ind  notions  of  justice  ;  and  those  feelings  and 
{notions,  were,  of  course,  before  the  law,  which 
jonly  came  in  aid  of  their  deficiency.     The 
inatural  and  necessary  etfect  of  kind  and  vir- 
tuous conduct   is,  to  excite   love,  gratitude, 
and  benevolence  • — the  eilect  of  injury  and 
vice  is  to  excite  resentment,  anger,  and  re- 
jvenge.      While    there   was   no   law   and   no 
imagistrate,  men  must  have  acted  upon  those 
■feelings,  and  acted  upon  them  in  their  whole 
lextent.     He  who  rendered  kindness,  received 
ikindness ;  and  he  who  inflicted  pain  and  suf- 
jfering,  was  sooner  or  later  overtaken  by  re- 
jtorted  pain  and  suffering.  Virtue  u-as  rewarded 
|lherefore,  and  vice   punished,  at  all_  times; 
;and  both,  we  must   suppose,    in   the   same 
;raeasure  and  degree.     The  reward  of  virtue, 
ihowever,   produced   no   disturbance    or  dis- 
jorder;  and.  after  society  submitted  to  regula- 
tion,  was  very  safely  left  in  the   hands  of 
igratitude  and  sympathetic  kindness.     But  it 
jwas  far  otherwise  with  the  punishment  of 
!vice.  Resentment  and  revenge  tended  always 
jto  a  dangerous  excess, — were  liable  to  be  as- 
!  sumed  as  the  pretext  for  unprovoked  aggres- 
(Sion, — and,  at  all  events,  had  a  tendency  to 
i  reproduce  revenge  and  resentment,  in  an  in-' 
terminable   series   of  violence  and   outrage. 
The  law,  therefore,  took  this  duty  into  its  own 
hands.     It  did  not  invent,  or  impose  for  the 
first  time,  that  sanction  of  punishment,  which 
was  coeval  with  vice  and  with  society,  and 
is  implied,  indeed,  in  the  very  notion  of  in- 
jury : — it  only  transferred  the  right  of  apply- 
ing it  from  the  injured  individual  to  the  pub- 
lic:   and  tempered  its  application  by  more 
impartial  and  extensive  views  of  the  circum- 
stances of  the  delinquency.     But  if  the  pun- 
\  ishment  of  vice  be  not  ultimately  derived  from 
i  law,  neither  is  the  reward  of  virtue ;  and  al- 
I  though  human  passions  made  it  necessary  for 
I  law  to  undertake  the  regulation  of  that  pun- 


ishment, it  evidently  would  not  add  to  its  per- 
fection, to  make  it  also  the  distribnti-r  of  re- 
wards;  unless  it  could  be  shown,  that  a  simi- 
lar disorder  was  likely  to  ari.se  from  leaving 
these  to  the  indiviiluals  alfected.  It  is  ob- 
vious, however,  not  only  that  theieis  no  like- 
lihood of  such  a  disorder,  h\\\  that  such  an 
interference  would  be  absurd  and  inipraclica- 
ble.  ft  is  tr\U',  therefore,  thatg^uman  laws 
do  in  general  provide  punishments  only,  and 
not  rewards;  but  it  is  not  true  that  they  are, 
on  this  account,  imperfect  or  defective  ;  or 
that  human  conduct  is  not  actually  regulated 
by  the  love  of  happiness,  as  much  as  by  the 
dread  of  suffering.  The  doctrine  of  a  future 
state  adds,  no  doubt,  prodigiously  to  both  these 
motives;  but  it  is  a  rash,  a  j)resnmptuous, 
anil,  we  think,  a  most  shorlsiuhted  and  nar- 
row view  of  the  case,  to  sujipose,  that  it  is 
chiefly  the  impossibility  of  rewarding  virtue 
on  EaVth.  that  has  led  legislators  to  secure  the 
peace  of  society,  by  referring  it  lor  its  recom- 
pen.se  to  Heaven. 

The  other  dogma  to  which  we  alluded,  is 
advanced  with  equal  confidence  and  preten- 
sions ;  and  is,  if  possible,  still  more  shallow 
and  erroneous.  Speculative  moralists  had 
been  formerly  contented  with  referring  moral 
obligation,  either  to  a  moral  sense,  or  to  a 
perception  of  utility  ; — Warburton,  without 
much  ceremony,  put  both  these  together: 
j  But  his  grand  discovery  is.  that  even  this  tie 
lis  not  strong  enough;  and  that  the  idea  of 
1  moral  obligation  is  altogether  incomplete  and 
I  imperfect,  unless  it  be  made  to  rest  also  on 
I  the  Will  of  a  Superior.  There  is  no  point  hi 
all  his  philosophy,  of  which  he  is  more  vain 
'  than  of  this  pretended  discovery ;  and  he 
speaks  of  it,  we  are  persuaded,  twenty  times, 
:  without  once  suspecting  the  gross  fallacy 
which  it  involves.  The  fallacy  is  not,  how- 
!  ever,  in  stating  an  erroneous  proposition — for 
j  it  is  certainly  true,  that  the  command  of  a 
superior  will  generally  constitute  an  obliffii- 
tion  :  it  lies  altogether  in  supposing  that  this 
is  a  separate  or  additional  ground  of  obliga- 
j  tion, — and  in  not  seeing  that  this  vaunted  dis- 
covery of  a  third  principle  for  the  foundation 
1  of  morality,  was  in  fact  nothing  but  an  indi- 
I  vidnal  instance  or  exemplification  of  the  prin- 
'  ciple  of  utility. 

'  Why  are  we  bound  by  the  will  of  a  supe- 
rior?— evidently  for  no  other  reason,  than  be- 
I  cause  superiority  implies  a  poiver  to  affect  our 
happiness;  and  the  expression  of  will  assures 
I  lis.  that  our  happiness  will  be  affected  by  our 
disobedience.  An  obligation  is  something 
which  constrains  or  induces  us  to  act ; — but 
there  neither  is  nor  can  be  any  other  motive 
for  the  actions  of  rational  and  sentient  beings, 
than  the  love  of  happiness.  It  is  the  desire 
of  happiness— well  or  ill  understood— seen 
widely  or  narrowly, — that  necessarily  dictates 
all  our  actions,  and  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  our 
conceptions  of  morality  or  duty  :  and  the  will 
of  a  .superior  can  only  constitute  a  irround  of 
obligation,  by  connecting  itself  willi  thi.s  sin- 
gle and  universal  agent.  If  it  were  possible 
jto  disjoin  the  idea  of  our  own  hap])nip.-<s  or 
I  suffering  from  the  idea  of  a  superior,  it  is  ob- 
3H 


686 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


vious.  that  we  should  no  longer  be  under  any 
obligation  to  conform  to  the  will  of  that  supe- 
rior. If  we  should  be  equally  secure  of  hap- 
piness— in  mind  and  in  body — iu  time  and  in 
eternity,  by  disobeying  his  will,  as  by  com- 
plying with  it,  it  is  evidently  altogether  incon- 
ceivable, that  the  expression  of  that  will  should 
impo.se  any  oblig'ation  upon  us  :  And  although 
it  be  true  thrive  cannot  suppose  such  a  case, 
it  is  not  the  less  a  fallacy  to  represent  the  will 
of  a  superior  as  a  third  and  additional  ground 
of  obliiiation,  newly  discovered  by  this  aulhor, 
and  superadded  to  the  old  principle  of  a  rcg-ard 
to  happines?,  or  utility.  We  take  these  in- 
stances of  the  general  unsoundness  of  all 
VVaiburton's  peculiar  doctrines,  from  topics 
on  which  he  is  generally  supposed  to  have 
been  less  extravagant  than  on  any  other. 
Those  who  wish  to  know  his  feats  in  criticism, 
may  be  referred  to  the  Canons  of  Mr.  Ed- 
wards ;  and  those  who  admire  the  originality  of 
his  Dissertation  on  the  Mysteries,  are  recom- 
mended to  look  into  the  Eleusis  of  Mmrsius. 

Speculations  like  these  could  never  be  pop- 
ular; and  were  not  likely  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion, even  of  the  studious,  longer  than  their 
novelty,  and  the  glare  of  erudition  and  orig- 
inality which  was  thrown  around  them,  pro- 
tected them  from  deliberate  consideration. 
But  the  real  cause  of  the  public  alienation 
from  the  works  of  this  writer,  is  undoubtedly 
to  be  found  in  the  revolting  arrogance  of  his 
general  manner,  and  the  offensive  coarseness 
of  his  controversial  invectives.  These,  we 
think,  must  be  confes.sed  to  be  somewhat 
worse  than  mere  error  in  reasoning,  or  ex- 
travagance in  theory.  They  are  not  only  of- 
fences of  the  first  magnitude  against  good 
taste  and  good  manners,  but  are  likely  to  be 
attended  with  pernicious  consequences  in 
matters  of  much  higher  importance.  Though 
we  are  not  disposed  to  doubt  of  the  sincerity 
of  this  reverend  person's  abhorrence  for  vice 
and  infidelity,  we  are  seriously  of  opinion,  that 
his  writings  have  been  substantially  prejudi- 
cial to  the  cause  of  religion  and  morality;  and 
that  it  is  fortunate  for  both,  that  they  have 
now  fallen  into  general  oblivion. 

They  have  produced,  in  the  first  place,  all 
the  mischief  of  a  conspicuous,  and,  in  some 
sense,  a  successful  e.xample  of  genius  and 
learning,  associated  with  insolence,  intoler- 
ance, and  habitual  contumely  and  outrage. 
All  men  who  are  engaged  in  controversy  are 
apt  enough  to  be  abusive  and  insulting, — and 
clergymen,  perhaps,  rather  more  apt  than 
others.  It  is  an  intellectual  warfare,  in  which, 
as  in  other  wars,  it  is  vatural,  we  suspect,  to 
be  ferocious,  unjust,  and  unsparing;  but  ex- 
perience and  civilisation  have  tempered  this 
vehemence,  by  gentler  and  more  generous 
maxims, — and  introduced  a  law  of  honourable 
hostility,  by  which  the  fiercer  elements  of  our 
nature  are  mastered  ami  controlled.  No  great- 
er evil,  perhaps,  can  be  imagined,  than  the 
violation  of  this  law  from  any  quarter  of  infiu- 
ence  and  reputation  ; — yet  the  Warburtonians 
may  be  said  to  have  used  their  best  endeav- 
ours to  introduce  the  use  of  poisoned  weapons, 
and  to  abolish  the  practice  of  giving  quarter. 


in  the  fields  of  controversy.  Fortunately! 
their  example  has  not  been  generally  follow- 
ed ;  and  the  sect  itself,  though  graced  with 
mitres,  and  other  trophies  of  worldly  success, 
has  perished,  we  think,  in  consequence  of  tht 
experiment. 

A  second,  and  perhaps,  a  still  more  formi 
dable  mischief,  arose  from  the  discredit  whict 
was  brought  on  the  priesthood,  and  indeec 
upon  religion  in  general,  by  this  interchaiigt 
of  opprobrious  and  insulting  accusationsamoii" 
its  ministers.  If  the  abuse  was  justifiable, 
then  the  church  itself  ga\e  shelter  to  folly 
and  wickedness,  at  least  as  great  as  was  to  bt 
found  under  the  banners  of  infidelity  ; — if  ii 
was  not  justifiable,  then  it  was  apparent,  that 
abuse  by  those  holy  men  was  no  proof  of  de- 
merit in  thoise  against  whom  it  was  directed : 
and  the  unbeliever.^,  of  course,  were  furnished 
with  an  objection  to  the  sincerity  of  those  in- 
vectives of  which  they  themselves  were  the 
objects. 

This  applies  to  those  indecent  expressions 
of  violence  and  contempt,  in  which  Warburtor 
and  his  followers  were  accustomed  to  indulge 
when  speaking  of  their  Christian  and  derica 
opponents.  But  the  greatest  evil  of  all,  wt 
think,  arose  from  the  intemperance,  coarse- 
ness, and  acrimony  of  their  remarks,  even  or 
those  who  were  enemies  to  revelation.  Then 
is,  in  all  well-constituted  minds,  a  natura 
feeling  of  indulaence  towards  those  errors  ot 
opinion,  to  which,  from  the  infirmity  of  humai 
reason,  all  men  are  liable,  and  of  compassioi 
for  those  whose  errors  have  endangered  thei 
happiness.  It  must  be  the  natural  tendency 
of  all  candid  and  liberal  persons,  therefore,  t'( 
regard  unbelievers  with  pity,  and  to  rcasoi 
with  them  with  mildness  and  forbearance 
Infidel  writers,  we  conceive,  may  generally 
be  allowed  to  be  actual  unbehevers;  for  it  i' 
difficult  to  imagine  what  other  motive  than  i 
sincere  persuasion  of  the  truth  of  their  opiii 
ions,  could  induce  them  to  become  objects  ol 
horror  to  the  respectable  part  of  any  commu 
nit}^,  by  their  disclosure.  From  ^^hat  vice: 
of  the  heart,  or  from  what  defects  in  the  un 
derstanding,  their  unbelief  may  have  original 
ed,  it  may  not  always  be  easy  to  determine  , 
but  it  seems  obvious  that,  for  "the  unbelief  it 
self,  they  are  rather  to  be  pitied  than  reviled 
and  that  the  most  effectual  way  of  persuadiiu 
the  public  that  their  opinions  are  refuted  ou 
of  a  regard  to  human  happiness,  is  to  trea 
their  author  (whose  happiness  is  most  in  dan 
ger)  with  some  small  degree  of  liberality  an( 
gentleness.  It  is  also  pretty  generally  "takei 
for  granted,  that  a  very  angry  disputant  i: 
usually  in  the  wrong ;  that  it  is  not  a  sign  o! 
much  confidence  in  the  argument,  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  unpopularity  or  legal  daiige . 
of  the  opposite  doctrine;  and  that,  when  ai 
unsuccessful  and  unfair  attempt  is  made  ti 
discredit  the  general  ability  or  personal  wort) 
of  an  antagonist,  no  great  reliance  is  under 
stood  to  be  placed  on  the  argument  by  whicl 
he  may  be  Jawfully  opposed. 

It  is  needle.«s  lo  apply  these  observations  ti 
the  case  of  the  Warburtonian  controversies 
There  is  no  mart;  we  believe,  however  he  ma; 


f 


WARBURTON  'S  L F.TT U\S. 


687 


I  convinced  of  the  fallacy  and  danger  of  the 
inciples  maintained  by  Lord  Bolingbioke, 
Voltaire,  or  by  Hume,  who  has  not  felt  in- 
;ition  and  disgust  at  the  brutal  violence, 
ailected  contempt,  and  the  llagrant  unfair- 
,;ss  with  which  they  are  treated  by  this 
krned  autlior, — who  has  not,  for  a  moment, 
[ken  part  with  them  ag-ainst  so  ferocious  and 
suiting  an  opponent,  and  wished  for  the 
[ortification  and  chastisement  of  the  advocate, 
l^en  while  impressed  with  tlie  greatest  vene- 
iition  for  the  cause.  We  contemplate  this 
teae  of  orthodox  fury,  in  short,  with  some- 
iiing  of  the  same  emotions  with  which  we 
iiould  see  a  heretic  subjected  to  the  torture, 
j-  a  freethinker  led  out  to  the  stake  by  a  zeal- 
ijs  inquisitor.  If  this,  however,  be  the  effect 
Fsuch  illiberal  violence,  even  on  those  whose 
[rinciples  are  settled,  and  whose  faith  is  con- 
Irmed  by  habit  and  reflection,  the  conse- 
jiences  must  obviously  be  still  more  perni- 
ious  for  those  whose  notions  of  religion  are 
|;ill  uninformed  and  immature,  and  whose 
iiinds  are  open  to  all  plausible  and  liberal 
iHpressions.  Take  the  case,  for  instance,  of 
young  man,  who  has  been  delighted  with 
le  eloquence  of  Bolingbroke,  and  the  sagacity 
nd  ingenuity  of  Hume  ; — who  knows,  more- 
ver,  that  the  one  lived  in  intimacy  with  Pope, 
nd  Swift,  and  Atterbury.  and  almost  all  the 
worthy  and  eminent  persons  of  his  time ; — 
Ind  that  the  other  was  the  cordial  friend  of 
tobertson  and  Blair,  and  was  irreproachably 
'orrect  and  amiable  in  every  relation  of  life ; 
-and  who,  perceiving  with  alarm  the  ten- 
ency  of  some  of  their  speculations,  applies 
D  Warburton  for  an  antidote  to  the  poi&on  he 
■lay  have  imbibed.  In  Warburton  he  will  then 
gad  that  Bolingbroke  was  a  paltry  driveller — 
foltaire  a  pitiable  scoundrel — and  Hume  a 
luny  dialectician,  who  ought  to  have  been  set 
in  the  pillory,  and  whose  heart  was  as  base 
Lnd  corrupt  as  his  understanding  was  con- 
pmpnble  !  Now.  what,  we  would  ask  any 
■pan  of  common  candour  and  observation,  is 
he  effect  likely  to  be  produced  on  the  mind 
if  any  ingenious  and  able  young  man  by  this 
tyle  of  confutation  1  Infallibly  to  make  him 
akepart  with  the  reviled  and  insulted  literati, 
—to  throw  aside  the  right  reverend  confuter 
nth  contempt  and  disgust, — and  most  proba- 
>ly  to  conceive  a  fatal  prejudice  against  the 
:au3e  of  religion  itself — thus  unhappily  asso- 
:iafed  with  coarse  and  ignoble  scurrility.  He 
nust  know  to  a  certainty,  in  the  first  place, 
hat  the  contempt  of  the  orthodox  champion  is 
'ithpr  affected,  or  proceeds  from  most  gross 
'lance  and  incapacity ; — since  the  abilities 
lie  reviled  writers  is  proved,  not  only  by 
ii.-i  own  feeling  and  experience,  but  by  the 
j-ufTrage  of  llie  public  and  of  all  men  of  intel- 
ligence. He  must  think,  in  the  second  place, 
that  the  imputations  on  their  moral  worth  are 
jHlse  and  calumnious,  both  from  the  fact  of 
jheir  long  friendship  with  the  pure-st  and  most 
paltcd  characters  of  their  age,  and  from  the 
pbyious  irrelevancy  of  this  topic' in  a  fair  refu- 
;atio!i  of  their  errors ;— and  then,  applying  the 
|)rdinary  maxims  by  which  we  judge  of  a  di.s- 
[Juiant's  cause,  from  his  temper  and  his  fair- 


ness, he  disables  both  the  judgment  and  the 
candour  of  his  iiisliuctor,  and  conccivi-a  u 
strong  prejudice  in  favour  of  the  cause  which 
has  bet'u  attacked  in  a  manner  so  unwar- 
rantable. 

We  liave  had  occasion,  oftener  than  once, 
to  trace  an  t'tfcct  like  this,  from  this  fierce 
and  overbearing  asjiect  of  orthotlo.vy  : — and 
we  appeal  to  the  juiigment  of  all^br  nailer*, 
whether  it  be  not  the  very  efiect  which  it  is 
calculateil  to  produce  on  all  youlhlul  minds 
of  any  considerable  strength  and  originality. 
It  is  to  such  persons,  however,  and  to  such 
only,  that  the  refutation  of  inlidel  writeis 
ought  to  be  addressed.  There  is  no  need  to 
write  books  agiiinst  Hume  and  Vuitaire  for  the 
use  of  the  learned  ami  orthodox  part  of  the 
English  clergy.  Such  woiks  are  necessarily 
supixjsed  to  be  intendeil  tor  the  benefit  of 
young  persons,  who  have  either  contracted 
some  partiality  for  those  seductive  writers,  or 
are  otherwise  in  danger  of  being  misled  by 
them.  It  is  to  be  presumed,  therefore,  that 
they  know  and  admire  their  real  excellencee  j 
— and  it  might  consequently  be  inferred,  that 
they  will  not  listen  with  peculiar  complacency 
to  a  refutation  of  their  errors,  which  sets  out 
with  a  torrent  of  illiberal  and  unjust  abuse  of 
their  talents  and  characters. 

We  are  convinced,  therefore,  that  the  bully- 
ing and  abusive  tone  of  the  Warburtonian 
school,  even  in  its  contention  with  infidels, 
has  done  more  harm  to  the  cause  of  religion, 
and  alienated  more  youthful  and  aspiring 
minds  from  the  true  faith,  than  any  other 
error  into  which  zeal  has  ever  betrayed  ortho- 
doxy. It  may  afl'ord  a  sort  of  vindictive  de- 
light to  the  zealots  who  stand  in  no  need  of 
the  instruction  of  which  it  should  be  the  ve- 
hicle ;  but  it  will,  to  a  certainty,  revolt  and 
disgust  all  those  to  whom  that  instruction  was 
necessary, — enlist  all  the  generous  feelings 
of  their  nature  on  the  side  of  infiilelity, — and 
make  piety  and  reason  itself  appear  like  pre- 
judice and  bigotry.  We  think  it  fortunate, 
therefore,  upon  the  whole,  that  the  controver- 
sial writings  of  Warburton  have  already  passed 
into  oblivion, — since,  even  if  we  thought  more 
highly  than  we  do  of  the  substantial  merit  of 
his  arguments,  we  should  still  be  of  opinion 
that  they  were  likely  to  do  more  mischief 
than  the  greater  part  of  the  sophistries  which 
it  was  their  professed  object  to  counteract  and 
discredit. 

These  desultory  observations  have  carried 
us  so  completely  away  from  the  book,  by  the 
title  of  which  they  were  sugire.-^ted,  that  we 
have  forgotten  to  announce  to  our  readers, 
that  it. contains  a  series  of  familiar  letters,  ad- 
dressed by  Warburton  to  Doctor  (afterwards 
Bishop)  Hurd,  from  the  year  1749,  w  hen  their 
acquaintance  commenced,  down  to  1776,  when 
the  increasing  infirmities  of  the  former  put  a 
stop  to  the  correspondence.  Some  little  use 
was  made  of  these  letters  in  the  life  of  his 
friend,  which  Bishop  Jlurd  jmblished,  altera 
very  long  delay,  in  1794  ;  but  Uw  treasure  was 
hoaVded  up,  in  the  main,  till  the  deaih  of  that 
prelate;  soon  after whieh,  the  pie.-enlvohui.e 
Avas  prepared  for  publication,  in  obedience  to 


688 


MISCELLAx\EOUS. 


the  following  intimation  prefixed  to  the  origi- 
nal collection,  and  now  printed  in  the  front 
of  the  book  : — 

"These  letters  give  so  true  a  picture  of  the 
writer's  character,  and  are,  besides,  so  worthy  of 
aim  in  all  respects  (I  mean,  if  the  reader  can  forgive 
the  playfulness  of  his  wir  in  some  instances,  and  the 
partiality  of  his  friendship  in  many  more),  that,  in 
nonourof  his  niemorv.  I  would  have  them  puhHshed 
after  my  death,  and  the  profits  arising  from  the  sale 
of  them,  applied  to  the  benefit  of  the  Worcester 
Infirmary." 

The  tenor  of  this  note,  as  well  as  the  name 
and  the  memory  of  Warburton,  excited  in  us 
no  small  curiosity  to  peruse  the  collection  : 
and,  for  a  moment,  we  entertained  a  hope  of 
finding  this  intractable  and  usurping  author 
softened  down,  in  the  gentler  relations  of  pri- 
vate life,  to  something  of  a  more  amiable  and 
engaging  form :  and  when  we  found  his  right 
reverend  correspondent  speaking  of  the  play- 
fulness of  his  wit,  and  the  partiality  of  his 
friendships,  we  almost  persuaded  ourselves, 
that  we  should  find,  in  these  letters,  not  only 
many  traits  of  domestic  tenderness  and  cor- 
diality, but  also  some  expressions  of  regret 
for  the  asperities  with  which,  in  the  heat  and 
the  elation  of  controversy,  he  had  insulted  all 
who  were  opposed  to  him.  It  seems  natural, 
too,  to  expect,  that  along  with  the  confessions 
of  an  author's  vanity,  we  should  meet  with 
some  reflections  on  his  own  good  fortune,  and 
some  expressions  of  contentment  and  gratitude 
for  the  honours  and  dignities  which  had  been 
heaped  upon  him.  lu  all  this,  however,  we 
have  been  painfully  disappointed.  The  arro- 
gance and  irritability  of  Warburton  was  never 
more  conspicuous  than  in  these  Letters. — nor 
his  intolerance  of  opposition,  and  his  prepos- 
terous estimate  of  his  own  merit  and  import- 
ance. There  is  some  wit — good  and  bad — 
scattered  throuirh  them  ;  and  diverse  frag- 
ments of  criticism  :  But  the  staple  of  the  cor- 
respondence is  his  own  praise,  and  that  of  his 
friend;  whom  he  magnifies  and  exalts,  indeed, 
in  a  way  that  is  very  diverting.  To  liim,  and 
his  other  dependants  and  admirers,  and  their 
patrons,  he  is  kind  and  complimentary  to  ex- 
cess :  but  all  the  rest  of  the  world  he  regards 
with  contempt  and  indiffeieiice.  The  age  is 
a  good  age  or  a  bad  age,  according  as  it  ap- 
plauds or  neglects  the  Divine  Leiration  and 
the  Commentary  on  Horace.  Those  who 
write  against  these  works  are  knaves  and 
driveller.^, — and  will  meet  with  their  reward 
in  the  contempt  of  another  generation,  and 
the  tortures  of  another  world! — Bishoprics 
and  Chancellorships,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
too  little  for  those  who  extol  and  defend  them  ; 
— and  Government  is  reviled  for  leaving  the 
press  open  to  Bolintrbroke,  and  tacitly  blamed 
for  not  setting  Mr.  Hume  on  the  pillory. 

Thi^  natural  connection  of  the  subject  with 
the  general  remarks  which  we  have  already 
premised,  leads  us  to  begin  our  extracts  with 
a  few  specimens  of  that  savaire  asj)erity  to- 
wards christians  and  Philosophers,  upon  which 
we  have  felt  ourselves  called  on  to  pass  a 
sentence  of  reprobation.  In  a  letter,  dated  in 
174P.  we  have  the  following  passage  about 
Mr.  Hume. — 


"  I  am  strongly  tempted,  too,  to  have  a  strok  t 
Hume  in  partine.     He  is  the  author  of  a  httle  bo  , 
called  Philosophical  Essays;  in  one  part  of  wl  i 
he  argues  against  the  being  of  a  God.  and  in  anc  r 
(very  needlessly  you  will  say)  against  the  possib  ■ 
of  miracles.    He  has  crowned  the  liberty  of  the  pr 
And  yet  he  has  a  considerable  post  under  the 
vernment !     I  have  a  great  mind  to  do  justice 
his  arguments  against  miracles,  which  I  think  in  ; 
be  done  in  few  words.     But  does  he  deserve 
tice  ?     Is  he  known  amongst  you  ?     Pray  ans  r 
me  these  questions;  for  if  his  own  weight  lie  < 
him  down,  I  should  he  sorry  to  mvtrihute  to  hit  . 
vancement — to  any  place  but  the  FUlory." — p.  i 

In  another  place,  he  is  pleased  to  say,  un  r 
date  of  1757,  when  Mr.  Hume's  reputat  i 
for  cfoodness,  as  well  as  genius,  was  fully  . 
tablished : — 

"There  is  an  epidemic  madness  amongst  us ; . 

day  we  burn  with  the  feverish  heat  of  Superstiti  ; 

to-morrow  we  s'aiid  fixed  and  frozen  in  Athei 

Expect  to  hear  that  the  churches  are  all  crow  i 

next  Friday  ;  and  that  on   Saturday  they  buy  > 

Hume's  new  Essays  ;  the  first  of  which  (and  pit ; 

you;  is  The  Natural  History  of  R,  Vision,  for  wl  i 

I  will  trim  the  rogue's  jacket,  at  least  sit  upon  ? 

skirts,  as  you  w-ill  see  when  you  come  hither.   I 

find  his  margins  scribbled  over.     In  a  word,  < 

Essay  is  to  establish  an  Atheistic  naturalism,    ; 

Bolingbroke  ;  and  he  goes  upoti  one  of  B.'scaj  1 

arguments,  that  Idolatry  and  Polytheism  were  - 

fore  the  worship  of  the  one   God.     It  is  lull  of  . 

I  surdities;  and  here  I  come  in  with  him;  for  i  ■/ 

j  shov;  themselves  hnnres:    but,  as  you  well  obsei  , 

'  to  do  their  business,  is  to  show  them  fools.    T.,- 

1  say  this  man  has  several  moral  qualities.     It  i  ; 

I  be  so.     But  there  are  vices  of  the  mind  as  ^  1 

I  as  body  ;  and  a  Wickeder  Heart,  and  more  de  ■ 

I  mined  to  do  pMic  ?Iischief,  1  think  I  ntvi  r  hm  ' 

p.  17. 
I  It  is  natural  and  very  edifying,  after  all  t  . 
\  to  find  him  expressing  the  most  unmeasu  1 
contempt,  even  for  the  historical  works  of  i  s 
{  author,  and  gravely  telling  his  beloved  frie  , 
who  was  hammering  out  a  puny  dialogue  i 
!  the  English  constitution,  -As  to  Huine's  I  - 
tory,  you  need  not  fear  being  forestalled  b  i 
thousand  suck  writers.  But  the  fear  is  natu  . 
as  I  have  often  felt,  and  as  often  experien.  I 
to  be  absurd  !"'  We  really  were  not  aw:  . 
either  that  this  History  was  generally  lool  I 
upon  as  an  irreligious  publication  ;  or  1 1 
there  was  reason  to  suspect  that  Dr.  Robert  i 
had  no  warm  side  to  religion,  more  than  s 
friend.  Both  these  things,  however,  may  .* 
learned  from  the  following  short  paragrapl 

"  Hume  has  outdone  hiinself  in  this  new  hisn  , 
in  showing  his  contempt  of  religion.  'J'his  is  ■ 
of  those  proof  charges  which  Arbuthnot  speak;  i 
in  his  treatise  oi  jwlitical  lying,  to  try  how  in  i 
the  public  will  bear.  If  this  history  he  trell  ri-cei  , 
/  shall  conclude  that  there  is  even  an  end  of  all ;  • 
tence  to  religion.  But  I  should  think  ilwill  i  : 
because  I  fancy  the  good  reception  of  Roberfsi  s 
proceeded  from  the  decency  of  it." — p.  207. 

The  following  is  the  liberal  comments 
which  this  Christian  divine  makes  upon  ]  . 
Hume's  treatment  of  Rousseau. 

•'It  is  a  truth  easily  discoverable  from  his  '  - 
tings,  that  Hume  could  have  but  one  motive  i 
bringing  him  over  (for  he  was  under  the  protec  t 
of  Lord  Mareshal)  and  that  was.  cherishim:  o  ii 
whose  writings  were  as  misrhiefous  to  society  as  t 
own.  The  merits  of  the  two  philosophers  are  sn 
adjusted.     There  is  an  immense  distance  betwn 


WARBURTON-S  LETTERS. 


689 


jheir  natural  genius  :  none  at  all  in  their  exrmsive 
\anity  ;  and  much  again  in  their  good  faith.  Rous- 
iCRu's  warmth  has  made  him  act  the  madman  in  his 
[ihilosophii-al  inquiries,  so  that  he  oft  saw  not  the 
'nischief  which  he  did  :  Humes  coldnens  made  him 
[lol  only  see  but  rejoice  in  his.  But  it  is  noiiher  pans 
lor  lo?ic  that  has  made  eitiierof  them  philosophers, 
liul  Infidi lit y  on\y.  For  which,  to  be  sure,  ihuy 
Uth  equally  "deserve  a  pen.ston."— pp,  2Sfi,  287. 

After  all  this,  it  can  surprise  us  very  little 

0  hear  him  call  Voltaire  a  scoundrel  and  a 
iar;aiKl,  in  the  bitterne.ss  of  his  heart,  qua- 
lify Smollett  by  the  name  of  '-a  vagabond 
ijcot.  who  wrote  npn sense," — because  peojile 
nad  bouixht  ten  thousand  copies  of  his  History, 
khile  the  Divine  Legation  began  to  lie  heavy 
m  the  shelves  of  his  bookseller.  It  may  be 
vorth  while,  however,  to  see  how  this  ortho- 
ox  prelate   speaks  of   the   church   and  of 

urchmen.  The  following  short  passage  will 
ve  the  reader  some  light  upon  the  subject ; 
d  also  serve  to  exemplify  the  bombastic 
idulation  which  the  reverend  correspondents 
nterchanged  with  each  other,  and  the  coarse 
but  robust  wit  by  which  Warburton  was  cer- 
tainly distinguished. 

•'You  were  made  for  higher  things:  and  my 
jreaiest  pleasure  is.  that  you  give  me  a  hint  you 
ire  impatient  to  pursue  them.     What  will  not  such 

1  capacity  and  such  a  pen  do,  either  to  shame  or  to 
(mprove  a  miserable  age  !  The  church,  like  the 
l^rk  of  Noah,  is  worth  saving;  not  for  the  sake  of 
•he  unclean  leasts  and  vermin  that  almost  filled  it 
[ind  probably  made  most  noise  and  clamour  in  it, 
put  for  the  little  corner  of  rationality,  that  was  as 
piuch  distressed  by  the  stink  within,  as  by  the  tem- 
ipest  without." — pp.  S3,  84. 

In'  another  place,  he  says,  '•'  I  am  serious 
upon  it.  I  am  afraid  that  both  you  and  I  shall 
putiive  common  sense,  as  well  as  learning,  in 
bur  reverend  brotherhood  ;"  and  afterwards 
jtwmplains,  that  he  has  laboured  all  his  life  to 
gupport  the  cause  of  the  clergv,  and  been  re- 
Jpaid  with  nothing  but  ingra^ude.  In  the  close 
pf  another  letter  on  the  sariP  subject,  he  says, 
•with  a  presumption,  which  the  event  has  al- 
jready  made  half  ridiculous,  and  half  melan- 
choly, "Are  not  you  and  I  finely  employed? 
—but.  Serimus  arbores.  alteri  qiuR  seculo  pro- 

But  these  are  only  general  expressions, 
arising,  perhaps,  from  spleen  or  casual-irrita- 
tion. Let  us  inquire  how  he  speaks  of  indi- 
viduals. It  would  be  enough,  perhaps,  to  say, 
that  except  a  Dr.  Balguv,  we  do  not  remember 
of  his  sayina-  any  thing  respectful  of  a  single 
clergyman  throughout  the  whole  volume. — 
The  following  is  a  pretty  good  .specimen  of 
the  treatment  which  was  reserved  for  such  of 
them  as  dared  to  express  their  dissent  from 
[his  paradoxes  and  fancies. 

"  What  could  make  that  important  blockhead 
(you  know  whom)  preach  against  me  at  St.  James'  ? 

[He  never  met  me  at  Court,  or  at  Powis  or  New- 
castle-House.    And  what  was  it  to  him,  whether 

|the  Jews  had  a  future  life?  It  might  he  veil  for 
such  as  him.  if  the  Christians  had  none  neither  '. — 
Nor,  I  dare  say,  does  he  much  trouble  himself  ahoiit 
thematter.  while  he  stands  foremost, amongst  you,  in 
the  new  Land  of  Promise  ;  which,  however,  to  the 
aoriificaiion  of  these  modern  Jews,  is  a  little  dis- 
tant Trom  that  of  performance.'" — p.  65. 
87 


ies 
id  r 


anger  and  resentment ;  and  really  allbrdi^ 
wonderful  a  picture  of  the  temper  iiml  Idx-ral- 
ity  of  a  Christian  divine,  as  some  of  the  di>iuilcs 
among  the  grammarians  do  of  the  irnlability 
of  a  mere  man  of  Iftters.  The  cont(!nipt,  in- 
deed, with  which  he  .speaks  of  his  answerers, 
who  were  in  general  learned  divines,  is  eiiually 
keen  and  cuttnig  with  that  which  lie  evinces 
towards  Hume  and  Bolingbroke.  He  himself 
knew  ten  thousand  faults  in  his  work  ;  but 
they  have  never  found  o?ic  of  them.  Nobody 
has  ever  answered  him  yet,  but  at  their  own 
expense  ;  and  some  poor  man  whom  lie  men- 
tions '■■'  must  share  in  the  silent  contempt 
with  which  I  treat  my  answerers."  This  is 
his  ordinary  style  in  those  playful  and  aHec- 
tionate  letters.  Of  known  and  celebrated 
individuals,  he  talks  in  the  same  tone  of  dis- 
gusting arrogance  and  animosity.  Dr.  Lowth, 
the  learned  and  venerable  Bishop  of  London, 
had  occasion  to  complain  of  some  misrepre- 
sentations in  Warburton's  writings,  relating 
to  the  memory  of  his  father  ;  and  "after  some 
amicable  correspondence,  stated  tne  matter  to 
the  public  in  a  short  and  temperate  pamphlet. 
Here  is  the  manner  in  which  he  is  treated  for 
it  in  this  Episcopal  correspondence. 

"  All  you  say  about  Lowth's  pamphlet  breathes 
the  purest  spirit  of  fri<»ndship.  His  v:it  and  his 
reasoning.  God  knows,  and  I  also  (as  a  certain  critic 
said  once  in  a  matter  of  the  like  great  importance), 
are  much  below  the  qualities  that  deserve  those 
names.  But  the  strangest  thing  of  all,  is  this  man's 
boldness  in  publishing  my  letters  without  my  leave 
or  knowledge.  I  remember  several  long  letters 
passed  between  us.  And  I  remember  you  saw  the 
letters.  But  I  have  so  totally  forgot  the  contents, 
that  I  am  at  a  loss  for  the  meaning  of  these  words. 

"In  a  word,  you  are  right. — It  he  expected  an 
answer,  he  will  certainly  find  himself  disappointed  : 
thouah  I  believe  I  could  make  as  good  sport  with 
this  Devil  of  a  vice,  for  the  public  diversion,  as  ever 
was  made  with  him,  in  the  old  Moralities." 

pp.  273,  274. 

Among  the  many  able  men  who  thought 
themselves  called  upon  to  expose  his  errors 
and  fantasies,  two  of  the  most  distinguished 
were  Jortin  and  Leland.  Dr.  Jortin  had  ob- 
jected to  Warburton's  theory  of  the  Sixth 
^iEneid  ;  and  Dr.  Leland  to  his  notion  of  the 
Eloquence  of  the  Evangelists;  and  both  with 
great  respect  and  moderation.  Warburton 
would  not,  or  could  not  answer;  —  but  his 
faithful  esquire  was  at  hand  ;  and  two  anony- 
mous pamphlets,  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Richard 
Hurd.  were  sent  forth,  to  extol  Warburton, 
and  his  paradoxes,  beyond  the  level  of  a 
mortal :  to  accuse  Jortin  of  envy,  and  to  con- 
vict Leland  of  ignorance  and  error.  Leland 
answered  for  himself;  and,  in  the  opinion  of 
all  the  world,  completely  demolii^hed  his  an- 
tagonist. Jortin  contented  himself  with  laugh- 
in-r  at  the  weak  and  elaborate  irony  of  the 
Bishop's  anonymous  champion,  and  with  won- 
derimr  at  his  talent  for  perversion,  Hurd  never 
owned  either  of  these  malignant  jtamphlets : 
—and  in  the  life  of  his  friend,  no  notice  what- 
ever was  taken  of  this  inglorious  controversy. 
What  would  have  been  better  forgotten,  how 
I  ever,  for  their  joint  reputation,  is  injudiciouBly 
3  H  2 


MfSCELLANEOUS, 


brought  back  to  notice  in  the  volume  now  be- 
fore us; — and  Warburton  is  proved  by  his 
letters  to  have  entered  fully  into  all  the  paltry 
keenness  of  his  correspondent,  and  to  have 
indulged  a  feeling  of  the  most  rancorous  hos- 
tility towards  both  these  excellent  and  accom- 
plished men.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  says, 
"  I  will  not  tell  you  how  much  I  am  obliged 
to  you  for  this  correction  of  Leland.  I  have 
desired  Colonel  Harvey  to  get  it  reprinted  in 
Dublin,  which  I  think  but  a  proper  return  for 
Lelaud's  favour  in  London."'  We  hear  noth- 
ing niori!,  however,  on  this  subject,  after  the 
publication  of  Dr.  Leland's  reply. 

With  regard  to  Jortin,  again,  he  says,  "Next 
to  the  pleasure  of  seeing  myself  so  finely 
l^raised,  is  the  satisfaction  I  take  in  seeing 
Jortin  mortified.  I  know  to  what  degree  it 
will  do  it:  and  he  deserves  to  be  mortifit-d. 
One  thing  I  in  good  earnest  resented  for  its 
baseness,"  &c.  In  another  place,  he  talks  of 
his  "  mean,  low,  and  ungrateful  conduct ;" 
and  adds,  ''  Jortin  is  as  vain  as  he  is  dirty,  to 
imagine  that  I  am  obliged  to  him,"  &c.  And, 
after  a  good  deal  more  about  his  "mean,  low 
envy,"  "the  rancour  of  his  heart,"  his  "self- 
importance,"  and  other  good  qualities,  he 
"cs  in  this  way  of  his  death — 


"  I  see  by  the  papers  that  Jortin  is  dead.  His 
overrating  his  abihties,  and  the  public's  iinderra- 
tins  them,  made  no  frJoomy  a  temper  eat,  as  the  an- 
cients expressed  it,  his  ovm  heart.  If  his  deaih  dis- 
tresses his  own  family,  I  shall  be  heartily  sorry  for 
this  accident  of  mortality.  If  not,  there  is  no  loss — 
even  to  himself.'" — p.  340. 

That  the  reader  may  judge  how  far  con- 
troversial rancour  has  here  distorted  the  fea- 
tures of  an  adversary,  we  add  part  of  an 
admirable  character  of  Dr.  Jortin,  drawn  by 
one  who  had  good  occasion  to  know  him,  as 
it  appeared  in  a  work  in  which  keenness, 
candour,  and  erudition  are  very  singularly 
blended.  "  He  had  a  heart  which  never  dis- 
graced the  powers  of  his  understanding. — 
With  a  lively  imagination  and  an  elegant 
taste,  he  united  the  artless  and  amiable  negli- 
gence of  a  schoolboy.  Wit  without  ill-nature, 
and  sense  without  effort,  he  could,,  at  will, 
scatter  on  every  subject ;  and.  in  every  book, 
the  writer  presents  us  with  a  near  and  dis- 
tinct view  of  the  man.  He  had  too  much 
discernment  to  confound  diff"erence  of  opinion 
with  malignity  or  dulncss  ;  and  too  much  can- 
dour to  insult,  where  he  could  not  persuade. 
He  carried  with  him  into  every  subject  which 
he  explored,  a  solid  greatness  of  soul,  which 
could  spare  an  inferior,  though  in  the  offen- 
sive form  of  an  adversary,  and  endure  an 
equal,  with  or  without  the  sacred  name  of  a 
friend."* 

Dr.  Middleton,  too,  had  happened  to  differ 
from  some  of  Warburton's  opinions  on  the 
origin  of  Popish  ceremonies;  and  accordingly 
he  is  very  charitably  represented  as  having 
renounced  his  religion  in  a  pet,  on  account  of 
the  discourtesy  of  his  brethren  in  the  church. 
It  is  on  an  oecasion  no  less  serious  and  touch- 


*  Bee  preface  to  Two  Tracts  by  a  Warburtonian. 
194. 


ing,  than  the  immediate  prospect  of  thij 
learned  man's  death,  who  had  once  been  hi 
friend,  that  he  gives  vent  to  this  liberal  iir 
putation, 

"Had  he  had,  /  will  not  sai/ piety,  but  greatnes 
of  mind  enough  not  to  sufler  ilie  pretended  iiijurie 
of  some  churchmen  to  prejudice  him  against  rej. 
gio?i,  I  should  love  him  living,  and  honour  hi 
memory  when  dead.  But,  good  God!  that  mar 
for  the  discourtesies  done  liim  by  his  miserabi 
fellow-creatures,  should  be  content  to  divest  him 
self  of  the  true  viaticum,  the  comfort,  the  solace 
the  asylum,  &c.  &c.  is  perfectly  astonishing, 
believe  no  one  (all  things  considered)  has  suflere 
more  from  the  low  and  vile  passions  of  the  high  an 
low  amongst  our  brethren  than  myself.  Yet,  Go 
forbid,  &c." — pp.40,  41. 

When  divines  of  the  Church  of  Englan. 
are  spoken  of  in  this  manner,  it  may  be  suj- 
posed  that  Dissenters  and  Laymen  do  nc 
meet  with  any  better  treatment.  Prieslle\ 
accordingly,  is  called  "a  wretched  fellow; 
and  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  who,  in  spite  o 
considerable  temptations  to  the  contrary,  ha. 
spoken  with  great  respect  of  him,  both  in  hi 
preface  to  Shakespeare  and  in  his  notes,  i 
thus  rewarded  by  the  meek  and  modest  eccle 
siastic  for  his  forbearance. 

"  The  remarks  he  makes  in  every  page  on  m 
commentaries,  are  full  of  insolence  and  malignan 
refections,  which,  had  they  not  in  them  as  muc 
fnlly  as  malignity,  I  should  have  had  reason  lo  b 
offeiidcd  with.  As  it  is,  I  think  mysslf  obliged  ' 
him  in  thus  setting  before  the  pul)lic  so  many  o 
my  notes  with  his  remarks  upon  them  ;  for,  ihoug 
I  have  no  great  opinion  of  that  trifling  part  of  th 
public,  which  pretends  to  judge  of  this  part  o 
literature,  in  which  boys  and  girls  decide,  yet 
think  nobody  can  he  mistaken  »'«  this  comparison 
though  I  think  their  thoughts  have  never  yet  ex 
tended  thus  far  as  to  reflect,  that  to  discover  th 
corruption  in  an  author's  lest,  and  by  a  happy  sa 
gacity  to  restore  it  to  sense,  is  no  easy  task  :'  Br 
when  the  discovery  is  made,  then  to  cavil  at  th 
conjecture,  to  propose  an  equivalent,  and  defen 
nonsense,  by  produ^^g,  out  ot  the  thick  darknes 
it  occasions,  a  weak^nd  faint  glimmering  of  sens 
(which  has  been  the  business  of  this  Editor  \\\ro\xg\ 
out)  is  the  easiest,  as  well  as  dnlks!  of  all  literar 
efforts."— pp.  272,  273. 

It  is  irksome  transcribing  more  of  ihes 
insolent  and  vindictive  personalities;  and  w^ 
believe  we  have  already  extracted  enough,  t 
satisfy  our  readers  as  to  the  probable  enec 
of  this  publication,  in  giving  the  world  a  jus; 
impression  of  the  amiable,  playlul,  and  a; 
fecfionate  character  of  this  learned  prelati 
It  is  scarcely  necessarj-,  for  this  purpose,  t 
refer  to  any  of  his  pathetic  lamentations  ovt 
his  own  age,  as  a  ^^barharovs  age."  an  --in 
pious  age,"  and  "a  dai'k  age," — to  quote  hi 
murmurs  at  the  ingratitude  with  which  hi 
own  labours  had  been  rewarded, — or  indeet 
to  do  more  than  transcribe  his  sage  and  mai, 
nanimous  resolution,  in  the  year  1768,  to  be 
gin  to  live  for  himself — having  already  live 
for  others  longer  than  they  had  deserved  o 
him."  This  worthy  and  philanthropic perso 
had  by  this  time  preached  and  written  hin 
self  into  a  bishopric  and  a  fine  estate ;  an. 
at  the  same  time,  uidulged  himself  in  ever 
sort  of  violence  and  scurrility  against  thoi- 
from  whose  opinions  he  dissented.     In  the.= 


:l 


WARBURTON'S  LETTERS. 


jircumslances,  we  really  are  not  aware  either 
tow  he  could  have  lived  more  for  himself,  or 
bss  for  others^  than  he  had  been  all  alon^ 
icing.  But  we  leave  now  the  painful  task  ot 
lommenting  upon  this  book,  as  a  memorial 
f  his  character ;  and  gladly  turn  to  those  parts 
11  it,  from  which  our  readers  may  derive  more 
jinmingled  amusement. 

I  The  wit  which  it  contains  is  generally  strong 
Ud  coarse,  with  a  certain  mixture  of  profanity 
Vhich  does  not  always  seem  to  consort  well 
Vith  the  episcojxvl  character.  There  are  some 
illusions  to  the  Lady  of  Babylon,  which  we 
lare  not  quote  in  our  Presbyterian  pages.  The 
eader.  however,  may  take  the  following: — 

"  Poor  .lob  !  It  was  his  eternal  fate  to  be  perse- 
kuted  by  his  Iriends.  His  three  comforters  passed 
l«ntence  of  condemnation  upon  him  ;  and  he  has 
teen  executing  in  effink  ever  i-ince.  He  was  first 
lound  to  the  »iake  by  a  long  catena  of  Greek 
i^athers;  then  tortured  by  Pineda  I  then  strangled 
)y  Caryl;  and  afterwards  cut  up  by  Westley.  and 
inatomised  by  Garnet.  Pray  don't  reckon  me 
amongst  his  hangmen.  I  only  acted  the  tender 
jartot  his  wife,  and  was  for  making  short  work  with 
jim !  But  he  was  ordained,  I  think,  by  a  fate  like 
ihat  of  Prometheus,  to  lie  still  upon  his  dunghill, 
ind  have  his  brains  sucked  out  by  owls.  One 
lodges,  a  head  of  Oxford,  now  threatens  us  with  a 
lew  Auto  de  Ft.''— p.  22. 

;  We  have  already  quoted  one  assimilation 
[)f  the  Church  to  the  Ark  of  Noah.  This  idea 
i.s  pursued  in  the  following  passage,  which 
is  perfectly  characteristic  of  the  force,  the 
^Igarity,  and  the  mannerism  of  Warburton's 
writing : — 

j  "You  mention  Noah's  Ark.  I  have  really  for- 
got what  I  said  of  it.  But  I  suppose  I  compnred 
ine  Church  to  it,  as  many  a  grave  divine  has  done 
before  me. — The  rabbins  make  the  giant  Gog  or 
Magog  contemporary  with  Noah,  and  convinced  by 
liis  preaching ;  so  that  he  was  disposed  to  take  the 
^benefit  of  the  ark.  But  here  lay  the  distress;  it  liy 
ino  means  suited  his  dimensions.  Theiefore,  as 
ihe  could  not  enter  in,  he  contented  himself  to  ride 
iupon  it  astride.  And  though  you  must  suppose 
that,  in  that  stormy  weather,  he  was  more  than 
ihalf-boots  over,  he  kept  his  seat  and  dismounted 
safely,  when  the  ark  landed  on  Mount  Ararat. — 
Image  now  to  yourself  this  illustrious  Cavalier 
mounted  on  his  fiachiej/:  and  see  if  it  does  not  bring 
before  tou  the  Church,  bestrid  by  some  lumpish 
minister  of  state,  who  turns  and  winds  it  at  his 
pleasure.  The  only  difference  is,  that  Gog  believed 
the  preacher  of  righteousness  and  religion." 

pp.  87,  88. 

The  following  is  in  a  broader  and  more  am- 
bitious style. — yet  still  peculiar  and  forcible. 
After  recommending  a  tour  round  St.  James' 
Park,  as  far  more  instructive  than  the  grand 
tour,  he  proceeds — 

"  This  is  enough  for  any  one  who  only  wants  to 
study  men  for  his  use.  But  if  our  aspiring  friend 
wouid  20  higher,  and  study  human  nature,  in  and 

■  for  itself,  he  must  take  a  much  larger  tour  than  that 
of  Europe.  He  must  first  go  and  catch  her  un- 
dressed, nay,  quite  naked,  in  North  America,  and 
at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.     He  may  then  e.xamine 

,  how  she  appears  cramped,  contracted,  and  buttoned 
close  up  in  the  straight  tunic  of  law  and  custom,  as 
in  China  and  Japan  ;  or  spread  out,  and  enlarged 

'  above  her  common  size,  in  the  long  and  flowing 
robe  of  enthusiasm  amongst  the  Arabs  and  Sara- 
cens; or,  lastly,  as  she  flutters  in  the  old  rags  of 

i  worn-out  policy  and  civil  government,  and  almost 


ready  to  run  back  naked  to  the  deserts,  ns  on  ilio 
Mediterranean  coast  of  Africa.  These,  tell  him, 
are  the  grand  scenes  for  the  true  phdosopher.  tor 
the  citizen  of  the  world,  to  conteniplnte.  'I'iio 
Tour  of  Europe  is  like  the  oniertninment  that  Plu- 
tarch speaks  ol,  which  Ponipey's  liosi  ol  Kpirus 
gave  him.  'I'here  were  many  dishes,  and  ihey  had 
h  seeming  variety  ;  but  when  he  came  to  examine 
them  narrowly,  he  found  them  nil  made  out  of  one 
ho2,  and  indeed  nothing  but  pork  difl'erenily  dis- 
guised. 

"  Indeed  I  perfectly  agree  with  you,  tliat  Rscholor 
by  profession,  who  knows  how  to  employ  liis  liuic 
ill  his  study,  fir  ihe  beiiclit  of  mankind,  would  be 
more  than  fantastical,  he  would  bo  mod,  to  go  rani- 
blincr  round  Kurope,  though  his  fortune  would  per- 
mit him.  For  to  travel  wiih  profit,  must  be  when 
liis  faculties  are  at  the  height,  his  studies  iiiiiiured, 
and  all  his  reading  fresh  in  his  head.  But  to 
waste  a  considerahTe  space  of  time,  at  such  a  period 
of  life,  is  worse  than  suicide.  Yet,  for  all  ibis,  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature  (the  only  knowledge, 
in  the  largest  sense  of  it,  worth  a  wit-e  man's  con- 
cern or  care)  can  never  be  well  acquired  without 
seeing  it  under  till  its  disguises  and  disioriioiib,  ari- 
sing from  absurd  governments  and  monstrous  reli- 
gions, in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  Therefore,  1 
think  a  collection  of  tiie  best  voyages  no  de.-picable 
part  of  a  philosopher's  library.  Perhaps  there  will 
be  found  more  liross  in  this  sort  of  literature,  even 
when  selected  most  carefully,  than  in  any  other. 
But  no  matter  for  that  ;  such  a  collection  will  con- 
tain a  great  and  solid  treasure.'' — pp.  Ill,  112. 

These,  we  think,  are  favourable  specimens 
of  wit,  and  of  power  of  writing.  The  bad 
jokes,  however,  rather  preponderate.  There 
is  one  brought  in,  with  much  formality,  about 
his  suspicions  of  the  dunces  having  stolen  the 
lead  off  the  roof  of  his  coachhouse :  and  two 
or  three  absurd  little  anecdotes,  which  seem 
to  have  no  pretensions  to  pleasantry — but 
that  they  are  narratives,  and  have  no  serious 
meaning. 

To  pass  from  wit,  however,  to  more  serious 
matters,  we  find,  iii  this  volume,  some  very 
striking  proofs  of  the  e.vtent  and  diligence  of 
this  author's  miscellaneous  reading,  particu- 
larly in  tlie  lists  and  characters  of  the  authors 
to  whom  he  refers  his  friend  as  authorities 
for  a  history  of  the  English  constitution.  In 
this  part  of  his  dialogues,  indeed,  it  appears 
that  Hard  has  derived  the  whole  of  his  learn- 
ing, and  most  of  his  opinions,  from  Wurburton. 
The  following  remarks  on  the  continuation  of 
Clarendon's  History  are  good  and  liberal : — 

"  Besides  that  business,  and  age,  and  misfortunes 
had  perhaps  sunk  his  spirit,  the  Continuation  is  not 
so  properly  the  history  of  the  first  six  years  of 
Charles  the  Second,  as  an  anxious  apology'  for  the 
share  himself  had  in  the  administration.  This  has 
hurt  the  composition  in  several  respects.  Amongst 
others,  he  could  not,  wiih  decency,  allow  his  pen 
that  scope  in  his  delineation  of  the  chief  characicra 
of  the  court,  who  were  all  his  personal  enemies,  as 
he  had  done  in  that  of  the  enemies  to  the  King  and 
monarchy  in  the  grand  rebellion.  The  endeavour  to 
keep  up  a  show  of  candour,  and  especially  to  pre- 
vent the  appearance  of  a  rancorous  resentment,  has 
deadened  his  colourintr  very  much,  besides  that  it 
made  him  sparing  in  the  use  of  it ;  else,  his  inimit- 
able pencil  had  attempted,  at  least,  to  do  justice  to 
Bennet,  to  Berkley,  to  Coventry,  to  the  nightly 
cabal  of  facetious  memory,  to  the  Ladv,  and,  il  his 
excessive  lovalty  had  not  intervened,  to  his  in- 
famous master  himself  With  all  this,  I  am  apt  to 
think  there  may  still  be  something  in  what  I  said 
of  the  nature  ol  the  subject.    Exquisite  virtue  and 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


enormous  vice  afford  a  fine  field  for  the  historian^s 
genius.  And  hence  Livy  and  Tacitus  are.  in  their 
way,  perhaps  equally  entertaining.  But  the  little 
intrigues  of  a  selfish  court,  about  carrying,  or  de- 
featina  this  or  that  measure,  about  displacing  this 
and  bringing  in  that  mmu'^er,  which  interest  no- 
body very  much  but  the  parties  concerned,  can 
hardly  be' made  very  striking  by  any  ability  of  the 
relator.  If  Cardinal  de  Retz  has  succeeded,  his 
scene  was  busier,  and  of  a  another  nature  from 
ihat  of  Lord  Clarendon.'' — p.  217. 

His  account  of  Tillotson  seems  also  to  be 
fair  and  judicious. 

"  As  to  the  Archbishop,  he  was  certainly  a  virtu- 
ous, pious,  humane,  and  moderate  man  ;  which  last 
quality  was  a  kind  of  rarity  in  those  times.  I  think 
the  sermons  published  in  his  lifetime,  are  fine 
moral  discourses.  They  bear,  indeed,  the  charac- 
ter of  their  author, — simple,  elegant,  candid,  clear, 
and  rational.  No  oraior,  in  the  Greek  and  Roman 
sense  of  the  word,  like  Taylor :  nor  a  discourser. 
in  their  sense,  like  Barrow  ; — free  from  their  ir- 
regularities, but  not  able  to  reach  their  heights  ;  on 
which  account,  I  prefer  them  infinitely  to  him. 
You  cannot  sleep  with  Taylor  ;  you  cannot  forbear 
thinking  with  Barrow;  but  yon  maybe  much  at 
your  ease  in  the  midst  of  a  long  lecture  from  Til- 
lotson, clear,  and  rational,  and  equable  as  he  is. 
Perhaps  the  last  quality  may  account  for  it." 

pp   93.  94. 

The  following  observations  on  the  conduct 
of  the  comic  drama  were  thrown  out  for  Mr. 
Hurd'p  use,  while  composing  his  treatise.  We 
think  they  deseri-e  to  be  quoted,  for  their 
clearness  and  justness : — 

"  As  those  intricate  Spanish  plots  have  been  in 
use,  and  have  taken  both  wiih  us  and  some  French 
writers  for  the  stage,  and  have  much  hindered  the 
main  end  of  Comedy,  would  it  not  be  worth  while 
to  give  them  a  word,  as  it  would  tend  to  the  further 
illustration  of  your  subject?  On  which  you  might 
observe,  that  when  these  unnatural  plots  are  used, 
the  mind  is  not  only  entirely  drawn  off  from  the 
characters  by  those  surprising  turns  and  revolu- 
i4ions,  hut  characters  hav  no  opportunity  even  of 
being  called  out  and  displaying  themselves;  for  the 
actors  of  all  characters  succeed  and  are  embarrassed 
alike,  when  the  instruments  for  carrying  on  designs 
are  only  perplexed  apartments,  dark  entries,  dis- 
guised habits,  and  ladders  of  ropes.  The  comic 
plot  is.  and  must  indeed  be.  carried  on  by  deceit. 
The  Spanish  scene  does  it  by  deceiving  the  man 
through  his  seJises; — Terence  and  Moliere.  by  de- 
ceiving him  through  his  passio7>s  and  nffeclions. 
And  this  is  the  right  way  ;  lor  the  character  is  not 
called  out  under  the  first  spt-cies  of  deceit. — under 
the  second,  the  character  dues  all.'' — p.  57. 

There  are  a  few  of  Bishop  Kurd's  own  let- 
ters in  this  collection  :  and  as  we  suppose  they 
were  selected  with  a  view  to  do  honour  to  his 


memory,  we  think  it  our  duty  to  lay  one  oi 
them  at  least  before  our  readers.    Warburtor' 
had  slipped  in  his  garden,  and  hurt  his  arm 
whereupon  thus  inditeth  the  obsequious  Dr 
Hurd  :— 

"  I  thank  God  that  I  can  now,  with  some  assur- 
ance, congratulate  with  myself  on  the  prosjiect  of 
your  Lordship's  safe  and  speedy  recovery  from 
your  Slid  disaster. 

"Mrs.  VVarburton's  last  letter  was  a  cordial  to 
me ;  and,  as  the  ceasing  of  intense  pain,  so  this 
abatement  of  the  fears  I  have  been  tormented  with 
for  three  or  four  days  past,  gives  a  certain  alacrity 
to  my  spirits,  of  which  your  Lordship  may  look  tc 
feel  "the  effects,  in  a  long  letter  ! 

"  And  now,  supposing,  as  I  trust  I  may  do,  thai 
your  Lordship  will  be  in  no  great  pain  when  you 
receive  this  letter,  I  am  tempted  to  begin,  as  Iriends 
usually  do  when  such  accidents  befal,  with  my 
reprehensions,  rather  than  condolence.  1  have  ofier 
wondered  why  your  Lordship  should  jwl  use  a  caw 
in  your  walks  I  which  might  haply  bave  preventeC 
this  misfortune  !  especially  considering  that  Hea- 
ven, I  suppose  the  better  to  keep  its  sons  in  some 
sort  of  equality,  has  thought  fit  to  make  your  out- 
ward sight  by  many  degrees  less  perfect  than  youi 
inw!trd.  Even  L  a  young  and  stout  son  ot  the 
church,  rarely  trust  my  firm  steps  into  my  garden, 
without  some  support  of  this  kind  !  IIow  improvi- 
dent, then,  was  it  in  a  father  of  the  church  to  com- 
mit his  unsieadfast  footing  to  this  hazard  !"  «fcc. 

p.  251 

There  are  many  pages  written  with  the 
same  vigour  of  sentiment  and  expression,  and 
in  the  same  tone  of  manly  independence. 

We  have  little  more  to  say  of  this  curiou; 
volume.  Like  all  Warburton's  writings,  ii 
bears  marks  of  a  powerful  understanding  anc 
an  active  fancy.  As  a  memorial  of  his  per- 
sonal character,  it  must  be  allowed  to  be  at 
least  faithful  and  impartial ;  for  it  makes  Ut 
acquainted  with  his  faults  at  least,  as  distinct- 
ly as  with  his  excellences :  and  gives,  indeed 
the  most  conspicuous  place  to  the  former.  \ 
has  few  of  the  charms,  however,  of  a  collec 
tion  of  letters: — no  anecdotes — no  traits  ot 
simplicity  or  artless  affection  j — nothing  of 
the  softness,  grace,  or  negligence  of  Cowper\' 
correspondence — and  little  of  the  lightness  oi 
the  elesfant  prattlement  of  Pope-s  or  Lad) 
jMary  Wortley's.  The  writers  always  appea 
busy,  and  even  laborious  persons. — and  per 
sons  who  hate  many  people,  and  despise  man\ 
more. — But  they  neither  appear  very  happy 
nor  very  amiable  ;  and.  at  the  end  of  th( 
book,  have  excited  no  other  interest  in  th* 
reader,  than  as  the  authors  of  their  respective 
publications. 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT. 


693 


i^ovnnbcv,  ISH.) 

}[cmoirs  of  the  Political  a,\d  Private  Life  of  Jama;  Ca'ilfirlii.  Earl  of  Charkmont,  Kuii^hl  of 
S!t.  Patrick,  iVc.  i)-c.  By  Fkaxcis  Hardy,  Ksij.,  JNlciiiber  of  llw  House  of  Comnioiis  in  the 
three  last  Parliaments  of  Irelaiui.    4to.   pp.  42(5.     London:   IS  10.* 

This  is  the  life  of  a  Gentleman,  written  bv 
X  Gentleman. — and,  considering  the  tenor  of 

many  of  our  late  biographies,  this  of  itself  is 

no  slight  recommendation.     But  it  is,  more- 

pver,  the  life  of  one  who  stood  foremost  in 

ihe  political  history  of  Ireland  for  fifty  years 

preceding  her  Union, — that  is,  for  the  whole 

period  during  which  Ireland  had  a  history  or 

toolitics  of  her  own — written  by  one  who  was 

la  witness  and  a  sharer  in  the  scene, — a  man 

[of  fair  talents  and  liberal  view-s, — and  distin- 
guished, beyond  all  writers  on  recent  politics 

[Siat  we  have  yet  met  with,  for  the  handsome 

land  indulgent  terms  in  which  he  speaks  of 

jhis  political  opponents.    The  m  ork  is  enliven- 

fed,  too,  with  various  anecdotes  and  fragments 

of  the  correspondence  of  persons  eminent  for 

[talents,  learning,  and  political  services  in  both' 

{countries ;  and  with  a  great  number  of  char- 

lacters,  sketched  with  a  very  powerful,  though 

[somewhat  too  favourable  hand,  of  almost  all 

'who  distinguished  themselves,  during  this  mo- 

Imentous  period,  on  the  scene  of  Irish  affairs. 

I     From  what  we  have  now  said,  the  reader 

will  conclude  that  we  think  very  favourably 

of  this  book :  And  we  do  think  it  both  enter- 
taining and   instructive.      But    (for   there   is 

always  a  but  in  a  Reviewer's  praises)  it  has 

also  its  faults  and  imperfections ;  and  these, 

alas!  so  great  and  so  many,  that  it  requires 

all  the  gootl  nature  we  can  catch  by  sympathy 

from  the  author,  not  to  treat  him  now  and 

then  with  a  terrible  and  exemplary  severity. 

He  seems,  in  the  first  place,  to  have  begim 
:  and  ended  his  book,  without  ever  forming  an 

idea  of  the  distinction  between  private  and 
'  public  history :  and  sometimes  tells  us  stories 
,  about    Lord  Charlemont,  and   about    people 

who  were  merely  among  his  accidental  ac- 
quaintance, far  too  long  to  find  a  place  even  i 

in  a  biographical  memoir; — and  sometimes  I 

enlarges  upon  matters  of  general  history,  with  ; 

w-hich  Lord  Charlemont  has  no  other  connec-  i 

tion,  than  that  thn-y  happened  during  his  life, 

with  a  minuteness  which  would  not  be  toler-  ', 

ated  in  a  professed  annalist.     The  biography  I 

again  is  broken,  not  only  by  large  patches  of 

historical  matter,  but  by  miscellaneous  reflec- 
tions, and  anecdotes  of  all  manner  of  persons; 

while,  in  the  historical  part,  he  successively 

makes  the  most  unreasonable  presumptions  | 

on  the  reader's  knowledge,  his  ignorance,  and  I 

his  curiosity, — overlaying  him,  at  one  time. 


*  I  reprint  only  those  pans  of  this  paper  which 
relate  to  the  personal  history  of  Lord  Charlemont, 
and  some  of  his  contemporaries  : — with  the  e.xcep- 
tion  of  one  brief  reference  to  the  revolution  of 
1782,  which  I  retain  chiefly  to  introduce  a  re- 
markable letter  of  Mr.  Fox's  on  the  formation 
f'Ti  principles  of  the  new  government,  of  that 
>t!ar. 


with  anxious  and  tminterestiiig  detail.'*,  and, 
at  another,  omitting  even  such  general  aiitl 
summary  notices  of  tlie  ])rogress  of  events  as 
are  necessary  to  connect  his  occasional  narra- 
tives and  reflections. 

The  most  conspicuous  and  e.xtraordinary 
of  his  irregularities,  however,  is  that  of  his 
style: — which  touches  upon  all  the  extremes 
of  composition,  almost  in  every  page,  or  every 
paragraph  ; — t)r  rather,  is  entirely  made  up  of 
those  extremes,  without  ever  resting  for  an 
instant  in  a  medium,  or  affordinir  any  pause 
for  softening  the  efi"ects  of  its  contrasts  and 
transitions.  Sometimes,  and  indeed  most  fre- 
quently, it  is  familiar,  loose,  and  colloquial, 
beyond  the  common  pitch  of  serious  conver- 
sation; at  other  times  by  far  too  figuiative, 
rhetorical,  and  ambitions,  for  the  sober  tone 
of  history.  The  whole  work  indeed  bears 
more  resemblance  to  the  animated  and  ver- 
satile talk  of  a  man  of  generous  feelings  and 
excitable  imagination,  than  the  mature  pro- 
duction of  an  author  who  had  diligently  cor- 
rected his  manuscript  for  the  press,  with  the' 
fear  of  the  public  before  his  eyes.  There  is 
a  spirit  about  the  work,  however. — independ- 
ent of  the  spirit  of  candour  and  indulgence  of 
which  we  have  already  spoken. — which  re- 
deems many  of  its  faults;  and,  looking  upon 
it  in  the  light  of  a  memoir  by  an  intelligent 
contemporary,  rather  than  a  regular  history  or 
profound  dissertation,  we  think  that  its  value 
will  not  be  injured  by  a  comparison  with  any 
work  of  this  description  that  has  been  recently 
oflered  to  the  jmblic. 

The  part  of  the  work  which  relates  to  Lord 
Charlemont  individually,  —  though  by  no 
means  the  least  interesting,  at  least  in  its  ad- 
juncts and  digressions, — may  be  digested  into 
a  short  summary.  He  was  born  in  Ireland  in 
1728;  and  received  a  private  education,  un- 
der a  succession  of  preceptors,  of  various 
merit  and  assiduity.  In  1746  he  went  abroad. 
without  havinir  been  either  at  a  public  school 
or  an  university;  and  yet  appears  to  have 
been  earlier  distinguished,  both  for  scholar- 
ship and  polite  manners,  than  most  of  the  in- 
genuous youths  that  are  turned  out  by  these 
celebrated  seminaries.  He  remained  on  the 
Continent  no  less  than  nine  years;  in  the 
course  of  which,  he  extended  his  travels  to 
Greece,  Turkey,  and  Egypt ;  and  formed  an 
intimate  and  friendly  acquaintance  with  the 
celebrated  David  Hume,  whom  h(;  met  both 
at  Turin  and  Paris — the  President  ISlontes- 
quieu— the  MarcheseMaflei— Cardinal  Albani 
—Lord  Rockingham— the  Due  (h?  Nivernois — 
and  various  other  eminent  persons.  He  had 
rather  a  dislike  to  the  Frencii  national  charac- 
ter; though  he  admired  their  literature,  and 
the  general  pliteness  of  their  manners. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


In  1755  he  returned  to  his  native  country, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-eight ;  an  object  of  in- 
terest and  respect  to  all  parties,  and  to  all  indi- 
viduals of  consequence  in  the  kingdom.  His 
intimacy  with  Lord  John  Cavendish  naturally 
disposed  him  to  be  on  a  good  footing  with  his 
brother,  who  was  then  Lord  Lieutenant ;  and 
''  the  outset  of  his  politics,"'  as  he  has  himself 
observed,  -gave  reason  to  suppose  that  his 
life  woulil  be  much  more  courtly  than  it  prov- 
ed to  be."  The  first  scene  of  profligacy  and 
court  intrigue,  however,  which  he  witnessed, 
determiiied  him  to  act  a  more  manly  part— 
"to  be  a  Freeman,'"  as  Mr.  Hardy  says,  '-'in 
the  purest  sense  of  the  word,  opposing  the 
court  or  the  people  indiscriminately,  when- 
ever he  .saw  them  adopting  erroneous  or  mis- 
chievous opinions."  To  this  resolution,  his 
biographer  adds,  that  he  had  the  virtue  and 
firmness  to  adhere ;  and  the  consequence  was. 
that  he  was  uniformly  in  opposition  to  the 
court  for  the  long  remainder  of  his  life  ! 

Thouah  very  regular  in  his  attendance  on 
the  Irish  Parliament,  he  always  had  a  house  in 
London,  where  he  passed  a  good  part  of  the 
winter,  till  1773;  when  feelnigs  of  patriotism 
and  duty  induced  him  to  transfer  his  residence 
almost  entirely  to  Ireland.  The  polish  of  his 
manners,  however,  and  the  kindness  of  his 
disposition, — his  taste  for  literature  and  the 
arts,  and  the  unsuspected  purity  and  firmness 
of  his  political  principles,  had  before  this  time 
secured  him  the  friendship  of  almost  all  the 
distinguished  men  who  adorned  England  at 
this  period.  With  Mr.  Fox,  Mrs.  Burke,  and 
Mr.  Beauclerk  —  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Br. 
Johnson,  Sir  William  Chalmers — and  many 
others  of  a  similar  character — he  was  always 
particularly  intimate.  During  the  Lieuten- 
ancy of  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  in  1772, 
he  wa.s.  without  any  solicitation,  advanced  to 
the  dignity  of  an  Earl ;  and  was  very  much 
distinguished  and  consulted  during  the  short 
period  of  the  Rockingham  administration  : — 
though  neither  at  that  time,  nor  at  any  other, 
invested  with  any  official  situation.  In  1768, 
he  married ;  and  in  1780,  he  was  chosen  Gene- 
ral of  the  Irish  Volunteers,  and  conducted  him- 
self in  that  delicate  and  most  important  com- 
mand, with  a  degree  of  temper  and  judgment, 
liberality  and  firmness,  which  we  have  no 
doubt  contributed,  more  than  any  thing  else, 
both  to  the  efficacy  and  the  safety  of  that  most 
perilous  but  necessary  experiment.  The  rest 
of  his  history  is  soon  told.  He  was  the  early 
patron  and  the  constant  friend  of  Mr.  Grat- 
tan ;  and  was  the  means  of  introducing  the 
Sinyle-Speech  Hamilton  to  the  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  Burke.  Thoui^h  very  early  disposed  to 
relieve  the  Catholics  from  a  part  of  their  dis- 
abilities, he  certainly  was  doubtful  of  the  pru- 
dence, or  propriety,  of  their  more  recent  pre- 
tensions. He  was  from  first  to  last  a  zealous, 
active,  and  temperate  advocate  for  parlia- 
mentary reform.  He  was  averse  to  the  Legi.s- 
lative  Union  with  Great  Britain.  He  was  uni- 
formly steady  to  his  principles,  and  faithful 
to  his  friends  ;  and  seems  to  have  divided  the 
latter  part  of  his  life  pretty  equally  between 
those  elegant  studies  of  hteratiy  e  and  art  by 


*^'': 


I  which    his  youth  had  been  delighted,  anti 
j  those  patriotic  duties  to  which  he  had  devotei- 
his  middle  age.     The   sittings  of  the  Irisiii 
Academy,  over  which  he  presided  from  it 
first  foundation,  were  frequently  held  at  Chat 
lemont  House ; — and  he  always  extended  thi 
'  most  munificent  patronage  to  the  professors otli 
]  art,  and  the  kindest  imlulgence  to  youlhfff'il 
talents  of  every  description.     His  health 
j  declined  gradually  from  about  the  year  1790 
and  he  died  in  Augxist  1799, — esteemed 
!  regretted  by  all  who  had  had  any  opportiinitji 
j  of  knowing  him,  in  public  or  in  private,  as  ' 
i  friend  or  as  an  opponent. — Such  is  the  sun 
reward  of  honourable  sentiments,  and  mile 
and  steady  principles ! 

I  To  this  branch  of  the  history  belongs  a  con 
siderable  part  of  the  anecdotes  and  chai-actert 
with  which  the  book  is  enlivened  ;  and,  in  i 
particular  manner,  those  which  Mr.  Hard) 
has  given,  in  Lord  Charlemonl's  own  words 
from  the  private  papeis  and  memoirs  w hicl 
have  been  put  into  his  hands.  His  Lonishij 
appears  to  have  kept  a  sort  of  journal  of  ever) 
thing  interesting  that  befel  him  through  lifei^^ty; 
and  especially  during  his  long  residence  oiHiil^ 
the  Continent.  From  this  document  Mr.  Hat-;  ifS^ 
dy  has  made  copious  extracts,  in  the  earlie) 
part  of  his  narrative  :  and  the  general  style  of 
them  is  undoubtedly  very  creditable  to  tht 
noble  author. —  a  little  tedious,  perhaps,  now 
and  then. — and  generally  a  little  too  studiousl} 
and  maturely  composed,  for  the  private  me 
moranda  of  a  young  man  of  talents ; — bu! 
always  in  the  style  and  tone  of  a  gentleman 
and  with  a  character  of  rationality,  and  caln: 
indulgent  benevolence,  that  is  infinitely  more 
pleasing  than  sallies  of  sarcastic  wit,  orperiods 
of  cold-blooded  speculation. 

One  of  the  first  characters  that  appears  on 
the  scene,  is  our  excellent  countryman,  tht 
celebrated  David  Hume,  whom  Lord  Charle- 
mont  first  met  with  at  Turin,  in  the  year  1750: 
— and  of  whom  he  has  given  an  account  lathei 
more  entertaining,  we  believe,  than  accurate 
We  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  it  records 
with  perfect  fidelity  the  impression  which  he 
then  received  from  the  appeaiance  ami  con- 
versation of  that  distinguished  philosopher 
But.  with  all  our  respect  for  Lord  Charleinont, 
we  cannot  allow  a  young  Irish  Lord,  on  his 
first  visit  at  a  foreign  court,  to  have  been  pre 
cisely  the  person  most  capable  of  appreciating 
the  value  of  such  a  man  as  David  Hume ; — 
and  though  there  is  a  great  fund  of  truth  in 
the  following  observations,  we  think  they  il- 
lustrate the  character  and  condition  of  the 
person  who  makes  them,  fully  as  much  as 
that  of  him  to  whom  they  are  applied. 

"  Nature,  I  believe,  never  formed  any  man  more 
unlike  his  real  characer  ihan  David  Hume.  The 
powers  of  physinc;nomy  were  baffled  Ky  his  cciunte- 
iiaiice;  nor 'ould  rhe  mosi  skilful  in  ih;it  science, 
pretend  to  discover  the  srnallesi  trace  of  the  facul- 
ties of  hi.^  mi:id,  ill  the  unmcaiiiiii^  leaiuresof  his 
visage.  His  Ince  was  broad  and  fat,  his  mouth 
wide,  and  without  any  other  e.xpressioii  than  that 
of  imbecility.  His  eyes,  vacant  and  .-spiritless  ;  and 
the  corpulence  of'his  whole  person  was  far  better 
fitted  to  comnninica'e  the  idra  of  a  lunle-eatiiisr  sii- 
dennan,  than  of  a  refined  philosopher.    His  speech, 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHAELEMONT. 


695 


Enslish,  was  rendered  ridiculous  by  the  broadosi 

(itch  accent;  and  his  French  was,   if  possible, 

1!  more  laughable  ;  so  thai  wisdom,  most  certnin- 

,  never  disguised 'hersell"  liefore  in  so  uncouth  a 

rb.    Though  now  near  fifty  years  old   he   was 

althy  and  strong;  but   his  health  and  strength, 

r  iVoin  being  advantageous  to  his  figure,  instead 

manly  comeliness,  had  only  the  appearance  ol 

siiciiy.     His  wearing  an  unit'orm  added  greatly 

his  natural  awkwardness  ;  for  he  wore  u  like  n 

.icer  of  the  trained  bands.     Sinclair  was  a  lieinen- 

I [-general,  and  was  sent  to  the  courts  of  Vienna 

id  Turin  as  a  military  envoy,  to  see   that  their 

nota  of  troops  was  furinshed  by  the  Austriniis  and 

jiedmontese.     It  was  therefore  thought  necessary 

fiat  his  secretary  should  appear  to  be  an  ofiicer'; 

id  Hume  was  accordingly  disguised  in  scarlet. 

•  H.iving  thus  given  an  account  of  his  exterior,  it 

;  ut  lair  that  I  should  state  my  good  opinion  of  his 

iracier.    (tf  all  the  philosophers  of  his  sect,  notie, 

iiclievo,  ever  joined  more  real  benevolence  to  its 

nschievous  principles  than  my  friend  Hume.     His 

)ve  10  mankind  was  universal,  and  vehement ;  and 

'rere  was  no  service  he  would  not  cheerfully  have 

lone  to  his  fellow-creatures,  excepting  only  that  of 

'ufFering  them  to  save  their  own  souls  in  their  own 

ay.     He  was  tender-hearted,  friendly,  and  char- 

i  .le  in  tb.e  extreme." — pp.  8,  9. 

His  Lordship  then  tells  a  story  in  illustration 
if  the  philosopher's  benevolence,  which  we 
3  no  other  reason  for  leaving  out — but  that 
ve  know  it  not  to  be  true  ;  and  concludes  a  lit- 
le  dissertation  on  the  pernicious  effects  of  his 
loctrines,  with  the  following  little  atiecdote ; 
)f  the  authenticity  of  which  also,  we  should 
sntertain  some  doubts,  did  it  not  seem  to  have 
alien  withiu  his  own  personal  knowledae. 

He  once  professed  himself  the  admirer  of  a 
^oung,  most  beautilul,  and  accomplished  lady,  at 
rurin,  who  only  laugiiysd  at  his  passion.  One  day 
he  addressed  her  in  the  usual  common-place  strain, 
ilhal  he  was  abimC.  anianli. — '  Oh  I  pour  aiteanti,' 
{replied  the  lady,  '  ce  nest  en  effet  qu'une  operation 
frh-naturelle  de  votre  systeme.''  " — p.  10. 

The  following  passages  are  from  a  later  part 
[of  the  journal :  but  indicate  the  same  turn  of 
jmind  in  the  observer : — 

I     "Hume's/a.<!A/o7(  at  Paris,  when  he  was  there  as 
jSecretary  to  Lord  Hertford,  was  truly  ridiculous; 
and  no'hintr  ever  marked  in  a  more  striking  man- 
Iner,  tlie  whimsical  genius  of  the  French.    No  man, 
(from  his  manners,  was  surely  less  formed  for  their 
jsocieiy,  or  less  likely  to  meet  with  their  approba- 
jlioii;  but  that  flimsy  philosophy  which  pervades 
I  and  deadens  even  their  most  licentious  novels,  was 
j  (hfn  the  folly  of  tlie  day.     Freelhinking  and  En2- 
'  iish  frocks  were  the  I'ashion,  and  the  Aiiiilomanie 
!  ws^  the  ton  diiyptns.     From  what  has  been  already 
said  of  him,  it  is  apparent  that   his  conversation  to 
■  strangers,  and  particularly  to  Frenchmen,  could  be 
j  little  delightful;    and  still  more   particularly,  one 
1  would  suppose  to   Frenchwomen.     And    yet,   no 
^  lady's  toilette  wps  complete  wiihoiii   Hume's  at- 
I  tendance!     .At  the  opera,    his  broad,   unmeaning 
face  wa';  tiFiially  .*-eeii  e7t.lre  deux  joHs  mlnoh.    The 
ladies  in  France  give  the  ton,  and  the  ton.  at  this 
I  time,  was  deism  ;  a  species  of  philosophy  ill  suited 
j  to  ihe  softer  sex.  in  whose  delicate  frame  wenkness 
:  jsinteresiing.  and  timiditv  acharm.    But  the  women 
.  in  France  were  deists,  as  with  us  they  were  char- 
'  imeers.     How  my  friend  Hume  was  able  to  endure 
.  the  encounter  of  those   French  female   Titans,   I 
know  not.    In  England,  either  his  philosophic  pride, 
;  or  his  conviction  that   infidelity    was  ill  sui'ed   to 
women,  made  him  always  averse  from  the  initia- 
tion of  ladie.s  into  the  mysteries  of  his  doctrine." 
— pp    121.  122. 
"  Kothing,"  adds  his  Lordship,  in  another  place, 


"ever  showed  a  mind  more  truly  beneficui.  than 
Hume's  whole  conduct  wiiii  regard  to  Rousseau. 
That  story  is  loo  well  known  to  bo  repealed  ;  and 
exhibits  a  striking  picture  of  flume's  heart,  whilst 
it  displays  the  strange  and  uiiaccouninble  vanity  and 
madness  of  the  French,  or  rather  Swiss  moralist. 
When  first  they  arrived  together  from  France,  hap- 
pening to  meet  with  Hume  in  the  Park,  I  wished 
him  joy  of  his  pleasing  coimeriion  ;  and  particularly 
hinted,  that  I  was  convinced  he  must  lie  perfectly 
hapfiy  in  his  new  friend,  as  their  religious  opinionfl 
were,  I  believed,  nearly  similar.  '  Why  no,  man,' 
said  he,  '  in  that  you  aro  mistaken.  Rousseau  is 
not  what  you  think  him.  He  has  a  hankering  after 
the  Bible  ;  and,  indeed,  is  little  better  than  a  Chris- 
tian, in  a  way  of  his  own  !  '  " — p.  120. 

■'  In  London,  where  he  often  did  me  the  honour 
to  communicate  the  manuscripts  of  Ids  additional 
Essays,  before  their  publication,  I  have  sometimes, 
in  the  course  of  our  intimacy,  asked  him,  whether 
he  thought  that,  if  his  opinions  were  univer.sally  to 
take  place,  mankind  would  not  be  rendered  more 
unhappy  than  they  now  were;  and  whether  he  did 
not  suppose,  that  the  curb  of  religion  was  necessary 
to  human  nature  ?  '  The  objections,'  answered  he, 
'  are  not  without  weight ;  but  error  never  can  pro- 
duce good  ;  and  truth  ought  to  take  place  of  all  con- 
siderations.' He  never  failed,  indeed,  in  the  midst 
of  any  controversy,  to  give  its  due  praise  to  every 
thing  tolerable  that  was  either  said  or  written 
against  him.  His  sceptical  turn  made  him  doubt, 
and  consequently  dispute,  every  thing;  yet  was  he 
a  fair  and  pleasant  disputant.  He  heard  with  pa- 
tience, and  answered  without  acrimony.  Neither 
was  his  conversation  at  any  time  oftensive,  even  to 
his  more  scrupulous  companions.  His  good  sense, 
and  good  nature,  prevented  his  saying  any  thing 
that  was  likely  to  shock  ;  and  it  was  not  till  he  was 
provoked  to  argument,  that,  in  mixed  companies, 
he  entered  into  his  favourite  topics." — p.  123. 

Another  of  the  eminent  persons  of  whom 
Lord  Charlemont  has  recorded  his  impressions 
in  his  own  hand,  was  the  celebrated  Montes- 
quieu; of  whose  acquaintance  he  says,  and 
with  some  reason,  he  was  more  vain,  than  of 
having  seen  the  pyramids  of  Egypt.  He  and 
another  English  gentleman  paid  their  first 
visit  to  him  at  his  seat  near  Bourdeaux;  and 
the  following  is  the  account  of  their  introduc- 
tion : — 

"  The  first  appointment  with  a  favourite  mistress 
could  not  have  rendered  our  night  more  restless 
than  this  flattering  invitation  ;  and  the  next  morning 
we  set  out  so  early,  that  wc  arrived  at  his  villa  be- 
fore he  was  risen.  The  servant  showed  us  into  his 
library ;  where  the  first  object  of  curiosity  that  pre- 
sented it.self  was  a  table,  at  which  he  had  apparently 
been  reading  the  night  before,  a  book  lying  upon 
if  open,  turned  down,  and  a  lamp  extinguished. 
Eager  to  know  the  nocturnal  studios  of  this  great 
philosopher,  we  immediately  flew  to  the  book.  It 
was  a  volume  of  Ovid's  Works,,  containing  hi." 
Elegies  ;  and  open  at  one  of  the  most  gallant  poems 
of  that  master  of  love  !  Before  we  could  overcome 
our  surprise,  it  was  greatly  increased  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  president,  whose  appearance  and  nian- 
ner  was  totally  opposite  to  the  idea  which  we  had 
formed  to  ourselves  of  him.  Instead  of  a  grave, 
austere  philosopher,  whose  presence  might* strike 
with  awe  such  boys  as  we  were,  the  pcrsoti  who 
now  addressed  us,  was  a  gay,  polite,  sprightly 
FrenchiTian  ;  who,  after  a  thousand  genteel  compli- 
ments, and  a  thousand  thanks  for  the  honour  we 
had  done  him,  desired  to  know  whether  we  would 
not  breakfast;  and,  upon  our  declining  ihe  offer, 
having  already  eaten  at  an  inn  not  far  from  the 
house.  'Come,  then,'  says  he,  'let  us  walk  ;  the 
day  is  fine,  and  I  long  to'  show  you  my  villa,  as  I 
have  endeavoured  to  form  it  according  lo  the  Eng- 
lish taste,  and  to  cultivate  and  dress  it  in  the  English 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


manner.  Following  him  into  the  farm,  we  soon 
wla-!  ^V'^i  ^.'""^  °'  •''  beautiful  wood,  cut  into 
walks  and  paled  round,  the  entrance  to  which  was 
barricadoed  wiih  a  moveable  bar,  about  three  feet 
high,  fastened  with  a  padlock.  '  Come,'  said  he 
searching  in  his  pocket,  '  it  is  not  worth  our  while 


to  wait  for  ilie  key  ;  you.  I  am  sure,  can  leap  as  well 
as  lean,  and  ihis  bar  shall  not  stop  me  ■     ~ 


he  ran 


So  I 


seeking,  in  vain,  the  wholesome  exercise  ( , 
strong   mmd.  in   desultory   reading  or  c 
temptible  dissipation.     His  Letters,  ho^ve^ " 
are  delightful ;  and  we  are  extremeJv  obi"  ■ 
to  Mr.  Hardy,  for  having  favoured  us  Mith 
many  ot  them.     It  is  so  seldom  that  the  pi 
animated,  and  unrestrained  lan-ruaoe  of  po  ' 
conversation,  can  be  found  in  a  piTuted  bo 
that  we  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  tn 
scribing  a  considerable  part  of  the  siiecim.' 
before  us;  which,  while  they  e.vemplifv 
ne  gallantry,  and  spri.h.line«s  of    i.?„    P^'"''^  manner   the  perfect  style "o. 
In  a  word,  the  most^accompiished,    f "  ^^^^^^^  ^erve  to  illustrate,   for  more 
i  petit-maUre  of  Paris,  could  not  I  "^'^''"t  readers,  the  various  sacrifices  that ; 
generally  required  for  the  formation  of  t 
envied  character  to  v.hich  that  stvle  belon 
A  very  mteresting  essay  michl  be  written 
the  unhappiness  of  those  from  whom  nati; 
and   lortune   seem  to  have  removed  all  t 
causes  of  unhappiness :— and  we  are  si- 
that  no  better  assortm.ent  of  proofs  and  ilh 
trations  could  be  annexed  to  such  an  e-^Sc 
than  some  of  the  following  passao-es 


at  the  bar,  and  fairly  jumped  over  it,  while 
we  tol  owed  him  with  amazement,  though  not  with- 
out delight  to  see  the  philosopher  likely  to  become 
our  play-fellow."— pp.  32,  33. 

„-!L^V  j-^"^'  ^  ^^r  ''■equ^n'ly  met  him  in  company 
with  ladies,  and  have  been  as  ofien  astonished  at 
the  politeness,  the  gallantry,  and 
iiis  behaviour.     I  "  " 

the  most  refined  ^....-„„.,„,  „.  ,  ar.s,  coum  not 
have  been  more  amusmg,  from  the  liveliness  of  his 
chat,  nor  could  have  been  more  inexhaustible  in 
that  sort  of  discourse  which  is  best  suiied  to  women 
than  this  venerable  philosopher  of  seventy  years 

w^r.fl  !  ?!.  ""t"'"  '^""i""  '^^  surprised,  when 
we  reflect,  that  the  profound  author  of  L'Esprit  des 
i,oix  was  also  author  of  the  Persian  Letters,  and  of 
the  truly  gallant  Temple  de  Guide."— p.  36. 

The  following  opinion,  from  such  a  quarter, 
might  have  been  expected  to  have  produced 
more  effect  than  it  seems  to  have  done,  on  so 
warm  an  admirer  as  Lord  Charlemont  :— 


I  have  been  but  once  at  thi 


siinl. 
n  give  V 


.  In  the  course  of  our  conversations,  Ireland  and 
Its  interests,  have  often  been  the  topic  ;  and.  upon 
these  occasions,  I  have  alwavs  found  him  an  advo- 
cats  tor  an  incorporating  Union  between  that  coun- 
try and  England.  *  Were  I  an  Irishman,'  said  he 
1  should  certainly  wish  for  it;  and,  as  a  general 
lover  of  liberty  I  sincerely  desire  it ;  and  for  this 
plain  reason,   that  an  inferior  country,   connected 

with  one  much  her  superior  in  force,  can  never  be  1  ,f  V  ,,  ,  ,  -  ^  — ■.-  -..-^....>..  .  .^  uu, 
ceriam  of  the  permanent  enjoyment  of  constitutional  '  ^Northumberland  has  promised  me  a  pair  of  1 
f,„.^„„    .._,_„     ,      ,        ,      .  'f^^' Plieasams  for  you;  but  you  must  Jait  (ill; 

the  crowned  heads  in  Europe  have  been  served  fir 
1  have  been  at  the  review  at  Porismomh  If  v( 
had  seen  it,  you   would  have  owned,  that  it  is 


P„„,      J         ,    '  "le  club  since  vou  1 

England;  where  we  were  enierldnf-d  a  ' 
Ur.  Goldsmith's  absurdity.  Mr  V  : 
an  account  of  it.  Sir  Joshua  intends  p;nn,„.,  vc 
picture  over  again ;  so  vou  may  set  vc-nr  ht^'ar 
rest  for  some  time:  it  is  true,  ir  wilflasr  so  mu 
the  longer;  but  then  you  may  wait  ihe^^e  ton  vc 
lorn.  Elmsly  gaye'me  a  commii^sion  from  v' 
about  Mr.  H  alpole's  frames  for  prints,  which 
perfectly  unintelligible  :  I  wish  you  would  e.xpla 
It.  and  u  shall  be  punctually  executed. 


ipla 
TheDul 


freedom,  unless  she  has,  by'her  repres'entatrve^s'  a 
proportiotial  share  in  the  legislature  of  the  superior 
kingdom.      — Ibid. 

Of  Lord  Charlemont's  English  friends  and 


,  pleasant  thing  to  be  a  King.     It  is  true. ma, 

a  job  of  the  claret  to, ,  who  furnished  the  fir 

I  ablcs  u^th  vinegar,  under  that  dconnnaiio 
,  Charles  Fox  said,  that  Lord  S— wich  .'^hould  ha' 
been  impeached  !  What  an  abominable  world  . 
we  nvein!  that  there  should  not  be  above  half 
dozen  honest  men  in  the  world,  and   that  one  ■ 


,  none  is  represented,  perhaps,  in 
more  lively  and  pleasing  colours  than  Topham 
lieauclerk ;  to  the  graces  of  whose  conversa- 
tion even  the  fastidious  Dr.  Johnson  has  borne 
such  powerful  testimony.  Lord  Charlemont. 
and,  indeed,  all  who  have  occasion  to 
of  him,  represent  him  as  more  accomp.„...c 

and  agreeable  in  society,  than  any  man  of  h.c  ,  .  u  •        - 

age— of  exquisite  taste,  perfect  "obd-breedincr  '  fh  ^''"'?  '°  "s  share  ;  and.  tor  any  ihing  I  know  1 
atui  unb^r^ish^  mtegSty  .n^Zl^'^vt  \  l^uS^I^i^^  2^^^  S^'^lie  I^Si^ 
disturbed,  too,  by  ambition,  or  political  ani-  !  "  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  by  yo ir  let  er  ,1  n  L  d 
mosities,  and  at  his  ease  with  re-ard  to  for-  C.  is  as  you  wish.  I  have\4t  remainin!,  lo  .nuc- 
tune,  he  might  appea        '       '  " "' '  •■■■  ■"' 

summit  of  huma      " 

But  there  IS  no  such  loV  This  happy  man.  I  ^e  k4p.Zi'l:Z  \^ri:^tJ^:;Z':'\ 
so  universally  acceptable,  and  with  such  re-  ■'?'■"'■>'  ^ane.  I  mentioned  the  circumst.nnre' 0 
sources  in  himself,  was  devoured  by  ennvi '  I  ['^^  paracrraph  to  him.  He  said  to  (;oldsn,ith  il 
and  probably  envied,  with  good  reason  the 
condition  of  one  half  of  those  laborious  and 


•  speak  i  'h"«e  should  live  in  Ireland.  You  vxill,  perlmp 
plished  „  shocked  at  the  small  portion  of  honesty  that 
1  of  his  '  '°  >'°"''.'^o"""-y  :  but  a  sixth  part  is  as  .nuK 

eecting,  ,  ihe  conirary,  the  other  five  may  be  in  Ireland  lor 
.  IJn-  j  tor  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  where  else  to  find  iheii 
al  am-  1  .  1  am  rejoiced  to  find  by  your  letter  than  Lad 
-^  -  to  for-  ,^-  's  «V'°"  ''■'''^-  ^  ^^'■•^  ^'^'  remaininc^  so  muc 
)pear  to  be  placed  at  the  very  '  "enevolence  towards  mankind,  as  to  wishlhat  ihei 
n  felicity,  and  to  exemnlifv  '•  "'^^  ^f  \so""f  ypl'r's-  educated  by  yon.  as  a  spec 
to  which'common  X^      £  !  "i!!?  :y.''l'.."'i'"'^'"d  -?''!  '«  "e.    Goldsmi,i.!,h 


discontented  beings  who  looked  up  to  him' 
wah  elivy  and  admiration.  He  was  querulous, 
Lord  Charlemont  assures  ns— indifferent  and 
internally  contemptuous  to  the  greater  part  of 
the  world  ;— and,  like  so  many  other  accom- 
p  ished  persons,  upon  whom  the  want  of  em- 
ployment has  imposed  the  heavy  task  of  self- 
occupation,  he  passed  his  life  in  a  lancniid 
and  unsatisfactory  manner;  absorbed  some- 
times in  play,  and  sometimes  in  study ;  and 


he  hoped  that  he  had  mentioned  notlmg  abn, 
Malagnda  in  ti.  '  Do  you  know,'  answered  Gold 
smith,  'that  I  never  could  conceive  tin-  iea<=on  «h 
they  call  you  Malagrida  ;  for  Mnl-icMida  was  n  ver ' 
good  sort  of  man.'  You  sec  pl.ninlv  what  he  niear 
to  say  ;  but  that  happy  turn  of  expression  is  peeu' 
har  to  him.^elf.  Mr.  Walpole  says,  that  this  '«ior  , 
IS  a  picture  of  Goldsmidrs  whble  life.  Johnso 
has  been  confined  for  some  weeks  in  the  Isle  o' 
fekye.  W  e  hear  that  he  was  obliged  10  swim  ove 
to  the  mam  land,  taking  hold  of  a  cow's  tail  B 
that  as  It  rnay,  Lady  Di.  has  promised  to  make  . 
drawing  of  it.  Our  poor  chil)  is  in  a  n.iserabl 
decay  ;  unless  you  come  and  relieve  it,  it  will  cer 
tainly  expire.     Would  you  imagine,  that  Sir  Josbir 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT. 


Rti.'lds  is  extremely  anxious  to  be  a  member  of 
Slack's?  You  see  what  noble  ambition  will 
ini'  a  man  aiteiiipt.  That  den  is  not  yet  opened, 
coequenlly  I  have  not  been  there;  so;  for  the 
pr.'iit,  I  am  clear  upon  that  score.  I  suppose 
vo  confounded  Irish  politics  take  up  your  whole 
aiiition  at  present  ;  but  we  cannot  do  wiihout 
yo  If  you  do  not  conie  here,  I  will  bring  all  the 
clt  over'to  Ireland,  to  live  with  you,  and  that  will 
dr '  you  here  in  your  own  defence.  Johnson  shall 
Fp  your  books.  Goldsmith  pull  your  flowers,  and 
Bi'.vel!  talk  to  you.  Stay  then  if  you  can.  Adieu, 
nilear  Lord."— pp.  176,  177,  178. 

1  saw  a  letter  from  Fooie,  the  other  day,  with 
n!  ircount  of  an  Irish  tragedy.  The  subject  is 
iMJuis;  and  the  last  speech  which  he  makes. 
V!  n  he  is  pushed  off  from  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  is, 
•  i  eel  Jesus,  where  am  I  going  ?'  Pray  send  me 
wi  if  this  is  true.  We  have  a  new  comedy  here, 
wh  is  good  for  nothing.  Bad  as  it  is,  however, 
i(  cceeds  very  well,  and  has  almost  killed  Gold- 
gr  h  with  envy.  I  have  no  news,  either  literary 
oiolitical,  to  send  you.  Every  body,  except  my- 
8c  and  about  a  million  of  vulgars,  are  in  the 
coiry.  1  am  closely  confined,  as  Lady  Di.  expects 
tee  so  every  hour.-' — p.  178. 

,  Why  should  you  be  vexed  to  find  that  mankind 
■ifuois  and  knaves?  I  have  known  it  so  long, 
t|i  every  fresh  instance  of  it  amuses  me,  provided 
it  les  not  immediately  aflect  my  friends  or  myself. 
Fliiicians  do  not  seem  lo  me  to  be  much  greater 
rt'ies  than  other  people  ;  and  as  their  actions 
net,  in  general,  private  persnus  less  than  other 
k  is  of  villany  do,  I  cannot  find  that  I  am  so  an- 
g  with  them.  It  is  true,  that  the  leading  men  in 
bh  countries  at  present,  are,  I  believe,  The  most 
cfrupt,  abandoned  people  in  the  nation.  But  now 
tt  I  am  upon  this  worthy  subject  of  human  na- 
tp,  I  will  inform  you  of  a  few  particulars  relating 
tl he  discovery  of  Otaheiie." — p.  ISO. 

I*  There  is  another  curiosity  here. — Mr.  Bruce. 
h  drawings  are  the  most  beautiful  things  you  ever 
^.  and  his  adventures  more  wonderful  than  those 
CiSinbad  the  sailor, — and.  perhaps,  nearly  as  true. 
}jm  much  n)ore  afHicted  « ith  the  account  you  send 
i|  of  your  health,  than  I  am  at  the  corruption  of 
jjr  ministers.  I  always  hated  politics  ;  and  I  now 
le  ihem  ten  times  worse ;  as  I  have  reason  to 
tnk  that  they  contribute  towards  your  ill  health. 
pa  do  megreaf  justice  in  thinking,  that  whatever 

tirns  yon,  must  interest  me :  but  as  I  wish  you 
sincerely  to  be  perfectly  happy.  I  cannot  bear 
ilhink  that  the  villanous  proceedings  of  others 
jnuld  make  you  miserable  :  for,,  in  that  case,  un- 
jiibiedly  you  will  never  be  happy.  Charles  Fox 
la  member  at  the  Turk's  Head  ;  but  not  till  he 
(18  a  patriot  ;  and  you  know,  if  one  repents.  &,c. 
pere  is  nothing  new.  but  Goldsmith's  Retaliation, 
pich  you  certainly  have  seen.  Pray  tell  Lady 
narlemoni,  from  me,  that  I  desire  she  may  keep 
jiu  from  politics,  as  they  do  children  from  sweet- 
pai8,  that  make  them  sick."— pp.  181,  182. 

j  We  look  upon  these  extracts  as  very  inter- 
jiting  and  valuable ;  but  they  have  turned 
bt  to  be  so  lone,  that  we  must  cut  short  this 
JTinch  of  the  history.  We  must  add,  how- 
ler, a  part  of  Lord  Charlemont's  account  of 
Jr  Burke,  with  whom  he  lived  in  habits  of 
Jie  closest  intimacy,  and  continual  corres- 
jandencc,  till  his  extraordinary  breach  with 
lis  former  political  associates  in  1792.  Mr. 
[lardy  does  not  exactly  know  at  what  period 
lie  fojlowinc:  paper,  which  was  found  in  Lord 
pharlemout's  handwrituig,  was  written. 

;  '"This  most  amiable  and  ingenious  man  was 
^Jvaie  secretary  to  Lord  Rockingham.  It  may  not 
fe  superflu'|us  to  relate  the  following  anecdote,  the 
™tn  of  which  I  can  assert,  and  which  does  honour 
»  him  and  his  truly  noble  patron.   Soon  after  Lord 


Rockingham,  upon  the  warm  recommendmion  of 
many  friends,  had  appointed  Burke  his  secretary, 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  informed  him,  that  he  had 
unwarily  taken  into  his  service  n  man  of  dangerous 
principles,  and  one  who  was  by  birth  and  cducaiion 
a  pa])ist  and  a  jacobiie  ;  a  calumny  founded  upon 
Burke's  Irish  comictiitns,  which  w^re  inoM  of 
them  ot  that  persuasion,  and  upon  some  juvenile 
follies  arising  from  ihove  connerlion.o.  The  Mar- 
quis, whose  genuine  W  hijrgism  was  eai«ily  alarmed, 
immediately  sent  for  Burlte.  nnd  told  him  what  he 
had  heard.  It  was  easy  for  Burke,  who  had  been 
educated  at  the  university  at  Dublin,  to  brinif  testi- 
monies to  his  protestantism  ;  and  with  recard'io  iho 
second  accusation,  which  was  wholly  founded  on 
the  former,  it  was  soon  done  awav  ;  nnd  Lord 
Rockingham,  readily  and  willingly  disabused,  de- 
clared that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  of  the  false- 
hood of  the  information  he  had  n-eeived,  and  that 
he  no  longer  harboured  the  smaliesi  doubt  of  ihc 
integrity  of  his  principles  ;  when  Burke,  with  an 
honest  and  disinterested  boldness,  told  his  Lordship 
that  it  was  now  no  longer  possible  li-r  him  to  be  his 
secretary ;  that  the  reports  he  had  heard  would 
probably,  even  unknftwn  to  himself,  create  in  liis 
mind  such  suspicions,  as  might  prevent  his  tho- 
roughly confiding  in  him  ;  and  that  no  earthly  con- 
sideration should  induce  him  to  stand  in  that  rela- 
tion with  a  man  w  ho  did  not  place  entire  confidence 
in  him.  The  Marquis,  struck  with  this  manliness 
of  sentiment,  which  so  exactly  corresponded  with 
the  feelings  of  his  own  heprt,  frankly  and  positively 
assured  him,  that  what  had  passed,  far  fioiii  leaving 
any  bad  impression  on  his  mind,  had  only  served 
to  fortify  his  good  opinion  ;  and  that,  if  from  no 
other  reason,  he  might  rest  assured,  that  from  his 
conduct  upon  that  occasion  alune,  lie  should  ever 
esteem,  and  place  in  him  the  most  unreserved  con- 
fidential trust— a  promise  which  he  faithfully  per- 
formed. It  must,  however,  be  confessed,  that  his 
early  habits  and  connections,  lhoiit;h  they  could 
never  make  him  swerve  from  his  duty,  had  given 
his  mind  an  almost  constitutional  bent  towards  the 
popish  party.  Prudence  is,  indeed,  the  only  virtue 
he  does  not  possess;  from  a  total  want  of  which, 
and  from  the  amiable  weaknesses  of  an  excellent 
heart,  his  estimaiion  in  England,  though  still  great, 
is  certainly  diminished." — pp.  343,  344. 

We  have  hitherto  kept  Mr.  Hardy  himself 
so  much  in  the  back  ground,  that  we  think  it 
is  but  fair  to  lay  before  the  reader  the  sequel 
which  he  has  furnished  to  the  preceding  notice 
of  Lord  Charlemonl.  The  passage  is  perfectly 
characteristic  of  the  ordinary  colloquial  style 
of  the  book,  and  of  the  temper  of  the  author. 

"  Thus  far  Lord  Charlemont.  Something, 
though  slight,  may  be  here  added.  Burke's  dis- 
union, and  final  rupture  with  iMr.  Fox,  were  at- 
tended with  circumstances  so  distressing,  so  far 
surpassing  the  ordinary  limits  of  political  liostijiiy, 
that  the  mind  really  aches  at  the  recollection  of 
them.  But  let  us  view  hiin,  lor  an  instant,  in  better 
scenes,  and  better  hours.  He  was  social,  hospit- 
able, of  pleasing  access,  and  most  agreeably  com- 
municative. One  of  the  most  satisfaciory  days, 
perhaps,  that  T  ever  passed  in  my  life,  was  going 
with  him,  tete-a-tvte,  from  London  to  Beconsfield! 
He  slopped  at  Uxbridge.  whilst  his  liorses  were 
feeding;  and,  happening  to  meet  some  gentlemen, 
of  I  know  not  what  miliiia,  who  nppear»'il  lo  be 
perfect  strangers  to  him,  he  entered  into  discourse 
with  them  at  the  gateway  of  the  inn.  His  conver- 
sation, at  that  momeni.  completely  exemiilified 
wliat  Johnson  said  of  him — 'That  you  could  not 
meet  Burke  for  half  an  hour  under  a  shed,  wiihont 
saying  that  he  was  an  i  xiranrdinary  man.'  He 
was,  on  that  day,  altoirether,  uncommonly  instruc- 
tive and  agreeable.  Every  object  of  the  slightest 
notoriety,  as  we  passed  along,  whether  of  natural 
or  local  history,  furnished  him  with  abundant  ma- 
31 


698 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


terials  for  conversation.  The  House  at  Uxbridgp, 
where  the  treaty  was  held  durins  Charles  the  First's 
time  ;  the  beautiful  and  undulating  grounds  of  Bul- 
strodc,  formerly  the  residence  of  Chancellor  Jefle- 
ries;  and  Waller's  tomb  in  Beconstield  church- 
yard, which,  before  we  went  home,  we  visiied,  and 
whose  character,  as  a  gentleman,  a  poet,  and  an 
orator,  he  shortly  delineated,  but  with  exquisite 
felicity  of  frenius,  altogether  gave  an  uncommon 
interest  to  his  eloquence;  and,  although  one-and- 
twenty  years  have  now  passed  since  that  day,  I  re- 
t:iin  the  mosi  vivid  and  pleasing  recollection  of  it. 
He  reviewed  the  characters  of  many  statesmen. — 
Lord  Bath's,  whom,  I  think,  he  personally  knew, 
and  that  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  which  he  pour- 
(rayed  in  nearly  the  same  words  which  he  used 
with  regard  to  that  eminent  man.  in  his  appeal  from 
the  Old  Whigs  to  the  New.  He  talked  much  of 
the  great  Lord  Chatham  ;  and,  amidst  a  variety  of 
particulars  concerning  him  and  his  familv,  stated, 
that  his  sister,  Mrs.  Anne  Pat,  used  otte'n,  in  her 
altercations  with  him,  to  say,  '  That  he  knew 
nothins  whatever  except  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen.' 
•A  11(1, 1  conti  lued  Mr.  Burke,  "  no  matter  how  that 
was  said  ;  but  whoever  relishes,  and  reads  Spenser 
as  he  ouglit  to  be  read,  win  have  a  strona:  hold  of 
the  English  language  '  These  were  his  e.xact 
words.  Of  ."Mrs.  Anne  Pitt  he  said,  that  she  had 
the  most  acjreeable  and  uncommon  talents,  and  was, 
beyond  all  comparison,  the  mosr  perfectly  eloquent 
person  he  ever  heard  speak.  He  always,  as  he  said, 
lanien'ed  thai  he  did  not  put  on  paper  a  conversa- 
tion he  had  once  wiih  her ;  on  what  subject  I  forget. 
The  lichne.-s,  vaiiety,  and  solidity  of  her  discourse, 
absolutely  astonished  him.* 


Certainly  no  nation  ever  obtained  snch  a 
deliverance  by  snch  an  instrnment,  and  hurt 
ilself  so  little  by  the  use  of  it;  and,  if  the 
Irish  Revolution  of  1782  shows,  that  power 
and  intimidation  may  be  lawfully  employed 
to  enforce  riahts  which  have  been  refused  to 
supplication  and  reason,  it  shows  also  the  ex- 
treme danger  of  this  method  of  redress,  and 
the  necessity  there  is  for  resorting-  to  every 
precaution  in  those  cases  where  it  has  become 
indi.spensabie.  Ireland  was  now  slaved  from 
all  the  horrors  of  a  civil  war,  only  by  two  cir- 
cumstances;—the  first,  that  the  great  military 
force  which  accomplished  the  redress  of  her 
grievances,  had  not  been  oriainally  raised  or 
organised  with  any  view  to  such  an  interfer- 
ence ;  and  was  chiefly  guided,  therefore,  by 
men  of  Joyal  and  moderate  characters,  who 
had  taken  up  arms  for  no  other  purpose  but 
the  defence  of  their  country  against  foreign 
invasion : — The  other,  that  (he  just  and  rea- 
sonable demands  to  which  these  leaders  ulti- 
mately limited  theirpretensioiis,  wereaddress- 
ed  to  a  liberal  and  enlighteneil  administration, 
— too  just  to  withhold,  when  in  power,  what 
they  had  laboured  to  procure  when  in  opposi- 
tion,— and  too  magnanimous  to  dread  the 
effect  of  conceding,  even  to  armed  petitioners, 
what  was  clearly  and  indisjuttably  their  due. 

It  was  the  moderation  of  their  lirst  demands, 
and  the  generous  frankness  with  which  they 
were  so  promptly  granted,  that  saved  Ireland 


*  I  here  omit  the  long  abstract  which  originally 
followed,  of  the  Irish  p:irliament  and  public  history, 
from  17.50  to  the  period  of  the  Union,  together  with 
all  the  details  of  ihe  great  Volunteer  Association  in 
1780.  and  its  fortunate  dissolution  in  1782 — to  which 
rema? Kable  event  the  paragraph  which  now  follows 
in  the  text  refers. 


in  this  crisis.  The  volunteers  were  irresi  tfe 
while  they  asked  only  for  their  country!^! 
all  the  world  saw  she  was  entitled  tcB«t 
they  became  impotent  the  moment  th.  de- 
manded more.  They  were  deserted,  a  l^t 
moment,  by  all  the  talent  and  the  rejcj. 
ability  which  had  given  them,  for  a  tim'ihe 
absolute  dominion  of  the  country.  Th(on^ 
cession  of  their  just  rights  operated  e  g 
tahsman  in  separating  the  patriotic  froi the 
factious:  And  when  the  latter  afterwar  at- 
tempted  to  invade  the  lofty  r-muns  of  .ijti! 
mate  government,  they  wei'e  .--initlpu  wi'ijj. 
stantaneous  discord  and  confusion,  and  s  ed- 
ily  dispersed  and  annihilated  from  thefiijof 
the  land.  These  events  are  big  with  in'uc. 
tion  to  the  times  that  have  come  after  md 
read  an  impressive  lesson  to  those  whoave 
now  to  deal  with  discontents  and  conve  di  ^ 
in  the  same  country. 

But  if  it  be  certain  that  the  salvation  (  ,. 
land  was  then  owing  to  the  mild,  libera  md 
enlightened  councils  of  the  Rockiiigliai;ad. 
ministration  as  a  body,  it  is  delightful  I  «e. 
in  some  of  the  private'letters  m  hich  Mr.  Irdy 
has  printed  in  the  volume  before  us.  ho\:'or- 
dially  the  sentiments  professed  by  thi.siin- 
istry  were  adopted  by  the  emineiit  mei:,-hD 
presided  over  its  formation.  There  are  llers 
to  Lord  Charlemoiit,  both  from  Lord  Rot'nt- 
ham  himself,  and  from  Mr.  Fox.  which  ^uTd 
almost  reconcile  one  to  a  belief  in  the  jjsi- 
bility  of  ministerial  fairness  and  siiiCiity. 
We  should  like  to  give  the  whole  of  am 
here  :  but  as  our  limits  will  not  admit  ol;iat 
we  must  content  ourselves  with  someex.ctf 
from  ]\Ir.  Fox's  first  letter  after  the  newjiin. 
istry  was  formed. — for  the  tone  and  stv  of 
which,  we  fear,  few  precedents  have  i;eii 
left  in  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of  Stat' 

"  My  dear  Lojd. — If  I  hud  bad  occasion  toTJte 
to  you  a  month  ago,  I  should  have  wriiter'Tlb 
great  confidence  thai  you  would  believe  nieperitljr 
sincere,  and  would  receive  any  thing  that  canii'om 
me  %viih  the  partiality  of  an  old  acq\iainianc'  uid 
one  who  acted  upon  the  same  political  prinrip  .  I 
hope  you  will  now  consider  me  in  the  same  bl; 
but  I  own  1  write  with  much  more  dilFulenct  jI 
am  much  more  sure  of  your  kindness  to  incer- 
sonally,  than  of  your  inelinaiion  to  listen  wi  fa- 
vour to  any  thing  that  comes  from  a  Secret/ of 
State.  The  principal  business  of  this  letlei  to 
inform  you,  that  the  Duke  of  Portland  is  app  ted 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and  Colonel  Fiizp  ick 
his  secretary  ;  and,  when  I  have  said  this.  IW 
not  add,  that  I  feel  myself,  on  every  private  H/tii 
as  public  account,  most  peculiarly  interested  the 
success  of  their  administration,  'i'liat  their  pi3n» 
and  characters  are  not  disagreeable  to  yout  rd- 
ship,  I  may  venture  to  assure  myself,  without  ing 
too  sanguine;  and  I  think  myself  equally  c<  lio, 
that  there  are  not  in  the  world  two  men  "0»e 
general  way  of  thinking  upon  poliiical  subji.t  is 
more  exactly  consonant  to  your  own.  It  i  lOi. 
therefore,  too  much  to  desire  and  hope.  th»/ou 
will  at  least  look  upon  the  adminisiraiion  oi  jch 
men  with  rather  a  more  favourable  eye,  and  i  ine 
to  trust  them  rather  more  than  you  could  do.Mt 
of  those  who  have  been  their  predecessor  '— 
"  The  particular  time  of  year  at  which  this  c  ige 
happens,  is  productive  of  many  t'leat  inconvenii  m, 
especially  as  it  -aIII  be  very  "difficult  for  the  ike 
of  Portland  to  be  at  Dublin' before  your  Parliient 
meets  ;  but  I  cannot  help  hoping  ili.ii  all  reaso  blf 
men  will  concur  in  removing  some  of  these  'ffi 


LIFE  OF  LORD  CHARLEMONT. 


Olios,  and  that  a  short  adjournment  will  ni.t  be 
Afd,  it  asked.  I  do  not  throw  out  this  as  know- 
inirom  any  authority  that  it  will  be  proposed,  but 
ajin  idea  that  suggests  iisell  to  me  ;  and  in  order 
ifiihow  that  1  wish  lo  talk  wiih  you,  and  consult 
vii  you  in  the  same  irank  manner  in  wliich  I 
•(ild  have  done  before  I  was  in  this  siiuaiion,  so 
»,'/  new  to  me.  I  have  been  iised  to  ihink  ill  of 
alhe  ministers  whom  I  did  know,  and  to  suspect 
tllse  whom  I  did  not,  that  when  I  am  obliged  to 
ci  myself  a  minister,  I  feel  as  if  I  put  myself  into 
a  ;r)'  suspicious  character  ;  but  I  do  assure  you  I 
a  the  very  same  man,  in  all  respects,  that  I  was 
w>n  you  knew  me,  and  honoured  me  with  some 
are  in  your  esteem — that  I  maintain  the  same 
ojiions,  and  act  with  the  same  people. 

Fray  make  my  best  compliments  lo  Mr.  Grat- 
ti  and  lell  him,  tliai  the  Duke  of  Portland  and 
lljpairick  are  ihoroughly  impressed  wiih  ilie  im- 
pfiance  of  his  approbation,  and  will  do  all  ihey  can 
tjJeserve  it.  I  do  most  sincerely  hope,  that  he 
ry  hit  upon  some  line  that  may  be  drawn  honour- 
aV  and  advantageously  for  both  countries  ;  and 
li,  when  that  is  done,  he  will  show  the  world  that 
IXe  may  '"^  "  government  in  Ireland,  of  which  he 
iiiot  ashamed  to  make  a  part.  That  country  can 
r-er  prosper,  where,  what  should  be  the  ambition 
flnen  of  iionour,  is  considered  as  a  disgrace." 

pp.  217—219. 

riie  following  letter  from  Mr.  Burke  in  the 
(i  of  1789,  will  be  read  with  more  interest, 
nen  it  is  recollected  that  he  published  his 
(lebrated  ReHections  on  the  French  Revolu- 
'  n,  but  a  few  months  after. 

'  My  dearest  Lord, — I  think  your  Lordship  has 
led  with  your  usual  zeal  and  judgment  in  esiab- 
ling  a  Whig  club  in  Dublin.  These  meetings 
I'vent  the  evaporation  of  principle  in  individuals, 
M  give  them  joint  force,  and  enlivHn  their  exer- 
ns  by  emulation.  You  see  the  matter  in  its  true 
ht;  and  with  your  usual  discernment.  Party  is 
solutely  necessary  at  this  time.  1  thought  it  al- 
■  lysso  in  ihii  country,  ever  since  I  have  had  any 
.iigto  do  in  public  business;  and  I  rather  fear, 
(it  there  is  not  virtue  enough  in  this  period  to  sup- 
ift  party,  than  ihat  party  should  become  necessa- 
,  on  account  of  the  want  of  virtue  to  support  itself 
•  individual  exertions.  As  to  us  here,  our  thoughts 
every  thing  at  home  are  suspended  by  oi^ir  as- 
nishm'ent  at  the  wonderful  spectacle  which  is  ex- 
bited  in  a  neighbouring  and  rival  country.  What 
cctators.  and  what  actors  !  England  gazing  with 
lonishinent  at  a  French  struggle  for  liberty,  and 
>t  knowing  whether  to  blame,  or  to  applaud,  'i'he 
ing,  indeed,  though  I  thought  I  sav.'  something 


readers  one  or  two  specimens  of  his  jjifl  of 
drawing  characters  j  in  the  e.xercise  of  which 
he  generally  rises  lo  a  sort  of  quaint  and 
brilliant  conciseness,  and  displays  a  degree 
of  aculeness  and  fine  observation  that  are  not 
to  be  found  in  the  other  parts  of  lus  writing. 
His  greatest  fault  is,  that  he  docs  not  abuse 
any  body, — even  where  tiu'  dignity  of  history, 
and  of  vutue,  call  loudly  for  such  an  inHiction. 
Vet  there  is  something  in  the  tone  of  all  his 
delineations,  that  satisfies  us  that  there  is  no- 
thing worse  than  e.\treine  gooil  nature  at  the 
bottom  of  his  forbearance.  Of  Philip  Tisdal, 
who  was  Attorney-general  when  LortI  Charle- 
mont  first  came  into  Parliament,  he  says:— 

'•  He  had  an  admirable  and  most  superior  under- 
standing ;  an  understanding  matured  by  years — by 
long  experience — by  habits  with  liie  best  compa.'iy 
trom  his  yuuth — with  the  bar,  wiih  Parliament, 
with  the  State.  'I'o  this  strength  of  iniellert  was 
added  a  constitutional  philosophy,  or  apmhy,  which 
never  suflered  him  to  be  carried  away  by  aiiach- 
ment  to  any  party,  even  his  own.  He  saw  men 
and  things  so  clearly;  he  understood  so  well  the 
whole  farce  and  lallacy  ol  life,  that  it  juisscd  before 
him  like  a  scenic  representation;  and,  till  alniusi 
the  close  of  his  days,  he  went  through  the  world 
with  a  constant  sunshine  of  soul,  and  an  inexorable 
tiraviiy  oy'eature.  His  countenance  was  never  gay, 
and  his  nmid  was  never  gloomy.  He  was  an  able 
speaker,  as  well  at  the  bar  as  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, though  his  diction  was  very  indifl'creni.  He 
did  not  speak  bo  much  at  length  as  many  of  his  par- 
liamentary coadjutors,  though  he  knew  the  whole 
of  the  sui)ject  much  belter  than  they  did.  He  was 
not  only  a  good  speaker  in  Parliament,  but  an  ex- 
cellent manager  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He 
never  said  too  much:  and  he  had  great  merit  in 
what-he  did  not  say;  ior  Government  was  never 
committed  by  him.  He  plunged  into  no  difTicnliy  ; 
nor  did  he  ever  suffer  his  antagonist  to  escape  from 
one." — pp.  78,  71). 

Of  Hussey  Burgh,  afterwards  Lord  Chief 
Baron,  he  observes ; — 

"  To  those  who  never  heard  him,  as  the  fashion  of 
this  world  in  eloquence  as  in  all  things  soon  passes 
avvav,  it  may  be  no  easy  matter  to  convey  a  jist 
idea'of  his  style  of  speaking.  It  w-as  suslainen  by 
great  ingenuity,  great  rapidity  of  intellect,  luminous 
and  piercing  satfre  ;  in  refinement  abundant,  in  sim- 
plicity sterile.  The  cla.^sical  allusions  of  this  orator, 
for  he  was  most  truly  one,  were  so  apposite,  they 


le  It  in 

hat  in  it  paradoxical  and  mysterious.  The  spirit 
is  impossible  not  to  admire  ;  but  the  old  Parisian 
rociiy  has  broken  out  in  a  shocking  manner.  It 
true,  that  this  may  be  no  more  than  a  sudden  ex- 
losion  ;  if  so,  no  indication  can  be  taken  from  it ; 
bl  if  it  should  be  character,  rather  than  accident, 
pen  that  people  are  not  fit  for  liberty — and  must 
Bve  a  strong  hand,  like  that  of  their  former  mas- 
«8.  to  coerce  them.  Men  must  have  a  certain 
ind  of  natural  moderation  to  qualify  them  for  free- 
|om ;  else  it  becomes  noxious  to  themselves,  and  a 
(erfect  nuisance  to  every  body  else.  What  will  be 
|ie  event,  it  is  hard.  I  think,  still  lo  say.  To  form 
I  solid  cr)nsiitution,  requires  wisdom  as  well  as 
iPirit ;  and  w  hether  the  French  have  wise  heads 
mongtheni,  or,  it  they  possess  such,  whether  they 
■ave  authority  equal  to  their  wisdom,  is  yet  to  be 
>en.  In  the  mean  time,  the  progress  of  this  whole 
jiTair  is  one  of  the  most  curious  matters  of  specula- 
iion  that  ever  was  exhibited." — pp.  321,  322. 

We  should  now  take  our  leave  of  Mr.  Hardy ; 
-and  yet  it  would  not  be  fair  to  dismiss  him 
TOiu  the  scene  entirely,  without  giving  our 


progress  lor  several  years,  has  still  some-    fullowed  each  other  in  such  bright  and  varied  suc- 


lon,  and,  at  times,  spread  such  an  unexpected 
and  triumphant  blaze  around  his  subject,  that  all 
persons  who  were  in  the  least  tinged  with  litera- 
ture, could  never  be  tired  of  lisiening  to  him  ;  and 
when  in  the  splendid  days  of  ihe  Volunteer  Asso- 
ciation, alluding  to  .some  coercive  English  laws, 
and  to  that  instiiuiion,  then  in  its  proudest  array, 
he  said,  in  the  Hou.«e  of  Crtmmons,  '  'I'hai  such 
laws  were  sown  like  dragons'  leeih,— and  sprung 
up  in  armed  men.'  the  applause  which  followed, 
and  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  which  he  kindled  m 
every  mifid.  far  exceed  my  powers  of  description." 
—pp.  140,  141. 

Of  Gerard  Hamilton,  he  gives  us  the  fol- 
lowing characteristic  anecilotes. 

"The  uncommon  spleinhmr  of  his  eloquence, 
which  was  sui'ceeded  by  such  inflexible  laciiurnuy 
in  St.  Stephen's  Chapel,  became  the  subjeci,  as 
mi^ht  be  supposed,  of  much,  and  idle  speculation. 
Tire  truth  is,  ihat  all  his  speeches,  whether  delivered 
in  London  or  Dublin,  were  not  oT\\y  prepared,  hut 
studied,  with  a  minuteness  and  exaotiiudc,  of  which 


70C 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


those  who  are  only  used  to  the  carelessness  of 
modern  debating,  can  scarcely  form  any  idea.  Lord 
Charlemont,  who  had  been  long  and  intimately  ac-  [ 
quainted  wiih  him,  previous  to  his  coniiiiu;  to  Ire- 
land, often  mentioned  that  he  was  the  only  speaker, 
among  the  many  he  had  heard,  of  whom  he  could 
say,  wiih  cenaiiiiy,  that  all  his  speeciies,  however 
long,  were  written  and  got  by/icurt.  A  gentleman,  \ 
well  known  to  his  Lordship  and  Hamilton  assured 
him,  that  he  heard  Hamilton  repeal,  no  less  than 
three  times,  an  oration,  which  he  afterwards  spoke 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  which  lasted  almost 
three  hours.  As  a  debater,  therefore,  he  became 
as  useless  to  his  political  patrons  as  Addison  was  to 
Lord  Sunderland ;  and.  if  possible,  he  was  more 
scrupulous  in  composition  than  even  that  eminent 
man.  Addison  would  stop  the  press  to  correct  the 
most  trivial  error  in  a  large  publication  ;  and  Ham- 
ilton, as  I  can  assert  on  indubitable  authority, 
would  recall  the  footman,  if,  on  recollection,  aiiy 
word,  in  his  opinion,  was  misplaced  or  improper,  in 
the  slightest  note  to  a  familiar  acquaintance." 

pp.  60,  61. 

No  name  is  mentioned  in  these  pages  with 
higher  or  more  uniform  applause,  than  that 
of  Henry  Giattan.  But  that  distinguished 
person  still  lives :  and  i\Ir.  Hardy-s  dehcacy 
has  prevented  him  from  attempting  any  de- 
lineation, either  of  his  character  or  his  elo- 
quotice.  We  respect  his  forbearance,  and 
shall  follow  his  example : — Yet  \\%  cannot 
deny  ourselves  the  gratification  of  extracting 
one  sentence  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Charle- 


inientarygrj^ 


moiit,  hi  relation  to  that 
by  which  an  honour  was"  conferred  on  an 
dividual  patriot,  without  place  or  official  sit 
tion  of  any  kind,  and  merely  for  his  perso 
merits  and  exertions,  which  has  in  other  ca'i 
been  held  to  be  the  particular  and  appropri' 
reward  of  triumphant  generals  and  comma  . 
ers.  When  the  mild  and  equable  teinut . 
ment  of  Lord  Chailemont's  mind  is  rei . 
lected,  as  well  as  the  caution  with  w  hich  I 
his  opinions  were  expre.s.sed.  we  do  not  kii} 
that  a  wise  ambition  would  wish  for  a  prouf- 
or  more  honourable  testimony  than  is  c4, 
tained  in  the  following  short  sentences. 

"Respecting  the  grant,  I  know  with  ceriai 
that    Grat^an,  though  he  felt  himself  flattered 
the  intention,  looked  upon  the  act  with  the  deep 
concern,  and  did  all  in  his  power  to  deprecate 
As  it  was  found  impossible  to  defeat  the  desien.i 
his  friends,  and  I  among  others,  were  employee^ 
lessen  the  sum.     li  was  accordingly  decreased ? 
one  half,  and  that  principally  by  his  positive  de(! 
ration,  through  us,  that,  if  the  whole  were  insis; 
on,  he  would  refuse  all  but  a  few  hundreds,  wh 
he  would  retain  as  an  honourable  mark  of  the  go 
ness  of  his  country.     By  some,  who  look  only  i 
themselves  for  information  concerning  human  i| 
ture,  this  conduct  will  probably  be  construed  ill 
hypocrisy.     To  such,  the  excellence  and  pre-ei; 
nency  of  virtue,  and  the  character  of  Grattan, 
as  invisible  and  incomprehcnsibe,  as  the  bright! 
of  the  sun  to  a  man  born  blind." — p.  237. 


(0c|3t  ember,   ISIS.) 

An  Inquiry  whether  Crhne  and  Misery  are  produced  or  prevented  by  our  present  System  of  Pr 
Discipline.     Illustrated  by  Descriptions  of  the  Borough  Coinpter,  Tothill  Fields  Prison,] 
Jail  at  St.  Albans,  the  Jail  at  Guildford,  the  Jail  at  Bristol,  the  Jails  at  Bury  uiul  Ilcheslj^ 
the  Maison  de  Force  at  Ghent,  the  Philadelphia  Prison,  the  Penitentiary  at  Millbank,  and 
Proceedings  of  the  Ladies''  Committee  at  Neu's;ate.    By  Thomas  Fowell  Buxton.  8vo.  p.  I'M 
London:  1818. 


There  are  two  classes  of  subjects  which 
naturally  engane  the  attention  of  public  men,  I 
and  divide  the  interest  which  society  takes  in  ! 
their  proceedings.  The  one  may,  in  a  wide 
sense,  be  called  Party  Politics — the  other 
Civil  or  Domestic  Administration.  To  the  j 
former  belong  all  (juestions  touching  political 
rights  and  franchises — the  principles  of  the  i 
Constitution — the  fitness  or  unfitness  of  min- 
isters, and  the  interest  and  honour  of  the 
country,  as  it  may  bt;  afTected  by  its  conduct 
and  relations  to  foreign  powers,  either  in  peace 
or  war.  The  latter  comprehends  most  of  the 
branches  of  political  economy  and  statistics, 
and  all  the  ordinary  legislation  of  internal 
police  and  regulation  :  and,  besides  the  two 
great  heads  of  Tiiide  and  Taxation,  embraces 
the  improvemt^ntsof  the  civil  Code — the  carfe  j 
of  the  Poor — th^  interests  of  Education,  Be- i 
ligion,  and  Morality — and  the  protection  of  ! 
Prisoners,  Lunatics,  and  others  who  cannot 
claim  protection  for  themselves.  This  dis- 
tinction, we  confess,  is  but  coarsely  drawn 
— since  every  one  of  the  things  we  have 
last  enumerated  may,  in  certain  circumstan-  { 
cesj  be  made  an  occasion  of  party  contention.  [ 


But  what  we  mean  is,  that  they  are  not  j 
natural  occasions,  and  ilo  not  belong  to  tho 
topics,  or  refer  to  those  principles,  in  relatij 
to  which  the  great  Parties  of  a  free  counts 
necessarily  arise.     One  great  part  of  a  stati' 
man's  business  may  thus  be  consiilered 
Polemic — and   another  as  Deliberative)   1 
main  object  in  the  first  being  to  discomfit  a 
expose  his  opponents — and.  in  the  second, 
discover  the  best  means  of  carrying  into  eflV 
ends  which  all  agree  to  be  desirable. 

Judging  a  priori  of  the  relative  imporfan 
or  agreeableness  of  these  two  occupatioi 
we  should  certainly  be  apt  to  think  that  1 
latter  was  by  far  the  most  attractive  and  coi 
fortable  in  itself,  as  well  as  the  mo.st  like 
to  be  popular  wifti  the  community.  The  fai, 
however,  happens  to  be  otherwise:  For.sui 
is  the  excitement  of  a  public  contest  for  infl 
ence  and  power,  and  so  great  the  prize  to 
Avon  in  those  honourable  lists,  that  the  liiirhr 
talents  are  all  put  in  requisition  for  that  d 
partment,  and  all  their  force  and  s])lendo 
reserved  for  the  struggle  :  And  indeed,  wht 
we  consider  that  the  object  of  this  struggle 
nothing  less  than  to  put  the  whole  power  ( 


BUXTON'S  INQUIRY. 


adjinistration  into  the  hands  of  the  victors, 
an.lhus  to  enable  them  not  only  to  engross 
thpredit  of  carrying  through  all  those  bene- 
ficil  arrangements  that  may  be  called  for  by 
th.voice  6f  the  countrj-,  but  to  carry  them 
thugh  in  their  oicn  innj,  we  ought  not  per- 
ha;  to  wonder,  that  in  the  eagerness  of  this 
pcuit,  which  is  truly  that  of  the  means  to  all 
en,  some  of  the  ends  tlunnselves  should, 
w'n  separately  presented,  appear  of  inferior 
mnent,  and  excite  far  less  interest  orconcern. 
^ut,  though  tliis  apology  may  be  available 
iaame  degree  to  the  actors,  it  still  leaves  us 
at  loss  to  account  for  the  corresponding  sen - 
tiiMits  rhat  are  found  in  the  body  of  the  peo- 
pl  who  are  but  lookers  on  for  the  most  part 
uihis  great  scene  of  contention — and  can 
sccelyfail  to  perceive,  one  would  imagine, 
tb.  their  immediate  interests  were  often  post- 
ped  to  the  mere  glatiiatorship  of  the  parties, 
ai'  their  actual  service  neglected,  while  this 
fice  strife  was  maintained  as'to  who  should 
b'lllowed  to  serve  them.  In  such  circum- 
slices,  w'e  should  naturally  expect  to  find, 
tit  the  popi}lar  favourites  would  not  be  the 
Itlers  of  the  opposite  political  parties,  but 
the  who,  without  regard  to  party,  came  for- 
\vd  to  suggest  and  promote  measures  of  ad- 
nted  utility — and  laboured  directly  to  en- 
hre  the  enjoyments  and  advantages  of  the 
pple,  or  to  alleviate  the  pressure  of  their 
n-essary  sufferings.  That  it  is  not  so  in  fact 
al  reality,  must  be  ascribed,  we  think,  partly 
tihe  sympathy  which,  in  a  country  like  this, 
nh  of  all  conditions  take  in  the  party  feel- 
irs  of  their  political  favourites,  and  the  sense 
t  y  have  of  the  great  importance  of  their 
Siicess,  and  the  general  prevalence  of  their 
f  nciples ;  and  partly,  no  doubt,  and  in  a 
rater  degree,  to  that  less  justifiable  but  very 
ijailiar  principle  of  our  nature,  by  which  we 
fj^  led,  on  so  many  other  occasions,  to  prefer 
fendid  accomplishments  to  useful  qualities, 
iJ  to  take  a  much  greater  interest  in  those 
jrilous  and  eventful  encounters,  where -the 
]|)wess  of  the  champions  is  almost  all  that  is 
t!be  proved  by  the  result,  than  in  those  hum- 
br  labours  of  love  or  wisdom,  by  which  the 
ijoyments  of  the  whole  society  are  multi- 
•ed  or  secured. 

iThere  is  a  reason,  no  doubt,  for  this  also— 
'd  a  wise  one — as  for  every  other  general 
'f  to  which  its  great  Author  has  subjected 
ir  being:  But  it  is  not  the  less  true,  that  it 
'ten  operates  irregularly,  and  beyond  its 
evince. — as  may  be  seen  in  the  familiar 
stance  of  the  exces.sive  and  pernicious  ad- 
iration  which  follows  all  great  achievements 
War.  and  makes  Military  fame  so  danijer- 
isly  seducing,  both  to  those  who  give  and  to 
(.086  who  receive  it.  It  is  undeniably  true, 
;i  Swift  said  long  ago,  that  he  who  made  two 
ades  of  grass  to  grow  where  one  only  grew 
jfore.  was  a  greater  benefactor  to  his  country 
lan  all  the  heroes  and  conquerors  with  whom 
s  annals  are  emblazed  ;  and  yet  it  would  be 
idicrous  to  compare  the  fame  of  the  most 
Jccessful  improver  in  agriculture  with  that 
f  the  most  inconsiderable  soldier  who  ever 
ignalised  his  courage  in  an  unsuccessful  cam- 


701 

paign.  The  inventors  of  the  steam-engine 
and  the  spinning-machine  have,  beyond  all 
question,  done  much  more  in  our  own  times, 
not  only  to  increase  the  comforts  and  weallli 
of  their  country,  but  to  multiply  its  rt'sources 
and  enlarge  its  power,  than  all'lhe  Statesmen 
and  Warriors  who  have  aflected  during  the 
s;ime  period,  to  direct  its  destiny;  and  yet, 
while  the  incense  of  public  acclamation  "ims 
been  lavished  upon  the  latter— while  wealth 
antl  honours,  and  hereilitarj- distinctions,  have 
been  heaped  upon  them  \n  their  Jives,  and 
monumental  glories  been  devised  to  perpetu- 
ate the  remembrance  of  their  services,  the 
former  have  been  left  undistinguished  in  the 
crowtl  of  ordinary  citizens,  and  permitted  to 
close  their  days,  nnvisited  by  any  ray  of  pub- 
lic favour  or  national  gratitude, — for  no  oilier 
reason  that  can  possibly  be  suggested,  than 
that  their  invaluable  services  were  performed 
without  noise  or  contention,  in  the  studious 
privacy  of  benevolent  meditation,  and  with- 
out any  of  (hose  tumultuous  accompaniments 
that  e.vcite  the  imagination,  or  inflame  the 
passions  of  observant  nmltitudes. 

The  case,  however,  is  precisely  the  same 
with  the  different  clas.«esof  those  who  occupy 
themselvf"s  with  public  interests.  He  who 
thunders  in  popular  assemblies,  and  consumes 
his  antagonists  in  the  blaze  of  his  patriotic 
eloquence,  or  withers  them  with  the  Hash  of 
his  resistless  sarcasm,  immediately  becomes, 
not  merely  a  leader  in  the  senate,  but  an  idol 
in  the  country  at  large'; — while  he  who  by 
his  sagacity  discovers,  by  his  eloquence  recom- 
mends, and  by  his  laborious  perseverance  ulti- 
mately effects,  some  great  im.provement  in 
the  condition  of  large  classes  ot  the  commu- 
nity, is  rated,  by  that  ungrateful  community, 
as  a  far  inferior  personage ;  and  obtains,  for 
his  nights  and  days  of  successful  toil,  a  far 
less  share  even  of  the  cheap  reward  of  popu- 
lar applause  than  is  earned  by  the  other, 
merely  in  following  the  impulses  of  his  own 
ambitious  nature.  No  man  in  this  country 
ever  rose  to  a  high  political  station,  or  even 
obtained  any  great  personal  power  and  influ- 
ence in  society,  merely  by  originating  in  Par- 
liament measures  of  internal  regulation,  or 
conducting  with  judgment  and  success  im- 
provements, however  extensive,  that  did  not 
affect  the  interests  of  one  or  other  of  the  two 
great  parties  in  the  state.  Mr.  VVilberforce 
may  perhaps  be  mentioned  as  an  exception  ; 
and  certainly  the  greatness,  the  long  endu- 
rance, and  the  dilTiculty  of  the  struggle,  which 
he  at  last  conducted  to  so  glorious  a  termina- 
tion, have  given  him  a  fame  and  popularity 
which  may  be  compared,  in  some  respects, 
with  that  of  a  party  leader.  But  even  Mr. 
VVilberforce  would  be  at  once  demolished  in 
a' contest  with  the  leaders  of  party  ;  and  cnu\i\ 
do  nothing,  out  of  doors,  by  his  own  individual 
exertions:  while  it  is  quite  manifest,  that  the 
greatest  and  most  meritorious  exertions  to  ex- 
tend the  reign  of  Justice  by  the  correction  of 
our  civil  code — to  ameliorate  the  condition  of 
the  Poor — to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  ihe 
Prisoner, — or,  finally,  to  regenerate  the  minds 
of  the  whole  people  by  an  improved  sjslcra 
3i2 


ro2 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


of  Education,  will  never  give  a  man  half  the 
power  or  celebrity  that  may  be  secured,  at 
any  time,  by  a  brilliant  speech  on  a  motion 
of  censure,"  or  a  flaming  harangue  on  the 
boundlessness  of  our  resources,  and  the  glo- 
ries of  our  arms. 

It  may  be  conjectured  already,  that  with 
all  due  sense  of  the  value  of  party  distinc- 
tions, and  all  possible  veneration  for  the  talents 
which  they  call  most  prominently  into  action, 
we  are  inclined  to  think,  that  this  estimate 
of  public  ^ervices  might  be  advantageously 
corrected  ;  and  that  the  objects  which  would 
e.vclusively  occupy  our  statesmen  if  they  were 
all  of  one  mind  upon  constitutional  questions, 
ought  more  frequently  to  take  precedence  of 
the  contentions  to  which  those  questions  give 
rise.  We  think  there  is.  of  late,  a  tendency 
to  such  a  change  in  public  opinion.  The  na- 
tion, at  least,  seems  at  length  heartily  sick  of 
those  heroic  vapouring?  about  our  efforts  for 
the  salvation  of  Europe. — which  seem  to  have 
ended  in  the  restoration  of  old  abuses  abroad, 
and  the  imposition  of  new  taxes  at  home  ; — 
and  about  the  vigour  which  was  required  for 
the  maintenance  of  our  glorious  constitution, 
which  has  most  conspicuously  displaved  itself 
in  the  suspension  of  its  best  bulwarks,  and  the 
organisation  of  spy  systems  and  vindictive  per- 
secutions, after  the  worst  fashion  of  arbitrary 
governments; — and  seems  disposed  to  re- 
quire, at  the  hands  of  its  representatives,  some 
substantial  pledge  of  their  concern  for  the 
general  welfare,  by  an  active  and  zealous  co- 
operation in  the  correction  of  admitted  abuses, 
and  the  redress  of  confessed  wrongs. 

It  is  mortifying  to  the  pride  of  human  wis- 
dom, to  consider  how  much  evil  has  resulted 
from  the  best  and  least  exceptionable  of  its 
boasted  institutions — and  how  those  establish- 
ments that  have  been  most  carefully  devised 
for  the  repression  of  guilt,  or  the  relief  of  mise- 
ry, have  become  themselves  the  fruitful  and 
pestilent  sources  both  of  cuilt  and  misery,  in 
a  frightful  and  disgusting  decree.  Laws,  with- 
out which  society  could  not  exist,  become,  by 
their  very  multiplication  and  refinement,  a 
snare  and  a  burden  to  those  they  were  intend- 
ed to  protect,  and  let  in  upon  us  the  hateful 
and  most  intolerable  plagues,  of  pettifojrging, 
chicanery,  and  legal  persecution.  Institutions 
for  the  relief  and  prevention  of  Poverty  have 
the  effect  of  multiplying  it  tenfold — hospitals 
for  the  cure  of  Diseasps  become  centres  of 
infection.  The  very  Police,  which  is  neces- 
sary to  make  our  cities  habitable,  give  birth 
to  the  odious  vermin  of  informers,  thief-catch- 
ers, and  suborners  of  treachery;  —  and  our 
Prisons,  which  are  meant  chiefly  to  reform  the 
guilty  and  secure  the  suspected,  are  converted 
into  schools  of  the  most  atrocic^is  corniption, 
and  dens  of  the  most  inhuman  torture. 

Those  evils  and  abuses,  thus  arising  out  of 
intended  benefits  and  remedies,  are  the  last  to 
which  the  attention  of  ordinary  men  is  direct- 
ed— because  they  arise  in  such  unexpected 
quarters,  and  are  apt  to  be  regarded  as  the 
unavoidable  accompaniments  of  indispensable 
institutions.  There  is  a  selfish  delicacy  which 
makes  us  at  all  times  averse  to  enter  into  de- 


tails of  a  painful  and  offensive  nature ;  andj 

indolent  sort  of  optimism,  by  which  we  na. 

rally  seek  to  excuse  our  want  of  activity.  ' 

charitably  presuming  that  things  are  aswl 

as  they  can  easily  be  made,  and  that  it 

I  inconceivable  that  any  very  fazrani  abu 

'  should  be  permitted  by  the  worthy  and  1 

mane  people  who  are  more  immediately 

cerned  in  their  prevention.     To  this  is  add 

a  fear  of  giving  offence  to  those  same  wori 

I  visitors  and  superintendants — and  a  still 

{  potent  fear  of  giving  offence  to  his  Majesti 

j  Government ; — for  though  no  adrainistrat 

I  can  really  have  any  interest  I'n  the  exi 

;  of  such  abuses,  or  can  be  suspected  of  wi 

j  ing  to  perpetuate  them  from  any  love  for  th  i  * 

or  their  authors,  yet  it  is  but  too  true  that  m : 

long-established  admmistrations  have  locll 

I  with  an  evd  eye  upon  the  detectors  and  • 

dressors  of  all  sorts  of  abuses,  however  li  • 

j  connected  with  politics  or  political  person;  ■ 

first^  because  ^hey  feel  that  their  long  ,'| 

'  undisturbed  continuance  is  a  tacit  reproach  i 

i  their  negligence  and  inactivity,  in  not  hav  : 

j  made  use  of  their  great  opportunities  to  t . 

cover  and  correct  them  —  secondly,  becav 

all  such  corrections  are  iimovalions  upon  I 

usafjes  and  establishments,  and  practical  ;  • 

missions  of  the  flagrant  imperfection  of  th  • 

boasted  institutions,  towards  which  it  is  tlr 

interest  to  maintain  ablindand  indiscrimin-; 

veneration  in  the  body  of  the  people— a, 

I  thirdly^  because,  if  general  abuses  affect  j 

large  classes  of  the  community  are  allowe< ) 

be  exposed  and  reformed  in  any  one  dep;  • 

ment.  the  people  might  iret  accustomed  to  li : 

for  the  redress  of  all  similar  abuses  in  ot  r 

departments, — and  reform  would  cease  to  \  i 

word  of  terror  and  alarm  (as  most  minisi  • 

think  it  ought  to  be)  to  all  loyal  subjects. 

These,  no  doubt,  are  formidable  obstad  : 

and  therefore   it  is,   that  gross  abuses  hi  • 

been  allowed  to  subsist  so  long.    But  they  ' 

so  far  from  being  insurmountable,  that  we  • 

perfectly  persuaded  that  nothinir  more  is  • 

cpssary  to  insure  the  effectual  correction  ' 

mitigation  at  least,  of  all  the  evils  to  which  • 

have  alluded,  than  to  satisfy  the  public, 

of  their  existence  and  extent — and,  2dly. 

there  being  means  for  their  effectual  redr ' 

and  prevention.     Evils  that  are  directly  c  • 

nected  with  the  power  of  the  existing  adn  • 

istration — abuses  of  which   they   are  thi  • 

selves  the  authors  or  abettors,  or  of  which  tl 

have  the  benefit,  can  only  be  corrected  ' 

their  removal  from  office — and  are  snbsl  • 

tially  irremediable,  however  enormous,  wl ' 

I  they  continue  in  power.     All  questions  a;) 

'  them,  therefore,  belong  to  the  department 

■  partv  politics,  and  fall  within  the  province 

j  the  polemical  statesman.     But  with  regan,' 

I  all  other  plain  violations  of  reason,  justice  r 

j  humanity,  it  is  comfortable  to  think  that  ' 

live  in  such  a  stasre  of  society  as  to  makt  t 

!  impossible  that  they  should  be  allowed  to  f  • 

I  sist  many  years,  after  their  mischief  and  - 

jquity  have" been  made  manifest  to  the  se  '- 

!  of  the  country  at  large.  Public  opinion,  wh  l 

is  still  potent  and  formidable  even  to  Minii  • 

1  rial  corruptionj  is  omnipotent  against  all  ii  • 


I 


BUXTON'^TNQUIRY 


703 


rioiTialversations — and  the  invaluable  means 
of  i  luinciation  and  authoritative  ami  irresis- 
tibi  iuvpstiaatioa  which  we  possess  in  our 
rei'scntative  leirislature.  puts  it  in  the  power 
of  IV  man  of  prudence,  patience,  ;ind  re- 
ewtubilitv  in  that  House,  to  bring  to  linht  the 
mc  secret,  ami  to  shame  the  /tiost  arroijant 
deiiiiuent,  and  to  call  down  the  steaily  ven- 
pe  ce  of  public  execration,  and  the  sure 
fig'  of  public  intelligence,  for  the  repression 
anredress  of  all  public  injustice. 

iie  charm  is  in  the  little  word  Publicity  ! 
—lid  it  is  cheering  to  think  liow  many  won- 
dei  have  already  been  wM-ought  by  that  pre- 
ci(>  Talisman.  If  the  House  of  Commons 
Wi  of  no  other  use  but  as  an  organ  for  pro- 
cliniiig  and  inquiring  into  all  alleged  abuses, 
81)1  making  public  the  results,  under  the 
sa  tion  of  names  and  numbers  which  no  man 
da  s  to  suspect  of  unfairness  or  inattention, 
it  ould  be  enough  to  place  the  country  in 
wL'h  it  existed  far  above  all  terms  of  com- 
pa*on  with  any  other,  ancient  or  modern,  in 
\v.:h  no  such  institution  had  been  devised, 
'flush  the  great  work  is  done,  however,  by 
thi  House  and  its  committees — though  it  is 
ihie  only  that  the  mischief  can  be  denounced 
w i  a  voice  that  reaches  to  the  utmost  bor- 
(Itl.  of  the  land — and  there  only  that  the  seal 
ofnquestioned  and  unquestionable  authority 
OS  be  set  to  the  statements  which  it  authen- 
ticti'S  and  gives  out  to  the  world  ; — there  is 
.sti  room,  and  need  too,  for  the  humbler  min- 
is'; of  inferior  agents,  to  circulate  and  en- 
fo«,  to  repeat  and  expound,  the  momentous 
fals  that  have  been  thus  collected,  and  upon 
w-ich  the  public  must  ultimately  decide.  It 
is'his  unambitious,  but  useful  function  that 
wiiow  propose  to  perform,  in  laying  before 
01  readers  a  short  view  of  the  very  interest- 
ir'facts  which  are  detailed  in  the  valuable 
w  k  of  which  the  title  is  prefixed,  and  in  the 
p:'iamentary  papers  to  which  it  refers. 

I'risons  are  employed  for  the  confinement 
aii  security  of  at  least  three  different  descrip- 
tils  of  persons: — first,  of  those  who  are  ac- 
akl  of  crimes  and  offences,  but  have  not  yet 
b|n  brought  to  trial ;  2d,  of  those  who  have 
h'n  convicted,  and  are  imprisoned  prepara- 
t<i-  to.  or  as  a  part  of,  their  punishment :  and 
3;  of  debtors,  who  are  neither  convicted  nor 
a'used  of  any  crime  whatsoever.  In  both 
tl!  first  classes,  and  even  in  that  least  enti- 
ti|!  to  favour,  there  is  room  for  an  infinity  of 
ilfinctions — from  the  case  of  the  boy  arraign- 
eior  convicted  for  a  slight  assault  or  a  breach 
o*he  peace,  up  to  that  of  the  bloody  murderer 
W'lardened  depredator,  or  veteran  leader  of 
I;  house-breaking  gang.  All  these  persons 
list  indeed  be  imprisoned — for  so  the  law 
I'i  declared  ;  but,  under  that  sentence,  we 
IJTibly  conceive  there  is  no  warrant  to  inflict 
0  them  any  other  punishment — any  thing 
r>re  than  a  restraint  on  their  personal  free- 
'JTi.  This,  we  think,  is  strictly  true  of  all 
l!-  three  classes  we  have  mentioned  ;  but  it 
^1  scarcely  be  disputed,  at  all  events,  that 
i>s  true  of  the  first  and  the  last.  A  man  may 
i:Md  the  penalties  of  Crime,  by  avoiding  all 
'minahty :  But  no  man  can  be  secure  agamst 


False  accusation ;  and  to  condemn  him  who 
is  only  suspected,  is  to  commence  hi.s  punish- 
ment while  his  crime  is  uncertiiiii.  Nay,  it  is 
not  only  uncertain,  as  to  all  who  are  untried, 
but  it  is  the  tixed  presumption  of  the  law  that 
the  suspicion  is  untounded,  and  that  a  trial 
will  establish  his  imiocemc.  We  sujiposo 
there  are  not  less  than  ten  or  fifteen  thousand 
persons  taken  up  yearly  in  Greui  Britain  and 
Ireland  on  su,spicioii  ol  crimes,  of  whom  cer- 
tainly there  are  not  two-thirds  convicted  ;  so 
that;  in  all  likelihood,  there  are  not  f«wer  than 
seven  or  eight  thousaiid  innocent  pujsons  placed 
annually  in  this  painful  ]Medic:imeiit — whose 
very  iminisonmeiit,  though  an  nravoidable,  is 
beyond  all  dispute  a  very  laim-nlable  evil  j 
and  to  which  no  unnecessary  addition  can  be 
made  without  the  most  tremendous  injustice. 

The  debtor,  again,  seems  entitled  to  at 
least  as  much  indulgence.  '-He  may,"  says 
Mr.  Buxton,  "have  been  reduced  to'his  ina- 
bility to  satisfy  his  creditor  by  the  visitation 
of  God, — by  disease,  by  personal  accidents, 
by  the  failure  of  reasonable  projects,  by  the 
largeness  or  the  helplessness  of  his  family. 
His  substance,  and  the  substance  of  hi?  credi- 
tor, may  have  perished  together  in  the  llamos, 
or  in  the  waters.  Human  foresight  cannot 
always  avert,  and  human  industry  cannot  al- 
ways repair,  the  calamities  to  which  our  na- 
ture is  subjected  ;. — surely,  then,  some  debtors 
are  entitled  to  compassion." — (p.  4.)  Of  the 
number  of  debtors  at  any  one  time  in  confine- 
ment in  these  kingdoms,  we  have  no  means 
of  forming  a  conjecture  ;  but  beyond  all  doubt 
they  amount  to  many  thousands,  of  whom 
probably  one  half  have  been  reduced  to  that 
state  by  venial  errors,  or  innocent  misfortune. 

Even  with  regard  to  the  convicted,  we 
humbly  conceive  it  to  be  clear,  that  where  no 
special  severit}'  is  enjoined  by  the  law.  any 
additional  infliction  beyond  that  of  mere  co- 
ercion, is  illegal.  If  the  greater  delinquents 
alone  were  subjected  to  such  severities,  there 
might  be  a  colour  of  equity  in  the  practice; 
but,  in  point  of  fact,  they  are  inflicted  ac- 
cording to  the  state  of  the  prison,  the  usage 
of  the  place,  or  the  temper  of  the  jailor; — 
and,  in  all  cases,  they  are  inflicted  imliscrimi- 
nately  on  the  whole  inmates  of  each  unhappy 
mansion.  Even  if  it  were  otherwise,  "  Who,"' 
says  Mr.  B.,  "is  to  apportion  this  variety  of 
wretchedness  ?  The  Judge,  who  knows  noth- 
ing of  the  interior  of  the  jail ;  or  the  jailor, 
who  knows  nothing  of  the  transactions  of  the 
Court?  The  law  can  easily  suit  its  penalties 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  ca-se.  It  can  ad- 
judge to  one  oflender  imprisonment  for  one 
day;  to  another  for  twenty  years:  But  what 
ingenuity  would  be  suflicient  to  devise,  and 
what  discretion  could  be  trusted  to  infhct, 
modes  of  imprisonment  Avitli  similar  varia- 
tions?''— p.  8. 

But  the  truth  is,  that  all  inflictions  beyond 
that  of  mere  detention,  are  clearly  illegal. — 
Take  the  common  case  of  fetters  —  from 
Biacton  down  to  Blackstone,  all  our  lawyers 
declare  the  use  of  them  to  be  contrary  to  law. 
The  last  says,  in  so  many  word.-*,  that  "  ihe 
law  will  not  justify  jailors  in  fettering  a  pii- 


704 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


soner,  unless  where  he  is  unruly  or  has  at- 
tempted an  escape;"  and,  even  in  that  case, 
the  practice  seems  to  be  questionable — if  we 
can  trust  to  the  memorable  reply  of  Lord 
Chief  JiLstice  King  to  certain  magistrates, 
who  urged  their  necessity  for  safe  custody — 
''let  them  build  their  walls  higher."  Yet 
has  this  matter  been  left,  all  over  the  king- 
dom, as  a  thing  altogether  indifferent,  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  jailor  or  local  magistrates ; 
and  the  practice  accordingly  has  been  the 
most  capricious  and  irregular  that  can  well  be 
imagined. 

"  In  Chelmsford,  for  example,  and  in  Newgate, 
all  accused  or  convicted  of  felony  are  ironed. — At 
Bury,  and  at  Norwich,  all  are  without  iron.s. — At 
Abingdon  the  untried  are  not  ironed. — At  Derbi/, 
none  but  the  untried  are  ironed  I — At  Cold-bath- 
fields,  none  but  the  untried,  and  those  sent  for  re- 
examination, are  ironed. —  At  Winchesttr,  ^iWhciore 
trial  are  ironed  ;  and  those  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion after  trial. — At  Chester,  those  alone  of  bad 
character  are  ironed,  whether  tried  or  untried." 
pp.  68,  69. 

But  these  are  trifles.  The  truth  of  the  case 
is  forcibly  and  briefly  stated  in  the  following 
short  sentences : — 

"  You  have  no  risht  to  deprive  a  man  sentenced 
to  mere  imprisonment  of  pure  air,  wholesome  and 
sufficient  food,  and  opportunities  of  exercise.  You 
have  no  right  to  debar  him  from  the  craft  on  which 
his  family  depends,  if  it  can  be  exercised  in  prison. 
You  have  no  right  to  subject  him  to  suffering  from 
cold,  by  want  ot  bed-clothing  by  night,  or  firing  by 
day.  And  the  reason  is  plain, — you  have  taken  him 
from  his  home,  and  have  deprived  him  of  the  means 
of  providing  himself  with  the  necessaries  or  com- 
forts of  life  ;  and  therefore  you  are  bound  to  furnish 
him  with  moderate  indeed,  but  suitable  accommo- 
dation. 

"  You  have,  for  the  same  reason,  no  right  to 
ruin  his  habits,  by  compelling  him  to  be  idle,  his 
morals,  by  compelling  him  to  mix  with  a  pro- 
miscuous assemblage  of  liardened  and  convicted 
criminals,  or  his  health  by  forcing  him  at  night  into 
a  damp  unventilated  cell,  with  such  crowds  of  com- 
panions, as  very  speedily  render  the  air  foul  and 
putrid,  or  to  make  him  sleep  in  close  contact  with 
the  victims  of  contagious  and  loathsome  disease,  or 
amidst  the  noxious  effluvia  of  dirt  and  corruption. 
In  short,  no  Judge  ever  condemned  a  man  to  be 
half  starved  with  cold  by  day.  or  half  suffocated 
with  heat  by  ni^ht.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  criminal 
being  sentfincedto  Rheutnatism,  or  Typhus  fever  ? 
Corruption  of  morals  and  contamination  of  mind 
are  not  the  remedies  which  the  law  in  its  wisdom 
has  thought  proper  to  adopt."* 

The  abuses  in  Newgate,  that  great  recepta- 
cle of  guilt  and  misery,  constructed  to  hold 
about  four  hundred  anti  eighty  prisoners,  but 
generally  containing,  of  late  years,  from  eight 
hundred  to  twelve  hundred,  are  eloquently 
set  forth  in  the  publication  before  us,  thongh 
we  have  no  longer  left  ourselves  room  to  spe- 
cify them.  It  may  be  sufficient,  however,  to 
observe,  that  the  state  of  the  Women's  wards 
was  universally  allowed  to  be  by  far  the 
worst :  and  that  even  Alderman  Atkins  ad- 

*  I  d;>  not  now  reprint  the  doiaili-d  statements 
which  formed  the  bulk  of  ilii-<  paper,  as  originally 
published  ;  and  retain  only  the  account  of  the  mar- 
vellous reformation  effected  in  Newgate,  by  the 
heroic  labourB  of  Mrs.  Fry  and  her  sisters  of  charity 
— of  which  I  think  it  a  duty  to  omit  nothing  that 
may  help  to  perpetuate  the  remembrance. 


mitted,  that  in  that  quarter  some  altersfl 
might  be  desirable,  though,  in  his  appret]] 
sion,  it  was  altogether  impracticable.  Thi 
by  no  means  inclined  to  adopt  the  whole 
the  worthy  Alderman's  opinions,  we  ill 
safely  say,  that  we  should  hiwe  been  id 
disposed  to  agree  with  him  in  thinking:] 
subjects  of  those  observations  pretty  nejl 
incorrigible ;  and  certainly  should  not  ij 
hesitated  to  pronounce  the  change  which.I 
actually  been  made  upon  them  altogether;] 
possible.  i\Irs.  Fry,  however,  knew  betl^ 
what  both  she  and  they  were  capable; 
strong  in  the  spirit  of  compassionate  lo?e,i 
of  that  charity  that  hopeth  all  things,  and 
lieveth  all  things,  set  herself  earnestly^ 
humbly  to  that  arduous  and  revolting 
which  her  endeavours  have  been  so  sins 
blessed  and  etTectual.  This  heroic  and 
tionate  woman  is  the  wife,  we  nndersta 
a  respectable  banker  in  London ;  and 
she  and  her  husband  belong  to  the  Socie 
Friends — that  exemplary  sect,  which  is  I 
first  to  begin  and  the  last  to  abandon* 
scheme  for  the  practical  amendment  of  t^ 
fellow-creatures — and  who  have  carri 
all  their  schemes  of  reformation  a  spintj 
practical  wisdom,  of  magnanimous  pati( 
and  merciful  indulgence,  which  puts  to ! ' 
the  rashness,  harshness,  and  precipitalk 
sapient  ministers,  and  presumptuous  pol 
cians.  We  should  like  to  lav  the  wholel 
count  of  her  splendid  campaign  before  f 
readers;  but  our  limits  will  no  longer  adni| 
it.  However,  we  shall  do  what  we  can; 
at  all  events,  no  longer  withholtl  them  fn 
part  at  least  of  this  heart-stirring  narratii 

"  About  four  years  ago,  Mrs.  Fry  was 
to  visit  Newgate,  by  the  representations  of  its 
made  by  some  persons  of  the  Society  of  Frient 

"  She  found  the  female  side  in  a  situation  w  h 
no  language  can  describe.     Nearly  three  hiin  it 
vmmen,  sent  there  for    every  gradation   ot  cr  . 
some  untried,  and  some  under  sentence  of  di 
were  crowded  together  in  the  two  wards  and  ■ 
cells,  which  are  bow  appropriated  to  the  unn 
and  which  are  found  quite  inadequate  to  cor 
even   this  diminished   number  with    any  tolcr  ■ 
convenience.    Here  they  saw  their  friends,  and   i' 
their  multitudes  of  children  ;  and  they  had  no  or 
place  for  cooking,  washing,  eating,  and  sleepin' 

"  They  all  slept  on  the  floor;  at  times  one  I  • 
dred  and  twentv  in  one  ward,  without  so  miir  ■ 
a  mat  for  bedding;  and  many  of  them  were  '  . 
nearly  nake^l.  She  saw  thrm  openly  drini  j 
spirits;  and  her  ears  were  offended  by  the  r  i 
terrible  imprecations.  Every  thing  was  tilihvo 
excess,  and  the  smell  was  quite  disgusiing.  E'  v 
one,  even  the  Governor,  was  reluctai>i  to  ) 
amongst  them.  He  persuaded  her  to  leave  r 
watch  in  the  office,  telling  her  that  his  presi  >' 
would  not  prevent  its  being  torn  from  her !  '' 
saw  enough  to  convince  her  that  cverv  thing  I 
was  going  on.  In  short,  in  giving  me  this  arco  , 
she  repeatedly  said — '  All  I  tell  thee  is  a  faint 
ture  of  the  reality  ;  the  filth,  the  closeness  of  e 
rooms,  the  ferocious  manners  and  expressione  I 
the  women  towards  each  oilier,  and  the  abandn  1 
wicked ricss  which  every  thing  bespoke,  are  q  e 
indescribable.'  "—pp.  117 — 11!). 

Her  design,  at  this  time,  was  confined  i 
the  instruction  of  about  seventy  children,  v  ' 
were  wandering  about  in  this  scene  of  hori  . 
and  for  whom  even  the  most  abandoned 


BUXTON'S  INQUmV. 


tiir  wretched  mothers  thanked  her  with 
t,  s  of  gratitude  for  her  benevolent  inten- 
tiis!  while  several  of  the  younger  women 
#ked  about  her.  and  entreated,  with  the 
Wst  pathetic  eairerness.  to  be  admitted  to 
h  intended  school.  She  now  applied  to  the 
(pernor,  and  had  an  interview  with  the  two 
Ji-riffs  and  the  Ordinary,  who  received  her 
vh  the  most  cordial  approbation  :  but  fairly 
i)  mated  to  her  "  their  persuasion  that  her 
en-ts  ^rould  be  utterly  fruitless.'^  After  some 
i'  t'Stisation.  it  was  officially  reported,  that 
fre  was  no  vacant  spot  in  which  the  school 
did  be  established;  and  an  ordinary  philan- 
tjopist  would  probably  have  retired  disheart- 
(jed  from  the  undertaking.  Mrs.  Fry,  how- 
(ier.  mildly  requested  to  be  admitted  once 
lire  alone  among  the  women,  that  she  might 
iiduct  the  search  for  herself.  ,  Difficulties 
svays  disappear  before  the  energy  of  real 
;fil  and  benevolence:  an  empty  cell  was  im- 
i?diatelv  discovered,  and  the  school  was  to 
1  opened  the  very  day  after. 

'The  next  day  she  commenced   the  school,  in 

(Kijfany  with  a  young    lady,  who   then  visited   a 

]  son  ioT  the  first  lime,  and  who  since  gave  me  a 

ry  interesting  description  other  feehngs  npon  that 

(Msion.    The  railing  was  crowded  with  half  naked 

>men.  strusrghng    tocreiher   for    the   front    situa- 

ns  with  the  most  hnisierons  violence,  and  begging 

th  the  utmost  vociferation.     She  feh  as  if  she  was 

'  ing  into  a  den  of  wild  beasts  ;  and  she  well  recol- 

!ts  quite  shuddering  when  the  door  closed  npon 

r,  and  she  was  locked'  in,  with  such  a  herd  of 

vel  and  desperate  companions.     This  day,  how- 

er,  the  school  surpassed  their  utmost  expectations: 

eir  only  pain  arose  fro-n  the  numerous  and  press- 

g  applications  made  by  young  women,  who  longed 

be  taught  and  employed.    The  narrowness  ot  the 

iom  rendered  it  then  impossible  to  yield  to  these 

iqnests:  Btit  they  tempted  these  ladies  to  project 

Ischool  for  the  emphwment  of  the  tried  women, 

fr  teaching  them  to  read  and  to  work." 

fWhen   this   intention    was    mentioned    to    the 

jiends  of  these  ladies,  it  appeared  at  first  sovision- 

'•y  and  unpromising,  that  it  met  with  very  slender 

hcoiiragement :   they  were  told   that  the  certain 

j)!isequence  of  introducing  work  would  be,  that  it 

rouid  be  stolen  ;  that  though  such  an  experiment 

(light  be  reasonable  enough,  if  made  in  the  country. 

jtiong  women  who  had  been  accustomed  to  hard 

libour,  it  was  quite  hopeless,  when  tried  upon  (hose 

I'ho  had  been  so  long  hahiniated  to  vice  and  idle- 

less.     In  short,  it  was  predicted,  and  by  many  too, 

i'hose  wisdom  and  benevolence  added    weiglit  to 

[leir  opinions,  that  those  whi)  had  set  af  defiance 

he  law  of  the  land,  wiih  all  its  terrors,  would  verv 

Speedily  revolt  from  an  authority  which  had  nothing 

b  enforce  it;  and  notbing  more  to  recommend  it 

J.iian  its  simplicity  and  gentleness.     But  the  noble 

leal  of  these  nnassimiinj  women  was  not  to  be  so 

epre-sed ;  and  feeling   that   their  design  was  in- 

|ended  for  the  good  and  tiie  happiness  of  others. 

(hey  trusted  that  it  would  receive  the  suidance  and 

Jirotection  of  Him  who  often  is  pleased  to  aecom- 

lilish  the  highest  purposes  bv  the  most  feeble  instru- 

ttients. 

I  "  With  these  impressions,  they  had  the  boldness 
jo  declare,  that  if  a  committee  could  be  foimd  who 
Would  share  the  libour,  and  a  matron  who  would 
msase  never  to  leave  the  prison,  day  or  night,  they 
would  undertake  to  trv  the  experiment,  that  is. 
|:hpy  would  themselves  find  emplnymeiit  for  the 
:*^'omen,  prncure  ike  necpuxarjf  money,  till  the  city 
pould  be  induced  to  relieve  them,  and  be  answer- 
(Sble  for  the  safety  of  the  property  committed  into 
the  hands  of  the  prisoners. 
The  committee  immediately  presented  itself;  it 


705 

consisted  of  the  wife  of  n  clergyman,  nnd  <  le vcn 
(fenialc)  ntembers  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  Tliey 
protcssed  ilieir  willingness  to  suspend  every  otiier 
engagetneni  and  avocation,  and  to  devote  them- 
selves to  Newgale;  and  m  Irudi,  they  have  per- 
formed iheir  promise.  With  no  interval  ol  ri'lnxn- 
tion.  and  with  but  lew  intermissions  from  liic  cull 
of  other  and  more  imperious  duties,  they  have  Huice 
lived  amongst  the  prisoners." 

Even  this  astonishing  progress  could  not 
coir(>ct  the  incredulity  of  men  of  benevolenc 
and  knowledge  of  tlie  world.  The  J{everi-iid 
Ortlinary,  though  filled  with  admiration  for 
the  exertions  of  this  intrepid  and  devoted 
band,  fairly  told  Mrs.  F.  that  her  desi:,Mis,  like 
many  others  for  the  improvement  of  that 
wretched  mansion,  ^^  would  imntahlij  fail."' 
The  Governor  encouraged  her  to  go  on — but 
confessed  to  his  friend.s,  that  '-he  could  not 
see  even  the  possibility  of  her  success."  But 
the  wisdom  of  this  world  is  foolishness,  and 
its  fears  but  snares  to  entaugle  our  feet  ni  the 
career  of  our  duty.  INlrs.  F.  saw  with  other 
eyes,  and  felt  with  another  heart.  She  went 
ag-ain  to  the  Sheriffs  and  the  Governor: — near 
one  hundred  of  the  women  were  brought  be- 
fore them,  and,  with  much  solemnity  ai'id  ear- 
nestness, engaged  to  give  the  .strictest  obedi- 
ence  to  all  the  regulations  of  their  heroic  bene- 
factress. A  set  of  rules  was  accordingly 
promulgated,  which  we  have  not  room  Iteie  to 
transcribe  ;  but  they  imported  the  sacrifice  of 
all  their  dailing  and  much  cherished  vices; — 
drinking,  gaming,  card-playing,  novel  reading, 
were  entirely  prohibited — and  regular  appli- 
cation to  work  engaged  for  in  every  quarter. 
For  the  space  of  one  month  these  benevolent 
women  laboured  in  private  in  the  midst  of 
their  unhappy  flock;  at  the  end  of  that  short 
time  they  invited  the  Corporation  of  London 
to  satisfy  themselves,  by  hispection,  of  the 
effect  of  their  pious  e.xertions. 

"  It)  compliance  with  this  appointment,  the  Lord 
Mayor,  the  Sheriffs,  and  several  of  the  Aldermen, 
attended.  The  prisoners  were  assembled  together  ; 
and  it  being  requested  that  no  alteration  in  their 
usual  practice  might  take  place,  one  of  the  ladies 
read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  then  the  females 
proceeded  to  their  various  avocations.  Their  atten- 
tion during  the  time  of  reading,  their  orderly  and 
sober  deportment,  their  decent  dress,  the  absence 
of  every  thing  like;  tumuli,  noise,  or  contention,  the 
obedience,  and  the  respect  shown  by  them,  and  the 
cheerfulness  visible  in  their  countenances  and  man- 
ners, conspired  to  excite  the  astonishment  and  ad- 
miration of  their  visitors. 

"  .Many  of  these  knew  Newgate  ;  had  visited  it 
a  few  months  before,  and  had  not  forgotten  the 
painful  impressions  made  by  a  scene,  exhibiting, 
perhaps,  the  very  utmost  limits  of  misery  and  guilt. 
— They  now  saw.  what,  without  exaggeration,  may 
be  called  a  ^transformation  Riot,  licentiousness, 
and  filth,  exchanged  for  order,  sobriety,  and  com- 
parative neatness  in  the  chamber,  the  apparel,  and 
the  persons  of  the  prisoners.  They  saw  no  more 
an  assemblage  of  abandoned  and  shameless  crea- 
tures, hi  It- naked  and  half-dnmk,  rather  (hinandiiip, 
than  requesting  charity.  The  prison  no  more  re- 
sounded with  obscenity,  and  imprications,  and  li- 
cenrious  songs  ;  and  to  use  the  coarse,  but  the  just, 
expression  ot  one  who  knew  the  prison  well,  '  this 
hell  upon  earth,'  already  exhibited  the  appearance 
of  an  industrious  manul'aciory,  or  a  well  regulated 
family. 

"The  tnagistratfcH,  to  evince  their  sense  of  the 


706 


MISCELLAXEOUS. 


importance  of  the  alterations  which  had  been  ef- 
fecied,  immediately  adapted  (he  whole  plan  as  a  part 
of  the  system  of  Newgate  ;  empowered  the  ladies 
to  punish  the  refractory  by  short  confinement,  un- 
deriooii  part  of  the  expense  of  the  matron,  and 
loaded  the  ladies  with  thanks  and  benedictions." 
pp.  130,  131. 

We  can  add  nothing  to  this  touching  and 
elevating  statement.  The  story  of  a  <rloriou.s 
victory  gives  us  a  less  powerful  or  proud 
emotion — and  thanks  and  benedictions  appear 
to  us  never  to  have  been  so  richly  deserved. 

"  A  year,  says  Mr.  Buxton,  h;is  now  elapsed 
since  the  operations  in  Newgate  besran  ;  and  those 
most  competent  to  judge,  the  late  Lord  Mayor  and 
the  present,  the  hue  SheriiTs  and  the  present,  the 
la'e  (Governor  and  the  present,  various  Grand 
Juries,  the  Chairman  of  the  Police  Committee,  the 
Ordinary,  and  tiie  officers  of  the  prison,  have  all 
declared  their  satisfaction,  mixed  with  as'onish- 
ment,  at  the  alteration  which  has  taken  place  in  the 
conduct  of  the  fem;iles. 

"  It  is  true,  and  the  Ladies'  Committee  are  anx- 
ious that  it  should  not  be  concealed,  that  some  of 
the  rules  liave  been  occasionally  broken.  S|)iriis. 
they  fear,  have  more  than  once  been  introduced  ; 
and  it  was  discovered  at  one  period,  when  inany  of 
the  Indies  were  absent,  that  card-playing  had  been 
resumed.  But,  thoiitrh  truth  compels  them  to  ac- 
knowledge these  deviations,  they  have  been  of  a 
very  limited  extent.  I  could  find  but  one  lady  who 
heard  an  oath,  and  there  had  not  been  above  half  a 
dozen  instances  of  intoxication  ;  and  the  ladies  feel 
justified  in  stating,  that  the  rules  have  generally 
been  observed.  The  ladies  themselves  have  been 
treated  with  uniform  respact  and  gratitude." 

pp.  132.  133. 

At  the  close  of  a  Session,  many  of  the  re- 
formed prisoners  were  dismissed,  and  many 
new  ones  were  received  —  and,  under  their 
auspices,  card-playing  was  a^ain  introduced. 
One  of  the  ladies,  however,  went  among  them 
alone,  and  earnestly  and  affectionately  e.\- 
plained  to  them  the  pernicious  conseijuences 
of  this  practice:  and  represented  to  them 
how  much  she  would  be  gratified,  if,  even 
from  regard  to  her,  they  would  agree  to  re- 
liounce  it. 

"  Soon  after  she  retired  to  the  ladies'  room,  one 
of  the  prisoners  came  to  her.  and  expressed,  in  a 
manner  which  indicated  real  feeling,  her  sorrow  for 
having  broken  the  rules  of  so  kind  a  friend,  and 
gave  her  a  pack  of  cards  :  four  others  did  the  same. 
Having  burnt  the  cards  in  their  presence,  site  felt 
bound  to  remunerate  them  for  their  value,  atid  to 
marlc  her  sense  of  their  ready  obedience  by  some 
small  present.  A  few  days  afterwards,  she  called 
the  first  to  her,  and  telling  her  intention,  produced 
a  neat  muslin  handkerciiief  To  her  surprise,  the 
girl  looked  disappointed  ;  and,  on  being  asked  the 

reason,  confessed  she  had  hoped  that  Mrs.  

would  have  given  her  a  Bible  with  her  own  name 
written  in  it  I  which  she  should  value  beyond  any 
thing  else,  and  always  keep  and  read.  Such  a 
request,  made  in  such  a  manner,  could  not  be  re- 
fused ;  and  the  lady  assures  me  that  she  never  gave 


a  Bible  in  her  life,  which  was  received  with  so  n\ 
interest  and  satislaciion,  or  one,  which  she  th'. 
more  likely  to  do  good.  It  is  remarkable,  that  ig 
girl,  from  her  conduct  in  her  preceding  prison,  J 
in  court,  came  to  Newgate  with  the  worst  of  c  . 
acters." — p.  134. 

The-  change,  indeed,  pervaded  every. 
partnient  of  the  female  division.    Those 
were  marched  off  for  transi)orfation,  inst 
of  breaking  the  windows  and  furniture  i 
going  off,  according  to  immemorial  usage, 
drunken  songs  and  intolerable  disorder^ 
a  serious  and  tender  leave  of  their  compj 
ions,  and  expressed  the  utmost  gralitudi 
theip'  beiiefactors,  from    whom   they 
with  tears.     Stealing  has  also  been  eiiti 
suppressed  ;  and,   while  upwards  of  twi 
thousand  articles  of  dress  have  been  ma' 
factured,  not  one  has  been  lost  or  purloil 
within  the  precincts  of  the  prison  ! 

We  have  nothing  more  to  say  ;  and  wc 
not  willingly  weaken  the  effect  of  this 
pressive  statement  by  any  observation! 
ours.  Let  us  hear  no  more  of  the  diffici 
of  recrulatinir  provincial  prisons,  when 
prostitute  felons  of  London  have  been  t 
easily  reformed  and  converted.  Let  us  iii 
again  be  told  of  the  imjwssibilJty  of  repi 
ing  drunkenness  and  profligacy,  or  intiodu( 
habits  of  industry  in  small  establishme 
when  this  great  crater  of  vice  and  corrup 
has  been  thus  stilled  and  purified.  And.  ab 
all,  let  there  be  an  end  of  the  pitiful  apoi 
of  the  want  of  funds,  or  means,  or  awent; 
effect  those  easier  improvements,  when 
men  from  the  middle  ranks  of  life  —  w 
quiet  unassuming  matrons,  unaccustomed 
business,  or  to  any  but  domestic  exerti' 
have,  without  funds,  without  airents,  will 
aid  or  encouragement  of  any  descript 
trusted  themselves  within  (he  very  centn, 
infection  and  despair :  and.  by  opening  t! 
hearts  only,  and  not  their  purses,  have  eff' 
ed,  by  the  mere  force  of  kindness,  gentlen 
and  compassion,  a  labour,  the  like  to  \\\ 
does  not  remain  to  be  performetl.  and  wl 
has  smoothed  the  way  and  insured  suc( 
to  all  similar  labours.  We  cannot  Euvy 
happiness  which  Mrs.  Fry  must  enjoy  f 
the  consciousness  of  her  own  great  ^chie 
ments; — but  there  is  no  happiness  or  hor 
of  which  we  should  be  so  proud  to  be  ] 
takers:  And  we  seem  to  relieve  our  t 
hearts  of  their  share  of  national  gratitude 
thus  placinsr  on  her  simple  and  modest  br 
that  truly  Civic  Ciown.  which  far  oulshi 
the  laurels  of  conquest,  or  the  coronals 
power  —  andean  only  be  outshone  itselt 
those  wreaths  of  imperishable  glory  vvi 
await  the  champions  of  Faith  and  Charit' 
a  higher  state  of  existence. 


MEMOIRS  OF  CUMBERLAND. 


70< 


(april,  ISOG.) 

Amairs  of  Richard  Cumberland:  ivntten  by  himaelf.  Containins;  an  Account  of  his  Lij,- 
ind  Writings,  interxpcrscd  with  Anecdotes  and  Characters  of  the  inost  disttii'j;iiishal  Persons 
\f  his  TiiM  with  whom  he  had  Intercourse  or  Connection.     A\o.     pp.  r)33.     London:    1S06.'' 


\'v.  certain !}•  have  no  wish  for  the  death 
ij.Mr.  Cuniborkuid ;  on  the  contrary,  we  hope 
bwill  live  long  enoui;if  lo  make  a  large  sup- 

Sment  to  these  memoir.- ;    But  he  has  em- 
rassed  us  a  little  by  publishing  this  volume 
iihis  lifetime.     We  are  extremely  unwilling 
tjsay  any  thing  that  may  hurt  the  feelings 
(liman  of  distinguished  talents,  who  is  draw- 
ilj  to  the  end  of  his  career,  and  imagines  that 
i  has  hitherto  been  ill  used  by  the  world: 
It  he  has  shown,  in  this  j)ublication,  such  an 
;|petite  for  pruise,  and  such  a  jealousy  of 
cisure,  that  we  are  alraid  we  cannot  do  our 
<tty  conscientiously,  without  giving  him  of- 
jic?.     The  truth  is,  that  the  book  has  rather 
fsappointed  us.     We  expected  it  to  be  ex- 
•);mely  amusing  j  and  it  is  not.     There  is  too 
ijuch  of  the  first  part  of  the  title  in  it.  and  too 
(tie  of  the  last.     Of  the  life  and  writings  of 
,    |chard    Cumberland,    we   hear   more    than 
iough ;  but  of  the  distinguished  persons  with 
hora  he  lived,  we  have  many  fewer  charac- 
p  and  anecdotes  than  we  could  have  wish- 
|.    We  are  the  more  inclined  to  regret  this, 
j»th  because  the  general  style  of  Mr.  Cum- 
['rland's  compositions  has  convinced  us,  that 
|)  one  could  have  exhibited  charactei-s  and 
iiecdotes  in  a  more  engaging  manner,  and 
jjcause,  fiom  what  he  has  put  into  this  book, 
le  actually  see  that  he  had  e.xcellent  oppor- 
[nities  for  collectina\  and  stdl  better  talents 
r  relating  them.     The  anecdotes  and  chaiac- 
TS  which  we  have,  are  given  in  a  very  pleas- 
ig  and  animated  manner,  and  form  the  chief 
lerit  of  the  publication  :  But  they  do  not  oc- 
jjpyone  tenth  part  of  it ;  and  the  "rest  is  filled 
■iti  details  that  do  not  often  interest,  and  ob- 
prvations  that  do  not  always  amuse, 
j  Authors,  we  think,  should  not,  generally, 
,e  encouraged  lo  write  their  own  lives.    The 
jenius  of  Rousseau,  his  enthusiasm,  and  the 
lovelty  of  his  plan,  have  rendered  the  Con- 
ijssions,  in  some  respects,  the  most  interest- 
iig  of  books.     But  a  writer,  who  is  in  full 
jossession  of  his  senses,  who  has  lived  in  the 
|"'orld  like  the  men  and  women  who  compose 
|t,  and  whose  vanity  aims  only  at  the  praise 
i'f  great  talents  and  accomplishments,  must 
j:ot  hope  to  write  a  book  like  the  Confessions : 
iind  is  scarcely  to  be  trusted  with  the  delinea- 
jionofhisown  character  or  the  narrative  of 
jsis  own  adventures.     We  have  no  objection, 

*  I  reprint  part  of  this  paper — for  the  sake  chiefly 
>_f  the  anecdotes  of  Beniley,  Bubb  Dodingion, 
Joame  Jenyns,  and  a  few  others,  which  I  think 
"emarkalile — and  very  much,  also,  for  the  lively 
ind  graphic  account  of  the  impression  of  Garrick's 
lew  style  of  acting,  as  compared  with  ihatof  Quin 
ind  the  old  schools — which  is  as  good  and  as  cu- 
lous  as  Collev  Cibber'a  admirable  sketches  of 
ietierton  and  Booth. 


however,  to  let  authors  tell  llieir  own  .story. 
j  as  an  apology  for  telling  that  of  all  their  ac- 
quaintances;  and  can  easily  forgive  iheni  for 
grouping  and  assorting  their  anec<lotes  of  their 
contemporaries,  according  to  the  chronologj-. 
and  incidents  of  their  own  lives.     This  is  but 
j  indulging  the  painter  of  a  great  gjilk-ry  of 
j  worthies  with  a  jwnel  for  his  own  portrait ; 
!  and  thouiih  it  will  probably  be  the  least  like 
t  of  the  whole  collection,  it  would  be  hard  to 
;  grudge  him  this  little  gratification. 
j      Life  has  often  been  compared  to  a  journey; 
i  and  the  simile  seems  to  hold  better  in  nothing 
than  in  the  identity  of  the  rules  by  which 
those  who  write  their  travels,  and  those  who 
write  their  lives,  should  be  governed.    When 
a  man  returns  from  visiting  any  c«lebrati'd 
;  region,  we  expect  to  hear  much  more  of  the 
remarkable  things  and  persons  he  has  seen. 
than  of  his  own  personal  transactions;  and 
!  are  naturally  disappointed  if,  after  saying  that 
!  he  lived  much  with  illustrious  statesmen  or 
I  heroes,  he  chooses  rather  to  tell  us  of  his  own 
I  travelling  equipage,  or  of  his  cookery  an<l  ser- 
vants,   than   to  give  us  any  account  of  the 
j  character  and  conversation  of  those  distin- 
guished persons.     In  the  same  manner,  when 
at  the  close  of  a  long  life,  spent  in  circles  of 
i  literary  and  political  celebrity,  an  author  sits 
I  down  to  give  the  world  an  account  of  his  re- 
trospections, it  is  reasonable  to  stipulate  that 
he  should  talk  less  of  himself  than  of  his  as- 
sociates; and  natural  to  complain,  if  he  tells 
long  stories  of  his  schoolmasters  and  grand- 
mothers, while  he  passes  over  some  of  the 
j  most  illustrious  of  his  companions  with  a  bare 
mention  of  their  names. 

Mr.  Cumberland  has  offendi'd  a  little  in  this 
way.     He  has  also  composed  these  memoirs, 
we  think,  in  too  difTuse,  rambling,  and  care- 
less a  style.     There  is  evidently  no  selection 
or  method  in  his  narrative  :  and   unweighcd 
■  remarks,  and  fatiguing  apologies  and  protes- 
'  tations,  are  tediously  interwoven  with  it,  in 
the  genuine  style  of  good-natured  but  irrepres- 
sible loquacity.     The  whole  composition,  in- 
deed, has  not  only  too  much  the  air  of  con- 
versation :    It  has  sometimes  an  unfortunate 
resemblance  to  the  conversation  of  a  professed 
talker;  and  we  meet  with  many  passages  in 
which  the  author  appears  to  work  himself  up 
!  to  an  artificial  vivacity,  and  to  give  a  certain 
1  air  of  smartness  to  his  expression,  by  the  in- 
'  troduction  of  cant  phra.ses.  odd  mftapliors.  and 
a  sort  of  practised  and  theatrical  oriirinaiily. 
The  work,  however,  is  well   worth  looking 
over,  and  contains  many  more  amusing  pas- 
sages than  we  can  afford  to  extract  on  th»' 
present  occasion. 

Mr.  Cumberland  was  born  in  1732;  and  he 
has  a  very  natural  pride  in  reluling  thai  hia 


t08 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


paternal  great-grandfather  was  the  learned 
and  most  exemplary  Bighop  Cumberland,  au- 
thor of  the  treatise  De  Legibiis  Naturce ;  and 
that  his  maternal  grandfather  was  the  cele- 
brated Dr.  Richard  Bentley.  Of  the  last  of 
these  distinguished  persons  he  has  given,  from 
the  distinct  recollection  of  his  childhood,  a 
much  more  amiable  and  engaging  represen- 
tation than  has  hitherto  been  made  public. 
Instead  of  the  haughty  and  morose  critic  and 
controversialist,  we  here  learn,  with  pleasure, 
that  he  was  as  remarkable  for  mildness  and 
kind  afTectioiis  in  private  life,  as  for  profound 
erudition  and  sagacity  as  an  author.  Mr. 
Cumberland  has  collected  a  number  of  little 
anecdotes  that  seem  to  be  quite  conclusive 
upon  this  head  :  but  we  rather  insert  the  fol- 
lowing genera!  testimony ; — 

"I  had  a  sister  somewhat  older  than  myself. 
Had  there  been  any  of  that  sternness  in  my  fjr.ind- 
father,  which  is  so  falsely  impiiied  to  him,  ii  may 
well  be  supposed  we  should  have  been  awed  into 
silence  in  his  presence,  to  which  we  were  admitted 
every  day.  Nothing  can  be  further  from  the  truth  ; 
he  was  the  unwearied  patron  and  promoter  of  all 
our  childish  sports  and  sallies  ;  at  all  times  ready  to 
detach  ffimself  from  any  topic  of  conversation  to 
take  an  interest  and  bear  his  part  in  our  amuse- 
ments. The  eager  curiosity  natural  to  our  age,  and 
the  questions  it  crave  birth  to,  so  tensing  to  manv 
parents,  he,  on  the  contrary,  attended  to  and  en- 
couraged, as  the  claiins  of  infant  reason,  never  to 
be  evaded  or  abused  ;  strongly  recommending,  that 
to  all  such  inquiries  answers  should  be  given  ac- 
cording to  the  strictest  truth,  and  inlormaiion  dealt 
to  us  in  the  clearest  terms,  as  a  sacred  duty  never 
to  be  dep'trted  from.  I  have  broken  in  upon  him 
many  a  time  in  his  hours  of  smdv.  M'hen  he  would 
put  his  book  aside,  ring  his  hand-bell  for  his  ser- 
vant, and  be  led  to  his  shelves  to  take  down  a  pic- 
ture-book for  my  atniisement  !  I  do  not  say  that 
his  good-tiature  always  gained  its  object,  as  the 
pictures  which  his  books  generally  supplied  me  with 
were  anatomical  drawings  of  dissected  bodies,  very 
little  calculated  to  coinmunicate  delight ;  but  he 
had  nothing  better  to  produce;  and  surely  such  an 
effort  on  his  part,  however  utisuccessful,  was  no 
feature  of  a  cynic  ;  a  cynic  '  should  he  made  of 
gterner  stuff-' 

"  Once,  and  only  once,  I  recollect  his  giving  me 
a  gentle  rebuke  fir  making  a  most  outrageous  noise 
in  the  room  over  his  library,  and  disturbing  him  in 
his  studies  :  I  had  no  apprehension  of  anger  from 
him.  and  coiifidcmly  answered  that  I  could  not  help 
it.  as  I  had  been  at  i»attledore  and  shuttlecock  with 
Master  Gooch,  the  Bishop  of  Ely's  son.  'And  I 
have  been  :it  this  sport  with  his  father,'  he  replied  ; 
'  But  thine  has  been  the  more  amusing  game  ;  so 
there's  no  harm  done.'  " 

He  also  mentions,  that  when  his  adver.^iary 
Collins  had  fallen  into  poverty  in  his  latter 
days,  Bentley,  apprehending  that  he  was  in 
some  measure  responsible  for  his  loss  of  repu- 
tion,  coiitiived  to  administer  to  his  necessities 
in  a  way  not  less  creditable  to  his  delicacy 
than  to  his  liberality. 

The  youngest  daughter  of  this  illustrious 
scholar,  the  Pha^be  of  Byron's  pastoral,  and 
herself  a  woman  of  extraordinary  accomplish- 
ments, was  the  mother  of  Mr.  Cumberland. 
His  father,  who  appears  also  to  have  been  a 
man  of  the  most  blameless  and  amiable  dis- 
positions, and  to  have  united,  in  a  very  exem- 
plary way,  the  characters  of  a  clergyman  and 
a  gentlemen,  was  Rector  of  Stanwick  in  North- 


amptonshire at  the  birth  of  his  son.  He  vn' 
to  school,  first  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  and  afi 
wards  at  Westminster.  But  the  most  valua! 
part  of  his  early  education  was  that  for  whi 
he  was  indebted  to  the  taste  and  uitelligei 
of  his  mother.  We  insert  with  pleasure  i 
following  amiable  paragraph ; — 

■'  It  was  in  these  intervals  from  school  that ; 
mother  began  to  ibrm  l>oth  my  taste  and  my 
for  poetry,  by  employing  me  every  evening  tun 
to  her,  of  which  art  she  was  a  very  able  in»str( 
Our  readings  were,  with  very  lew  exceptions,  n 
fined  to  the  chosen  plays  ol  Shakespeare,  wh 
she  both  admired  and  understood  in  the  true  sp 
and  sense  ol  the  author.  Willi  all  her  laiht 
critical  ammen.  she  could  trace,  and  teach  me 
unravel,  ail  tlie  mca  iders  of  his  metapnor,  ; 
point  out  where  it  illuniiiiaied,  or  where  it  oi 
loaded  and  obscured  the  meaning.  These  w, 
happy  hours  and  interesting  lectures  to  me  ;  wh 
my  beloved  father,  ever  placid  and  coniplaie 
saie  beside  us.  and  took  part  in  our  annisenio; 
hi.s  voice  was  never  heard  but  in  the  tone  ol  apji 
bation ;  bis  countenance  never  marked  but  u 
the  natural  traces  of  his  indelible  and  heredii; 
benevolence.'' 

The  effect  of  these  readings  wag,  that  \. 
young  author,  at  twelve  years  of  age,  p 
duced  a  sort  of  drama,  called   '•'Shakegpe;' 
in  the  Shades,"  composed  almost  entirely 
passages  from   that  great   writer,  strung 
gether  and  assorted  with  no  despicable 
genuity.     But  it  is  more  to  the  purpose 
observe  that,  at  this  early  period  of  his  life, 
first  saw  Garrick.  in  the  character  of  Lolhai 
and  has  left  this  animated  account  of  the  i 
pression    which   the    scene    made   upon    ■ 
mind  : — 

"  I  have  the  spectacle  even  now.  as  it  were, 
fore  my  eyes.     Quiu  presented  himself  upon 
rising  of  the   curtain,  in   a  green  velvet  coat,  r 
broidered  down  the  searns,  an  enormous  fiill-l 
tomed  periwig,  rolled  stockings,  and  hiah  het  ; 
square-toed   shoes:    Wiih   very  little  variation 
cadence,  and  in  deep  full  tone,  accompanied  b, 
sawing  kind  of  action,  which  had  more  of  the  sot 
than   of  the  stage   in   it,  he  r.illed  out  his  hef 
with  an  air  of  dignified  indifference,  that  seeme( 
disdain  the  plaudits  thtit  were  bestowed  upon  li 
-Mrs.  Cibber,  in  a  key  high  pitched,  but  sweet  w 
nl,  sung,  or  rather  recitatived.  Rowe's  harmoni 
strains,  something  in  the  manner  oi'  the  Impr 
sniori :  It  was  so  extremely  wanting  in  contr; 
thai,  ilioiiiih  it  did  not  wound  the  ear.  it  wearied  , 
when  she  had  once  recited  two  or  three  speechi 
could  anticipate  the   manner  of  every  succecu  ■ 
one.     It  was  like  a  long  old  legendary  ballad  oi 
nuiiurable  stanzas,  every  one  of  which  is  siiii! 
I  the  same  tune,  eternally  chiming  in  the  ear  witl, 
variti'ion  or  relief     Mrs.  Pritchard  was  an  arti  • 
of  a  different  cast,  had  more  nature,  and  of  coi  ■ 
more  change  ot  tone,  and   variety  both  of  ar  i 
and  expression.     In   my  opinion,   the  compari  i 
was  decidedly  in  her  favour.    But  when,  after  I' ' 
and  eager  e.\pcctatioii,  I  first  behe'd  little  Garri  , 
then  young  and  liaht,  and   alive  in  every  nni:  - 
and  in  every  feature,  come  bounding  on  the  stn'. 
and   pointing   at  the  wittol    Altamont  and  hea 
paced    Horatio  —  heavens,   v\'hat  a    transition  !t 
seemed  as  if  a  whole  century  had  been   step  1 
over  in  the  transition  of  a  single  scene  .'   Old  thi  ' 
were  done  away  ;  and  a  new  order  at  once  brou  i 
forward,  bright  and  luminou.s.  and  clearly  desti  i 
to  dispel  the  barbarisms  and  bigotry  of  a  taste  ' 
age,  too  lont'  attached  to  the  prejudices  ot  ciist(  . 
and  Kuperstiiiously  devoted  to  the  illusions  of  - 
I'osing  declamation.     This  heaven-born  actor' 


MEMOIRS  OF  CUMBERLAND. 


709 


Xb  strusrgling:  to  emancipate  his  audience  from  tlie 
el'ery  they  were  resigiifd  to  ;  and  though  ai  times 
hfeucceeded  in  throwing  in  some  gleams  ot"  new- 
b|ii  light  tipon  them,  yet  in  general  they  seemed 
.■%Atve  darkneas  better  tha/t  llg/tt;  and  in  the  dia- 
Idie  of  aliercatioa  heuveen  Horatio  and  Lothario, 
b'^owed  far  the  greater  show  of  Jiamis  upon  the 
lilJter  of  the  old  school  than  upon  the  founder  of 

inew.     I  thank  my  stars,  my  teehngs  in  those 
aents  led  me  right ;  they  were  those  of  nature, 
.all  therefore  could  not  err." 

Ume  years  after  this,  Mr.  Cuinberlatid's 
feier  exchanged  hi.s  living  of  Stanwick  for 
Xii.  of  Fulham,  in  order  that  his  son  might 
Ire  the  benefit  of  his  society,  while  obliged 
preside  in  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis, 
^e  celebrated  Bubb  Dodington  resitted  at 
l^  time  in  the  neighbouring  parish  of  Ham- 
rirsmith;  and  I\Ir.  Cumberland,  who  soon 
teme  a  frequent  guest  at  Lis  table,  has  pre- 
sited  his  readers  \vith  the  following  spirited 
f'l  length  portrait  of  that  very  remarkable 
a'l  preposterous  personage. 

I'  Our  splendid  host  was  excelled  hy  no  man  in 
{jMg  the  honours  of  his  house  and  table  ;  to  the 
l|ie3  he  had  all  the  county  and  profound  devotion 
<li  Spaniard,  with  the  ease  and  gaiety  of  a  Frencli- 
J.n  towards  the  men.  His  mansion  was  magnifl- 
*it;  massy,  and  stretching  out  to  a  great  extent 
(front,  with  an  enormous  portico  of  Doric  columns, 
i|:ended  by  a  stalely  flight  of  steps.  There  were 
trets.  and  wings  too,  that  went  I  know  notwhi- 
IT,  though  now  levelled  with  the  ground,  or  gone 
i^raore  ignol)le  uses  :  Vanbrugh,  who  constructed 
Is  ^uperb  edifice,  seemed  to  have  had  the  plan  of 
jenheim  in  his  thoughts,  and  the  interior  was  as 
)ud  and  splendid  as  the  exterior  was  bold  and 
posing.  All  this  was  exactly  in  unison  with  the 
lie  of  its  magnificent  owner;  who  had  gilt  and 
nishcd  the  apartments  with  a  prolusion  oi  flnfry, 
It  kept  no  terms  with  simplicity,  and  not  always 
th  elegance  or  harmony  of  style.  Whaiever  Air. 
pdington's  revenue  then  was,  he  had  the  happy 
|t  of  managing  it  with  such  economy,  that  I  be- 
jve  he  made  more  display  at  less  cost  than  any 
jail  in  the  kingdom  but  himself  could  have  done. 

Es  lown-house  in  Pail-Mall,  and  this  villa  at  Hani- 
irsmith,  were  such  establishments  as  few  nobles 
jihe  nation  were  possessed  of.  In  either  of  these 
fe  was  not  to  be  approached  but  through  a  suit  of 
laitments,  and  rarely  seated  but  under  painted 
tilings  and  gilt  entablatures.  In  his  villa  you  were 
[inducted  through  two  rows  o(  antique  marble 
aiues,  ranged  in  a  gallery  floored  with  the  rarest 


arbles,  and  enriched  with  columns  of 


granite 


ipis  lazuli  ;  his  saloon  was  hung  with  the  finest 
lobelin  tapestry,  and  he  slept  in  a  bed  encanopied 
lith  peacock's  feathers  in  the  style  of  Mrs.  .Alon- 
!.gue.  When  he  passed  from '  Pall-Mall  to  La 
I'rappe  it  was  always  in  a  coach,  which  I  could  not 
!Ut  suspect  had  been  his  ambassadorial  equipage  at 
iladrid,  drawn  by  six  fat  unwieldy  black  horses, 
iiort-docked,  and  of  c<(lossal  dignity.  Neither  was 
e  less  characteristic  in  apparel  than  in  cquipat.'c  ; 
;e  had  a  wardrobe  loaded  with  rich  and  flaring  suits, 
jach  in  itself  a  load  to  the  wearer,  and  of  these  I 
jave  no  doubt  but  many  were  coeval  with  his  em- 
a-ssy  above  mentioned,  and  every  birth-day  had 
dded  to  the  stock.  In  doing  this  he  so  contrived 
■s  never  to  put  his  old  dresses  out  of  countenance, 
■y  any  variations  in  the  fashion  of  the  new  ;  in  the 
nean  time,  his  bulk  and  corpulency  gave  full  dis- 
play to  avast  expanse  and  profusion  of  brocade  and 
imbroidery,  and  this,  when  set  off  with  an  enor- 
nouB  tie-periwig  and  deep-laced  ruffles,  gave  the 
)iciure  of  an  ancient  courtier  in  his  gala  habit,  or 
liuin  in  his  stage  dress.  Nevertheless,  it  must  be 
l"'>nfe.5spd  this  style,  though  out  of  date,  was  not  out 
.')!  character,  but  harmonised  so  well  with  the  per- 


son of  the  wearer,  that  I  remember  when  he  made 
his  first  speech  in  the  House  of  I'ccrs  as  Lord  .M.-l- 
combe,  all  the  (lashes  of  his  wit,  all  the  studied 
phrases  and  well-turned  periods  of  Ins  rheionc 
lost  their  elTect,  simply  because  the  orator  iiad 
laid  aside  his  magisterial  lie,  and  put  on  a  mo- 
dern bag-wig,  which  was  us  much  out  of  costume 
upon  the  broad  expanse  of  his  shoulders,  88  u  cue 
would  have  been  upon  the  robesof  the  Lord  Chiet- 
Justice." 

The  following,  with  all  our  furiucr  impres- 
sions of  his  hero's  absurdity,  rather  surj)a.s.sed 
our  e.vpectations. 

"  Of  pictures  he  seemed  to  take  his  estimate  only 
by  their  cost ;  in  tact,  he  was  not  possessed  ol  any. 
But  I  rt'collect  his  saving  to  mc  one  day  in  his  great 
saloon  at  Eastbury,  that  if  he  had  halt  a  score  pic- 
tures of  a  thousand  pounds  a-piece,  he  would  gladly 
decorate  his  walls  with  them  ;  in  place  of  winch  I 
am  sorry  to  say  he  had  stuck  up  imineHne  j)alrlies  of 
ff ill  leather,  shaped  into  bii^le  horns,  upon  hangings 
of  rich  crimson  velvet !  and  round  his  state  bed  he 
displayed  a  carpeting  of  gold  and  silver  embroidery, 
which  too  glaringly  betrayed  its  derivation  from 
coat,  waistcoat,  and  breeiiies,  by  the  testimony  of 
pockets,  buttonholes,  and  loops,  with  other  equally 
inccmtroverlible  witnesses,  subpcEtiaed  from  the 
tailor's  shopboard  !  When  he  paid  his  court  at  St. 
James'  to  ibe  present  queen  upon  her  nuptials,  he 
approach' d  to  kiss  her  hand,  decked  in  an  em- 
broidered suit  of  silk,  with  lilac  waistcoat,  and 
breeches,  the  latter  of  which,  in  the  act  of  kneeling 
down,  forgot  their  duty  and  broke  loose  from  iheir 
moorings  in  a  very  indecorous  and  uncourtly 
manner." 

"  During  my  stay  at  Eastbury,  we  were  visited 
by  the  late  Mr.  Henry  Fox  and  Mr.  .Aldermaa 
Beckford;  the  solid  good  sense  of  the  former,  and 
the  dashing  loquacity  of  the  latter,  formed  a  striking 
contrast  between  the  characters  of  these  gentlemen. 
To  .Mr  Fox  our  host  paid  all  that  courtly  homage, 
which  he  so  well  knew  how  to  time,  and  where  to 
apply;  to  Beckford  he  did  not  ob.serve  the  same 
attentions,  but  in  the  happiest  flow  of  his  raillery 
and  wit  combated  this  intrepid  talker  with  admira- 
ble effect.  Tt  was  an  interlude  truly  comic  and 
amusing. — Beckford  loud,  voluble,  sclf-sufScient, 
and  galled  l)y  hits  which  he  could  not  parry,  and 
probably  did  not  expect,  laid  himself  more  and 
more  open  in  the  vehemence  of  his  argument ; 
Dodington  lolling  in  his  chair  in  perfect  apathy  and 
self-command,  dozing,  and  even  snoringat  intervals, 
in  his  lethargic  way,  liroke  out  every  now  and  then 
into  siK'h  gleams  and  flashes  of  wit  and  irony,  aa 
by  the  contrast  of  his  phlegm  with  the  other's  im- 
petuosity, made  his  humour  irresistible,  and  set  the 
table  in  a  roar.  He  was  here  upon  his  very  strong- 
est ground." 

"  He  wrote  small  poems  with  great  pains,  and 
elaborate  letters  with  mmth  terseness  of  style,  and 
some  quaimness  of  expression :  I  have  seen  him 
refer  to  a  volume  of  his  own  verses  in  manuscript, 
but  he  was  very  shy,  and  I  never  had  the  perusal 
of  It.  I  was  raiher  lietter  acquiiinted  with  his  Diari/. 
whi(-h  since  his  death  has  been  published;  and  1 
well  remember  the  temporary  disgust  he  seemed 
to  take,  when  upon  his  asking  what  I  would  do 
with  it  should  he  bequeath  it  lo  my  discretion,  I 
instantly  replied,  that  I  would  destroy  it.  There 
was  a  third,  which  I  more  coveted  a  sight  of  than 
of  either  of  the  above,  as  it  contained  a  miscella- 
neous collection  of  anecdotes,  repartees,  good  say- 
ings, and  humorous  incidents,  of  which  he  was  part 
author  and  part  compiler,  and  out  of  which  he  waa 
in  the  habit  of  refreshing  his  memory,  when  he 
prepared  himself  to  expect  certain  men  of  wit  and 
pleasantry,  either  at  his  own  house  or  clBewherc. 
Upon  this  practice,  which  he  did  not  affect  lo  con- 
ceal, he  observed  to  me  one  day.  that  it  was  a  com- 
Dlimeat  he  paid  to  socieiv,  when  he  aubmilied  to 
3K 


710 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


steal  weapons  out  of  his  own  armoury  for  their  en- 
tertainment." 

"I  had  taken  leave  of  Lord  Melcombe  the  day 
preceding  the  coronation,  and  found  him  before  a 
looking-glass  in  his  new  robes,  —  practising  atti- 
tudes, and  debating  within  himself  upon  the  most 
graceful  mode  of  carrying  his  coronet  in  the  pro- 
cession. He  was  in  high  glee  with  his  fresh  and 
blooming  honours;  and  I  left  him  in  the  act  of 
dictating  a  billet  to  Lady  Hervey,  apprising  her  that 
a  young  lord  was  coming  to  throw  himselt  at  her 
feet."— p.  159. 

Mr.  Cumberland  went  to  Ireland  with  Lord 
Halifax  in  1761;  and  the  celebrated  Single- 
Speech  Hamilton  went  as  chief  secretary. — 
His  character  is  well  drawn  in  the  following 
sentences. 

"  He  spoke  well,  but  not  often,  in  the  Irish 
House  of  Commons.  He  had  a  striking  counte- 
nance, a  graceful  carriage,  great  self-possession  and 
personal  courage  :  He  was  not  easily  put  out  of  his 
way  by  any  of  those  unaccommodating  repugnances 
that  men  of  weaker  nerves,  or  more  tender  con- 
sciences, might  have  stumbled  at,  or  been  checked 
by :  he  could  mask  the  passions  that  were  natural 
to  him,  and  assume  those  that  did  not  belong  to 
him  :  he  was  indefatigable,  mediiaiive.  mysterious: 
his  opinions  were  the  result  of  long  labour  and 
much  reflection,  but  he  had  the  art  of  setting  them 
forth  as  if  they  were  the  starts  of  ready  genius 
and  a  quick  perception  :  He  had  as  much  seeming 
steadiness  as  a  partisan  could  stand  in  need  of,  nnd 
all  the  real  flexibility  that  could  suit  his  purpose,  or 
advance  his  interest.  He  would  fain  have  retained 
his  connection  with  Edmund  Burke,  and  associated 
him  to  his  politics,  for  he  well  knew  the  value  of  his 
talents;  but  in  that  object  he  was  soon  disup- 
pointed :  the  genius  of  Burke  was  of  too  high  a 
caste  to  endure  debasement." — pp.  1G9,  170. 

In  Dublin  Mr.  Cumberland  was  introduced 
to  a  new  and  a  more  miscellaneous  society 
than  he  had  hitherto  been  used  lo,  and  has 
presented  his  readers  with  striking  sketches 
of  Dr.  Pococ.ko  and  Primate  Stone.  We  are 
more  amused,  however,  with  the  following 
picture  of  George  Faulkner. 

"  Description  must  fall  short  in  the  attempt  to  con- 
vey any  sketch  of  that  eccentric  being  to  those  who 
have  not  read  him  in  the  notes  of  Jephson,  or  seen 
him  ill  the  miinickry  of  Fooie,  who,  in  his  portraits 
of  Faulkner,  found  the  oidy  siller  whom  his  e.x- 
travagant  pencil  could  not  caricature  ;  for  he  had  a 
solenm  intrepidity  of  egotism,  and  a  daring  con- 
tempt of  absurdity,  that  fairly  outfaced  imitation, 
and,  like  Garrick's  Ode  on  Shakespeare,  which 
Jfhnson  said  "  defied  criticism,"  so  did  George,  in 
the  original  spirit  of  his  own  perfect  buflx)onery, 
defy  caricature.  He  never  deigned  to  join  in  the 
laugh  he  had  raised,  nor  seemed  to  have  a  feeling 
of  the  ridicule  h(?  had  provoked.  At  the  same  lime 
that  he  was  preeminently,  and  by  prelerence,  the 
butt  and  bnfibim  of  the  company,  he  could  find 
openings  and  opportunities  for  hits  of  retalialion, 
which  were  such  left-handed  thrusis  as  few  could 
parry  :  nobody  could  foresee  where  they  would 
fall ;  nobody,  of  course,  was  fore-armed  :  and  as 
there  was,  in  his  calculation,  hut  one  supereminent 
character  in  the  kingdom  of  Ireland,  and  he  the 
printer  of  the  Dublin  Journal,  rank  was  no  bhield 
against  (Jeorge's  arrows,  which  flew  where  he 
hsied,  and  hit  or  missed  as  chance  directed, — he 
cared  not  about  conspcpiences.  He  gave  good  meat 
and  excellent  claret  in  abundance.  1  sat  at  his  table 
once  from  dimicr  till  two  in  the  morning,  whilst 
George  swallowed  immense  potations,  with  one 
solitary  sodden  strawberry  at  the  lottom  of  the 
glass, — which  he  said  was  recommended  to  him  by 
His  doctor  for  its  cooling  properties  !  He  never  lost 


his  recollection  or  equilibrium  the  whole  \\mt,i. 
was  in  excellent  foolery.  It  was  a  singular  coin 
dence,  that  there  was  a  person  in  company  who  bi 
received  his  reprieve  at  the  gallows,  and  the  V(| 
judge  who  had  passed  sentence  of  death  upon  hiiJ 
But  this  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  the  harmol 
of  the  society,  nor  embarrass  any  human  creoiw 
present." — pp.  174,  175. 

At  this  period  of  his  story  he  introdDC 
several  sketches  and  characters  of  his  litera 
friends;  which  are  executed,  for  the  mt 
part,  with  great  force  and  vivacity.  Of  Gi 
nek  he  says — 

"  Nature  had  done  so  much  for  him,  that 
could  not  help  being  an  actor ;  she  gave  him 
frame  of  so  manageable  a  proportion,  and  from 
iie.\il)i!ity  so  perlectly  under  command,  that,  by 
aptitude  and  elasticity,  he  could  draw  it  out  to 
any  sizes  of  character  that  tragedy  could  offer 
him,  and  contract  it  to  any  scale  of  ridiculous  i 
miiiution.  that  his  Abel  Drngger.  Scrubb,  or  Fri 
ble,  could  require  ot  him  to  sink  it  to.  HisevCi 
the  meantime,  was  so  peneiraiinji,  so  speakin 
his  brow  so  movable,  and  all  his  features  so  pi 
tic,  and  so  accommodating,  that  wherever  his  mi 
impelled  thein,  they  would  go ;  and  before  i 
loiiL'tie  could  give  the  text,  his  countenance  wo« 
express  the  spirit  and  the  passion  of  the  part  he  w 
encharged  with." — pp.  -245,  246. 

The  following  picture  of  Soame  Jenyns 
excellent. 

"  He  was  the  man  who  bore  his  part  in  all 
cieties  with  the  most  even  temper  and  undisturbl 
hilarity  of  all  the  good  companions  whom  I  ev 
knew.     He  came  into  your  honse  at  the  very  i 
mem  you  had  put  upon  your  card  ;  he  dressed  hil 
self  to  do  your  parly  honour  in  all  the  colours 
the  jay  ;    his   lace   indised   had  long  since  lost 
lustre,  but  his  coat  had  faithfully  retained  its 
since  the  days  when  gentlemen  embroidered  fieuii 
velvets  with  short  sleeves,  boot  cufl^s,  and  buckrj 
shins.     As  nainre  had  cast  him  in  the  exact  mot] 
of  an  ill  made  pair  of  siifi"  slays,  hi:  followed  her 
close  in  the  fashion  of  his  coat,  that  it  was  doubt 
if  he  did  not  wear  them.     Because  he  had  a  pi 
tnberant  wen  just  tinder   hi.';   poll,  he  wore  a  v 
that  did  not  cover  above  hall  his  head.     His  ey 
were  protruded  like  ihp  eyes  of  the  lobster,  w 
wears  them  at  the  end  of  his  feelers,  and  yet  the 
was  room  betweeti  one  of  tliese  and  his  nose  ! 
another  wen,  that  added  nothii!g  to  his  beauty;  y 
I   heard   this  good   man   very  innocently  remar 
when  Gibbon  published  his  history,  that  he  wc' 
dered  any  body  so  ugly  could  write  a  book. 

"  Such  was  the  exterior  of  a  man,  who  was  I 
charm  of  the  circle,  and  gave  a  zest  to  every  coi 
pany  he  came  into:  His  pleasantry  was  of  a  si 
peculiar  to  himself;  it  harmonised  with  everyihiii , 
it  was  like  the  bread  to  your  dinner ;  you  did  r 
perhaps  make  it  the  whole,  or  principal  part 
your  meal,  but  it  was  an  admirable  and  wholesoi 
auxiliary  to  your  other  viands.  Soanie  Jenyns  K 
you  no  long  stories,  engrossed  noi  much  of  yg 
alieniion,  and  was  imt  angry  with  those  that  < 
His  thoughts  were  original,  and  were  apt  to  hav(, 
very  whimsical  affinity  to  paradox  in  them:  1 
wrote  verses  upon  dancing,  and  prose  upon  i, 
origin  of  evil ;  yet  he  was  a  very  indifTereni  mc 
physician,  and  a  worse  dancer:  ill-nature  t>iid  pi] 
sunaliiy.  with  the  single  excepiion  of  his  lines  up. 
Johnson,  1  never  heard  fall  irom  his  lips:  Thi 
lines  I  have  forgonen.  though  I  believe  I  was  i 
first  person  to  whom  he  recited  thc^m  ;  they  w£ 
very  bad,  but  he  had  been  told  that  Johnson  rii, 
culed  his  metaphysics,  and  some  of  us  had  ji 
then  been  making  exiempin'ary  epitaphs  uiion  ea^ 
other.  Though  his  wii  w;is  hai^mless,  yei  iheger 
ral  cast  of  it  was  ironical ;  ilicre  was  a  lersencss 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


11 


ki-epartees,  that  had  a  play  of  words  as  well  as 
,!  othought;  as,  when  speaiung  of  the  difference 
I  \fi\een  laying  out  money  upon  land,  or  purchasing 
■;  W  the  funds,  he  said  '  One  was  principal  without 
:■  inrest,  and  the  other  interest  without  principal.' 
'i  cjiain  it  is  he  had  a  brevity  of  e.vpression,  that 
;•     (iier  hung  upon  the  ear,  and  you  felt  the  point  in 

tllverv  moment  that  he  made  the  p:isli." 

pp.  -217-249. 

?      |)f  Goldsmith  he  says, 

i-  [  That  he  was  fantastically  and  whimsically  vain, 
li  a'lhe  world  knows;  but  there  was  no  malice  in 
h  heart.  He  was  tenacious  to  a  ridiculous  ex- 
Une  of  certain  pretensions  thai  did  not,  and  by 
ni;ire  could  not,  belong  to  him,  and  at  the  same 
lie  he  was  inexcusably  careless  of  the  fame  which 
hhad  powers  to  command.  What  foibles  he  had 
hiook  no  pains  to  conceal;  and  the  good  qualities 
o'his  heart  were  too  frequently  obscured  by  the 
clelessness  of  his  conduct,  and  the  frivolity  of  his 
r'nnera.  Sir  .Toshua  Reynolds  was  very  good  to 
Hi,  and  would  have  drilled  him  into  better  trim 
s'l  order  for  society,  if  he  would  have  been  amen- 
de ;  for  Reynolds  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  had 
^d  sense,  great  propriety,  with  all  the  social  at- 
I'lutes.  and  all  the  graces  of  hospitality,  equal  to 
i;  man. 

}'  Distress  drove  Goldsmith  upon  undertakings 
Jther  congenial  with  his  studies  nor  worthy  of  his 
Knis.  I  remember  hiin,  when  in  his  chainhers 
ilihe  Temple,  he  showed  me  the  beginning  of  his 
iiimaled  Nature;  it  was  with  a  sigh,  such  as 
^ius  draws,  when  hard  necessity  diverts  i{  frotn 
ihent  to  drudge  for  bread,  and  talk  of  birds  and 
lasts  and  creeping  things,  which  Pidcock's  show- 
"in  would  have  done  as  well.  Poor  fellow,  he 
jrdly  knew  an  ass  from  a  mule,  nor  a  turkey 
:im  a  goose,  but  when  he  saw  it  on  the  table." 
pp.  257 — 259. 
i"  I  have  heard  Dr.  Johnson  relate  with  infinite 
jmour  the  circumstance  of  his  rescuing  Goldsmith 
im  a  ridiculous  dilemma,  by  the  purchase-money 
;  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  which  he  sold  on  his 
[half  to  Dodsley,  and,  as  I  think,  for  the  sum  of 
h  pounds  only.  He  had  run  up  a  debt  with  his 
jidlady,  for  board  and  lodging,  of  some  few 
i'Unds,  and  was  at  his  wits  end  how  to  wipe  off 
ie  score,  and  keep  a  roof  over  his  head,  except  by 
;3sing  with  a  very  staggering  proposal  on  her  part. 
jid  tailing  his  creditor  to  wile,  whose  charms  were 
pry  far  from  alluring,  whilst  her  demands  were 
r-tremely  urgent.     In  this  crisis  of  his  fate  he  was 


found  by  Johnson,  in  the  act  of  mcditBiiiig  on  tlm 
melancholy  aliernalive  belbro  him.  Hi-  i<liowed 
Johnson  his  manuscript  of  the  Vicar  of  Wnkclicid, 
but  seemed  to  be  wiihout  any  plan,  or  even  hope, 
of  raising  money  upon  the  disposal  of  it  ;  when 
Johnson  cast  his  rye  upon  it,  he  discovered  some- 
thing that  gave  him  hope,  and  immudiaicly  look  it 
to  Dodsley,  who  paid  (lowii  the  price  abovetiKn- 
tioncd  in  ready  money,  and  added  an  eventual  con- 
dition upon  its  future  sale.  Johnsnn  described  the 
precautions  he  took  in  concealing  the  iimouni  of  the 
sum  he  had  in  hand,  which  he  prud»'iiily  udinmis- 
leied  to  him  by  a  guinea  at  a  lime.  In  the  event 
he  paid  off"  the  landlady's  score,  and  redeemed  the 
person  of  his  friend  from  hur  embraces." — p.  273. 

We  will  pronounce  no  general  iii{l<Tment  on 
the  literary  merits  of  Mr.  CunihiMland  ;  but 
our  opinion  of  them  certainly  has  not  been 
raised  by  the  perusal  of  these  memoirs.  There 
is  no  depth  of  thought,  nor  diixnity  of  senti- 
ment about  him; — he  is  too  frisky  for  an  old 
man,  and  too  gossippingr  for  an  historian.  His 
st)le  is  too  negligent  even  for  the  most  fami- 
liar composition  ;  and  though  he  has  proved 
himself,  upon  other  occasions,  to  be  a  great 
master  of  good  Eiig]i.sh,  he  has  admitti-d  a 
I  number  of  phrases  into  this  work,  which,  we 
are  inclined  to  think,  would  scarcely  pass 
current  even  in  conversation.  "  I  declare  to 
truth"' — "  with  the  areatest  pleasure  in  life" 
"she  would  lead  off  in  her  best  manner,"  &c. 
are  expressions  which  we  .should  not  expect 
to  hear  in  the  society  to  which  Mr.  Cumber- 
land belongs: — "laid."  for  lay,  is  still  more 
insufTerable  from  the  antagonist  of  Lowthand 
the  descendant  of  Bentley  ; — "  querulential"' 
strikes  our  ear  as  exotic; — ••  locate,  location, 
and  locality,"  for  situation  simply,  seem  also 
to  be  bad;  and  •'■' intuilion"  for  observation 
sounds  very  pedantic,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 
Upon  the  whole,  however,  this  volume  is  not 
the  work  of  an  ordinary  writer;  and  we  should 
probably  have  been  more  hiduigent  to  its 
faults,  if  the  excellence  of  some  of  the  au- 
thor's former  productions  had  not  sent  us  to 
its  perusal  with  expectations  perhaps  some- 
what extravagant. 


(5uhj,    1803.) 


%e  Worh  of  the  Risht  Hmovrahle  Lady  Mary  Worthy  Montagu.     Including  her  Correspond- 
■  ence.  Poems,  and  Essays.     Published  by  permission,  from  her  Original  Papers.     5  vols. 
8vo.'  London:   1803.      '  -  '  . 


,  These  volumes  are  ,so  very  entertaining  that 
Ire  ran  them  all  through  immediately  upon 


heir  coming  into  our  possession  ;  and  at  the 
jame  time  contain  so  little  that  is  either  diffi- 
lUlt  or  profound,  that  we  may  venture  to  give 
lome  account  of^  them  to  our  readers  without 
'arlher  (hdiberation. 

:  The  only  thin<rlhat  di.sappointed  ns  was  the 
[iiAnoir  of  the  writer's  life,  prefixed  by  the 
alitor  to  her  eorrespondence.  In  point  of  com- 
|X)sition  it  is  very  tame  and  inelegant;  and 
'■ather  excites  than  gratifies  the  curiosity  of 
i'he  reader,  by  the  imperfect  manner  in  which 


the  facts  are  narrated.  As  the  letters  them- 
selves, however,  are  arranged  in  a  chronologi- 
cal order,  and  commonly  contain  very  distinct 
notices  of  the  writer's  situation  at  their  dates, 
we  shall  be  enabled,  by  our  extracts  from 
them,  to  give  a  pretty  clear  idea  of  her  Lady- 
ship's life  and  adventures,  with  very  little  as- 
sistance from  the  meagre  narrative  of  Mr. 
Dallawav. 

Lady  iMary  Pierrepoint,  eldest  daughter  of 
the  Diike  of  Kingston,  was  born  in  1690;  and 
gave,  in  her  early  youth,  such  indications  of  a 
studious  disposition,  that  she  was  initiated  into 


712 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


the  rudiments  of  the  learned  languages  along 
with  her  brother.  Her  first  years  appear  to 
have  been  spent  in  retirement :  and  yet  the 
verj-  first  series  of  letters  with  which  we  are 

J)resented.  indicates  a  great  deal  of  that  talent 
or  ridicule,  and  power  of  observation,  by 
■which  she  afterwards  became  so  famous,  and 
so  formidable.  These  letters  (about  a  dozen 
in  number)  are  addressed  to  Mrs.  Wortley.  the 
mother  of  her  future  husband  :  and,  along  with 
a  sood  deal  of  girlish  flattery  and  aff"ectation, 
display  such  a  degree  of  easy  humour  and 
sound  penetration,  as  is  not  often  to  be  met 
with  in  a  damsel  of  nineteen,  even  in  this  age 
of  precocity.  The  foilowhig  letter,  in  1709, 
is  written  upon  the  misbehaviour  of  one  of  her 
female  favourites. 

"  My  knighterrantry  is  at  an  end  ;  and  I  believe  I 
shall  henceforward  think  freeing  of  galley-slaves 
and  knocking  down  windmills,  more  laudable  un- 
dertakings than  the  defence  of  any  woman's  repu- 
talion  whatever.  To  .say  truth.  I  have  never  had 
any  great  esteem  for  the  generality  of  the  fair  sex  ; 
and  my  only  consolation  for  being  of  that  gender, 
has  been  the  assurance  it  gave  me  of  never  being 
married  to  any  one  among  them  !  But  I  own,  at 
present,  I  am  so  much  out  of  humour  with  the  ac- 
tions of  Lady  H  *  *  *,  tnat  I  never  was  so  heariily 
ashamed  of  my  petticoats  before.  I\Iy  only  refuge 
is,  the  sincere  hope  that  she  is  out  of  her  senses; 
and  taking  herself  for  the  Queen  nfSheba,  and  Mr. 
Mildmay  for  King  Solomon,  I  do  not  think  it  quite 
so  ridiculous :  But  the  men,  you  may  well  imagine, 
are  not  so  charitable  ;  and  they  agree  in  the  kind 
reflection,  that  nothing  hinders  women  from  playing 
the  fool,  but  not  having  it  in  their  power." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  180.  181, 

In  the  course  of  this  correspondence  with 
the  mother,  Lady  Mary  appears  to  have  con- 
ceived a  very  favourable  opinion  of  the  son ; 
and  the  next  series  of  letters  contains  her  an- 
tenuptial correspondetice  with  that  gentleman, 
from  1710  to  1712.  Though  this  correspond- 
ence has  interested  and  entertained  us  as 
much  at  least  as  any  thing  in  the  book,  we  are 
afraid  that  it  will  afford  but  little  gratification 
to  the  common  admirers  of  love  letters.  Her 
Ladyship,  though  endowed  with  a  very  lively 
imagination,  seems  not  to  have  been  very  sus- 
ceptible of  violent  or  tender  emotions,  and  to 
have  imbibed  a  very  decided  contempt  for 
sentimental  and  romantic  nonsense,  at  an  age 
which  is  commonly  more  indulgent.  There 
are  no  raptures  nor  ecstasies,  therefore,  in 
these  letters;  no  flights  of  fondness,  nor  vows 
of  constancy,  nor  upbraidings  of  capricious  af- 
fection. To  say  the  truth,  her  Ladyship  acts 
a  part  in  the  correspondence  that  is  not  often 
allotted  to  a  female  performer.  Mr.  Wortlev, 
though  captivated  bv  her  beauty  and  her  vi- 
vacity, seems  evidei:tly  to  have  been  a  little 
alarmed  at  her  love  of  distinction,  her  propen- 
sity to  satire,  and  the  apparent  inconstancy  of 
her  attachments.  Such  a  woman,  he  was 
afraid,  and  not  very  unreasonably,  would  make 
rather  an  uneasy  and  extravagant  companion 
to  a  man  of  plain  understanding. ind  moderate 
fortune  ;  and  he  had  sense  (Miongh  to  foresee, 
and  generosity  enough  to  explain  to  her,  the 
risk  to  which  their  muttial  happiness  might 
be  exposed  by  a  rash  and  indissoluble  union. 
Lady  Mary,  who  probably  saw  her  own  char- 


acter in  a  diff"erent  light,  and  was  at  any  'e 
biassed  by  her  inclinations,  appears  to  he 
addressed  a  great  number  of  letters  to  n 
upon  this  occasion  :  and  to  have  been  at  i,. 
siderable  pains  to  relieve  him  of  his  sciui  ;. 
and  restore  his  confidence  in  the  substai  ij 
excellences  of  her  character.  These  leti;. 
which  are  written  with  a  great  deal  of  fene 
spirit  and  masculine  sense,  impress  us  wiij 
very  favourable  notion  of  the  talents  and  _ 
positions  of  the  writer ;  and  as  they  exh  t 
her  in  a  point  of  view  altogether  difl'erent  1;  i 
any  in  which  she  has  hitherto  been  presei-  ] 
to  the  public,  we  shall  venture  upon  a  pn  s 
long  extract. 

"  I  will  slate  the  case  to  you  as  plainly  as  I .  , 
and  then  ask  yourself  if  you  use  me  well.  I  \  (. 
showed,  in  every  aciion  of  my  life,  an  esteem  r 
you,  that  at  least  challenges  a  grateful  regnril  I 
have  even  trusted  my  reputation  in  your  hands;  r 
I  have  made  no  scruple  of  giving  you.  under  ,• 
own  hand,  an  assurance  of  my  triendsliip  Ar 
all  this,  I  exact  nothing  from  you  :  If  yon  find  it  . 
convenient  for  your  affairs  to  take  so  small  a  torn '. 
I  desire  you  to  sacrifice  nothing  lo  me:  I  prei  \ 
no  tie  upon  your  honour;  but.  in  recompense  fo;) 
clear  and  so  disinterested  a  proceeding,  must  I » r 
receive  injuries  and  ill  usage  I 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been  indiscreet :  I  came  yo  ; 
into  the  hurry  of  the  world  ;  a  great  innocence,  i 
an  undesigning  gaiety,  may  possibly  have  been  <■  ■ 
strued  coquetry,  and  a  desire  of  benig  follow  , 
ihougii  never  meant  by  me.  I  caimot  answer.r 
the  observations  that  may  be  made  on  me.  All  \  > 
are  malicious  attack  the  careless  and  dttenceles:  I 
own  myself  to  be  both.  I  know  not  any  ihitigl  i 
say  more  to  show  my  perfect  desire  of  jileasing  y  . 
and  making  you  easy,  than  to  proffer  to  be  conli  1 
with  you  ill  what  manner  you  please.  Would  ' 
woman  but  me  renounce  all  the  world  foroiie?r 
would  any  man  but  you  be  insensilde  of  sue  i 
proof  of  sincerity  ?" — Vol.  i.  pp.  208 — 210. 

"  One  part  of  my  characier  is  not  so  good,  r 
t'  other  so  bad.  as  you  fancy  it  Should  we  ever  ■ 
together,  you  would  be  disapp<jinied  boili  wa 
you  would  find  an  easy  equality  of  temper  yon  > 
not  expect,  and  a  thousand  faults  you  do  nui  ii 
L'iiie.  You  think,  if  you  married  me,  I  should  i 
passionaelv  fond  of  you  one  month,  and  of  pm  • 
body  else  ihe  next.  Neither  would  happen.  I  t 
esteem.  I  can  be  a  friend  ;  but  I  don't  know  w  • 
ther  1  can  love.  Expect  all  thai  is  complaisant  il 
easy.  Iiut  never  whai  is  fond,  in  me. 

'•  If  you  can  resolve  to  live  wiih  a  companion  i 
will  have  all  ihe  deference  due  to  your  superid 
of  good    sense,  and    that    your  proposals  can 
agreeable  to  those  on  whom  I  depend,  I  have 
thing  lo  say  aL'ainst  them. 

"As  to  trMvelling,  'tis  what  I  should  do  with  gr 
pleasure,  and  could  easily  quii  London  upt)ii  vi 
account;  but  a  retirement  in  ihe  country  is  no' 
disagreeaiil''  to  me,  as  I  know  a  tew  months  wo 
make  ii  tiresome  to  you.  Where  people  are  i 
for  life,  'lis  ilieir  mutual  inieresi  not  to  grow  we: 
of  one  ano'her.  If  I  had  the  personal  charms  i 
I  want,  a  face  is  loo  slight  a  foundation  for  hap 
ness.  You  would  lie  soon  tired  with  seeing  ev' 
day  the  same  thing.  Where  you  saw  iio'hug  e! 
you  wruild  have  leisure  to  remark  all  the  defer' 
which  would  increase  in  prop>oriion  as  the  tiove 
lessened,  which  is  always  a  great  charm,  I  slioi 
have  the  displeasure  of  seeing  a  coldness,  whn 
diongh  I  could  not  reasonably  blame  you  fir, bi' 
involuntary,  yet  it  would  render  me  uneasy  ;  a 
ihe  more,  because  I  know  a  love  may  be  revivi 
which  absence,  inconstancy,  or  even  infidelity,  I 
exiinguished  :  But  there  is  no  returning  from  a  i 
gout  L'iven  by  satiety." — Vol,  i,  pp.  212 — 214. 

'■  1  begin  to  be  tired  of  my  huniihty  ;  I  have  c 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


713 


V  complaisances  to  you  iarilier  than  1  ouglii. 

iiiike  ii'-vv  scruples:  yi>u  liave  a  gre;it  deal  of 
and  your  distrusts,  beiny;  all  of  your  own 
i^MS'  i""^  '"'^'''^  immovable  than  if  there  were 
gfie  real  ground  for  them.  Our  aunts  and  grand- 
ijihers  afways  tell  us,  that  men  are  a  sort  of  ani- 
Wls.  that  if  ever  tliey  are  constant,  'tis  only  whore 
tfy  are  ill-used,  "f  was  a  kind  of  paradox  I  could 
ij^er  believe ;  but  experience  lias  taus^lu  me  the 
«h  of  it.  You  are  the  first  I  ev^r  had  a  corres- 
tjidence  wiih  ;  and  I  thank  God,  I  have  done  wiih 
for  all  my  life.     You  needed  not  lo  have  told  me 

J'i  are  not  what  you  liave  been ;  one  must  be 
pid  not  to  find  a  clitference  in  your  letters.  You 
98111,  in  one  part  of  your  last,  to  excuse  yourself 
im  having  done  me  any  injury  in  point  of  fortune. 
1)  I  accuse  you  of  any  ? 

I"  I  have  not  spirits  to  dispute  any  longer  with 
iu.  You  say  you  are  not  yet  determined.  Let 
j;  determine  tor  you,  and  save  you  the  trouble  of 
•itiiig  again.  Adieu  for  ever  ;  make  no  answer. 
viah,  among  the  variety  of  acquaintance,  you  may 
d  some  one  to  please  you  :  and  can't  help  the 
nity  of  thinking,  should  you  try  them  ail,  you 
jni  find  one  thai  will  be  so  sincere  in  their  treat- 
ent,  though  a  thousand  more  deserving,  and  every 
happier." — Vol.  i.  pp.  219—221. 

[These  are  certainly  very  uncommon  pro- 
ictions  for  a  young  lady  of  twenty  ;  and  in- 
i.cate  a  strength  and  elevation  of  character, 
jiat  does  not  always  appear  in  her  gayer  and 
liore  ostentatious  performances.  Mr.  Wort- 
|.'y  was  convinced  and  re-assured  by  them ; 
Hid  tht^'  were  married  in   1712.     The  con- 

Iuding  part  of  the  first  volume  contains  her 
Iters  to  him  for  the  two  following  years. 
here  is  not  much  tenderness  in  these  letters  ; 
)r  very  much  interest  indeed  of  any  kind, 
[r.  Wortley  appears  to  have  been  rather  in- 
|.oleut  and  unambitious;  and  Lady  Mary 
^kes  it  upon  her,  with  all  delicacy  and  ju- 
!|icious  management  however,  to  stir  him 
\p  lo  some  degree  of  activity  and  exertion. 
There  is  a  good  deall  of  election-news  and 
(imall  politics  in  these  epistles.  The  best  of 
[hem,  we  think,  is  the  following  exhortation 
lo  impudence. 

[  "  I  am  glad  you  think  of  serving  your  friends.  I 
jiope  it  will  put  you  in  mind  of  serving  yourself.  I 
peed  not  enlarge  upon  the  advantages  of  money  ; 
livery  thing  we  see,  and  every  thing  we  hear,  puts 
•us  in  remembrance  of  it.  If  it  were  possible  to  re 
store  liberty  to  your  country,  or  limit  the  encroach 
itnenis  of  the  prerogiitive,  by  reducing  yourself  to  a 
garret,  I  should  be  pleased  to  share  so  glorious  a 
poveriy  with  you:  But  as  the  world  is,  and  will 
|be. 'tis  a  sort  of  duty  to  be  rich,  that  it  may  be  in 
•one's  power  to  do  good  ;  riches  being  another  word 
ffor  power  ;  lowards  tiie  obtaining  of  which,  the  first 
neces.sary  qualificaiion  is  Impudence,  and  (as  De- 
mosihenes  said  of  pronunciation  in  oratory)  ihe 
second  is  impudence,  and  ih.e  third,  siill,  irnpu- 
.denee!  No  modest  man  ever  did,  or  ever  will 
iinake  his  fortune.  Your  friend  Lord  Halifax,  R. 
Walpole,  and  all  other  remarkable  instances  of 
1  quick  advancement,  have  been  remarkably  impu- 
!dent.  The  ministry,  in  short,  is  like  a  play  at 
i  court:  There's  a  little  door  to  get  in,  and  a  great 
f  crowd  without,  shoving  and  thrusting  who  shall  be 
I  foremost ;  people  who  knock  others  with  thtir  el- 
,  bows,  disregard  a  little  kick  of  the  shins,  and  still 
thru.st  heartily  forwards,  are  sure  of  a  good  place. 
Your  modest  man  stands  behind  in  the  crowd,  is 
shoved  about  by  every  body,  his  clothes  torn,  almost 
'  squeezed  to  death,  and  sees  a  thousand  get  in  before 
him,  that  don't  make  so  good  a  figure  as  himself. 
"If  this  letter  is  impertinent,  it  is  founded  upon 
90 


an  opinion  of  your  meru,  whicli,  if  it  i»  o  inistako, 
I  would  not  be  undeceived  It  i.>,  my  iiiifrejit  lo 
believe  (as  I  do)  that  you  deserve  every  {\\u\g,  und 
are  capable  of  every  thing;  but  nobody  else  will 
believe  it,  if  they  see  you  get  noihinv." — Vol.  i. 
pp.  250—252. 

The  second  volume,  and  a  part  of  the  third, 
are  occupied  with  those  charmiiij,'  letlcrsi 
written  during  JNlr.  Wortley "s  eMibiis.>y  to 
Constantinople,  upon  which  the  lileiary  lepu- 
tation  of  Lady  Mary  ha.s  hitherto  been  exclu- 
sively fouiideil.  It'wouU!  not  become  us  to 
say  any  thing  of  pr(Khictioii,>*  which  have  so 
long  engaged  the  admiration  of  the  public. 
The  grace  and  vivacity,  the  ease  and  concise- 
ness, of  the  narrative  and  the  description  which 
they  contain,  still  remain  unrivalled,  we  think, 
by  any  epistolary  coini)ositioiis  in  our  lan- 
guage ;  and  are  but  slightly  sliaded  by  a 
sprinkling  of  obsolete  tittle-tattle,  or  wonian- 
ish  vanity  and  atiectation.  The  autheniieity 
of  these  letters,  ihouuh  at  one  timt;  disputed, 
has  not  lately  been  called  in  question;  but 
the  secret  history  of  their  first  publication  has 
never,  we  believe,  been  laid  before  the  public. 
The  editor  of  this  collection,  from  the  original 
papers,  gives  the  following  account  of  it. 

"In  the  later  periods  of  Lady  Mary's  life,  she 
employed  her  lei.sure  in  collfctin^  copies  of  the  let- 
ters she  had  written  during  Mr.  W  oriley's  embassy. 
aiKl  had  transcribed  them  herself,  in  two  small 
volumes  in  quarto.  They  were,  without  doubt, 
sometimes  shown  to  her  literary  friends.  Upon  her 
return  to  England  for  the  last  lime,  in  17(>1,  she 
gave  these  books  lo  a  Mr.  Snowden,  a  clergyman 
of  Roiierdam,  and  wrote  the  sul)joined  memoran- 
dum on  the  cover  of  them  :  '  These  two  volumes 
are  given  to  ihe  Reverend  Benjamin  Snowden, 
minisier  at  Rotterdam,  to  be  disposed  of  as  he 
thinks  proper.  This  is  the  will  and  design  of  M. 
Wortley  Montagu,  December  11,  1761.' 

"  After  her  death,  the  late  Earl  of  Bute  commis- 
sioned a  gentleman  to  procure  them,  and  to  offer 
Mr.  Snowden  a  considerable  remuneration,  which 
he  accepted.  Much  to  the  surprise  of  that  noble- 
man and  Lady  Buie,  the  manuscripts  were  scarcely 
safe  in  England,  when  three  volumes  of  Lady  .Mary 
Wortley  Montagu's  Letters  were  published  by 
Beckett ;  and  it  has  since  appeared,  that  a  .Mr.  Cle- 
land  was  the  editor.  The  same  genileman,  who 
had  negotiated  before,  was  again  despatched  to 
Holland;  and  could  gain  no  further  intelligence 
from  Mr.  Snowden,  than  that  a  short  time  before 
he  parted  with  the  MSS.  two  English  gentlemen 
called  on  him  to  see  the  Letters,  and  oltlained  their 
request.  They  had  previously  contrived  that  Mr. 
Snowden  should  be  called  away  during  iheir  pe- 
rusal ;  and  he  found  on  his  return  that  they  had  dis- 
appeared with  the  books.  Their  residence  was 
unknown  to  him  ;  but  on  the  next  day  they  brought 
back  the  precious  deposit,  with  many  apologies.  It 
may  be  fairly  presumed,  that  the  intervening  night 
was  consumed  in  copying  these  letters  by  several 
amanuenses." — Vol.  i.  pp.  29 — 32. 

A  fourth  volume  of  Lady  Mary's  Letters, 
published  in  the  siime  form  in  1767,  appears 
now  to  have  been  a  fabrication  of  Cleland's: 
as  no  corresponding  MSS.  have  been  foirid 
among  her  Ladyship's  papers,  or  in  the  hands 
of  her  correspondents. 

To  the  accuracy  of  her  local  de.scrii)tion.s, 
and  the  justness  of  her  representation.s  of  ori- 
ental manners,  Mr.  Dtdlaway,  who  followed 
her  footsteps  at  the  distance  of  eighty  years, 
and  resided  for  several  months  in  the  very 
3k2 


714 


MISCELLAiNEOUS. 


palace  vhich  she  had  occupied  at  Pera.  bears 
a  decided  and  respectable  testimony  ;  and,  in 
vindication  of  her  veracitj'  in  desciibing  the 
interior  of  the  seraglio,  into  which  no  Christian 
is  now  permitted  to  enter,  he  observes,  that 
the  reigning  Sultan  of  the  day,  Achmed  the 
Third,  was  notoriously  very  regardless  of  the 
injunctions  of  the  Koran,  and  that  her  Lady- 
ship's visits  were  paid  while  the  court  was  in 
a  retirement  ihat  enabled  him  to  dispense 
with  many  ceremonies.  We  do  not  observe 
any  difference  between  these  letters  in  the 
present  edition,  and  in  the  common  copies, 
except  that  the  names  of  Lady  Mary's  corres- 
pondents are  now  given  at  full  length,  and 
short  notices  of  their  families  subjoined,  upon 
their  first  introduction.  At  page  eighty-nine 
of  the  third  volume,  there  are  also  two  short 
letters,  or  rather  notes,  from  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  that  have  not  hitherto  been  made 
pubhc  ;  and  Mr.  Pope's  letter,  describing  the 
death  of  the  two  rural  lovers  by  liahlning.  is 
here  given  at  full  length:  while  the  foiTner 
editions  only  contained  her  Ladyship's  an- 
swer,— in  which  we  have  always  thoirght  that 
her  desire  to  be  smart  and  witty,  has  intruded 
itself  a  little  ungracefully  into  the  place  of  a 
more  amiable  feeling. 

The  Jiext  series  of  letters  consists  of  those 
•written  to  her  sister  the  Countess  of  Man  from 
1723  to  1727.  These  letters  have  at  least  as 
much  vivacity,  wit,  and  sarcasm,  as  any  that 
have  been  already  published  ;  and  though  they 
contain  little  but  the  anecdotes  and  scandal 
of  the  time,  will  Ion<r  continue  to  be  read  and 
admired  for  the  brilliancy  and  facility  of  the 
composition.  Though  Lady  Mary  is  exces- 
sively entertaining  in  this  correspondence,  we 
cannot  say,  however,  that  she  is  either  very 
amiable,  or  very  interesting.  There  is  rather 
a  negation  of  good  affection,  we  think,  thiough- 
out  :  and  a  certain  cold-hearted  levity,  that 
borders  sometimes  upon  misanthropy,  and 
sometimes  on  indecency.  The  style  of  the 
following  extracts,  however,  we  are  afraid, 
has  been  for  some  time  a  dead  language. 

"  I  made  a  sort  of  resolution,  at  liie  hcginning 
of  my  leiicr,  noi  lo  trouble  you  wiili  the  tiuniion 
of  what  passes  here,  since  you  receive  it  with  so 
much  coldness.  But  I  find  it  i.s  imposslMe  lo  forbear 
telling  you  the  metamorphoses  of  .some  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, which  appear  as  wondrous  lo  me  as 
any  in  Ovid.  Would  any  one  believe  ihai  Lady 
H*"'***ss  is  a  beauty,  and  in  love  ?  and  that  Mrs. 
Anastasia  Robinson  is  at  the  same  lime  a  prude  and 
a  kept  mistress?  The  first  of  iliese  ladies  is  ten- 
derly attached  to  the  polite  Mr.  M***,  and  .sunk  in 
all  the  joys  of  happy  love,  notwiihsianding  she 
wants  the  use  of  her  two  hands  by  a  rheumatism, 
and  he  has  an  arm  thai  he  cannot  move.  I  wi.sh  I 
could  tell  you  the  particulars  of  this  amour;  which 
seems  to  me  n.s  curious  as  that  between  two  o\  ster.-i. 
and  as  well  worth  the  serious  attention  of  iiiituralisi.'!. 
The  second  heroine  has  eiignfed  half  the  town  in 
arms,  from  the  nicety  of  her  viriue,  which  was  not 
able  to  bear  the  too  near  approach  of  Senesino  in  the 
opera  ;  and  her  condescension  in  accepiiiiir  of  Lord 
Peterborough  for  her  champion,  who  has  signalized 
both  his  love  and  courage  upon  this  occasion  in  as 
many  instances  as  ever  Don  Qui.xote  did  for  Dul- 
cinea.  Intiiimerable  have  been  the  disorders  be- 
twfen  the  two  se.xes  on  so  great  iiii  account,  besides 
half  the  House  of  Peers  beinc  put  under  arrest.  By 
the  Providence  of  Heaven,  and  the  wise  care  of  his 


Majesty,  no  bloodshed  ensued.  However,  thi 
are  now  tolerably  accommodated  ;  and  the  fair  1/ 
rides  ihrrough  the  town  in  the  shining  berlinofv 
hero,  not  to  reckon  the  more  solid  advantagejf  ' 
100/.  a  month,  which  'tis  said,  he  allows  herl] 
will  send  you  a  leiicr  by  the  Count  Caylus,  wM 
if  you  do  not  know  already,  you  will  iliank  ine) 
introducing  to  you.  He  is  a  Frenchman,  anri 
fop  ;  which,  besides  the  curiosity  of  it,  is  one  ol'4 
prettiest  things  in  the  world. "-Vol.  iii.  pp.  120— .u 

"I  write  to  you  at  this  time  piping- hot  fromfl 
birth-night ;  my  brain  warmed  with  ail  liieagn.,, 
ideas  that  fine  clothes,  fine  gentletiT  ti.  brisk  tuil 
and  lively  dances  can  raise  there.  It  is  lo  be  ho| 
thai  my  letter  will  eniertain  you;  at  Kast  you( 
certainly  have  the  freshest  account  ol  all  pas 
on  that  glorious  day.  First,  you  must  know  thl 
led  up  the  ball,  which  you'll  stare  at ;  but  whtf 
more,  I  believe  in  my  conscience  1  made 
the  best  figures  there  :  For,  lo  say  truth,  people'^ 
grown  so  extravagantly  ugly,  that  we  old  be 
are  forced  to  come  out  on  show-days,  to  keepf 
court  iri  countenance.  I  saw  Mrs.  Murray  tml 
through  whose  hands  this  episile  will  be  conveyl 
I  do  not  know  whether  she  will  make  the 
compliment  to  you  that  I  do.  Mrs.  West  was; 
her,  who  is  a  great  prude,  having  but  two  lover 
a  time  ;  I  think  those  are  Lord  Haddington  and  J 
Lindsay  ;  the  one  for  use,  the  other  for  show. 

"The  world  improves  in  one  virtue  to  a  violl 
degree — 1   mean  plain   dealing.     II.\  pocrisy  be 
as  the  Scripture  declares,  a  damnable  sin,  I  hfl 
our  publicans  and  sinners  will  be  saved  by  lheo| 
ptuft;ssion  of  the  contrary  viriue.     1  was  told' 
very  good  auihor,  who  is  deep  in  the  secret,  (1 
this  very  minute  there  is  a  bill  cooking  up  at  abil 
ing  seat  at  Norfolk,  to  have  not  taken  out  off 
commandments,   and    clapped    into  the  creed, 
ensuing  session  ot  Parlianieni.     To  speak  pla" 
I  am  very  sorry  for  the  forlorn  state  ot  inairimo 
which  is  now  as  much  ridiculed  by  our  young  1 
as  it  used  to  be   by  young  fellows  :    In  short, 
sexes  have  found  the  inconveniences  of  it  ;  andl 
appellation  of  rake  is  as  genteel  in  a  woman  tt 
man  of  quality  :    It  is  no-scandal  to  say  Miss  —  , 
the  maid  of  honour,  looks- very  well  now  she  is  i 
again  ;  and  poor  Biddy  Noel   has  never  been  qi  i 
well  since  her  last  continement.    You  mayiniag' 
we  married  women  look  very  silly  :  We  have 
thing  to  excuse  ourselves,  but   that  it  was  doiii 
great  while  ago,  and  we  were  very  young  when  : 
(iid  it." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  142 — 14.'). 

"Sixpenny  worth  of  common  sense,  divic  I 
among  a  whole  nation,  would  make  our  lives  I 
away  glibly  enough:  But  then  we  make  lav 
and  we  follow  customs.  By  the  first  we  cut 
our  own  pleasures,  and  by  the  second  we  are  ' 
swerable  for  the  faults  and  exiravagiinces  of  othi . 
All  these  things,  and  five  hundred  more,  convi  : 
me  that  I  have  been  one  of  the  coiidnmied  e  ' 
since  I  was  born  ;  and  in  submission  to  the  Div  i 
Justice,  I  have  no  doubt  but  I  deserved  il.  in  so  : 
pre-existent  state.  I  will  still  hope,  however,  i 
I  am  only  in  purgatory  ;  and  that  after  shining t ! 
pining  a  certain  number  of  years.  I  shall  be  ira 
iated  lo  some  more  happy  sphere,  where  virtue  \  I 
be  natural,  and  custom  reasonable  ;  thai  is,  insh< 
where  common  sense  will  reisrn.  I  grow  v  ' 
devout,  as  you  .see.  and  place  all  my  hopes  in  ' 
next  life — beioL;  totally  persuaded  ot  the  noihii 
ness  of  this.  Don't  you  remember  how  misern; 
we  were  in  the  little  parlour,  at  Thoresby  ?  we  ll  i 
thought  mnrryiiiff  would  put  us  at  once  into  pose  • 

sionof  all  we  wanted.  "^I'hen  came though,  al; 

all.  lam  siill  of  opinion,  that  it  is  exireniely  s 
to  submit  to  ill-fortune.  One  should  pluck  ui 
spirit,  and  live  upon  cordials;  when  one  can  hi;' 
no  other  nourishment.  These  are  my  present  \ 
deavour« ;  and  I  run  about,  though  1  have  i'- 
thousand  pins  and  needles  in  my  heart.  I  try  i 
console  myself  with  a  small  damsel,  who  is  at  p' 
sent  every  thing  I  like — but,  alas!  she  is  yet  i;| 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


iiite  frock.    At  fourteen  she  may  run  away  with 
(•  liutler." — Vol.  iii.  pp.  178 — 180. 
•  I  caiiaoi  deny  but  tliat  I  was  very  well  diverted 
I  the  coronution-day.     1  saw  the  procession  much 
my  ease,  in  a  house  which  I  tilled  wiih  my  own 
mipany ;    and   then    got   into    Westminster-hall 
iiiiout' trouble,  where  it  was  very  entertaining  lo 
jserve  the  variety  of  airs  that  all  meant  the  same 
',iiig.    The  business  of  every  walker  there  was  to 
(nceal  vauiiy  and  gain  adniiraiion.  For  these  pur- 
ees some  languished   and  others  strutted  ;  but  a 
sible  satisfaction  was  diffused  over  every  counle- 
jance,  as  soon  as  ihe  coronet  was  clapped  on  the 
ead.    But  she  that  drew  the  greatest  imniber  of 
tes  was  indisputably  Lady  Orkney.    She  exposed 
fehind,  a  nii.xture  of  fat  and  wrinkles  ;  and  helore, 
considerable  protuberance,  which  preceded  her. 
jidd  to  this,  the  inimitable  roll  of  her  eyes,  and  her 
irey  hairs,  which  by  good  fortune  stood  directly 
prighl,  and  'tis  impossible  to   imagine  a  more  de- 
^hiful  spectacle     She  had  embellished  all  this  wiih 
onsiderable  magnificence,  which  made  her  look  as 


Pig  ag.iin  as  usua 


and  I  should  have  thought  her 


Iine  of  liie  largest  things  of  God's  making,  if  my 
jady  St.  J***n  had  not  displayed  all  her  charms  in 
lonour  of  the  day.  The  poor  Duchess  of  M***se 
rept  along  wiih  a  dozen  of  black  snakes  playing 
ound  her  hice  ;  and  my  Lady  P**nd  (who  has  fallen 
jiway  since  her  dismission  from  Conn )  represented 
Irery  finely  an  Egyptian  mummy  embroidered  over 
with  hieroglyphics.  Li  general,  I  could  not  per- 
ceive but  that  the  old  were  as  well  pleased  as  the 
[young;  and  I  who  dread  growing  wise  more  than 
liny  thing  in  the  world,  was  overjoyed  to  find  that 
bne  can  never  outlive  one's  vanity.  I  have  never 
Received  the  long  letter  you  talk  of,  and  am  afraid 
that  vou  have  only  fancied  that  you  wrote  it." 

Voljiii.  pp.  181—183. 

In  spite  of  all  this  gaiety,  Lady  Mary  does 
lOt  appear  to  have  been  happy.     Her  discreet 
biographer  is  silent  upon  the  subject  of  her 
connubial  felicity ;  and  we  have  no  desire  to 
irevive  f()ri>-otten   scandals;    but  it  is  a  fact, 
jwhich  cannot  be  omitted,  that  her  Ladyship 
jwent  abroad,  without  her  husband,  on  account 
[ofbad  h'allh,  in  1739,  and  did  not  return  to 
I  England  till  she  heard  of  his  death  in  1761. 
I  Whatever  was  the  cause  of  their  separation, 
•  however,  thi-re  was  no  open  rupture  ;  and  she 
,  seems  to  have  corresponded  with  him  very 
)  regularly  for  the  first  ten  years  of  her  absence. 
These  letters,  which  occup3'the  latter  part  of 
I  the  third  volume,  and  the  beoinning  of  the 
j  fourth,  are  by  no  means  so  captivating  as  most 
f  of  ihe  preceding.    They  contain  but  little  wit, 
i  and  no  eonlidential  or  strikin*  reflections. — 
I  They  are  filled  up  with  accounts  of  her  health 
I  and  her  journeys;  with  short  and  general  no- 
I  lices  of  any  extraordinary  customs  she  meets 
;  with,  and  little  scraps  of  stale  politics,  picked 
j  up  in  the  petty  courts  of  Italy.     They  are 
j  cold,  in  short,  without  being  formal ;  and  are 
I  gloomy  and  constrained,  when  compared  with 
I  those  which  were  spontaneously  written  to 
j  fhow  her  wit,  or  her  affection  to  her  corres- 
pondents.    She  seems  extremely  anxious  to 
J  impress  her  husband  with  an  e.xalted  idea  of 
■   the  honours  and  distinction  with  which  she 
was  everywhere  received  ;  and  really  seems 
more  elated  and  surprised   than  we  should 
have  expected  the  daughter  of  an    English 
Duke  to  be,  with  the  attentions  that   were 
showTi  her  by  the  noblesse  of  Venice,  in  par- 
ticular.     From  this  correspondence  v,-e  are 
not  tempted  to  make  any  extract. 


715 

The  last  .series  of  letters,  which  extends  to  the 
middle  of  the  (iflh  volume,  and  comes  down 
to  the  year  17lil.  consists  of  those  that  wero 
addressfMl  bv  Lady  Mary,  liuring  iu-r  rcsi- 
dence  abrojul.  to  her  dangiiter  tiie  C'ounl.-ss 
of  Bute.  These  letters,'  though  somirwhat 
less  brilliant  than  those  to  lire  ("ountrss  of 
Mar,  have  more  heart  and  alli-clion  in  them 
than  any  other  of  her  Ladyship's  proiiuctions ; 
and  abound  in  lively  and^dicious  relieclions. 
They  indicate,  at  the  same  timi-.  a  very  great 
share  of  vanity;  and  that  kindOf  coiiternpl 
and  indiflerence  for  tht?  world,  into  which  the 
veterans  of  fashion  are  most  apt  lo  sink. — 
With  the  exception  of  her  daughter  and  her 
children,  Lady  Mary  seems  by  this  time  to 
have,  indeed,  attaineti  to  the  happy  state  of 
really  caring  nothiiiir  for  any  human  beings 
and  rather  to  have  beguileil  the  days  of  her 
declining  life  with  every  sort  of  amusement, 
than  to  have  sootheil  them  with  alicH'tioii  or 
friendship.  After  boastinir  of  the  iniimary 
in  which  she  lived  with  all  the  considt-rable 
people  in  her  neighbourhood,  she  a<KIS;  in  one 
of  her  letters,  "The  people  I  see  liere  make 
no  more  impiession  on  my  mind  than  the 
figures  on  the  tapestry,  while  they  are  before 
my  eyes.  I  know  one  is  clothed  in  blue.  an«l 
another  in  red  :  but  out  of  sight  they  are  so 
entirely  out  of  memory,  that  I  harilly  remem- 
ber whether  (hey  are  tall  or  short." 

The  following  reflections  upon  an  Italian 
story,  exactly  like  that  of  Pamela,  are  very 
much  in  character. 

"  In  my  opinion,  all  these  advcniure.s  proceed 
from  artifice  on  one  side,  and  weakness  on  ihe  oiher. 
An  honest,  lender  heart,  is  ofien  betrayed  to  ruin 
by  the  charms  that  make  the  fortune  of  a  designing 
head  ;  which,  when  joined  with  a  beaiiiitul  face, 
can  never  fail  ot  advancement — e.xcepi  barred  by  a 
wise  mother,  who  locks  up  her  daugliiers  from  view 
till  nobody  cares  to  look  on  them.  My  poor  friend 
the  Duchess  of  Bohon  was  educated  in  solitude, 
wiih  some  choice  of  books,  l>y  a  samt-like  gover- 
ness:  Crammed  with  virtue  and  pood  qualities, 
she  thought  ii  impossible  lOt  to  find  gratitude, 
though  she  failed  to  give  passion  :  and  upon  this 
plan  threw  away  her  estate,  was  despised  by  her 
husband,  and  laughed  at  by  the  public.  Polly,  bred 
in  an  alehouse,  and  produced  on  'he  stage,  has  ob- 
tained wealth  and  title,  aud  even  found  the  way  to 
be  (Sieemed  I" — Vol.  iv.  p.  119,  120. 

There  is  some  acrimony,  and  some  power 
of  reviling,  in  the  following  extract : 

"  I  have  only  had  time  to  read  Lord  Orrery's 
work,  whiirh  has  extremely  cnieriained,  and  not  at 
all  surprised  me,  havii  g  the  iiononr  of  being  ac- 
quainted with  liim.  and  knowing  him  for  one  of 
those  dangi'Ts  after  wit.  who.  like  ihooe  after 
beauty,  spend  their  whole  time  in  humbly  admiring. 
Dean  Swift,  by  his  Loidsliip's  own  accfMun.  was 
so  intoxicated  with  the  love  of  flattery,  that  he 
soiii/hi  ii  ainoiigsi  the  lowest  of  pc(i(>le.  and  the 
silliest  of  women;  and  was  never  so  well  pleased 
with  any  companions  as'ihose  that  worshipped  liim, 
while  he  iiisulicd  them.  Hi."  charndcr  seeiim  lo 
nie  a  pnrallcl  with  that  of  Calienhi  ;  and  hiid  ho 
had  the  same  po^^■er.  be  would  have  miidfiihe  pniiie 
usf  of  it.  That  Emperor  erected  n  temple  lo  iiiin- 
self,  where  he  was  his  own  high-priest.  pnTerred 
/lis  horse  to  the  liiL'hcsf  hnnniir.9  iti  the  smie,  pro. 
iessed  enmity  to  the  hutiiaii  race,  and  nt  last  but 
his  life  bv  a  nasty  ies-  on  one  of  hi.s  inferiors, 
which  1  dare  swear  Swift  would  have  maJu  in  his 


716 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


place.  There  can  he  no  worse  picture  made  of  the 
Doctor's  morals  than  he  has  given  us  himself  in  the 
letters  printed  by  Pope.  We  see  hmi  vam,  trifling, 
ungrateful  to  the  memory  of  his  pairon,  making  a 
servile  court  where  he  had  any  imerested  yi-nvs. 
and  meanly  abusive  when  they  were  disappointed; 
and,  as  he  says  (in  his  own  phrase),  flying  in  the  face 
of  mankind,  in  company  with  his  adoi^r  Pope.  It 
is  pleasant  to  consider,  that  had  it  not  been  for  the 
good  nature  of  these  very  mortals  they  contemn, 
iliese  two  superior  beings  were  entitled,  by  their 
birih  and  hereditary  for||ine,  to  be  only  a  couple  of 
link-boys.  I  am  of  opinion,  however,  that  their 
friendship  would  have  continued,  though  they  hud 
remained  in  the  same  kingdom.  It  had  a  very 
strong  foundation — the  love  of  fl;ittery  on  one  side, 
and  the  love  of  money  on  the  other.  Pope  courted 
with  the  utmost  assiduity  all  the  old  men  from 
whom  he  could  hope  a  legncy,  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham, Lord  Peterborough,  Sir  G.  Kneller,  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  Mr.  Wycherly.  Mr.  Congreve,  Lord 
Harcourt,  &c.,  and  I  do  not  doulit  iirojected  lo 
sweep  the  Dean's  whole  inheritance,  if  lie  could 
have  persuaded  him  to  throw  up  his  deanery,  and 
come  to  die  in  his  house  ;  and  his  general  preach- 
ing against  money  was  meant  to  induce  people  to 
throw  it  away,  that  he  might  pick  it  up." 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  142 — 147. 

"Some  of  the  following  reflections  will  ap- 
pear prophetic  to  some  people  ;  and  we  really 
did  not  e.vpect  to  find  them  under  the  date  of 
175.S. 

"The  confounding  of  all  ranks,  and  making  a 
jest  of  order,  has  long  been  growing  in  Ensland  ; 
and  I  perceive,  \>y  the  books  you  sent  me,  has  made 
a  very  considerable  progress.  The  heroes  ;iiid 
heroines  of  the  age,  are  cobblers  and  kiichen- 
wencht's.  Perhaps  you  will  say  I  should  not  lake 
my  ideas  of  the  manners  of  the  times  from  such 
trifling  authors;  but  it  is  more  truly  to  be  found 
among  them,  than  from  any  historian  :  as  they  write 
merely  to  get  money,  they  always  tall  into  the  no- 
tions that  are  most  acceptable  to  the  present  taste. 
It  has  long  been  the  endeavour  of  our  English 
writers,  to  represent  people  of  quality  as  the  vilest 
and  silliest  part  of  the  nation,  being  (generally)  very 
low-born  themselves.  I  am  not  surprised  at  their 
propagating  thi.s  doctrine  :  but  I  am  much  mistaken 
it  this  leverim;;  principle  does  rot.  one  day  or  other, 
break  out  in  tatal  consequences  to  the  public,  as  it 
has  already  done  in  manv  private  families." 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  223,  224. 

She  is  not  quite  so  fortunate  in  her  remarks 
on  Dr.  Johnson,  though  the  conclusion  of  the 
extract  is  very  judicious. 

"  The  Rambler  is  ceriainly  a  strong  misnomer: 
he  alwnvs  plods  in  the  bea  en  road  of  his  predeces- 
sors, following  the  ."^[lecia'or  (wiih  the  same  p^ce  a 
pacU-horje  would  do  a  hunter)  in  the  style  that  is 
proper  to  lemithen  a  paper.  These  writers  may. 
perhaps,  be  of  service  to  the  public,  which  is  saying 
a  ureal  deal  in  their  favour.  There  are  numbers 
of  both  sexes  who  never  read  any  ihini;  but  such 
productions;  and  cannot  spare  lime,  from  doin<r 
nothing,  to  go  through  a  si.xpenny  pami)hlet.  .'^uch 
gentle  readers  may  be  improved  by  a  moral  hint, 
which,  though  repeated  over  and  over,  from  gener- 
niion  to  generation,  they  never  heard  in  their  lives. 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  the  name  of  this  laborious 
author.  FT.  Fielding  has  given  a  true  picture  of 
himself  and  his  first  wife,  in  the  characters  of  Mr. 
and  .Mrs.  IJoo'h,  some  compliments  to  his  own 
figure  e.xcepied  ;  and  I  am  persuaded,  several  of 
the  inridenis  he  mentions  are  real  matters  of  fact. 
I  wonder,  however,  that  he  does  not  perceive  Tom 
Jones  and  Mr.  Booth  to  be  both  sorry  scoundrels. 
Ail  this  sort  of  bonks  have  the  same  fault,  which 
1  cannot  easily  pardon,  being  very  mischievous. 


They  place  a  merit  in  e.vtravagant  passions  ;  ami 
encourage  young  people  to  hope  for  impossible 
events,  to  draw  them  out  of  the  misery  they  choost 
to  plunge  themselves  mto;  expecting  legacies  f^on 
unknown  relations,  and  generous  benefactors  ic 
distressed  virtue, — as  much  out  of  nature  as  fairyi 
treasures." — Vol.  iv.  pp.  259,  260.  i 

The  idea  of  the  following  image,  we  be-' 
lieve,  is  not  quite  new ;  but  it  is  expressed  in 
a  very  lively  and  striking  manner. 

"  The  world  is  past  its  infancy,  and  will  no  longer 
be  contented  with  spoon-meat.  A  collective  body 
of  men  make  a  gradual  progress  in  understanding, 
like  a  single  individual.  When  I  reflect  on  the  vast 
increase  of  useful  as  well  as  speculative  knowledge, 
the  last  three  hundred  yeara  lias  produced,  and  that 
the  peasams  of  this  age  have  more  conveniences 
than  the  first  emperors  of  Rome  had  any  notion  of. 
I  imagine  we  may  now  be  arrived  at  that  period 
which  answers  lo  fifteen.  I  cannot  think  we  are 
older ;  when  I  recollect  the  many  palpable  follies 
which  are  still  (almost)  universally  persisted  in. 
Among  these  I  place  that  of  War — as  senseless  as 
the  bo.xing  of  school-boys  ;  and  whenever  we  come 
lo  man's  estate  (perhaps  a  thousand  years  hence),  I 
do  not  doubt  it  will  appear  as  ridiculous  as  the 
pranks  of  unlucky  lads.  Several  discoveries  will 
then  be  made,  and  several  truths  made  clear,  of 
which  we  have  now  no  more  idea  than  the  ancients 
had  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  or  the  optics  of 
Sir  Isaac  Newton." — Vol.  v.  pp.  15,  16. 

After  observing,  that  in  a  preceding  letter, 
her  Ladyship  declares,  that  "it  is  eleven  years 
since  she  saw  herself  in  a  glass,  being  so  little 
pleased  with  the  figure  site  was  then  begin- 
ning to  make  iii  it,'"  we  shall  close  these  ex- 
tracts with  the  following  more  favourable  ac- 
count of  her  philosophy. 

"  I  no  more  e.xpect  to  arrive  at  the  age  of  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  than  to  that  of  IVlethusa- 
lem  ;  neither  do  I  desire  it.  I  have  long  thought, 
myself  useless  to  the  world.  I  have  seen  one  gene-  • 
ration  pass  away,  and  it  is  gone  ;  for  I  think  there 
are  very  ^ew  of  those  left  that  flourished  in  my 
youth.  You  will  perhaps  call  these  melancholy 
reflections;  but  they  are  not  so.  There  is  a  quiet : 
after  the  abandoning  of  pursuits,  something  like  the 
rest  that  follows  a  laborious  day.  I  tell  you  this 
for  your  comfort.  It  was  formerly  a  terrifying  view 
to  me.  that  I  should  one  day  be  an  old  woman.  I 
now  find  that  nature  has  provided  pleasures  for 
every  state.  Those  only  are  unhappy  who  will 
not  be  contented  with  what  she  gives,  but  strive  to 
break  through  her  laws,  by  aflVciing  a  perpetuity 
of  youth. — which  appears  to  me  as  little  desirable 
at  present  as  the  babies  do  to  you,  that  were  the 
delight  of  your  infancy.  1  am  at  the  end  of  my 
paper,  which  shortens  the  sermon." 

Vol.  iv.  pp.  314,  315. 

Upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Wortley  in  1761, 
Lady  Mary  returned  to  England,  and  died 
there  in  October  1762,  in  the'73d  year  of  her 
age.  From  the  large  extracts  which  we  have 
been  tempted  to  make  from  her  correspond- 
ence, onr  readers  will  easily  be  enabled  to 
jud2:e  of  the  character  and  genius  of  this  ex- 
traordinary woman.  A  little  spoiled  by  fe'- 
tery,  and  not  altogether  '-.undebauched  by 
the  world,"  she  seems  to  have  possessed  a 
masculine  solidity  of  understanding,  great 
liveliness  of  fancy,  and  such  powers  of  ob- 
servation and  discrimination  of  chanicter,  as 
to  give  her  opinions  great  authority  on  all  the 
ordinary  subjects  of  practical  manners  and 
conduct.     After  her  marriage,  she  seems  to 


LIFE  OF  CURRAX. 


717 


lave  abandoned  all  idea  of  laborious  or  n>iru- 

ar  study,  and  to  have  been  raised  to  (he  sta- 

ion   of  a   literary   character   merely  by  her 

,'ivacity  and  her  love  of  amusement  and  anec- 

lote.     The  great  charm  of  her  letters  is  cer- 

ainly   the    extreme   ease   and  facility    with 

[which  everything  is  expressed,  the  brevity 

[and  rapidity  of  her  representations,  and  the 

felegant  simplicity  of  her  diction.    While  they 

iimite  almost  all  the  qualities  of  a  good  style, 

^here  is  nothing  of  the  professed  author  in 

Ithem  :  nothing  that  seems  to  have  been  com- 

jposed,  or  to  have  engaged  the  admiration  of 

(the  writer.     She  appears  to  be  quite  uncon- 

lecious  either  of  merit  or  of  exertion  in  what 

ishe  is  doing  ;  and  never  stops  to  bring  out  a 

Ithought,   or  to  turn  an  expression,  with  the 

Icunning  of  a  practised  rhetorician.     The  let- 

Jters  from  Turkey  will  probably  continue  to  be 

more  universally  read  than  any  of  those  that 

are  now  given  for  the  first  time  to  the  public; 

•  because  the  subject  commands  a  wider  and 

(more  permanent  interest,  than  the  personali- 

i  ties  and  unconnected  remarks  with  which  the 

rest  of  the  correspondence  is  filled.     At  the 

isame  time,  the  love  of  scandal  and  of  private 

i  history  is  so  great,  that  these  letters  will  be 

highly  relished,  as  long  as  the  names  they 

contain    are    remembered ; — and   then   they 

;  will  become  curious  and   interesthig.  as  ex- 

;  hibiting  a  truer  picture  of  the  manners  and 

i  fashions  of  the  time,  than  is  to  be  found  in 

most  other  publications. 

The  Fifth  Volume  contains  also  her  Lady- 
ship's poems,  and  two  or  three  trifling  papers 
!hat  are  entitled  her  Essays.     Poetry,  at  least 


the  polite  and  witty  sort  of  poetry  which  Ladv 
Mary  has  attempted,  is  much  more  of  an  art 
than  prose-writuig.  We  are  trained  to  Ihe 
latter,  by  the  conversation  of  gnod  society ; 
but  the  former  seems  always  to  recjuire  a  good 
deal  of  patient  labour  anil  application.  This 
her  Ladyship  apjuars  to  hnvv  disdained  ;  and 
accordingly,  her  poetry,  though  aboundinir  in 
lively  conceptions,  is  already  consigned  lo 
that  oblivion  in  which  mediocrity  is  destined, 
by  an  irrevocable  sentence,  to  slumber  till 
the  end  of  the  world.  The  Esi-ays  are  ex- 
tremely insignificant,  and  have  no  other  merit, 
that  we  can  discover,  but  that  they  are  very 
few  and  very  short. 

Of  Lady  RLary's  friend.'^hip  and  subsequent 
rupture  with  Pojh-.  we  have  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  say  any  thinir :  both  because  we 
are  of  opinion  that  no  new  li;;hls  are  thrown 
upon  if  by  this  publication,  ami  because  we 
have  no  desire  to  awaken  foigotten  scandals 
by  so  idle  a  controversy.  Pope  was  undoubt- 
edly a  flatterer,  and  was  undoubtedly  suffi- 
ciently irritable  and  vindictive  ;  but  whether 
his  rancour  was  stimulated,  upon  this  occa- 
sion, by  any  thing  but  caprice  or  jealousy; 
and  whether  he  was  the  inventor  or  llie  echo 
of  the  imputations  to  v  hich  he  has  given  no- 
foiiety,  we  do  not  pretend  to  determine.  Lady 
Mary's  character  was  cerlainlv  deficient  in 
that  cautious  delicacy  which  is  the  best  guar- 
dian of  female  reputation  ;  ai.d  there  seems  to 
have  been  in  her  conduct  something  of  that 
intrepidity  which  naturally  gives  rise  to  min- 
construction,  by  setting  at  defiance  the  maxims 
of  ordinarv  discretion. 


[MaT),   1820.) 


The  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  John  Philpoi  Ciirran.  late  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Ireland. 
By  his  Son,  Wili>iam  Henry  Curkan,  Barrister-at-law.  8vo.  2  vols.  pp.  970.  London:  1819. 


This  is  really  a  very  good  book ;  and  not 
less  instructive  in  its  moral,  and  general  scope, 
than  curious  and  interesting  in  its  details.  It 
is  a  mixture  of  Biography  and  History — and 
avoids  the  besetting  sins  of  both  species  of 
composition — neither  exalting  the  hero  of  the 
biography  into  an  idol,  nor  deforming  the  his- 
tory of  a  most  agitated  period  with  any  spiiit 
of  violence  or  exaggeration.  It  is  written,  on 
the  contrary,  as  it  appears  to  us,  with  singular 
impartiality  and  temper — and  the  style  is  not 
less  remarkable  than  the  sentiments:  For 
though  it  is  generally  elegant  and  spirited,  it 
is  without  any  of  those  peculiarities  which  the 
age,  the  parentage,  and  the  country  of  the  au- 
thor would  lead  us  to  expect : — And  v,  e  may 
say,  indeed,  of  the  -whole  work,  looking  both 
to  the  matter  and  the  manner,  that  it  has  no 
defects  from  which  if  could  be  gathered  that 
it  was  written  either  by  a  Young  man — or  an 
Irishman — or  by  the  Son  of  the  person  whose  , 
history  it  professes  to  record — though  it  has  1 
attractions    which  probably  could   noi   have  ' 


existed  under  any  other  conditions.  The  dis- 
tracting periods  of  Iri.«h  story  are  still  almost 
too  recent  to  be  fairly  delineated — and  no 
Irishman,  old  enough  to  have  taken  a  part  in 
the  transactions  oi  1780  or  1798,  could  weL' 
be  trusted  as  their  historian — while  no  one 
but  a  native,  and  of  the  blood  of  some  of  the 
chief  actors,  could  be  sufficiently  acquainleii 
with  their  motives  and  characters,  to  commu- 
nicate that  life  and  interest  to  the  details 
which  shine  out  in  so  many  passages  of  the 
volumes  before  us.  The  incidental  light  which 
they  throw  upon  the  national  chaiacter  and 
stale  o?  society  in  Ireland,  and  the  continual 
illustrations  thevaflord  of  their  diversity  from 
our  own,  is  peiliaps  of  more  value  than  the 
particular  facts  fiom  which  it  lesulls;  an<l 
stamp  upon  the  work  the  same  peculiar  at- 
traction wliich  we  fornif  ily  ascrioetl  Jo  Mr. 
Hardy's  life  of  Lord  Charhrront. 

To  qualify  this  exliaoidinary  praiw*,  wf 
must  add,  that  the  limits  of  the  jirivale  ano 
the  public  ?lo:y  are  i:ot  very  well  obsen'ed^ 


718 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


nor  the  scale  of  the  work  very  correctlj-  regu- 
lated as  to  either ;  so  that  we  have  alternately 
too  much  and  too  little  of  both: — that  the 
style  is  rather  Vordy  and  diffuse,  and  the  ex- 
tracts and  citations  too  copious :  so  that,  on  the 
whole,  the  book,  like  some  otheis,  would  be 
improved  by  being  reduced  to  little  more  than 
half  its  present  size — a  circumstance  which 
makes  it  only  the  more  necessary  that  we 
should  endeavour  to  make  a  manageable  ab- 
stract of  it,  for  the  use  of  less  patient  readers. 

Mr.  Curran's  parentage  and  early  life  are 
now  of  no  great  consequence.  He  was  born, 
however,  of  respectable  parents,  and  received 
a  careful  and  regular  education.  He  was  a 
little  wild  at  college  ;  but  left  it  with  the  char- 
acter of  an  excellent  scholar,  and  was  univer- 
sally popular  among  his  associates,  not  less 
for  his  amiable  temper  than  his  inexhaustible 
vivacity.  He  wrote  baddish  verses  at  this 
time,  and  exercised  himself  in  theological  dis- 
courses: for  his  first  destination  was  for  the 
Church ;  and  he  afterwards  took  to  the  Law, 
very  much  to  his  mother's  disappointment  and 
mortification — who  was  never  reconciled  to 
the  change — and  used,  even  in  the  meridian 
of  his  fame,  to  lament  what  a  mighty  preacher 
had  been  lost  to  the  world, — and  to  exclaim, 
that,  but  for  his  versatility,  she  might  have 
died  the  mother  of  a  Bishop  !  It  was  better 
as  it  was.  Unquestionably  he  might  have 
been  a  very  great  preacher;  but  we  doubt 
whether  he  would  have  been  a  good  parish 
priest,  or  even  an  exemplary  bishop. 

Irish  lawyers  are  obliged  to  keep  their 
terms  in  London  ;  and,  for  the  poorer  part  of 
them,  it  seems  to  be  but  a  dull  and  melan- 
choly noviciate.  Some  of  his  early  letters, 
with  which  we  are  here  presented,  give  rather 
an  amiable  and  interesting  picture  of  young 
Curran's  feelings  m  this  situation — separated 
at  once  from  all  his  youthful  friends  and  ad- 
mirers, and  left  without  money  or  recommend- 
ation in  the  busy  crowds  of  a  colder  and  more 
venal  people.  During  the  three  years  he 
passed  in  the  metropolis,  he  seems  to  have 
entered  into  no  society,  and  never  to  have 
come  in  contact  with  a  single  distinguished 
individual.  He  saw  Garrick  on  the  stage,  and 
Lord  Mansfield  on  the  bench;  and  this  e.\:- 
hausts  his  list  of  illustrious  men  in  London. 
His  only  associates  seem  to  have  been  a  few 
of  his  countrymen,  as  poor  and  forlorn  as  him- 
self. Yet  the  life  they  lived  seems  to  have 
been  virtuous  and  honourable.  They  con- 
tracted no  debts,  and  committed  no  excesses. 

Curran  himself  rose  earlj-.  and  read  dili- 
gently till  dinner;  and,  in  the  evening,  he 
usually  went,  as  much  for  improvement  as 
relaxation,  to  a  sixpenny  debating  club.  For 
a  long  time,  however,  he  was  too  nervous  and 
timid  to  act  any  other  part  than  that  of  an  au- 
ditor, and  did  not  find  even  the  germ  of  that 
singular  talent  which  was  afterwards  improved 
to  such  a  height,  till  it  was  struck  out  as  it 
were  by  an  accidental  collision  in  this  obscure 
arena.  There  is  a  long  account  of  this  in  the 
book  before  us.  as  it  is  s;iid  to  have  been  re- 
peatedly given  by  Mr.  C.  himself— but  in  a 
style  which  we  cannot  conscientiously  ap- 


plaud.    We    suspect,   indeed,   from  various] 
passages  in   these   volumes,   that   the  IriahiJ 
standard  of  good  conversation  is  radically  dlf.j] 
ferent  from  the  English;  and  that  a  tone  of(] 
exhibition  and  eff'ect  is  still  tolerated  in  thatji 
country,  which  could  not  be  long  endured  mil 
good  society  in  this.     A  great  proportion  of  |1 
the  colloquial  anecdotes  in  this  work,  confirinij] 
us  in  this  belief — and  nolhinij  more  than  theii 
encomium  bestowed  on  Mr.  Curran's  own  con-]  I 
versation,  as  abounding  iu  '•  those  magicaijj 
transitions   from    the   most    comic    turns   olll 
thought  to  the  deepest  pathos,  and  for  even' 
bringing  a  tear  into  the  eye  before  the  .«mile 
was  ofi'  the  lip.""     In  this  more  frigid  and  fas- 
tidious country,  we  really  have  no  idea  of  a 
man  talking  pathetically  in  good  company, — 
and  still  less  of  good  comjiany  sitting  andcrj- 
ing  to  him.     Nay,  it  is  not  even  V(  ry  conso- 
nant with  our  notions,  that  a  gentleman  should 
be  "most  comical." 

As  to  the  taste  and  character  of  Mr.  Cur- 
ran's oratory,  we  may  have  occasion  to  say  a 
word  or  two  hereafter. — At  present,  it  is  only 
necessary  to  remark,  that  besides  the  public 
exercitations  now  alluded  to,  he  appears  lo 
have  gone  through  the  most  perseverine  and 
laborious  processes  of  private  stud)-,  with  a 
view  to  its  improvement — not  only  accustom- 
ing himself  to  debate  imaginary  cases  alone, 
with  the  most  anxious  attention,  but  ''reciting 
perpetually  before  a  mirror,''  to  acquire  a 
graceful  gesticulation  !  and  studiously  imita- 
ting the  tone  and  manner  of  the  most  cele- 
brated speakers.  The  authors  from  whom  he 
chiefly  borrowed  the  matter  of  those  solitary 
declamations  were  Junius  and  Lord  Boliiig- 
broke — and  the  poet  he  most  passionately 
admired  was  Thomson.  He  also  used  U> 
declaim  occasionally  from  Milton — but,  in  his 
maturer  age,  came  to  think  less  highly  of  that 
great  poet.  One  of  his  favourite  exercises 
was  the  funeral  oration  of  Antony  over  the 
body  of  Ca:'sar,  as  it  is  given  by  Shakespeare; 
the  frequent  recitation  of  which  he  u.<ed  to 
recommend  to  his  j-oung  friends  at  the  Bar.  to 
the  latest  period  of  his  life. 

He  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  1775.  in  his 
twenty-fifth  year — having  rather  imprudently 
married  two  years  before — and  very  soon  at- 
tained to  independence  and  distinction.  There 
is  a  very  clever  little  disquisition  introduceil 
here  by  the  author,  on  the  very  difi'erent,  and 
almost  opposite  taste  in  eloquence  which  has 
prevailed  at  the  Bar  of  England  and  Ireland 
respectively  : — the  one  being  in  general  cold 
and  correct,  unimpassioned  and  technical :  the 
other  discursive,  rhetorical,  ami  embellished 
or  encumbered,  with  lliLrhts  of  fancy  and  sy- 
peals  to  tht>  jiassions.  These  peculiarities  tln" 
author  imputes  chiefly  to  the  diflerence  in  the 
national  character  and  general  temperament 
of  the  two  races,  and  to  the  unsubdued  anti 
unrectified  prevalence  of  all  that  is  character- 
istic of  their  country  in  those  classes  out  of 
which  the  Juries  of  Ireland  are  usually  se- 
lected. He  ascribes  them  also,  in  part,  to  ihe 
circumstance  of  almost  all  the  barristers  ot 
distinction  having  been  introduced,  very  early 
in  life;  to  the  fierce  and  tumultuary  arena  of 


LIFE  OF  CURPxAN. 


719 


e  Irish  House  of  Commons — the  Government 

'ing  naturally  dfsirous  of  rocruitinij  tlu-ir 

;iks  with  as  many  e^fficieiit  combatants  as 

i-sible  from  persons  residing;-  in  the  metropo- 

— and  Opposition  lookina'.  of  course,  to  the 

:ue  great  seminary  for  the  antagonists  with 

horn" these  were  to  be  confronted. 

We  cannot  say  that  either  of  these  solutions 

to  us  very  satisfactory.     There  was  heat 

oiigh  certainly,  and  to  spare,  in  the  Irish 

ii  liament :  but  the  barristers  who  came  there 

id  generally  kindled  with   their   own  lire, 

'fore  repairing  to  that  fountain.     They  had 

■rmed   their   manner,  in  short,  and   disfin- 

:!shed   themselves  by  their  ardour,   before 

u>y  were  invited  to  display  it  in  that  assem- 

v: — and  it  would  be  quite  as  plausible  to 

•~'^r  the  intemperate  warmth  of  the  Parlia- 

.  atary  debates  to  the  infusion  of  hot-headed 

iadiators  from  the  Bar,  as  to  ascribe  the  gen- 

■  |ral  over-zeal  of  the  profession  to  the  fever 

i.me   of   them   might   have   caught   in    the 

enate.     In  England,  we  believe,  this  effect 

15  never  been  observed — and  in  Ireland  it 

as  outlived  it.s  supposed  causes — the  Bar  of 

iiat  country  being  still  (we  understand)  as  rhe- 

brical  and  impassioned  as  ever,  though  its  leg- 

Wature  has  long  ceased  to  have  aji  existence. 

As   to   the    effects    (#   temperament    and 

lational  character,  we  confess  we  are   still 

hore  sceptical — at  least  when  considered  as 

ihe  main  causes  of  the  phenomenon  in  ques- 

[iqn.     Professional  peculiarities,  in  short,  we 

Lre  persuaded,  are  to  be  referred  much  more 

K)  the  circumstances  of  the  profession,  than 

n  the  national  character  of  those  who  exer- 

Mse  it;  and  the  more  redundant  eloquence  of 

Ihe  Irish  bar,  is  better  explained,  probably,  by 

!he  smaller  quantity  of  business  in  their  courts, 

•han  by  the  greater  vivacity  of  their  fancy,  or 

Ihe  warmth  of  their  hearts.     We  in  Scotland 

liave  also  a  forensic  eloquence  of  our  own — 

(nore  speculative,  discursive,  and  ambitious 

than  that  of  Ennland — but  less  poetical  and 

bassionate  than  that  of  Ireland ;  and  the  pe- 

Caliarity  might   be  plausibly  ascribed,   here 

ilso,  to  the  imputed  character  of  the  nation, 

15"  distinguished  for  logical  acuteness  and  in- 

:repid  que.stioning  of  authority,  rather  than  for 

richness  of  imagination,  or  promptitude   of 

jfeeling. 

j  We  do  not  mean,  however,  altogether  to 
jJeny  the  existence  or  the  operation  of  these 
pauses — but  we  think  the  effect  is  produced 
khiejlij  by  others  of  a  more  vulgar  description. 
The  small  number  of  Courts  and  Jnciires  in 
;EngIand — compared  to  its  great  wealth,  popu- 
Jlarion,  and  busines.s — has  made  brevity  and 
niespatch  not  only  important  but  indispensable 
'qualifications  in  an  advocate  in  great  practice. 
— since  it  would  be  physically  impossible 
either  for  him  or  for  the  Courts  to  get  through 
.their  business  without  them.  All  mere  orna- 
'mesifal  speaking,  therefore,  is  not  only  severely 
)<li.scountenanced,  but  absolutely  debarred  ; 
'and  the  most  technical,  direct,  and  authorita- 
(five  views  of  the  case  alone  can  be  listened  to. 
Rui  judicial  time,  to  use  the  laniruage  of  Ben- 
tham  is  not  of  the  same  high  value,  either  in 
Irelaud  or  in  Scotland ;  and  the  pleaders  of  those 


I  countries  have  consequently  givfn  way  to  that 
I  universjij  love  of  long-spt-aking,  winch,  we 
I  verily  believe,  never  can  be  ieprc.-*.scd  by  any 
I  thing  but  the  absolut*'  im))o.s.sibilily  of  indulg- 
'  ing  it : — while  their  prolixity  has  taken  a  dif- 
ferent character,  not  so  nuich  from  ihe  tem- 
perament of  the  speakers,  as  from  the  dlHerence 
of  tlie  amiicnccs  the)  have  giMieraliy  had  lo 
address.  In  Ireland",  the  greater  part  of  their 
tediousness  is  bestowed  on  Juries — an<l  their 
vein  conse(]uently  has  been  mnn>  popular. 
With  us  in  Scotland  the  advocate  has  to  speak 
chietiy  to  the  Jud^res— and  naturally  encfeav- 
ours,  therefore,  to  make  that  impression  by 
subtlety,  or  compa,ss  of  reasoning,  which  he 
would  in  vain  attempt,  either  by  pathos,  po- 
etry, or  jocularity. — Professional  .speakers,  in 
short,  we  are  persuaded,  will  always  speak 
as  long  as  they  can  be  lisieiicd  lo. — The  quan- 
tity of  their  eloquence,  therefore,  wjll  depend 
on  the  time  that  can  be  atlorded  for  its  display 
— and  itsquality.  on  the  nature  of  the  audience 
to  which  it  is  addressed. 

But  though  we  cannot  admit  that  the  causes 
assigned  by  this  author  are  the  main  or  fun- 
damental causes  of  the  peculiarity  of  Irish 
oratory,  we  are  far  from  denying  that  there  is 
much  in  it  of  a  national  character,  and  indi- 
cating something  extraordinary  either  in  the 
temper  of  the  people,  or  in  the  state  of  society 
among  them.  There  is,  in  particular,  a  much 
greater  Irascibility:  with  its  usual  concomi- 
tants of  coarseness  and  peisouality, — and  a 
much  more  Theatrical  tone,  or  a  taste  for 
forced  and  exaggerated  sentiments,  than  would 
be  tolerated  on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  Of 
the  former  attribute,  the  continual,  and,  we 
must  say,  most  indecent  altercations  that  are  ' 
recorded  in  these  volumes  between  the  Bench 
and  the  Bar,  are  certainly  the  most  flagrant 
and  offensive  examples.  In  some  cases  the 
Judges  were  perhaps  the  aggressors — but  the 
violence  and  indecorum  is  almost  wholly  on 
the  side  of  the  Counsel :  and  the  excess  and 
intemperance  of  their  replies  generally  goes 
far  beyond  any  thing  for  which  an  apology 
can  be  found  in  the  provocation  that  had  been 
given.  A  very  striking  instance  occurs  in  an 
early  part  of  Mr.  Curraii'S  history,  where  he 
is  said  to  have  obseived.  upon  iin  opinion  de- 
livered by  Judge  Robinson,  '-that  he  had 
never  met  with  the  law  as  laid  down  by  his 
Lordship  in  any  book  in  his  library;"  and, 
upon  his  Lordship  rejoining,  .somewhat  scorn- 
fully, "that  he  suspected  his  library  was  very 
small,"  the  offended  barrister,  in  allu.sion  to 
the  known  fact  of  the  Judge  havhig  recent- 
I  ly  published  some  anonymous  pamphlets. 
i  thought  fit  to  r^ply,  that  '-his  library  might 
be  small,  but  he  thanked  Heaven  that,  among 
!  his  books,  there  were  none  of  the  wretched 
j  productions  of  the  frantic  pamphleteers  of  the 
j  day.  I  find  it  more  instructive,  my  lord,  to 
j  study  good  works  than  to  compo.se  bad  ones! 
'  My 'books  may  be  few.  but  the  title-pages 
2lve  me  the  writers'  names — my  shelf  is  not 
disgraced  by  any  of  such  rank  absurdity  that 
their  very  author?  are  ashamed  to  own  them." 
(p.  122.)  On  another  ocras.o::,  when  he  wa.^ 
proceeding  in  an  argument  with  his  charac- 


720 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


teristic  impetuosity,  the  presiding  Judge  hav- 
ing called  to  the  Sheriff  to  be  ready  to  take 
into  custody  any  one  who  should  disturb  the 
decorum  of  the  Court,  the  sensitive  (»)unsellor 
at  once  applying  the  notice  to  himself,  is  re- 
ported to  have  broken  out  into  the  following 
incredible  apostrophe — •'•  Do,  Mr.  Sheriff."  re- 
plied Mr.  Curran,  "go  and  get  ready  my  dun- 
geon !  Prepare  a  bed  of  straw  for  me ;  and 
upon  that  bed  I  shall  to-night  repose  with  more 
tranquillity  than  I  should  enjoy  were  I  sitting 
upon  that  bench,  with  a  consciousness  that  I 
di.sgraced  it !'' — Even  his  reply  to  Lord  Clare, 
when  interrupted  by  him  in  an  argument  be- 
fore the  Privy  Council,  seems  to  us  much  more 
petulant  than  severe.  His  Lordship,  it  seems, 
had  admonished  him  that  he  was  wandering 
from  the  question  :  and  Mr.  C.  after  some 
general  observations,  replied,  "  I  am  aware, 
my  lords,  that  truth  is  to  be  sought  only  by 
slow  and  painful  progress  :  I  know  also  "that 
error  is  in  its  nature  flippant  and  compendious; 
it  hops  with  airy  and  fastidious  levity  over 
proofs  and  arguments,  and  perches  upon  as- 
sertion, which  it  calls  conclusion." — To  Lord 
Clare,  however.  Mr.  C.  had  every  possible 
temptation  to  be  intractable  and  impertinent. 
But  even  to  his  best  friends,  when  placed  on 
the  seat  of  judgment,  he  could  not  always 
forbear  a  similar  petulance.  Lord  Avonmore 
was  alwaYs  most  kind  and  indulgent  to  him — 
but  he  too  was  sometimes  in  the  habit,  it 
seems,  of  checking  his  wanderings,  and  some- 
times of  too  impatiently  anticipating  his  con- 
clusions. Upon  one  of  these  occasion.s,  and 
in  the  middle  of  a  solemn  argument,  we  are 
called  on  to  admire  the  following  piece  of 
vulgar  and  farcical  stupidity,  as  a  specimen 
of  Mr.  C's  most  judicious  pleasantry  : — 

"  '  Perhaps,  my  lord.  I  am  straying;  but  you 
must  impute  it  to  the  e.xireme  asitation  of  my  mind. 
I  have  just  witnessed  so  dreadful  a  circuni.stance, 
that  iny  iinagination  has  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
shof  k.' — His  lordship  was  now  all  attention. — '  On 
my  way  to  court,  my  lord,  as  I  passed  by  one  of 
the  markets,  I  observed  a  butcher  proceeding  to 
slaughter  a  calf.  Ju>t  as  his  hand  was  raised,  a 
lovely  little  child  approached  him  unperceived,  and, 
terrible  to  relate — I  still  see  the  life-blood  giishintr 
out — the  poor  child's  bosom  was  under  his  band, 

when  he  plunged  his  knif't-  into — into' •  Intothr 

bosom  ofthe  child  !'  cri  d  out  the  judge,  wnli  much 
emotion — '  into  liie  ntck  uf  the  calf,  my  lord;  but 
your  lordship  sometimes  anticipates!'  " 

But  this  is  not  quite  fair. — There  is  no  more 
such  nonsense"  in  the  book — nor  any  other 
Iricism  so  discreditable  to  the  taste  either  of 
its  hero  or  its  author.  There  are  plenty  of 
traits,  however,  that  make  one  blush  for  the 
degradation,  and  shudder  at  the  government 
of  that  magnificent  country. — One  of  the  most 
striking  is  supplied  by  an  event  in  the  early 
part  of  Mr.  C's  professional  history,  and  one 
to  which  he  is  here  said  to  have  been  indebted 
for  his  first  ceW^brity.  A  nobleman  of  great 
weight  ai:d  influence  in  the  country — we 
gladly  suppress  his  koiuc,  though  it  is  given 
in  the  book — had  a  jnistress,  whose  brother 
being  a  Catholic,  hud,  for  some  offence,  been 
sentenced  !o  ecclcs'astical  penance — and  the 
young  woman  soiicit*  d  hei  keeper  to  use  his 


influence  with  the  priest  to  obtain  a  remissioti 
His  Lordship  went  accordingly  to  the  cabii 
of  the  aged  pastor,  who  came  bareheaded  t( 
the  door  with  his  missal  in  his  hand  ;  and  al- 
ter hearing  the  application,  respecttullv  an- 
swered, that  the  sentence  havingbeen  imposec 
by  the  Bishop,  could  only  be  rela.xed  by  tht 
same  authority — and  that  he  had  no  right  o 
power  to  interfere  with  it.  The  noble  medi- 
ator, on  this  Mrvck  the  old  vxan  I  and  drovf 
him  witli  repeated  blows  from  his  presence 
The  priest  then  brought  his  action  of  damage.- 
— but  for  a  lona  tiine  could  tind  no  advocate 
hardy  enough  to  undertake  his  cause! — ami 
when  young  Curran  at  last  made  otler  of  hi> 
services,  he  was  blamed  and  pitied  by  all  his 
prudent  friends  for  his  loraantic  and  Quixotic 
rashness. 

These  facts  speak  volumes  as  to  the  utte; 
perversion  of  moral  feeling  that  is  producei! 
by  unjust  laws,  and  the  habits  to  which  lhe\ 
give  rise.  No  nation  is  so  brave  or  so  gencroitV 
as  the  Irish, — and  yet  an  Irish  nobleman  couk! 
be'guilty  of  the  brutality  of  striking  an  aged 
Ecclesiastic  without  derogating  from  his  dig- 
nity or  honour. — No  body  of  men  could  be 
more  intrepid  and  gallant  than  the  leaders  bf 
the  Irish  bar;  and  yet  it  was  thoui^ht  too 
daring  and  presnmpluous  for  any  of  them  to 
assist  the  sufferer  in  obtaining  redress  for  an 
outrage  like  this.  In  England,  those  thing' 
are  inconceivable:  Bui  the  readers  of  Irish 
history  are  awar^.  thnt  \\here  the  questioal j'"''-' 
was  bet  ween  Peer  and  Peasant — and  still  mdfwlli'i'''' 
wheu'it  was  between  Protestant  and  CalholicnSff; 
— the  barristers  had  cause  for  apprehension. 
It  was  but  about  forty  years  before,  that  upon 
a  Catholic  bringing  an  action  tor  the  recovery 
of  his  confiscated  estates,  the  Irish  Hou.*e  of 
Commons  publicly  voted  a  resolution,  -that 
all  barristers,  solicitors,  attorney,s,  and  proctor? 
who  .should  be  concerned  for  him.  should  be 
considered  as  public  enemies  !"  This  was  ni 
1735.  In  1780,  however,  Mr.  C.  fouii.i  the 
service  not  quite  so  dangerous  :  and  by  great 
eloquence  and  e.xcrtion  extorted  a  reluctant 
verdict,  and  thirty  guineas  fif  damsigcs,  from 
a  Protestant  Jury.  The  .sequel  of  the  nffair 
was  not  le.ss  characteristic.  In  the  first  jilace. 
it  involved  the  ativocate  in  a  duel  with  a  \vi;- 
ness  whom  he  had  rather  outntgeou.sl y  alnised 
— and,  in  the  next  place,  ir  was  thousht  suffi- 
cient to  justify  a  public  notilication  to  him,  on 
the  part  of  the  noble  defendant,  that  his  au- 
dacity should  be  puin'shi'd  by  excluding  him 
from  all  professional  employment  wherevei 
his  influence  could  extend.  The  insoleiice 
of  such  a  communication  might  well  have 
warranted  a  warlike  reply :  But  Mr.  C.  e.\ 
pressed  his  contempt  in  a  gayer,  and  not  \t\ 
effectual  .manner.  Pretending  to  niisui 
stand  the  tenor  of  the  message,  he  answe 
aloud,  in  the  hearing  of  his  fnrnds,  ••  My 
sir,  you  may  tell  his  lordship,  that  it  is  ir 
I  for  iiirn  to  be  pro^iosing  terms  of  accommotfi 
!  tion  :  for  after  what  has  happened.  I  pro 
j  think,  while  I  live.  I  never  can  hold  a  bri«>rj 
j  for  him  or  one  of  his  family."'  The  ihreatd 
indeed,  proved  as  impotent  as  it  was  jiittlul  Jr] 
I  for  the    epiril  and    talent   which   the    vonui 


LIFE  OF  CUKRAN. 


•Cl 


(if  we  except  one  or  two  pos- 
ind.M-s)  with  mercv  as  well  as 


^seller  had  displayed  through  the  whole 
gtne,  not  only  brought  him  into  unboumk'd 
pularity  with  the  lower  orders,  but  instantly 
r,  h1  him  to  a  distinguished  place  in  the 
r;  ks  of  his  profession.* 
\''^  turn  gladlvj  and  at  onee,  from  this 
dful  catastrophe.!     Never  certainly  was 

-  '-lived  tranquillity — or  rather  permanent 
ihger  so  dearly  bouirht.  The  vengeance  of 
tl  law  followed  the  havoc  of  the  sword — 
i\  I  here  again  we  meet  ^Ir.  C.  in  his  strength 

his  glory.     But  we  pass  gladly  over  these 
lucholy  trials;  in  which  we  are  far  from 
.,  iinating,  that  there  was  any  reprehensible 
s    ritv  on  the  part  of  the  Government.  When 
Titters  had  come  that  length,  they  had  but 
«i>  duty  before  them — and  they  seem  to  have 
tllcharged   it  (if  we 
tiraous  attai 
f  ness :  for  after  a  certain  number  of  victims 
h  I  b;'e:i  selected,  an  arrangement  was  made 
\  h  the  rest  of  the  state  prisoners,  under 
•h  they  were  allowed  to  expatriate  them- 
's for  life.     It  would  be  improper,  how- 
•   r.  to  leave  the   subject,  without  offering 
1    tribute  of  respect  and  admiration  to  the 

-  :;iilar  courage,  fidelity,  and  humanity,  with 

■h  Mr.  C.  persisted,  throughout  these  ago- 

g  scenes,  in  doins  his  duty  to  the  unfor- 

'.;e  prisoners,  and  watching  over  the  ad- 

istratio'i  of  that  law.  from  the  spectacle  of 

lip  vengeance  there  was  so  many  tempta- 

-  to  withdraw.     This  painful  and  heroic 

h«  undertook — and  never  blenched  from 

jliilment.  in  spite  of  the  toil  and  disgust. 

w\  the  ob'o(]uy  and  personal  hazard,  to  which 

ijr-ontinually  exposed  him.     In  that  inflamed 

f|te  of  the  public  mind,  it  is  easy  to  under- 

ftiid  that  the  advocate  was  frequently  con- 

ijinded  with  the  client :  and  that,  besides  the 

mrderons  vengeance  of  the  proflig-ate  inform- 

ip  he  had  so  often  to  denounce,  he  had  to 

«lcounter  the  passions  and  prejudices  of  all 

pse  who  chose  to  look  on  the  defender  of 

I  tors  as  their  associate.  Instead  of  being 
ered,  therefore,  as  formerly,  by  the  ap- 
iises  of  h's  auditoi-s.  he  was  often  obliged  to 
mit  to  their  angry  interruptions:  and  was 
lally  menanced  more  than  once,  in  the 
n  conrt.  by  the  clashing  arms  and  indis- 
t  menaces  of  the  military  spectators.  He 
excessive  numbers  of  soldiers,  too,  billet- 
on  him,  and  was  in  many  other  ways  ex- 
ed  to  loss  and  vexation  :  But  he  bore  it  all, 
,.h  the  courasfe  of  his  country,  and  the  dig- 
ity  due  to  his  profession — and  consoled  him- 


*  The  srpat'T  nart  of  what  follows  in  the  oriKinnl 
ppr  is  now  oniiitpd  ;  as  loiinhinir  on  points  in  the 
;odern  hi.siory  of  Inland  wliifh  has  been  sufficient- 
idisfURsed  iHider  preeedinff  tiilcs.  I  retain  only 
[hat  nlates  to  Mr.  Ciirran  personally  ;  or  to  those 
I'Piiliariiies  in  his  elnqnenre  whirl:  refer  rather  to 
.<>  ro'intrv  ih;m  to  the  individual:  though,  for  the 
ke  chiefly  of  conneeiion,  I  have  made  one  allusion 
the  sad  and  most  tniirhing  Judicial  Tragedy 
Ihich  followed  up  the  deplorable  Field  scenes  of 
je  rebellion  of  1798. 

[t  The  extinction  of  the  rebellion— by  the  slaugh- 
T  of  fifty  thousand  of  the  insursrents,  and  upwards 
twenty  thousand  of  the  soldiery  and  their  adhe- 
■nts ! 

91 


I  self  for  the  vulgar  calumnies  of  an  infuriated 
I  faction,  in  the  friendship  ami  society  of  such 
I  men  as  Lords  Moira,  Charlemont,  and  Kilwar- 
(U^n — Giattan.  Poiisonby,  and  Flood. 

The  incorporating  union  of  ISOO  is  Siiid  to 
have  filled  Rlr.  C.  with  incurable  despondency 
as  to  the  fate  of  his  country.     We  iiave  great 
indulgence  for  this  feeling — but   we   cannot 
I  sympathise   with    it.     The    Irish    parliament 
j  was  a  miisaiice  that  deserved  to  be  abated — 
I  ami  the  British  legislature,  witli  all  its  Parti- 
alities, and  its  stdl  more  blamabie  neglects, 
may  he  presumed,  we  think,  lo  be  more  ac- 
cessible to  reason,  to  justice,  and  to  shame, 
than  the  body  which  it  superseded.     Mr.  C. 
was  not  in  Parliament  when  that  great  mea- 
sure was  adopted.     But,  in  the  course  of  that 
year,  he  delivered  a  very  able  argument  in 
the  case  of  Napper  Tandy,  of  which  the  only 
published  report  is  to  be  louiul  in  the  volumes 
before  us.     In    1802,  he   made   his   famous 
speech  in  Hevey's  case,  against  Mr.  Sirr,  the 
town-major  of  Dublin  ;  which  affords  a  strong 
picture  of  the  revolting  and  atrocious  barbari- 
ties \\hich  are  necessarily  peqietiated,  when 
the  solemn  tribunals  are  silenced,  and  inferior 
agents  intrusted  with  arbitrary  power.     The 
speech,  in  this  view  of  it,  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  and  instructive  in  the  published  vo- 
!  lume.  which  we  noticed  in  our  thirteenth  vo- 
j  Inme.     During  the  peace  of  Amiens,  ISlr.  C. 
I  made  a  short  excursion  to  Fiance,  and  was  by 
no  means  delighted  with  what  he  saw  there. 
I  In  a  letter  to  his  son  from  Paris,  in  October 
j  1802,  he  says,— 

'<  "  I  am  glad  I  have  come  here.  I  entertained 
j  many  ideas  of  it.  which  I  have  entirely  given  up,  or 
j  very  much  indeed  altered  Never  was  there  a  scene 
I  thai  could  furnish  more  to  the  weeping  or  the  grin- 
ning philosopher  ;  they  well  might  agree  that  lui- 
j  man  affiiirs  were  a  sad  joke.  I  see  it  every  where, 
j  and  in  every  thing.  The  wheel  has  run  a  complete 
I  round  ;  only  changed  some  spokes  atid  a  few  '  fel- 
'.  lows,'  very  little  for  the  better,  but  the  axle  cer- 
j  tainly  has  not  rusted  ;  nor  do  I  see  any  likelihood 
!  of  its  rusting.  At  present  all  is  quiet,  e.\ccpt  the 
I  tongue, — I  bank.*  to  those  invaluable  protectors  of 
peace,  the  army  !  I'' — Vol.  ii.  pp.  206,  207. 

I      The  public  life  of  Mr.  C.  was  now  drawing 
j  to  a  close.     He  distinguished  himself  in  1804 
1  in  the  Marquis  of  Headfort's  case,  and  in  that 
t  of  Judae  John.son  in  1805  :  But,  on  the  acces- 
{  sioii  of  the  Whigs  to  otlice  in   1806,  he  was 
!  appointed  to  the  situation  of  Master  of  the 
'  Rolls,  and  never  afterwards  made  any  public 
j  appearance.     He  was  not  .sati.sfied  with  this 
appointment :  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his 
j  dissatisfaction.     His  temper,  perhaps,  was  by 
this  time  somewhat  soured  by  ill  health  :  and 
his  notion  of  his  own  importance  exaggerated 
by  the  flattery  of  which  he  had  long  been  the 
daily  object.  "  Perhaps,  too,  the  sndden  with- 
drawinsr  of  those  tasks  and   excitements,  to 
which  he  had  been  so  long  accustomed,  co- 
operating with  the  languor  of  declining  age, 
may  have  affected  his  views  of  his  own  situa- 
tion :  But  it   certainly  appears   that  he  was 
never  very  gay  or  good-humoured  after  his 
promotion — and  passed  but  a  dull  and  peevish 
time  of  it  during  the  remainder  of  his  life.  In 
1810,  he  went,  for  the  first  lime,  to  Scotland  3 
3L 


722 


MfSCELLANEOUS. 


and  we  cannot  deny  our  nationality  the  plea- 
sure of  his  honest  testimony.  He  writes  thus 
to  a  friend  soon  after  his  arrival  on  our  shore : — 

"  I  am  greatly  delishted  with  this  country.  You 
see  no  trace  here  of  the  devil  working  against  the 
wisdom  and  beneficence  of  God.  and  torturing  and 
degradi'12  his  creatures.  It  may  seem  the  rornanc- 
ing  of  travelling;  but  I  am  satisfied  of  the  fact,  that 
the  poorest  man  here  has  his  children  taught  to  read 
and  V  ri'e.  and  that  in  every  house  is  found  a  Bible, 
and  in  almost  every  house  a  clock:  And  the  fruits 
of  this  are  manifest  in  the  intelligence  and  manners 
of  all  ranks.  In  Scotland,  what  a  work  have  the 
four-and-twenty  letters  to  show  for  themselvi's!  — 
the  natural  enemies  of  vice,  and  folly,  and  slavery  : 
the  great  sowers,  but  the  still  greaier  weeders,  of 
tbe  human  soil.  Nowhere  can  you  see  here  the 
cringing  hypocrisy  of  dissembled  detestation,  so  in- 
separable (rom  oppression:  and  as  little  do  yon 
meet  the  hard,  and  dull,  and  right-lined  angles  of 
the  southern  visage;  you  find  the  notion  exact  and 
the  phrase  direct,  with  the  natural  tone  of  the  Scot- 
tish muse. 

"  The  first  night,  at  Ballintray,  the  landlord  at- 
tended us  at  supper;  he  would  do  so.  ihouwh  we 
begged  him  not.  We  talked  to  him  of  the  cultiva- 
tion of  potatoes.  I  said,  I  wondered  at  his  taking 
them  in  place  of  his  native  food,  oatmeal,  so  much 
more  subsrantial.  His  answer  struck  me  as  very 
characteristic  of  the  genius  of  Scotland — frugal, 
tender,  and  picturesque.  'Sir,'  said  he,  'we  are 
not  so  much  i'  the  wrong  as  you  think  ;  the  tilth  is 
easy,  they  are  swift  i'  the  cooking,  they  take  little 
fuel ;  and  then  it  is  pleasant  to  see  the  gude  wile 
wi'  a'  her  bairns  aboot  the  pot,  and  each  wi'  a  po- 
tatoe  in  its  hand.'  " — Vol.  ii.  pp.  254 — 256. 

There  are  various  other  interesting:  letters 
in  these  volumes,  and  in  particular  a  Ions  one 
to  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  in  favour  of  Catholic 
Emancipation  ;  but  we  can  no  longer  afford 
room  for  extracts,  and  must  indeed  hurry 
through  our  abstract  of  what  remains  to  be 
noticed  of  his  life.  He  canvas.sed  the  burgh 
ef  Newry  unsuccessfully  in  1812.  His  health 
failed  very  much  in  1813  ;  and  the  year  after, 
he  resigned  his  situation,  and  came  over  to 
London  in  his  way  to  France.  He  seems  at 
no  time  to  have  had  much  relish  for  English 
society.  In  one  of  his  early  letters,  he  com- 
plains of  '-'the  proud  awkward  sulk"  of  Lon- 
don company,  and  now  he  characterises  it 
with  still  greater  severity  : — 

"  I  question  if  it  is  nutch  better  in  Paris.  Here 
the  parade  is  gross,  and  cold,  and  vulgar;  there  ii 
is.  no  doubt,  more  flippant,  and  the  anitude  more 
graceful;  but  in  either  place  is  not  Society  equally 
a  tyrant  and  a  slave?  The  judgment  despises  it. 
and  the  heart  renounces  it.  We  seek  it  because 
we  are  idle ;  we  arc  idle  because  we  are  silly  ;  and 
the  natural  remedy  is  some  social  intercourse,  of 
which  a  few  drops  would  restore  ;  but  we  swallow 
the  whole  vial,  and  are  sicker  of  the  remedy  'han 
we  were  of  the  disease." — Vol.  ii.  pp.  337,  338. 

And  again,  a  little  after, — 

"  England  is  not  a  place  for  society.  It  is  loo 
cold,  too  vain, — withoiu  piide  enough  to  be  hum- 
ble, drowned  in  dull  fantastical  formality,  vulgarized 
by  rank  without  talent,  and  talent  foolishly  recom- 
mending itself  by  weight  rather  than  by  fashion — 
a  perpetual  war  between  the  disappointed  preten- 
sion of  talent  and  the  stupid  overweening  of  afftci- 
ed  patronage;  means  without  enjoyment,  pursuits 
without  an  object,  and  society  without  conversation 
or  intercourse :  Perhaps  they  manage  this  better  in 
France — a  ''ew  davs.  I  think,  will  enable  me  to 
detide."— Vol.  ii.  pp.  3'ir',  346. 


In  France,  nowever,  he  was  not  miichlxi  <fM 
ter  off — and  returned,  complaining  of  a  col  '' 
stitutional  dejection,  -for  which  he  could  fit' 
no  remedy  in  water  or  in  wine.''  He  rejoic 
in  the  downfall  of  Bonaparte  :  and  is  of  opinji 
that  the  Revolution  had  thrown  that  count 
a  century  back.  In  spring  1817.  he  began 
sink  rapidly ;  and  had  a  slight  })araiytic  attm 
in  one  of  his  hands.  He  proposed  to  t 
another  visit  to  France  ;  and  still  complaint 
of  the  depression  of  his  spirits  :^-'- he  had 
mountain  of  lead  (he  said)  on  his  heart 
Early  in  October,  he  had  a  very  severe  shot 
of  apoplexy,  and  lingered  till  the  14lh,  wht 
he  expired  in  his  68th  year. 

There  is  a  very  able  and  eloquent  chapt 
on  the  character  of  Mr.  Curran's  eloquence- 
encomiastic  of  course,  but  written  with  grf 
temper,  talent,  and  discrimination.  Its  char 
and  its  defects,  the  learned  author  refers 
the  state  of  genuine  passion  and  veheme; 
emotion  in  which  all  his  best  performanci 
were  delivered:  and  speaks  of  its  effects  ( 
his  auditors  of  all  desciiptions,  in  terms  whii 
can  leave  no  doubt  of  its  substantial  e.\ce 
lence.  We  cannot  now  enter  into  these  rhetoi 
cal  disquisitions — though  they  are  full  of  ii 
terest  and  instruction  to  the  lovers  of  orator 
It  is  more  within  our  province  to  notice,  thi 
he  is  here  said  to  have  spoken  extempore ; 
his  first  coming  to  the  Bar;  but  when  his  rigii 
reputation  made  him  more  chary  of  his  fani 
he  tried  for  some  time  to  write  down,  and  con 
mit  to  memory,  the  more  important  parts  c 
hispleadings.  The  result,  however,  was  not 
all  encouraging :  and  he  soon  laid  aside  hisp' 
so  entirely,  as  scarcely  even  to  make  any  noti 
in  preparation.  He  meditated  his  subject 
however,  when  strolling  in  his  oti  den,  or  mo 
frequently  while  idling  over  his  violin  :  ar 
often  prepared,  in  this  way,  those  splendi 
pas.saces  and  erronps  of  images  with  which  1 
was  afterwards  to  dazzle  and  enchant  his  a. 
mirers.  The  only  notes  he  made  were  ofte 
of  the  metaphors  he  proposed  to  employ — an 
these  of  the  utmost  brevity.  For  the  grai. 
peroration,  for  example,  in  H.  Rowan's  casi 
his  notes  were  as  follows: — '-Character  ( 
Mr.  R.  —  Furnace  —  BrhcUion  —  smothered - 
Stalks — Rcdcemiiis  Spirit."'  From  such  -jligi 
hints  he  spoke  fearlessly — and  AAitliout  cau.' 
for  fear.  With  the  help  of  such  a  scan! 
chart,  he  plunged  boldly  into  the  unbuoyt' 
channel  of  his  cause:  and  trusted  himself  t 
the  torrent  of  his  own  eloquence,  Avith  ii 
better  jruidance  than  .such  landmarks  as  the.s< 
It  almost  invariably  happened,  however,  th; 
the  experiment  succeeded:  "that  his  ow 
expectations  were  far  exceeded  :  and  tha 
when  his  mind  came  to  be  more  intenscl 
heated  by  his  subject,  and  by  that  inspiriii 
confidence  which  a  public  audience  .seklo! 
fails  to  infuse  into  all  who  are  sufTicientl 
gifted  to  receiA-e  it.  a  multitude  of  new  idea; 
adding  vigour  or  ornament,  were  given  oft 
and  it  also  happened,  that,  in  the  same  pre 
lific  moments,  and  as  fheir  almost  inevitabi 
consequence,  some  crude  and  fantastic  notion 
escaped:  which,  if  they  impeach  tlieir  ni. 
thor's  taste,  at  least  leave  him  the  merit  of  ; 


LIFE  OF  CURPxAN. 


723 


jp  idid  fault,  which  none  but  men  c.  \;eniiis 

calcommit.-'  (pp.  403,  404.)     The  best  ex- 

nliatioii  of  his  success,  and  the  best  apology 

I  lis  detects  as  a  .speaker,  is  to  be  IoiiikI,  \ve 

■ve,  in  the  following  candid  passage; — 

1  lie  Juries  amonir  whom  he  was  thrown,  and 
K)nlioin  he  originally  formed  his  stylo,  were  iioi 
,'iidii'US  iritics;  ihey  wvm  more  iisuaUy  iiumi 
riluiiding  in  rude  «np<.)lished  syni{j;ithtfs,  and  who 
w  ■  ready  to  surrender  the  (reassure,  ot'  which 
th  scarcely  knew  ihe  value,  to  liim  that  offered 
ih  1  the  most  allwitng  toys,  Whaiever  iiiighi  have 
h(i  his  own  Ixjtier  tasie,  as  an  advocate  lie  soon 
di'ovcred,  that  ihe  surest  way  to  persurde  was  lo 
c( -liiate  by  arausing  them.  With  thtni  he  found 
lli  hisimaginaiion  might  revel  unrestraini.d  ;  ihai, 
tvliti  once  the  work  of  intoxication  %vas  begun, 
ii^y  wayward  fancy  and  wild  expression  was  as 
««ptabie  and  effectual  as  the  niosi  retined  wit  ; 
•ilthat  the  favour  which  ihcy  would  have  refused 
XCfie  unattractive  reasoner,  or  to  ilie  too  disiaiii 
a  formal  orator,  ihey  had  not  the  firmness  to 
wihold,  when  solicited  with  the  gay  per.suasive 
1;  iliarity  of  a  companion.  These  careless  or  li- 
ciious  habits,  encouraged  by  early  applause  and 
V  ory,  were  never  thrown  aside  ;  and  we  can  ob- 
s.'e,  in  almost  all  his  productions,  no  matter  how 
fljUst  the  audience,  or  how  solemn  the  occasion, 
',  his  mind  is  perpetually  relapsing  into  its  priini- 

indulgences." — pp.  412,  413. 

learned  author  closes  this  verj-  able 
eloquent  dissertation  with  some  remarks 
m  what  he  says  is  now  denominated  the 
sh  school  of  eloquetice ;  and  seems  inclined 
leny  that  its  piofusion  of  imagery  implies 
deficiency,  or  even  neglect  of  argument. 
we  had  some  share,  we  believe,  in  impo- 
_  this  denomination,  we  may  be  pardoned 
feeling  some  little  anxiety  that  it  .should 
rightly  undei-stood ;  and  beg  leave  there- 
le  to  say,  that  we  are  as  far  as  possible  from 
illding.  that  the  greatest  richness  of  imagery 
|cessai-ily  exckules  close  or  accurate  reason- 
:fe:  holding,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  is  fre- 
•Tenlly  its  most  appropriate  vehicle  and  na- 
jral  e.xponeut — as   in    Lord    Bacon,    Lord 
liatham,  and  Jeremy  Taylor.     But  the  elo- 
iience  we  wished   to  characterise,   is   that 
(here  the  figures  and  ornaments  of  speech 
|i  interfere  with  its  substantial  object — where 
tncy  is  not  ministrant   but    predominant — 
here  the   imagination  is  not  merely  awak- 
|ied,  but  intoxicated  —  and  either  overlays 
|id  obscures  the  sense,  or  frolics  and  gambols 
found  it,   to  the  disturbance  of  its  march, 
jid  the  weakening  of  its  array  for  the  con- 
[st : — And  of  this  kind,  we  still  humbly  think, 
as  the  eloquence  of  Mr.  Carran. 
!  His  biographer  says,  indeed,  that  it  is  amis- 
like  to  call  it  L-ish,  becatise  Swift  and  Gold- 
(nith  had  none  of  it — and  Milton  and  Bacon 
nd  Chatham  had  much ;  and  moi  eover,  that 
•urke  and  Grattan  and  Curran  had  each  a 
jislinctive  style  of  eloquence,  and  ought  not 
p  be  classed  together.     How  old  the  style 
iiay  be  in  Ireland,  we  cannot  undertake  to 
ay — though  we  think  there  are  traces  of  it 
|n  Ossian.    We  would  observe  too,  that,  though 
iorn  in  Ireland,  neither  Swift  nor  Goldsmith 
ivere  trained  in  the  Irish  school,  oi-  worked 
or  the  Irish  market :  and  we  have  already 
aid.  that  it  is  totally  to  mistake  our  concep- 
ion  of  the  style  in  question,  to  ascribe  any 


tincture  of  it  to  such  writers  as  Milton,  Racon. 
or  Taylor.  There  is  fancy  ami  limire  enough 
certaiidy  in  their  compositions:  liiit  lliere  i> 
no  intoxication  of  tlie  fancy,  and  no  rioting 
and  revelling  iimoni^  ligures — no  uiigoverned 
and  ungovernable  iniimlse — no  fond  dalliance 
with  metaphors — no  mad  and  Iieadlong  jjur- 
suit  of  brilliant  images  and  pi.^sioiiate  ex- 
pressions—  no  lingering  among  tropes  and 
melodies — no  giddy  bandying  "of  antitheses 
and  allusions — no  craving,  in  short,  for  jier- 
petual  glitter,  and  jianting  after  c'lrect.  till 
both  speaker  and  hearer  are  lost  in  the 
s])lendid  confusion,  and  the  argument  evapo- 
rates in  the  heat  which  was  meant  to  enforce 
it.  This  is  perhaps  too  stiongly  put;  but 
there  are  large  portion?  of  Mr.  C.'s  Speeches 
to  which  we  think  the  substance  of  the  de- 
scription will  apply.  Take,  for  in.stance.  a 
pssage.  very  much  praisetl  in  the  work  l>e- 
fore  us,  in  his  argument  in  Judge  Johnson's 
case, — tui  argument,  it  will  be  remembered, 
on  a  point  of  law,  and  addressed  not  loa  Jury, 
but  to  a  Judge. 

"lam  not  ignorant  that  this  extraordinary  con- 
struction has  received  the  sanction  of  Qiioiher  Court, 
nor  of  the  surprise  and  dismav  wiiij  which  it  smote 
upon  the  iicveial  heart  of  the  Bar.  I  am  tiware  that 
I  may  have  tlie  mortification  of  being  lold,  in  an- 
other country,  of  that  unhappy  decision  ;  and  I 
foresee  in  what  confusion  I  shall  hang  down  my 
head  when  I  am  told  of  it.  But  I  cherish,  loo,  the 
consolatory  ho|ie,  that  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  them, 
that  I  had  an  old  and  learned  friend,  whom  I  would 
put  above  all  the  awetpitiirs  of  their  Flail  (no  great 
compliment,  we  should  think),  who  was  of  a  differ- 
ent opinion — who  had  derived  his  ideas  of  civil 
liberty  from  the  purest  fountains  ot  Athens  and  of 
Rome — who  had  fed  the  youthful  vigour  of  his 
studious  mind  with  the  theoretic  knowledge  of  their 
wisest  philosophers  and  statesmen — and  who  had 
refined  that  theory  into  the  tpiick  and  exquisite 
sensibility  of  moral  instinct,  by  contemplating  the 
practice  of  their  most  illustrious  exionples — by 
dwelling  on  the  sweet-aouled  piety  of  Cimon — on 
the  aHliripuled  Christianity  of  Socrates — on  the 
giiUurit  and  pathetic  patriotism  of  Epaviinondas — 
on  that  pure  austerity  of  Fabricius,  whom  to  move 
from  his  integrity  would  have  been  more  dilliruli 
than  to  have  ptished  the  sun  from  his  course  !  I 
would  add,  that  if  he  had  seemed  to  hesitate,  it 
was  but  (or  a  moment — thai  his  hesitation  was  like 
the  passiTJST  cloud  that  foots  across  the  morni/if;  sun, 
and  hides  it  from  the  view,  and  does  so  for  a  mo- 
ment hide  it,  hy  ivvolvinf^  the  spectator  without  even 
approaching  the  face  of  the  luminary. — And  this 
soothing  hope  1  draw  Ir'om  the  dearest  and  tenderesi 
recollections  of  my  life — from  the  remembrance  of 
those  attic  ni<;hts,  and  thof^e  refections  of  the  gods, 
which  we  have  spent  with  those  admired,  and  re- 
spected, and  beloved  companions,  who  have  gone 
before  us;  over  whose  ashes  the  most  precious 
tears  of  Ireland  have  been  shed.  [Here  Lord 
.^vonmore  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into 
tears.]  Yes,  my  good  Lord,  I  see  you  do  not  for- 
get them.  I  see  their  sacred  forms  passinjr  in  sad 
review  before  your  memory.  I  see  your  pained  and 
softened  fanri/  recalling  those  happy  meetings,  where 
itifi  iiuio'ceni  enjoyment  of  social  mirth  became  ex- 
paiidtd  into  the  nobler  warmth  of  social  virtue,  and 
the  horizon  of  the  hoard  became  enlarged  into  the 
horizon  of  man— whert:  the  swelling  heart  conceived 
and  communicated  the  pure  and  generous  purpose- 
where  my  slenderer  atid  younger  taper  imbibed  its 
borrowed  light  from  the  more  matured  and  rrduv- 
daiit  fountain  of  yours."— Vol.  i.  pp.  i;V.t— 118. 

Now,  we  must  candidly  confess,  that  wa 


724 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


do  not  remember  ever  to  have  read  any  thing  I 
much  more  absurd  than  this — and  that  the  | 
puerility  and  folly  of  the  classical  intrusions  | 
js  even  less  offensive,  than  the  heap  of  incon- 
gruous metaphors  by  which  the  meaning  is 
obscured.     Does   the   learned    author   really  ! 
mean  to  contend,,   that  the  metaphors   here 
add  either  force  or  beauty  to  the  sentiment  ?  ' 
or  that  Bacon  or  JNlilton  ever  wrote  any  thing 
like  this  upon  such  a  topic  ?   In  his  happier 
moments,   and   more   vehement   adjurations, 
Mr.  C.  is  often  beyond  all  question  a  great 
and   commanding   orator;   and   we   have  no' 
doubt  was,  to  those  who  had  the  happiness  , 
of  hearing  him.  a  much  greater  orator  than  ! 
the  mere  readers  of  his  speeche.s  have  any  , 
means  of  conceiving: — But  we  really  cannot  j 
help  repeating  our  protest  against  a  style  of  | 
composition  which  could  betray  its  great  mas-  . 
ter,  and  that  very  frequently,  into  such  pus-  , 
sa^es  as  those  we  have  just  e.xtracted.     The  j 
mischief  is  not  to  the  master — whose  genius 
could  efface  all  such  stains,  and  whose  splen-  j 
did  successes  woulil  .*ink  his  failures  in  obli-  j 
vion — but  to  the  pupils,  and  to  the   public.  I 
whose  taste  that  very  genius  is  thus  instru-  i 
mental  in  corrupting.     If  young  law  yers  are 
taught  to  consider  this  as  the   style  which  I 
should  be  aimed  at  and  encouraged,  to  ren-  { 
der  Judges  benevolent, — by  comparing  them 
to  "the  sweet-souled  Cimon."  and  the  '•i.'al-  ' 
lant   Epaminondas :''   or  to   talk  about    their 
own  ••  young  and  slender  tapers.'"  and  --the  i 
clouds   and   the  morning   .sun." — with  what  j 
precious  stuff  will  the  Courts  and  the  country  | 
be  infested !    It  is  not  difficult  to  imitate  the  i 
defects  of  'such  a  style — and  of  all  defects  ! 
they   are   the   most    nauseous    in    imitation. 
Even  in  the  hands  of  men  of  genius,  the  risk  j 
i.s,  that  the  longer  such  a  style  is  cultivated,  j 
the  more  extravagant  it  will  grow, — ^just  as  { 
those  who  deal  in  other  means  of  into.xica-  I 
tion.  are  tempted  to  strengthen  the  mixture  I 
as  they  proceed.     The   learned   and  candid  j 
author  before  us.  testifies  this  to  have  been  | 
the  progress  of  Mr.  C.  himself— and  it  is  still  j 
more  strikingly  illustrated  by  the  history  of  his  ' 
models  and  imitators.      Mi"  Burke  had  much  ' 
less  of  this  extravairance  than  Mr.  Gratlan —  : 
Mr.  Grattan  much  less  than  Mr.  Curran — and  , 
Mr.  Curran  mucii  less  than  Mr.  Phillips.— It  I 
is  really  of  some  importarice  that  the  climax  ■ 
should  be  closeil,  .•somewhere.  I 

There  is  a  concluding  chapter,  in  which  ! 
Mr.  C.'s  skill  in  cross-examination,  ajid  his  | 
conversational  brilliancy,  are  commemorated  ;  I 
as  well  as  the  general  simplicitv  and  affability  j 
of  his  manners,  and  his  personal  habits  anil  | 
peculiarities.  He  was  not  a  profound  lawyer, 
nor  much  of  a  general  .=cholar.  though  reason-  i 
ably  well  acquainted  with  all  the  branches  of 
polite  literature,  and  an  eager  reader  of  jiovels  ! 


— being  often  caught  sobbing  over  the  pa^j 
of  Richardson,  or  laughing  at  the  humoi'^f 
Cervantes,  with  an  unrestrained  vehenn  -e 
which  reminds  us  of  that  of  Voltaire,  le 
spoke  very  slow,  both  in  public  and  pri^o. 
and  was  remarkably  s<nupulous  in  his  di  v 
of  words :  He  slept  very  little,  and.  like  J.  ;. 
son.  was  always  averse  to  retire  at  ni<;  ^ 
lingering  long  after  he  arose  to  depart — ai; 
his  own  house,  often  following  one  of  hisgi.  , 
to  his  chamber,  and  renewing  the  conversi 
for  an  hour.  He  was  habitually  abstnient  ; 
temperate  :  and,  from  his  youth  up,  in  spii .; 
all  his  vivacity,  the  victim  of  a  constituli  il 
melancholy.  His  wit  is  said  to  have  been  re' v 
and  brilliant,  and  altogether  without  ;  i 
But  the  credit  of  this  testimony  is  somev  ; 
weakened  by  a  l.ttle  selection  of  his  . 
n}ots.  with  which  we  are  furnished  in  a  n 
The  greater  part,  we  own.  appear  to  us  !>  • 
rather  >'ulgar  and  ordinary:  as.  when  a  :  u 
of  the  name  of  Halfpenny  was  desired  byjie  ^ 
Judge  to  sit  down,  ]\Ir.  C.  said.  '-I  thank  'fi  f- 
Lordship  for  having  at  last  nailed  lliat  rilo 
the  counter;."'  or,  when  ob.serving  upon  - 
singular  pace  of  a  Judge  who  was  lame  . 
s;xid,  ••  Don't  you  see  that  one  leg  goes  be!  •. 
like  a  fipstaffj  to  make  room  for  the  othe  ' 
— or,  when  vindicating  his  countrymen  f  n 
the  charge  of  being  naturally  vicious,  he  si, 
■He  had  never  yet  heard  of  an  Irishman  b«'g 
horn  drtink.'  The  following,  howeveriis 
good — ''I  can"t  tell  yon.  Curran,'"  obsei  .' 
an  Irish  nobleman,  who  had  voted  for 
Union,  '•  how  frightful  our  old  House  of  C 
mons  appears  to  me."  '-Ah!  my  Lord," 
plied  the  other,  '-it  is  only  natural  for  ^: 
derers  to  be  afraid  of  Ghosts;"" — and  ih  is 
at  least  grotesque.  "Beinjr  asked  whalii 
Irish  gentleman,  just  arrived  in  EiiLdand.  ci  d 
mean  by  perpetnally  putting  out  his  long;? 
Answer — -I  suppose  he's  trying  to  calcku 
English  accent.^  '■  In  his  last  illness,  his  ph|i- 
cian  observing  in  the  mornnifr  that  he  .seeiid  .i 
to  cough  with  more  ditfirulty.  he  answe^l, 
"that  is  rather  surprising,  as  I  have  In 
practising  all  night." 

But  these  things  are  of  little  consequei  ^ 
Mr.  Curran  was  something  much  better  im 
a  saver  of  smart  sayings.  He  was  a  love'f 
his  country — and  its  fearless,  its  devoted.  ,d 
indefatigable  servant.  To  his  energy  and  .1- 
ents  she  w  as  perhaps  indebted  for  some  nii- 
iration  of  her  sufferings  in  the  days  of  hert;- 
tremity — and  to  these,  at  all  events,  the  pUiC 
has  been  indebted,  in  a  areaf  degree.  foriC 
knowledge  they  now  have  of  her  wrongs;  il 
for  the  feeling  which  that  knowledge  s 
excited,  of  the  necessity  of  granting  them  '- 
dress.  It  is  in  this  character  that  he  nst 
have  most  wished  to  be  remembered,  an<  n 
which  he  has  .most  deserved  it. 


SIMOND'S  SWITZERLAND. 


r25 


( ^  0  u  c  111  b  c  r ,  1 S  0  0 . ) 

^itzerland,  or  a  Journal  of  a  Tour  arul  Rcxidcucc  in  thut  Country  in  llie  Yearx  1817,  IS  is, 
M  1819-  FoUoircd  by  an  Historical  Sketch  of  the  Manners  and  Customs  of  Ancunt  uud 
lodern  Helvetia,  in  which  the  Events  of  our  own  time  arc  fullij  detailed ;  toiiellur  tilth  the 
fJauses  to  which  they  may  be  referred.  By  L.  Simond,  AiUlior  ot'jouriial  of  a  Tour  ami  JU-hi- 
lencein  Great  Britain  during  the  Years  1810  ami  1811.     In  2  vols.  8vo.     London  :   1822. • 


Simond  is  already  well  known  in  this 
^ntry  as  the  author  of  one  of  the  best  ac- 
tjuts  of  it  that  has  ever  been  given  to  the 
|rld,  either  by  native  or  foreigner — the  full- 
1  certainly,  and  the  most  unprejudicetl — 
}j  containing  the  most  faithful  descriptions 
Ilh  of  the  a.spect  of  our  country,  and  the  pe- 
diarilies  of  our  manners  and  character,  that 
lis  yet  come  under  our  observation.  There 
h  some  mistakes,  and  some  rash  judgments; 
it  nothing  can  exceed  the  candour  of  the 
Jtimate,  or  the  fairness  and  independence  of 
(irit  with  which  it  is  made  ;  while  the  whole 
[pervaded  by  a  vein  of  original  thought, 
vays  .<;agacious.  and  not  unfrequently  pro- 
aiid.  The  main  fault  of  that  book,  as  a 
)rk  of  permanent  interest  and  instruction, 
iiich  it  might  otherwise  have  been,  is  the 
»  great  space  which  is  alloted  to  the  tran- 
'nt  occurrences  and  discussions  of  the  time 
which  it  refers — most  of  which  have  al  ready 
3t  their  interest,  and  not  only  read  like  old 
!ws  and  stale  politics,  but  have  extended 
r  own  atmosphere  of  repulsion  to  many 
Imirable  remarks  and  valuable  suggestions, 
■  which  they  happen  to  be  the  vehicles. 
;  The  work  before  us  is  marked  by  the  same 
icellences.  and  is  nearly  free  from  the  faults 
I  which  we  have  ju.st  alluded.  In  spile  of 
Ms,  however — perhaps  even  in  consequence 
i'  it — we  suspect  it  will  not  generally  be 
liought  so  entertaining;  the  scene  being  nec- 
jssarily  so  much  narrower,  and  the  persons 
'^  the  drama  fewer  and  less  diversified.  The 
{ork,  however,  is  full  of  admirable  description 
[id  original  remark : — nor  do  we  know  any 
look  of  travels,  ancient  or  modern,  which 
bntains.  in  the  same  compass,  so  many 
raphic  and  animated  delineations  of  exter- 
jal  objects,  or  so  many  just  and  vigorous  ob- 
'?rvations  on  the  moral  phenomena  it  records, 
i'he  most  remarkable  thing  about  it.  however 
(-and  it  occurs  equally  in  the  author's  former 
lublicatioii — is  the  singular  combination  of 
nthusiasm  and  austerity  that  appears  both  in 
':ie  descriptive,  and  the  rea.soning  or  ethical 
arts  of  the  performance — the  perpetual  strug- 
'le  that  seems  to  exist  between  the  feelings 
nd  fancy  of  the  author,  and  the  sterner  in- 
iraations  of  his  understanding:.     There   is, 


[  *  I  reprint  n  jjart  of  iliis  paper: — partly  out  of  love 
'•<  the  memory  of  the  iiuihor.  who  wa.s  my  coniiec- 
li'in  and  pariicular  friend  : — hut  chiefly  for  ihe  sake 
I'l  his  remarks  on  our  English  manners,  and  my 
pidgmerit  on  these  remarks — which  I  would  ven- 
[iire  10  f!ul)init  to  the  sensitive  patriots  of  America, 
I"  a  epecirnen  of  the  temperance  with  which  ihe  pa- 
jri.iis..fi„hT  countries  can  deal  with  the  censors  of 
'liu.r  ..a:io:iai  habits  and  pretensions  to  fine  breeding. 


accordingly,  in  all  his  moral  and  j)olitical  ob- 
servations at  least,  a  constant  allernalion  of 
romantic  jjlulunthropy  and  bitter  Kiica.sni — of 
the  most  caj)livating  views  ot  ajipaient  luip- 
pinessand  virtue,  and  the  must  reicntlc.-<sdi«- 
closures  of  actual  guilt  and  misery — of  the 
sweetest  and  most  i)lansible  illusions,  and  the 
most  withering  and  chilling  truliis. '  He  ex- 
patiates, lor  example,  through  many  jiagep, 
on  the  heroic  valour  and  devoleil  patriotism 
of  the  old  Helvetic  worthie.'^.  with  the  memo- 
rials of  which  the  face  of  their  country  is 
covered — and  then  proceeds  to  dissect  tlieir 
character  and  manners  with  the  most  cruel 
particularity,  and  makes  them  out  to  have 
been  most  barbarous,  venal,  and  unju*t.  In 
the  same  way,  he  bewitches  his  readers  with 
seducing  pictures  of  the  peace,  simplicity,  in- 
dependence, and  honesty  of  the  mountain 
villagers;  and  by  and  by  takes  occasion  to 
tell  us.  that  they  are  not  only  more  stupid, 
but  more  corrupt  than  the  inhabitants  of  cities. 
He  eulogises  the  solid  learning  and  domestic 
habits  that  prevail  at  Zurich  and  Geneva;  and 
then  makes  it  known  to  us  that  they  are  in- 
fested with  faction  and  ennui.  He  draws  a 
delightful  picture  of  the  white  cottages  and 
smiling  pastures  in  which  the  cheerful  peas- 
ants of  the  Engadine  have  their  romantic 
habitations — and  then  cast.s  us  down  from 
our  elevation  without  the  least  pity,  by  in- 
forming u.'*,  that  the  best  of  them  are  those 
who  have  returned  fiom  hawking  stucco  jmr- 
rots.  sixpenny  looking-glasses,  and  coloured 
sweetmeats  through  all  the  towns  of  Europe. 
He  is  always  strong  for  liberty,  and  indignant 
at  oppression — but  cannot  settle  very  well  in 
what  liberty  consists ;  and  seem.s  to  suspect, 
at  last,  that  political  rights  are  oftener  a  source 
of  disorder  than  of  comfort:  and  that  if  per- 
son and  property  are  tolerably  secure,  it  is 
mere  quixotism  to  look  further. 

So  strong  a  contrast  of  wann  feelings  and 
cold  reasonings,  such  animating  and  such  de- 
spairing views  of  the  nature  and  destiny  of 
mankind;  are  not  often  to  be  found  in  the  .same 
mind — and  still  less  frequently  in  the  same 
book  :  And  yet  they  amount  but  to  an  extreme 
case,  or  strong  example,  of  the  inconsistencies 
through  which  all  men  of  generous  temp«T8 
and  vieorous  understandings  are  perpetually 
passing,  as  the  one  or  the  oilier  ])art  of  their 
constitution  assumes  the  a.scendant.  There 
are  many  of  our  good  feelings,  we  su.'^pecl, 
and  some  even  of  our  good  principles,  that 
rest  upon  a  sort  of  illusion  ;  or  carniot  submit 
at  least  to  be  questioned  by  fritrid  reason, 
without  bein-r  for  the  time  a  good  ib'al  dis- 
couutenauced  and  imi)aired— and  this  wc  lake 
3  L  2 


726 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


to  be  very  clearly  the  case  with  M.  Simond. 
His  temperament  is  plainly  enthusiastic,  and 
his  fancy  powerful  :  But  his  reason  is  active 
and  exacting,  and  his  love  of  truth  paramount 
to  all  other  considerations.  His  natural  sym- 
pathies are  with  all  fine  and  all  lofty  qualities 
— but  it  is  his  honest  conviction,  that  happi- 
ness is  most  securely  built  of  more  vulijar 
materials — and  that  there  is  even  something 
ridiculous  in  investing  our  humble  human  na- 
ture with  these  magnificent  attributes.  At 
all  events  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  of  his  sin- 
cerity in  both  parts  of  the  representation  ; — 
for  there  is  not  the  least  appearance  of  a  love 
of  paradox,  or  a  desire  to  produce  eflect  •  and 
nothing  can  be  so  striking  as  the  air  of  candour 
and  impartiality  that  prevails  through  the 
whole  work.  If  any  traces  of  prejudice  may 
still  be  detected,  they  have  manifestly  sur- 
vived the  most  strenuous  efforts  to  efface 
them.  The  strongest,  we  think,  are  against 
French  character  and  English  manners — with 
some,  perhaps,  against  the  French  Revolntion. 
and  its  late  Imperial  consummator.  He  is 
verj'  prone  to  admire  Nature — but  not  easily 
satisfied  with  Man  : — and,  though  most  in- 
tolerant of  intolerance,  and  most  indulgent  to 
those  defects  of  which  adventitiousadvantages 
make  men  most  impatient,  he  is  evidently  of 
opinion  that  scarcely  any  thing-  is  exactly  as 
it  should  be  in  the  present  state  of  society — 
and  that  little  more  can  be  said  for  most 
existing  habits  and  institutions,  than  that 
they  have  been,  and  might  have  been,  still 
worse. 

He  sets  out  for  the  most  picturesque  country 
of  Europe,  from  that  which  is  certainly  the 
least  so  : — and  gives  the  first  indications  of  his 
sensitiveness  on  these  topics,  by  a  passing 
critique  on  the  ancient  chateaus  of  France, 
and  their  former  inhabitants.  We  may  as 
well  introduce  him  to  our  readers  with  this 
passage  as  with  any  other. 


"A  few  comfortable  residences,  scattered  about 
the  country,  have  lately  put  us  in  mind  how  very 
rare  they  are  in  general :  Instead  of  i  hem,  you  meet, 
not  unfrequentfy,  some  ten  or  twenty  miserable 
hovels,  crowded  together  round  what  was  formerly 
the  stronghold  of  the  lord  of  the  manor;  a  narrow, 
dark,  prison-like  building,  with  small  grated  win- 
dows, embattled  walls,  and  turrets  peeping  over 
thatched  roofs.  The  lonely  cluster  seems  uncon- 
nected with  the  rest  of  the  country,  and  may  be  said 
to  represent  the  feudal  system,  as  plants  in  n  knrtus 
siccus  do  the  vegetable.  I^ong  before  the  Revolu- 
tion, these  chateaux  had  been  mostly  forsaken  by 
ihe'iT  seigneurs .  for  the  nearest  country  town  ;  where 
Monsieur  le  Compie,  or  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  deco- 
rated  with  the  cross  of  St.  Louis,  made  shift  to  live 
on  his  paltry  seigniorial  dues,  and  rents  ill  paid  by 
a  starving  peasantry  ;  spending  his  time  in  reminis- 
cences of  gallantry  with  the  old  dowagers  of  the 
place,  who  rouged  and  wore  patches,  dressed  in 
hoops  and  high-heeled  shoes,  full  four  inches,  and  j  gyription 
long  pointed  elbow-ruffles,  balanced  with  lead.    Not  !  " 

one  individual  of  this  good  company  knewai 
of  what  was  passing  in  the  world,  or  snspec 


of  destruction — a  savage  enemy,  speaking 
known  language,  with  whom  no  compromise  co' 
be  made." 

The  first  view  of  the  country,  though 
longer  new  to  most  readers,  is  given  witl 
truth,  and  a  freshness  of  feeling  which  ■ 
are  tempted  to  preserve  in  an  extract. 

"  Soon  after  passing  the  frontiers  of  the  t 
countries,  the  view,  heretofore  bounded  by  neart 
jecis,  woods  and  pastures,  rocks  and  snows,  oper 
all  at  once  upon  the  Canton  de  Vaud,  and  upon  h 
Switzerland  !  a  vast  extent  of  undulating  couni 
tufied  woods  and  fields,  and  silvery  streams  a 
lakes;  tillages  and  towns,  with  their  antique  to 
ers,  and  their  church-steeples  shining  in  the  sun 

"The  lake  of  Neuchatel.  far  belo\v  on  the  It 
and  those  of  Moral  and  of  Vienna,  like  mirrors 
in  deep  trames,  contrasted  by  the  tranquillity 
their  lucid  surfaces,  with  the  dark  shades  and  brok 
grounds  and  ridges  of  the  various  landscape.  1 
yond  this  vast  extent  of  coiiuiry,  its  villages  a 
towns,  svoods,  lakes,  and  mouniains;  beyond 
terrestrial  objects — beyond  the  horizon  itself,  ros- 
long  range  of  aerial  forms,  of  the  softest  pale  pi 
hue:  These  were  the  high  .Alps,  the  rampart 
Italy — from  Mont  Blanc  in  Savoy,  to  the  glaci' 
of  the  Overland,  and  even  further.  Their  ani 
of  elevation  seen  from  this  distance  is  very  sm 
indeed.  Faithfully  represented  in  a  drawing,  i 
effect  would  be  insisnificant ;  but  the  aerial  p. 
speciive  amply  restored  the  proportions  lost  in  t 
mathematical  perspective. 

^  "  I  he  human  mind  thirsts  after  immensity  a 
immutability,  and  duration  without  bounds;  hu . 
needs  some  tangible  object  from  which  to  take 
flight, — something  present  to  lead  to  fuiuriiy.  son 
tiling  bounded  from  whence  to  rise  to  the  inlini 
This  vault  of  the  heavens  over  our  head,  sinki 
all  terrestrial  objecis  into  absolute  notliiiigiie 
might  seem  best  fitted  to  awaken  this  sense  of  i 
pansion  in  the  mind  :  But  mere  space  is  not  a  P' 
ceptible  object  to  which  we  can  readily  appi; 
scale,  while  the  Alps,  seen  at  a  glanee  betwe 
heaven  and  earth — met  as  it  were  on  the  confir 
of  the  regions  of  fancy  and  of  sober  reality,  i 
there  like  written  characters,  traced  by  a  div; 
hand,  atid  suggesting  thoughts  such  as  human  If 
guage  never  reached. 

"  Coming  down  the  Jura,  a  long  descent  broui 
us  to  what  appeared  a  plain,  but  whii:h  prover 
varied  country  with  hills  and  dales,  divided  into  ni 
enclosures  of  hawthorn  in  full  Moorn,  and  lar 
hedge-row  trees,  mosily  wnlnui,  oak,  and  ash. 
had  altogether  very  much  the  appearance  of  i 
most  beauiiful  parts  of  England,  alihnuirh  ilie  t 
closures  were  on  a  smaller  .scale,  and  the  coitat 
less  neat  and  ornnmenied.  They  differed  entin 
from  France,  where  the  dwellings  are  always  c 
lected  in  villages,  the  fields  all  open,  and  wiihi 
trees.  Numeniiis  streams  of  the  (jearest  «a 
crossed  the  road,  and  watered  very  fine  nieado\ 
The  houses,  luiilt  of  stone.  low,  broad,  and  ina.>!! 
eiiher  thatched  or  covered  with  heavy  wooden  sh 
gles.  and  shaded  wi'li  mngiiiHeent  walnut  tre 
might  all  have  furnished  studies  to  an  artist." 

W.'.  i.  pp.  25—27. 


The  followinnr,  however,  is  more  charact* 
istic  of  the  author's  viirorous  and  familiar,! 
somewhat   (juaiut   and   abrupt,   .style  of  c 


ceeded 


12   niir   equipai 
he  fills  of  the 


any  change  had  taken  place  since  the  days  of  f^ouis    wood  of  fine  old  oaks,  and 


RallaiL'-ie  we  pi 
ihrongh  a  hanfji 
le.  af'cr  a  lona  < 


XIV.  No  hook  found  its  way  there  ;  no  one  read,  i  scent,  tn  a  places  wh're  the  Orbe  breaks  ibrouef 
not  even  a  newspaper.  When  the  Revolution  1  trreat  mass  of  ruins,  which,  at  some  verv  retiii 
burst  upon  this  inferior  nobility  of  the  provinces,  it  [  period,  have  fallen  fro'n  the  mountain,  and  eniirf 

obstructed  its  channel.     All  the  earth,  and  all  t, 
smaller  fragments,  having  long  sitice  dlsnppeare 


appeared  to  them  like  Attila  and  the  Huns  to  the 
people  of  the  fifth  century — the  Scourge  of  God 
coining  nobody  knew  whence,  for  the  mere  purpose  i  and  the  water  now  works  its  way,  with  gicai  no 


SIMONDS  SWITZERLAND. 


•27 


1^11  me  mouniuiii,  < 

5s  bayes,  seem  on 
great  lever  of  na 
bury  under  soni 
8,  the  trees,  ilie 


•Hry,  among  the  larger  fragments,  and  falls 
the  height  of  eighty  feet,  m  the  very  best 
The  blocks,  many  of  ihetn  as  large  as  a 
g.l-sized  three-siory  house,  are  heaped  up  most 
etjngely.  jammed  in  by  their  angles — in  equilibrium 
0(1  point,  01-  lorniing  perilous  bridges,  over  wiiit-li 
yl  may,  woh  proper  precaution,  pick  your  wiiy 
ujhe  other  .«ide.  The  quarry  troin  which  the  ina- 
idiis  of  the  liridge  came  is  just  above  your  head, 
a'  the  tinners  are  still  at  work — air,  water,  frost, 
v:.'lit.  and  lime!  The  strata  of  limestone  arc 
eltiitly  brenkmg  down;  their  deep  rents  are 
v,.oaing,  and  enormous  masses,  already  loosened 
fill  the  mountain,  and  suspended  on  their  preca- 
bayes,  seem  only  watting  for  the  last  elVort  o{ 
iture  to  take  the  horrid  leap, 
some  hundred  feet  of  new  chaotic 
le  verdant  lawn — and  yourself. 
vo  are  looking  on  and  foretelling  the  caiastropiie  ! 
'b  left  this  scene  at  last  reluctantly,  and  procced- 
t  towards  the  dent-de-vaulioii,  at  the  base  of  which 
1  arrived  in  two  hours,  and  in  two  hours  more 
iiclied  the  summit,  which  is  four  thousand  lour 
iiidred  and  seveniy-si.f  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
'  ee  thousand  three  hundred  and  i'orty-two  f>ei 
lOve  the  lake  of  Geneva.  Our  path  lay  over 
iiooth  turl.  sufficiently  steep  to  make  it  difficult 
climb.  At  the  to|)  we  found  a  narrow  ridge,  not 
jre  than  one  hundred  yards  widt;.  The  south 
!W.  a  most  magnificent  one,  was  unfortunately 
)  like  that  at  our  entrance  into  Switzerland  to 
ar  a  second  description;  the  other  side  of  the 
ige  can  searcely  be  approached  with<jut  terror, 
;ing  almost  perpendicular.  Crawling,  therefore, 
I  our  hands  and  knees,  we  ventured,  in  this  modest 
titude.  to  look  out  of  the  window  at  the  hundred 

fd  fiftieth  story  (at  least  two  thousand  feet),  and 
R  what  was  doing  in  the  street.     Herds  of  cattle 
I  liie  iufiuimenl  petit  were  grazing  on  the  verdant 
jwn  of  a  narrow  vale  ;  on  the  other  side  ot  winch, 
mountain,  overgrown  with  dark  pines,  marked  the 
pundary  of  France.     Towards  the  west,  we  saw 
[piece  of  water, -which  appeared  like  a  mere  fish- 
pnd.      It  was  the   lake  of  Jon.x,   two  leagues  in 
inglh,  and  half  a  league  in  breadth.     We  were  to 
[)ok  for  our  nitrhi's  lodgings  in  the  village  on  its 
lanks."— Vol.1,  pp.  33—36. 
"Biejme  struck  us  as  more  Swiss  than  any  thing 
■e  had  yet  seen,  or  rather  as  if  we  were  entering 
'wiizerlaiid  tor  the  first  time;  every  thing  looked 
»!nd  Sounded  so  foretgn  :  And  yet  to  see  the  curiosity 
^"8  excited  the  moment  we  landed  and  entered  the 
jtreeis.  we  might  have  si^ipposed  it  was  ourselves 
ji'ho  looked  rather  outlandish.     '1  he  women  wore 
[heir  hair  phiited  down  to  their  heels,  while  the  full 
jetticoat   did   not  descend   near   so   far.      Several 
['roups  of  them,  sitting  at  their  doors,  sung  in  parts 
viih  an  accuraity  of  ear  and  taste  ititiate  among  the 
iermaiis.      Gateways  lortified  with  towers  inter- 
sect the  streets,  which  are  composed  of  strange- 
ooking  houses    built   on   arcades,    like    those    ol 
jridges,  and  variously  painted,  blue  with    yellow 
[jorders.  red  wiih  white,  or  purple  and  grey  ;  pro- 
jecting iron    balr'onies,    highly    worked   and    of  a 
plossy  black,   with   bright  green   window   frames. 
ll'he  la.xury  of  fountains  and  of  running  water  is 
]5'ill  greater  here  than  at  Neuchatcl  ;  and  you  might 
jbe  tempted  to  qtiench  your  thirst  in  the  kennel,  it 
runs  so  clear  and    pure.      Morning  and  evening, 
^oats,  in  immense  droves,  conducted  to  or  from  the 
pnouniain.  traverse  the  streets,  and  stop  of  them- 
(selves,  each  at  its  own  door.     In  iheititerior  of  the 
;houses.  most  articles  of  furniture  are  qutiititlv  shaped 
and  ornamented;  old-looking,  but  rubbed  Ijright, 
and  in  good   preservation  ;    from  the  nut-cracker, 
jciiriously  carved,  to  the  double-necked  cruet,  pour- 
-ing  oil  atid  vinegar  out  of  the   same   bottle.     The 
accommodations  at  the  inn  are  homely,  but  not  un- 
icomfbrtalile  ;  substantially  good,  though  not   ele- 
;gant."— Vol.  i.  pp.  6.5.  Mi. 

;    We  may  add  the  following,  which  is  in  the 
|«ime  style. 


'  It  rained  all  day  yesterday,  and  we  remained 
shut  up  in  our  room  at  a  German  imi  m  W  nid.shut, 
enjoying  a  day's  rest  with  our  books,  and  observinir 
men  and  nniiiners  in  Germany,  through  ilie  siiiull 
round  panes  of  our  casemeins.  The  ptojceiing 
roofs  ol  houses  aflbrd  so  mudi  sheltei  on  tioih  sides 
of  the  streets,  that  the  beau  sex  ol  Waldsluil  were 
out  all  day  long  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  as  it  it  had 
beeti  tine  weather;  their  long  yellow  hair  in  n  sin- 
gle plait  hung  down  to  their  heels,  along  n  back 
made  very  strait  by  the  habit  of  carrying  pails  ol 
milk  and  water  on  the  head  ;  their  snow-white  shilt- 
sleeves,  rolled  up  to  the  shoulder,  exposed  to  view 
a  sinewy,  sun-burnt  arm  ;  the  daik  red  slays  were 
laced  with  black  in  Ironi,  nnd  a  petticoat  scarcely 
longer  than  the  Scotch  kilt,  hid  nothing  of  the  lower 
limi),  nor  of  a  pcrfeclly  neat  stocking,  wellsiieiciied 
by  red  garters  lull  in  sight.  The  aged  among  them, 
generally  frightful,  looked  like  withered  liiile  old 
men  in  disguise." — Vol.  i  pp.  87,  88. 

Of  all  the  Swiss  citjes,  he  seems  to  have 
been  most  struck  with  Berne  ;  and  the  im- 
pression made  by  its  inajestic  e.vterior.  has 
even  made  him  a  little  too  partial,  we  think, 
to  its  aristocratic  constitution.  His  description 
of  its  appearance  is  given  with  equal  .spirit 
and  precision. 

"  These  fine  woods  extend  almost  to  the  very 
gates  of  Berne,  where  you  arrive  under  an  avenue 
of  limes,  which,  in  this  season,  pcrlume  ihe  air. 
There  are  seats  by  the  side  of  the  road,  lor  the  con- 
venience of  i'oot-passengers,  especially  women  going 
to  market,  with  a  shelf  above,  at  the  height  of  a 
person  standing,  ior  the  purpose  of  receiving  their 
baskets  while  they  rest  themselves  on  the  bench: 
you  meet  also  with  (ountains  at  regular  distances. 
I'he  whole  country  has  the  appearance  of  English 
pleasure-grounds.  The  town  itself  stands  on  the 
elevated  banks  of  a  rapid  river,  the  Aar,  to  which 
the  Rhine  is  indebted  for  one  half  of  its  waters.  A 
sudden  bend  of  the  stream  encloses,  on  all  sides 
but  one,  the  promontory  on  which  the  town  is 
built ;  the  magnificent  slope  is  in  some  places  cover- 
ed with  turf,  supported  in  others  by  lofty  terraces 
planted  with  trees,  and  commanding  wonderful 
views  over  the  surrounding  rich  country,  and  the 
high  -Alps  beyond  it. 

"It  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  account  for  the  first 
impression  you  receive  upon  entering  Berne.  You 
certainly  feel  that  you  have  got  to  an  ancient  and  a 
great  city  :  Yn,  before  iheelevemh  century,  it  had 
not  a  name,  and  its  present  population  does  not  ex- 
ceed twelve  thousand  souls.  It  is  a  republic;  ye. 
it  looks  kingly.  Somethingof  Roman  majesty  ap 
P'  ars  in  its  lofty  terraces  ;  in  those  massy  archtt 
on  etich  side  of  the  streets;  in  the  abundance  of 
water  flowing  night  and  day  into  gigantic  basins- 
in  the  magnificent  avenues  of  trees.  The  very 
silence,  and  absence  of  bustle,  a  certain  siateliness 
and  reserved  demeanour  in  the  inhabitants,  by 
sliowinii  it  to  be  not  a  tnoiiey-making  town,  implies 
that  its  wealth  springs  from  more  solid  and  per- 
manent sources  than  trade  can  aflbrd,  and  that 
another  spirit  animates  i's  inhabitanis.  In  short, 
of  all  the  first-sight  impressions  and  guesses  about 
Berne,  that  of  its  beini;  a  Roman  town  would  be 
nearer  right  than  any  other.  Circumstances,  in 
some  respects  similar,  have  produced  like  results 
in  the  Alps,  and  on  the  plains  of  Latium,  at  the  in- 
terval of  twenty  centuries.  Lii-xiiryat  Berne  seems 
wholly  directed  to  objects  of  public  iiiiiity.  By  the 
side  of  those  tricantic  terraces,  of  those  fine  loun- 
lains,  and  noble  shades,  you  see  none  but  simple 
and  solid  dwellings,  yet  scarcely  any  beggarly 
ones;  not  an  equipage  to  be  seen,  l)ut  many  a 
country  wagon,  coming  to  market,  wiih  a  cupilol 
team  of  horses,  or  oxeri,  well  appointed  every  way. 

"Aristocratic  pride  is  said  lo  be  excessive  al 
Berne;  and  the  antique  simplieity  of  its  magistruics, 
the  plain  and  easy  manners  they  unilbmily  pre- 


f^ 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


serve  in  their  intercourse  with  the  people,  are  not 
bj'  any  means  at  variance  with  the  assertion  ;  for 
that  external  sinnpliciiy  and  afiability  to  inleriors  is 
one  of  ihe  characteristics  of  the  aristocratic  govern- 
ment ;  all  assumpiion  of  superiority  being  careiully 
avoided  when  real  auihoriiy  is  not  in  question. 
Zurich  suggests  the  idea  of  a  municipal  aristocracy  ; 
Berne  of  a  warlike  one  :  there,  we  think  we  see 
citizens  of  a  town  transformed  into  nobility;  here 
nobles  who  have  made  themselves  cit.i7.ens." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  213—217.* 

But  we  must  now  hasten  from  the  Physical 
woncJers  of  this  country  to  some  of  the  author's 
Moral  observations;  and  we  are  tempted  to 
give  the  first  place  to  his  unsparing  but  dis- 
passionate remarks  on  the  character  of  modern 
English  travellers.     At  Geneva,  he  observes, 

"  English  travellers  swarm  here,  as  everywhere 
else;  but  they  do  not  nii.v  with  the  society  of  the 
country  more  than  they  do  el«ewhere.  and  seem  to 
like  it  even  less.  The  people  of  Geneva,  on  the 
other  hand,  say,  '  Their  former  friends,  the  English, 
are  so  changed  they  scarcely  know  them  again. 
They  used  to  be  a  plain  downright  race,  in  whom  a 
certain  degree  of  souvagerie  (oddiiv  and  shvness) 
only  served  to  set  ofT  the  advantages  of  a  highly 
cultivated  understanding,  of  a  liberal  mind,  and 
generous  temper,  which  "characterised  them  in  gen- 
eral.  Their  young  men  were  often  rather  wild,  but 
soon  reformed,  and  became  like  their  fathers.  In- 
stead of  this,  we  now  see  (they  say)  a  mi.xed  assem- 
blage, of  whom  lamentably  few  possess  any  of  those 
qualities  vve  were  wont  to  admire  in  their  predeces- 
sors. Their  former  shyness  and  re.^serve  is  changed 
to  disdain  and  rudeness.  If  you  seek  these  modern 
English,  they  keep  aloof,  do  not  mix  in  conversa- 
tion, and  seem  to  laugh  at  you.  Their  conduct, 
still  more  strange  and  unaccountable  in  regard  to 
each  other,  is  indicative  of  contempt  or  suspicion. 
Studiously  avoiding  10  exchange  a  word  with  their 
countrymen,  one  would  sn()pose  they  expected  to 
find  a  sharper  in  every  individual  of  their  own  na- 
tion, not  particularly  introduced, — or  at  best  a  per- 
son beneath  them.  Accordingly  you  cannot  vex  or 
displease  them  more  than  by  inviiing  other  English 
travellers  to  meet  them,  whom  they  may  be  com- 
pelled afterwards  to  acktiowledse  If  they  do  not 
nnd  a  crowd,  they  are  tired.  If  you  speak  of  the 
old  English  you  formerly  knew,  iluit  was  before  the 
Flood  !  If  you  talk  of  books,  it  is  pedantrv.  and 
they  yawn;  ofpoliiics.  they  run  wild  about  Bona- 
parte !  Dancing  is  the  only  thing  which  is  sure  to 
please  them.  At  the  sound  of  the  fiddle,  the  think- 
ing nation  starts  up  at  once.  Their  young  people 
are  adepts  in  the  art ;  and  take  pains  to  become  so, 
spending  half  their  time  with  the  dancing  master. 
You  nniy  know  the  houses  where  they  live  bv  the 
scraping  of  the  fiddle,  and  shaking  of  the  floor, 
which  disiturbs  their  neighbours.  Few  bring  let irr.«  ; 


In  short,  the  friends  of  Geneva,  ainong  our  mo  n 
English  travellers,  are  not  numerous — thoueh  'v 
are  select.  These  last  distinguished  1  her  net  3 
during  the  late  hard  winter  l>y  their  bounty  to  ^ 
poor — not  the  poor  of  Geneva,  who  were  sufiicit 
assisted  by  their  richer  countrymen,  but  iho»i 
Savoy,  who  were  literally  starving.  If  E 
travellers  no  longer  appear  in  the  same  light  i 
merly,  it  is  because  it  is  not  the  same  class  of  i 
pie  who  go  abroad,  but  all  cla.sses, — and  not  the' 
of  all  classes,  either.  They  know  this  too,  andd 
it  themselves;  liiey  feel  ihe  ridicule  of  their  ej 
mous  numbers,  and  of  the  absurd  conduct  of 
of  ihem.  They  are  ashamed  and  provoked  ;  de 
it  with  the  most  pointed  irony,  and  tell  many  a^ 
morous  story  against  themselves.  Formerly, f 
iravelling  class  was  composed  of  young  raani 
good  lamily  and  fortune,  just  coming  ot  age,  wF 
after  leaving  the  University,  went  the  tour  of  ^ 
Continent  under  the  guidance  of  a  leannrd  lu , 
often  a  very  disiinguisiied  man,  or  of  men  of  > 
same  class,  at  a  more  advanced  age,  wiih  1  • 
families,  who,  after  many  years  spent  in  (in-fessii  | 
duties  at  home,  came  to  visit  again  the  i  ount » 
they  had  seen  in  their  youih,  and  (he  fikiids  1  ■ 
had  known  there.  In  those  beiier  limes,  wher  1 
Englishman  left  his  country  eiiher  10  seek  his 
tune,  to  save  money,  or  to  hide  himself;  u  , 
travellers  of  that  nation  were  all  very  rii-h  or  v  ■ 
learned;  of  high  birih,  yet  liberal  primiples; 
bounded  in  their  generosity,  and  wiih  means  eel 
to  the  inclination,  their  high  standing  in  the  w.  | 
might  well  be  accounted  tor;  and  it  is  a  great  |i' 
ihey  should  have  lost  it.  Were  I  an  Engji.shiii 
I  would  not  set  out  on  my  travels  U'liif  ihe  r 
fashion  were  over." — Vol.  i.  pp.  356 — 35'J. 

At  Schaffhausen,  again,  he  obsen'es, 

"There  were  oiher  admirers  here  besides  <■• 
selves  ;   some    English,  and  more   Germans,  v 
furnished  us  with  an  opporiuiiiiy  of  comparinsr 
difference  of  national  manners.    I'lie 'oriner,  divi, 
into  groups,  carefully  avoiding  any  comnuii;iciii 
with  each  other  still  more  than  with  ihf  iMreigiit 
never  exchanged  a  word,  and  scarcely  a  look".  « 
any  but  the  legiiiniaie  inierlocniorsof  iheir  own  s, 
women  adhering  more  pariiciilarly  to  the  rule — Ir 
naiive  reserve  and  limidiiy,  full  as  much  us  tr' 
pride  or  from  extreme  good  breeding.    Soraf  ot 
ladies  here  might  be  .Scoich  ;  ai  k-ast  they  wore 
national  colours,  and  we  overheard  them  draw) 
comparisons  between  what  we  had  under  our  p. 
and  Coralyn  ;  giving  justly  enough,  the  preterts 
to  the  Clyde  ;    but.   at  any   rate,   they   behavti: 
r Analaise.     The  German  ladies,  on  ihe  coit!r;i 
contrived  to  Her  converaation  in  indiflercnt  Frem 
Wi'h  genuine  simplicity,  wholly  uiiconsi-ioiis  of  I  , 
vvardness,  although  it  might  undoubtedly  have  b<, 
so  qualified  in  England,  ihey  begged  i.f  my  Irie 
to   let   ihem   hear  a  few  words  in  English,  just 
know  ihe  sound,  to  which  they  were  srangi-rs. 
we  are  to  judge  of  the  respcciive  merits  of  thf 


and  yet  they  complain   they  are  neglected  by  the  I 

ffood   company,   and  cheated  by  innkeepers,     '['he  I  opposite  manners,  by   the  impression  they  h'Rve  , 

fatter,  accustomed  to  the  Milords  Anff/ain  of  former  |  ihink  the  question  is  already  decided  by  ihe  Engli 


tunes,  or  at  least  having  heard  of  them,  think  thev 
may  charge  accordingly  ;  but  onlv  find  des  /hisl.ais 
pour  rire,  who  bargain  at  the  door,  before  they  ven- 
ture to  come  in,  for  the  leg  of  mmton  and  bottle  of 
wine,  on  which  they  mean  to  dine  !' 

"  Placed  as  I  am  between  the  two  parties,  I  hear 
vonng  Englishmen  repeat,  what  they  have  heard  in 
France,  that  the  Genevans  are  cold,  selfish,  and  in- 
feresied,  and  their  women  dcs  prfrieuses  ridiriiha, 
the  very  milliners  and  innniiia-makers  giving  ilicm 


against  themselves.  Yet,  at  ih-'  Sinni-  litne  ihai  ili 
blame  and  deride  their  own  proud  reserve,  :i 
would  depart  from  it  if  ihey  well  knew  how.  Im 
few  have  the  courage  10  venture  : — and  I  re«lly  '1 
lieve  they  are  ihe  best  bred,  who  ihiis  allow  ihei 
selves  to  be  good-humoured  and  vulgar." 

Vol.  ■;  pp.  W.  05. 

We  have  not  much  to  say  in  defence  i' 
our  countrymen — but  what  iriav  be  .said  truij 


selves  airs  of  modesty  and  deep  reading!  thni  there  1  ought  not  to  be  suppressed.  That  our  iravi, 
is  no  opera,  nor  tht'/iire  des  vnrleifs;  in  short,  that  lers  are  now  irpnetally  of  a  lower  rank  th: 
Geneva  is  the  dullest  place  in  the  world.     Some    formerly,  and  thnt  3iot  very  many  of  them  a 

^n^^lVien.ffiril^T"  t    ^'^       rr 'i'"''"''"^'  ''•    fi«P<^  either  bv  their  wealth  or"  breeding. 
and  a  scennfic.  no  less  than  a  pohiical,  counterfeii.    ^^^j^^,^,  ,^^.  ^^^^^^^^^  ^^  ^j^,.  ^^^^^^  ^„^i  j,,„- „ 

able  persons  who  once  almost  monopolism 
the  advantages  of  foreign  travel,  is  of  cour: 


*    Many   travelling   details,    and  particular  de- 
scriptions, are  here  omitted. 


SIMOND'S  SWITZERLAND 


i  plied  in  the  fact  of  their  having  become 
\.tly  more  numerous. —  without  supposing 
;i,  actual  degeneracy  in  the  nation  itself. 
,.  a  very  popular  point  of  M.  Simond's  jour- 
i\\  it  appeared  from  a  register  which  he 
I  u^ulted,  that  the  proportion  of  travellers 
\m  dilfereiit  countries,  was  twenty-eight 
1  glish  to  four  Prussians,  two  Dutch,  live 
jeiich,  one  Italian,  and  three  Americans. — 
'lilt  some  of  this  great  crowd  of  emigrants 

ight  not  be   suitable  associates   for   some 
lers,  may  easily  be  conjectured — and  that 
)  better  sort  may  not  have  been  very  wil- 
or  to  fraternise  with  those  who  did  least 
inour  to  their  common  country,  could  scarce- 
■  be  imputed  to  them  as  a  fault.     But  these 
nsiderations,  we  fear,  will  go  but  a  little  way 
explain  the  phenomenon  :  or  to  account  for 
e"  Morgue  Aristocratique,"  as  Bonaparte 
lied  it,  of  the  English  gentry — the  sort  of 
.Iky  and  contemptuous  reserve  with  which, 
>lh  at  home  and  abroad,  almost  all  who  have 
ly  pretensions  to  bon  ton  seem  to  think  it 
Jcessary  to  defend  those  pretensions.     The 
ling  has  undoubtedly  been  carried,  of  late 
jars,  to  an  excess  that  is  both  ludicrous  and 
fenpive — and  is,  in  its  own  nature,  unques- 
onably  a  blemish  and  a  misfortune  :  But  it 
ses  not  arise,  we  are  persuaded,  from  any 
ling  intrinsically  haughty  or  dull  in  our  tem- 
jerament — but  is  a  natural  consequence,  and, 
must  be  admitted,  a  considerable  drawback 
j-om  two  very  proud  peculiarities  in  our  con- 
ition — the  freedom  of  our  constitution,  and 
16  rapid  progress  of  wealth  and  intelligence 
a  the  body  of  the  nation. 
In  most  of  the  other  countries  of  Europe, 
|i  a  man  was  not  born  in  high  and  polished 
jociety,  he  had  scarcely  any  other  means  of 
jSiining  admission  to  it — and  honour  and  dig- 
liity,  it  was  supposed,  belonged,  by  inheri- 
lauce,  to  a  very  limited   class  of  the  people. 
i'Vithin  that  circle,  therefore,  there  could  be  no 
jlerogation — and,  from  without  it,  there  could 
oe  no  intrusion.    But.  in  this  country,  persons 
')f  every  condition  have  been  long  entitled  to 
aspire  to  every  situation — and,  from  the  nature 
|)f  our  political  constitution,  any  one  who  had 
individual  influence,  by  talent,  wealth,  or  ac- 
;;ivity,  became  at  once  of  consequence  in  the 
community,  and  was  classed  as  the  open  rival 
')r  necessary  auxiliary  of  those  who  had  the 
i5trongest   hereditary   claims    to   importance. 
|But  though  the  circle  of  Society  was  in  this 
Avay  at  all  times  larger  than  in  the  Conti- 
nental nations,  and  embraced  more  persons 
of  dissimilar  training  and  habits,  it  does  not 
appear  to  have  given  a  tone  of  repulsion  to 
the  manners  of  those  who  aff'ected  the  supe- 
iriority,  till  a   period   comparatively  remote, 
iln  the  days  of  the  Tudors  and  Stuarts  there 
iwas  a  wide  pale  of  separation  between  the 
; landed  Aristocracy  and  the  rest  of  the  popu- 
lation; and  accordingly,  down  at  least  to  the 
end   of   Charles   the   Second's    reign,    there 
seems  to  have  been  none  of  this  dull  and 
frozen  arrogance  in  the  habits  of  good  com- 
pany.   The  true  reason  of  this,  however,  was, 
that  though  the  competition  was  constitution- 
ally open,  good  education  was,  in  fact,  till 


729 

after  this  period,  confined  to  tht  -hildren  of 
the  gentry  ;  and  a  cerlam  paraile  ni  equipaije 
and  dres.s,  which  could  not  be  easiU  ashniiicd 
but  by  the  opul.-nt,  nor  naturally  i-iirnnl  but 
by  tho.se  who  had  been  lung  acciistonu-d  U: 
it,  threw  additional  iliHiculties  in  the  way 
of  those  who  wislu'd  to  push  themselv(  .s  toi- 
ward  in  society,  and  remlered  any  other  bul- 
warks unnecessary  for  the  proui-lion  til  tin- 
sanctuary  of  fashion. 

From  "the  time  of  Sir  Robert  Walj-vole,  how- 
ever, the  communication  between  the  higher 
and  the  lower  orders  became  far  more  open 
and  easy.  Commercial  wealth  and  cnlerpri.se 
were  prodigiously  extended  —  lileratuie  and 
intelligence  spread  with  unorecedented  ra- 
pidity among  the  body  of  tli(>  p«'ople  ;  and 
the  increased  intercourse  between  the  ddier- 
ent  parts  of  the  country,  naturally  produceil 
a  greater  mixture  of  the  diflerent  classes  of 
the  people.  This  was  followed  by  a  general 
relaxation  in  those  costly  external  observances, 
by  which  persons  of  condition  had  till  then 
been  distinguished.  Ladies  laid  aside  their 
hoops,  tiains,  and  elaborate  head-diesses  ;  and 
gentlemen  their  swords,  periwigs,  and  em- 
broidery ; — and  at  the  .same  time  that  it  thus 
became  quite  practicable  for  an  attorney's 
clerk  or  a  mercer's  apprentice  to  assume  the 
exterior  of  a  nobleman,  it  happeneii  also,  both 
that  many  persons  of  that  condition  had  the 
education  that  fitted  them  for  a  higher  rank — 
and  that  several  had  actually  won  their  way 
to  it  by  talents  and  activity,  which  had  not 
formerly  been  looked  for  in  that  quarter. — 
Their  success  was  well  merited  undoubtedly, 
and  honourable  both  to  themselves  antl  their 
country ;  but  its  occasional  occurrence,  even 
more  than  the  discontinuance  of  aristocrat  ical 
forms  or  the  popular  spirit  of  the  Government, 
tended  strongly  to  encourage  the  pretensions 
of  others,  who  had  little  qualification  for  suc- 
cess, beyond  an  eager  desire  to  obtain  it. — 
So  many  persons  now  raised  themselves  by 
their  own  exertions,  that  every  one  thought 
himself  entitled  to  rise ;  and  very  few  pro- 
portionally %vere  contented  to  remain  in  the 
rank  to  which  they  were  born  ;  and  as  vanity 
is  a  still  more  active  principle  than  ambition, 
the  effects  of  this  aspiring  spirit  were  more 
conspicuously  seen  in  the  invasion  which  it 
prompted  on  the  prerogatives  of  jiolite  society, 
than  in  its  more  serious  occupations ;  and  a 
herd  of  uncomfortable  and  unsuitable  com- 
panions beset  all  the  approaches  togooil  com- 
pany, and  seemed  determined  to  force  all  its 
barriers. 

We  think  we  have  now  stated  the  true 
causes  of  this  phenomenon — but.  at  all  events, 
the  fact  we  believe  to  be  incontrovertible,  that 
within  the  last  fifty  years  there  has  been  an 
1  incredible  increase  of  forwardness  ami  solid 
impudence  among  the  half-bred  and  halt"- 
educated  classes  of  this  country— and  that 
there  was  consequently  some  apoloiry  for  the 
assumption  of  more  distant  and  torbiddicg 
manners  towartls  stranirers,  on  the  jiart  ol 
those  who  were  already  satisfied  with  the  ex- 
tent of  their  society.  It  was  evidently  easier 
and  more  prudent  to  reject  the   ovcriures  of 


730 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


unknown  acquaintances,  than  to  shake  them 
off  after  they  had  been  once  allowed  to  fasten 
themselves — to  repress,  in  short,  the  first  at- 
tempts at  familiarity,  and  repel,  by  a  chilling 
and  somewhat  disdainful  air,  the  advances  of 
all,  of  whom  it  might  any  way  be  suspected 
that  they  might  turn  out  discreditable  or  un- 
fit associates. 

This,  we  have  no  doubt,  is  the  true  history 
of  that  awful  tone,  of  gloomy  inditrerence 
and  stupid  arrogance,  which  has  unfortunately 
become  so  striking  a  characteristic  of  English 
manners.  At  its  best,  and  when  most  justified 
by  the  circumstance  of  the  parlies,  it  has,  we 
must  allow,  but  an  ungracious  and  disoblig- 
ing air:  But  the  extravagant  height  to  which 
it  is  now  frequently  carried,  and  the  extraor- 
dinary occasions  on  which  it  is  sometimes  dis- 
played, deserve  all  the  ridicule  and  reproba- 
tion they  meet  with.  We  should  not  quarrel 
much  with  a  man  of  family  and  breeding 
being  a  little  distant  and  cold  to  the  many 
very  affable  people  he  may  meet  with,  either 
in  his  travels,  or  in  places  of  public  resort  at 
home.  But  the  provoking  thing  is,  to  see  the 
same  frigid  and  unsociable  manner  adopted 
in  private  society,  and  towards  persons  of  the 
highest  character,  if  they  happen  not  to  be- 
long to  the  same  set,  or  to  be  occupied  with 
the  same  pursuits  with  those  fastidious  mor- 
tals— who,  while  their  dignity  forbids  them  to 
be  affable  to  men  of  another  club,  or  women 
of  another  assembly,  yet  admit  to  the  fami- 
liarity of  their  most  private  hours,  a  whole 
gang  of  led  captains,  or  led  parsons,  fiddlers, 
boxers,  or  parasitical  buffoons.  But  the  most 
remarkable  extravagance  in  the  modern  prac- 
tice of  this  repulsive  system,  i.s,  that  the  most 
outrageous  examples  of  it  are  to  be  met  with 
among  those  who  have  the  least  occasion  for 
its  protection, — persons  whose  society  nobody 
would  think  of  courting,  and  who  yet  receive 
the  slightest  and  most  ordinary  civilities, — 
being  all  that  the  most  courteous  would  ever 
dream  of  offering  them. — with  airs  of  as 
vehement  disdain  as  if  they  were  really  in 
danger  of  having  their  intimacy  taken  by 
storm  !  Such  manners,  in  such  people,  are 
no  doubt  in  the  very  extreme  of  absurdity. — 
But  it  is  the  mischief  of  all  cheap  fashions. 
that  they  are  immediately  jiirated  by  the  vul- 
gar; and  certainly  there  is  none  that  can  be 
assumed  with  so  little  cost,  either  of  industry 
or  understanding  as  this.  As  the  whole  of  it 
consists  in  being  silent,  stupitl.  and  sulky,  it 
is  quite  level  to  the  meanest  capacity — and, 
we  have  no  doubt,  has  enabled  many  to  pass 
ibr  persons  of  some  consideration,  who  could 
jiever  have  done  so  on  any  other  terms  :  or 
has  permitted  them  at  least  to  think  that  they 
were  shunning  the  society  of  many  by  whom 
they  would  certainly  have  been  shunned. 

We  trust,  therefore,  that  this  fashion  of 
mock  stateliness  and  sullen  reserve  will  soon 
pass  away.  The  extreme  facility  with  which 
it  maybe  copied  by  the  lowest  and  dullest  of 
mankind, — the  caricatures  which  are  daily 
exhibited  of  it  in  evtny  disgusting  variety. — 
and  the  restraints  it  must  impose  upon  the 
good  nature  and  sociality  which;  after  all,  do 


really  form  a  part  of  our  national  charac . 
must  concur,  we  think,  with  the  alienatio't 
produces  in  others,  speedily  to  consign 
the  tomb  of  other  forgotten  affectations.  '; 
duties  that  we  owe  to  strangeis  that  cc 
casually  into  our  society,  certainly  are  - 
very  weighty — and  a  man  is  no  doubt  entil 
to  consult  his  own  ease,  and  even  his  in, 
lence,  at  the  hazard  of  being  unpoj.ularai] 
such  persons.  But,  after  all,  allability 
complaisance  are  still  a  kind  of  duties,  in  t 
degree;  and  of  all  duties,  we  >liould 
think  are  those  that  are  vejiaid,  not  onlyw 
the  largest  shaie  of  gratitude,  but  with 
greatest  internal  satisfaction.  All  we  ask 
that  they,  and  the  pleasure  which  nalur; 
accompanies  their  exercise,  should  not  be 
criticed  to  a  vain  notion  of  dignity,  which 
person  assuming  it  knows  all  the  while  to 
false  and  hollow — or  to  a  still  vainer  assur, 
tion  of  fashion,  which  does  not  impose  Uj 
one  in  a  thousand ;  and  subjects  its  unhaj 
victim  to  the  ridicule  of  his  very  competit 
in  the  practice.  All  studied  manners  are 
sumed,  of  course,  for  the  sake  of  the  efi 
they  are  to  produce  on  the  brholders:  Atu 
a  man  have  a  particularly  favourable  opiii 
of  the  wisdom  anil  dignity  of  his  physiog 
my,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  perfect  i- 
sciousness  of  the  folly  and  vulgarity  of 
discourse,  there  is  no  denying  that  sucl 
man,  when  he  is  fortunate  enough  to  be  \\h 
he  is  not  known,  will  do  well  to  keep  his  o 
secret,  and  sit  as  silent,  and  look  as  repuls 
among  strangers  as  possible.  But,  under  a 
other  circumstances,  we  really  cannot  adi 
it  to  be  a  reasonable,  any  more  than  an  am 
ble  demeanour.  To  return,  however,  to 
Simond. 

If  he  is  somewhat  severe  upon  our  natio 
character,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  de 
still  harder  measure  to  his  own  countrymi 
There  is  one  passage  in  which  he  distiiic 
states  that  no  man  in  France  now  pretends 
any  piinciple,  either  persoiral  or  politic 
What  follows  is  less  atrocious, — and  probal 
nearer  the  truth.  It  is  the  sec|url  of  an  eu' 
mium  on  the  domestic  and  studious  occu] 
tions  of  the  well-informed  society  of  Zuricl: 

"  Probably  a  mode  of  life  so  entirely  dome! 
would  tempt  few  strnngers,  and  in  Frnnre  pariii 
larly,  it  would  appear  quite  inioleratde.  Yet  I  do 
whether  these  contemners  of  domeslii-  duliies8 
not  generally  the  dullest  of  the  two.     Walking 
ca?ionalIy  the  whole  length  of  the  interior  Boii 
vards  of  Paris,  on  a  summer  evening,  I  have  gei 
rally  observed    on  my  return,  at   the   interval 
several  hours,    the  very  .»^anie  figures   silting  j 
where  I  had  left  them  ;  mostly  isolated  niiddle-a{ 
men,  established  for  the  evening  on  three  cha; 
one  for  the  elbow,  another  lor  the  extended  legi 
third  for  the  centre  of  gravity  ;  with  varant  lo(l| 
and  a  muddy  complexion,  appearing  disconten*' 
with  themselves  and  others,  and  profoundly  tim 
A  fanUuil  in  a  salon,  for  the  passive  hearer  of  tj 
lalkoi  oiliers,  is  still  worse,  I  take  it,  ih.ah  thethl| 
chairs  on  the  Boulevard.     Tiie  theatre,  seen  ag ! 
and  again,  can  have  no  great  charm  ;  nor  is  it  evi 
one  who  has  money  to  spare  for  the  one,  or  fiee  i 
cess  to  the  other;  therefore,  an  immense  numt 
of  people  are  driven  to  the  Boulevard  as  a  last 
source.     As  to  home,  it  is  no  resoince  at  all.    -■ 
one  thinks  of  the  possibility  of  employing  his  tin 


SIMOND'S  SWITZERLAND. 


731 


lere,  either  by  himself  or  with  his  family.  And 
le  result,  upon  the  whole,  is.  that  I  do  not  believe 
lere  is  a  country  in  the  world  where  you  see  so 
lany  long  faces,  care-worn  and  cross,  as  among 
le  very  people  who  are  deemed,  and  believe  theni- 
elves,  the  merriest  in  the  world.  A  man  ot  rank 
iid  talent,  who  has  spent  many  years  in  the  Cri- 
■tea,  who  employed  himself  diligently  and  usefully 
shen  there,  and  who  naturally  loves  a  country 
vhere  lie  has  done  much  good,  praising  it  to  a 
riend,  has  been  heard  to  remark,  as  the  main  ob- 
jection to  a  residence  Otherwise  deligluful — '  I\Iais 
111  est  oblige  de  s'aller  coucher  tons  les  soirs  a  sept 
leures. — parccqu'en  Crimee  on  ne  sait  pas  oil  allcr 
lasser  la  soiree  1'  This  remark  e.\cites  no  surprise 
ii  Paris.  Every  one  there  feels  that  there  can  be 
10  alternative, — some  place,  not  home,  to  spend 
I  our  evenings  in.  or  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock  !  It  puts 
me  in  mind  of  the  gentleman  who  hesitated  about 
marrying  a  lady  whose  company  he  liked  very 
iiuich.  '  for,'  as  he  observed,  '  where  could  I  then 
s;o  10  pass  my  evenings?'  " — Vol.  i.  pp.  401,  405. 

The  following,  though  not  a  cordial,  is  at 
least  a  candid  testimony  to  the  substantial 
benefits  of  the  Revolution  : — 

•'  The  clamorous,  restless,  and  bustling  manners 
'K  ihe  common  people  of  Aix  their  antiquated  and 
ragged  dress,  their  diminutive  stature  and  ill-favour- 
ed co'inienances,  strongly  recalled  to  my  mind  the 
population  of  France,  suck  as  I  reinembered  it 
formerly;  for  a  considerable  change  has  certainly 
taken  place,  in  all  such  respects,  between  the  years 
1789  and  1815.  The  people  of  France  are  decidedly 
jess  noisy,  and  graver;  better  dressed,  and  cleaner. 
Ail  this  may  be  accounted  for ;  but  handsomer  is 
not  so  readily  understood,  a  priori.  It  seems  as  if 
tbe  hardships  of  war,  having  successively  carried 
off  all  the  weakly,  those  who  survived  have  regen- 
erated the  species.  The  people  have  undoubtedly 
gained  much  by  the  Revolution  on  the  score  of 
property,  and  a  little  as  to  political  institutions. 
They  certainly  seem  conscious  of  some  advantaire 
attained,  and  to  be  proud  of  it — not  properly  civil 
liberty,  which  is  little  understood,  and  not  properly 
estimated,  but  a  certain  coarse  equality,  asserted  in 
small  things,  althoutrh  not  thought  of  in  the  essen- 
tials of  societv.  This  new-born  equality  is  very 
touchy,  as  if  it  felt  yet  insecure  ;  and  thence  a  de- 
gree of  ri\deness  in  the  common  intercourse  with 
the  lower  class,  and,  more  or  less,  all  classes,  very 
different  from  the  old  proverbial  French  politeness. 
This,  though  in  i'self  not  agreeable,  is,  however,  a 
good  sign.  Pride  is  a  step  in  moral  improvement, 
from  a  very  low  state.  These  opinions,  I  am  well 
aware,  will  not  pass  in  France  without  animadver- 
aJO'),  as  it  is  not  to  be  e.xpected  the  same  judgment 
will  be  formed  of  thintrs  under  different  circum- 
stances. If  my  I'ritics.  however,  will  only  go  three 
or  four  thousand  miles  off.  and  slay  away  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  I  dare  say  we  shall  agree  better  when 
we  compare  notes  on  their  return." 

Vol.  i.  pp.  333,  334. 

The  way  in  which  M.  Simond  speaks  of 
Rousseau,  affords  a  striking  e.xample  of  that 
strugde  between  enthusiasm  and  severity — 
romance  and  cool  reason,  which  we  noticed 
in  the  beginning  as  characteristic  of  the  whole 
work.  He  talks,  on  the  whole,  with  contempt, 
and  even  bitterness,  of  his  character  :  But  he 
follows  his  footsteps,  and  the  vestiges  and 
memorials  even  of  his  fictitious  personages, 
with  a  spirit  of  devout  ob.servance — visits 
Clareus,  and  pauses  at  Meilleric — rows  in  a 
burning  day  to  his  island  in  the  lake  of  Bien- 
ne — expatiates  on  the  beauty  of  his  retreat  at 
the  Charmettes — and  even  stops  to  e.vplore 
his  temporary  abode  at  Moitier  Travers.  The 
following  passages  are  remarkable  : — 


Rousset 


from  his  garret,  governed  nn  em- 
pire—that of  the  mind;  the  loundtT  of  n  new  n-li- 
gion  in  politics,  and  to  his  entlmsuKsiic  lollowers  a 
prophei-^IIe  said,  and  ihey  believed  I  I'lio  diaci- 
ples  ol  \'oliaire  iniuht  be  more  numerous,  but  ilicy 
were  l)ound  to  him  by  far  weaker  ties,  'i'lmse  of 
Rousseau  made  the  Frencii  Revolution,  and  |)er- 
ished  for  it ;  while  Voltaire's,  miscalculaiing  it.s 
chances,  perished  /ly  it-  Both,  perhaps,  deserved 
their  late  ;  but  the  former  certainly  acted  the  nobler 
pan,  and  went  to  battle  with  the  beat  weapons  too, 
— for  in  the  deadly  encounter  of  all  the  passions,  of 
the  most  opposite  principles  and  irreconcilable  pre- 
judices,  cold-hearted  wn  is  of  iitth;  avail,  ticrnes 
and  martyrs  do  not  care  for  epigrams  ;  nnd  he  must 
have  enthusiasm  who  pretends  to  lead  the  enthu- 
siastic or  cope  with  them.  Uneintimr  prrguasion, 
Rousseau  has  somewhere  said,  m'n  loujoum  trim 
litu  d' eloquence !  And  well  it  might  ;  lor  the  first 
requisite  to  command  belief  is  to  believe  yourself. 
Nor  is  it  easy  to  impose  on  mankind  in  this  respect. 
There  is  no  eloquence,  no  ascendancy  over  the 
minds  of  others,  without  this  intimate  persuasion  in 
yourself.  Rousseau's  mi>;ht  only  be  a  sort  of  poet- 
ical persuasioti,  lasting  but  as  lr)ng  as  the  occasion  ; 
yet  it  was  thus  powerful,  only  because  it  was  true, 
though  but  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps,  in  the 
heart  of  this  inspired  writer. 

"  Mr.  M ,  son  of  the  friend  of  Rousseau,  to 

whom  he  left  his  manuscripts,  and  especially  his 
Confessions,  to  be  jjublished  after  his  death,  had 
the  goodness  to  show  ihem  to  me.  I  observed  a 
fair  copy  written  by  himself,  in  a  small  hand  like 
print,  very  neat  and  correct;  not  a  blot  or  an  era- 
sure to  he  seen.  The  most  curious  of  these  papers, 
however,  were  several  sketch-books,  or  memoranda 
half  filled,  where  the  same  hand  is  no  longer  dis- 
cernil>le  ;  but  the  same  genius,  and  the  same  way- 
ward temper  and  perverse  intellect,  in  every  fugi- 
tive tliought  which  is  there  put  down.  Rousseau's 
composition,  like  .Montesquieu's,  was  laborious  and 
slow  ;  his  ideas  flowed  rapidly,  but  were  not  readily 
brought  into  proper  order  ;  they  did  not  appear  to 
have  come  in  consequence  of  a  previous  plan  ;  but 
the  plan  itself,  formed  afterwards,  catne  in  aid  of 
the  ideas,  and  served  as  a  sort  of  frame  for  them, 
instead  of  beinsr  a  system  to  which  they  were  sub- 
servient. \'ery  possibly  some  of  the  lundamenial 
opinions  he  defended  so  earnestly,  and  for  which 
his  disciples  would  willingly  have  suffered  martyr- 
dom, were  origtnally  adopted  because  a  bright 
thought,  caiisht  as  it  flew,  was  entered  in  his  com- 
monplace book. 

"  These  loose  notes  of  Rousseau  afford  a  curious 
insight  into  his  taste  in  composition.  You.  find 
him  perpeinally  retrenching  epithets — reducing  his 
thoughts  to  their  simplest  expression— giving  words 
a  peculiar  energy,  by  the  new  application  of  their 
original  meaninir— L'oing  back  to  the  na'iveli  of  old 
langtiage  ;  and,  in  the  artificial  process  of  simplici- 
ty, carefully  effacing  the  trace  of  each  laborious 
footstep  as  he  advanced  ;  each  idea,  each  iinage, 
coming  o\it,  at  last,  as  if  cast  entire  at  n  single 
throw,   original,  energetic,   and   clear.     Although 

Mr.  M had  promi.sed  to  Rousseau  thai  he  would 

puldish  his  Confessions  as  they  were,  yet  he  ti.ok 
upon  himself  to  suppress  a  p:issage  explaining  cer- 
tain circumstances  of  his  abiuraiions  at  .-Xiineci.  af- 
fording a  curious,  but  friL'hifully  disgustina.  pi<'tiiro 
of  monkish  manners  at  that  liiiie.     It  is  a  pity  that 

Mr.  M did  not  break  his  word  in  rei;ard  to  s<>me 

few  more  passages  of  that  most  admiralile  and  most 
vile  of  all  the  productions  of  genius." 

Vol.  i.  pp  .5C4— .'iC.6, 

The  following  notices  of  Madame  de  Stael 
are  emphatic  and  original : — 

"  I  had  seen  Madame  de  Stnel  a  ohilH  ;  and  I  saw 
her  again  on  her  deathbed  The  iniermediaie  years 
were  spent  in  another  hemisphere,  as  far  as  |x>SHiliIc 
from  the  scenes  in  which  she  lived.  Mixing  nanm, 
not  many  months  since,  with  a  world  in  which  I  am 


•32 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


a  stranger,  and  feel  thai  I  must  remain  so,  I  just  saw 
this  celebrated  woman;  and  heard,  as  it  were,  her 
last  words,  as  I  had  read  her  works  before,  uninflu- 
enced by  any  local  bias.  Perhaps,  ihe  impressions 
of  a  man  thus  dropped  from  another  world  into  this 
niiy  be  deemed  something  like  those  of  posterity. 
■■  Madame  de  Stael  lived  tor  conversaiion  :  She 
was  not  happy  out  ot  a  large  circle,  and  a  French 
circle,  where  she  could  be  heard  in  her  own  lan- 
guage to  the  best  advantage.  Her  exiravagani  ad- 
miration of  the  society  of  Paris  was  neither  more 
nor  less  than  genuine  admiraiion  of  herself.  It 
was  the  best  mirror  she  could  get — atid  that  v\as 
all.  Ambitious  of  all  sorts  of  notoriety,  she  would 
have  given  the  world  to  have  been  born  noble  and 
a  beauty.  Yet  there  was  in  this  excessive  vanity 
so  much  honesty  and  frankness,  it  was  so  entirely 


void  of  affectation  and  iriclc,  she  made  so  fair  and  so 
irresistible  an  appeal  to  your  own  sense  of  her  worth 
iliat  what  would  have  been  laughable  in  any  one 
else,  was  almost  respectable  in  her.     That  anibi- 

■  tion  ol  eloquence,  so  conspicuous  in  her  writings, 
was   much   less   observable    in    her   conversation; 

I  there  was  more  ahaitdo>i  in  what  she  said   ilianiii 

I  what  she  wrote;  while  speaking,  the  sponlaneous 
inspiration  was  no  labour,  but  all  pleasure.  Con- 
scious of  extraordinary  powers,  she  gave  herself  up 
to  the  present  enjoyment  of  the  good  things,  and 
the  deep  things,  flowing  in  a  full  stream  troin  htr 
well-stored  mmd  and  luxuriant  fancy.  The  inspi- 
ruiion  was  pleasure — the  pleasure  was  inspiration; 

j  and  witliout  precisely  intending  it,  she  was,  every 
evening  of  her  life,  in  a  circle  of  company,  the  very 

1  Corinne  she  had  depicted," — Vol.  i,  pp.  283— 286. 


(Nounnbcr,    1812.) 

Rejected  Addresses ;  or  the  New  Theatrum  Poetanim.     12mo.  pp.  126.     London:   1812.* 


After  all  the  learning,  wrangling  and 
solemn  exhortation  of  our  preceding  pages, 
we  think  we  may  venture  to  treat  our  readers 
with  a  httle  morsel  of  town-made  gaiety, 
without  any  great  derogation  from  our  estab- 
lished character  for  seriousness  and  contempt 
of  trifles.  We  are  aware,  indeed,  that  there 
is  no  way  by  which  we  could  so  certainly  in- 
gratiate ourselves  with  our  provincial  readers, 
9.S  by  dealing  largely  in  such  articles;  and 
we  can  assure  them,  that  if  we  have  not 
hitherto  indulged  them  very  often  in  this 
manner,  it  is  only  because  we  have  not  often 
met  with  any  thing  nearly  so  good  as  the 
little  volume  before  us.  We  have  seen  no- 
thing comparable  to  it  indeed  since  the  pub- 
lication of  the  poetry  of  the  Antijacobiu  ;  and 
though  it  wants  the  high  seasoning  of  politics 
and  personalitj-.  which  no  doubt  contributed 
much  to  the  currency  of  that  celebrated  col- 
lection, we  are  not  sure  that  it  does  not  ex- 
hibit, on  the  whole,  a  still  more  exquisite 
talent  of  imitation,  with  powers  of  poetical 
composition  that  are  scarcely  inferior. 

We  must  not  forget,  however,  to  inform  our 
country  readers,  that  these  "Rejected  Ad- 
dresses" are  merely  a  series  of  Imitations  of 
the  style  and  manner  of  the  most  celebrated 
living  writers— who  are  here  supposed  to  have 

•  I  have  been  so  much  struck,  on  lately  looking 
back  to  this  paper,  with  the  very  extraordinary 
merit  and  felicity  of  the  Imitations  on  which  it  is 
employed,  that  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
giving  them  a  chance  of  deliyhting  a  new  genera- 
tion of  admirers,  by  inchidmg  some  part  of  them  in 
this  publication.  I  lake  them,  indeed,  to  be  the 
very  best  imitationsl  and  otten  of  difficult  original.«) 
that  ever  were  made:  and,  considering  their  great 
extent  and  variety,  to  indicate  a  talent  to  which  I 
do  not  know  where  to  look  for  a  parallel.  Some 
few  of  them  descend  to  the  level  ol  iiaroilies  :  But 
by  far  the  greater  part  are  of  a  much  higher  de- 
scription. They  ought,  I  suppose,  to  have  come 
under  the  head  of  Poetry, — but  "  Miscellaneous" 
is  broad  enough  to  cover  any  thing. — Some  of  the 
less  striking  citations  are  now  omitted.  The  au- 
thors, I  believe,  have  been  long  known  to  have 
been  the  late  Messrs.  Smith. 


tried  their  hands  at  an  address  to  be  spoken 
at  the  opening  of  the  New  Theatre  in  Dniry 
Lane — in  the  hope,  we  presume,  of  obtaining 
the  twenty-pound  prize  which  the  munificent 
managers  are  said  to  have  held  out  to  the  suc- 
cessful candidate.  The  names  of  the  imagi- 
nary competitors,  whose  works  are  now  offered 
to  the  public,  are  only  indicated  by  their  ini- 
tials; and  there  are  one  or  two  which  we 
really  do  not  know  how  to  till  up.  By  far  the 
greater  part,  however,  are  such  as  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  mistaken;  and  no  reader  of  Scott, 
Crabbe,  Southey,  Wordsworth,  Lewi.s,  IMoore, 
or  Spencer,  could  require  the  aid,  even  of  their 
initials,  to  recognise  them  in  their  portraits. 
Coleridge,  Coleman,  and  Lord  Byron,  are  not 

'  quite  such  striking  likenesses.  Of  Dr.  Busby's 
and  IMr.  Fitzgerald's,  we  do  not  hold  ourselves 
qualified  to  judge — not  professing  to  be  deeply 
read  in  the  works  of  these  originals. 

There  is  no  talent  so  universally  entertain- 
ing as  that  of  mimicry — even  when  it  is  con- 
fined to  the  lively  imitation  of  the  air  and 
manner — the  voice,  guit,  and  external  deport- 
ment of  ordinary  individuals.  Nor  is  this  to 
be  ascribed  entirely  to  our  wicked  love  of 
ridicule ;  for,  though  we  must  not  assign  a 
very  high  intellcclual  rank  to  an  art  which  is 
said  to  have  attained  to  perfection  among  the 
savages  uf  New  Holland,  some  admiration  is 
undoubtedly  due  to  the  capacity  of  nice  ob- 
servation which  it  implies;  and  some  gratifi- 
cation may  be  innocently  derived  from  the 
sudden  perception  which  it  excites  of  pecu- 
liarities previously  unobserved.  It  rises  in 
interest,  however,  and  in  dignity,  when  it 
succeeds  in  expressing,  not  merely  the  visible 
and  external  characteristics  of  its  objects,  but 
those  also  of  their  taste,  their  genius,  and 
temper.  A  vulgar  mimic  repeats  a  man's 
cant-phrases  and  known  stories,  with  an  exact 
imitation  of  his  voice,  look,  and  gestures  :  But 
he  is  an  artist  of  a  far  higher  description,  who 
can  make  stories  or  reasonings  in  his  manner; 
and  represent  the  features  and  movements  of 

.  his  mind;  as  well  as  the  accidents  of  his  body. 


REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 


733 


'he  same  distinction  applies  to  the  mimicry. 
:"  it  may  be  so  called,  of  an  aiUhoi's  style  and 
lanner   of    writing.     T'o    copy    his   peculiar 
hrases  or  turns  of  expression — to  borrow  the 
ramrnatica]  structure  of  his  sentences,  or  the 
letrical  balance  of  his  lines — or  to  cro\vd  and 
trinix  together  all  the   pedantic   or  aflVcted 
,ords  which  he  has  become  remarkable  for 
sing — applying,    or   misapplying    all    these 
.'ithout  the  least  regard   to  the  character  t)f 
js  genius,  or  the  spirit  of  his  compositions,  is 
D  imitate  an  author  only  as  a  monkey  might 
aiitate  a  man — or.  at  best,  to  support  a  mas- 
luerade  character  on  the  strength  of  the  Dress 
iidv ;  and  at  all  events,  requires  as  little  talent. 
nd  deserves  as  little  praise,  as  the  mimetic 
■xhibitions  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Porl-Syd- 
lev.    It  is  another  matter,  however,  to  be  able 
0  borrow  the  diction  and  manner  of  a  cele- 
irated  writer  to  express  sentiments  like  his 
)wn — to -write  as  he  would  have  written  on 
he  subject  proposed  to  his  imitator — to  think 
lis  thoughts,  in   short,  as  well  as  to  use  his 
.vords — and  to  make  the  reAnval  of  his  style 
ippear  but  a  consequence  of  the  strong  con- 
peption  of  his  peculiar  ideas.   To  do  this  in  all 
ithe  perfection  of  which  it  is  capable,  requires 
talents,  perhaps,  not  inferior  to  those  of  the 
priginal   on  whom   they   are   employed — to- 
gether with  a  faculty  of  observation,  and  a 
dexterity  of  application,  which  that  original 
might  not  always  possess ;  and  should  not  only 
'afford  nearly  as  great  pleasure   to  the  reader, 
'as  a  piece  of  composition, — but  may  teach  him 
Isome  lessons,  or  open  up  to  him  some  views, 
Iwhich  could  not  have  been  othervAise  disclosed . 
The  exact  imitation  of  a  good  thing,  it  must 
be  admitted,  promises  fair  to  be  a  pretty  good 
thing  in  itself:  but  if  the  resemblance  be  very 
jstriking.  it  commonly  has  the  additional  ad- 
ivantage  of  letting  us  more  completely  into  the 
Isecret  of  the  original  author,  and  enabling  us 
■to  understand   far  more  clearly  in  wdiat  the 
j peculiarity  of  his  manner  consists,  than  most 
'of  us  should  ever  have  done  without  this  as- 
I  sistance.     The  resemblance,  it  is  obvious,  can 
ionly  be  rendered  striking  by  exaiigerating  a 
.  little,  and  bringing  more  conspicuously  for- 

•  ward,  all  that  is  peculiar  and  characteristic  in 
the  model:  And  the  marking  features,  which 

'  were  somewhat  shaded  and  confused  in  their 

;  natural  presentment,  being  thus  magnified  and 

[  disengaged  in  the  copy,  are  more  easily  ob- 

served  and  comprehended,  and  their  effect 

•  traced  with  infinitely  more  ease  and  assu- 
rance ; — just  as  the  course  of  a  river,  or  a  range 
of  mountains,  is  more  distinct!)'  understood 
when  laid  down  on  a  map  or  plan,  than  when 
studied  in  their  natural  prfiportions.     Thus,  in 

■  Burke's  imitation  of  Bolingbroke  (the  most 
j  perfect  specimen,  perhaps,  which  ever  will 
!  exist  of  the  art  of  which  we  are  speaking),  we 
have  all  the  qualities  which  distinguish  the 
slyle,  orwe  may  indeed  say  the  genius,  of 
that  noble  writer,  as  it  were,  concentrated  and 
brought  at  once  before  us;  so  that  an  ordinary 
reader,  who,  in  perusing  his  srenuine  works, 
merely  felt  himself  dazzled  and  disappointed 
— delighted  and  wearied  he  could  not  tell 
why,  is  now  enabled  to  form  a  definite  and 


precise  conception  of  the  causes  of  those  op- 
posite sen. -sat ions, — and  to  trace  to  tin-  noble- 
ness of  the  diclioti  and  the  inaccuracy  of  the 
rea.soning — the  boldness  of  the  pr(iiH>t*ition8 
and  tile  rashni'ss  of  the  inductions — the  mng- 
nificence  of  the  ])retension8  and  the  feebleness 
of  the  performance,  those  contradictory  judg- 
ments, with  the  confused  result  of  whiili  he 
had  been  perple\e<l  in  the  study  of  the  ()rn:iii:il. 
The  same  thing  may  be  said  (if  the  in\ilation 
of  Darwin,  contained  in  the  l.ovcs  of  the  Tri- 
angles, though  confessedly  of  a  satirical  or 
ludicrous  character.  All  the  peculiarities  of 
the  original  poet  are  there  brought  togelher. 
and  crowded  into  a  little  space;  where  Ihey 
can  be  compared  and  e.slimaled  with  ease. 
His  essence  in  short,  is  extracted,  and  sepa- 
rated in  a  good  degree  from  what  is  common 
to  him  with  the  rest  of  his  species: — and 
while  he  is  recognised  at  once  as  the  oiiirinal 
from  whom  all  these  characteristic  traits  have 
been  borrowed,  that  original  itself  is  far  better 
luulerstood — because  tlie  copy  presents  no 
traits  but  such  as  arc  characteristic. 

This  highest  .species  of  imitation,  therefore, 
we  conceive  t,o  be  of  no  slight  value  in  fixing 
the  taste  and  judgment  of  the  public,  even 
with  regard  to  the  great  standard  and  original 
authors  who  naturally  become  its  subjects. 
The  pieces  before  us.  indeed,  do  not  fall  cor- 
rectly under  this  denomination: — the  subject 
to  which  they  are  confined,  aiid  the  occasion 
on  which  they  are  .^jupposed  lo  have  been  pro- 
duced, having  necessarily  given  them  a  cer- 
tain ludicrous  and  light  air.  not  (juite  suitable 
to  the  gravity  of  some  of  the  originals,  and 
imparted  to  some  of  them  a  sort  of  mongrel 
character  in  which  we  may  discern  the  fea- 
tures both  of  burlesque  and  of  imitation. 
There  is  enough,  however,  of  the  latter  to  an- 
swer the  purposes  we  have  indicated  above; 
while  the  tone  of  levity  and  ridicule  may 
answer  the  farther  purpose  of  admonishing  the 
authors  who  are  personated  in  this  exhibitiouj 
in  what  directions  they  trespass  on  the  borders 
of  absurdity,  and  from  what  peculiarities  they 
are  in  danger  of  becoming  ridiculous.  A  mere 
parody  or  travestie,  indeed,  is  commonly  made, 
with  the  greatest  success,  upon  the  tenderest 
and  most  sublime  pa.ssages  in  poetry — the 
M  hole  secret  of  ,mch  performances  consistnig 
in  the  substitution  of  a  mean,  ludicrous,  or 
disgnstinir  subject,  for  a  touching  or  noble  one. 
But  where  this  is  not  the  case,  and  where  the 
passages  imitated  are  conversant  with  objects 
nearly  as  familiar,  and  names  and  actions 
almost  as  undignified,  as  those  in  the  imita- 
tion, the  author  may  be  assured,  that  what  a 
moderate  degree  of  exaggeration  has  thus 
made  eminently  laughable,  could  never  have 
been  worthy  of  a  place  in  .serious  and  lofty 
poetry. — But  we  are  falling,  we  perceive,  into 
our  old  trick  of  dissertation,  and  forgetting  our 
benevolent  intention  to  dedicate  this  article  t(» 
the  amuspment  of  our  rr-aders. — We  break 
off  therefore,  abiuntly,  and  luin  without  far- 
ther jueamble  to  the  book. 

Th(!  first  piece,  under  the  v.nun-  <>\  the  loyal 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  ihoujjh  as  good,  we  (-upj  obp, 
as  the  original,  ie  not  very  inleri  sting.  Whetiier 
3  M 


734 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


it  be  very  like  Mr.  Fitzgerald  or  not,  however, 
it  must  be  allowed  that  the  vulgarity,  ser- 
vility, and  gioss  absurdity  of  the  newspaper 
scribblers  is  welh  rendered  in  the  following 
lines : — 

"  Gallia's  stern  despot  shall  in  vain  advance 

From  Paris,  the  meiropolis  of  France  ; 

By  iliis  dny  iiu.nih  the  monster  shall  not  gain 

A  foot  of  land  in  Portugal  or  Spain. 

See  Welliiiaton  in  Salamanca's  field 

Forces  his  tavourite  General  to  yield,        [Marmont 

Breaks  through   his  lines,  and  leaves  his  boasted 

Expiring  on  the  plain  without  an  arm  on : 

Madrid  he  enters  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 

And  then  the  villages  still  further  south  ! 

Base  Bonaparte,  filled  with  deadly  ire, 

Sets  one  by  one  our  playhouses  on  fire  : 

Some  years  ago  he  pounced  with  deadly  glee  on 

The  Opera  House — then  burnt  down  the  Pantheon  : 

Nay,  still  unsated,  in  a  coat  of  flames, 

Ne.xt  at  ;\Iillbank.  he  cross'd  the  river  Thames. 

Who  makes  the  qunriern  loaf  and  I/uddites  rise? 

Who  fills  I  he  butchers'  shops  wiih  large  bine  flies? 

Who  thought  in  flames  St.  James's  court  to  pinch  ? 

Who  burnt  the  wardrobe  of  poor  Lady  Finch  ? 

Why  he,  who,  forging  for  this  Isle  a  yoke, 

Reminds  me  of  a  line  I  lately  spoke, 

'  The  tree  of  Freedom  is  the  British  oak.'  " 

The  next,  in  the  name  of  Mr.  W.  Words- 
worth, is  entitled  '-'The  Baby's  Debut;"  and 
is  characteristically  announced  as  intended  to 
have  been  "spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy 
Lake,  a  girl  eight  years  of  age,  who  is  drawn 
upon  the  .stage  in  a  child's  chaise,  by  Samuel 
Hughes,  her  uncle's  porter. ■■  The  author  does 
not,  in  this  instance,  attempt  to  copy  any  of 
the  higher  attributes  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
poetry  :  But  has  succeeded  perfectly  in  the 
imitation  of  his  mawkish  affectations  of  child- 
ish simplicity  and  nursery  stammering.  We 
hope  it  will  make  him  ashamed  of  his  Alice 
Fell,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  last  volumes 
— of  which  it  is  by  no  means  a  parody,  but  a 
very  fair,  and  indeed  we  think  a  flattering 
imitation.  We  give  a  stanza  or  two  as  a 
specimen : — 

"  My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  New  Year's  Day  ; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me  last  week  a  doll  of  wa.x. 

And  brother  Jack  a  top. 

"  Jack's  in  the  pouts — and  this  it  is. 
He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  hi.s. 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes. 
Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  oli,  my  stars! 
He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars,        • 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  !" — pp.  5,  6. 

Mr.  Moore's  Address  is  entitled  "The  Liv- 
ing Lustre.^."  and  appears  to  us  a  very  fair 
imitation  of  the  fantastic  verses  which  that 
higenious  person  indites  when  he  is  merely 
gallant ;  and,  resisting  the  lures  of  voluptuous- 
ness, is  not  enough  in  earnest  to  be  tender.  It 
begins  : — 

"  O  why  should  our  dull  retrospective  addresses 

Fall  damp  as  wet  blankets  on  Drury  Lane  fire  ? 
Away  with  blue  devils,  away  with  distresses. 

And  give  the  cay  spirit  to  sparkling  desire  ! 
Let  artists  decide  on  the  beauties  of  Drury, 

The  richest  to  me  is  when  woman  is  there; 
The  question  of  Houses  1  leave  to  the  jury  ; 

The  fairest  to  me  is  the  house  of  the  fair." — p.  25. 


The  main  drift  of  the  piece,  however  ai  •$]j^ 
well  as  its  title,  is  explained  in  the  following*  ''%i 
stanzas: — 

"  How  well  would  our  artists  attend  to  their  duties 

Our  house  save  in  oil,  and  our  authors  in  wit, 
In  lieu  of  yon  lamps  if  a  row  of  young  beauties 
Glanc'd   light  from  their  eye's  between  us  an 
the  pit.  [ijo 

Aitun'd  to  (he  scene,  when  the  pale  yellow  moo 

Tower  and  tree,  they'd  look  sol)er  and  sage; 
And  when   ihey  all  wink'd  their  dear  peepers  i 
unison. 
Night,  pitchy  night  would  envelope  the  stage. 
Ah  !  could  I  some  girl  from  yon  box  for  her  youi 
pick, 
I'd  love  her — as  long  as  she  blossom'd  in  youth 
Oh  !  white  is  the  ivory  case  of  the  toothpick. 
But  when  beauty  smiles  how  much  whiter  tli 
'ooih  I''  pp.  26,  27. 

The  ne\t,  enthled  "The  Rebuilding."  is  r 
name  of  Mr.  Sou  they ;  and  is  one  of  the  bes 
in  the  collection.  It  is  in  the  style  of  th 
Kehama  of  that  multifarious  author;  and  i 
supposed  to  be  spoken  in  the  character  of  on 
of  his  Glendoveers.  The  imitation  of  th 
diction  and  measure,  we  think,  is  nearlv  pe: 
feet ;  and  the  descriptions  quite  as  good  as  tli 
original.  It  opens  with  an  account  of  th 
burning  of  the  old  theatre,  formed  upon  th 
pattern  of  the  Funeral  of  Arvalan. 

"  Midnight,  yet  not  a  nose 
From  Tower-hill  to  Piccadilly  snored  I 

Midnight,  yet  not  a  nose 
From  Indra  drew  the  essence  of  repose ! 
See  with  what  crimson  fury, 
By  Indra  fann'd,  the  god  of  fire  ascends  the  wall 
of  Drury  I 
The  tops  of  houses,  blue  with  lead. 
Bend  beneath  the  landlord's  tread  ; 
Master  and  'prentice,  serving-man  and  lord, 
Nailor  and  tailor, 
Grazier  and  brazier, 
Thro'  streets  and  alleys  pour'd. 
All,  all  abroad  to  gaze. 
And  wonder  at  the  blaze.'' — pp.  29,  30. 

There  is  then  a  great  deal  of  indescribabi 
intriguing  between  Veeshnoo,  who  wishes  t 
rebuild  the  house  through  the  instrunientalit 
of  Mr.  Whitbrpad.  and  Yamen  who  wishes  t 
prevent  it.  The  Power  of  Restoration,  how 
ever,  brings  all  the  parties  q^iUncerned  to  a; 
amicable  meeting;  the  effect  of  which,  o 
the  Power  of  Destiuction,  is  thus  finely  repre 
sen ted : — 

"  Yamen  beheld,  and  wiiher'd  at  the  sight; 
Long  had  he  aim'd  the  sun-beam  to  control. 

For  light  was  hateful  to  his  soul : 
Go  on,  cried  the  hellish  one,  yellow  with  spile; 
Go  on,  cried  the  hellish  one,  yellow  with  spleen  ; 
Thy  toils  of  the  morning,  like  Ithaca's  queen 
I'll  toil  to  undo  every  night. 

The  lawyers  are  met  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor, 

And  Yamen's  visage  grows  blanker  and  tilankei 
The  lawyers  are  met  at  the  Anchor  and  Crown,   , 
And  Yamen's  cheek  is  a  russety  brown. 
Veeshnoo,  now  thy  work  proceeds! 
The  solicitor  reads. 
And,  merit  of  merit ! 
Red  wax  and  green  ferret 
Are  fix'd  at  the  foot  of  the  deeds  I" 

pp.  a."),  36. 

"Drury's  Dirge,"  by  Laura  Matilda.  i6  no 
of  the  first  quality.     The  verses,  to  be  surt 


REJECTED  ADDRESSES. 


735 


very  smooth,  and  very  nonsensical — as 
^s  intended  :  But  they  are  not  so  good  as 
•ift's  celebrated  Song  by  a  Person  of  Qua- 

and  are  so  exactly  in  the  same  mea- 
're,  and  on  the  same  plan,  that  it  is  impos- 
J)le  to  avoitl  making  the  comparison.  The 
ider  may  take  these  three  stanzas  as  a 
.Jmple  :— 

•■  Liiriil  smoke  and  frank  suspicion, 
H md  in  hand  reluctant  dance  ; 
While  the  god  fultils  his  mission, 
Chivalry  resigns  his  lance. 

"  Hark  !  the  engines  blandly  thunder, 
Fleecy  clouds  dishevell'd  lie  ; 
And  the  firemen,  mute  with  wonder, 
On  the  son  of  Saturn  cry. 

■  See  the  bird  of  Ammon  sailing, 
Perches  on  the  engine's  peak, 
And  the  Eagle  fireinan  hailing, 
I  Soothes  them  with  its  bickering  beak." 

I«A  Tale  of  Drury,"  by  Walter  Scott,  is, 
oon  the  whole,  admirably  executed  ;  though 
lie  introduction  is  rather  tame.  The  burning 
described  with  the  mighty  Minstrel's  char- 
jteristic  love  of  localities : — 

■  Then  London's  sons  in  nightcap  woke  ! 

In  bedgown  woke  her  dames  ; 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke. 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke, 

'  The  Playhouse  is  in  flames!' 
And  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  lustre  lends 

To  every  window  pane  ; 
Blushes;  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

\  bright  ensanguin'd  drain  ; 
Meu.x's  new  brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  patent  shot  they  sell : 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall. 
Partakes  the  ray  with  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  ticket  porters'  house  of  call, 
I       Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  wall, 
I       Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 
'  And  Richardson's  Hotel." — pp.  46,  47. 

I  The  mustering  of  the  firemen  is  not  less 
imeritorious : — 

[    •'  The  siimmon'd  firemen  woke  at  call 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all. 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snoose, 
F.ach  sought  his  pond'rous  hobnail'd  shoes  ; 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied, 

'        Plush  breeches  next  in  crimson  dyed, 

I  His  nether  bulk  embrae'd  ; 

'        Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue, 
V>'hose  massv  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
Tim  en^rines  thunder'd  thro'  the  street, 
Fire-hMok,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 
And  tdrrhes  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

I  Along  the  pavement  paced," — p,  48. 

!  The  procession  of  the  engines,  with  the 
'badjps  of  their  different  companies,  and  the 
horrible  names  of  their  leaders,  is  also  admi- 
rable— but  we  cannot  make  room  for  it.  The 
account  of  the  death  of  Muggins  and  Hi<:giii- 
I  bottom,  however,  mnst  find  a  place.  These 
arp  the  two  principal  firemen  who  suffered  on 
I  this  occasion  ;  and  the  catastrophe  is  describ- 
1  ed  with  a  spirit,  not  unworthy  of  the  name  so 


venturously  a.'jsumed  by  the  describer.  After 
the  roof  fails  in,  there  is  silence  nnd  great  coti- 
sternation : — 

'•  When  lo!  amid  llie  wreck  upnur'd 
(Gradual  a  moving  head  appcar'd. 

And  Ea"lc  tircmen  knew 
'Twas  Joseph  Mu^'gins,  nniiie  revcr'd, 

The  foreiniii)  of  llieir  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  sisjii  of  wo.-, 
'  A  .Mu2gins  to  the  refcuo,  ho  I' 

And  poiir'd  the  iii.Hsing  tide  : 
Meanwhile  the  .Muggins  fouijhi  amain. 
And  strove  and  sirugyl'd  all  in  vain, 
For  rallying  but  to  lall  aguin. 

He  tottor'd,  sunk,  and  died  ! 
Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell. 
To  succour  one  they  lov'd  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbotiom  did  aspire, 
(His  firemaii'.s  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  lo  save  ; 
But  ah  !   his  reckless  generous  ire 

Serv'd  but  to  share  his  erave  ! 
Mid  blazing  beams  and  .icaldiiig  streams, 
Thro'  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke. 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench, 
Destroying  sight,  o'crwhelm'd  him  quite; 

He  Slink  to  rise  no  more  ! 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  P'ate  he  brav'd. 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  wav'd; 
'  Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps  ! 
'  You,  Clutterbuck,  ctmie  siir  your  slumps, 
'  Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 
'  A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  ! 
'  What  are  they  fear'd  on,  fools  ?  'od  rot  'em  I' 
Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbotiom." 

pp.  50-52. 

The  rebuilding  is  recorded  in  strains  as 
characteristic,  and  as  aptly  applied  : — 

Didst  mark,  how  toil'd  the  busy  train 
f>om  morn  to  eve,  till  Drury  Lane 
Leap'd  like  a  roebuck  from  the  plain  ? 
Ropes  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  again, 

And  nimble  workmen  trod. 
To  realize  hold  Wyati's  plan 
Rush'd  many  a  howling  Irishman, 
Loud  claiter'd  many  a  porter  can, 
And  many  a  ragamuffin  clan. 

With' trowel  and  with  hod." — pp.  52,  53. 

'•  The  Beautiful  Incendiary,"  by  the  Hon- 
ourable W.  Spencer,  is  also  an  imitation  of 
great  merit.  The  flashy,  fa.shionable,  artifi- 
cial style  of  this  wiiter,  with  his  confideut 
and  extravagant  compliment.s,  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  be  parodied  in  such  lines  as  the 
following : — 

"  Sobriety  cease  to  be  sober. 

Cease  labour  to  dig  and  to  delve  ! 
All  hail  to  this  tenth  of  October, 

One  thousand  eisht  hundred  and  twelve! 
Hah  !   whom  do  my  (leepers  remark  ? 

'Tis  Hebe  with  Jupiter's  jug  ! 
Oh,  no !  'tis  the  pride  of  the  Park, 

Fair  Lady  Elizabeth  MuL'g  I 
But  ah  !   why  awaken  the  blaze 

Those  bright  burning-ulusses  coniain, 
Whose  lens^  with  concentrated  raya, 

Proved  fatal  to  old  Drury  Lane! 
'Twas  all  areidentai.  they  cry  : 

Away  with  the  flimsy  humbug  ! 
'Twas  fir'd  by  a  flash  from  the  eye 

Of  Lady  F-lizabcth  Mngg  ! 

<=Fire  and  Ale,''  by  M.  G.  Lewis,  is  not 
!  less  fortunate  ;  and  exhibits  not  only  a  fnith- 
i  ful  copy  of  the  spirited,  loo-.',  nnd  (lowini; 
!  versification  of  that  sii'gular  author,  but  a  ve.  jr 


7S6 


MISCELL.\NEOUS. 


just  representation  of  that  mixture  of  extrava- 
gance and  jocularity  which  has  impressed 
most  of  his  writings  with  the  character  of  a 
sort  of  farcical  horror.     For  example  : — 

'■  The  fire  king  one  day  raiher  amorous  felt ; 

He  inounied  iiis  hoi  copper  filly  ; 
His  breeches  and  boois  were  of  tin  ;  and  the  beU 
Was  made  of'cnst  iron,  tor  fiear  it  should  melt 

With  the  heai  of  the  copper  colt's  belly. 
Sure  never  was  skin  half  so  scalding  as  his  ! 

When  an  infant,  'iwas  equally  horrid, 
For  the  water  when  he  was  bapiiz'd  gave  a  fizz, 
And  bubbl'd  and  simmer'd  and  started  off,  whizz  I 

As  soon  as  it  sprinkl'd  his  forehead. 
Oh  then  there  was  glitter  and  fire  in  each  eye, 

For  two  living  coals  were  the  symbols  ; 
His  teeth  were  calcin'd,  and  his  tongue  was  so  dry 
It  rattled  against  them  as  though  you  should  try 

To  play  the  piano  in  thimbles." — pp.  (iH,  69. 

The  drift  of  the  story  is,  that  this  formida- 
ble personage  lalls  in  "^love  with  Miss  Drury 
the  elder,  who  is  consumed  in  his  ardent  em- 
brace !  when  Mr.  Whitbread,  in  the  character 
of  the  Ale  King,  fairly  bullies  him  from  a 
similar  attempt  on  her  younger  sister,  who 
has  just  come  out  under  his  protection. 

We  have  next  •■'Playhouse  ]\Jusings,"  by 
Mr.  Coleridge— a  piece  which  is  unquestioii- 
ably  Lakish— though  we  catmot  say  that  we 
recognise  in  it  any  of  the  peculiar  traits  of 
that  powerful  and  misdirected  genius  whose 
name  it  has  borrowed.  We  rather  think, 
however,  that  the  tuneful  Brotherhood  will 
conisider  it  as  a  respectable  eclogue.  This  is 
the  introduction  : — 

"  My  pensive  Public  I  wherefore  look  you  sad? 
I  had  a  grandmother;  she  kepi  a  donkey 
To  carry  to  the  mart  her  crockery  ware. 
And  when  that  donkey  look'd  me  in  the  face, 
His  face  was  sad  !  and  you  are  sad,  my  Public! 

Joy  should  be  yours  :  this  tenth  day  of  October 
Again  assembles  us  in  Drury  Lane. 
Long  wept  my  eye  to  see  the  limber  planks 
That  hid  our  ruins  :  many  a  day  I  cried 
-Ah  me  !  I  fear  they  never  will  rebuild  it ! 
Till  on  one  eve.  one  joyful  Monday  eve, 
As  along  Charles  Sireet  I  prepar'd  to  walk, 
Just  at  the  corner,  by  the  pastry  cook's, 
I  heard  a  trowel  tick  against  a  brick  ! 
I  look'd  nie  up,  and  strait  a  parapet 
Uprose,  at  least  seven  inches  o'er  the  planks. 
Joy  to  thee,  Drury  !  to  myself  I  .«aid. 
He  of  Black  friars  Road  who  hymn'd  thy  downfal 
111  loud  Hosannahs,  and  who  prophesied 
That  flames  like  those  Ironi  prostrate  Solvma 
Would  scorch  the  hand  thatventur'd  lo  rebuild  thee, 
Has  piov'd  a  lying  prophet.     From  that  hour. 
As  leisure  offer'd.  close  to  Mr.  Sprino-'s 
Box-office  door,  I've  stood  and  eved  the  builders. " 
pp.  73,  74. 

Of  "Architectural  Atoms,"  translated  by 
Dr.  Busby,  we  can  say  very' little  more  than 
that  they  appear  to  us  to  be'  far  more  capable 
of  combining  into  good  poetry  than  the  few 
lines  we  were  able  to  read  of  the  learned 
Doctor's  genuine  address  in  the  newspapers. 
They  might  pass,  indeed,  for  a  very  tolerable 
imitation  of  Darwin  : — as  for  instance  : — 

"  I  sing  how  casual  i>rirks.  in  airy  climb 
Encoiniiei'd  casual  hor.-e  hair,  casual  lime  ; 
How  rafters  borne  through  wond'rinsr  clouds  elate, 
Kiss'd  in  their  slope  blue  elemental  slate  ! 
Clasp'd  solid  beams,  in  chance-directed  fury. 
And  gave  to  birth  our  renovated  Drury." 

pp.  82,  83. 


And  again  : — 

"  Thus  with  the  flames  that  from  old  Drury  ■« 
lis  elements  priniEeval  sought  the  skies, 
There  pendulous  to  wait  the  hnppv  hour. 
When  new  attractions  should  restore  their  por 
Here  embryo  sounds  in  aether  lie  coiiceal'd 
Like  words  in  northern  atmosphere  congeai'd. 
Here  many  an  embryo  laugh,  and  half  encore 
Clings  to  the  root,  or  creep^s  along  the  floor. 
By  pufl^s  concipient  some  in  aeilnr  flit. 
And  soar  in  bravos  from  the  thund'ring  pit ; 
\Vhile  some  this  mortal  life  abortive  nuss. 
Crush'd  by  a  groan,  or  murder'd  by  a  hiss."— p ; 

''The  Theatre,"  by  the  Rev.  G.  Cra].. 
we  rather  think  is  the  best  piece  in  the  i. 
lection.  It  is  an  exquisite  and  most  mast,  v 
imitation,  not  only  of  the  peculiar  style,  t 
of  the  taste,  temper,  and  manner  of  desci. 
tion  of  that  most  original  author;  and  u 
hardly  be  said  to  be  iit  any  respect  a  car  . 
ture  of  that  style  or  maniier— except  in  , 
excessive  profusion  of  puns  and  verbal  jiui  s 
— which,  though  undoubteiUy  to  be  ran  J 
among  his  characteristics,  are  jiever  so  th'. 
sown  in  his  original  works  as  in  this  adm ,- 
ble  imitation.  It  does  not  aim,  of  course, t 
any  shadowof  his  pathos  or  moral  sublimr: 
but  seems  to  us  to  be  a  singularly  fait)  i 
copy  of  his  passages  of  mere  description,  t 
begins  as  follows  : — 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  view  from  ha'f-pa'^t  five  to  six. 
Our  fing  wax  candles,  with  shori  coiton  wu-ks' 
Touch'd'by  the  lampligh'er's  I'romethean  art,  , 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start  ! 
To  see  red  Phonbus  ihiongli  the  gallery  pane    ' 
linge  with  his  beam  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane 
While  gradual  parnes  fill  our  widen'd  pit, 
And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit. 

"  At  first,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice  and  e;, 
Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they  please; 
But  when  the  multiiiide  contracts  I  he  span. 
And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they  can. 

"  Now  the  full  benches,  to  late  comers,  doon' 
No  room  for  standing,  miscall'd  ufanding  room. 

"  Hark  !  the  check-taker  moodv  .«ileiice  bret 
And  bawling  '  Pit  full.'  gives  the  check  he  lakf ' 

pp.  116,  u: 

The  tuning  of  the  orchestra  is  given  w  i 
the  same  spirit  and  fidelity:  but  we  rat  r 
choose  to  insert  the  following  descent  o:  i 
playbill  from  the  upper  boxes : — 

"  Perchance,  while  pit  and  gallery  rry,  '  hais  o: 
And  aw'd  consumption  checks  his  chided  cougl 
Some  giggling  dauc;hier  of  the  *)ucen  of  |..ve      ■ 
Drops,  reft  of  pin,  her  play-biU  troni  above  ; 
Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap. 
Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  "air,  the  printed  scrap 
But,  wiser  far  than  he.  combustion  fears, 
And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers  ; 
Till  sinking  gradual,  with  repealed  iwirl,  , 

It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler's  curl ;  ; 

Who  from  his  powder'd  paie  the  intruder  strikei 
And,  tor  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the  spikes."  ' 

p.  !is; 

The  quaintness  and  minuteness  of  the  I- 
lowing  catalogue,  are  also  in  the  very  sp': 
of  the  original  author— baling  always  "the  i' 
due  allowance  of  puns  and  xohcclti  to  whi. 
we  have  already  alhuled  • — 

"  What  various  swains  our  moilev  walls  couiain 
Fashion  from  Moorfields.  honour  from  Chick  Lat 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  liere  resort. 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Cou 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


'37 


'lie  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark,  , 

jie  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk  ;         i 
lys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door, 
li'ih  pence  twice" five, — iliey  want  hut  twopence  | 
111  some  Saniariian  the  twopence  spares,     [more,  j 
Ld  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery  stairs. 
Jiiics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  baulk,  ! 

jit  talk  their  minds, — we  wish  they'd  mind  their 
fe-worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live,  [talk  !  j 
Ihogive  the  lie,  and  tell  the  lie  they  give  ;  i 

:id  iTucks  wiih  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 
U  in  iheir  {;aiiers,  laxer  in  their  gait." 

pp.  118,  119.      j 

■We  shall  conclude  with  the  episode  on  the  i 
(wand  recovery  of  Pat  Jenninsis'  hat — which,  ; 
jMr.  Crabbe  had  thought  at  all  of  describing, 
k  are  pers^naded  he  would  have  described  | 
tecisely  as  follows  : —  j 

["  Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat,  I 

ir,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat ;  j 

lown  froni  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew,  j 

|nd  spurn'd  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two.  | 

pw  shall  he  act  ?  Pay  at  the  gallery  door  i 

iwo  shillinss  for  what  cost  when  new  but  four  ? 
iow,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief. 
')hn  Mullins  whispers,  lake  my  handkerchief. 
'hank  you,  cries  Pat.  but  one  won't  make  a  line  ; 
>ake  mine,  cried   Wilson,  and  cried  Stokes  lake 
(  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  lies,  [mine. 

phere  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies  ; 
ike  Jris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue 
tarr'd,  strip'd,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  blue.  1 
id  calico,  lorn  silk,  and  muslin  new.  [ 

leorge  Greene  below,  with  palpiiaiing  hand,  j 

limps  the  last  kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band  : 
!p>oars  the  prize  ;  the  youth  with  joy  unfeign'd,     | 
Icgain'd  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regain'd  ;  i 

;.  hile  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
lade  a  low  bow,  and  touch'd  the  ransom'd  hat.'' 

I  The  Ghost  of  Samuel  Johnson  is  not  very  t 
pod  as  a  whole  :  thouah  some  pa,«sages  are 
Insularly  happy.  The  measure  and  solemnity 
^  his  sentences,  in  all  the  limited  variety  of  , 
jieir  structure,  is  imitated  with  skill ; — but 
lie  diction  is  caricatured  in  a  vulgar  and  un- 
lleasing  degree.  To  make  Johnson  call  a 
loor  -a  ligneous  barricade,"  and  its  knocker 
•1(1  bell  its  '-frappant  and  tintinabulant  ap- 
fendages.''  is  neither  just  nor  humorous; 
jiid  we  are  surprised  that  a  writer  who  has 
jiven  such  extraordinary  proofs  of  hi.'*  talent 
Ik  finer  ridicule  and  fairer  imitation,  should 
jave  stooped  to  a  vein  of  pleasantry  so  low,  and 
p  long  ago  exhausted  ;  especially  as.  in  other 
lassages  of  the  same  piece,  he  has  shown 
'ow  well  qualified  he  was  both  to  catch  and 
I')  render  the  true  characteristics  of  his  original. 
i'he  besiiuiinsr.  for  example,  we  think  excel- 


"  That  which  was  organised  hy  the  moral  nbility 
ot  one,  has  been  e.xecuted  bv  the  phy^icnl  itrort  ol 
many;  and  Dkikv  La.nk  'I'iieatrk  w  nov^  coin- 
pleie.  0(  that  part  behind  the  curiuiii,  wliic  li  huit 
not  yet  been  destined  to  glow  beneiiih  ihebrunbof 
the  varnisher,  or  vibrate  to  the  linmnier  of  the  car- 
penter, little  is  thought  by  the  nublic,  and  little 
need  be  said  by  the  comnnilce.  Iruih.  Iiow.v.t. 
is  not  to  be  sacrificed  for  the  accommo<lnii<»n  oi 
either  ;  and  he  who  should  pronounce  that  our  edi- 
fice has  received  its  final  eml)iih>hment,  would  t-e 
disseminaiino;  falsehood  without  incurring  tiivour, 
and  risking  the  disgrace  ol  detection  without  partui- 
paiiiig  ihe  advantage  of  success. 

"Let  it  not,  however,  be  conjectured,  that  bo- 
cause  we  are  unassuming,  wv  ore  imbecile  ;  that 
forbearance  is  any  indication  of  despondency,  or 
humility  of  demerit.  He  that  is  the  most  assured 
ot  success  will  make  the  fewest  appeals  t<>  Invcnir  ; 
and  where  nothing  is  claimed  that  is  undue,  notliing 
that  is  due  will  be  withheld.  A  swelling  opening 
is  too  often  succeeded  by  an  insignificant  conclu- 
sion. Parturient  mountains  have  ere  now  produced 
inuscipular  abortions;  and  the  auditor  who  com- 
pares incipient  grandeur  with  final  vulgarity,  i.s  re- 
minded of  the  pious  hawkers  of  Constantinople, 
who  solemnly  peratnbulate  her  streets,  exclaiming, 
'  In  the  name  ot  the  prophet — figs  I'  " — pp.  54,  b^. 

It  ends  with  a  solemn  eulogium  on  Mr. 
Whitbread,  which  is  thus  wound  up : — 

"  To  his  never-slumbering  talents  you  are  in- 
debted for  whatever  pleasure  this  haunt  of  the 
Muses  is  calculated  to  afford.  If,  in  defiance  of 
chaotic  malevolence,  the  destroyer  of  the  temple 
of  Diana  yet  survives  in  the  name  of  Htrosirauis, 
surely  we  may  confidently  predict,  that  the  re!>ui!der 
of  the  temple  of  Apollo  will  stand  recorded  lo  dis- 
tant posterity,  in  that  of— Samuel  Whitbkeap." 
pp.  .^9,  60. 

Our  readers  will  now  have  a  pretty  goo<l 
idea  of  the  contents  of  this  amusing  little 
volume.  We  have  no  conjectures  to  offer  as 
to  its  anonymous  author.  He  who  is  sucJi  a 
master  of  disguises,  may  easily  be  supposed 
to  have  been  succe.ssful  in  concealing  him- 
self;— and  with  the  power  of  assuming  so 
many  styles,  is  not  likely  to  be  detecteil  by 
his  own.  We  should  guess,  however,  that  he 
had  not  written  a  great  deal  in  his  own  char- 
acter— that  his  natural  style  was  neither  very 
lofty  nor  very  grave — and  that  he  rather  in- 
dulges a  partiality  for  puns  and  verbal  plea- 
santries. We  manel  why  he  has  shut  out 
Campbell  and  Rogers  from  his  theatre  of  liv- 
ing poets ;— and  confidently  expect  to  have 
our  curiosity  in  this  and  in  all  other  particu- 
lars very  speedily  gratified,  when  the  ap- 
plause of  the  country  shall  induce  him  to  lake 
off  his  ma«k. 


(lUcccmber,  1858.) 

'  tEtiDrcs  Iniditcs  de  Mculame  la  Baronne  de  Stael,  piiblucs  par  son  Fils ;  prcudecs  dune  Noiue 
■  I  swr  le  Caractere  et  les  Ecrits  de  M.  de  Stael.  Par  Madame  Neckkh  Saissijrk.  Trom  lonif •. 
'    ■   ffvo.    London.  Treuttel  and  Wurtz :   1820. 

We  are  very  much  indebted  fO  Madame  i  It  is,  to  be  sure,  rather  in  the  nature  of  a  Pane- 

t    'VeckerSraissure  for  this  copious,  elesant,  and  jgyri.;  than  of  an  impartial   biography— an.., 

[iffectiona!-  account  of  her  frien'd  and  cousin.  '  with  the  wig&clty,  morality,  and  skill  in  coin- 


93 


3m2 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


position  which  seem  to  be  endemic  in  the  . 
society  of  Geneva,  has  also  perhaps  some-  j 
thing  of  the  formality,  mannerism,  and  di-  ' 
daclic  ambition  of  that  very  intellectual  so-  . 
ciety.  For  a  personal  memoir  of  one  so  much  1 
distinjjuished  in  society,  it  is  not  sufficiently  ^ 
individual  or  familiar — and  a  great  deal  too 
little  feminine,  for  a  woman's  account  of  a  ] 
woman,  who  never  forgot  her  sex.  or  allowed  j 
it  to  be  forgotten.  The  only  things  that  iiidi-  | 
cate  a  female  author  in  the  work  before  us,  I 
are  the  decorous  purity  of  her  morality — the 
feebleness  of  her  political  speculations — and 
hev  never  telling  the  age  of  her  friend. 

The  worltl  probably  knows  as  much  already 
of  M.  and  Madame  Necker  as  it  will  care 
ever  to  know:  Yet  we  are  by  no  means  of 
opinion  that  too  much  is  said  of  them  here. 
They  were  both  very  good  people — neither 
of  the  most  perfect  bon  ton,  nor  of  the  very 
highest  rank  of  understanding, — but  far  above 
the  vulgar  level  certainly,  in  relation  to  either. 
The  likenesses  of  them  with  which  we  are 
here  presented  are  undoubtedly  very  favour- 
able, and  even  flattering;  but  still,  we  have 
no  doubt  that  they  are  likenesses,  and  even 
very  cleverly  executed.  We  hear  a  great  deal 
about  the  strong  understanding  and  lofty  prin- 
ciples of  Madame  Necker,  and  of  the  air  of 
purity  that  reigned  in  her  physiognomy  :  But 
we  are  candidly  told  also,  that,  with  her  tall 
and  stiff  figure,  and  formal  manners,  "  il  y 
avoit  de  la  gene  en  elle,  et  aupres  d'elle;-' 
and  are  also  permitted  to  learn,  that  after 
having  acquired  various  branches  of  know- 
ledge by  profound  study,  she  unluckily  be- 
came persuaded  that  all  virtues  and  accom- 
plishments might  be  learned  in  the  same 
manner;  and  accordingly  set  herself,  with 
might  and  main,  '-to  study  the  arts  of  conver- 
sation and  of  housekeeping — together  with 
the  characters  of  individuals,  and  the  manage- 
ment of  society — to  reduce  all  these  things 
to  sy.stem,  and  to  deduce  from  this  system 
precise  rules  for  the  regulation  of  her  con- 
duct.'' Of  M.  Necker,  again,  it  is  recorded, 
in  very  emphatic  and  affectionate  terms. 
that  he  was  extraordinarily  eloquent  and  ob- 
serving, and  equally  full  of  benevolence  and 
practical  wisdom  :  But  it  is  candidly  admit- 
ted that  his  eloquence  was  more  sonorous 
than  substantial,  and  consisted  rather  of  well- 
rounded  periods  than  impressive  thoughts ; 
that  he  was  reseived  and  silent  in  general 
society,  took  pleasure  in  thwarting  his  wife 
in  the  education  of  their  danahter,  and  actu- 
ally treated  the  studious  propensity  of  his 
mgenious  consort  with  .so  little  respect,  as  to 
prohibit  her  from  devoting  any  time  to  com- 
position, and  even  from  having  a  table  to 
write  at ! — for  no  better  reason  than  that  he 
miirht  not  be  annoyed  with  the  fear  of  dis- 
turbing her  when  he  came  into  her  apart- 
ment !  He  was  a  great  joker,  too,  in  an  inno- 
cent paternal  way.  in  his  own  family ;  but  we 
cannot  find  that  his  witticisms  ever  had  much 
success  in  other  places.  The  worship  of  J\L 
Necker,  in  short,  is  a  part  of  the  established 
religion,  we  perceive,  at  Geneva;  but  we 
suspect  thai  the  Pncst  has  made  the  God. 


here  as  in  other  instances;  and  rather  fl: 
the  worthy  fuiancier  must  be  contented  t( 
known  to  posterity  chiefly  as  the  fathei 
Madame  de  Stael. 

But  however  that  may  be.  the  educattoi''r 
their  only  child  does  not  seem  to  have  b  i 
gone   about   very  prudently,  by  these  ? » 
personages;  and  if  Mad.  de  Stael  had   t 
been  a  very  extraordinary  creature,  both- 
to  talent  and  temper,  from  the  very  beginn 
she  could  scarcely  have  escaped  being  pn  > 
well  spoiled  between  them.     Her  mother  i 
a  notion,  that  the  best  thing  that  could  - 
done  for  a  child  was  to  cram  it  with  all  ki  > 
of  knowledge,  without  caring  very  muchw  . 
ther  it  understood  or  digested  any  part  ol 
— and  so  the  poor  little  girl  was  overtas  > 
and  overeducated.  in  a  very  pitiless  way. 
several  years;  till  her  health  became  s- 
ously  impaired,  and  they  were  obliged  to  i 
her   run    idle  in   the  woods  for  some  y«  s 
longer — where  she  composed  pastorals    I 
tragedies,  and  became  exceedingly  romai  • 
She  was  then  taken  up  again  ;  and  set  to  r 
studies  with   greater   moderation.      All    - 
time,  too,   her  father  was  counteracting  . 
lessons  of  patient  application   inculcated  > 
her  mother,  by  the  half-playful  disj'utat 
in  which  he  loved  to  engage  her,  and  the  • 
play  which  he  could  not  resist  makingof  j: 
lively  talents  in   society.     Fortunately,  (is 
last  species  of  training  fell  most  in  withljr 
disposition ;  and  she  escaped  being  soltin 
and  pedantic,  at  some  little  risk  of  becon'g 
forward  and  petulant.    Still  more  fortunat  . 
the  strength  of  her  understanding  was  ^  : 
as  to  exempt  lier  almost  entirely  from    - 
smaller  disadvantage. 

Nothing,  however,  could  exempt  her  f;n 
the  danger  and  disadvantage  of  being  a  yo  i- 
ful  Prodigy;  and  there  never  perhaps  wa^lu 
instance  of  one  so  early  celebrated,  wbe 
celebrity  went  on  increasing  to  the  last  pe''! 
of  her  existence.  We  have  a  very  lively 
ture  of  her,  at  eleven  years  of  age,  in  ■ 
work  before  us ;  where  she  is  represente  ■ 
then  a  stout  brown  girl,  with  fine  eyes, 
an  open  and  affectionate  manner,  full  of  e;  ; 
curiosity,  kindness,  and  vivacity.  In  thedi  - 
ing-room,  she  took  her  place  on  a  little  ?  il 
beside  her  mother's  chair,  where  she  .s 
forced  to  sit  very  upright,  and  to  look  aa  p- 
mure  as  possible  :  But  by  and  by,  t\v(')r 
three  wise-looking  oldish  gentlemen.  y% 
round  wigs,  came  up  to  hei,  and  entered  to 
animated  and  sensible  conversation  with  'r, 
as  with  a  wit  of  full  ai^e  :  and  those  v|« 
Raynal.  Marmontel,  Thomas,  and  Grimm. lit 
table  she  listened  with  delighted  attentioi|;o 
all  that  fell  from  those  distinguished  gue^J 
and  learned  incredibly  soon  to  discuss  all  ij> 
jects  with  ihem,  without  embarrassmenjW 
affectation.  Her  biographer  says,  indeed,  W 
she  was  "always  younir,  and  never  a  chil] 
but  it  does  seem  to  us  a  trait  of  mere  clil- 
ishiiess,  though  here  cited  as  a  proof  of  pr 
filial  devotion,  that,  in  order  to  insure  for  Jjr 
parents  the  gratification  of  Mr.  Gibbon'?i> 
ciety,  she  proposed,  about  the  same  time,  ;U 
she'should  marry  him!  and  combated,  \  b 


MADAME  DE  STAEL. 


at  earnestness,  all  the  objections  that  were 
to  this  extraordinary  union, 
temper  appears  from  the  very  first  to 
fre  been  deiiiihtt'ul.  and  her  heart  iull  of 
lerosity  and  kindness-  Her  love  for  her 
er  rose  almost  to  idolatry  ;  ami  though  her 
Me  for  talk  and  distinction  carried  her  at 
It  a  good  deal  away  from  him,  this  earliest 
iksion  seems  never  "to  have  been  sii)jersedetl, 
<leven  interrupted,  by  any  other.  Up  to  tlie 
ij  of  twenty,  she  employeti  herself  chieily 
4th  poems  and  plays ; — but  took  after  thaL,to 
ise.  We  do  iwt  me<ui  here  to  say  any  thiui;; 
her  different  works,  the  history  anil  ana- 
is  of  which  occupies  two-thirds  of  the  No- 
if  before  us.  Her  fertility  of  thought,  and 
■|irmth  of  character,  ajjpeaied  first  in  her 
liters  on  Rousseau  ;  but  her  own  character  is 
ist  portrayed  in  Delphine — Corinne  showing 
j:her  what  she  wonki  have  chosen  to  be. 
Iiriiigher  sutTerings  from  the  Revolution,  she 

1-ote  her  works  on  Literature  and  the  Pas- 
ins,  and  her  more  ambitious  book  on  Ger- 
jany.  After  that,  with  more  subdued  feel- 
[gs — more  confirmed  principles — and  more 
tactical  wi.sdom,  she  gave  to  the  world  her 
Irnirable  Considerations  on  the  French  Revo- 
Ition;  having,  for  many  yeais,  addicted  her- 
tlf  almost  exclusively  to  politics,  under  the 
inviction  which,  in  the  present  condition  of 
(.6  world,  can  scarcely  be  considered  as  erro- 
jjous,  that  under  "  politics  were  comprehend- 

I  morality,  religion,  and  Iherature." 

[she  was.  from  a  very  early  period,  a  lover 
i  cities,  of  distinction,  and  of  brilliant  and 
(tried  discussion — cared  little  in  general  for 
tie  beauties  of  nature  or  art — and  languished 
id  pined,  in  spite  of  herself,  when  confined 
I'  a  narrow  society.  These  are  common 
liough  traits  in  famous  aulhoi-s,  and  people 
jf  fashion  and  notoriety  of  all  other  descrip- 
|ons:  But  they  were  united  in  her  with  a 
I'armth  of  affectiou.  a  temperament  of  enthu- 
lasni,  and  a  sweetness  of  temper,  with  which 
I'B  do  not  know  that  they  were  ever  combined 

II  any  other  individual.  So  far  from  resem- 
|ling  the  poor,  jaded,  artificial  creatures  who 
;ve  upon  stimulants,  and  are  with  ditricnlty 
[ept  alive  by  the  constant  excitements  of 
iovelty.  flattery,  and  emulation,  her  great 
Iharacteristic  was  an  excessive  movement  of 
itie  sou! — a  heart  overcharged  with  sensibility, 
}.  frame  over-informed  with  spirit  and  vitality. 
;U1  her  affections,  says  Madame  Necker, — her 
{riendship,  her  filial,  her  maternal  attachment, 
)artook  of  the  nature  of  Love — were  accom- 
lanied  by  its  emotion,  almost  its  passion — 
.ind  very  frequently  by  the  violent  agitations 
Ahich  belong  to  its  fears  and  anxieties.  With 
dl  this  animation,  however,  and  with  a  good 
|leal  of  vanity — a  vanity  which  delighted  in 
fecounting  her  successes  in  society,  and  made 
;ier  speak  without  reserve  of  her  own  great 
l.alents,  influence,  and  celebrity— she  seems 
[0  have  had  no  particle  of  envy  or  malice  in 
!ier  composition.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
jlegree  vindictive,  jealous,  or  scornful ;  but 
Jiiiformly  kind,  indulgent,  compassionate,  and 
orgiving — or  rather  forgetful  of  injuries.     In 

^hese  respects  she  is  very  justly  aad  advan- 


tageously contrasted  with  Rousseau;  who, 
with  the  same  warmth  of  iin;i^niialioii,  niid 
still  greater  professions  of  philanthropy  in  liis 
writings,  uniformly  indicated  in  his  individual 
character  the  most  uritable.  susjiicioiis.  and 
selfish  dispositions;  and  plainly  (diowcd'lhal 
his  alfection  for  mankind  wascnlin-Iy  liico- 
retical,  and  had  no  liviji-r  objects  in  this  world. 
IMatlame  de  Slacl's  devotion  to  her  lather 
is  suliiciiTitly  proved  by  her  wiiliiij;s ;— but 
it  meets  us  under  a  new  aspect  in  tlio  Memoir 
now  before  us.  The  only  injuries  w  hich  she 
could  not  forgive  wen^  those  olfered  to  him. 
She  could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  was  ever 
to  grow  old  ;  and,  being  herself  blindc.l  to  his 
progressive  ilecay  by  her  love  and  sanguine 
temper,  she  resented,  almost  with  fury,  every 
insinuation  or  casual  hint  as  to  his  ag(r  or  de- 
clining health.  After  his  death,  this  pa.^sion 
took  another  turn.  Every  old  man  now  re- 
called the  image  of  her  father!  and  »hi^ 
watched  over  the  comforts  of  all  such  per- 
sons, and  wept  over  thi'ir  sufferings,  wilh  » 
painful  intenseness  of  .'sympathy.  Tlie  same 
deep  feeling  mingled  with  her  devotions,  and 
even  tinged  her  strong  intellect  with  a  shade 
of  superstition.  She  believed  that  her  soul 
communicated  with  his  in  prayer:  and  that  it 
was  to  his  intercession  that  she  owed  all  the 
!  good  that  afterwards  befell  her.  Whenever 
j  she  met  with  any  piece  of  good  fortune,  she 
I  used  to  say,  '•'  It  is  my  father  that  has  obtain- 
I  ed  this  for  me  !"' 

In  her  happier  days,  this  ruling  passion  took 
occasionally  a  more  whimsical  a.«pect :  and 
expressed  itself  \\  ith  a  vivacity  of  which  we 
'  have  no  idea  in  this  phlegmatic  countrj-,  and 
j  which  more  resembles  the  childish  irritability 
;  of  Voltaire,  than  the  lofty  enthusiasm  of  the 
j  person  actually  concerned.  We  give,  as  a 
specimen,  the  following  anecdote  from  the 
work  before  us.  Madame  Saussure  had  come  to 
Coppetfrom  Geneva  in  M.  Necker's  carriage  ; 
and  had  been  overturned  in  the  way,  but  with- 
j  out  receiving  any  injury.  On  mentioning  the 
I  accident  to  Madame  <ie  Stael  on  her  arrival. 
'  she  asked  with  aicat  vehen.ence  who  had 
driven:  and  on  being  told  that  it  was  Richel. 
:  her  father's  ordinary  coachman,  she  exclaim- 
ed in  an  agonj-,  "My  God,  he  may  one  day 
I  overturn  my  father !'"  and  rung  instantly  with 
I  violence  for  his  appearance.  While  he  was 
!  coming;  she  paced  about  the  room  in  the 
I  greatest  possible  agitation,  ci-yingout,  at  every 
;  turn,  '-IMy  father,  my  jioor  father  !  he  might 
j  have  been  overturned  !"' — and  turning  to  her 
!  friend,  "At  your  age,  and  with  your  sliglii 
'  person,  the  danger  is  nothing — but  with  his 
!  age  and  bulk  !  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  it."' 
The  coachman  now  came  in  ;  and  this  lady, 
j  so  mild  and  indulgent  and  rea.sonable  with  all 
her  attendants,  turned  to  him  in  a  wirt  of 
'  frenzv.  and  with  a  voice  of  solemnity,  but 
:  choked  with  emotion,  said.  '-liichel,  do  you 
know  that  I  am  a  woman  of  genius?"— The 
j  poor  man  stood  in  astonishmeni — and  she 
j  went  on,  louder,  "  Have  you  not  heard,  I  say, 
that  I  am  a  woman  of  genius  ■?"  Coachy  wan 
I  still  mute.  "  Well  then  !  I  tell  you  that  /  otn 
I  a  woaiau  of  genius— of  yreat  gcniuft— of  uro- 


740 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


digious  genius! — and  I  tell  you  more — that 
all  the  genius  I  have  shall  be  exerted  to  se- 
cure j'our  rotting  out  your  days  in  a  dungeon, 
if  ever  you  overturn  my  father  !"  Even  after 
the  fit  was  over.  ?he  could  not  be  made  to 
laugh  at  her  extravagance ;  but  was  near  be- 
ginning again — and  said  "  And  what  had  I  to 
conjure  with  but  my  poor  genius  '." 

Her  insensibdity  to  natural  beauty  is  rather 
unaccountable,  in  a  mind  constituted"  like  hers, 
and  in  a  native  of  Switzerland.  But,  though 
born  in  the  midst  of  the  most  magnificent 
.scenery,  she  seems  to  have  thought,  like  Dr. 
Johnson,  that  there  was  no  scene  equal  to  the 
high  tide  of  human  existence  in  the  heart  of 
a  populous  city.  -'Give  me  the  Rue  dc  Buc."  j 
said  she.  when  her  guests  were  in  ecstasies 
with  the  Lake  of  Geneva  and  its  enchanted 
.•chores — "I  would  prefer  living  in  Paris,  in  a 
fourth  story,  with  an  hundred  Louis  a  year." 
These  were  her  habitual  sentiments: — But 
.<he  is  said  to  have  had  one  glimp.se  of  the 
glories  of  the  universe,  when  she  went  first 
to  Italy,  after  her  father's  death,  and  was  en- 
gaged'with  Corimte.  And  in  that  work,  it  is 
certainly  true  that  the  indications  of  a  deep 
and  sincere  sympathy  with  nature  are  far 
more  conspicuous  than  in  an.y  of  her  other 
writings.  For  this  enjoyment  and  late-de- 
veloped seiisJbilily,  she  always  said  she  was 
indebted  to  her  father's  intercession. 

The  world  is  pretty  generally  aware  of  the 
briUiancy  of  her  cojjversation  in  mixed  com- 
pany;  but  we  were  not  aware  that  it  was 
generally  of  so  polemic  a  character,  or  that 
.she  herself  was  so  very  zealous  a  disputant, 
— such  a  determ.ined  intellectual  gladiator  as 
her  cousin  here  represents  her.  Her  great 
delight,  it  is  said,  was  in  eager  and  even  vio- 
lent conteiition  :  and  her  drawinir-ioom  at 
Coppet  is  compared  to  the  Hall  of  Odin,  where 
the  bravest  warriors  were  invited  every  day 
to  enjoy  the  tumult  of  the  fight,  and,  after 
having  cut  each  other  in  pieces,  revived  to 
renew  the  combat  in  the  morning.  In  this 
trait,  also,  she  seems  to  have  resembled  our 
Johnson, — though,  according  to  all  account.*, 
she  was  rather  more  courteous  to  her  oppo- 
nents. These  fierce  controversies  embraced 
all  sorts  of  subjects  —  politics,  morals,  litera- 
ture, casuistry,  metaphysics,  and  history.  In 
the  early  part  of  her  life,  they  turned  oftener 
upon  themes  of  pathos  and  passion — love  and 
death,  and  heroical  devotion;  tnt  she  v. as 
cured  of  this  lofty  vein  by  the  afl^ec.ialions  of 
her  imitators.  ••!  tramp  in  the  mire  with 
wooden  shoes."  she  said,  -'whenever  they 
would  force  me  to  go  with  them  among  the 
clouds."  In  the  same  way,  though  suffici- 
ently given  to  indulge,  and  to  talk  of  her 
emotions,  she  was  easily  disgusted  by  the 
parade  of  sensibility  w  hich  is  sometimes  made 
by  persons  of  real  feeling;  observing,  with 
admirable  force  and  simplicity.  ••  Que  tfuis 
les  sentiments  naturels  out  leur  pudeur."' 

She  had  at  all  times  a  deep  sense  of  religion. 
Educated  in  the  strict  principles  of  Calvinism, 
she  was  never  seduced  into  any  admiration 
of  the  splendid  apparatus  and  high  pretensions 
of  Popery:  although  she  did  not  altogethev 


escape  the  seductions  of  a  more  stiblimeii. 
perstition.  In  theology,  as  well  as  in  e>  y 
thing  else,  however,  she  was  less  dogm'c 
than  persuasive ;  and.  while  speaking  J  ;; 
the  inward  conviction  of  her  own  heart,  poi  ^i 
out  its  whole  warmth,  as  well  as  its  con  •- 
tions,  into  those  of  others  _:  and  never  seer, 1 
to  feel  any  thing  for  ihe  errors  of  her  c ,- 
panions  but  a  generous  compassion,  ami  i. 
affi  ctionate  desire  for  their  removal,  i. 
rather  testified  in  favovr  of  riligion.  in  si  i. 
than  rtasoned  systematically  in  its  supj,  ; 
and,  in  the  present  condition  of  the  \x(i 
this  was  perhaps  the  best  service  that  ci ,; 
be  rendered.  Placed  in  many  respects  in  . 
most  elevated  condition  to  \\  hich  hnma  , 
could  aspire — possessed  unquf  stionabl\  of  ■ 
highest  powers  of  rtasonmg — tmancii.ate(  , 
a  singular  degree,  from  prejudices,  and  ei 
ing  wjth  the  keenest  relish  into  all  the  ftel  - 
that  seemed  to  suffice  lor  the  happuiess  vl 
occupation  of  philosophers,  patriots,  and  krm 
— she  has  still  testifieti,  that  without  leli/ln 
there  is  nothing  stable,  sublime,  or  sjitisfyi  ! 
and  that  it  alone  completes  and  consumms 
all  to  \\hlch  reason  or  aflection  can  aspir- 
A  genius  like  hers,  and  so  dirccti  tl,  is.  as  t 
biographer  has  well  remarked,  the  only  lis- 
sionary  that  can  work  any  permanent  eflccii\ 
the  upper  classes  of  society  in  modern  time 
upon  the  vain,  the  learned,  the  scornful,  an( 
gumentative. — they  "  who  stone  the  Prop  ia 
while  they  affect  to  offer  inceiK<e  to  the  Mns'.'* 

Both  her  marriages  have  bee  n  censurec{t-  " 
tlie  first,  as  a  violation  of  her  principlcs-lie  ^ 
second,  of  dignity  and  d<  coruni.  Inlhat*j:b  '' 
iM.  de  Stael,  she  was  probably  merely  passe*. 
It  was  respectable,  and  not  absolutely  > 
happy  :  but  unquestionably  not  such  assivd 
her.  Of  that  with  M.  Rocca,  ii  will  not  j- 
haps  be  so  ea.sy  to  make  the  apology.  •■ 
have  no  objection  to  a  love-matcn  at  fift  - 
But  where  the  age  and  the  rank  and  tor  le 
are  all  on  the  lady's  side,  and  the  bridegrin 
seems  to  have  little  other  recommendtm 
than  a  handsome  person,  and  a  great  de:  jf 
admiration,  it  is  difficult  to  escape  ridical  — 
or  something  more  severe  than  ridicule.  I'd. 
N.  S.  seems  to  us  to  give  a  very  candid  id 
interesting  account  of  it:  and  ui;doiibtly 
socs  far  to  fake  off  what  is  most  revollinm 
the  first  view,  by  letting  us  know  that  it  C;;i- 
nated  in  a  romantic  attachm.eiit  on  the  rt 
of  M.  Rocca:  and  that  he  \^  as  an  ardent  ^^■'or 
to  her.  before  the  idea  of  loving  him  liai  n- 
lered  into  her  imagii  ation.  The  broken  ;  te 
of  his  health,  too — the  short  period  she  r- 
vived  theirunion — and  the  rajiidity  with  w  .'h 
he  followed  her  to  the  grave — all  lend  not  Iv 
to  extinguish  any  tendency  to  ridicule,  b'  to 
disarm  all  severity  of  cel.^ure  ;  and  ka'fls 
rather  to  dwell  on  ihe  ^tory  asa  part  only  oie 
trairical  close  of  a  life  full  of  lofty  cmotio 

Like  most  other  eneigetic  spirit."!,  she  '?■ 
pised  and  neglected  too  much  the  accomm  a- 
tion  of  her  body— cared  little  about  exer  c 
and  gave  herself  no  great  trouble  about  hr  h. 
■Vyiih  the  sargm'iie  spirit  which  belonse  tc 
hei  character,  she  affected  to  triumph  f 
infirmity;  aud  nsed  to  say — "I  might  Ife 


MADAME  DE  STAtL. 


741 


<  4ve 

^  H 

5;  Kin 

'  :k-l 


ten  sickly,  like  any  body  else,  had  I  not  re- 
ived to  vanquish  all  physical  weaknesses." 

t  Nature  would  not   be  defiod  ! — and  she 
while  contemplating  still  greater  uuder- 

ino'S  than  any  she  had  achieved.  On  her 
l:k-bed,  none  of  her  great  or  good  qualities 
jiandoned  her.  To  the  last  she  was  kind, 
Itient,  devout,  and  intellectual.  Among  other 
ttngs,  she  said — ••  J'ai  tonjonrs  ete  la  mome 
jvive  at  triste. — J"ai  aime  Dieu,  mon  pere. 
I  la  liberie  !''  She  left  life  with  regret— but 
It  no  weak  terrors  at  the  approach  of  death 
and  died  at  last  in  the  utmost  composure 
,d  tranquillity. 

We  would  rather  not  make  any  summary 
;  present  of  the  true  chai-acter  and  probable 
lects  of  her  writings.  But  we  must  say, 
[e  are  not  quite  satisfied  with  that  of  her 
jographer.  It  is  too  flattering,  and  too  elo- 
iie^t  and  ingenious.  She  is  quite  right  in 
[tolling  the  great  fertility  of  thought  which 
laracterises  the  writings  of  her  friends; — 
[d.  with  relation  to  some  of  these  writings, 
146  is  not  perhaps  very  far  wrong  in  saying 
iiat,  if  yon  take  any  three  pages  in  them  at 
jjidom,  the  chance  is.  that  you  meet  with 
[.ore  new  and  striking  thoughts  than  in  an 
jual  space  in  any  other  author.  But  we 
(innot  at  all  agree  with  her,  when,  in  a  very 
..iposing  passage,  she  endeavours  to  show  that 
le  ought  to  be  considered  as  the  foundress 
"  a  new  school  of  literature  and  philosophy 
-or  at  least  as  the  first  who  clearly  revealed 
I  the  world  that  a  new  and  a  grander  era  was 
jaw  opening  to  their  gaze. 
j  In  so  far  as  regards  France,  and  those  coun- 
ies  which  derive  their  literature  from  her 
puntains,  there  may  be  some  foundation  for 
(lis  remark;  but  we  cannot  admit  it  as  at  a 
nplicable  to  the  other  parts  of  Europe  ;  whic 


bplicable  to  the  other  part 
ave  alwavs  drawn  their 


ope;  which 
wisdom,  wit,  and 
jincy,  from  native  sources.  The  truth  is,  that 
irevious  to  her  Revolution,  there  was  no  civil- 
ised country  where  there  had  been  so  little 
jriginality  for  fiftv  yeais  as  in  France  In 
Iterature,  their  standards  had  been  fixed 
[early  a  century  before  ;  and  to  alter,  or  even 
p  advance  them,  was  reckoned  equally  im- 
[•ious  and  impossible.  In  politics,  they  were 
jestrained;  by  the  stale  of  their  government, 
rom  any  free  or  bold  speculations;  and  in 
laetaphysics.  and  all  the  branches  of  the 
jiigher  philosophy  that  depend  on  it,  they  had 
j'one  nothing  -since  the  davs  of  Pascal  and 
pescartes.  In  Fjigland,  however,  and  in 
Germany,  the  national  intellect  had  not  been 
ihus  stagnated  and  subdued — and  a  great  deal 
jif  what  startled  the  Parisians  by  its  novelty, 
in  the  writings  of  Madame  de  Stael,  had  long 
j)een  familiar  to  the  thinkers  of  these  two 
I'ountries.  Some  of  it  she  confessedly  borrowed 
|rora  those  neighbouring  sources ;  and  some 
[•he  undoubtedly  invented  over  again  for  her- 
'elf.  In  both  departments,  however,  it  would 
pe  erroneous,  we  think,  to  ascribe  the  greater 
[art  of  this  improvement  to  the  talents  of  this 
pxtraordinary  woman.  The  Revolution  had 
.hrown  down,  among  other  things,  the  barriers 
pv  which  literary  enterprise  had  been  so  long 
K-stralucd  ia  France — and  broken,  among 


other  trammels,  those  which  hail  circumscrib- 
ed the  liberty  of  thinking  in  that  great  coun- 
try. The  genius  of  Madame  de  Staol  co-oiio- 
rated,  no  doubt,  with  the  spirit  of  the  timpf. 
and  assisted  its  ellccts— but  it  was  al.-Mi  acted 
upon,  and  in  part  created,  by  that  spiril— iinil 
her  works  are  rather,  perhap.s,  to  be  consider- 
ed as  the  first  fruits  of  a  new  order  of  tliinK>.. 
that  had  alreaily  struck  root  in  F,uro]>e,  than 
as  the  harbinirer  of  changes  that  .still  remain 
to  be  efleclcd.* 

In  looking  back  to  what  she  has  said,  with 
so  niuch  emphasis,  of  the  injn.stice  she  had  to 
sutler  from  IVajioleon,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
be  struck  with  the  iiggravation  which  that  in- 
justice is  made  to  receive  from  the  (juality 
of  the  victim,  and  the  degree  in  which  those 
sufferings  are  e.\agg-erated.  because  they  were 
her  own.  We  think  the  hostility  of  that  great 
commander  towards  a  person  of  her  sejc.  char- 
acter, and  talents,  was  in  the  highest  degree 
paltry,  and  unworthy  even  of  a  liigh-miiided 
tyrant.  But  we  really  cannot  say  that  it  .^eenis 
to  have  had  any  thing  very  savage  or  ferocious 
in  the  manner  of  it.  He  did  not  touch,  nor 
even  menace  her  life,  nor  her  liberty,  nor  her 
fortune.  No  daggers,  nor  chains,  nor  ilungeons, 
nor  conliscations,  are  among  the  instruments 
of  torture  of  this  worse  than  Russian  desjwt. 
He  banished  her,  indeed,  first  from  Paris,  and 
then  from  France ;  suppressed  her  publica- 
tions :  separated  her  from  some  of  her  friends ; 
and  obstructed  her  passage  into  England  : — 
very  ve.xatious  treatment  certainly, — but  not 
quite  of  the  sort  which  we  should  have  guesseti 
at,  from  the  tone  either  of  her  complaints  r)i 
lamentations.  Her  main  grief  niidoubtediv 
was  the  loss  of  the  society  and  brilliant  talk 
of  Paris;  and  if  that  had  been  Sj-^ired  to  her. 
we  cannot  help  thinking  that  she  would  have 
felt  less  honor  and  detestation  at  the  inroads 
of  Bonaparte  on  the  liberty  and  independence 
of  mankind.  She  avows  this  indeed  pretty 
honestly,  where  she  say.s.  that,  if  she  had  been 
aware  of  the  privations  of  this  sort  which  a 
certain  liberal  speech  of  M.  Constant  was 
ultimately  to  bring  njion  herself,  she  would 
have  taken  care  that  it  should  not  have  been 
spoken  !  The  truih  is,  that,  like  many  other 
celebrated  per.«oiis  of  her  country,  she  could 
not  live  happily  without  the  e.vcitements  and 
novelties  that  Paris  alone  could  supply:  and 
that,  when  these  were  withdrawn,  all  the  vi- 
vacity of  her  genius,  and  ail  the  warmth  ol 
her  heart,  proved  insufficient  to  protect  her 
from  the  benumbing  influence  of  oimii.  Here 
are  her  own  confessions  on  the  record  : — 

"  J'etoia  vultierahle  par  mon  gofu  pour  ia  socieie 
Montaigne  a  dii  jadis :  Je  suis  Francois  jtar  I'ant; 
et  s'il  pensoit  aiiisi,  il  y  a  irois  sicilcd.  que  wn.ii-c* 
depiiis  que  Ton  n  vii  rcuniea  tani  do  p<Tsoiine» 
d'csprit  dans  une  nieme  ville,  ei  tani  de  pi-rnoniief 
accoutumpps  a  ^e  scrvirde  cpi  fisorii  pour  Ics  pliiinirK 
de  la  convprsaiiMn?  Le  fantnmr  de  I'rnnui  m  a 
toujours  povrmivie  !     G'csi  par  la  terreur  qu  il  me 

*  A  great  deal  of  ciiaiion  and  remark,  rclnunR 
chiefly  to  the  character  and  conduct  ..f  Honupnrte. 
and  especially  to  his  perBCcution  of  the  lair  author, 
is  here  omiitcd— the  ot.ject  of  this  reprint  being 
so'ely  10  illustrate  her  Personal  character. 


74i 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I 


cause  que  j'aurois  ete  capable  de  plier  devant  la  i  tion  ;  and  that  nothing  but  a  little  per?everan«l  v^jiiliiii"'' 
tyrannie— si  I'exemple  de  mon  pere,  et  son  sang  qui    Jg  required  to  restore  the  plastic  frame  of  or      -'" 
coule  dans  mes  vemes,  ne  remponoieni  pas  sur  |  ^^ture,  to  its  natural  appetite  and  relish  f 
ceite  fo.blesse.   -Vol.  ui.  p.  8.  |  ^^^  ^^^^^  pleasures  and  occupations  that  ma 

We  think  this  rather  a  curious  trait;  and  not  yet  await  it,  beyond  the  precincts  of  Paris  • 
very  easily  explained.  We  can  quite  well  London.  We  remember  a  signal  testimor 
understand  how  the  feeble  and  passive  spirits  to  this  etTect,  in  one  of  the  later  publication 
who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  stir  and  j  w^e  think  of  Volney.  the  celebrated  travelle 
variety  of  a  town  life,  and  have  had  their  in-  i  — who  describes,  in  a  very  amusing  way.  tl 
anity  supplied  by  the  superabundant  intellect  j  misery  he  suffered  when  he  first  changed  tl 


and  gaiety  that  overflows  iu  these  great  re 
positories,  should  feel  helpless  and  wretched 
when  these  extrinsic  supports  are  withdrawn  : 
But  why  the  active  ami  energetic  members 
of  those  vast  assemblages,  who  draw  (heir 
resources  from  within,  and  enliven  not  only 
themselves,  but  the  inert  mass  aroand  them, 
by  the  radiation  of  their  genius,  should  suffer 
in  a  similar  way,  it  certainly  is  not  so  easy  to 
comprehend.  In  France,  however,  the  people 
of  the  most  wit  and  vivacity  seem  to  have 
always  been  the  most  subject  to  emmi.  The 
letters  of  Mad.  du  DefTand,  we  remember,  are 
full  of  complaints  of  it  •  and  those  of  De  Bussy 
also.  It  is  but  a  humiliating  view  of  our  frail 
human  nature,  if  the  most  exquisite  arrange- 


socieiy  of  Paris  for  that  of  Syria  and  Egyp 
and  the  recurrence  of  the  same  misery  whe 
after  years  of  absence,  he  was  again  restore 
to  the  impoilunate  bustle  and  idle  chatter  ( 
Paris,  from  the  tranquil  taciturnity  of  hiswa 
like  Mussulmans ! — his  second  access  of  hoir 
sickness,  when  he  left  Paris  for  the  Unite 
States  of  America. — and  the  discomfort  1 
experienced,  for  the  fourth  time.  when,  afti 
being  reconciled  to  the  fiee  and  substaiiti: 
talk  of  these  stout  republicans,  he  finally  n 
turned  to  the  amiable  trifling  of  his  own  f: 
mous  metropolis. 

It  is  an  affliction,  certainly,  to  be  at  the  ei 
of  the  works  of  such  a  writer — and  to  thir 
that  she  was  cut  off  at  a  period  when  her  ei 


ments  for  social  enjoyment  should  be  found  larged  e.xperience  and  matured  talents  we 
thus  inevitably  to  generate  a  distaste  for  what  i  likely  to  be  exerted  with  the  greatest  utilit 
is  ordinarily  within  our  reach  ;  and  the  habit  and  the  state  of  the  world  was  such  as  to  ho 
of  a  little  elegant  amusement,  not  coming  very  out  the  fairest  prospect  of  their  not  being  e 
close  either  to  our  hearts  or  understandings,'  erted  in  vain.  Ft  is  a  consolation,  howeve 
should  render  all  the  other  parts  of  life,  with  that  she  has  done  so  much  :— And  her  worl 
its  duties,  affections,  and  achievements,  dis-  will  remain  not  only  as  a  brilliant  memori 
tasteful  and  burdensome.  We  are  inclined, ,  of  her  own  unrivalled  genius,  but  as  a  prc( 
however,  we  confess,  both  to  question  the  \  that  sound  and  comprehensive  views  we 
perfection  of  the  arrangements  and  the  system  I  entertained,  kind  affections  cultivated,  ai 
of  amusement  that  led  to  such  results;  and!  elegant  pursuits  followed  out.  through  a  peril 
also  to  doubt  of  the  permanency  of  the  dis-  [  which  posterity  may  be  apt  to  regard  as  oi 
comfort  that  may  arise  on  its  first  disturbance,  j  of  universal  delirium  and  crime; — that  tl 
We  are  persuaded,  in  short,  that  at  least  as  |  principles  of  genuine  freedom,  taste,  and  m 


much  enjoyment  may  be  obtained,  with  less 
of  the  extreme  variety,  and  less  of  the  over- 
excitement  which  belongs  to  the  life  of  Paris, 
and  is  the  immediate  cause  of  the  depression 
that  follows  their  cessation ;  and  also,  that,  in 
minds  of  any  considerable  strength  and  re- 
source, this  depression  will  be  of  no  long  dura- 


rality,  were  not  altogether  extinct,  even  und 
the  reign  of  terror  and  violence — and  that  oi 
who  lived  throup:li  the  u-hoh  of  that  agitatiii       : 
scene,  was  the  first  lumiimusly  to  explain, auw' 
temperately  and  powerfully  to  impress,  t]j " 
great  moral  and  political  Lessons,  which 
should  have  taught  to  mankind. 


(©ctobcr,   1835.) 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  James  Mackintosh.     Edited  by  his  Sc 
Robert  Jamks  Mackintosh,  Esq.     2  vols.  8vo.     London:   1835.* 

There  cannot  be,  we  think,  a  more  delight-    attraction  of  the  Character  it  brings  so  plea 
ful  book  than  this :  whether  we  consider  the    ingly  before  us — or  the  infinite  variety  of  o 


*  Tliis  wns  my  taut  considerable  contribution  to 
the  FJdinhurgli  Review  ;  and,  indeed,  (witli  the  ex- 
ception of  a  slight  notice  of  Mr.  Wilherforoe's  Me- 
moirs,)  f.lie  onlij  thinji  I  wrote  for  it,  alier  my  ad- 
vancemi-nt  to  the  place  I  now  hold.  If  there  was 
any  impropriety  in  my  so  contribuiina  at  all,  sonic 
palliation  I  hope  may  be  found  in  the  nature  of  the 
feelings  by  wliich  I  was  led  to  it,  and  the  tenor  of 
what  these  feelinijs  prompted  me  to  say.  I  wrote 
it  solely  out  of  affection  to  the  memory  of  the  friend 
I  had  lost;  and  I  think  I  said  nothing  which  was 
not  dictated  by  a  desire  to  vindicate  and  to  lionour 


that  memory.  At  all  events,  if  it  was  an  inipi, 
prieiy.  it  was  one  for  which  I  cannot  now  submit 
seek  the  shelter  of  coiice;ilment  :  And  iherpfort 
here  rtiprint  the  greater  part  ot  it :  and  think  I  en 
not  better  conclude  the  jiresein  collection,  than  « 
this  triliuie  to  the  merits  of  one  of  the  most  disti 
unisbed  of  my  .Associates  in  the  work  <nii  of  whi 
it  has  been  gathered. 

A  considerable  part  of  the  original  is  omitted 
this  publication;  but  consisting  almost  eniirely 
citations  from  the  book  reviewed,  and  incidental  > 
marks  on  these  citations. 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


743 


»:   gill   thoughts   and    fine    observations   with 

;:    w'ch  it  aboLiiuls.    As  a  mere  narrative  there 

i-    ietot  so  much  to  be  said  for  it.     There  are 

*   bii few  incidents;  and  the  account  which  we 

'<,   hi!e  of  them  is  neither  very  himinous  nor 

t    vJy  complete.     If  it  be  true,  therefore,  that 

15   tlfonly  lesitimate  business  of  bioixraphy  i.s 

i  Wli  incidents  and  nari-itive,  it  will  not  be 

i;   ej'y  to  deny  that  there  is  sornethin<r  amiss. 

;;   e|er  in  the  title   or  the  substanci;  of  this 

i^;   W-k.  But  we  are  humbly  of  opinion  that  there 

Bi   MO  good  ground  for  so  severe  a  limitation. 

f^   ^iographies,  it  appears  to  us,  are  naturally 

f   o|hvee  kinds — and  please  or  instruct  us  in  at 

;,   mt  as  many  different  ways.    One  sort  seeks 

td'nteresit  us  by  an  account  of  what  the  indi- 

TjUal  in  question  actually  did  or  suffered  in 

h'  own  person  :  another  by  an  account  of 

vat  he  saw  done  or  suffered  by  others;  and 

ahird  by  an  account  of  what  he  himself 

thight,  judged,  or  imagined — for  these  too, 

V  apprehend,  are  acfs  of  a  rational  being — 

a'l  acts  frequently  quite  as  memorable,  and 

.    afruitful  of  consequences,  as  any  others  he 

01  either  witness  or  perform. 

,     [Different  readers  will  put  a  different  value 

'    ofeach  of  these  sorts  of  biography.     But  at 

aievents  they  will  be  in  no  danger  of  con- 

f|;nding  them.     The  character  and  position 

{ the  individual  will  generally  settle,  with 

fificient  precision,   to  which  class   his  me- 

mrs  should  be  referred  ;  and  no  man  of  com- 

,    mn  sense  will  expect  to  meet  in  one  with  the 

.    lid  of  interest  which  properly  belongs  to 

■    mther.     To  complain  that  the  life  of  a  war- 

iir  is  but  barren  in  literary  speculations,  or 

tit  of  a  man  of  letters  in  surprising  personal 

iVentures,  is  about  as  reasonable  as  itvv.ould 

\  to  complain  that  a  song  is  not  a  sermon,  or 

lat  there  is  but  little  pathos  is  a  treatise  on 

ijometry. 

(The  first  class,  in  its  higher  or  public  de- 
;  jrtment,  should  deal  chiefly  with  the  lives  of 
jiders  in  great  and  momentous  transactions 
■jmen  who,  bv  their  force  of  character,  or  the 
'  ;tvantaire  of  their  position,  have  been  enabled 
leave  their  mark  on  the  age  and  country  to 
aich  they  belonared.  and  to  im])ress  more 
:an  one  generation  with  the  traces  of  their 
uisitory  existence.  Of  this  kind  are  many 
I  the  lives  in  Plutarch  ;  and  of  this  kind,  still 
ore  eminentlv;  should  be  the  lives  of  such 
len  as  Mahomet,  Alfred,  Washington,  Napo- 
;ijn.  Th°re  is  an  inferior  and  more  private 
ppartment  under  this  head,  in  which  the  in- 
Irest,  though  less  elevated,  is  often  quite  as 
itense,  and  rests  on  the  same  general  basis, 
j  sympathy  with  personal  feats  and  endow- 
eiits — we  mean  lh^>  history  of  individuals 
horn  the  ardourof  their  temperament,  or  the 
iprices  of  fortune,  have  involved  in  strariire 
[Iventures,  or  conducted  through  a  series  of 
Utraordinary  and  complicated  perils.  The 
lemoirs  ofBeiivenuto  Cellini,  or  Lord  H(M-- 
Brt  of  Cherbnrv.  are  good  examples  of  this 
•mantic  sort  of  bio2rraphv ;  and  many  more 
;Mght  be  added,  from  the  chronicles  of  an- 
ient paladins,  or  the  confessions  of  modern 
lalefactors. 
The  second  class  is  chiefly  for  the  compilers 


of  Diaries  and  journals — autobiographers  w  ho, 
without  having  themselv.-s  iloiu-  any  ihinx 
memorable,  have  yet  had  ihe  good  luck  to  iiva 
through  long  and  interesting  periods;  and 
who,  in  chronicling  lh(>  events  of  llieir  own 
uiumportunt  liv»'s,  have  incidentally  preserv- 
ed invaluable  memorials  of  conteiniHimry 
manners  and  events.  The  Memoirs  ol  Eve- 
lyn and  Penys  an?  the  most  obvious  instances 
of  works  wliich  derive  tlii'ir  chief  value  from 
this  source;  and  which  are  read,  not  for  any 
great  interest  we  lake  in  the  fortunes  of  the 
writers,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  anecdotes  and 
notices  of  far  more  important  personaires  and 
transactions  with  which  they  .so  lavishly  pre- 
sent us :  and  there  are  many  others,  written 
with  far  inferior  talent,  and  whfie  the  design 


is  more  palpably  egotistical,  which  are  perused 
with  an  eager  curiosity,  on 
same  recommendation. 


tiareix 
renglh 


of  the 


The  last  class  is  for  Philosophers  and  men 
of  Genius  and  speculation — men,  in  short,  who 
were,  or  ought  to  have  been,  Authors;  and 
whose  biographies  are  truly  to  be  regarded 
either  as  supplemenis  to  the  works  they  have 
given  to  the  world,  or  xiibstiliiica  for  those 
which  they  might  have  given.  These  are 
histories,  not  of  men,  but  of  ]\linds;  and  their 
value  must  of  course  depend  on  the  reach  and 
capacity  of  the  mind  they  serve  to  develojie, 
and  in  the  relative  magnitude  of  their  contri- 
butions to  its  history.  When  the  individual 
has  already  poured  himself  out  in  a  long  series 
of  publications,  on  which  all  the  niooiis  and 
aspects  of  his  mind  have  been  engraven  (as  in 
the  cases  of  Voltaire  or  Sir  Walter  Scott),  there 
may  be  less  occasion  for  such  a  biographical 
supplement.  But  when  an  author  (as  in  the 
case  of  Gray)  has  been  more  chary  in  his  com- 
munications with  the  public,  and  it  is  yet  pos- 
sible to  recover  the  preciou,*.  though  imma- 
ture, fruits  of  his  genius  or  his  studies, — 
thoughts,  and  speculations,  which  no  intelli- 
gent posterity  would  willingly  let  die, — it  is 
due  both  to  his  fame  and  to  the  best  interestB 
of  mankind,  that  they  should  be  preserved, 
and  reverently  presented  to  after  times,  in 
such  a  posthumous  portraiture  as  it  is  the  bu- 
siness of  biography  to  supply. 

The  best  and  niost  satisfactory  memorials 
of  this  sort  are  those  which  are  substantially 
made  up  of  private  letters,  journals,  or  writ- 
ten fragments  of  any  kind,  by  the  jjarty  him- 
self; as  these,  however  scanty  or  imperfect, 
are  at  all  events  genuine  Relics  of  the  indivi- 
dual, and  generally  bt-ariiiL',  even  more  au- 
thentically than  his  publications,  the  stamp  of 
his  intellectual  and  peisonal  character.  We 
cannot  refer  to  better  examples  than  the  lives 
of  Gray  and  of  Cowper,  as  these  have  been 
finally  completed.  Next  to  these,  if  not  upon 
the  same  level,  we  should  place  such  admira- 
ble records  of  particular  conversations,  and 
memorable  sayings  gathered  from  tlie  lips  of 
the  wise,  as  we  find  in  the  inimitable  pageH 
of  Boswell.— a  work  which,  by  the  t-'cneral 
consent  of  this  generation,  has  not  oidy  made 
us  a  thousand  times  better  ac(|uainted  with 
.Johnson  than  all  his  publications  put  touether, 
but  has  raised  the  standard  of  his  intellectual 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


character,  and  actually  made  discovery  of 
large  provinces  in  his  understanding,  of  which 
scarcely  an  indication  was  to  be  found  in  his 
writings.  In  the  last  and  lowest  place — in  so 
far.  at  least,  as  relates  to  the  proper  business 
of  this  branch  of  biography,  the  enlargement 
of  our  knowledge  of  the  genius  and  character 
of  individuals — we  must  reckon  that  most 
common  ibrm  of  the  memoirs  of  literary  men. 
which  consists  of  little  more  than  the  biogra- 
pher"s  own  (generally  most  partial)  descrip- 
tion and  estimate  of  his  author's  merits,  or  of 
elucidations  and  critical  summaries  of  his 
most  remarkable  productions.  In  this  divi- 
sion, though  in  other  respects  of  great  value, 
must  be  ranked  those  admirable  dissertations 
which  Mr.  Stewart  has  given  to  the  world  un- 
der the  title  of  the  Lives  of  Reid,  Smith,  and 
Robertson. — the  real  interest  of  which  con- 
sists almost  entirely  in  the  luminous  exposi- 
tion we  there  meet  with  of  the  leading  specu- 
lations of  those  eminent  writers,  and  in  the 
candid  and  acute  investigation  of  their  origi- 
nality or  truth. 

We  know  it  has  been  said,  that  after  a  man 
has  himself  given  to  the  public  all  that  he 
thought  worthy  of  its  acceptance,  it  is  not  fair 
for  a  posthumous  biographer  to  endanger  his 
reputation  by  bringing  forward  what  he  had 
withheld  as  unworthy, — either  by  exhibiting 
the  mere  dregs  and  refuse  of  his  lucubrations. 
or  by  exposing  to  the  general  gaze  those  crude 
conceptions,  or  rash  and  careless  opinions, 
which  he  may  have  noted  down  in  the  pri- 
vacy of  his  study,  or  thrown  out  in  the  confi- 
delice  of  private  conversation.  And  no  doubt 
there  may  be  (as  there  have  been)  cases  of 
such  abuse.  Confidence  is  in  no  ca.se  to  be 
violated  ;  nor  are  mere  trifles,  which  bear  no 
maik  of  the  writer's  intellect,  to  be  recorded 
to  his  prejudice.  But  wherever  there  is  power 
and  native  genius,  we  cannot  but  grudge  the 
suppression  of  the  least  of  its  revelations;  and 
are  persuaded,  that  with  those  who  can  judge 
of  such  intellects,  they  will  never  lose  any 
thing  by  the  most  lavish  and  indiscriminate 
disclosures.  Which  of  Swift's  most  elaborate 
productions  is  at  this  day  half  so  interesting 
as  that  most  confidential  Journal  to  Stella?  Or 
which  of  them,  with  all  its  utter  carelessness 
of  expression,  its  manifold  contradictions,  its 
infantine  fondness,  and  all  its  quick-shifting 
moods,  of  kindness,  selfishness,  anger,  and' 
ambition,  gives  us  half  so  strong  an"  impres- 
sion either  of  his  amiableness  or  his  vigour? 
How  much,  in  like  manner,  is  Johnson  raised 
iii  onr  estimation,  not  only  as  to  intellect  hut 
])ersonal  character,  by  the  industrious  eaves- 
droppings  of  Boswell,  settinjT  down,  day  by 
day,  in  his  note-book,  the  fragments  of  his 
most  loose  and  unweighed  conversations  ?  Or 
what,  in  fact,  is  there  .so  precious  in  the  works, 
or  the  histories,  of  eminent  men,  from  Cicero 
to  Horace  Walpole,  as  collections  of  their  pri- 
vate and  familiar  letters?  What  would  we 
not  give  for  such  a  journal — such  notes  of 
conversations,  or  such  letters,  of  Shakespeare, 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser?  The  mere  drudges  or 
coxcombs  of  literature  may  indeed  sutfer  bv 
such  disclosures — as  made-up  beauties  might 


do  by  being  caught  in  undress :  but  all  who 
are  really  worth  knowing  about,  will,  on  the 
whole,  be  gainers;  and  we  should  be  well 
content  to  have  no  biographies  but  of  those 
who  would  profit,  as  well  as  their  i  eaders,  bv 
being  shown  in  new  or  m  nearer  lights. 

The  value  of  the  insight  which  may  thus 
be  obtained  into  the  mind  and  the  meanine 
of  truly  great  authors,  can  scarcely  be  over- 
rated by  any  one  who  knows  how  to  tun; 
such  communications  to  account ;  and  we  du 
not  think  we  exaggerate  when  we  sav,  that 
in  many  cases  more  light  may  be  gained  from 
the  private  letters,  notes,  or  recorded  talk  of 
such  persons,  than  from  the  most  finished  of 
their  publications;  and  not  oidy  upon  the 
many  new  topics  which  are  sure  to  be  starteil 
in  such  memorials,  but  as  to  the  true  charac- 
ter, and  the  merits  and  defects,  of  such  pub- 
lications themselves.  It  is  from  such  .sources 
alone  that  we  can  learn  with  certainty  by 
what  road  the  author  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sions which  we  see  t'stablished  in  his  works; 
against  what  perplexities  he  had  to  struggle, 
and  after  what  failures  he  was  at  last  enab^ 
to  succeed.  It  is  thus  only  that  we  are  often 
enabled  to  detect  the  prejudice  or  hostility 
which  may  be  skilfully  and  mischievously 
disguised  in  the  published  book — to  find  out 
the  doubts  ultimately  entertained  by  the  au- 
thor himself;  of  what  may  appear  to  most 
readers  to  be  triumphantly  established,— <ir 
to  gain  glimpses  of  those  grand  ulterior  sp< 
lations,  to  which  what  seemed  to  comoum 
eyes  a  complete  and  finished  sy,«tem.  was, 
truth,  intended  by  the  author  to  serve  onlyns 
a  vestibule  or  uitroduction.  Where  such. 
documents  are  in  abundance,  and  ihe  mind 
which  has  produced  them  is  truh'  of  the  high-' 
est  order,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say.  that  more 
will  generally  be  found  in  them,  in  the  way 
at  least  of  hints  to  kindred  minds,  and  as 
scattering  the  seeds  of  grand  and  original) 
conceptions,  than  in  any  finished  works  which 
the  indolence,  the  modesty,  or  the  avocations 
of  such  persons  will  have  generally  perniltteil 
them  to  give  to  the  world.  So  far,  therefore, 
j  from  thinking  the  biography  of  men  of  ireniu? 
barren  or  unprofitable,  because  presenting  few 
events  or  personal  adventures,  we  cannot  but 
regard  it,  when  constructed  in  substance  of 
such  materials  as  we  have  now  mentioned, 
as  the  most  instructive  and  interesting  of  all 
writiniT — embodying  truth  and  wisdom  in  the 
vivid  distinctness  of  a  jieisoiinl  piesentmeiit. 
— enablinir  us  to  look  on  genius  in  its  first 
elementary  stirrinir.s.  and  in  its  wpakr,c,*s  as 
well  iis  its  strength, — and  teaching  us  at  the 
same  time  "-reat  moral  lessons,  both  as  to  the 
value  of  labour  and  indu.stry.  and  the  nfces- 
sity  of  virtues,  as  well  as  intellectual  eiulow 
ments.  for  the  attainment  of  lasting  excellence. 
In  these  general  remarks  our  readers  will 
easily  perceive  that  wi-  mean  to  shadow  forth 
our  conceptions  of  the  cl;aracter  and  peculiar 
merits  of  the  work  before  us.  It  is  the  history* 
not  of  a  man  of  action,  but  of  a  student,  a 
philosopher,  and  a  statesman ;  and  its  value 
consists  not  in  the  slight  and  imperfect  ac- 
count of  what  was  done  by,  or  happened  to, 


,*'---•■ 
^1  to  coal 

(fconi;!') 

^jlWi  I 

^patbiO: 
fee  Bert 

jitiatiof^ 
iiimtot! 

#o[tt 
iOieoi 
pMemo 
cJtdbe 

ill  lieu 
iuie  ren 
Ad  cot 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH 


r43 


inclivj  ii  al,  but  in  the  vestiges  it  ha? 
jinately  pieseived  of  the  thoughts;  senti- 
itSj  aiul  opinions  of  one  of  the  most  power- 
tu  hinkers,  most  conscientious  inquirers,  and 
in  t  learned  reasoners,  that  the  world  has 
(>v  seen.  It  is  almost  entirely  made  up  of 
joiials  and  letters  of  the  author  himself; 
ai  nupresses  us  quite  as  strongly  as  any  of 
hi  publications  with  a  sense  of  the  richness 
of  lis  knowledge  and  the  fineness  of  his  un- 
diitanding — and  with  a  far  stronger  sense 
of. is  promptitnile,  versatility,  and  vigour.* 

lis  intellectual  character,  generally,  can- 
n(  be  unknown  to  any  one  acquainted  with 
h  works,  or  who  has  even  read  many  pages 
ollie  Memoirs  now  before  us_;  and  it  is  need- 
It;,  therefore,  to   speak   here   of  his  great 
knvledge,   the  singular  union  of  ingenuity 
a  I  soundness  in  his  speculations — his  per- 
f(t  candour  and  temper  in  discussion — the 
pe  and  lofty  morality  to  which  he  strove  to 
evate  the  minds  of  others,  and  in   his  own 
Ciduct  to  coiitbrm,  or  the  wise  and  humane 
a)wance  which  he  was  ready,  in  every  case 
b;  his  own,  to  make  for  the  infirmities  which 
rast  always  draw  down. so  many  from  the 
l:her  paths  of  their  duty, 
iFhese  merits,  we  believe,  will  no  longer  be 
iiiiied  by  any  who  have  heard  of  his  name, 
Ci  looked  at  his  writings.     But  there  were 
(ler  traits  of  his  intellect  which  could  only 
1  known  to  those  who  were  of  his  acquaint- 
ice,  and  which  it  is  still  desirable  that  the 
inders   of    these   Memoirs   should   bear   in 
tnd.    One  of  these  was,  that  ready  and  pro- 
ijjious  Memory,  by  which  all  that  he  learned 
iiemed  to  be  al  once  engraved  on  the  proper 
■impartment   of  his   mind,    and   to   present 
;elf  at  the  moment  it  was  required  ;  another, 
ill  more  remarkable,  was  the  singular  IMa- 
rity  and  completeness  of  all  his  views  and 
.(inions,  even  upon  the  most  abstruse   and 
iimplicated  questions,  though  raised,  without 
bsign  or  preparation,  in  the  casual  course  of 
Jnversatioa.     In  this  way  it  happened  that 
ke  sentiments   he  delivered  had  generally 
lie  air  of  recollections — and  that  few  of  those 
;ith  whom  he  most  associated  in  mature  life, 
;)uld  recollect  of  ever  catching  him  in  the 
bt  of  making  up  his  mind,  in  the  course  of 
lie  discussions  in  which  it  was  his  delight  to 
ingagethera.  His  conclusions,  and  the  grounds 
If  them,  seemed  always  to  have  been  pre- 
[iously  considered  and  digested  j  and  though 
;e  willingly  developed  his  reasons,  to  secure 
fie  assent  of  his  hearers,  he  uniformly  seemed 
b  have  been  perfectly  ready,  before  the  cause 
;ras  called  on.  to  have  delivered  the  opinion 
■f  the  court,  with  a  full  summary  of  the  argu- 
ments and  evidence  on  both  sides.     In  the 
I'vork  before  us,  we  have  more  peeps  into  the 
;)rpparatory  deliberations  of  his  great  intellect 
—that  scrupulous  estimate  of  the  grounds  of 
lecision,  and  that  jealous  questioning  of  first 
mpressions,  which   necessarily  precede  the 
formation  of  all  firm  and  wise  opinions. — than 
could  probably  be  collected  from  the  recol- 


*  A  short  account  of  Sir  James'  parentage,  edu- 
cation, and  personal  history  is  here  omitted. 
94 


lections  of  all  who  had  m.)st  fumiFiar  accf'.ss  to 
him  in  society.  Il  was  owing  peihap.s  to  tliis 
vigour  and  rapidity  of  inlellectual  digestion 
that,  though  all  his  life  a  great  lalkei,  tlicre 
never  was  a  man  that  talki'd  iialf  .-*»/  miicli 
who  said  ,so  little  that  was  either  to()li>h  ot 
frivolous;  nor  any  one  perhaps  who  knew 
so  well  how  to  give  as  much  liveliness  and 
poignancy  just  and  even  profound  observa- 
tions, as  others  could  ever  inii)art  to  startling 
extravagance,  and  ludicrous e.vaggeralion.  'J'he 
vast  extent  of  his  inlbrmation.  and  llie  iialnral 
gaiety  of  his  temper,  made  him  indcpcmlenl 
of  such  devices  for  producing  etiecl  ;  and. 
joined  to  the  inherent  kindnes,s  and  gentle- 
ness of  his  disposition,  made  his  conver.'^ation 
at  once  the  most  instructive  and  the  most 
generally  pleasing  that  could  be  imagined. 

Of  his  intellectual  enilowments  we  shall 
say  no  more.  But  we  must  add,  that  the 
Tenderness  of  his  domestic  afTections.  and 
the  deep  Humility  of  his  character,  were  as 
inade(]uately  known,  even  among  his  frienils, 
till  the  publication  of  those  private  records: 
For  his  manners,  though  gentle,  were  cold  ; 
and,  though  uniformly  courteous  and  candid 
in  society,  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that  he 
was  not  unconscious  of  his  superiority.  It  is, 
therefore,  but  justice  to  bring  into  view  some 
of  the  proofs  that  are  now  before  us  of  both 
these  endearing  traits  of  character.  The 
beautiful  letter  which  he  addressed  to  Dr. 
Parr  on  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  in  1797, 
breathes  the  full  spirit  of  both.  We  regret 
that  we  can  only  afford  room  for  a  part  of  it. 

"  Allow  me,  in  justice  to  her  memory,  to  tell 
you  what  she  wns,  and  what  I  owed  her  1  was 
guided  in  my  choice  only  by  the  blind  affection  of 
my  youth.  I  found  an  intelligent  companion,  and 
a  tender  friend  ;  a  prudent  monitress,  the  most 
faithful  of  wives,  and  a  mother  as  tender  as  children 
ever  had  the  misfortune  to  lose.  1  found  a  woman 
who,  by  the  tender  management  of  my  weaknesses, 
gradually  corrected  the  most  pernicious  of  them. 
She  became  prudent  from  affection;  and  though  of 
the  most  generous  nature,  she  was  taught  economy 
and  frugrality  by  her  love  tor  me.  During  the  most 
critical  period  of  my  life,  she  preserved  order  in  my 
affair.a,  from  the  care  of  which  she  relieved  me.  She 
gently  reclaimed  me  from  dissipation  ;  slie  propped 
my  weak  and  irresolute  nature  ;  she  urged  my  in- 
dolence to  all  the  exertions  that  have  lieen  useful 
or  creditable  to  me,  and  she  was  perpetually  at  hand 
to  admonish  my  heedlessness  and  improviileiice. 
To  her  I  owe  whatever  I  am  ;  to  her  whatever  I 
shall  lie.  Such  was  she  whom  I  have  lost  !  And 
I  have  lost  her  after  eight  years  of  struggle  mid  dis- 
tress had  bound  ns  fast  together,  and  moulded  our 
tempers  to  each  other, — vvhi;ii  a  knowiedi;e  nf  her 
worth  had  refined  my  yomhful  love  into  friendsliip, 
and  before  age  had  deprived  it  of  much  of  ii.s  origi- 
nal ardour,— I  lost  h.-r.  alas!  (the  choic:  of  my 
youth,  and  the  partner  of  my  misfortunes)  ni  a  mo- 
ment when  I  had  the  prospect  of  her  sharing  my 
better  days  ! 

"  The  philosophv  which  I  have  learnl  only  leaches 
me  that  virtue  and  friendship  are  the  gri-atcst  ol 
human  Idessings,  and  that  their  loss  is  irrepnralile. 
It  airirravales  my  calamity,  instead  of  consoling  me 
imder  it.  But  my  woimdcd  heart  seeks  anolher 
consolation.  Governed  bv  those  feelmns,  which 
have  in  every  age  and  region  of  the  world  nciuaied 
the  human  mind,  I  seek  relief,  and  I  find  it,  in 
the  soothing  hope  and  consolatory  opinion,  that  a 
Benevolent  Wisdom  inflicts  the  chaaiisemcnt,  as 
3N 


746 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


well  as  bestows  the  enjoyments  of  human  life  ;  that 
Superintending  Goodness  will  one  day  enlighten 
the  darkness  which  surrounds  our  naturo.  and  hangs 
over  our  prospects  ;  that  ihis  dreary  and  wretched 
lif«e  is  not  the  whole  of  man  ;  that  an  animal  so 
sagacious  and  provident,  and  c  pable  nf  such  pro- 
ficiency in  science  and  virtue,  is  not  like  the  beasts 
that  perish  ;  that  there  is  a  dwelling-place  prepared 
for  the  spirits  of  ihejusi,  and  that  the  ways  ol  God 
will  yet  be  vindicated  to  man." 

We  may  add  part  of  a  very  kind  letter, 
written  from  India,  in  1808,  in  a  more  cheer- 
ful mood,  to  his  son-in-law  Mr.  Rich,  then  on 
a  mission  to  Babylon, — and  whose  early  death 
so  soon  blasted  the  hopes,  not  oidy  of  his  afHict- 
ed  family,  but  of  the  whole  literary  world. 

"And  now,  my  dear  Rich,  allow  me,  with  the 
liberty  of  warm  affection,  earnestly  i«i  cvhori  you 
to  e.vi'rt  every  power  of  your  mind  in  the  duties  of 
your  station.  There  is  something  in  the  serious- 
ness, bo^h  of  business  and  of  science,  of  whicii  your 
vivacity  is  impatient,  '{'he  brilliant  variety  of  your 
attainments  and  accomplishmenis  do.  I  fear,  flatter 
you  into  the  conceit  that  you  may  '  indulge  your 
genius,'  and  pass  your  life  in  amusenrent  ;  while 
you  smile  at  those  who  think,  and  at  those  who  act. 
Hut  Ihis  would  be  weak  and  ignolilc.  The  success 
of  your  past  studies  ought  to  show  you  how  much 
you  tiiay  yet  do,  instead  of  soothing  you  with  the 
reflection  how  much  you  have  done. 

'■  Habits  of  seriousness  of  thought  and  action  are 
necessary  to  the  duties,  to  the  importance,  and  to 
the  dignity  of  human  life.  What  is  amiable  gaiety 
at  tweniy-four  might  run  the  risk,  if  it  was  unac- 
companied by  other  things,  of  being  thought  frivo- 
lous and  puerile  at  forty-four,  I  am  so  near  foriy- 
four.  that  I  can  give  you  pretty  exact  news  of  that 
dull  country  ;  which  yei  ought  to  interest  you,  as 
you  are  travelling  towards  it,  and  must,  I  hope, 
pass  through  it. 

"  I  hope  you  will  profit  by  my  errors.  I  was 
once  ambitious  to  have  made  you  a  much  improved 
edition  of  myself.  If  you  had  stayed  here,  I  should 
have  laboured  to  do  so,  in  spile  ot  your  impatience  ; 
as  it  is,  I  heartily  pray  thai  you  may  make  yoiir- 
eelf  scnnethiiig  much  better. 

"  You  came  here  so  early  as  to  have  made  few 
sacrifices  of  friendship  and  society  at  home.  You 
can  aff'ord  a  good  many  years  for  making  a  hand- 
some fortune,  aud  siill  return  home  young.  You 
do  not  feel  the  force  of  that  word  quite  so  mtich  as 
1  could  wish  :  But  for  the  present  let  me  hope  that 
the  prospect  of  coming  to  one  who  has  such  an 
affection  for  you  as  I  have,  will  give  your  country 
pome  of  the  attractions  of  home.  If  you  can  be 
allured  to  it  by  the  generous  hope  of  increasing  the 
enjoyments  of  my  old  age,  you  will  soon  discover 
in  it  sufficient  excelletices  to  love  and  admire  ;  and 
it  will  become  to  you,  in  the  lull  lorce  of  the  term, 
a  home." 

We  are  not  sure  whether  the  fiequent  a.s- 
pirations  which  we  find  in  his  private  letters, 
after  the  tjuiet  and  repose  of  an  Academical 
pituation.  oujrht  to  be  taken  as  proofs  of  his 


%^. 


In  the  same  sad  but  gentle  spirit,  we  1 
this  entry  in  1822 

"  Walked  a  little  up  the  quiet  valley,  whie  n 
this  cheerful  morning  looked  pretty.  Whiles!  g 
on  the  stone  under  the  tree,  my  mind  was  soo  d 

by  reading  some  passages  of in  the  Quar  ■ 

Review.  With  no  painful  humility  1  felt  iha  n 
enemy  of  mine  is  a  man  of  genius  and  virme  ;  i 
thai  all  who  think  slightingly  ol  me  may  be  rig  " 

But  the  strongest  and  most  painful  expu 
sion  of  this  profound  humility  is  to  be  to  J 
in  a  note  to  his  Dissertation  on  Lthical  Pli. 
sophy;  in  which,  after  a  beautiful  eulogn 
on  his  deceased  friends,  Mr.  George  Wi  n 
and  Mr.  Serjeant  Lens,  he  adds —  ; 

"  The  present  writer  hopes  that  the  good-nai  d 
reader  will  excuse  him  lor  having  thus,  per  i<i 
unscMsonahly,  bestowed  hearileli  coniinendi  n 
on  those  who  were  above  the  pursuit  ol  praise,  d 
the  rememhninee  of  whose  good  opinion  aiid  g  !. 
will  helps  to  support  him,  under  a  deep  sens  m 
faults  and  vices." 

The  reader  now  knows  enough  of  r 
James'  persona!  character  to  enter  rea  y 
into  the  spirit  of  any  extracts  we  may  lay  - 
fore  him.  The  most  valuable  of  these  e 
supplied  by  his  letters,  journals,  and  ot,,- 
sional  writings,  while  enjoying  the  comp  .- 
tive  leisure  of  his  Indian  residence,  or  e 
complete  leisure  of  his  voyage  to  and  fa 
that  coufitry:  and,  with  all"  due  deferenc  o 
opposite  Opinions,  this  is  exactly  what  v 
should  have  expected.  Sir  James  Mac  - 
tosh,  it  is  well  known.*  had  a  great  relish  r 
Society ;  ami  had  not  constilutional  vi^  : 
(after  his  return  from  India)  to  go  thro  n 
much  Business  without  e.xhaustion  and  falij  ■. 
In  London  and  in  Parliament,  therefore.  > 
powerful  intellect  was  at  once  too  much  - 
sipated.  and  too  much  oppressed  ;  and  t- 
traces  it  has  left  of  its  exertions  on  tl  c 
scenes  are  comparatively  few  anti  inadequ  •. 
In  conversation,  no  doubt,  much  that  was  - 
lightful  and  instructive  was  thrown  out;  ; '. 
for  want  of  a  Boswell,  has  peri.-^hed  !  1  . 
though  it  may  be  true  that  we  have  thus  i 
the  light  and  graceful  flowers  of  anecdote  .1 
conversation,  we  would  fain  console  oursei  s 
with  the  belief  that  we  have  secured  the  iT,e 
precious  and  mature  fruits  of  studies  J 
meditations,  which  can  only  be  pursueto 
advantage,  when  the  cessation  of  more  im;  - 
tunate  calls  has  '"'left  us  leisure  to  be  wise 

With  reference  to  these  views,  nothing  .-< 
struck  us  more  than  the  singular  vigour  -1 
alertness  of  his  understanding  during  the  i\i 
progress  of  his  home  voyage.  Shut  up  i"i 
small  cabin,  in   a  tropical  climate 


humility,  though  they  are  generally  expressed;  of  ia„,ruid  health,  and   subject  to' every 


laiiiruage  bearing  that  character.    Bnttht 
are  other  indications  enoucrh.  and  of  the  most 


unequivocal   description — for    example,    this  i  ^cad 


of  annoyance,  he  not  only  reads  with  an  .- 
dustry  which  would   not  disirrace  an  ardit 


entry  m  1818:— 

" has,  I  think,  a  distaste  forme.     T  ihink 

the  worse  of  nobody  for  such  a  feeling.  Indeed  I 
often  ieel  a  distaste  for  myself;  and  I  am  sure  I 
should  not  esteem  my  own  charaeter  in  another 
person.     It  is  more  likely  that   I  should  have  dis- 

respectable  or  disagreeable  qualities,  than  that 

should  have  an  unreasonable  antipathy. 

Vol.  li.  p.  344. 


5tud> 


for  honours,  but  pluii'B 


eagerly  into  original  speculations,  and  tiniSjS 
ofl' some  of  the  most  beautiful  compositi.s 
in  the  language,  in  a  shorter  time  than  wo  1 
be  allowed,  for  such  subjects,  to  a  contracir 
for  leading  paragraphs  to  a  daily  paper.  "1 
less  than  a  fortnight,  during  this  voyage,'? 
seems  to  have  thrown  ofl"  nearly  twenty  ela 
rate  characters  of  emhieiit  authors  oi  slal 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


747 


E 


;n  in  English  story — conceived  with  a  inst-  i 
ss  and  executed  with  a  delicacy,  which 
id  seem  unattainable  without  long  medi- 
tion  and  patient  revisal.  We  cannot  now 
mture,  however,  to  present  our  readers  with 
ore  than  a  part  of  one  of  them  ;  and  we  take 
ir  extract  from  that  of  Samuel  Johnson. 

In  early  youih  he  had  resisted  the  most  severe 
i  of  protiity.     Neither  the  e.xtreme  poverty  nor 
ennceriain  income  to  which  the  virtue  ol'so  ninny 
en  of  letters  has  yielded,  even  in  the  slightest  de- 
ree  weakened  his  integrity,  or  lowered  the  dianity 
"his  independence.     His  moral  principles  (if  the 
nguage  may  he  allowed)  partook  of  the  viijour  of 
8  understanding.     He  was  conscientious,  sincere, 
jpterniined  ;    and  his  pride  was  no  more   than  a 
idy  consciousness  of  superiority  in  the  most  valu- 
1  qualities  of  hutnan  nature.      His  friendships 
;ere  not  only  firm,  hut  cenerous  and  lender,  be- 
ea'h  a  ritgeed  exterior.    He  wounded  none  of  those 
Beiings  which  the  habits  of  his  life  enabled  him  to 
siiinate ;  but  he  had  become  too  hardened  by  sc- 
ions distress  not  to  contract   some  disregard  for 
hose  minor  delicacies  which  become  so  keenly  sen- 
iible,  in  a  calm  and  prosperous  fortune.     He  was  a 
Tory,  not  without  some  propensities  towards  Jacob- 
tism;  and  a  High  Churchman,  with  moreattachmeiit 
•)  ecilesiastical  nuthori'v  and  a  snlendid  wnrsinp. 
ban  is  quite  consistent  with  the  spirit  of  Proie^tant- 
sni.  On  these  subjects  he  neither  permitted  himself 
adoubt,  nor  tolerated  difffrence  of  opinion  in  others. 
But  the  vigour  of  his  understanding  is  no  more  to 
be  estimated  by  his  opinions  on  subjects  where  it 
was  bound  by  his  prejudices,  than  the  strength  of  a 
man's  body  by  the  efforts  of  a  limb  in  fetters.     His 
•onversation,  which  was  one  of  the  most  powerful 
jinsiruinents  of  his  extensive  influence,  was  ariiticial, 
dogmatical,   sententious,    and   poignant  ;    adapted, 
with  the  most  admirable  versatility,  to  every  sub- 
ject as  it  arose,  ;ind  distinguished  by  an  almost  un- 
paralleled power  of  serious  repaiiee.     He  seems  to 
'  have  considered  himself  as  a  sort  of  colloquial  mag- 
iistrate,  wIid  inflicted  severe  piiiiishmenf  from  just 
(policy.     His  course  of  life  led  him  to  treat  ihnse 
t  sensibilities,  which  such  severity  wounds,  as  fantas- 
j  lie  and  etreminate  ;  and  he  entered  society  too  late 
j  to  acquire  those  habits  of  politeness  which  are  a  sub- 
stitute for  natm-al  delicacy. 
I      "  In  the  proy:ress  of  English  style,  three  periods 
(  may  be  easily  distinguished.     The  first  period  ex- 
j  tended  from  Sir  Thomas  More  to  Lord  Clarendon. 
,  During  sjreat  part  of  this  period,  the  style  p.iriook 
I  of  the  rudeness  and  fluciiiaiion  of  an  unformed  lan- 
jiiage.  in  which   use   had   not  yet   deterinined  the 
I  words  that  were  to  he  English.     Writers  hnd  not 
I  yet  discovered  the  combination  of  words  which  best 
I  Miiifi  the  original  structure  and  immutabh!  eonstitu- 
i   lion  of  onr  language.     While  the  terms  w-ere  Eng- 
;    lish,  the  arrangement  was  Latin — the  exclusive  lan- 
I   guage  of  learning,  and  that  in  which  everv  truth  in 
:   fcience,  and  every   model  of  elegance,    was   then 
contemplated  bv  youth.     F<ir  a  ceniurv  and  a  half. 
ineffectual  attempts  were  made  to  bend  our  vulgar 
tongue  to  the  genius  of  the  language  supposed  to  be 
superior;  and  the  whole  of  this  period,  though  not 
wiihoui  a  capricious  mixture  of  coarse  idiom,  may 
be  called  the  Latin,  or  pedantic  age,  of  our  style. 

"  In  ihe  second  period,  which  extended  from  the 
Restoration  lothe  middle  of  iheeighteenth  century,  a 
series  of  writers  appeared,  of  less  genius  indeed  than 
their  predecessors,  but  more  successful  in  their  expe- 
riments to  discover  the  mode  of  writing  most  adapted 
to  the  genius  of  the  language.  About  the  same  pe- 
riod that  a  similar  change  \vas  effected  in  France 
by  Pascal,  they  began  to  banish  from  style  learned 
as  well  as  vulgar  phraseology  ;  and  to  confine  them- 
selves to  the  part  of  the  language  naturally  used  in 
general  conversation  by  well-educated  men.  Tiiat 
middle  region  which  lies  between  vulgarity  and 
pedantry,   remains    commonly    unchanged,   while 


both  extremes  are  condemned  to  perpetual  revolu- 
tion. Those  who  select  words  from  that  permanent 
part  of  a  language,  and  who  nrninge  iliem  nirordinff 
to  its  natural  order,  have  discovered  ihe  true  iiecret 
of  rendering  their  wriiin({8  permaneni  ;  and  ol  pre- 
serving that  rank  among  ihe  ein.ssicnl  wrucrst  of 
their  country,  wliicli  men  of  greater  inulleciual 
power  have  tailed  tonltain.  Of  these  writers,  who>o 
language  has  not  yet  l>een  at  all  Miipernnminicd. 
Cowley  was  probaldy  the  earlicHi,  a.t  Dry  dun  ni:d 
Addison  were  assuredly  ihc  greaiesi. 

"  The  third  perind  may  be  called  liie  Uheioncul. 
and  is  disiing\iished  t)y  (he  prevalence  of  ii  scimol 
of  writers,  of  which  Johnson  was  ihe  founder.  The 
fundamental  character  of  this  style  is,  thai  it  em- 
ploys undisguised  art,  where  cioBsica!  wriur.t  appear 
only  to  obey  ihe  impulse  of  a  cuhivaied  ami  adorned 
nature,  &c. 

"  As  the  mind  of  Johnson  was  robust,  but  neiiher 
nimble  nor  gracelul,  so  his  style,  though  somciimet 
significant,  nervous,  and  even  niiije.xii<-,  was  void 
of  all  grace  and  ease;  and  being  the  most  unlike 
of  all  styles  to  the  naiiiral  effusion  of  a  culiivaied 
mind,  had  the  least  pretensions  to  ihe  praise  of  cio- 
qtience.  During  the  period,  now  nmr  a  rlorr,  in 
which  he  was  a  favourite  model,  a  stiff  symmetry 
and  tedious  monotony  succeeded  to  that  various 
music  with  which  the  taste  of  .Addison  diversified 
his  periods,  and  to  that  natural  imagery  winch  his 
beautiful  genius  seemed  with  graceful  m  gligencc  lo 
scatter  over  his  composition." 

We  stop  here  to  remark,  that,  though  con- 
curring in  the  substance  of  this  masterly  clas- 
sification of  our  writers,  we  should  yet  be  dis- 
posed to  except  to  that  part  of  it  which 
represents  the  first  introduction  of  soft,  grace- 
ful, and  idiomatic  English  as  not  earlier  than 
the  period  of  the  Restoration.  In  our  opinioi: 
it  is  at  least  as  old  as  Chaucer.  The  English 
Bible  is  full  of  it ;  and  it  is  among  the  most 
common,  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful,  of  the 
many  languages  spoken  by  Shakespeare. 
Laying  his  verse  aside,  there  are  in  his  longer 
passages  of  prose — and  in  the  serious  as  well 
as  the  humorous  parts — in  Hamlet,  and  Bru- 
tus, and  Shylock.  and  Henry  V.,  as  well  as  in 
Falstaff.  and  Touchstone,  Rosalind,  ami  Bene- 
dick, a  staple  of  sweet,  mellow,  and  natural 
Eiig]i.sh,  altogether  as  free  and  elegant  as  that 
of  Addison,  and  for  the  most  part  more  vigor- 
ous and  more  richly  coloured.  The  same  may 
be  said,  with  Mjme  e.\ceptioiis,  of  the  other 
dramatists  of  that  age.  Sir  James  is  right 
perhaps  as  to  the  arave  and  authoritative  wri- 
ters of  prose:  but  few  of  the  wits  of  Qneen 
Anne's  time  were  of  that  descrijition.  We 
shall  only  add  that  part  of  the  sequel  which 
contains  the  author's  general  account  of  the 
Lives  of  the  Poets. 

"  Whenever  understanding  alone  is  sufficieiii  li>r 
poetical  crincism.  the  deci.xions  of  JoiiiiHon  are 
generally  right.  But  the  beauties  of  p.ieiry  miuh! 
\>e.feU  before  their  causes  ate  investigated.  Theio 
is  a  poetical  sensibihiy.  which  in  the  prcigre.-H  nl  ibe 
mind  becomes  as  disiinci  a  power  as  a  musical  ear 
or  a  piclure.>-qne  eve.  Wilhoul  a  roiifldernble  de- 
gree of  ibis  sensibility,  it  is  lus  vain  lor  a  nian  ol  the 
greatest  underslanding  to  speak  ol  ihe  higher  beau- 
ties of  poetry,  as  it  is  for  a  blind  man  to  Fpeak  of 
colours.  But  to  culiivale  such  a  uleiii  was  wholly 
foreign  from  the  worldir  sagacity  and  ctern  hhrewd. 

I  ness  of  Johnson.  As  in  his  judgment  of  life  and 
character,  .so  in  his  criticism  on  poeiry,  he  wai  a 

I  sort  of  free-ihinker.  He  Fuepceted  ihe  reluied  i.f 
affectation  ;  he  rejccied  ilie  enihuciaciic  as  nl.nurd  ; 

I  and  he  took  it  for  granted  ihai  the  my«ieriuu»  wm 


748 


MISCELLAXEOUS. 


uiiiiiie!ligi;.!i!.  lie  came  inio  the  world  when  the 
school  ol  Drydeii  and  Pope  gave  the  hiw  to  Enghsh 
poetry.  In  thai  school  he  had  himself  learned  to 
be  a  lofty  and  vigorous  declaiiner  in  harmonious 
verse;  beyond  thai  scliool  liis  unforced  adnuraiion 
perhaps  scarcely  soared ;  and  his  higliest  effort  o) 
criticism  was  accordingly  the  noble  panegyric  on 
Dryden.  His  criticism  owed  its  populariiy  as  much 
10  its  defects  as  to  its  excellences.  Ii  was  on  a  level 
with  the  majoriiy  of  readers — persons  of  good  sense 
and  information,  but  of  no  exquisite  sensibility  ;  and 
to  tlieir  minds  ii  derived  a  lalse  appearance  of  so- 
lidity, from  that  very  narrowness,  which  excluded 
those  grandi;r  efforis  of  imagination  to  which  Aris- 
totle and  Bacon  have  confined  the  name  of  poetry." 

The  admirable  and  original  delineation, 
of  which  this  is  but  a  small  pail,  appears  to 
have  been  the  task  of  one  disturbed  and 
sickly  daj-.  We  have  in  these  volumes  char- 
acter.s  of  Hume,  Swift,  Lord  Manslield,  Wilkes, 
Goldsmith.  Gray,  Fiaiiklin,  Sheridan,  Fletcher 
of  Saltouii,  Louis  XIV.,  and  some  others,  all 
finished  with  the  same  exquisite  taste,  and 
conceived  in  the  same  vigorous  and  candid 
spirit ;  besides  which,  it  appears  from  the 
Journal,  that  in  the  same  incredibly  short 
period  of  fourteen  or  iifteen  days,  he  had 
made  similar  delineations  of  Lord  North, 
Paley,  George  Grenville,  C.  Townshend,  Tur- 
got,  MalesherbeS;  Young,  Thomson,  Aiken- 
side.  Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  Lord  Oxford ; 
though  (we  know  not  from  what  cause)  none 
of  these  last  mentioned  appear  in  the  present 
publication. 

.  During  the  same  voyage,  the  perusal  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  Letters  engages  him 
(at  intervals)  for  about  a  fortnight ;  in  the 
course  of  which  he  has  noted  down  in  his 
Journal  more  just  and  delicate  remarks  on  her 
character,  and  that  of  her  age,  than  we  think 
are  any  where  else  to  be  met  with.  But  we 
cannot  now  venture  on  any  extract :  and  must 
confine  ourselves  to  the  following  admirable 
remarks  on  the  true  tone  of  polite  conversa- 
tion and  familiar  letters, — suggested  by  the 
same  fascinating  collection: — 

"  When  a  woman  of  feeling,  fancy,  and  accom- 
plishment has  learned  to  converse  with  case  and 
grace,  from  lon^  intercourse  with  the  most  polished 
society,  and  when  she  writes  as  she  speaks,  she 
must  write  letters  as  they  ought  to  be  written  ;  if 
she  has  acquired  just  as  much  habitual  correctness 
as  is  reconcilable  with  the  air  of  neeligence.  A 
moment  of  enthusiasm,  a  burst  oi  feeling,  a  flash  tii 
eloquence  may  be  allowed  ;  but  the  intercourse  of 
society,  either  in  conversation  or  in  letters,  allows 
no  more.  Though  interdicted  from  the  long-con- 
tinued use  of  elevated  language,  they  are  not  with- 
out a  resource.  There  is  a  part  of  language  which 
is  disdained  by  the  pedant  or  the  declaimer.  and 
w  hich  both,  if  ihey  knew  its  difficulty,  would  ap- 
proach with  dread  ;  it  is  formed  of  the  most  familiar 
phrases  and  turns  in  daily  use  by  the  generality  of 
men,  and  is  full  of  energy  and  vivacity,  bearing 
upon  it  the  mark  of  those  keen  feelings  and  strong 
passions  from  which  it  springs.  It  is  the  employ- 
ment of  such  phrases  which  produces  what  may  be 
called  colloquial  eloquence.  Conversation  and  let- 
ters may  be  thus  raised  to  any  degree  of  animation, 
without  departing  Iroin  their  character.  Any  thing 
may  be  said,  if  it  be  spoken  in  the  tone  of  society. 
The  highest  guests  are  welcome  if  they  come  in 
the  easy  undress  of  the  club  ;  the  strongest  meta- 
phor appears  witho\it  violence,  if  it  is  fam ilia rh/  ex- 
pressed ;  and  we  the  more  easily  catch  the  warm- 
est feeling,  if  we  perceive  that  it  is  intentionally 


lowered  in  expression,  out  of  condescension  to  om^ 
calmer  temper.  It  is  thus  that  harangues  and  dec' 
lamations,  the  last  proof  ot  bad  taste  and  bad  man- 
ners in  conversation,  are  avoided,  while  ihe  fauev 
and  the  heart  find  the  means  of  pouring  lurtli  ai, 
tlieir  stores.  To  meet  this  despised  pan  ol  language 
in  a  polished  dress,  and  producing  all  the  eftecis  of 
wit  aiid  eloquence,  is  a  constant  source  of  aurteablt 
surprise,  'i'his  is  increased,  when  a  lew  boldet 
and  higher  words  are  happily  wrought  into  the  tex- 
ture of  this  familiar  eloquence.  To  find  what  seeiiiti 
so  unlike  author-crait  m  a  book,  raises  the  pleasing 
astonishment  to  its  highest  degree.  I  once  ihouglit 
of  illustrating  tny  notions  by  numerous  exaiuplcs 
from  '  La  Sevigne.'  And  I  must,  some  day  ur 
other,  do  so;  though  1  think  it  the  resource  of  u 
bungler,  who  is  not  enougil  master  of  language  lo 
convey  his  conceptions  into  the  minds  ot  oihers. 
'I'he  style  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  is  evidently  copied, 
not  only  by  i.er  worshipper,  VValpole,  bui  even  by. 
Gray  ;  who,  notwiihstanding  the  extraordinary  met-  ■ 
its  of  his  matter,  has  the  double  stiffness  of  an  imi-  ■ 
lator,  and  of  a  college  recluse." 

How  many  debatable  points  are  fairly  s^t- 
tied  by  the  following  short  and  vigorous  re-, 
marks,  in  the  Journal  for  1811 : —  ; 

"Finished  George  Rose's  'Observations  on' 
Fox's  History,'  which  are  tedious  and  inefficient.. 
That  James  was  more  influenced  by  a  passion  for' 
arbitrary  power  than  by  Popish  bigotry,  is  an  idle 
refinement  in  Fox:  He  liked  both  Popery  and' 
tyranny;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  did  not  hiniselt  ! 
know  which  he  liked  best.  But  I  take  it  to  be  cer-  ' 
tain  thai  the  English  people,  at  the  Revolution,  > 
dreaded  his  love  of  Popery  more  than  his  love  cf  , 
tyranny.  This  was  in  them  Protestant  bigotry,  i 
not  reason  :  But  the  instinct  of  their  bigotry  pointed  I 
right.  Popery  was  then  the  name  lor  the  iaciion  i 
which  supported  civil  and  religious  tyranny  in  • 
Europe :  To  be  a  Papist  was  to  be  a  partisan  of  the  ' 
ambition  of  Louis  XI V." 

There  is  in  the  Bombay  Journal  of  the  same 
year,  a  beautiful  essay  on  Novels,  and  the  | 
mornl  effect  of  fiction  in  general,  the  whole  1 
of  which  we  should  like  to  extract ;  but  it  is  I 
I'ar  too  long.  It  proceeds  on  the  assumption,  '■ 
that  as  all  fiction  must  seek  to  interest  by  ■ 
representing  admired  cjualities  in  an  exagge-  j 
rated  form,  and  in  striking  aspects,  it  must ' 
tend  to  raise  the  standard,  and  increase  the  i 
admiration  of  excellence.  In  answer  to  an  i 
obvious  objection,  he  proceeds —  I 

"A  man  who  should  feel  all  the  various  semi-  t 
ments  of  morality,  in  the  proportions  in  which  they  ' 
are  inspired    by   the   Iliad,   would  certainly   be  tar  ; 
irom  a  perfectly  good  man.     Bui  it  does  not  follow 
that  the  Iliad  did  not  produce  great  moral  benefit. 
To  determine  ihat  point,  weniusi  ascertain  whether 
a  man,  iorined  by  ihe  Iliad,  would  be  better  than 
the  ordinary  man  of  the  country,  at  the  iime  m  | 
tnhirh  it  (ipjieared.     It  is  true  that  it  too  much  in-  ( 
spires  an  admiration  for  ferocious  courage.     That  \ 
admiration  was  then  prevalent,  and  every  circum    i 
stance    served   to   strengthen   it.      But    the    Iliad  I 
breathes    many  oihir  sentiments,   less  prevalent    ij 
less  favoured  by  the  state  of  society,  and  calculated  ! 
gradually  to  mitigate  the  predominant  passion.    The  j 
friendship  and  sorrow  of  Achilles  for  Patroclus,  (he 
pairioiie  valour  of  Hector,  the  paternal  affliction  of   j 
Priam,  would  slowly  introduce  more  humane  affec-  i 
lions.     If  they  had  not  been  combined  with  the  ad    | 
iniraiion  of  barbarous  courage,  they  would  not  have 
been  popular;  and  consequently  they  would  have 
Ibund  no  entry  into  those  .«avage  hearts  which  they 
were  destined  (I  do  not  say  iiiteiided)  to  soften.     It 
is  therefore  clear,  from  the  very  nature  of  poetry, 
that  the  poet  must  inspire  somewhat  better  inorala 
than  those  around  him  ;  though,  to  be  eflectual  and 


I. 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


749 


jaeful,  hi8  morals  must  not  be  totally  unlike  those 
f  his  contemporaries.  If  the  Iliad  shoiilcl.  in  a  long 
purse  of  at;es,  have  inflamed  the  ambition  and  (e- 
jacity  of  a  few  individuals,  even  that  evil,  great  as 
I  is,  will  be  far  from  balancing  ail  the  generous 
jentiments,  which,  for  three  thousand  years,  it  has 
leeu  pourmg  into  the  hearts  of  youth;  and  wiiich 
[  now  continues  to  infuse,  aided  by  the  dignity  of 
ntiqiiity,  and  by  all  the  fire  and  sple-ndonr  of  poetry. 
fSvery  succeeding  generation,  a.^  it  refines,  requires 
the  standard  to  be  proporiionably  raised. 

"  Apply  these  remarks,  wiili  the  necessary  modi- 
Scations.  to  those  fictions  copied  from  common  life 
balled  Novels,  which  are  not  above  a  century  old, 
iind  of  which  the  multiplication  and  the  importance, 
IIS  well  literary  as  moral,  are  characteristic  feaiiuTS 
|)f  England.  There  may  be  persons  now  alive  who 
Ifecolleci  the  publication  of  Tom  Jones,'  at  least, 
Jf  not  of  '  Clarissa.'  Since  that  time,  probably 
[twelve  novels  have  appeared  of  the  first  rank — a 
prodiiiioiis  number,  of  such  a  kind,  in  any  dcpari- 
iment  of  literature  (by  the  help  of  Sir  Walter  Scoit 
and  Miss  Edgeworth  we  may  now  at  least  double 
.the  nnniber) — and  the  whole  cla~s  ot  novels  nmst 
'have  had  more  influence  on  the  public,  than  all 
foiher  sons  of  books  combined.  jS'oihinir  popular 
lean  he  frivolous.  Whatever  influences  miiliitudes. 
[must  be  of  proportionable  importance.  Bacon  and 
I'i'nrgot  would  have  contemplated  with  inquisitive 
, admiration  this  literary  revolution." 

j  And  soon  after,  while  admitting  that  Tom 
i Jones  (for  example)  is  so  far  from  being  a 
: moral  book  as  to  be  deserving  of  the  severest 
i  reprobation,-  he  adds — 

"  Yet  even  in  this  extreme  case,  I  must  observe 
;  that  the  same  book  inspires  the  greatest  abhorrence  of 
I  theduplicity  of  Blifil.  of  the  hypocrisy  of  Thwackum 
and  Square;  that  Jones  himself  is  interesting  by 
his  frankness,  spirit,  kindness,  and  fidelity — all  vir- 
tues of  the  first  class.  'I"he  ohjeciion  is  the  same 
in  its  principle  with  that  to  the  Iliad.  The  ancient 
epic  e.xclusively  presents  war — the  modern  novel 
love;  the  one  what  was  most  interesting  in  public 
life,  and  the  other  what  is  most  brilliant  in  private 
— and  both  with  an  unfortunate  disregard  of  moral 


The  entry  under  6th  March.  1817,  has  to 
the  writer  of  this  article,  a  melancholy  inter- 
est, even  at  this  distance  of  time.  It  refers 
to  the  motion  recently  maile  in  the  Hon,sp  of 
Commons  for  a  new  writ,  on  the  death  of  Mr. 
Horner.  The  reflections  with  which  it  closes 
must,  we  think,  be  interesting  always. 

"  March  6th. — The  only  event  which  now  ap- 
pears interesting  to  me,  IS  the  scene  in  the  House 
of  Commons  on  Monday.  Lord  Morpeth  opened 
it  in  a  speech  so  perfect,  that  it  might  have  been 
well  placed  as  a  passage  in  the  most  elegant  Eng- 
lish writer  ;  it  was  full  of  feeling  ;  every  topic  was 
skilfully  presented,  and  contained,  by  a  sort  of  pru- 
dence which  is  a  part  of  taste,  within  safe  limiis; 
he  slid  over  the  thinnest  ice  without  cracking  ii. — 
Canning  filled  well  what  would  have  been  the  va- 
cant place  of  a  calm  observer  of  Horner's  public 
life  and  talents.  Manners  Suiion's  most  affeciing 
speech  was.a  tribute  of  afllection  from  a  private  friend 
become  a  political  enemy  ;  Lord  Lascelles.  at  the 
head  of  the  country  gentleman  of  England,  closing 
this  affecting,  improving,  and  most  memorable 
scene  by  declaring,  '  that  if  the  sense  of  the  Hmise 
could  have  been  taken  on  this  occasion,  it  would 
have  been  unanimous.'  I  may  say  wiihoni  e.xaHL'c- 
ration.  that  never  were  so  many  words  uttered  with- 
out  the  least  suspicion  of  exacrgeration  ;  and  that 
never  was  so  much  honour  paid  in  any  age  or  nation 
'o  irtrinsic  rlnims  alone.  A  Howard  introduced, 
ind  an  English  House  ol  Commons  adop'cd,  the 
nropasilion"  of  thus  honouring  the  memory  of  a 


man  of  tliiriy-cii>ht,  :hc  .son  of  n  shopkceprr,  who 
never  filled  an  (iflice,  or  hiid  the  power  o|  oblijiing 
a  living  crcaiure,  and  whose  jfrund  lit!.-  lo  ihiH  dis- 
im.  lion  was  the  Itejiof  of  his  virtue.  Hnw  honour- 
able to  the  Hge  and  lo  the  llouhC  !  .\  couiiiry  where 
suchscniinunis  prevail  is  not  ripe  for  desirurlion." 

Sir  James  could  not  but  feel,  in  the  narrow 
circles  of  Bombay,  the  irrcat  suiMMJorilv  of 
London  society;  and  he  has  thus  icco'idcd 
his  sense  of  it  :  — 

"In  great  capitals,  tin  n  of  dilTcronl  provinrrs, 
professions,  and  luirsiiiis  nrc  brought  io;;cihi  r  in  so- 
ciety, and  art-  obliged  lo  iic{|iiire  ii  hnhii.  n  mniirr, 
and  manner  mutually  perspicuous  and  ottrccnble. 
Hence  they  are  raised  above  Irivojiiy,  and  are  di- 
vested of  pedantry.  In  small  societies  this  hnbii  is 
not  imposed  by  necessity  ;  they  have  lowx-r,  but 
more  urgent  su'bjecis,  which  are  inlere.mm^  lo  (ill. 
level  to  all  capacities,  ami  require  no  efl<>rt  or  prepa- 
ration of  mind." 

He  might  have  added,  that  in  a  great  capi- 
tal the  best  of  all  sorts  is  to  be  met  with  ;  and 
that  the  adherents  even  of  the  most  extreme 
or  fantastic  opinions  are  there  so  iiiimerous, 
and  generally  so  respectably  hemhd,  as  to 
command  a  deference  atui  icgard  tltal  would 
scarcely  be  shown  to  them  when  appearing 
as  insulated  individuals;  and  thus  it  Jiappeiis 
that  leal  toleration,  and  true  modesty,  as  well 
as  their  polite  simnlars.  aie  larely  to  be  met 
with  out  of  great  cities.  This,  however,  is 
true  only  of  those  who  mi.\  largely  in  (he 
general  society  of  such  places.  For  bigots 
and  e.xclnsives  of  all  sorts,  they  ate  hot-beds 
and  seats  of  corrnjition  ;  since,  however  ab- 
surd or  revolting  their  tenets  may  be.  such 
persons  are  sure  lo  meet  enough  of  their  fel- 
lows to  encourage  each  other.  In  the  provin- 
ces, a  believer  in  animal  mtignetism  or  Gor- 
man metaj)hysics  has  few  listeiiens,  and  no 
encouragement ;  but  in  a  place  like  London 
they  make  a  little  coterie  ;  who  herd  together, 
exchange  flatteries,  and  take  themselves  for 
the  apostles  of  a  new  gospel. 

The  editor  has  incorpotated  with  his  work 

some  letters  addressed  to  him  by  friends  of 

his  father,  containing  either  atiecdotes  of  his 

earlier  life,  or  observations  on   his  character 

and  merits.    It  was  natural  for  a  person  whose 

age  ptecludr-d  him  from  .speaking  on  his  own 

authority  of  any  but   recent  tiansactions,  to 

seek  for  this  assistasice  ;  and  the  information 

contributed  by  Lord  Abinger  and  Mr.  Basil 

Montagu  (the "former  especially)  is  very  iiiler- 

estiiig.    The  other  letters  present  us  with  little 

more  ihan  the  opinion  of  the  writers  as  lo  his 

character.      If  these   .«hould   be   ihoiinhl   too 

laudatory,  there  is  another  character   which 

has  lately  fallen   under  our  eye.  which  cer- 

taiidy  is  not  liable  to  that  obj<'ction.     In  the 

"Table-Talk"  of  the  Itite  Mr.  Coleridge,  we 

find  these  words:— '•  I  doubt  if  Mackiiitof^h 

ever  heartily  appreciated  an  eminently  oriiji- 

tial  man.     After  all  his  fluency  and  brilliai:f 

ernditioi),  yoti  can  rarely  carry  nif  any  lliiiii; 

\  worth  preserving.    Yon  tnichl  n«il  inijiropeilv 

;  write  upon  his  fo,<"head,  ■  Warchouw  to  let  1"  '■ 

\      We  wish  to  speak  tenderly  of  a  man  of  cp- 

I  nins.  and  we  believe  of  amiable  di-|.os,iion(«, 

I  who  has  been  <o  jecfiillv  removed  fiom   lii* 

I  friends  and  admirers      But  so  po^lt'n!ou^  a 

is  2 


750 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


raisjudgment  as  this,  and  coming  from  such  a 
quarter,  cannot  be  passed  without  notice.  If 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  had  any  talent  more 
conspicuous  and  indisputable  than  another,  it 
was  that  of  appreciating  the  merits  of  eminent 
and  original  men.  His  great  learning  and 
singular  soundness  of  judgment  enabled  him 
to  do  this  truly:  while  his  kindness  of  na- 
ture, his  zeal  for  human  happiness,  and  his 
perfect  freedom  from  prejudice  or  vanity, 
prompted  him,  above  most  other  men,  to  do 
it  heartily.  And  then,  as  to  his  being  a  person 
from  whose  conversation  little  could  be  car- 
ried away,  why  the  most  characteristic  and 
remarkable  thin":  about  it.  was  that  the  whoh; 
of  it  might  be  carried  away — it  was  so  lucid, 
precise,  and  brilliantly  perspicuous  !  The  joke 
of  the  '•  warehouse  to  let  "  is  not,  we  confess, 
quite  level  to  our  capacities.  It  can  scarcely 
mean  (though  that  is  the  most  obvious  sense) 
that  the  head  was  empty — as  that  is  incon- 
sistent with  the  rest  even  of  this  splenetic 
delineation.  If  it  was  intended  to  insinuate 
that  it  was  ready  for  the  indiscriminate  re- 
ception of  any  thing  which  any  one  might 
choose  to  put  into  it,  there  could  not  be  a  more 
gross  misconception  ;  as  we  have  no  doubt 
Mr.  Coleridge  must  often  have  sufficiently 
experienced.  And  by  whom  is  this  dis- 
covery, that  Mackintosh's  conversation  pre- 
sented nothing  that  could  be  carried  away, 
thus  confidentl)-  announced  ?  Why,  by  the 
very  individual  against  whose  own  oracular 
and  interminable  talk  the  same  complaint  has 
been  made,  by  friends  and  by  foes,  and  with 
an  unanimity  unprecedented,  for  the  last  forty 
years.  The  admiring,  or  rather  idolizing  ne- 
phew, who  has  lately  put  forth  this  hopeful 
specimen  of  his  relics,  has  recorded  in  the 
preface,  that  "his  conversation  at  all  times 
required  attention  ;  and  that  the  demand  on 
the  intellect  of  the  hearer  was  often  very 
great :  and  that,  when  he  got  into  his  -huge 
circuit'  and  large  illustrations,  most  people 
had  lost  him,  and  naturally  enough  supposed 
that  he  had  lost  himself."  Nay,  speaking  to 
this  very  point,  of  the  ease  or  difficulty  of 
"carrying  away"  any  definite  notions  from 
what  he  said,  the  partial  kinsman  is  pleased 
to  inform  us,  that,  with  all  his  familiarity  wilh 
the  inspired  style  of  his  relative,  he  himself 
has  often  gone  away,  after  listening  to  him 
for  several  delightful  hours,  with  diversmasses 
of  reasoning  in  his  head,  but  without  being- 
able  to  perceive  what  connection  they  had 
with  each  other.  "  In  such  cases,"  he  adds, 
"I  have  mused,  sometimes  even  for  days  after- 
wards, upon  the  words,  till  at  length,  spon- 
taneously as  it  were,  the  fire  would  kindle," 
&c.  &c.  And  this  is  the  person  who  is  pleased 
to  denounce  Sir  James  Mackinto.'^h  as  an  ordi- 
nary man;  and  especially  to  object  to  his  con- 
versation, that,  though  brilliant  and  fluent, 
there  was  rarely  any  thing  in  it  which  could 
be  carried  away ! 

An  attack  so  unjust  and  so  arrogant  leads 
raturally  to  comparisons,  which  it  could  be 
easy  to  follow  out  to  the  signal  discomfiture 
of  the  party  attacking.  But  without  going 
beyond  what  is  thus  forced  upon  our  notice, 


we  shall  only  say,  that  nothing  could  pnssibb 
set  the  work  before  us  in  so  favourable  ';' 
point  of  view,  as  a  comparison  between  i 
and  the  volumes  of  "Table  Talk,"  to  whicl 
we  have  already  made  reference  —  unless 
perhaps,  it  were  the  conttast  of  the  two  mind: 
which  are  respectively  portrayed  in  thest 
publications. 

In  these  memorials  of  Sir  James  Mackin 
tosh,  we  trace  throughout  the  workings  of  ; 
powerful  and  unclouded  intellect,  nourishei 
by  wholesome  learning,  raised  and  instructei 
by  fearless  though  reverent  questionhigg  ot 
the  sages  of  other  times  (which  is  the  per- 
mitted Necromancy  of  the  wise),  e.xercised 
by  free  discussion  with  the  most  distinjruishec' 
among  the  living,  and  made  acquainted  witl, 
its  own  strength  and  weakness,  not  only  b); 
a  constant  intercourse  with  other  powerful 
minds,  but  by  mi.ving,  with  energy  and  de, 
liberation,  in  practical  business  and  affairs  | 
and  here  pouring  itself  out  in  a  delightfu, 
miscellany  of  elegant  Criticism,  original  spej 
culation,  and  profound  practical  snggestiomj 
on  politics,  religion,  history,  and  all  the  sreate 
and  the  lesser  duties,  the  art.«  and  the  elej 
gances  of  life — all  expressed  with  a  beautiful 
clearness  and  tempered  dignity — breathinjj 
the  purest  spirit  of  good-will  to  mankind— I 
and  brightened  not  merely  by  an  ardent  hope, 
but  an  assured  faith  in  their  constant  advance, 
ment  in  freedom,  intelligence,  and  virtue.     | 

On  all  these  points,  the  "Table  Talk  "  ol 
his  poetical  contemporary  appears  to  us  ti 
present  a  most  mortifying  contrast ;  and  ti 
render  back  merely  the  image  of  a  mood' 
mind,  incapable  of  mastering  its  own  iniagin 
ings,  and  constantly  seduced  by  them,  or  h}i 
a  misdirected  ambition,  to  attempt  impractij 
cable  things:  —  naturally  attracted  by  din; 
paiado.xes  rather  than  lucid  truths,  and  pre  ■ 
ferring,  for  the  most  pa  it,  the  obscure  and  ne 
glected  parts  of  learning  to  those  that  art 
useful  and  clear — marching,  in  short,  at  ai 
times,  under  the  exclusive  guidance  of  tht 
Pillar  of  Smoke — and,  like  the  body  of  it; 
original  follow  ers.  wandering  all  his  days  ii 
the  desert,  without  ever  coming  in  sight  ot 
the  promised  land.  i 

Consulting  little  at  any  time  with  any  thin|| 
but  his  own  prejudices  and  fancies,  heseemsj 
in  his  latter  days,  to  have  withdrawn  alto 
gether  from  the  correction  of  equal  mind? 
and  to  have  nourished  the  assurance  of  hi: 
own  infallibility,  by  delivering  mystical  era 
cles  from  his  cloudy  shrine,  all  day  long,  to  : 
small  set  of  disciples,  to  w  hom  neither  ques 
tion  nor  interrujition  was  allowed.  The  resul 
of  this  necessarily  was,  an  e.xcaerbation  of  ai 
the  morbid  tendencies  of  the  mind  ;  a  dail\ 
increasing  ignorance  of  the  course  of  opinion- 
and  affairs  in  the  world,  and  a  proportiona 
confidence  in  his  own  dogmas  and  dreani.-> 
which  might  have  been  shaken,  at  least,  li 
not  entirely  subverted,  by  a  closer  contac 
with  the  general  mass  of  intelligence.  Un 
fortunately  this  unhealthful  training  (pecn 
liarly  unhealthful  for  such  a  constitution)  pro 
duced  not  merely  a  great  einption  of  ridicu 
lous   blunders  and  pitiable  prejudices,  bu 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAAIES  MACKINTc^SH 


751 


jems  at  last  to  have  brought  on  a  confirmed 
|.d  thoroughly  diseased  habit  of  uncharitable- 

iiss,  and  misanthropic  anticipations  of  cor- 
ption  and  misery  throughout  the  civilised 
jrld.  The  indiscreet  revelations  of  tht;  work 
which  we  have  alluded  have  now  brought 
light  instances,  not  only  of   intemperate 
j)use  of  men  of  the  highest  intellect  and 
lost  unquestioned  purity,  but  such  predic- 
jons  of  evil  from  what  the  rest  of  the  world 
las  been  contented  to  receive  as  improve- 
Heiits,  and  such  suggestions  of  intolerant  and 
lyrannical  Remedies,  as  no  man  would  be- 
feve  could  proceed  from  a  cultivated  intel- 
Kt  of  the  present  age — if  the  early  history 
f  this  particular  intellect  had  not  indicated 
ia.  inherent  aptitude  for  all  extreme  opinions, 
l-and  prepared  us  for  the  vsual  conversion  of 
^e  extreme  into  another. 
I  And  it  is  worth  while  to  mark  here  also, 
•nd  in   respect   merely  of   consistency  and 
lltimate  authority  with  mankind,  the  advan- 
lige  which  a  sober  and  well-regulated  under- 
tending  will  always  have  over  one  which 
'laims  to  be  above  ordinances ;  and  trusting 
.    fither  to  an   erroneous   opinion  of  its   own 
Itrength,  or  even  to  a  true  sense  of  it.  gives 
tself  up  to  its  first  strong  impression,  and  sets 
|.t  defiance  all  other   reason  and  authority. 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  had,  in  his  youth,  as 
nuch  ambition  and  as  much  consciousness  of 
)0\ver  as  Mr.  Coleridge  could  have  :  But  the 
itmost  extent  of  his  early  aberrations  (in  his 
yindicicE  Gallica:)  was  an  over  estimate  af  the 
'probabilities  of  good   from  a  revolution    of 
'riolence;  and  a  much  greater  under-estimate 
■)f  the  mischiefs  with  which  such  experiments 
ire  sure  to  be  attended,  and  the  value  of  set- 
•:Ied  institutions  and  long  familiar  forms.    Yet, 
^^hough  in  his  philanthropic  enthusiasm  he  did 
miscalculate  the  relative  value  of  these  op- 
iposite  forces  (and  speedily  admitted  and  rec- 
tified the  error),  he  never  for  an  instant  dis- 
puted the  existence  of  both  elements  in  the 
equation,  or  affected  to  throw  a  doubt  upon 
:any  of  the  great  principles  on  which  civil  so- 
ciety reposes.    On  the  contrary,  in  his  earliest 
as  well   as   his   latest    writings,   he   pointed 
,'steadily  to  the  great  institutions  of  Property 
'and  Marriage,  and  to  the  necessary  authority 
of  Law  and  Religion,  as  essential  to  the  being 
'of  a  state,  and  the  well-being  of  any  human 
{society.      It  followed,   therefore,  that  when 
i disappointed  in  his  too  sanguine  expectations 
I  from  the  French  Revolution,  he  had  nothing 
to  retract  in  the  substance  and  scope  of  his 
'Opinions;    and  merely  tempering   their   an- 
'nouncement.  with  the  gravity  and  caution  of 
maturer  years,  he  gave  them  out  again  in  his 
later  days  to  the  world,  with  the  accumulated 
I  authority  of  a  whole  life  of  consistency  and 
;  study.     At  no  period  of  that  life,  did  he  fail 
1  to  as.sert  the  right  of  the  people  to  political 
and  religious  freedom  ;  and  to  the  protection 
[  of  just  and  equal  laws,  enacted  by  representa- 
:  tives  truly  chosen  by  themselves:    And  he 
i  never  uttered  a  syllable  that  could  be  con- 
strued into  an  approval,  or  even  an  acquies- 
cence in  persecution  and  intolerance ;  or  in 
tae  naaintenance  of  authority  for  any  other 


purpose  than  to  give  effect  to  the  enlit'htent'il 
and  deliberate  will  of  ihe  coininuinly.  Tu 
enforce  these  doctrines  his  w  hoii-  hie  wa.>» 
devoted;  and  tlionuli  not  jw-rniill.  d  lo  com- 
plete either  of  ihe  great  works  he  had  pro- 
jected, he  was  enabled  to  Jimsh  d.taclie.l 
portions  of  each,  .-uliicieiit  noi  oidy  rullv  lo 
develope  his  principles,  but  to  t'lvl-  a  di-ar 
view  of  the  whole  d.'.sign,  and  lo  put  it  ni  thir 
pow(>r  of  any  succeeiling  artisl  lo  pioeeeit 
with  the  execution.  Look  How  upon  llie  olher 
side  of  the  parallel. 

]\Ir.  Coleridge,  too,  was  an  early  and  most 
ardent  admirer  of  the  French  Revolution  ;  but 
the  fruits  of  that  admiration  m  linu  were,  uol 
a  rea.soned  and  statesmanlike  aiH)logy  for 
some  of  its  faults  and  excesses,  but  a  resolu- 
tion to  advance  the  regeneration  of  inankind 
at  a  still  quicker  rate,  by  seltnm  befon-  Iheir 
eyes  the  pattern  of  a  yet  more  e.Miuisite  form 
of  society  !  And  accordingly,  when  a  full- 
grown  man.  he  actually  gave  into,  if  he  did 
not  originate,  the  scheme  of  w  hat  he  and  hw 
frientis  called  a  Paiitisocracy — a  fomi  of  so- 
ciety in  which  there  was  to  be  neither  law 
nor  government,  neither  priest,  judge,  nor 
magistrate — in  which  all  property  was  lo  be 
in  common,  and  every  man  left  to  act  njwn 
his  own  sense  of  duty  and  alFeclion  ! 

This  fact  is  enough  : — And  whether  he  af- 
terwards passed  through  the  stages  of  a  Jaco- 
bin, which  he  seems  to  deny — or  a  hotheaded 
Moravian,  which  he  seems  to  admit. — is  really 
of  no  consequence.  The  character  of  his  un- 
derstanding is  settled  with  all  reasonable  men  : 
As  well  as  the  authority  that  is  due  to  the 
anti-refoim  and  anli-toleration  maxims  which 
he  seems  to  have  spent  his  latter  years  in 
venting.  Till  we  saw  this  posthumous  publi- 
cation, we  hati,  to  be  sure,  no  conception  of 
the  extent  to  which  these  compensating  max- 
ims were  carried ;  and  we  now  think  that  few 
j  of  the  Conservatives  (who  were  not  originally 
j  Pantisocratists)  will  venture  to  adopt  them. 
Not  only  is  the  Reform  Bill  denounced  as  the 
spawn  of  mere  wickedness,  ininsticej  and 
ignorance;  and  the  reforme(i  House  of  Com- 
mons as  "low,  vulgar,  meddling,  and  sneering 
at  every  thing  noble  and  refined,"  but  the 
wise  and  the  good,  we  are  assured,  will,  in 
every  country,  "speedily  become  disgusted 
with  the  Representative  form  of  covinimcvf. 
brutalized  as  it  is  by  the  predominance  of  de- 
mocracy, in  Eiiirlaiid,  France,  and  Belgium  I" 
And  then  the  remedy  is,  that  they  will  recur 
to  a  new,  though,  we  confes.s,  not  very  com- 
prehensible form,  of  "  Pure  Momtrchy.  in 
which  the  rea.«on  of  the  people  sball  become 
eflncient  in  the  apparent  Will  of  the  King!" 
Moreover,  he  is  for  a  total  disrolulion  of  the 
union  with  Ireland,  and  itserection  into  a  sepa- 
rate and  independent  kingdom.  He  is  against 
Neirro  emancipation— sees  no  wtM'  in  reducing 
j  taxation  —  and  desiiriiates  Miillhns'  demon- 
trationof  amerematterof  fai-l  by  a  redundant 
:  accumulation  of  evidence,  by  the  polilc  and 
I  appropriate  appellation  of  "a  lie  :"  and  repre- 
j  sents  it  as  more  disgracefn!  nnd  abun'iiahia 
than  anv  thing  that  ill'  v  ( i.ki,.!..'.  and  w,.  k- 
:  edtiessof  man  have  evoi  before  given  birth  lo. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I 


Such  as  his  temperance  and  candour  are  in 
jxjlitics,  they  are  also  in  religion  ;  and  recom- 
nieiitled  and  excused  by  the  same  flagrant 
contradiction  to  his  early  tenets.  VV'hether  he 
ever  was  a  proper  Moravian  or  not  we  care 
not  to  inquire.  It  is  admitted,  and  even  stated 
somewhat  boastingly  in  this  book,  that  he  was 
a  bold  Dissenter  from  the  church.  He  thanks 
heaven,  indeed,  that  he  --had  gone  much 
farther  than  the  Unitarians!'''  And  to  make 
his  boldness  still  more  engaging,  he  had  gone 
these  lengths,  not  only  against  the  authority 
of  our  Doctors,  but  against  the  clear  and  ad- 
mitted doctrine  and  teaching  of  the  Apostles 
themselves  '  ••  •  What  care  I,'  I  said,  '  for  the 
Platonisms  of  John,  or  the  Rabbinisms  of  Paul  ? 
My  consilience  revolts  V — Thai  was  the  ground 
of  my  Unitarianism."  And  by  and  by.  this 
infallible  and  oracular  person  does  not  hesitate 
to  declare,  that  others,  indeed,  may  do  as  they 
choose,  but  he,  for  his  part,  can  never  allow 
that  Unitarians  are  Christians  !  and,  giving  no 
credit  for  '-'revolting  consciences"  to  any  one 
but  himself,  charges  all  Dissenters  in  the 
lump  with  hating  the  Church  much  more 
than  they  love  religion — is  furious  against  the 
repeal  of  the  Test  and  Corporation  Acts,  and 
Catholic  Emancipation, — and  at  la.st  actually, 
and  in  good  set  terms,  denies  that  any  Dis- 
senter has  a  ridit  to  toleration!  and,  in  per- 
fect consistency,  maintains  that  it  is  the  duty 
of  the  magistrate  to  stop  heresy  and  schism 
by  persecution — if  he  only  has  reason  to  think 
that  in  this  way  the  evil  may  be  arrested  ; 
adding,  by  way  of  example,  that  he  would  be 
ready  "  to  shij)  off — any  u-here^''^  any  mission- 
aries who  might  attempt  to  disturb  the  un- 
doubting  Lntheranism  of  certain  exemplary 
Norwegians,  whom  he  takes  under  his  special 
protection. 

We  are  tempted  to  say  more.  But  we  de- 
sist;  and  shall  pursue  this  parallel  no  farther. 
Perhaps  we  have  already  been  betrayetl  into 
feelings  and  expressions  that  may  be  objected 
to.  We  should  be  sorry  if  this  could  be  done 
justly.  But  we  do  not  ([uestion  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge's sincerity.  We  admit,  too.  that  he  was 
a  man  of  much  poetical  sensibility,  and  had 
visions  of  intellectual  sublimity,  and  glimpses 
of  comprehensive  truths,  which  he  could 
neither  rciduce  into  order  nor  combine  into 
system.  But  out  of  poetry  and  metaphysics, 
we  think  he  was  nothing;  and  eminently  dis- 
(lualified,  not  only  by  the  defect.s,  but  by  the 
be.st  parts  of  his  genius,  as  well  as  by  his 
temper  and  habits,  for  forming  any  sound 
judgment  on  the  business  and  affairs  of  our 
actual  world.  And  yet  it  is  for  his  preposter- 
ous judgments  on  suck  subjects  that  his  memory 
is  now  held  in  affected  reverence  by  those 
who  laugheil  at  him,  all  through  liis  life,  for  } 
what  gave  him  his  only  true  claim  to  admira- 


secution.  We  are  sure  we  treat  Mr.  Coleridg.! 
with  all  possible  respect  when  we  saj',  thai 
lus  name  can  lend  no  more  plausibility  to  ab' 
surdities  like  these,  than  the  far  greater  name,' 
of  Bacon  or  Hobbes  could  do  to  the  belief  iii 
sympathetic  medicines,  or  in  churchyard  ap< 
paritions.  { 

We  fear  we  have  already  transgressed  ou3 
just  limits.  But  before  concluding,  we  wisbi 
to  say  a  word  on  a  notion  which  we  tiiid  prettii 
generally  entertained,  that  Sir  James  Mackih> 
tosh  did  not  sulficiently  turn  to  protit  th(i 
talent  which  was  committed  to  him  ;  and  dull 
much  less  than,  with  his  gifts  and  opporluni; 
ties,  he  ought  to  have  done.  He  himselti 
seems,  no  doubt,  to  have  been  occasionalKi 
of  that  opinion  ;  and  yet  we  cannot  but  ihiuii 
it  in  a  great  degree  erroneous.  If  he  had  iioti 
in  early  life,  conceived  the  ambitious  desigi* 
of  executing  two  great  works. — one  on  ihti 
principles  of  Morals  and  Legislation,  and  onti 
on  English  History  ;  or  had  not  let  it  be  under-, 
stood,  for  many  years  before  his  death,  thai 
he  was  actually  employed  on  the  latter,  wti 
do  not  imagine  that,  with  all  the  knowledg(i 
his  friends  had  (and  all  the  world  nowhas;, 
of  his  qualifications,  any  one  would  bavt! 
thought  of  visiting  his  memory  with  such  si 
reproach.  ( 

We  know  of  no  code  of  morality  whicit 
makes  it  imperative  on  every  man  of  extra-i 
ordinary  talent  or  learning  to  write  a  iargtl 
book  : — and  could  readily  point  to  inslaijcesi 
where  such  persons  have  gone  with  uiiques-j 
tioned  honour  to  their  graves,  without  leavin§j 
any  such  memorial — and  been  judged  to  havti 
acted  up  to  the  last  article  of  their  duty! 
merely  by  enlightening  .society  by  their  livefj 
and  conversation,  and  discharging  with  abiht}| 
and  integrity  the  offices  of  magistracy  or  leffis-j 
latioii,  to  which  they  may  have  been  called  I 
But  looking  even  to  the  sort  of  debt  whictj 
may  be  thought  to  have  been  contracted  b}i 
the  announcement  of  these  works,  we  cannoti 
but  think  that  the  public  has  received  a  verjj 
respectable  dividend — and.  being  at  the  besil 
but  a  gratuitous  creditor — oui;ht  not  now  tc| 
withhold  a  thankful  di.schargeand  ac(|uittancej 
The  discourse  on  Ethical  Philusoi'hy  is  full 
payment,  we  conceive,  of  one  moiety  of  thtj 
first  engagement. — and  we  are  persuadetl  vil.j 
be  so  received  by  all  who  can  judge  of  itjj 
value ;  and  though  the  other  moiety,  whictf 
relates  to  Legislation,  has  not  yet  been  ten-j 
dered  in  form,  there  is  reason  to  believe  thai, 
there  aie  a,ssets  in  the  hands  of  the  executors.! 
from  which  this  also  may  soon  be  litjuidaleti 
That  great  subject  was  certainly  fully  treatc(' 
of  in  the  Lectures  of  1799— and  as  it  appear' 
from  some  citations  in  these  INlemoirs,  that 
though  for  the  most  part  delivered  extcmjiorc 
various  notes  and  manuscripts  relating  to  then. 


lion  !  and  who  now  magnify  his  genius,  for  no  |  have  been  preserved,  we  think  it  not  unlikely) 


other  purpose  but  to  give  them  an  oppoitunity 
to  (]uote,  as  of  grave  authority,  his  mere  deli- 
rations,  on  reform,  d  sstMit,  and  tolerntlon — his 
cheering  pred  ctioiis  of  the  approaching  mil- 
lennium of  pure  monarchy — or  his  demonstra- 
tions of  the  absolute  iiarmlessnessof  taxation, 
and  the  sacnnl  duly  ot  all  fvvUoi  ejfuunt  p^r- 


liat.  with  due  dil:i:ence.  the  outline  at  leastj 
and  main  features  of  that  iiileiestiiig  disquisi-i 
tion  may  still  be  recovered.  On  the  bill  foij 
History,' too,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  a  large' 
payment  has  been  made  to  account — and  a- 
it  was  only  due  for  the  period  of  the  Rcvoli; , 
tiOn_  .-any  shortcomii  g  that  may  aj'pea:   u[i>i 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


rsj 


t  t  score,  may  be  fairly  held  as  compens;ited 
b  the  voluntary  advances  of  value  to  a  much 
o'ater  extent,  though  referring  to  an  earlier 
fiod. 

But,  in  truth,  there  never  was  any  such 
cbt  or  engagement  on  thfe  part  of  Sir  James: 
jd  the  puSlic  was.  and  continues,  the  only 
cbtor  on  the  transaction,  for  whatever  it  may 
[re  received  of  service  or  instruction  at  his 
hid.  We  have  expressed  elsewhere  our 
« imate  of  the  greatness  of  this  debt ;  and  of 
t;  value  especially  of  the  Histories  he  has 
't  behind  him.  We  have,  to  be  sure,  since 
i?n  some  sneering  remarks  on  the  dulness 
al  uselessness  of  these  works:  and  an  at- 
(npt  made  to  hold  them  up  to  ridicule,  under 
13  appellation  of  Philosophical  histories.  We 
j3  not  aware  that  such  a  name  was  ever  ap- 
',ed  to  them  by  their  author  or  their  admirers. 
It  if  they  really  deserve  it,  we  are  at  a  loss 
conceive  how  it  .should  be  taken  for  a  name 
reproach ;  and  it  will  scarcely  be  pretended 
at  their  execution  is  such  as  to  justify  its 
iplication  in  the  way  of  derision.  We  do 
it  perceive,  indeed,  that  this  is  pretended  ; 
id.  strange  as  it  may  appear,  the  objection 
ems  really  to  be,  rather  to  the  kind  of  wri- 
12  in  general,  than  to  the  defects  of  its  exe- 
ition  in  this  particular  instance — the  objector 
iving  a  singular  notion  that  history  should 
msist  of  narrative  only ;  and  that  nothing 
in  be  so  tiresome  and  useless  as  any  addition 
'  explanation  or  remark. 
We  have  no  longer  room  to  expose,  as  it 
^serves,  the  strange  misconceptions  of  the 
ojecis  and  uses  of  history,  which  we  humbly 
inceive  to  be  implied  in  such  an  opinion  ; 
:id  shall  therefore  content  ourselves  with 
«king,  whether  any  man  really  imagines  that 
.le  modern  history  of  any  considerable  State, 
ith  its  complicated  system  of  foreign  rela- 
ons.  and  the  play  of  its  domestic  parties, 
mid  be  written  in  the  manner  of  Herodotus? 
-or  be  made  intelligible  (much  less  instruct- 
-•e)  by  the  naked  recital  of  transactions  and 
ccurrences?  These,  in  fact,  are  but  the  crude 
Materials  from  which  history  should  be  con- 
tructed;  the  mere  alphabet  out  of  which  its 
,?ssons  are  afterwards  to  be  spelled.  If  every 
eader  had  indeed  the  talents  of  an  accom- 
ilished  Historian, — that  knowledge  of  human 
lature,  that  large  acquaintance  with  all  col- 
ateral  facts,  and  that  force  of  understanding 
vhich  are  implied  in  such  a  name — and,  at 
he  same  time,  that  leisure  and  love  for  the 
ubject  which  would  he  necessary  for  this 
particular  application  of  such  gifts,  the  mere 
letail  of  facts,  if  full  and  impartial,  might  be 
iufficient  for  his  purposes.  But  to  every  other 
;lass  of  readers,  we  will  venture  to  .say,  that 
)ne  half  of  such  a  history  would  be  an  in- 
soluble enigma  ;  and  the  other  half  the  source 
)f  the  most  gross  misconceptions. 

Without  some  explanation  of  the  views  and 
motives  of  the  prime  aaents  in  great  transac- 
tions— of  the  origin  and  state  of  opposite  inte- 
rests and  opinions  in  large  bodies  of  the  people 
— and  of  their  tendencies  respectively  to  as- 
cendency or  decline — what  intelligible  account 
could  be  given  of  any  thing  worth  knowing 


in  the  history  of  the  world  for  the  last  twu 
hundred  year.s  ?  above  ail,  what  usi-fid  leBsoM!< 
could  be  learned,  for  people  or  for  ruins,  from 
a  mere  series  of  events  presented  in  detail, 
without  any  other  information  as  to  their 
causes  or  consequences,  than  miyht  be  in- 
ferred from  the  seciuence  in  which  llicy  ap- 
peared !  To  us  it  appears  that  a  mere  ri'Cdrd 
of  the  ditlerent  j>lac<'s  of  the  stars,  and  llicir 
successive  changes  of  jxisition.  would  be  as 
good  a  system  of  Astronomy,  as  such  a  sft  ot 
annals  would  be  of  History  •  and  lliat  it  would 
be  about  as  reasonable  to  sneer  at  Newton 
and  La  Place  for  seeking  to  super.«ifdf  the 
honest  old  star-gazers,  by  their  yhilnsophual 
histories  of  the  heavfii.s,  as  to  speak  in  the 
same  tone,  of  what  Voltaire  and  Mont»'s<iuifU 
and  Mackintosh  have  attempted  to  do  lor  our 
lower  world.  We  have  named  these  three, 
as  having  attended  more  peculiarly,  and  more 
impartially,  than  any  other.*,  at  least  in  modern 
times,  to  this  highest  part  of  their  duty.  But, 
in  truth,  all  eminent  historians  have  attended 
to  it — from  the  time  of  Thncydides  down- 
wards;— the  ancients  putting  the  necessary 
explanations  more  frecpiently  into  the  shape 
of  imaginary  orations — and  the  moderns  into 
that  of  remark  and  dissertation.  The  very 
first,  perhaps,  of  Hume's  many  excellences 
consists  in  these  philosophical  summaries  of 
the  reasons  and  considerations  by  which  he 
supposes  parties  to  have  been  actuated  in 
great  political  movements ;  which  are  more 
completely  abstracted  from  the  mere  story, 
and  very  frequently  less  careful  and  complete, 
than  the  parallel  explanations  of  Sir  James 
Mackintosh.  For,  with  all  his  unrivalled  sa- 
gacity, it  is  true,  as  Sir  James  has  himself 
somewhere  remarked,  that  Hume  was  too 
little  of  an  antiquary  to  be  always  able  to 
estimate  the  effect  of  motives  in  di.stant  ages  ; 
and  bv  referring  too  confidently  to  the  princi- 
ples of  human  nature  as  developed  in  our  own 
times,  has  often  represented  our  ancestors  as 
more  reasonable,  and  much  more  argumenta- 
tive, than  they  really  were. 

That  there  may  be,  and  have  often  been, 
abuses  of  this  best  part  of  history,  is  a  reason 
only  for  valuing  more  highly  what  is  exempt 
from  such  abuses;  ami  those  who  feel  most 
veneration  and  gratitude  for  the  lights  afforded 
by  a  truly  philosophical  historian,  will  be  sure 
to  look  with  most  aversion  on  a  counterfeit. 
No  one.  we  suppose,  will  stand  up  for  the  in- 
troduction of  ignorant  conjecture,  shallow  dog- 
mat  ism,  mawkish  moral  it  y,  or  factious  inju.stice 
into  the  pages  of  hi.story — or  deny  that  the 
shortest  and  simplest  annals  are  greatly  prefer- 
able to  such  a  perversion.  As  to  political 
partiality,  however,  it  is  a  great  mistake  to 
suppose"  that  it  could  be  in  any  degree  ex- 
cluded by  confining  history  to  a  mere  chroni- 
cle of  facts— the  truth  beiii?.  that  it  is  chiefly 
in  the  statement  of  fncfs  that  this  iiartiality 
displays  itself:  and  ihat  it  is  more  frequently 
exposed  to  detection  tluin  assisted,  by  the  ar- 
guments and  explanations,  which  are  supposed 
to  be  its  best  resources.  We  .shall  not  resume 
what  we  have  said  in  another  place  as  to  tlm 
merit  of  the  Histories  which  are  now  in  que*- 


754 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


tion  ;  but  we  fear  not  to  put  this  on  record,  as 
our  deliberate,  and  we  think  impartial,  judg- 
ment— that  they  are  the  most  candid,  the 
most  judicious,  and  the  most  pregnant  with 
ihougnt,  and  moral  and  political  wisdom,  of 
any  in  which  our  domestic  story  has  ever  yet 
been  recorded. 

But  even  if  we  should  discount  his  Histo- 
ries, and  his  Ethical  Dissertation,  we  should 
still  be  of  opinion,  that  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
had  not  di<'d  indebted  to  his  country  for  the 
use  he  had  made  of  his  talents.  In  the  vol- 
umes before  us,  he  seems  to  us  to  have  left 
them  a  rich  legacy,  and  given  abundant  proofs 
of  the  industry  with  which  he  sought  to  the 
last  to  qualify  him.self  for  their  instruction, — 
and  the  honourable  place  which  his  name 
must  ever  hold,  as  the  associate  and  successor 
of  Romilly  in  the  great  and  humane  work  of 
ameliorating  our  criminal  law,  might  alone 
suffice  to  protect  him  from  the  imputation  of 
having  done  less  than  was  required  of  him,  in 
the  course  of  his  unsettled  life.  But,  without 
dwelling  upon  the  part  he  took  in  Parliament, 
on  these  and  many  other  important  questions 
both  of  domestic  and  foreign  policy,  we  must 
be  permitted  to  say,  that  they  judge  ill  of  the 
relative  value  of  men's  contributions  to  the 
cause  of  general  improvement,  who  make 
small  account  of  the  influence  which  one  of 
high  reputation  for  judgment  and  honesty  may 
exercise,  by  his  mere  presence  and  conversa- 
tion, in  the  higher  classes  of  society, — and  still 
more  by  such  occasional  publications  as  he 
may  find  leisure  to  make,  in  Journal?  of  wide 
circulation, — like  this  on  which  the  reader  is 
now  looking — we  trust  with  his  accustomed 
indulgence. 

It  IS  now  admitted,  that  the  mature  and  en- 
lightened opinion  of  the  public  must  ultimately 
rule  the  country;  and  we  really  know  no  other 
way  in  which  this  opinion  can  be  so  effectu- 
ally  matured  and  enlightened.  It  is  not  by 
every  man  studying  elaborate  treatises  and 
systems  for  himself,  that  the  face  of  the  world 
is  changed,  with  the  change  of  opinion,  and 
the  progress  of  conviction  in  those  who  must 
ultimately  lead  it.  It  is  by  the  ma.<itery  which 
strong  minds  have  over  weak,  in  the  daily  in- 
tercourse of  society:  and  by  the  gradual  and 
almost  imperceptible  infusion  which  such 
minds  are  constantly  effecting,  of  the  practical 
results  and  manageable  summaries  of  their 
preceding  studies,  into  the  minds  immediately 
below  them,  that  this  great  process  is  carried 
on.     The  first  discovery  of  a  great  truth,  or 

{practical  principle,  may  often  require  much 
abour;  but  when  once  discovered,  it  is  gene- 
rally easy  not  only  to  convince  others  of  its 
importance,  but  to  enable  them  to  defend  and 
maintain  it,  by  plain  and  irrefragable  argu- 
ments; and  this  conviction,  and  this  practical 
knowledge,  it  will  generally  be  most  easy  to 
communicate,  when  men's  minds  are  excited 
to  inquiry,  by  the  pursuit  of  some  immediate 
interest,  to  which  such  general  truths  may 
.appear  to  be  subservient.  It  is  at  such  times 
that  important  principles  are  familiarly  started 
in  conversation  ;  and  disquisitions  eagerly  pur- 
sued, in  societies,  where,  in   more   tranquil 


periods,  they  would  be  listened  to  with  impaj 
tience.  It  is  at  such  times,  too,  that  the  in  I 
telligent  part  of  the  lower  and  niiddliuji 
classes  look  anxiously  through  such  publicai 
tions  as  treat  intelligibly  of  the  subjects  \(i 
which  their  attention  is  directed  ;  and  are  thaii 
led,  while  seeking  only  for  reasons  to  justifvi 
their  previous  inclinings,  to  imbibe  principlesi 
and  digest  arguments  which  ale  impressed  ori 
their  understandings  for  ever,  and  may  frucli 
tify  in  the  end  to  far  more  important  concln 
sions.  It  is,  no  doubt,  true,  that  in  this  waj-t 
the  full  exposition  of  the  truth  will  often  b»l 
sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  its  temporary  appli-l 
cation;  and  it  will  not  unfrequently  happeg! 
that,  in  order  to  favour  that  application,  thij 
exposition  will  not  be  made  with  absolotr- 
fairness.  But  still  the  principle  is  broughi 
into  view;  the  criterion  of  true  judgment  ii' 
laid  before  the  public ;  and  the  disputes  o)i 
adverse  parties  will  speedily  settle  ihecorreC 
or  debatable  rule  of  its  application. 

For  our  own  parts  we  have  long  been  ai 
opinion,  that  a  man  of  powerful  understand? 
ing  and  popular  talents,  who  should,  at  suclj 
a  season,  devote  himself  to  the  task  of  ani 
nouncing  such  principles,  and  rendering  sucl! 
discussions  familiar,  in  the  way  and  by  th*| 
means  we  have  mentioned,  would  probabbj 
do  more  to  direct  and  accelerate  the  rectifica 
tion  of  public  opinion  upon  all  practical  ques; 
tions,  than  by  any  other  use  he  could  possibH 
make  of  his  faculties.  His  name,  indeedi 
might  not  go  down  to  a  remote  posterity  ii; 
connection  with  any  work  of  celebrity ;  anii 
the  greater  part  even  of  his  contemporarie* 
might  be  ignorant  of  the  very  existence  o; 
their  benefactor.  But  the  benefits  conferred 
would  not  be  the  less  real ;  nor  the  conscious! 
ness  of  conferring  them  less  delightful;  no! 
the  gratitude  of  the  judicious  less  ardent  anil 
sincere.  So  far.  then,  from  regretting  thai 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  did  not  forego  all  othei 
occupations,  and  devote  himself  exclusive)  j 
to  the  compilation  of  the  tMO  great  works h; 
had  projected,  or  from  thinking  that  hiscoun' 
try  has  been  deprived  of  any  services  it  migb, 
otherwise  have  received  from  him,  by  th( 
course  which  he  actually  pursued,  we  firml* 
believe  that,  by  constantly  maintaining  hu' 
mane  and  generous  opinions,  in  the  most  eci 
gasiiig  manner  and  with  the  greatest  possibli 
abilitv,  in  the  highest  and  most  infiuencin-' 
circles  of  society, — by  acting  as  the  respecte'' 
adviser  of  many  youths  of  great  promise  an'i 
ambition,  and  as  the  bosom  counsellor  of  man  ( 
practical  statesmen,  as  well  as  by  the  timel 
publication  of  many  admirable  papers,  in  thil 
and  in  other  Journals,  on  such  branches  o: 
politics,  history,  or  philosophy  as  the  course 
of  events  had  rendered  peculiarly  interestin,-{ 
or  ipiportant, — he  did  far  more  to  enlighte' 
the  public  mind  in  his  own  day.  and  to  insur 
its  farther  improvement  in  the  days  that  ar 
to  follow,  than  could  possibly  have  been  el 
fected  by  the  most  successful  completion  c 
the  works  he  had  undertaken. 

Such  great  works  ac<juire  for  their  author 
a  deserved  reputation  with  the  studious  few, 
and   are   the   treasuries  and   armories  fron 


LIFE  OF  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


Yich  the  actual  and  future  apostles  of  the 
tith  derive  the  means  of  propatjatiiigr  and  de- 
tiding  it.  But,  in  order  to  be  so  effective, 
t?  arms  and  the  treasures  must  be  taken  forth 
Im  their  well-ordered  repositories,  and  dis- 
fTiinated  and  applied  where  they  are  needed 
;d  required.  It  is  by  the  tongue,  at  last,  and 
jt  by  the  pen,  that  multitudes,  or  the  indi- 
rjuals  composing  multitudes,  are  ever  really 
jrsuaded  or  converted, — by  conversation  and 
lit  by  harangues — or  by  such  short  and  oc- 
(sional  writings  as  come  in  aid  of  conversa- 
m,  and  require  little  more  study  or  continued 
:tention  than  men  capable  of  conversation 
;e  generally  willing  to  bestow.  If  a  man, 
erefore,  who  is  capable  of  writing  such  a 
(ok,  is  also  eminently  qualified  to  dissemi- 
ite  and  render  popular  its  most  important 
)Ctrines.  by  conversation  and  by  such  lighter 
iblications,  is  he  to  be  blamed  if,  when  the 
Ties  are  urgent,  he  intermits  the  severer 
udy,  and  applies  himself,  with  caution  and 
indour,  to  give  an  earlier  popularity  to  that 
hich  can  never  be  useful  till  it  is  truly 
opular?  To  us  it  appears,  that  he  fulfils  the 
igher  duty ;  and  that  to  act  otherwise  would 
3  to  act  like  a  general  who  should  starve  his 
oops  on  the  eve  of  battle,  in  order  to  replen- 
.h  his  magazines  for  a  future  campaign — or 
ke  a  farmer  who  should  cut  off  the  rills  from 
is  parching  crops,  that  he  may  have  a  fuller 
jservoir  against  the  possible  drought  of  an- 
ther year. 

But  we  must  cut  this  short.  If  we  are  at 
11  right  in  the  views  we  have  now  taken,  Sir 
ames  Mackintosh  must  have  been  wrong  in 
tie  regret  and  self-reproach  with  which  he 
ertainly  seems  to  have  looked  back  on  the 
.naccomplished  projects  of  his  earlier  years : 
-And  we  humbly  think  that  he  was  wrong. 
le  had  failed,  no  doubt,  to  perform  all  that 
16  had  once  intended,  and  had  been  drawn 
iside  from  the  task  he  had  set  himself,  by 
ither  pursuits.  But  he  had  performed  things 
IS  important,  which  were  not  originally  in- 
ended  ;  and  been  drawn  aside  by  pursuits 
lot  less  worthy  than  those  to  which  he  had 
asked  himself.  In  blaming  himself — not  for 
.his  idleness,  but  for  this  change  of  occupa- 
;ion  —  we  think  he  was  misled,  in  part  at 
least;  by  one  very  common  error — we  mean 
that  of  thinking,  that,  because  the  use  he  ac- 
tually made  of  his  intellect  was  more  agree- 
able  than  that  which  he  had  intended  to  make, 
it  was  therefore  less  meritorious.  We  need 
not  say,  that  there  cannot  be  a  worse  criterion 
of  merit :  But  tender  consciences  are  apt  to 
fall  into  such  illusions.  Another  cause  of 
regret  may  have  been  a  little,  though  we  really 
think  but  a  little,  more  substantial.  By  the 
course  he  followed,  he  probably  felt,  that  his 
name  would  be  less  illustrious,  and  his  repu- 
tation less  enduring,  than  if  he  had  fairly  taken 


755 

his  place  as  the  author  of  some  finished  work 
of  great  interest  ami  imjiortaiice.  If  he  pot 
over  the  fii^t  illusion,  however,  and  took  the 
view  we  have  done  of  the  real  utility  of  his 
exertions,  we  cannot  believe  that  this  would 
have  weighed  very  heavily  on  a  mind  like 
j  Sir  .lames  Mackintosh's;  aiid  while  we  can- 
not but  regret  that  his  declining  years  .-^liould 
have  been  occasionally  liarkeiu-d  by  these 
shadows  of  a  self-reproach  for  which  we  think 
there  was  no  real  foundation,  we  trust  that  he 
is  not  to  be  added  to  the  many  inMnnces  of 
men  who  have  embittered  their  exi.slenee  by 
a  mistaken  sense  of  the  obligation  of  some 
rash  vow  made  in  early  life,  for  the  perform- 
ance of  some  laborious  and  perhaps  impracti- 
cable task. 

Cases  of  this  kind  we  believe  to  Ix-  more 
common  than  is  generally  imagined.  An  am- 
bitious young  man  is  da/zled  with  the  iKition 
of  filling  up  some  blank  in  the  literature  of 
his  country;  by  the  execution  of  a  great  and 
important  work — reads  with  a  view  to  it,  and 
allows  himself  to  be  referred  to  as  engaired  in 
its  preparation.  By  decrees  he  finds'it  more 
irksome  than  he  had  expected  ;.  and  is  tempt- 
ed by  other  studies,  alto-rether  as  suitable  and 
less  charged  with  responsibility,  into  loi.i:  fits 
of  intermission.  Then  the  very  expectation 
that  has  been  excited  by  this  protracted  incu- 
bation makes  him  more  ashamed  of  having 
done  so  little,  and  more  dissatisfied  with  the 
little  he  has  done  !  And  so  his  life  is  pa.ssed, 
in  a  melancholy  alternation  of  distasteful,  and 
of  course  unsuccessful  attempts  ;  and  long  fits 
of  bitter,  but  really  groundless,  self-reproach, 
for  not  having  made  those  attempts  with  more 
energy  and  perseverance  :  and  at  last  he  dies, 
— not  only  without  doing  what  he  could  not 
attempt  without  pain  and  mortification,  but 
prevented  by  this  imaginary  enjragement  from 
doing  many  other  things  which  he  could  have 
done  with  success  and  alacrity — .some  one  of 
which  it  is  probable,  and  all  of  which  it  is 
nearly  certain,  would  have  done  him  more 
credit,  and  been  of  more  service  to  the  world, 
than  any  constrained  and  distressful  comple- 
tion he  could  in  any  case  have  given  to  the 
other.  For  our  own  parts  we  have  already 
said  that  we  do  not  think  that  any  man.  what- 
ever his  uifts  and  attainments  may  be.  is  really 
bound  in  duty  to  leave  an  excellent  Book  to 
posterity  ;  or  is  liable  to  any  reproach  for  not 
having  chosen  to  be  an  author^  But,  at  all 
events,  we  are  quite  confident  that  he  can  be 
under  no  obligation  to  make  himself  unhappy 
in  trying  to  make  such  a  book  :  And  that  ap 
soon  as  he  finds  the  endeavour  painful  and 
depressing,  he  will  do  well,  both  for  himself 
and  for  others,  to  give  up  the  undertaking, 
and  let  his  talents  and  sense  of  duly  take  a 
course  more  likely  to  promote,  both  his  own 
enjoyment  and  their  ultimate  reputation. 


The  following  brief  notices,  of  three  lamented  and  honoured  Friends,  certainly  were  nc 
contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Review :  But,  as  I  am  not  likely  ever  to  appear  again  as  a. 
author,  I  have  been  tempted  to  include  them  in  this  publication — chiefly;  I  fear,  from  a  foni 
desire,  to  associate  my  humble  name  with  those  of  persons  so  amiable  and  distinguished  ;- 
But  partly  also,  from  an  opinion,  which  has  been  frecjuently  confirmed  to  me  by  those  mos 
competent  to  judge — that,  imperfect  as  these  sketches  are,  they  give  a  truer  and  moregraphi 
view  of  the  manners,  dispositions,  and  personal  characters  of  the  eminent  individuals  con 
cerned — than  is  yet  to  be  found — or  now  likely  to  be  furnished,  from  any  other  quarter. 


THE  HONOURABLE  HENRY  ERSKINE.^ 


Died,  at  his  seat  of  Ammondell.  Linlith- 
gowshire, on  the  8th  instant,  in  the  seventy- 
first  year  of  his  age,  the  Honourable  Henry 
Erskine.  second  son  of  the  late  Henry  David. 
Earl  of  Buchan. 

Mr.  Eiskine  was  called  to  the  Scottish  Bar, 
of  which  he  was  long  the  brightest  ornament, 
ill  the  year  1768,  and  was  for  several  years 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates:  He  was 
twice  appointed  Lord  Advocate. — in  1782  and 
in  1806,  under  the  Rockingham  and  the  Gren- 
ville  administrations.  During  the  years  1806 
and  1807  he  .sat  in  Parliament  for  the  Dunbar 
ar.d  Dumfries  district  of  boroughs. 

In  his  long  and  splendid  career  at  the  bar, 
Mr.  Erskine  was  distinguished  not  only  by  the 
peculiar  brilliancy  of  his  wit.  and  the  grace- 
fulness, ease,  and  vivacity  of  his  eloquence, 
but  by  the  siill  rarer  power  of  keeping  those 
seducing  qualities  in  perfect  subordination  to 
his  judgment.  By  their  assistance  he  could 
not  only  make  the  most  repulsive  subject 
agreeable,  but  the  most  abstruse  easy  and 
intelligible.  In  his  profession,  indeed,  all  his 
wit  wa.<  argument :  and  each  of  his  delightful 
illustrations  a  materia]  step  in  his  reasoninir. 
To  himself,  indeed,  it  seemed  always  as  if 
they  were  recommended  rather  for  their  use 
than  their  beauty  ;  and  unquestionably  they 
often  enabled  him  to  slate  a  fine  arsfument,  or 
a  nice  distinction,  not  only  in  a  more  striking 
and  pleasing  way.  but  actually  with  greater 
precision  than  could  have  been  attained  by 
the  severer  forms  of  reasoning. 

In  this  extraordinary  talent,  as  well  as  in  the 
charming  facility  of  his  eloquence,  and  the 
constant  radiance  of  good  humour  and  gaiety 
which  encircled  his  manner  of  debate,  he  had 
no  rival  in  his  own  times,  and  as  yet  has  had 

*  From  the  "  Endinburgh  Courant"  Newspaper 
•f  the  16ih  of  October,  J8I7 
756 


I  no  successor.  That  part  of  eloquence  is  doV 
I  mute — that  honour  in  abeyance, 
i  As  a  politician,  he  was  eminently  distir^ 
guished  tor  the  two  great  virtues  of  inflexiblj 
I  steadiness  to  his  principles,  and  invariablj 
'  gentleness  and  urbanity  in  his  manner  of  ai> 
serting  them.  Such  indeed  was  the  habitu;' 
sweetness  of  his  temper,  and  the  fascinatio 
of  his  manners,  that,  though  placed  by  h; 
rank  and  talents  in  the  obno.xious  station  of 
Leader  of  opposition,  at  a  period  when  polit 
cal  animosities  were  carried  to  a  lamentab; 
height,  no  individual,  it  is  believed,  was  evt 
known  to  speak  or  to  think  of  him  with  an 
thing  approaching  to  perssonal  hostility.  I 
return,  it  may  be  said,  with  equal  correctnes 
that,  though  baffled  in  some  of  his  pursuit 
and  not  quite  haiulsomely  disappointed  t 
.some  of  the  honours  to  which  his  claim  w; 
universally  admitted,  he  never  allowed  tf 
slightest  shade  of  discontent  to  rest  upon  h( 
mind,  nor  the  least  drop  of  bitterness  to  mill 
gle  with  his  blood.  He  was  so  utterly  inc 
pable  of  rancour,  that  even  the  rancorous  ft 
that  he  ought  not  to  be  made  its  victim. 

He  possesised.  in  an  eminent  degree,  ih 
ileep  sense  of  revealed  religion,  and  that  zea 
ous  attachment  to  the  Presbyterian  establis 
ment.  which  had  lone  been  "hereditary  in  h 
family.  His  habits  were  always  strictly  mor 
and  temperate,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  b 
life  even  abstemious.  Though  the  life  ai 
ornament  of  every  society  into  which  he  e 
tered.  he  was  alwavs  most  happy  and  mc 
delightful  at  home ;  where  the  buoyancy  • 
his  spirit  and  the  kindness  of  his  heart  foui 
all  that  they  required  of  e.xerci.se  or  enjo 
ment;  and  though  without  taste  for  e.xpensi' 
pleasures  in  his  own  peri^on.  he  was  ever  mc 
indulgent  and  munificent  to  his  children,  ai 
a  liberal  benefactor  to  all  who  depended  on  i 
bounty. 


PROFESSOR  PLAVFAIR. 


7»7 


He  finally  retired  from  the  exercise  of  that 
)rofession,  the  highest  honours  of  which  he 
lad  at  least  deserved,  about  the  year  1811?, 
iiid  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  do- 
nestic  retirement,  at  that  beautiful  villa  which 
lad  been  formed  by  his  own  taste,  and  in  the 
mprovement  and  adornment  of  which  he 
"ound  his  latest  occupation.  Passing  thus  at 
^^  )nce  from  all  the  bustle  and  excitement  of  a 
15.  ijublic  life  to  a  scene  of  comparative  inactivity, 
ie  never  felt  one  moment  of  ennui  or  dejec- 


tion ;  but  retained  unimpaired,  (ill  within  a 
day  or  two  of  his  death,  not  only  all  hi8  intel- 
lectual activity  and  social  aflfciions,  but.  when 
not  under  llu'  immediate  atiliclion  of  u  iwinful 
and  incurable  disease,  all  that  gaiety  of  hjurit, 
and  all  that  playful  ami  kindly  s\niiKitliv  with 
innocent  enjoyment,  which  ni'adi-  him  the  idol 
of  the  young,  and  tlic  object  of  cordial  attach- 
ment and  unenvying  aihniration  to  Iuh  friends 
of  all  ages. 


NOTICE  AND  CHARAC  TER 


/ 


PROFESSOR  PLAYFAIR.* 


Of  Mr.  Playfair's  scientific  attainments, — 
of  his  proficiency  in  those  studies  to  which  he 
was  peculiarly  clevoted,  we  are  but  slenderly 
qualified  to  judge  :  But,  we  believe  we  hazard 
nothing  in  saying  that  he  was  one  of  the  most 
'learned  Mathematicians  of  his  age,  and  among 
the  first,  if  not  the  very  first,  who  introduced 
'the  beautiful  discoveries  of  the  later  conti- 
inental  geometers  to  the  knowledge  of  his 
'countrymen;  and  gave  their  just  value  and 
true  place,  in  the  scheme  of  European  know- 
ledge, to  those  important  improvements  by 
which  the  whole  aspect  of  the  abstract  sciences 
has  been  renovated  since  the  days  of  our  il- 
lustrious Newton.  If  he  did  not  signalise 
ihimself  by  any  brilliant  or  original  invention. 
!he  must,  at  least,  be  allowed  to  have  been  a 
most  generous  and  intelligent  judge  of  the  [ 
achievements  of  others;  as  well  as  the  most 
eloquent  expounder  of  that  great  and  magnifi- 
'cent  system  of  knowledge  which  has  been 
gradually  evolved  by  the  successive  labours 
of  so  many  gifted  individuals.  He  possessed,  | 
'indeed,  in  the  highest  degree,  all  the  charac- 
iteristics  both  of  a  fine  and  a  powerful  under- 
I  standing, — at  once  penetrating  and  vigilant, —  j 
'but  more  distinguished,  perhaps,  for  the  cau- 
tion and  sureness  of  its  march,  than  for  the 
'  brilliancy  or  rapidity  of  its  movements, — and 

■  guided  and  adorned  through  all  its  progress,  i 
I  by  the  most  genuine  enthusiasm  for  all  that  j 
i  is  grand,  and  the  justest  taste  for  all  that  is  ! 
i  beautiful  in  the  Truth  or  the  Intellectual  Ener-  j 

gy  with  which  he  was  habitually  conversant. 

To  what  account  these  rare  qualities  might 

have  been  turned,  and  what  more  brilliant  or 

lasting  fruits  they  might  have  produced,  if  his 

■  whole  life  had  been  dedicated  to  the  solitary 
cultivation  of  science,  it  is  not  for  us  to  con- 

:  jecture ;  but  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  they 
added  incalculably  to  his  eminence  and  utility 
as  a  Teacher ;  both  by  enabling  him  to  direct 
his  pupils  to  the  most  simple  and  luminous 


*  Originally  printed  in  an  Edinburgh  newspaper 
ff  Aiitrust,  1819.  A  few  introductory  sentences  are 
now  omitted. 


methods  of  inquiry,  and  to  imbue  their  minds, 
from  the  very  commencement  of  the  study, 
with  that  fine  relish  for  the  truths  it  di.si'losed, 
and  that  high  sense  of  the  majesty  with  which 
they  were  invested,  that  predominated  in  his 
ou-n  bosom.  While  he  left  nothing  unex- 
2)lained  or  unreduced  to  its  proper  place  in  the 
system,  he  took  care  that  they  should  never 
be  perplexed  by  petty  difficulties,  or  bewil- 
dered in  useless  details ;  and  formed  them 
betimes  to  those  clear,  masculine,  and  direct 
methods  of  investigation,  by  which,  with  the 
least  labour,  the  greatest  advances  might  be 
accomplished. 

Mr.  Play  fair,  however,  was  not  merely  a 
teacher;  and  has  fortunately  left  behind  him 
a  variety  of  works,  from  which  other  genera- 
tions may  be  enabled  to  judge  of  some  of  those 
qualifications  which  so  powerfully  recom- 
mended and  endeared  him  to  his  contempo- 
raries. It  is.  perhaps,  to  be  regretted  that  so 
much  of  his  time,  and  so  large  a  proportion  of 
his  publications,  should  have  been  tlevoted  to 
the  subjects  of  the  Indian  Astronomy,  and  the 
Huttonian  Theory  of  the  Earth:  And  though 
it  is  impossible  to  think  too  highly  of  the  in- 
genuity, the  vigour,  and  the  eloquence  of  those 
publications,  we  are  of  opinion  that  a  juster 
estimate  of  his  talent,  and  a  truer  picture  of 
his  genius  and  understanding,  is  to  be  found 
in  his  other  writings ; — in  the  papers,  both  bio- 
graphical and  scientific,  with  which  he  has 
enriched  the  Transactions  of  our  Royal  S<jcie- 
ty  ;  his  account  of  Laplace,  and  other  articles 
which  he  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  He- 
view, — the  Outlines  of  his  Lectures  on  Natu- 
ral Philosophy, — and  above  all.  his  Introduc- 
tory Discourse  to  tlie  Supplement  to  the 
Encyclopa>dia  Brittannica.  with  the  final  cor- 
rection of  which  he  was  occupied  up  to  the 
last  moments  that  the  progress  of  his  diseas*^ 
allowed  him  to  dedicate  to  any  intellectual 
exertion. 

With  reference  to  these  works,  we  do  not 

think  we  are  influenced  by  any  national,  or 

other  partialitv,  ^vhen  we  say  that  he  was 

certainly  one  of  the  best  writers  of  his  age; 

30 


758 


PROFESSOR  PLAYFAJR. 


and  even  that  we  do  not  now  recollect  any 
one  of  his  contemporaries  who  was  so  great  a 
master  of  composition.  There  is  a  certam 
mellowness  and  richness  about  his  style, 
which  adorns,  without  disguising  the  weight 
and  nervousness  which  is  its  other  great  char- 
acteristic,— a  sedate  gracefulness  and  manly 
simplicity  in  the  more  level  passages, — and  a 
mild  majesty  and  considerate  enthusiasm 
where  he  rises  above  them,  of  which  we 
scarcely  know  where  to  find  any  other  exam- 
ple. There  is  great  equability,  too,  and  sus- 
tained force  in  every  part  of  his  writings.  He 
never  exhausts  himself  in  flashes  and  epi- 
grams, nor  languishes  into  lameness  or  in- 
sipidity: At  first  sight  you  would  say  that 
plainness  and  good  sense  were  the  predomi- 
nating qualities;  but  by  and  bye,  this  sim- 
plicity is  enriched  with  the  delicate  and  vivid 
colours  of  a  fine  imagination, — the  free  and 
forcible  touches  of  a  most  powerful  intellect, 
— and  the  lights  and  shades  of  an  unerring  aiul 
harmonising  taste.  In  comparing  it. with  the 
styles  of  his  most  celebrated  contemporaries, 
we  would  say  that  it  was  more  purely  and 
peculiarly  a  written  style, — and,  therefore,  re- 
jected those  ornaments  that  more  properly 
belong  to  oratory.  It  had  no  impetuosity, 
hurry,  or  vehemence, — no  bursts  or  sudden 
turns  or  abruptions,  like  that  of  Burke  ;  and 
though  eminently  smooth  and  melodious,  it 
was  not  modulated  to  an  uniform  system  of 
solemn  declamation,  like  that  of  Johnson,  nor 
spread  out  in  the  richer  and  more  voluminous 
elocution  of  Stewart ;  nor,  still  less,  broken 
into  that  patchwork  of  scholastic  pedantry  and 
conversational  smartness  which  has  found  its 
admirers  in  Gibbon.  It  is  a  style,  in  short,  of 
great  freedom,  force,  and  beauty ;  but  the  de- 
liberate style  of  a  man  of  thought  and  of 
learning;  and  neither  that  of  a  wit  throwing 
out  his  extempores  with  an  aflectation  of  care- 
less grace, — nor  of  a  rhetorician  thinking  more 
of  his  manner  than  his  matter,  and  deter- 
mined to  be  admired  for  his  exprt>ssion,  what- 
ever may  be  fate  of  his  sentiments. 

His  habits  of  composition  were  not  perhaps 
exactly  what  might  have  been  expected  from 
their  results.  He  wrote  rather  slowly, — and 
his  first  sketches  were  often  very  slight  and 
imperfect, — like  the  rude  chalking  for  a  mas- 
terly picture.  His  chief  effort  and  greatest 
pleasure  was  in  their  revisal  and  correction ; 
and  there  were  no  limits  to  the  improvement 
which  resulted  from  this  application.  It  was 
not  the  style  merely,  nor  indeed  chiefly,  that 
gained  by  it :  The  whole  reasoning,  and  sen- 
timent, and  illustration,  were  enlarged  and 
new  modelled  in  the  course  of  it ;  and  a  nakt;d 
outline  became  gradually  informed  with  life, 
colour,  and  expression.  "It  was  not  at  all  like 
the  common  finishing  and  polishing  to  which 
careful  authors  generally  subject  the  first 
draughts  of  their  compositions,  —  nor  even 
like  the  fastidious  ami  tentative  alterations 
with  which  some  more  anxious  writers  assay 
their  choicer  passages.  It  was,  in  fact,  the 
great  filling  in  of  the  picture, — the  working  up  : 
of  the  figured  weft,  on  the  naked  ami  meagre 
woof  that  had  been  stretched  to  receive  it ;  | 


and  the  singular  thing  in  his  case  was,  nc 
only  that  he  left  this  most  material  part  of  hi 
work  to  be  performed  after  the  whole  outlin 
had  been  finished,  but  that  he  could  procee 
with  it  to  an  indefinite  extent,  and  enrich  an^ 
improve  as  long  as  he  thought  fit,  without  an 
risk  either  of  destroying  the  proportions  o 
that  outline,  or  injuring  the  harmony  and  unit 
of  the  original  design.  He  was  perfectl 
aware,  too,  of  the  possession  of  this  e.xtraoi 
dinary  power ;  and  it  was  partly,  we  presume 
in  consequence  of  it  that  he  was  not  only  a' 
all  times  ready  to  go  on  with  any  work  ili 
which  he  was  engaged,  without  waiting  fo 
favourable  moments  or  hours  of  greater  alac 
rity,  but  that  he  never  felt  any  of  those  doubt 
and  misgivings  as  to  his  being  able  to  getcri' 
ditably  through  with  his  undertaking,  to  whic 
we  believe  most  authorsareoccasionally  liabli 
As  he  never  wrote  upon  any  subject  of  whic 
he  was  not  perfectly  master,  he  was  secur 
against  all  blunders  in  the  substance  of  whs 
he  had  to  say;  and  felt  quite  assured,  that  i 
he  was  only  allowed  time  enough,  he  shoul 
finally  come  to  say  it  in  the  very  best  way  o 
which  he  was  capable.  He  had  no  anxiet\ 
therefore,  either  in  undertaking  or  proceediii 
with  his  tasks;  and  intermitted  and  resume 
them  at  his  convenience,  with  the  comfortabl 
certainty,  that  all  the  time  he  bestowed  o' 
them  was  turned  to  account,  and  that  whs'; 
was  left  imperfect  at  one  sitting  might  bi 
finished  with  ecjual  ease  and  advantage  c 
another.  Being  thus  perfectly  sure  both  o 
his  end  and  his  means,  he  exptnuenced,  in  th 
course  of  his  compositions,  none  of  that  littl 
fever  of  the  spirits  with  which  that  operatic 
is  so  apt  to  be  accompanied.  He  had  n 
capricious  visitings  of  fancy,  which  it  wa 
necessary  to  fix  on  the  spot  or  to  lose  for  eve 
— no  casual  inspirations  to  invoke  and  to  wa 
for, — no  transitory  and  evanescent  lights  1 
catch  before  they  faded.  All  that  was  in  h 
mind  was  subject  to  his  control,  and  amen; 
ble  to  his  call,  though  it  might  not  obey  at  ih 
moment;  and  while  his  taste  was  so  sun 
that  he  was  in  no  danger  of  over- working  an; 
thing  that  he  had  designed,  all  his  thoughl! 
and  sentiments  had  that  unity  and  congruit^i 
that  they  fell  almost  spontaneously  into  ha" 
mony  and  order;  and  the  last  added,  inca 
porated,  and  assimilated  with  the  first,  as  i 
they  had  sprung  simultaneously  from  the  sam 
happy  conception.  i 

But  we  need  dwell  no  longer  on  qualitiej 
that  may  be  gathered  hereafter  from  the  workj 
he  has  left  behind  him.  They  who  lived  will 
him  mourn  the  most  for  those  which  will  bj 
traced  in  no  such  memorial  !  And  prize  ft, 
above  those  talents  which  gained  him  his  higi 
name  in  philo.sophy,  that  Personal  Charactt^ 
which  endeared  him  to  his  friends,  and  she- 
a  grace  and  a  dignity  over  all  the  society  i| 
which  he  moved.  The  same  admirable  tastj 
which  is  conspicuous  in  his  writings,  Dr  ratht; 
the  higher  principles  from  which  that  tast 
was  but  an  emanation,  spread  a  similar  chan' 
over  his  whole  life  and  conversation  ;  and  gay; 
to  the  most  learned  Phdosopher  of  his  daj 
the  manners  and  deportment  of  the  most  pe 


PROFESSOR  PLAYFAIR. 


f,t  Gentleman.  Nor  was  this  in  him  the 
rult  merely  of  good  sense  and  good  temper, 
aisted  by  an  early  familiarity  with  gootl 
cinpany,  and  a  consequent  knowledge  of  his 
en  place  and  that  of  all  around  him.  His 
Eid  breeding  was  of  a  higher  descent ;  and 
Y,  powers  of  pleasing  resteti  on  something 
lj:ter  than  mere  companionable  qualities. — 
1,ith  the  greatest  kindness  and  generosity  of 
rcure,  he  united  the  most  manly  firmness, 
id  the  highest  principles  of  honour, —anil 
ii  most  cheerful  and  social  tlispositions,  with 
te  gentlest  and  steadiest  aifections. 
Towards  Women  he  had  always  the  most 
()ivalrous  feelings  of  regard  and  attention, 
td  was,  beyond  almost  all  men,  acceptable 
;il  agreeable  in  their  society, — though  with- 
(;t  the  least  levity  or  pretension  unbecoming 
fl  age  or  condition  :  And  such,  indeed,  was 
ie  fascination  of  the  perfect  simplicity  and 
jildness  of  his  maimers,  that  the  same  tone 
id  deportment  seemed  equally  appropriate 
,  all  societies,  and  enabled  him  to  delight  the 
i<ung  and  the  gay  with  the  same  sort  of  con- 
;rsation  which  instructed  the  learned  and 
(C  grave.  There  never,  indeed,  was  a  man 
i  learning  and  talent  who  appeared  in  society 
I  perfectly  free  from  all  sorts  of  pretension 
I  notion  of  his  own  importance,  or  so  little 
lieitous  to  distinguish  himself,  or  so  sincerely 
.illing  to  give  place  to  everyone  else.  Even 
)0n  subjects  which  he  had  thoroughly  studied, 
»  was  never  in  the  least  impatient  to  speak, 
Jul  spoke  at  all  times  ^vithout  any  tone  of 
ithorify :  while,  so  far  from  wishing  to  set 
if  what  he  had  to  say  by  any  brilliancy  or 
nphasis  of  expression,  it  seemed  generally 
i  if  he  had  studied  to  disguise  the  weight 
lid  originality  of  his  thoughts  under  the 
iaiiiest  forms  of  speech  and  the  most  quiet 
iid  indifferent  manner :  .so  that  the  profound- 
j5t  remarks  and  subtlest  observations  were 
,'ten  droppf>d,  not  only  without  any  solicitude 
|iat  their  value  should  be  observed,  butwith- 
ut  any  apparent  consciousness  that  they 
lossessed  any. 

.  Though  the  most  social  of  human  beings, 
:id  the  most  disposed  to  encourage  and  sym- 
athise  with  the  gaiety  and  even  joviality  of 
thers,  his  own  spirits  were  in  general  rather 
heerful  than  gay,  or  at  least  never  rose  to 
ay  turbulence  or  tumult  of  merriment ;  and 
.•hile  he  would  listen  with  the  kindest  indnl- 
ence  to  the  more  extravagant  sallies  of  his 
ounger  friends,  and  prompt  them  by  the 
eartiest  appiobation,  his  own  satisfaction 
li^ht  generally  be  traced  in  a  slow  and  tem- 
perate smile,  gradually  mantling  over  his 
lenevolent  and  intelligent  features,  and  liuht- 
:ig  up  the  countenance  of  the  Sage  with  the 
•xpression  of  the  mildest  and  most  genuine 
philanthropy.  It  was  wonderful,  indeed,  con- 
•idering  the  measure  of  his  own  intellect,  and 
he  rigid  and  undeviating  propriety  of  his  own 
'onduct.  how  tolerant  he  was  of  the  defects 
ind  errors  of  other  men.  He  was  too  indul- 
rent,  in  truth,  and  favourable  to  his  friends! 
—and  made  a  kind  and  liberal  allowance  for 
he  faults  of  ail  mankind — except  only  faults 
>f  Baseness  or  of  Cruelty,— against  which  he 


never  faiUnl  to  manifest  the  most  open  scorn 
and  detestation.  Independent,  m  («liort.  of  his 
high  attainments,  Mr.  IMayfair  was  one  of  the 
most  amiable  and  eslimable  of  men  ;  Ik- liylil- 
ful  in  his  manners,  inlie.vible  in  his  principics, 
and  generous  in  hisaUection.s,  he  had  all  that 
could  charm  in  .>^jciety  or  allach  in  privul.- ; 
and  while  his  friends  enjoyed  the  free  aiitl 
unstudied  convers;ition  ot  an  easy  and  intel- 
ligent associate,  they  had  at  all  times  the 
proud  and  inward  assurance  that  he  was  a 
Being  upon  whose  perfect  lnmour  and  gene- 
rosity they  might  rely  with  the  most  implicit 
contulence,  in  life  and  in  death,— and  of  whom 
it  was  equally  impossible,  that,  umier  any  cir- 
cumstances, he  shoukl  ever  perform  a  mean, 
a  selfish,  or  a  questionable  action,  as  that  hia 
body  should  cease  to  gravitate  or  his  soul  to 
live  ! 

If  we  do  not  greatly  deceive  ourselves,  there 
is  nothing  here  of  exaggeration  or  partial  feel- 
ing,— and  nothing  with  which  an  indillerent 
anil  hoiie-st  chronicler  would  not  heartily  con- 
cur. Nor  is  it  altogether  idle  to  have  dwelt 
so  long  on  the  personal  chaiacter  of  this  dis- 
tinguished  individual:  For  we  are  ouiselvea 
persuaded,  that  tliis  personal  character  has 
done  almost  as  much  for  the  cause  of  science 
and  philosophy  among  us,  as  the  great  laienta 
antl  attainments  with  which  it  was  combined, 
— and  has  contributed  in  a  very  eminent  de- 
gree to  give  to  the  better  society  of  this  our 
city  that  tone  of  intelligence  and  liberality  by 
which  it  is  so  honourably  distinguished.  It  is 
not  a  little  advantageous  to  philosophy  that  it 
is  in  fashion, — and  it  is  still  more  advanta- 
geous, perhaps,  to  the  society  which  is  led  to 
confer  on  it  this  apparently  trivial  distinction. 
It  is  a  great  thing  for  the  country  at  large, — 
for  its  happiness,  its  prosperity,  and  its  re- 
nown.— that  the  upper  and  inlluencing  classes 
of  its  population  should  be  made  familiar, 
even  in  their  untasked  and  social  hour.s,  with 
sound  and  liberal  information,  and  be  taught 
to  know  and  respect  those  who  have  distin- 
guished themselves  for  great  intellectual  at- 
tainments. Nor  is  it,  after  all,  a  slight  or 
despicable  reward  for  a  man  of  geniu.s^  to  be 
received  with  honour  in  the  highest  and  most 
elegant  society  around  him,  and  to  receive  in 
his  living  person  that  homage  and  a|)plause 
which  is  too  often  reserveil  lor  his  memory. 
Now,  those  desirable  ends  can  never  be  ef- 
fectually accomplished,  unless  the  manners 
of  our  leading  philosophers  are  agreeable, 
and  their  personal  habits  and  disjwsitions  en- 
gaging and  amiable.  From  the  time  of  Hume 
aiul  liobertson,  we  have  been  fortunate,  in 
Edinburgh,  in  possessing  a  succession  of  dis- 
tinguished men,  who  have  kept  up  this  siilu- 
tary  connection  between  the  learned  and  the 
fashionable  world;  but  there  never,  perha|i,4, 
was  any  one  who  contributed  so  powerfully  to 
confirm  and  extend  it.  and  that  in  tunes  wlieu 
it  was  peculiarly  difficuit,  as  the  lamented  in- 
dividual of  whom  we  are  now  speaking  ;  And 
they  who  have  had  mo.st  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve how  superior  the  society  of  Edinburgh 
is  to  that  of  most  other  places  of  the  same 
si/e,  and   how  much  of  that  superiority  in 


760 


JAMES  WATT. 


owing  to  the  cordial  combination  of  the  two  i  the  innportance  of  the   service  he  has  ij , 
aristocracies,  of  rank  and  of  letters,* — of  both  \  rendered  to  its  inhabitants,  and  through  tht ' 

and  by  their  example,  to  all  the  rest  of 

country. 


of  which   it   happens  to   be   the  chief  pro 
vincial  seat, — will  be  best  able  to  judge  of 


*In  addition  to  the  two  distinguished  persons 
mentioned  in  the  text,  (the  first  of  whom  was,  no 
doubt,  before  my  time.)  I  can,  from  my  own  recol- 
lection, and  without  referring  to  any  who  are  still 
living — give  the  names  of  the  following  residents  in 
Edinburgh,  who  were  equally  acceptable  in  polite 
Bocieiy  and  eminent  for  literary  or  scientific  attain- 
ments, and  alike  at  home  in  good  company  and  ! 
in  learned  convocations: — Lord  Hailes  and  Lord  I 
Monboddo,    Dr.  Joseph  Black,    Dr.  Hugh  Blair,  | 


Dr.  Adam  Fergusson,  Mr.  John  Home,  Mr.  J. 
Robison,  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart,  8ir  James  I) 
Lord  Meadowbank,  Mr.  Henry  Mackenzie, 
James  Gregory,  Rev.  A.  Alison,  Dr.  'I'tiot 
Brown,  Lord  Webb  Seymour,  Lord  Woodhoi 
lee,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott ; — without  reckoni 
Mr.  Horner,  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  and  i 
George  Wilson,  who  were  settled  in  Edinbu  i 
for  several  years,  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  per ; 
referred  to.  ' 


NOTICE  AND  CHARACTER 

OF 

JAMES    WATT.* 


Mr.  James  Watt,  the  great  improver  of  the 
steam-engine,  died  on  the  25th  of  August,  ■ 
1819,  at  his  seat  of  Heathfield,  near  Birming- 
ham, in  the  84th  year  of  his  age. 

This  naiTie  fortunately  needs  no  commemo- 
ration of  ours;  for  he  that  bore  it  survived  to 
see  it  crowned  with  undisputed  and  unenvied  ' 
honours;  and  many  generations  will  probably 
pass  away,  before  it  shall  have  gathered  "all 
its  fame."  We  have  said  that  Mr.  Watt  was 
the  great  Improver  of  the  steam-engine  :  but, 
in  truth,  as  to  all  that  is  admirable  in  its 
structure,  or  vast  in  its  utility,  he  should 
rather  be  described  as  its  Inventor.  It  was 
by  his  inventions  that  its  action  was  so  regu- 
lated, as  to  make  it  capable  of  being  applied 
to  the  finest  and  most  delicate  manufactures, 
and  its  power  so  increased,  as  to  set  weight 
and  solidity  at  defiance.  By  his  admirable 
contrivance,  it  has  become  a  thing  stupendous 
alike  for  its  force  and  its  fle.vibility, — for  the 
prodigious  power  which  it  can  exert,  and  the 
ease,  and  precision,  and  ductility,  with  which 
that  power  can  be  varied,  distributed,  and  ap-  i 
plied.  The  trunk  of  an  elephant,  that  can 
pick  up  a  pin  or  rend  an  oak,  is  as  nothing  to  j 
it.  It  can  engrave  a  seal,  and  crush  masses 
of  obdurate  metal  before  it — draw  out,  with- 
out breaking,  a  thread  as  fine  as  gossamer, 
and  lift  a  ship  of  war  like  a  bauble  in  the  air. 
It  can  embroider  muslin  and  forge  anchor.*, — 
cut  steel  into  ribands,  and  impel  loaded  ves- 
sels against  the  fury  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  estimate  the  value 
of  the  benefits  which  these  inventions  have 
conferred  upon  this  country.  There  is  no 
branch  of  itidustry  that  has  not  been  imlebtcil 
to  them  ;  and,  in  all  the  most  material,  they 
nave  not  otily  widened  most  magnificently 
the  field  of  its  exertions,  but  multiplied  a 
thousand-fold  the  amount  of  its  productions. 

*  First  published  in  an  Edinburgh  newspaper 
("The  Scotsman"),  of  the  4th  September,  1819. 


It  was  our  improved  Steam-engine,  in  she, 
that  fought  the  battles  of  Europe,  and  exalli 
and  sustained,  through  the  kite  tremenik|. 
contest,  the  political  irreatness  of  our  land. 
is  the  same  great  power  which  now  enab, 
us  to  pay  the  interest  of  our  debt,  and  I 
maintain  the  arduous  struggle  in  which  'I 
are  still  engaged,  [k819],  with  the  skill  a! 
capital  of  countries  less  oppressed  with  ta:' 
tion.  But  these  are  poor  and  narrow  vie 
of  its  importance.  It  has  increased  int 
finitely  the  mass  of  human  comforts  and  « 
joyments;  and  rendered  cheap  and  accesi 
ble,  all  over  the  worKl,  the  materials  of  wea  ■ 
aiul  prosperity.  It  has  armed  the  feeble  hal 
of  man,  in  short,  with  a  power  to  which  i 
limits  can  be  assigned:  completed  the  c 
minion  of  mind  over  the  most  refractory  qt 
lities  of  matter ;  and  laid  a  sure  foundati 
for  all  those  future  miracles  of  niechai 
power  which  are  to  aid  and  reward  the 
hours  of  after  generations.  It  is  to  the  geiii 
of  one  man,  too,  that  all  this  is  mainly  owinf 
And  certainly  no  man  ever  bestowed  sucK 
gift  on  his  kind.  The  blessing  is  not  oi : 
universal,  but  unbounded:  and  the  fabled 
ventors  of  the  plough  and  the  loom,  who  w( 
Deified  by  the  erring  gratitude  of  their  rii 
cotemporarie.s,  conferred  less  important  bei 
fits  on  mnnkiud  than  the  inventor  of  our  pi 
sent  steam-engine. 

This  will  be  the  fame  of  Watt  with  futt: 
generations:  Audit  is  sufficient  for  his  m 
and  his  country.  Rut  to  those  to  whom 
more  immediately  belonged,  who  lived  in  1^ 
society  and  enjoyed  his  conversiition.  it 
not,  perhap.s,  the  character  in  which  he  wl 
be  most  frequently  recalled — most  tleefj 
lamented— or  even  most  highly  admired.  1 
dependeiitly  of  his  great  attainments  in  nr 
chanies,  Mr.  Watt  was  an  extraordinary,  a 
in  many  respects  a  wonderful  man.  Perhaf 
no  individual  in  his  age  possessed  .so  muj. 
and  such  varied  and  exact  informatioUj— h : 


JAMES  WATT. 


761 


ad  60  much,  or  remembered  what  lie  had 
kd  so  accurately  and  well.     He  had  infinite 
iickness  of  apprehension,  a  prodigious  me- 
!ory,  and  a  certam  rectifying  and  method is- 
[g  power  of  understanding,  which  extracted 
imething  precious  out  of  all  that  was  pre- 
'nted   to   it.      His  stores  of  miscellaneous 
lowledge  were  immense, — and  yet  less  as- 
nishing  than  the  command  he  had  at  all 
tnes  over  them.     It  seemed  as  if  every  sub- 
ct  that  was  casually  started  in  conversation 
ith  him,  had  been  that  which  he  had  been 
St  occupied  in  studying  and  exhausting ; — 
ich  was  the  copiousness,  the  precision,  and 
le  admirable  clearness  of  the  information 
i'hich  he  poured  out  upon  it,  without  effort  or 
esitation.      Nor  was  this   promptitude  and 
ompass  of  knowledge  confined  in  any  degree 
)  the  studies  connected  with  his  ordinary 
ursuits.    That  he  should  have  been  minutely 
'nd  extensively  skilled  in  chemistry  and  the 
jrts,  and  in  most  of  the  branches  of  physical 
Icience.  might  perhaps  have  been  conjectur- 
|d ;  But  it  could  not  have  been  inferred  from 
jjs  usual  occupations,  and   probably  is  not 
(•enerally  known,  that  he  was  curiously  learn- 
ed in  many  branches  of  antiquity,  metaphys- 
ics, medicine,  and  etymology,  and  perfectly 
).t  home  in   all   the  details  of  arcliitecture, 
jnusic,  and  law.     He  was  well  acquainted, 
kK),  with  most  of  the  modern  languages — and 
iamiliar  with  their  most  recent  literature.   Nor 
ivas  it  at  all  extraordinary  to  hear  the  great 
.nechanician  and  engineer  detailing  and  ex- 
lx)unding,  for  hours  together,  the  metaphys- 
ical theories  of  the  German  logicians,  or  criti- 
cising the  measures  or  the  matter  of  the  Ger- 
Tian  poetry. 

'  His  astonishing  memory  was  aided,  no 
doubt,  in  a  great  measure,  by  a  still  higher 
and  rarer  faculty — by  his  power  of  digesting 
,and  arranging  in  its  proper  place  all  the  infor- 
mation he  received,  and  of  casting  aside  and 
'rejecting,  as  it  were  instinctively,  whatever 
Avas  worthless  or  immaterial.  Every  concep- 
tion that  was  suggested  to  his  mine!  seemed 
'instantly  to  take  its  proper  place  among  its 
other  rich  furniture  ;  and  to  be  condensed  into 
the  smallest  and  most  convenient  form.  He 
never  appeared,  therefore,  to  be  at  all  encum- 
bered or  perplexed  with  the  verbiage  of  the 
dull  books  he  perused,  or  the  idle  talk  to 
which  he  listened;  but  to  have  at  once  ex- 
tracted, by  a  kind  of  intellectual  alchemy,  all 
that  was  worthy  of  attention,  and  to  have  re- 
duced it.  for  his  own  use,  to  its  true  value  and 
to  its  simplest  form.  And  thus  it  often  hap- 
pened, that  a  great  deal  more  was  learned 
from  his  brief  and  vigorous  account  of  the 
.  theories  and  arguments  of  tedious  writers, 
i  than  an  ordinary  student  could  ever  have  de- 
;  rived  from  the  most  painful  study  of  the  ori- 
ginals.— and  that  errors  and  absurdities  be- 
came manifest  from  the  mere  clearness  and 
plainness  of  his  statement  of  them,  which 
niight  have  deluded  and  perplexed  most 
of  his  hearers  without  that  invaluable  assist- 
ance. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  that,  with  those  vast 
'tf^ources,  his  conversation  was  at  all  times 


rich  and  instructive  in  no  ordinary  degree  : 
But  it  was,  if  possible,  still  more  pleasing 
than  wise,  and  had  all  the  charms  of  famili- 
arity, with  all  the  substantial  treasures  of 
knowledge.  No  man  could  be  more  social 
in  his  spirit,  less  assuming  or  fastidious  ni  his 
manners,  or  more  kind  and  indulgent  towauis 
all  who  approached  him.  He  rather  liked  to 
talk — at  least  in  his  latter  years :  But  though 
he  took  a  considerable  share  of  the  convei.si- 
tion,  he  rarely  suggested  the  topics  on  which 
it  was  to  turn,  but  readily  and  (juietly  took 
up  whatever  was  presented  by  those  a'round 
him ;  and  astonished  the  idle  and  barren  pro- 
pounders  of  an  ordinary  theme,  by  the  treas- 
ures which  he  drew  from  the  mine  tliey  had 
unconsciously  opened.  He  generally  seemed, 
indeed,  to  have  no  clioice  or  predilection  for 
one  subject  of  discourse  rather  than  another; 
but  allowed  his  mind,  like  a  great  cyclopaedia, 
to  be  opened  at  any  letter  his  associates  might 
choose  to  turn  up,  and  only  endeavoured  to 
select,  from  his  inexhaustible  stores,  what 
might  be  best  adaptetl  to  the  taste  of  his 
present  hearers.  As  to  their  capacity  he  gave 
himself  no  trouble  ;  and.  indeed,  such  was  his 
singular  talent  for  making  all  things  plain, 
clear,  and  intelligible,  that  scarcely  any  one 
could  be  aware  of  such  a  deficiency  in  his 
presence.  His  talk,  too,  though  overflowing 
with  information,  had  no  resemblance  to  lec- 
turing or  solemn  discoursing,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  full  of  colloquial  spirit  and  pleas- 
antry. He  had  a  certain  quiet  and  grave 
humour,  which  ran  through  most  of  his  con- 
versation, and  a  vein  of  temperate  jocularity, 
which  gave  infinite  zest  and  effect  to  the  con- 
densed and  inexhaustible  information,  which 
formed  its  main  staple  and  characteristic. 
There  was  a  little  air  of  affected  testiness,  too, 
and  a  tone  of  pretended  rebuke  and  contra- 
diction, with  which  he  used  to  adiiress  his 
younger  friends,  that  was  always  felt  by  them 
as  an  endearing  mark  of  his  kindness  and 
familiarity, — and  prized  accordingly,  far  be- 
yond all  the  solemn  compliments  that  ever 
proceeded  from  the  lips  of  authority.  His 
voice  was  deep  and  powerful, — though  he 
commonly  spoke  in  a  low  and  somewhat 
monotonous  tone,  which  harmonised  admira- 
bly with  the  weight  and  brevity  of  his  obser- 
vations ;  and  set  off  to  the  greatest  advantage 
the  pleasant  anecdotes,  which  he  delivered 
with  the  same  grave  brow,  and  the  same  calm 
smile  playing  soberly  on  his  lips.  There 
was  nothing  of  effort  indeed,  or  impatience, 
any  more  than  of  pride  or  levity,  in  his  de- 
meanour; and  there  was  a  finer  expression 
of  reposing  strength,  and  mild  .self-possession 
in  his  manner,  than  we  ever  recollect  to  have 
met  with  in  any  other  person.  He  had  in  his 
character  the  utmost  abhorrence  for  all  sorts 
of  forwardness,  parade,  and  pretension.'^ :  and, 
indeed,  never  failed  to  put  all  such  impostures 
out  of  countenance,  by  the  manly  plainness 
and  honest  intrepidity  of  his  language  and 
deportment. 

In  his  temper  and  dispositions  he  was  not 
only  kind  and  affectionate,  but  generous,  and 
considerate  of  the  feelings  of  all  around  him  j 


762 


JAMES  WATT. 


and  gave  the  most  liberal  assistance  and  en- 
couragement to  all  young  persons  who  showed 
any  indications  of  talent,  or  applied  to  him 
for  patronage  or  advice.  His  nealth,  which 
was  delicate  from  his  youth  upwards,  seemed 
to  become  firmer  as  he  advanced  in  years  ; 
and  he  pre.served,  up  almost  to  the  last  mo- 
ment of  his  existence,  not  only  the  full  com- 
mand of  his  extraordinary  intellect,  but  all  the 
alacrity  of  spirit,  and  the  social  gaiety  which 
had  illumined  his  happiest  days.  His  friends 
in  tliis  part  of  the  country  never  saw  him 
more  full  of  intellectual  vigour  and  colloquial 
animation, — never  more  delightful  or  more 
instructive, — than  in  his  last  visit  to  Scotland 
in  autumn  1817.  Indeed,  it  was  after  that 
time  that  he  applied  himself,  with  all  the 
ardour  of  early  life,  to  the  invention  of  a 
machine  for  mechanically  copying  all  sorts 
of  sculpture  and  statuary  ; — and  distributed 
among  his  friends  some  of  its  earliest  per- 
formances, as  the  productions  of  "a  young 
artist,  just  entering  on  his  eighty-third  year!" 


This  happy  and  useful  life  came,  at  last,  •  ■ 
a  gentle  close.  He  had  suffered  some  inco'  ™ 
venience  through  the  summer ;  but  was  n 
seriously  indisposed  till  within  a  few  wee 
from  his  death.  He  then  became  perfect 
aware  of  the  event  which  was  approachin. 
and  with  his  usual  tranquillity  and  benev 
lence  of  nature,  seemed  only  anxious  to  poi 
out  to  the  friends  around  him,  the  mai 
sources  of  consolation  which  were  afTonii 
by  the  circumstances  under  which  it  w 
about  to  take  place.  He  e.\pit'b.sed  his  si 
cere  gratitude  to  Providence  for  the  leng 
of  days  with  which  he  had  been  blessed,  ai 
his  exemption  from  most  of  the  infirmities  i 
age;  as  well  as  for  the  calm  and  cheerf 
evening  of  life  that  he  had  been  permitted 
enjoy,  after  the  honourable  labours  of  il 
day  had  been  concluded.  And  thus,  full  ( 
years  and  honours,  in  all  calmness  and  tra 
quillity,  he  yielded  up  his  soul,  without  par 
or  struggle, — and  passed  from  the  bosom  ( 
his  family  to  that  of  his  God. 


THE  END. 


(^ 


')) 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

^f2!!!l^*  ^«  ^"biect  to  immrfiate  recaU. 


per— r> 


JMl_Q:65^AMaCT  3 1  '67  -11  AM 


*iLCi^ 


-M-Z£jfQ__ 


LD21A-40w.ll.'63 
(El602slO)476B 


G€neral  Library 

Unxversity  of  California 

Berkeley 


.:  ::^^'  '•    '-l-'" 

CD351b55ia 

